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BEETON'S 
 
 GREAT BOOK OF POETRY: 
 
 FROM 
 
 C^DMON AND KING ALFRED'S BOETHIUS 
 TO BROWNING AND TENNYSON. 
 
 ALSO, 
 
 A SEPARATE SELECTION OF AMERICAN POEMS, 
 
 CONTAINING NEARLV 
 
 TWO THOUSAND OF THE BEST PIECES IN THE 
 ENGLISH LANGUAGE; 
 
 WITH SKETCHES OF THE 
 
 HISTORY OF THE POETRY OF OUR COUNTRY, 
 
 AND 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES OF THE POETS. 
 
 Edited by S. O. BEETON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 WARD, LOCK, & TYLER, WARWICK HOUSE, 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 THE intention of the Projector of the present Book of Poetry was to collect 
 and publish as many poems, or parts of poems, as could be comprised within 
 one large and handsome, but not unwieldy Volume. Beginning with the earliest 
 known efforts in verse of English writers, the line of our Poets was to be traced 
 from the very Fathers of English Poetry, through all the Periods of its greatness 
 or decadence, to the Modern Masters of the Divine Art. 
 
 To compile a work of the scope and magnitude of this collection has not 
 been an easy task. More than thrice the number of years have been spent in 
 completing the volume than was reckoned would be necessary in the original 
 calculation of time. One of the chief assistants in the work, who looked upon 
 his labours for this compilation as a delight and joy, has passed away from this 
 world within the past twelve months, without seeing the consummation of an 
 undertaking which he ably helped and longed to see brought to a conclusion. 
 
 In the selection and rejection of poems, difficulties have occuiTed inseparable 
 from the presence of a multitude of candidates. It was impossible to pass all as 
 being able to obtain a place, although it was felt that many were omitted which 
 were worthy of admittance, although not destined to the better fortune of those 
 ultimately selected. 
 
 The Earlier Poems have been carefully compared with the best originals to 
 which access was possible ; the reading of various versions has been collated, and, 
 where differences arose, the criticisms of our first literary guides have been 
 searched, and their judgments consulted before a decision was taken. Since the 
 first portion of the volume was printed, certain discoveries have been announced 
 concerning English Poetry of the Fourteenth Century, which we have, unfor- 
 tunately, been unable to take a*dvantage of. 
 
 If it was difficult to deal with the enormous amount of English verse written 
 up to the end of the last century, the task became infinitely harder as our own 
 times were approached. The rights of property in the works of the living and 
 dead had to be respected, and the law of copyright considered. In all cases 
 where we discovered the existence of these rights, application was made to the 
 poet or his representatives for permission to print the desired quotations. In 
 nearly every instance the permission was kindly granted ; and we specially have 
 to thank Mr. Strahan for his very generous reply to our requests ; also Messrs. 
 Macmillan and Messrs. Moxon, besides many other publishers, for their courtesy, 
 as well as Messrs. Wame & Co. 
 
 It is, nevei'theless, necessary, in our view of the duty we owe to the interests 
 of literature and to the sentiments of authors in connection with the laws of 
 copyright, to refer to communications which passed between us and two firms oi 
 publishers. In the one instance, IMessrs. Longman claimed to be in the possession 
 of the copyright of the poem of Ivry, or the War of the League, written by Lord 
 Macaulay, and first published in Charles Knight's " Quarterly Magazine." We 
 believed, upon good grounds as we thought, that the copyright of this piece had 
 
 i 069 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 expired for some years^ and so stated our belief to Messrs. Longman. They, 
 however, insisted they were right, and demanded that the electrotype plates 
 containing that particular poem should be destroyed. Still believing that we 
 were correct, we made further search, and proved to Messrs. Longman that they 
 were claiming a right which had expired four or five years. If, however, they 
 had been never so right, we contend that to refuse permission for the insertion 
 in such a collection as our own, of a poem by an author of the rank of Lord 
 Macaulay, is, at the least, a churlish piece of business, and unworthy of a house 
 whose name stands so high in the estimation of its contemporaries. ♦ Surely, the 
 possession of Lord Macaulay's copyrights for the legal term of forty-two years 
 should be sufficient to satisfy the most extortionate. But here we see Messrs. 
 Longman straining to assert their rights long after they had lapsed, and when 
 Lord Macaulay's copyright had ceased to be individual property — to become, as 
 the Legislature intended, the property of the nation. 
 
 In the other instance, Messrs. Bell and Daldy refused to permit the insertion 
 of any poems by Miss Procter. That charming poetess, to our great regret, is 
 absent from these pages ; and wrongly, indeed, did they read her wishes who is 
 now no more, when, after several applications on our part (even when we asked 
 for one little poem, so that she should not be entirely unrepresented here), they 
 still adhered to their very ungenerous resolution. 
 
 It becomes, indeed, a matter for the public to find fault with, when extreme 
 rights, such as we have referred to, are extremely insisted on. There would be no 
 collection of modern prose, or poetry, possible, if firms who happen to be in the 
 possession of the valuable works of deceased authors, to whom there is no appeal 
 for assistance against the selfishness of the copyright-holders, should all declare 
 their unwillingness to abate a jot of their pretensions even in behalf of the public 
 welfare. This kind of procedure, also, becomes more reprehensible when such 
 houses as we have named, who ought to be foremost in liberality, are the trans- 
 gressors. The eminent men and women whose works they print, would consider 
 that their j^ublishers were ill doing their duty to authors and to literature, if they 
 were systematically to refuse to compilers a reasonable use for popular advantage 
 of their writings. 
 
 A word remains to say about the arrangement of this volume. Biographical 
 notices of nearly all the Poets whose works are quoted precede the poems of each 
 Period. Prefixed to each Period is a brief sketch of its Poetry. Every Poem 
 has the name of the Author at its foot, with the iJate of his Birth and Death. As 
 nearly as jDossible the Chronological sequence of the poems has been maintained. 
 Lastly, the American Poets are represented in the final sheets of the volume, with 
 as much of their biography as we have been able to discover. 
 
 Many errors of omission and commission will be found in our Book of Poetry. 
 We shall feel exceedingly obliged by critics and correspondents pointing out these 
 blunders, so that we may correct them i^ future editions. But we sincerely 
 believe that, with all its faults, this Volume stands, in regard to quantity and 
 quality, high above any existing Selections yet made from the inestimable stores 
 of our glorious English Poetic Literature. 
 
 S. 0. BEETOK 
 
 Patci-nostei' Roiv, 1870. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Names of the Poets, with the Periods in which thet 
 
 Flourished 
 
 Names of the Poets, with Numbers of Poems... 
 Names of the Poets, with the Titles of Poems 
 
 Alphabetical List of the Poems 
 
 First Lines of the Poems 
 
 Biographies of American Poets 
 
 Names of American Poets, with Numbers of Poems 
 Names of American Poets, avith the Titles of Poems . 
 
 Titles of American Poems 
 
 First Lines of American Poems 
 
 vu 
 xi 
 
 XV 
 
 XXXV 
 
 xlix 
 Ixvii 
 Ixvii 
 Ixvii 
 Ixix 
 Ixx 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS, 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 PERIODS IN WHICH THEY FLOURISHED. 
 
 VERIUD 
 
 Addison, Joseph v 
 
 Aird, Thomas vii 
 
 Akenside, Mark vi 
 
 Alexander, William iii 
 
 Alford, the Very Eev. 
 
 Henry vii 
 
 Alfred the Great i 
 
 Alison, Richard iii 
 
 Ancrum, Earl of iii 
 
 Anstey, Christopher vi 
 
 Armstrong', John vi 
 
 Arnold, Matthew vii 
 
 Atherstone, Edwin vii 
 
 Aytoun, William vii 
 
 B. 
 
 Bailey, P. J vii 
 
 Baillie, Joanna vii 
 
 Bampfylde, John vi 
 
 Barbauld, Anna Letitia ... vii 
 
 Barbour, John i 
 
 Barnard, Lady Anne vi 
 
 Barnfield, Richard iii 
 
 Barton, Bernard vii 
 
 Baxter, Richard , iv 
 
 Bayly, Thomas Haynes ... vii 
 
 Beattie, James vi 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher ... iii 
 
 Beckf ord, William vii 
 
 Behn, Mrs. Aphra iv 
 
 Belchier, Dabridgecourt... iii 
 
 Bennett, William Cox ... vii 
 
 Bishop, Samuel vi 
 
 Blacklock, Thomas vi 
 
 Blackmore, Sir Richard ... v 
 
 Blackstone, Sir William... vi 
 
 Blair, Robert vi 
 
 Blake, William vii 
 
 Blamire, Miss Susanna ... vii 
 
 Blind Harry ii 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert vii 
 
 Booth, Barton v 
 
 Boswell, Sir Alexander ... vii 
 
 Bourd, Andrew ii 
 
 Bowles, William Lisle vii 
 
 Breton, Nicholas iii 
 
 Brome, Alexander iii 
 
 Brown, Thomas iv 
 
 Browne, William iii 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth vii 
 
 PKKIOl) 
 
 BrowTiing, Robert vii 
 
 Bruce, Michael vi 
 
 Bums, Robert vii 
 
 Burton, Robert iii 
 
 Butler, Samuel iv 
 
 Byrom, John vi 
 
 Byron, Lord George 
 
 Gordon vii 
 
 Brunne, Robert de i 
 
 Buckinghamshire, John 
 
 Sheffield, Duke of iv 
 
 Caedmon i 
 
 Campbell, Thomas vii 
 
 Canning, George vii 
 
 Carew, Thomas iii 
 
 Carey, Henry vi 
 
 Can-ington, N. T vii 
 
 Cartwright, William iii 
 
 Chalkhill, John iii 
 
 Chamberlayne, William... iv 
 
 Chapman, George iii 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas vi 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey i 
 
 Chettle, Henry iii 
 
 Churchill, Charles vi 
 
 Cibber, Colley vi 
 
 Clare, John vii 
 
 Cleveland, John iii 
 
 Cockburn, Mrs vi 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor vii 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley vii 
 
 Collins, William vi 
 
 Constable, Henry iii 
 
 Cook, Eliza vii 
 
 Corbet, Richard iii 
 
 Cotton, Charles iv 
 
 Cotton, Nathaniel vi 
 
 Cowley, Abraham iv 
 
 Cowper, William vii 
 
 Crabbe, George vii 
 
 Crashaw, Richard iii 
 
 Crawford, Robert vi 
 
 Crawfurd, William vi 
 
 Croker, Right Hon. John 
 
 Wilson vii 
 
 Croly, George vii 
 
 Crowne, John iv 
 
 Cunningham, Allan vii 
 
 Cunningham, John vi 
 
 D. 
 
 Dale, Rev. Thomas vii 
 
 Daniel, Samuel iii 
 
 Darwin, Dr. Erasmus vii 
 
 Davenant, Sir William ... iii 
 
 Davies, Sir John iii 
 
 Davison, Francis iii 
 
 Dekker, Thomas iii 
 
 Denham, Sir John iv 
 
 Dibdin, Charles vii 
 
 Digby, George iv 
 
 Dobell, Sydney (Yendys) vii 
 
 Doddridge, Philip vi 
 
 Dodsley, Robert vi 
 
 Donne, John, D.D iii 
 
 Dorset, Earl of iv 
 
 Douglas, Gawain ii 
 
 Dowland, John iii 
 
 Drayton, Michael iii 
 
 Drummond, William iii 
 
 Dryden, John iv 
 
 Dunbar, William ii 
 
 Dyer, John yi 
 
 E. 
 
 Edwards, Richard ii 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer vii 
 
 Elliot, Sir Gilbert vi 
 
 Elliot, Miss Jane vi 
 
 Etherege, Sir George iv 
 
 F. 
 
 Fairfax, Edward, B.D. ... iii 
 
 Falconer, William vi 
 
 Fanshawe, Sir Richard ... iii 
 
 Farquhar, George v 
 
 Fawkes, Francis vi 
 
 Fenton, Elijah v 
 
 Fergusson, Robert , vi 
 
 Field, Nathaniel iii 
 
 Fitzgeffrey, Charles iii 
 
 Flatman, Thomas iv 
 
 Fletcher, Giles iii 
 
 Fletcher, Phineas iii 
 
 Ford, John iii 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS, WITH 
 
 FERIOn 
 
 PERIOD 
 
 PEEIOD 
 
 
 
 Johnson, Dr. Samuel 
 
 vi 
 
 Mos3, Thomas 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 Jones, Ernest 
 
 vii 
 
 Motherwell, William 
 
 vu 
 
 G. 
 
 
 Jones, Sir William 
 
 vi 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 
 Jonson, Ren 
 
 
 Gall, Richard 
 
 via 
 
 
 
 N. 
 
 
 Garth, Sir Samuel 
 
 V 
 
 K. 
 
 
 Nabbes, Thomas 
 
 iii 
 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 
 
 Gay, John 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 Robert 
 
 iii 
 
 Gifford, William 
 
 vii 
 
 Keats, John 
 
 Vll 
 
 Niccols, Richard 
 
 HI 
 
 Gilfillan, Robert 
 
 vii 
 
 Keble, John 
 
 Vll 
 
 NicoU, Robert 
 
 Vll 
 
 Gloucester, Robert of 
 
 1 
 
 Ken, Bishop 
 
 V 
 
 Norton, Hon. Caroline 
 
 
 Glover, Richard 
 
 VI 
 
 iii 
 
 King, Dr. Henry 
 
 Kingsley, Rev. Charles ... 
 
 iii 
 vii 
 
 Elizabeth Sarah 
 
 vii 
 
 Godolphin, Sidney 
 
 Nugent, Earl 
 
 vi 
 
 Goffe, Thomas 
 
 iii 
 
 Kingsley, Henry 
 
 Vll 
 
 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 
 
 vi 
 
 Knowles, Herbert 
 
 vii 
 
 
 
 Gould, Robert 
 
 iv 
 
 Knox, William 
 
 vii 
 
 0. 
 
 
 Gower, John 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 Grahame, James 
 
 vii 
 
 
 
 
 
 Granger, Dr. James 
 
 vi 
 
 L. 
 
 
 Oldys, William 
 
 vi 
 
 Grant, Mrs 
 
 vn 
 
 
 
 Oldmixon, John 
 
 V 
 
 Granville, George 
 
 V 
 
 vi 
 
 Laidlaw,William 
 
 vii 
 
 Opie, Mrs. AmeKa 
 
 Otway, Thomas 
 
 ▼11 
 
 Gray, Thomas 
 
 TifiTYiH r^hnrlAC! 
 
 IV 
 
 Green, Matthew 
 
 V 
 
 
 ■cii 
 
 Overbury, Sir Thomas ... 
 
 111 
 
 Greville, Fulke 
 
 iii 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage ... 
 Langhorne, John 
 
 vii 
 vi 
 
 Oxford, Earl of, Edward 
 Vere 
 
 iii 
 
 H. 
 
 
 Langlande, Robert 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 Lee, Nathaniel 
 
 iv 
 
 P. 
 
 
 
 
 Lewis, Matthew Gregory . 
 
 vii 
 
 
 Habington, William 
 
 Hall, Joseph, D.D 
 
 Hall, John 
 
 in 
 iii 
 
 Leyden, John 
 
 Lillo, George 
 
 Lloyd, Robert 
 
 Lockhart, John Gibson 
 
 Vll 
 V 
 
 Pamell, Thomas 
 
 V 
 
 iii 
 
 VI 
 
 vii 
 
 Patmore, Coventry 
 
 vii 
 
 HamUton, William 
 
 VI 
 
 Lodge, Thomas 
 
 Logan, John 
 
 Lovelace, Richard 
 
 
 Peele, George 
 
 m 
 
 Harrington, John 
 
 m 
 
 • 
 
 Penrose, Thomas 
 
 VI 
 
 Harrington, Sir John 
 
 in 
 
 iii 
 
 Percy, Bishop 
 
 VI 
 
 Hart, Joseph 
 
 Haughton, William 
 
 vi 
 
 Lydgate, John 
 
 Lyly, John 
 
 Lyndsay, Sir David 
 
 
 Philips, Ambrose. .. 
 
 V 
 
 iii 
 
 11 
 
 Philips, John 
 
 iv 
 
 Hayley, William 
 
 vii 
 vi 
 vii 
 
 ii 
 vi 
 
 Philips, Katherine 
 
 PoUok, Robert 
 
 Pomfret, John 
 
 i^ 
 
 Headley, Henry 
 
 Heber, Bishop 
 
 Lyttelton, George, Lord... 
 
 W 
 iv 
 
 Hemans, Felicia 
 
 vii 
 
 
 
 Pope, Alexander 
 
 V 
 
 Henrysone, Robert 
 
 ii 
 
 M 
 
 
 Pope, Dr. Walter 
 
 ir 
 
 Herbert, George 
 
 ni 
 
 
 
 Praed Winthrop Maek- 
 
 
 Hen-ick, Robert 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 worth 
 
 vii 
 
 Hervey, T. K 
 
 vii 
 
 Macaulay, Lord 
 
 vii 
 
 Pringle, Thomas 
 
 vii 
 
 Heywood, John 
 
 iii 
 
 Mackay, Charles 
 
 vii 
 
 Prior, Matthew 
 
 V 
 
 Hey wood, Thomas 
 
 iii 
 
 MacNeill, Hector 
 
 vii 
 
 Procter, Bryan WaUer ... 
 
 vu 
 
 Hill, Aaron 
 
 VI 
 
 Macpherson, Jam«s 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 Hislop, James 
 
 Vll 
 
 Maitland, Sir Richard 
 
 iii 
 
 Q. 
 
 
 Hogg, James 
 
 vii 
 
 Mallett, David 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 Hood, Thomas 
 
 Vii 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 Houghton, Lord 
 
 vii 
 ii 
 
 Marston, John 
 
 Marvell, Andrew 
 
 iii 
 iv 
 
 Quarles, Francis » , 
 
 if 
 
 Howard, Henry 
 
 Quarles, John 
 
 iv 
 
 Howitt, William and Mary 
 
 vii 
 
 Mhsoii, William 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 Hume, Alexander 
 
 iii 
 
 Massey, G«rald 
 
 vii 
 
 
 
 Hunnis, William 
 
 ii 
 vii 
 
 Massinger, Phillip 
 
 iii 
 
 vii 
 
 R 
 
 
 Hunt, James Henry Leigh 
 
 Mathias, Thomas James... 
 
 
 Hunter, Mrs 
 
 Vll 
 
 May, Thomas 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 
 
 Mayne, John 
 
 vii 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 Merrick, James 
 
 vi 
 
 Ramsay, Allan 
 
 Randolph, Thomas 
 
 T 
 
 I. 
 
 
 Mickle, William JuKua ... 
 
 vi 
 
 iii 
 
 
 
 Middleton, Thomas 
 
 Milman, Henry Hart ...... 
 
 m 
 vii 
 
 
 
 
 Robert of Gloucester 
 
 i 
 
 Ingeland, Thomas 
 
 
 
 iv 
 
 Robert?, William Hay- 
 ward 
 
 
 
 
 Moir, David Macbeth 
 
 vii 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 Montgomery, Alexander . 
 
 iii 
 
 Rochester, Eaa-1 of 
 
 iv 
 
 J. 
 
 
 Montgomery, James 
 
 vii 
 
 Roirers, Samuel 
 
 vii 
 
 
 
 Montgomery, Robert 
 
 Vll 
 
 RoUe, Richard 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 Moore, Edward 
 
 VI 
 
 Roscommon, Eari of 
 
 IV 
 
 Jago, Richard 
 
 vi 
 
 Moore, Sir John Henry ... 
 
 vi 
 
 Ross, Alexander 
 
 vi 
 
 James I. , King of Scotland 
 
 ii 
 iii 
 
 Moore, Thomas 
 
 More, Henry 
 
 vii 
 iv 
 
 
 V 
 
 James VI.. King 
 
 Russell, Thomas 
 
 vi 
 
SackvUle, Thomas iii 
 
 Sandys, George iii 
 
 Savage, Richard vi 
 
 Scot, Alexander iii 
 
 Scott, John vi 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter vii 
 
 Sedley, Sir Charles iv 
 
 Seward, Miss Anna vii 
 
 Sewell, Dr. George v 
 
 Shad well, Thomas iv 
 
 Shakspere, William iii 
 
 Sheffield, John, Duke of 
 
 Buckinghamshire iv 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe vii 
 
 Shenstone, William vi 
 
 Shirley, James iii 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip iii 
 
 Skelton, John ii 
 
 S mart, Christopher vi 
 
 Smith, Alexander vii 
 
 Smith, Mrs. Charlotte ... vii 
 
 Smith, Horace vii 
 
 Smith, James vii 
 
 Smollett, Tobias vi 
 
 Somerville, William v 
 
 Sotheby, William vii 
 
 Southeme, Thomas v 
 
 Southey, Robert vii 
 
 South ey, Mrs vii 
 
 Southwell, Robert iii 
 
 Spencer, the Hon. Wil- 
 liam R vii 
 
 Spenser, Edmund iii 
 
 Stanley, Thomas iv 
 
 Stepney, George iv 
 
 PEEIOB 
 
 still, John iii 
 
 Stirling, Earl of iii 
 
 Storer, Thomas iii 
 
 Suckling, Sir John iii 
 
 Swain, Charles vii 
 
 Swift, Jonathan v 
 
 Sylvester, Joshua iii 
 
 T. 
 
 Tannahiil, Robert vii 
 
 Tate, Nahum v 
 
 Taylor, Bishop Jeremy ... iv 
 
 Tennant, William vii 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred vii 
 
 Thompson, Edward vi 
 
 Thomson, James vi 
 
 Thrale, Mrs vi 
 
 Tickell, Thomas v 
 
 Tighe, Mrs vii 
 
 Toplady, Augustus vi 
 
 Trench, Archbishop vii 
 
 Tusser, Thomas ii 
 
 U. 
 
 Udall, Nicholas... 
 
 V. 
 
 W. 
 
 Waller, Edmund ' iv 
 
 Walsh, William iv 
 
 Ward, Edward v 
 
 Warner, William iii 
 
 Warton, Joseph vi 
 
 Warton, Thomas _..^ vi 
 
 Wastall, Simon iii 
 
 Watson, Thomas iii 
 
 Watts, Alaric A vii 
 
 Watts, Isaac ^ vi 
 
 Webster, John * iii 
 
 Wesley, Charles vi 
 
 Wesley, John vi 
 
 West, Gilbert vi 
 
 White, H. Kirke vii 
 
 Whitehead, Paul vi 
 
 Whitehead, William • vi 
 
 Wiflfen, J. H 'vii 
 
 Wilde, Dr iii 
 
 Wilson, Alexander vii 
 
 Wilson, Professor John ... vii 
 
 Winchelsea, Anne, Coun- • 
 
 tess of ' V 
 
 Wither, George ' iii 
 
 Wolcot, John vii 
 
 Wolfe, Charles vii 
 
 Wordsworth, William vii 
 
 Wotton, Sir Heory iii 
 
 Wyat, Sir Thomas ii 
 
 Wycherley, William iv 
 
 Wyntoun, Andrew ii 
 
 Vanbrugh, Sir John v I Yendys, Sydney (Dobell) vu 
 
 Vaughao, Hem*y iv ; Young, Edward vi 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 A damson, John 743 
 
 Addison, Joseph 763-770 
 
 Akenside 901-903 
 
 Alford, Dean 1726-173G 
 
 Alfred, King 5-12 
 
 Alison, Richard 48H 
 
 Allingham, William 1838 
 
 Ancrura, Eai-1 of 395 
 
 Anonymous, 94, 95, 510-539, 
 709-711, 712-733, 735-736, 
 738-739, 742, 744-746, 1814 
 
 Anstey, Christopher 102") 
 
 Armstrong, John 924-927 
 
 Arnold, Edwin 1757, 1758 
 
 Arnold, Matthew ... 1759-1761 
 
 Ayres, Philip 707,708 
 
 Ayton, Sir Robert 839 
 
 Aytomi, W. E 1662-1663 
 
 Bailey, Philip J 1672 
 
 Baillie, Joanna 1470-1473 
 
 Bampfylde, John ... 1007-1010 
 Barbauld, AnnaL.... 1104-1110 
 
 Barbour, John 32-35 
 
 Barnard, Lady Anne 1047 
 
 Bamtield, Richard 121 
 
 Barton, Bernard 1 453-1459 
 
 Baxter, Richard 570 
 
 Bayly, T. Haynes ... 1500-1502 
 
 Beattie 988-993 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, 21 2-220 
 
 Beckford, W 1519 
 
 Behn, Aphra 704,705 
 
 Belchiei-, Dabridgecourt... 445 
 
 Bennett, W. C 1764-1778 
 
 Bishop, Samuel 1002-1006 
 
 Blacklock, Thomas ... 975-978 
 
 liJlaekmore .' 787 
 
 Bl ackstone, Su- William ... 936 
 
 Blair, Robert 842-849 
 
 Blamire, Susanna ... 1102, 1103 
 
 Blind Harry 46,47 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert... 1123-1128 
 
 Boethius 9-12 
 
 Bonar, Horatius 1779,1780 
 
 Booth, Barton 836 
 
 Boswell, Sir A 1609-1611 
 
 Board, Andrew SO 
 
 Bowles, W. L 1238-1271 
 
 KO OF POBM. 
 
 Breton, Nicholas 116-118 
 
 Bi-istol, Lord 571 
 
 Brome, Alexander 381-383 
 
 Brooke, Lord 154-157 
 
 Brown, Frances 1781-1784 
 
 Brown, Thomas 679 
 
 Browne, William 285-291 
 
 Browning, Mrs 1558-1561 
 
 Browning, liobert... 1785-1788 
 
 Bruce, Michael 959-961 
 
 Brunne, Robert de 14,15 
 
 Brydgos,SirEgerton, 1520, 1521 
 
 Buchanan, R 1835 
 
 Buckinghamshire, Duke of 681 
 
 Burns, Robert 1575-1592 
 
 Burton, Robert 487 
 
 Butler, Samuel... 637-645, 734, 
 741 
 
 Byrom, John 1056, 1057 
 
 Byron, Lord 1337-1358 
 
 Cffldmon 1-4 
 
 Campbell, Thomas... 1297-1312 
 Canning, George ... 1144-1146 
 
 Carew, Thomas 258-270 
 
 Carey, Henry 1035 
 
 Carrington, N. T. ... 1613-1518 
 Cartwright, William... 337-339, 
 482, 483 
 
 Chalkhill, John 333-336 
 
 Chamberlayne, William, 579-584 
 
 Chapman, George 485 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas ... 940-944 
 
 Chaucer 19-28 
 
 Chottle 433,434 
 
 Churchill 952-958 
 
 Cibber, Colley 1033 
 
 Clare, John 1405-1413 
 
 Cleveland, John... 377,378, 740 
 
 Clough, A. H 1836,1837 
 
 Cockbum, Mrs 1049 
 
 Coleridge 1503-1512 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley... 1569-1574 
 
 Collins, William 887-892 
 
 Constable, Henry 164 
 
 Cook, Eliza 1720-1725 
 
 Corbet, Bishop 251-253 
 
 Cotton, Charles 646-649 
 
 Cotton, Nathaniel 1024 
 
 MO. OF POBK. 
 
 Cowley, Abraham 540-554 
 
 Cowper 1077-1088 
 
 Crabbe, Geoi-ge 1173-1179 
 
 Crashaw, Richard 297-301 
 
 Ci-awfurd, William... 1028-1030 
 
 Croly, George 1538-1551 
 
 Crowne, John 695-699 
 
 Cunningham, Allan... 1617-1627 
 Cunningham, John... 1022,1023 
 Cunningham, Thomas 1648 
 
 D. 
 
 Daniel, Samuel 135-140 
 
 Darwin, Erasmus ... 1092-1098 
 Davenant, Sir William, 372-374 
 
 Da vies. Sir John 221-226 
 
 Davison, Francis 498-500 
 
 Dekker, T 432-438 
 
 Denham, Sir John 576-578 
 
 Dibdin, Charles 1136-1140 
 
 Dickens, Charles 1818 
 
 Dobell, Sydney 1671 
 
 Doddridge 1058-1063 
 
 Dodsley, Robert 1000,1001 
 
 Dommett, Alfred 1792 
 
 Donne, John 227-236 
 
 Dorset, Earl of. 680 
 
 Dorset, Thomas Sackville, 
 
 Earl of 96-98 
 
 Douglas, Gawain 66, 67 
 
 Dowland, John 497 
 
 Drayton, Michael 141-147 
 
 Drummond, William... 361-366 
 
 Dryden, John 658-665 
 
 Dunbar, William 51-55 
 
 Dyer, John 880 
 
 E. 
 
 Edwards, Richard 91,92 
 
 Elliot, Sir Gilbert 1051 
 
 Elliot, Miss Jane 1048 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer ... 1552-1557 
 
 Erskine, Ralph 711 
 
 Etherege, Sir George... 701-703 
 
 F. 
 
 Fairfax, Edward 148-149 
 
 Falconer, William 945-949 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Fanshawe, Sir Richard 368-371 
 
 Fawkes, Francis 1014 
 
 Fenton, Elijah 834 
 
 Fergusson, Robert... 1052-1055 
 
 Field, Nathaniel 488 
 
 Fitzgeffrey, Charles ... 492, 493 
 
 Flatman, Thomas 672-675 
 
 Fletcher, Giles 310-313 
 
 Fletcher, Phineas 314-315 
 
 Ford, John 45&-459 
 
 Frere,J. H 1294-1296 
 
 Fulke Grevile, Lord 
 Brooke 154-157 
 
 G. 
 
 GaU, Richard 1603,1604 
 
 Garth, Samuel 786 
 
 Gascoigne, George 101-106 
 
 Gawain Douglas 56,57 
 
 Gay, John 792-805 
 
 Gemmet.T. M 1813 
 
 Giflford, William 1141-1143 
 
 Gilfillan, Robert 1646,1647 
 
 Gloucester, Robert of 13 
 
 Glover, Richard 997-999 
 
 Godolphin, Sidney 481 
 
 Gofife, Thomas 467, 468 
 
 Goldsmith 916-920 
 
 Gould, Robert 684, 685 
 
 Gower, John 29-31 
 
 Gi-ahame, James ... 1156-1164 
 
 Granger, Dr 1015 
 
 Grant, Mrs 1119,1120 
 
 Gray 907-912 
 
 Green, Matthew 815,816 
 
 Greene, Robert 419-427 
 
 Greet, J 1815 
 
 Greville, Mra 987 
 
 H. 
 
 Habergham, Mrs. Fleet- 
 wood 671 
 
 Habington, WiUiam ... 316-328 
 
 Hall, Bishop 248-250 
 
 Hall, John 375 
 
 Hamilton, William ... 881-883 
 
 Harrington, John 99,100 
 
 Harrington, Sir John 150-153 
 
 Hart 1075,1076 
 
 Haughton 433,434 
 
 Hayley, William ... 1089-1091 
 
 Headley, Henry 1041 
 
 Heber, Bishop 1377-1382 
 
 Hemans, Mrs 1436-1452 
 
 Heorysone, Robert 48-50 
 
 Herbert, George 302-309 
 
 Herrick, Robert 340-351 
 
 Hervey, T. K 1525-1529 
 
 Hey wood, John 400, 401 
 
 Heywood, Thomas 469-476 
 
 Hill, Aaron 1031 
 
 Hislop, James ... 1652 
 
 Hogg, James 1612-1616 
 
 Hood, Thomas 1484-1499 
 
 Hook, N 706 
 
 Houghton, Lord 1717-1719 
 
 Hewitt, Mary 1653-1660 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Howitt, William 1661 
 
 Hume, Alexander 391-393 
 
 Hume, Mary C 1817 
 
 Hunnis, William 93 
 
 Hunt, Leigh 1397-1404 
 
 Hunter, Mrs 1112-1115 
 
 Ingeland, Thomas 397 
 
 Ingelow, Jean 1832 
 
 Ingram, J. K 1793 
 
 J. 
 
 Jago, Richard 985 
 
 James I. of Scotland 41-43 
 
 James VL, King 394 
 
 Johnson, Samuel 884-886 
 
 Jones, Emest 1794 
 
 Jones, Sir W 1011-1013 
 
 Jonson, Ben 237-247 
 
 K. 
 
 Keats, John 1824,1825 
 
 Keble, John 1795-1798 
 
 Ken, Bishop 819-821 
 
 King Alfred 5-8 
 
 King, Bishop 254-256 
 
 Kingsley, Charles ... 1799, 1800 
 
 Knowles, Herbert 1383 
 
 Knox, William 1474-1477 
 
 L. 
 
 Laidlaw, William 1649 
 
 Lamb, Charles 1228-1234 
 
 Lafidon, L. E 1460-1469 
 
 Landor, W.S 1272-1277 
 
 Langford, J. A 1816 
 
 Langhome, Dr 930-935 
 
 Lanadowne, George Gran- 
 ville, Lord 837 
 
 Lee, Nathaniel 692-694 
 
 Lewis, M. G 1313 
 
 Leyden, John 1129-1135 
 
 Lillo, George 831 
 
 Lloyd, Pvobert 950, 951 
 
 Lockhart, J. G 1522-1524 
 
 Lodge, Thomas 428-431 
 
 Logan, John 962-964 
 
 Loker, T 1810 
 
 Longlande, Robert 17,18 
 
 Lovelace, Richard 352-3.57 
 
 Lydgate, John 36-40 
 
 LylyJohn 404-408 
 
 Lyndsay, Sir David 58-62 
 
 Lyttelton, Lord 904-906 
 
 Lytton, Lord 1828 
 
 Lytton, Robert 1829, 1830 
 
 M. 
 
 Macaulay 1565-1668 
 
 NO OV POBM. 
 
 Macdonald, George 1831 
 
 Mackay, Charles 1737-1742 
 
 Macneill, Hector ... 1595-1597 
 
 Macpherson, James 939 
 
 Maitland, Sir Richard 388 
 
 IVIallet, David 897-900 
 
 Marlow, Christopher 113 
 
 Marston, John 466 
 
 Marvell, Andrew 633-636 
 
 Mason 913-915 
 
 Massey, Gerald 1745-1756 
 
 Massinger, Philip 463-465 
 
 May, Thomas 367 
 
 Mayne, John 1605-1608 
 
 Meredith, George 1744 
 
 Merrick, James 1016,1017 
 
 Mickle 928,929 
 
 Middleton, Thomas ... 450-455 
 
 Milman, H.H 1664-1670 
 
 Milton, John 603-632 
 
 Moir, D. M 1534-1537 
 
 Montgomery, Alexander, 389, 
 
 390 
 Montgomery, James, 1384-1394 
 Montgomery, Robert, 1481-1483 
 
 Moore, Edward 1034 
 
 Moore, Sir John H. ... 983,984 
 
 Moore, Thomas 1278-1293 
 
 More, Henry 572-575 
 
 Morris, William 1839, 1840 
 
 Moss, Thomas 1027 
 
 Motherwell 1631-1641 
 
 Moultrie. John 1801 
 
 N. 
 
 Nabbes, Thomas 376 
 
 Nash, Thomas 439-444 
 
 Niccols, Richard { 496 
 
 Nicholson, William 1650 
 
 Nicoll, Robert 1642-1645 
 
 Norton, Hon. Mrs... 1710-1716 
 Nugent, Earl 1044 
 
 O. 
 
 Oldmixon, John 838 
 
 Oldys, William 1021 
 
 Opie, Mrs 1116-1118 
 
 Otway, Thomas 687-691 
 
 Ouseley, Thomas J. 1811, 1812 
 Overbury, Sir Thomas ... 495 
 Oxford, Edward, Earl of. . . 494 
 
 Parnell, Thomas 808-814 
 
 Peele, George 409-418 
 
 Penrose, Thomas 981,982 
 
 Percy, Dr. Thomas ... 937, 938 
 
 Philips, Ambrose 788-791 
 
 Philips, John ^^^ 
 
 Philips, Katherine 384, 385 
 
 Pollok, Robert 1430-1435 
 
 Pomfret, John 677, 678 
 
 Pope, Alexander 776-783 
 
 Pope, Dr. Walter 686 
 
NO. OF POBM. 
 
 Praed,W. M 1709 
 
 Pringle, Thomas 1478-1480 
 
 Prior, Matthew 747-762 
 
 Procter, B.W 1673-1696 
 
 Q. 
 
 Quarles, Francis, 292-296, 737 
 Quarles, John 676 
 
 n 
 
 E. 
 
 Ealeigh, Sir Walter ... 114, 115 
 
 Ramsay, Allan 824-826 
 
 Randolph, Thomas 358-360 
 
 Rands, W. B 1826, 1827 
 
 Redford,John 403 
 
 Robert de Brunne 14,15 
 
 Robert of Gloucester 13 
 
 Roberts, W. H 979, 980 
 
 Rochester, Earl of 654-657 
 
 Rogers, Samuel 1180-1188 
 
 RoUe, Richard 16 
 
 Roscommon, Earl of ... 650-653 
 Rosetti, Dante Gabriel 
 
 1841-1843 
 
 Ross, Alexander 1045, 1046 
 
 Rowe, Nicholas 828-830 
 
 Russell, Thomas 1042, 1043 
 
 S. 
 
 Sandys, George 477--480 
 
 Savage, Richard 840, 841 
 
 Scot, Alexander 386,387 
 
 Scott, John 1018-1020 
 
 Scott, Sir W 1314-1336 
 
 Sedley, Sir Charles ... 667-670 
 
 Seward, Anna 1111 
 
 Sewell, Dr. George 832 
 
 Shadwell, Thomas 700 
 
 Shakspere, William ... 165-211 
 
 Shaw, Cuthbert 1036 
 
 Shelley, Percy B. ... 1359-1376 
 
 Shenstone 893-896 
 
 Shirley, James, 379, 380, 460-462 
 
 so. OF POEM. 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip 107 
 
 Skelton, John 63 
 
 Skinner, John 1050 
 
 Smart, Christopher ... 994-996 
 
 Smith, Alexander 1743 
 
 Smith, Charlotte ... 1099-1101 
 
 Smith, Horace 1418-1420 
 
 Smith, James 1417 
 
 Smith, J. & H 1414-1416 
 
 Smollett, Tobias 921-923 
 
 Somerville, William ... 806,»807 
 Sotheby, William ... 1235-1237 
 
 Southeme, Thomas 827 
 
 Southey, Caroline... 1530-1533 
 
 Southey, Robert 1213-1227 
 
 Southwell, Robert 108-112 
 
 Spencer, Peter 1807-1809 
 
 Spencer, Hon. W. R. 1395-1396 
 
 Spenser, Edmund 124-134 
 
 Stanley, Thomas 565-569 
 
 Stepney, George 682 
 
 Sterline, Earl of 489 
 
 Still, Bishop 402 
 
 Stirling, Earl of 396 
 
 Storer, Thomas 490, 491 
 
 S .ickling, Sir John 329-332 
 
 Surrey, Howard, Earl of. 64-71 
 
 S wain, Charles 1 697-1 702 
 
 Swift, Jonathan 771-775 
 
 Swinburne, Algernon 
 
 Charles 1833, 1834 
 
 Sylvester, Joshua 119,120 
 
 Tannahill, Robert ... 1598-1602 
 
 Tate, Nahum 822, 823 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy 555 
 
 Tennant, William ... 1628-1630 
 Tennyson, Alfred ... 1703-1708 
 Tennyson, Frederick, 1804-1806 
 Thackeray, W. M.... 1762, 1763 
 Thompson, Edward 1038-1040 
 
 Thomson, James 864-879 
 
 Thrale, Mrs 1026 
 
 Tickell, Thomas 784, 785 
 
 Tighe, Mary 1121,1122 
 
 Toplady, A 1072-1074 
 
 Train, Joseph 1651 
 
 Trench, Richard C. 1802, 1803 
 Tusser, Thomas 81-90 
 
 NO. OP POEM, 
 
 U. 
 
 Udall, Nicholas 398,399 
 
 Uncertain 502-509 
 
 V. 
 
 Vanbrugh, Sir John 833 
 
 Vaughan, Henry 556-564 
 
 Vere, Aubrey de ... 1789-1791 
 
 W. 
 
 Waller; Edmund 585-602 
 
 Walsh, William 683 
 
 Ward, Edward 835 
 
 Warner, William 484 
 
 Warton, Joseph 974 
 
 Warton, Thomas 965-973 
 
 Wastell, Simon 501 
 
 Watson, Thomas 122-123 
 
 Watts, Dr 850-854 
 
 Webster, John 446-449 
 
 Wesley, Charles 1064-1066 
 
 Wesley, John 1067-1071 
 
 West, Gilbert 1032 
 
 White, H. Kirke ... 1165-1172 
 
 Whitehead, Paul 1037 
 
 Whitehead, W 986 
 
 Wilde, Dr 257 
 
 Wilson, A 1593,1594 
 
 Wilson, John 1421-1429 
 
 Wilson, R 432 
 
 Winchelsea, Anne, Coun- 
 tess of 817,818 
 
 Wither, George 271-284 
 
 Wolcot, Dr 1147-1155 
 
 Wolfe, Charles 1562-1564 
 
 Wordsworth, William,1189-1212 
 Wotton. Sir Henry ... 158-163 
 
 Wyat, SirThomas 72-79 
 
 Wyntoun, Andrew 44, 45 
 
 Y. 
 
 Young, Edward 855-863 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 VO. OF POBM. 
 
 ADAMSON, JOHN. 
 
 The Cavalier's Farewell to his Mistress 743 
 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
 
 A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 763 
 
 An Ode for St. Cecilia's Day 764 
 
 A Letter from Italy 765 
 
 An Ode 766 
 
 A Hymn 767 
 
 An Ode 768 
 
 A Hymn 769 
 
 Paraphrase on Psalm xxiii 770 
 
 AKENSIDE, MARK. 
 
 Tendencies of the Soul towards the 
 
 Infinite 901 
 
 Taste 902 
 
 An Epistle to Curio 903 
 
 ALFORD, DEAN. 
 
 A Remembrance 1726 
 
 The Past ...-. 1727 
 
 One Summer's Night 1728 
 
 Morning and Evening 1729 
 
 The Cross 1730 
 
 Gentlest Girl 1731 
 
 England 1732 
 
 There is an Ancient Man 1733 
 
 The Father and Child 1734 
 
 Autumn 1735 
 
 My own dear Country 1736 
 
 ALFRED, KING. 
 
 The Soul in Despair 5 
 
 Nothing on Earth Permanent 6 
 
 The Only Rest 7 
 
 The Happy Man 8 
 
 ALISON, RICHARD. 
 
 There is a Garden in her Face 486 
 
 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Emigrant's Adieu to Ballyshannon 1838 
 
 ANCRUM, EARL OF. 
 Solitary Life 
 
 395 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 The Sailing of Beowulf 9 
 
 An Old Man's SoiTow 10 
 
 Good Night 11 
 
 Summer is i-cumen in 12 
 
 The Nut-brown Maid 94 I 
 
 KO. OF POEM. 
 
 King Arthur's Death 95 
 
 Robin Goodfellow 510 
 
 The Old and Young Courtier 511 
 
 Time's Alteration 512 
 
 Loyalty confined 513 
 
 Adam Bell 514 
 
 The Birth of Robin Hood 515 
 
 A Tale of Ptobin Hood 516 
 
 Robin Hood and Allan-a-Dale 517 
 
 Robin Hood rescuing the Widow's 
 
 three Sons 518 
 
 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 519 
 
 Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar 520 
 
 How Robin Hood lends a Poor Knight 
 
 Four Hundred Pounds 521 
 
 The Knight releases his Lands and suc- 
 cours a Yeoman 522 
 
 Little John in the Service of the Sheriff 
 
 of Nottingham 523 
 
 Robin Hood reimburses himself of his 
 
 Loan 524 
 
 Robin Hood' s Death and Burial 525 
 
 Patient Grissell 526 
 
 The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 527 
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 528 
 
 King John and the Abbot of Canter- 
 bury 529 
 
 Edom o' Gordon 530 
 
 Thomas the Rhymer 531 
 
 The Water o' Wearie's Well 532 
 
 Lord Beichan 533 
 
 Love will find out the way 534 
 
 The Childe of Elle 535 
 
 King Edward IV. and the Tanner of 
 
 Tamworth '. 536 
 
 The Heir of Linne 537 
 
 The Spanish Lady's Love 538 
 
 The Lass of Lochroyan 539 
 
 The Young Man's Wish 709 
 
 The Midnight Messenger 710 
 
 Smoking spiritualized 711 
 
 The Catholick 712 
 
 The Three Knights 713 
 
 The Blind Beggar of Bednall Green 714 
 
 Lord Delaware 715 
 
 The Golden Glove 716 
 
 King James I. and the Tinkler 717 
 
 The Keach i' the Creel 718 
 
 Sir John Barleycorn 719 
 
 The Nobleman's Generous Kindness 720 
 The Brave Earl Brand and the King 
 
 of England's Daughter 721 
 
 The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgi'ove 722 
 
 b 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 NO. OF POEK. 
 
 Lady Alice 723 
 
 The Useful Plow 7'2i 
 
 The Farmer's Boy 725 
 
 The Mow 726 
 
 The Hitchin May-day Song .727 
 
 The Hayraakers' Song 728 
 
 The Garden Gate 729 
 
 The New-mown Hay 730 
 
 Begone Dull Care 731 
 
 When the King comes Home in peace 
 
 again 732 
 
 I love my King and Country well 733 
 
 The New Litany 735 
 
 The Old Protestant's Litany 736 
 
 The Cameronian Cat 738 
 
 I thank you twice 739 
 
 Prattle your Pleasure under the Rose 742 
 
 The Cobbler and the Vicar of Bray ... 744 
 A Country Song intituled the Eestora- 
 
 tion 745 
 
 The Loyal Soldier 746 
 
 Time's Song 1814 
 
 ANSTEY, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 A Public Breakfast 1025 
 
 ARMSTRONG, JOHN. 
 
 Choice of a Rural Situation and De- 
 scription of the Ague 924 
 
 Recommendation of a High Situation 
 on the Sea-coast '. 925 
 
 Angling 926 
 
 Pestilence of the 15th Century 927 
 
 ARNOLD, EDWIN. 
 
 Almond Blossom 1757 
 
 Woman's Voice 1758 
 
 ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 
 
 Urania 1759 
 
 Philomela 1760 
 
 Euphrosyne 1761 
 
 AYRES, PHILIP. 
 
 To the Nightingale 707 
 
 On the Sight of his Mistress's House 708 
 
 AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 
 
 The Church EuHder 839 
 
 AYTOUN, W. E. 
 
 Massacre of the Macphersons 1662 
 
 The Burial March of Dundee 1663 
 
 BAILEY, P. J. 
 Love 
 
 1672 
 
 BAILLIE, JOANNA. 
 
 Address to Miss Agnes Baillie 1470 
 
 The Black Cock 1471 
 
 The New Year's Gift 1472 
 
 The Kitten 1473 
 
 BAMPFYLDE, JOHN. 
 
 Sonnets 1007, 1008, 1009, 1010 
 
 BARBAULD, ANNA L. 
 
 Ode to Spring 1104 
 
 To a Lady, with some painted Flowers 1105 
 Hymn to Content 1106 
 
 irO. OF POBM. 
 
 Washing-day 1107 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous 1108 
 
 Come unto Me 1109 
 
 Praise to God 1110 
 
 BARBOUR, JOHN. 
 
 Apostrophe to Freedom 32 
 
 Character of Sir James of Douglas ... 33 
 
 Death of Sir Henry de Bohun 34 
 
 The Battle of By land's Path 35 
 
 BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 1047 
 
 BARNFIELD, RICHARD. 
 
 Address to the Nightingale 121 
 
 BARTON, BERNARD. 
 
 Power and Gentleness 1453 
 
 To the Evening Primrose 1454 
 
 There be those 1465 
 
 Not ours the Vows 1456 
 
 Stanzas on the Sea 1457 
 
 The Solitary Tomb 1458 
 
 Bishop Hubert 1459 
 
 BAXTER, RICHARD. 
 
 The Valediction 570 
 
 BAYLY, T. H. 
 
 To his Wife 1500 
 
 Think not of the Future 1501 
 
 where do Fairies hide their Heads 1502 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 Opening of the Minstrel 988 
 
 Morning Landscape 989 
 
 * Life and Immortality 990 
 
 Retirement 991 
 
 The Hermit 992 
 
 Ode to Peace 993 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Plighting Troth 212 
 
 Nature and Love 213 
 
 Csesar's Lamentation over Pompey's 
 
 Head 214 
 
 Melancholy 215 
 
 Song 216 
 
 The Power of Love 217 
 
 To Sleep 218 
 
 From Rollo 219 
 
 Song to Pan 220 
 
 BECKFORD, W. 
 
 Prayer 1519 
 
 BEHN, APHRA. 
 
 Songs 704, 705 
 
 BELCHIER, DABRIDGECOURT. 
 
 The Confession 445 
 
 BENNETT, W. C. 
 
 Invocation to Rain in Summer 1764 
 
 To a Cricket 1765 
 
 Baby May 1766 
 
 Baby's Shoes 1767 
 
 The Worn Wedding-ring 1768 
 
 Wedding Words 1769 
 
 Mother and Son 1770 
 
 To a Lady I know, aged One 1771 
 
 Cradle Song 1772 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 KO. OF POKM. 
 
 ToW. G. B 1773 
 
 The Queen 1774 
 
 Sketches from a Painter's Studio 1775 
 
 From India 1776 
 
 The Boat-race 1777 
 
 The Wife's Appeal 1778 
 
 BISHOP, SAMUEL. 
 
 To Mrs. Bishop 1002,1003 
 
 Epigrams 1004, 1005, 1006 
 
 BLACKLOCK, THOMAS. 
 
 Flowers 975 
 
 Terrors of a Guilty Conscience 976 
 
 Ode to Aurora 977 
 
 The Author's Picture 978 
 
 BLACKMORE. 
 
 Creation *... 787 
 
 BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM. 
 
 A Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 936 
 
 BLAIR, ROBERT. 
 
 The Grave 842 
 
 Friendship 843 
 
 The Miser 844 
 
 Unprepared for Death 845 
 
 Death 846 
 
 The Grave 847 
 
 The Death of a Good Man 848 
 
 The Resurrection 849 
 
 BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. 
 
 The Nabob 1102 
 
 What ails this Heart o' mine 1103 
 
 BLIND HARRY. 
 
 Adventure of Wallace while Fishing 
 
 in Irvine Water 46 
 
 The Death of Wallace 47 
 
 BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT. 
 
 The Farmer's Life 1123 
 
 Banquet of an English Squire 1124 
 
 The Soldier's Home 1125 
 
 TohisWife 1126 
 
 Song for a Highland Drover returning 
 
 from England 1127 
 
 Lines addressed to my Children 1128 
 
 BOETHIUS. 
 
 The Soul in Despair 5 
 
 Nothing on Earth permanent 6 
 
 The only Rest 7 
 
 The Happy Man 8 
 
 BONAR, HORATIUS. 
 
 A Little While 1779 
 
 All Well 1780 
 
 BOOTH, BARTON. 
 
 Song 836 
 
 BOSWELL, SIR A. 
 
 Jenny dang the Weaver 1609 
 
 Jenny's Bawbee 1610 
 
 Good Night and Joy be wi' ye a' 1611 
 
 BOURD, ANDREW. 
 
 Characteristic of an Englishman 80 
 
 NO. OP POBM. 
 
 BOWLES, W. L. 
 
 To Time 1238 
 
 Hope 1239 
 
 The Greenwich Pensioners 1240 
 
 The Greenwood 1241 
 
 Come to these Scenes of Peace 1242 
 
 On the Funeral of Charles I. ...TTTT.— 1243 
 
 At Oxford, 1786 1244 
 
 Written at Ty nemouth 1245 
 
 At Bamborough Castle 1246 
 
 To the River Wensbeck 1247 
 
 To the River Tweed 1248 
 
 Sonnet 1249 
 
 On leaving a Village in Scotland 1250 
 
 Sonnet 1251 
 
 On a Distant View of England 1252 
 
 To the River Cherwell 1253 
 
 Sonnet 1254 
 
 April, 1793 1255 
 
 Netley Abbey 1256 
 
 May, 1793 1257 
 
 On Revisiting Oxford 1258 
 
 On the Death of the Rev. William 
 
 Benwell 1259 
 
 On Reviewing the foregoing 1260 
 
 Path of Life 1261 
 
 Sunrise 1262 
 
 Summer's Evening 1263 
 
 Spring.— Cuckoo 1264 
 
 Sheep-fold 1265 
 
 Primrose 1266 
 
 Bird's Nest 1267 
 
 Winter. ~ Redbreast 1268 
 
 Butterfly and Bee 1269 
 
 Glowworm 1270 
 
 Starlight Frost 1271 
 
 BRETON, NICHOLAS. 
 
 Farewell to Town 116 
 
 A Pastoral of Phillis and Coridon 117 
 
 A Sweet Pastoral 118 
 
 BRISTOL, LORD. 
 ■ Song 571 
 
 BROME, ALEXANDER. 
 
 The Resolve 381 
 
 The Mad Lover 382 
 
 To a Coy Lady 383 
 
 BROOKE. FULKE GREVILE, LORD. 
 
 Constitutional Limitation of Despotism 154 
 
 Imagination 155 
 
 OfChurch 156 
 
 Reality of a True Religion 157 
 
 BROWN, FRANCES. 
 
 If that were true ! 1781 
 
 Is it come? 1782 
 
 Oh ! the pleasant Days of Old ! 1783 
 
 Losses 1784 
 
 BROWN, THOMAS. 
 
 Song 679 
 
 BROWNE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Morning 285 
 
 Evening 286 
 
 A Night Scene 287 
 
 Night 288 
 
 Songs 289, 290 
 
 Address to his Native Soil 291 
 
 ^2 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 NO. or POBM. 
 
 BROWNING, MRS. 
 
 Cowper's Grave 1558 
 
 The Child and the Watcher 1559 
 
 Bertha in the Lano 1560 
 
 The Sleep 1561 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT. 
 
 One Way of Love 1785 
 
 In a Year 1786 
 
 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 1787 
 
 The Lost Leader 1788 
 
 BRUCE, MICHAEL. 
 
 A Rural Scene 959 
 
 Happiness of a Country Life 960 
 
 Elegy 961 
 
 BRUNNE, ROBERT DE. 
 
 The Interview of Vortigem withRowen 14 
 Praise of Good Women 15 
 
 BRYDGES, SIR EGERTON. 
 
 Echo and Silence 1520 
 
 To Autumn 1521 
 
 BUCHANAN, R. 
 
 Iris, the Rainbow 1835 
 
 BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, DUKE OF. 
 
 Homer and Virgil 681 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT. 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 1575 
 
 Ae Fond Kiss 1576 
 
 My Bonnie Mary 1577 
 
 Mary Morison 1578 
 
 Bruce's Address 1579 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands 1580 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 1581 
 
 Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 1582 
 
 Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw ... 1583 
 
 A Red, Red Rose 1584 
 
 Bonnie Leslie 1585 
 
 Highland Mary 1586 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 1587 
 
 My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing ... 1588 
 
 John Anderson 1589 
 
 Here's a Health to them that's awa ... 1590 
 
 TamO'Shanter 1591 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 1692 
 
 BURTON, ROBERT. 
 
 Abstract of Melancholy 487 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL. 
 
 Accomplishments of Hudibras 637 
 
 Religion of Hudibras 638 
 
 Personal Appearance of Hudibras . . . 639 
 Hudibras commencing Battle with the 
 
 Rabble 640 
 
 Vicarious Justice 641 
 
 Hudibras consulting the Lawyer 642 
 
 The Elephant in tlie Moon 643 
 
 Miscellaneous Thoughts 644 
 
 To his Mistress 645 
 
 The Tub Preacher 734 
 
 The Roundhead 741 
 
 BYROM, JOHN. 
 
 Careless Content 1056 
 
 A Pastoral 1057 
 
 NO. OV POBJI. 
 
 BYRON, LORD. 
 
 To Thomas Moore 1337 
 
 Maid of Athens 1338 
 
 The Girl of Cadiz 1339 
 
 Stanzas for Music 1340 
 
 The Dream 1341 
 
 When we two parted 1342 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib 1343 
 
 Song of the Greek Poet 1344 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon 1345 
 
 The Gladiator 1346 
 
 Apostrophe to the Ocean 1347 
 
 Description of Haidee 1348 
 
 Haidee visits the shipwrecked Don 
 
 Juan 1349 
 
 Haidee and Juan at the Feast 1350 
 
 The Death of Haidee 1351 
 
 All for Love 1352 
 
 She walks in Beauty 1353 
 
 Elegy on Thyrza 1354 
 
 Youth and Age 1355 
 
 Vision of Belshazzar 1356 
 
 To Belshazzar 1357 
 
 The Night before the Battle of Waterloo 1358 
 
 C. 
 
 CiEDMON. 
 
 The First Day 
 
 The Fall of the Rebel Angels 
 
 Satan's Speech 
 
 The Temptation of Eve 
 
 CAMPBELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Hope Triumphant in Death 
 
 Domestic Love 
 
 Maternal Care 
 
 Battle of Wyoming and Death of 
 
 Gertrude 
 
 To the Evening Star 
 
 Song 
 
 Lochiel's Warning 
 
 Hohenlinden 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 
 
 Hallowed Ground 
 
 The Parrot 
 
 Napoleon and the Sailor 
 
 Adelgitha 
 
 1297 
 1298 
 1299 
 
 1300 
 1301 
 1302 
 1303 
 1304 
 1305 
 1306 
 1307 
 1308 
 1309 
 1310 
 1311 
 1312 
 
 CANNING, GEORGE. 
 
 The Friend of Humanity and the 
 
 Knife-grinder 1144 
 
 Song by Rogero in "The Rovers" 1145 
 
 Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son . 1146 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS. 
 
 Songs 258, 259, 260, 262, 263 
 
 The Compliment 261 
 
 Disdain returned 264 
 
 On Mr. W. Montague's Return from 
 
 Travel 265 
 
 Persuasions to Love 266 
 
 Approach of Spring 267 
 
 Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham . 268 
 
 ToSaxham 269 
 
 The Primrose 270 
 
 CAREY, HENRY. 
 
 Sally in our Alley 1035 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OP POBM. 
 
 CARRINGTON, N. T. 
 
 The Comtnencement of ''Dartmoor".., 1513 
 
 Dartmoor 1514 
 
 The Pixies of Devon 1515 
 
 England's Landscape 1516 
 
 Bird, Bee, and Butterfly 1517 
 
 Love and Nature 1518 
 
 CART WRIGHT, WILLIAM. 
 
 A Valediction 337 
 
 ToChloe 338 
 
 Love's Darts 339 
 
 On the Death of Sir Bevil Grenville ... 482 
 
 Love's Darts 483 
 
 CHALKHILL, JOHN. 
 
 Description of the Priestess of Diana 333 
 The Image of Jealousy in the Chapel 
 
 of Diana 334 
 
 The Witches' Cave 335 
 
 The Votaress of Diana 336 
 
 CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM. 
 
 A Summer Morning 579 
 
 Virgin Purity 580 
 
 Argalia condemned on False Evidence 581 
 The Father of Pharonnida discovers 
 
 her Attachment to Argalia 582 
 
 Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks... 583 
 
 The Death of Janusa and Ammurat ... 684 
 
 CHAPMAN, GEORGE. 
 
 Sonnet 485 
 
 CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 
 
 Morning 940 
 
 Spring 941 
 
 The Prophecy 942 
 
 Bristow Tragedy 943 
 
 The Minstrel's Song in Ella 944 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 
 
 The Canterbury Tales— The Prologue 19 
 
 The Squiere's Tale 20 
 
 The Cuckow and the Nightingale 21 
 
 To his Empty Purse 22 
 
 The House of Fame 23 
 
 Mercy 24 
 
 Introduction to the " Flower and the 
 
 Leaf" 25 
 
 The Duplicity of Women 26 
 
 Praise of Women 27 
 
 T he Last Verses of Chaucer 28 
 
 CHETTLE. 
 
 Sweet Content 433 
 
 Lullaby 434 
 
 CHURCHILL. 
 
 Remorse 952 
 
 Smollett 953 
 
 Hogarth 954 
 
 On the Poverty of Poets 955 
 
 Character of a Fribble 956 
 
 Characters of Quin, Tom Sheridan, 
 
 and Garrick 957 
 
 From the Prophecy of Famine 958 
 
 GIBBER, COLLEY. 
 
 The Blind Boy 1033 
 
 CLARE, JOHN. 
 
 To the Glowworm 1405 
 
 NO. OP POEM. 
 
 From "the Fate of Amy" 1406 
 
 What is Life 1407 
 
 Summer Morning 1408 
 
 The Primrose 1409 
 
 The Thrush's Nest 1410 
 
 First Love's Recollections 1411 
 
 Dawningsof Genius 1412 
 
 Scenes and Musings of the Pedant 
 
 Poet 1413 
 
 CLEVELAND, JOHN. 
 
 His Hatred of the Scots 377 
 
 On Phillis walking before Sunrise 378 
 
 The Puritan 740 
 
 CLOUGH, A. H. 
 
 Incitement to Perseverance 1 836 
 
 To a Sleeping Child 1837 
 
 COCKBURN, MRS. 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 1049 
 
 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. 
 
 Sonnet 1569 
 
 On Shakespere 1570 
 
 Sonnets to a Friend 1571 
 
 To certain Golden Fishes 1572 
 
 Song 1573 
 
 November 1574 
 
 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL T. 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 1503 
 
 Hymns before Sunrise in the Vale of 
 
 Chamouni 1504 
 
 Love 1505 
 
 The Nightingale 1506 
 
 Frost at Midnight 1507 
 
 Song 1508 
 
 KublaKhan 1509 
 
 Severed Friendship 1510 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant 1511 
 
 Answers to a Child's Question 1512 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM. 
 
 Ode to Pity 887 
 
 Ode 888 
 
 Ode to Evening 880 
 
 To the Passions 892 
 
 Dir^e in Cymbeline 891 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson 899 
 
 CONSTABLE, HENRY. 
 
 Sonnet 164 
 
 COOK, ELIZA. 
 
 The Old Arm-chair 1720 
 
 The Land of my Birth 1721 
 
 The Old Farm-gate 1722 
 
 The Loved One was not there 1723 
 
 The Old Water-mill 1724 
 
 A Home in the Heart 1725 
 
 CORBET, BISHOP. 
 
 To his Son, Vincent Corbet 251 
 
 Journeyinto France 252 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies 253 
 
 COTTON, CHARLES. 
 
 The New Year 646 
 
 Invitation to Isaak Walton 647 
 
 The Retirement 648 
 
 A Voyage to Ireland in burlesque 649 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 jro. OF POEM, 
 
 COTTON, NATHANIEL. 
 
 The Fireside 1024 
 
 OOWLEY, ABEAHAM. 
 
 Of Myself 540 
 
 The Chronicle 541 
 
 Anacreontics 542 
 
 Against Hope 543 
 
 For Hope 544 
 
 Claudian's Old Man of Verona 545 
 
 The Wish 546 
 
 From the Hymn to Light 547 
 
 From the Pindaric Odes 548 
 
 The Complaint 549 
 
 From Friendship in Absence 650 
 
 The Waiting Maid 551 
 
 Honour 552 
 
 Of Solitude 553 
 
 Epitaph on a Living Author 554 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The Character of Chatham 1077 
 
 The Greenland Missionaries 1078 
 
 Rural Sounds 1079 
 
 Conversation 1080 
 
 On the Receipt of his Mother's Picture 1081 
 
 To Maiy (Mrs. Unwin) 1082 
 
 English Liberty 1083 
 
 The Winter Evening 1084 
 
 Winter Evening in the Country 1085 
 
 Opening of the Second Book ot ** The 
 
 Task" 1086 
 
 John Gilpin 1087 
 
 Epistle to Joseph Hill 1088 
 
 CRABBE, GEORGE. 
 
 The Parish Workhouse and Apothecary 1173 
 
 Isaac Ashf ord, a Noble Peasant 1174 
 
 Phoebe Dawson 1175 
 
 An English Fen — Gipsies 1170 
 
 The Dying Sailor 1177 
 
 Reflections 1178 
 
 The Wife's Funeral 1179 
 
 CRASHAW, RICHARD. 
 
 Sospetto d'Herode, Lib. T 297 
 
 Hymn to the Name of Jesus 298 
 
 Sudden Change 299 
 
 Music's Duel 300 
 
 Markxii. 17 301 
 
 CRAWFURD, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Bush aboon Traquair 1028 
 
 Tweedside 1029 
 
 On Mrs. A. H. at a Concert 1030 
 
 CROLY, GEORGE. 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia 1538 
 
 The French Army in Russia 1539 
 
 To the Memory of a Lady. 1540 
 
 Come, Evening Gale ! 1541 
 
 The Painter 1542 
 
 Rebellion 1543 
 
 A Lowering Eve 1544 
 
 A CalmEve 1545 
 
 Satan 1546 
 
 The Poet's Hour 1547 
 
 Noon _... 1548 
 
 Notre Dame 1549 
 
 Jacob 1550 
 
 The Angel of the World 1651 
 
 KO. OF POBM. 
 
 CROWNE, JOHN. 
 
 Wishes for Obscurity 695 
 
 Passions 696 
 
 Love in Women 697 
 
 Inconstancy of the Multitude 698 
 
 Warriors 699 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 
 
 Hame, Hame, Hame 1617 
 
 My Nanie, O 1618 
 
 The Young Maxwell 1619 
 
 Fragment 1620 
 
 She's gane to dwell in Heaven 1621 
 
 The Poet's Bridal-day Song 1622 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 1623 
 
 The Town Child and Country Child.... 1624 
 Thou hast vow'd by thy Faith, my 
 
 Jeanie 1625 
 
 Gentle Hugh Herries 1626 
 
 The Sun rises bright in France 1627 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, JOHN. 
 
 May Eve 1022 
 
 Content 1023 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, THOMAS. 
 
 The Hills o' Gallowa' 1684 
 
 D. 
 
 DANIEL, SAMUEL. 
 
 Early Love 135 
 
 The Introduction of Foreign Vices de- 
 precated 136 
 
 Richard II 137 
 
 An Epistle to the Countess of Cumber- 
 land 138 
 
 The Nobility exhorted to the Patronage 
 
 of Learning 139 
 
 Sonnets 140 
 
 DARWIN, ERASJIUS. 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib's Army ... 1092 
 The Belgian Lovers and the Plague ... 1093 
 Death of Eliza at the Battle of Mmden 1094 
 
 Philanthropy— Mr. Howard 1095 
 
 Persuasion to Mothers to suckle their 
 
 own Children 1096 
 
 SongtoMay .. 1097 
 
 Song to Echo 1098 
 
 DAVENANT, SIR W. 
 
 Gondibert 372 
 
 Song 373 
 
 To the Queen 374 
 
 DAVIES, SIR JOHN. 
 
 The Vanity of Human Learning 221 
 
 That the Soul is more than a perfection 
 
 or reflection of the sense 222 
 
 That the Soul is more than the tem- 
 perature of the humours of the body 223 
 In what manner the Soul is united to 
 
 Body 224 
 
 The Immortality of the Soul 225 
 
 An Appeal to the Heart 226 
 
 DAVISON, FRANCIS. 
 
 Psalm XXX 498 
 
 Psalm xxiii 499 
 
 Psalm xiii 500 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 wo. OF POEM. 
 
 DEKKER, T. & WILSON R. 
 
 The Summer's Queen 432 
 
 DEKKER, CHETTLE, & HAUGHTOX. 
 
 Sweet Content 433 
 
 LuUaby 434 
 
 DEKKER, T. 
 
 Virtue and Vice 435 
 
 Patience 436 
 
 A Contrast between Female Honour 
 
 and Shame 437 
 
 A Description of a Lady by her Lover 438 
 
 DENHAM, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Cooper's Hill 576 
 
 On the Earl of Strafford's Trial and 
 
 Death 577 
 
 Song to Morpheus 578 
 
 DIBDIN. CHARLES. 
 
 The Tar for all Weathers 1136 
 
 Sir Sidney Smith 1137 
 
 Love and Glory 1138 
 
 Nongtongpaw 1139 
 
 Tom Bowling 1140 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES. 
 
 The Ivy Green 1818 
 
 DOBELL, SYDNEY. 
 
 How's my Boy? 1671 
 
 DODDRIDGE. 
 
 The Gospel 1058 
 
 Evening Hymn 1059 
 
 To-morrow, Lord, is Thine 1060 
 
 On Recovery from Sickness 1 061 
 
 Preparing to meet God 1062 
 
 A Christmas Hymn 1063 
 
 DODSLEY, ROBERT. 
 
 The Parting Kiss 1000 
 
 Song 1001 
 
 DOMMETT, ALFRED. 
 
 A Christmas Hymn 1792 
 
 DONNE, JOHN. 
 
 Address to Bishop Valentine 227 
 
 A Hymn to the Father 228 
 
 A Hymn to Christ 229 
 
 The Will 230 
 
 Valediction 231 
 
 Song 232 
 
 The Break of Day 233 
 
 The Dream 234 
 
 Sonnets 235 
 
 Ode 236 
 
 DORSET, EARL OF. 
 
 Song 680 
 
 DORSET, THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF. 
 The Induction to the Complaint of 
 
 Henry, Duke of Buckingham 96 
 
 AllegoricalPersonagesdescribedinHell 97 
 Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the 
 
 Infernal Regions 98 
 
 DOUGLAS, GAWAIN. 
 
 The Shipwreck of the Caravel of Grace 50 
 Morning in May 57 
 
 DOWLAND, JOHN. 
 Sleep 
 
 BO. OF POEM. 
 
 497 
 
 DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 
 
 Mortimer, Earl of March, and the Queen 
 surprised by Edward HI. in Notting- 
 ham Castle .^^...^ 141 
 
 Description of Morning, Birds, and 
 
 Hunting the Deer 142 
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt 143 
 
 David and Goliah 144 
 
 To his Coy Love 145 
 
 Ballad of Dowsabel 146 
 
 Sonnet 147 
 
 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM. 
 
 To a Nightingale 361 
 
 To his Lute 362 
 
 Spring 363 
 
 Think on thy Hume 364 
 
 John the Baptist 365 
 
 The Praise of a Solitary Life 366 
 
 DRYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Reason 658 
 
 Palamon and Arcite ; or, the Knight's 
 
 Tale 659 
 
 Mac-Flecknoe 660 
 
 Alexander's Feast 661 
 
 Character of Shaftesbury 662 
 
 Character of Villiers, Duke of Buck- 
 ingham 663 
 
 Theodore and Honoria 664 
 
 Enjoyment of the Present Hour re- 
 commended 665 
 
 DUNBAR, W^ILLIAM. 
 
 The Merle and Nightingale 51 
 
 The Vanity of Earthly Things 52 
 
 No Treasure without Gladness 53 
 
 Of Discretion in Giving 54 
 
 Of Discretion in Taking 55 
 
 DYER, JOHN. 
 
 Grongar Hill 880 
 
 £. 
 
 EDWARDS, RICHARD. 
 
 Amantium irie Amoris Redintegratio 
 
 est 91 
 
 The Lover requesteth some Friendly 
 
 Comfort, affirming his Constancy.... 92 
 
 ELLIOTT, EBENEZER. 
 
 To the Bramble Flower 1552 
 
 The Excursion 1553 
 
 Pictures of Native Genius 1554 
 
 Ajiostrophe to Futurity 1 o55 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 1556 
 
 A Poet's Prayer 1557 
 
 ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT. 
 
 Amynta 1051 
 
 ELLIOT, JANE. 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 1048 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 ETHEREGE, SIR GEORGE. 
 
 BO. OF POKM. 
 
 701, 702, 703 
 
 FAIRFAX, EDWARD. 
 
 Description of Armida and her En- 
 chanted Girdle 148 
 
 Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, and the En- 
 chanted Wood 149 
 
 FALCONER, WILLIAM. 
 
 Character of the Ship's Officers 945 
 
 The Ship departing from the Haven... 946 
 
 Distress .of the Vessel 947 
 
 Council of the Officers 948 
 
 The Vessel going to Pieces 949 
 
 FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD. 
 
 The Spring 368 
 
 A Rose 369 
 
 The Saint's Encouragement 370 
 
 A Rich Fool 371 
 
 FAWKES, FRANCIS.. 
 
 The Brown Jug 1014 
 
 FENTON, ELIJAH. 
 
 An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord 
 
 Gower 834 
 
 FERGUSSON, ROBERT. 
 
 Braid Claith 1052 
 
 The Farmer's Ingle 1053 
 
 To the Tron Kirk Bell 1054 
 
 A Sunday in Edinburgh 1055 
 
 FIELD, NATHANIEL. 
 
 Song 488 
 
 FITZGEFFREY, CHARLES. 
 
 Sir Francis Drake 492 
 
 To Posterity 493 
 
 FLATMAN, THOMAS. 
 
 For Thoughts 672 
 
 Dying 673 
 
 The Thought of Death 674 
 
 An Evening Hymn 675 
 
 FLETCHER. GILES, 
 
 The Rainbow 310 
 
 The Sources of Vain Delights 311 
 
 A Hymn 312 
 
 The Demand of Justice 313 
 
 FLETCHER, PHINEAS. 
 
 Happiness of the Shepherd's Life 314 
 
 Instability of Human Greatness 315 
 
 FORD, JOHN. 
 
 The Real and the. Ideal 456 
 
 Summer Sports ' 457 
 
 Beauty beyond the Reach of Art ...... 458 
 
 Bridal Song 459 
 
 PRERE, J. H. 
 
 Mr. Murray's Proposal 1294 
 
 The Giants and the Abbey 1295 
 
 War Song on the Victory of Brunnen- 
 
 burg 1296 
 
 ^'o. OF POBJi. 
 
 G. 
 
 GALL, RICHARD. 
 
 My only Jo and Dearie 1603 
 
 Farewell to Ayrshire 1604 
 
 GARTH, SAMUEL. 
 
 The Dispensary 786 
 
 GASCOIGNE, GEORGE. 
 
 The Arraignment of a Lover 101 
 
 Swiftness of Time 102 
 
 The Vanity of the Beautiful 103 
 
 Good Morrow 104 
 
 Good Night 105 
 
 DeProfundis 106 
 
 GAY, JOHN. 
 
 The Monkey who had seen the World 792 
 The Painter who pleased Nobody and 
 
 Everybody 793 
 
 The Lion and the Cub 794 
 
 The Old Hen and the Cock 795 
 
 The Goat without a Beard 796 
 
 The Sick Man and the Angel 797 
 
 The Fox at the Point of Death 798 
 
 The Council of Horses 799 
 
 The Poet and the Rose 800 
 
 The Hare and many Friends 801 
 
 S weet William's Farewell 802 
 
 A Ballad 803 
 
 The Country Ballad-singer 804 
 
 Walking the Streets of London 805 
 
 GEMMET, T. M. 
 
 Ye're a' the Warl' to me, Lassie ! 1813 
 
 GIFFORD, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Grave of Anna -. 1141 
 
 Greenwich Hill 1142 
 
 To a Tuft of Early Violets 1143 
 
 GILFILLAN, ROBERT. 
 
 In the Days o' Langsyne 1646 
 
 The Exile's Song 1647 
 
 GLOUCESTER, ROBERT OF. 
 
 The Muster for the First Crusade 13 
 
 GLOVER, RICHARD. 
 
 A Night Scene 997 
 
 The Armies at Salamis 998 
 
 Admiral Hosier's Ghost 999 
 
 GODOLPHIN, SIDNEY. 
 
 Love 481 
 
 GOFFE. THOMAS. 
 
 The Madness of Orestes 467 
 
 Love without Return 468 
 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 
 
 Edwin and Angelina 916 
 
 Retaliation 917 
 
 The Traveller 918 
 
 The Deserted Village 919 
 
 The Haunch of Venison 920 
 
 GOULD, ROBERT. 
 
 Songs 684,685 
 
 GOWER, JOHN. 
 
 The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets 29 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 VO. OF POBM. 
 
 Rosiphele's Vision of Ladies 30 
 
 The Envious Man and the Miser 31 
 
 GRAHAME, JAMES. 
 
 Scotland 1156 
 
 A Spring Sabbath Walk 1157 
 
 A Summer Sabbath Walk 1158 
 
 An Autumn Sabbath Walk 1159 
 
 A Winter Sabbath Walk 1160 
 
 The Burial of the Righteous 1161 
 
 A Scottish Country Wedding 1162 
 
 The Impressed Sailor Boy 1163 
 
 To My Son 1164 
 
 GRANGER, DR. 
 
 Ode to Solitude 1015 
 
 GRANT, MRS. 
 
 As a Sprig of Heath A19 
 
 The Highland Poor 1120 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton 
 
 College 907 
 
 Hymn to Adversity 908 
 
 The Bard 909 
 
 Elegy \mitten in a Country Church- 
 yard 910 
 
 Ode on the Spring 911 
 
 On Vicissitude 912 
 
 GREEN, MATTHEW. 
 
 Contentment 815 
 
 The Seeker 816 
 
 GREENE, ROBERT. 
 
 Beauty Suing for Love 419 
 
 Samela 420 
 
 Content 421 
 
 Sephestia's Song to her Child 422 
 
 The Shepherd and his Wife 423 
 
 A Roundelay 424 
 
 Philomela's Ode 425 
 
 Jealousy 426 
 
 Dorastus on Fawnia 427 
 
 GREET, T. 
 
 Household Treasures 1815 
 
 GREVILLE, MRS. 
 
 Prayer for Indifference 987 
 
 H. 
 
 HABERGHAM, MRS. FLEETWOOD. 
 
 The Seeds of Love 671 
 
 HABINGTON, WILLIAM. 
 
 To Roses in the Bosom of Castara 31 6 
 
 To Castara 317, 318 
 
 A Dialogue between Hope and Fear... 319 
 
 To the Spring 320 
 
 To Seymors 321 
 
 Description of Castara 322 
 
 To Castara 323 
 
 To my Noblest Friend, I. C, Esq 324 
 
 Nomine Labia mea aperies 325 
 
 Paucitatem Dierum meorum nuncia 
 
 mihi 326 
 
 Et exaltavit Humiles 327 
 
 Cupio dissolvi 328 
 
 NO. OF f OEIC. 
 
 HALL, BISHOP. 
 
 The Requirements of a Tutor 248 
 
 Portrait of a Poor Gallant 249 
 
 Discontent of Men with their Condition 250 
 
 HALL, JOHN. 
 
 The Morning Star ^ 375 
 
 HAMILTON, WILLIAI^I. 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow 881 
 
 Songs 882, 883 
 
 HARRINGTON, JOHN. 
 
 Sonnet made on Isabella Markham 99 
 
 Verses on a most Stony-hearted 
 Maiden 100 
 
 HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Of Treason 150 
 
 Of Fortune 151 
 
 Of Wx-iters who Carp at other Men's 
 
 Books 152 
 
 Of a Precise Tailor 153 
 
 HART. 
 
 Come, Holy Spirit, come 1075 
 
 Be Wise to run thy Race 1076 
 
 HAUGHTON. 
 
 Sweet Content 433 
 
 Lullaby 434 
 
 HAYLEY, WILLIAM. 
 
 Tribute to a Mother on her Death 1089 
 
 Inscription on the Tomb of Cowper ... 1090 
 On the Tomb of Mrs. Unwin 1091 
 
 HEADLEY, HENRY. 
 
 From his " Invocation to Melancholy " 1041 
 
 HEBER, BISHOP. 
 
 Passage of the Red Sea 1377 
 
 From Bishop Heber's Journal 1378 
 
 An Evening Walk in Bengal 1379 
 
 Epiphany 1380 
 
 Thou art gone to the Grave 1381 
 
 Spring 1382 
 
 HEMANS, MRS. 
 
 The Homes of England 1436 
 
 The Treasures of the Deep 1437 
 
 The Voice of Spring 1438 
 
 The Graves of a Household 1439 
 
 Marguerite of France 1440 
 
 Bring Flowers 1441 
 
 Casablanca 1442 
 
 The Hour of Prayer 1443 
 
 Passing Away 1444 
 
 The Better Land 1445 
 
 A Father reading the Bible 1446 
 
 To a Family Bible 1447 
 
 The Child's First Grief. 1448 
 
 Willow Song 1449 
 
 The Wandering Wind 1450 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in 
 
 New England 1451 
 
 The Adopted Child 1452 
 
 HENRYSONE, ROBERT. 
 
 Robene and Makyne 48 
 
 Dinner given by the Town Mouse to 
 
 theCountry Mouse 49 
 
 The Garment of Good Ladies 50 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 KO. 07 posai. 
 HERBERT, GEORGE. 
 
 Sunday 302 
 
 Virtue „ 303 
 
 The Flower 304 
 
 The Odour 305 
 
 Complaining 306 
 
 Easter 307 
 
 The Call 308 
 
 Man 309 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT. 
 
 The Kiss, a Dialogue 340 
 
 To Blossoms 341 
 
 To Daffodils 342 
 
 Song 343 
 
 To Meadows 344 
 
 The Country Life 345 
 
 To Primroses filled with Morning 
 
 Dew 346 
 
 Julia 347 
 
 Cherry Ripe 348 
 
 A Thanksgiving for his House 349 
 
 To Find God 350 
 
 To Corinna to go a-May ing 351 
 
 HERVEY, T. K. 
 
 The Convict Ship 1525 
 
 Dry up thy Tears, Love -1526 
 
 I am All Alone 1527 
 
 At his Sister's Grave 1528 
 
 Parting 1529 
 
 HEYWOOD, JOHN. 
 
 Idleness 400 
 
 Be Merry, Friends 401 
 
 HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 The Death-bell 469 
 
 What is Lova 470 
 
 Go, Pretty Birds 471 
 
 Diana's Nymphs 472 
 
 The Lark 473 
 
 Shepherd's Song 474 
 
 Shipwreck by Drink 475 
 
 Search after God 476 
 
 HILL, AARON. 
 
 Verses written when alone in an Inn 
 at Southampton 1031 
 
 HISLOP, JAMES. 
 
 The Cameronian*s Dream 1652 
 
 HOGG, JAMES. 
 
 When the Kye comes Hame 1612 
 
 The Skylark 1613 
 
 The Moon was a-waning 1614 
 
 Kilmeny 1615 
 
 To the Comet of 1811 1616 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 Town and Country 1484 
 
 Song ;;;;;;;;; 1435 
 
 A Parental Ode to my Son I486 
 
 Flowers 1487 
 
 Autumn * 1438 
 
 To a Child embracing his Mother 1489 
 
 To my Daughter on her Birthday 1490 
 
 I Remember, I Remember 1491 
 
 Fair Ines 1492 
 
 Ruth 1493 
 
 The Dream of Eugene Aram 1494 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs I495 
 
 NO. or FOSM. 
 
 The Song of the Shirt 1496 
 
 The Death-bed 1497 
 
 The Water Lady 1498 
 
 Song 1499 
 
 HOOK, N. 
 
 From a Poem entitled Amanda 706 
 
 HOUGHTON, LORD. 
 
 The Brookside 1717 
 
 The Men of Old 1718 
 
 The Long Ago 1719 
 
 HOWITT, MARY. 
 
 Mountain Children 1653 
 
 The Fairies of the Caldonlow 1654 
 
 The Monkey 1655 
 
 Little Streams 1656 
 
 The Broom Flower 1657 
 
 Summer Woods. 1658 
 
 Little Children 1659 
 
 Cornfields 1660 
 
 HOWITT, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Departure of the Swallow 1661 
 
 HUME, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Early Dawn 391 
 
 The Noon-tide of a Summer's Day 392 
 
 Evening 393 
 
 HUME, MARY C. 
 
 Render to Csesar tne things which are 
 Csesar's 1817 
 
 HUMPHREYS, DAVID. 
 
 Western Emigration 1847 
 
 HUNNIS, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Love that is requited with Dis- 
 dain 93 
 
 HUNT, LEIGH. 
 
 On the Birth of the Princess Royal 1397 
 
 To T. L. H., six years old 1398 
 
 To the Grasshopper and Cricket 1399 
 
 Chorus of Flowers 1400 
 
 The Nun 1401 
 
 AbouBen Adhem 1402 
 
 Jaffar 1403 
 
 Mahmoud 1404 
 
 HUNTER, MRS. 
 
 Songs 1112, 1113 
 
 To my Daughter, on being separated 
 
 from her on her Marriage 1114 
 
 The Lot of Thousands 1115 
 
 INGELAND, THOMAS. 
 
 My Fantasy will never turn... 397 
 
 INGELOW, JEAN. 
 
 Requiescat in Pace ! 1832 
 
 INGRAM, J. K. 
 
 The Memory of the Dead 1793 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 JXO, OV F0Z3I. 
 
 J. 
 
 JAGO, EICHAED. 
 
 Labour and Genius 985 
 
 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Spring ...., 41 
 
 James bewails his Captivity 42 
 
 ♦Tames first sees the Lady Jane 43 
 
 JAMES VI., KING. 
 
 Ane schort Poeme of Tyme 394 
 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 London 884 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes 885 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Robert Levett.... 886 
 
 JONES, ERNEST. 
 
 Moonrise 1794 
 
 JONES, SIR W. 
 
 An Ode in Imitation of AIcjbus 1011 
 
 A Persian Song of Hafiz 1012 
 
 Tetrastic 1013 
 
 JONSON, BEN. 
 
 To the Holy Trinity „ 237 
 
 Cupid 238 
 
 Song of Hesperus 239 
 
 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford « 240 
 
 Song 241 
 
 Song to Celia 242 
 
 A Nymph's Passion 243 
 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 244 
 
 A Celebration of Charis 245 
 
 A Hymn to God the Father 246 
 
 Advice to a Reckless Youth 247 
 
 K. 
 
 KEATS, JOHN. 
 
 From "Endymion" 1819 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes ,. 1820 
 
 True Beauty in Women 1821 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 1822 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 1823 
 
 Sonnet 1824 
 
 La Belle Dame sans Merci 1825 
 
 KEBLE, JOHN. 
 
 April 1795 
 
 The Elder Scripture 1796 
 
 St. Peter's Day 1797 
 
 Is this a time to Plant and Build 1 1798 
 
 KEN, BISHOP. 
 
 MomingHymn 819 
 
 Evening Hymn 820 
 
 Midnight Hymn 821 
 
 KING ALFRED. 
 
 The Soul in Despair 5 
 
 Nothing on Earth permanent 6 
 
 The only Rest 7 
 
 The Happy Man 8 
 
 KING, BISHOP. 
 
 Song 254 
 
 Sic Vita 255 
 
 Life 256 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 0, Mary, go and call the Cattle home. 1799 
 The Fishermen 1800 
 
 KNOWLES, HERBERT. 
 
 Lines written in the Churchyai'd of 
 Richmond, Yorkshire .,^. j1383 
 
 KNOX, WILLIAM. 
 
 Opening of the Songs of Zion 1474 
 
 Dirge of Rachel 1475 
 
 A Virtuous Woman 1476 
 
 Conclusion of the " Songs of Israel "... 1477 
 
 L. 
 
 LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. 
 
 Lucy's Flittin* 1C49 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES. 
 
 To Hester 1228 
 
 A Farewell to Tobacco 1229 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 1230 
 
 On an Infant Dying as soon as Bom... 1231 
 
 The Christening 1232 
 
 The Gipsy's Malison 1233 
 
 Childhood 1234 
 
 LANDON, L. E. 
 
 From the Improvisatrice 1460 
 
 Crescentius 1461 
 
 The Shepherd Boy 1462 
 
 Little Red Riding Hood 1463 
 
 Night at Sea 1464 
 
 The Awakening of Endymion 1465 
 
 Hannibal's Oath 1466 
 
 The Grasp of the Dead 1467 
 
 The Troubadour 1468 
 
 Last Vei-ses of L. E. L 1469 
 
 LANDOR, W. S. 
 
 The Maid's Lament 1272 
 
 The Brier 1273 
 
 Children 1274 
 
 Iphigenia and Agamemnon 1 275 
 
 To Macaulay 1276 
 
 The One Gray Hair 1277 
 
 LANGFORD, J. A. 
 
 To the First Cuckoo of the Year 1816 
 
 LANGHORE, DR. 
 
 Coun try J ustices and theii* Duties 930 
 
 Gipsies 931 
 
 An Appeal for the Industrious Poor ... 932 
 
 Mercy should have mitigated Justice.. 933 
 
 A Farewell to the Valley of Irwan 934 
 
 Owen of Carron 935 
 
 LANSDOWNE, GEO. GRANVILLE, LORD. 
 Song 837 
 
 LEE, NATHANIEL. 
 
 Speech 692 
 
 Love 693 
 
 Self-murder 694 
 
 LEWIS, M. G. 
 
 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair 
 Imogine 1313 
 
NAMES OP THE POETS AND 
 
 NO. OP POEM. 
 
 LEYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Dying ia a Foreign Land 1129 
 
 Sonnet on Sabbath Morn 1130 
 
 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 1131 
 
 The Mermaid 1132 
 
 To lanthe 1133 
 
 Ode to the Evening Star 1134 
 
 Scotland 1135 
 
 lilLLO, GEORGE. 
 
 From Fatal Curiosity 831 
 
 LLOYD, ROBERT. 
 
 The Miseries of a Poet's Life 950 
 
 Wretchedness of a School Usher 951 
 
 LOCKHART^ J. G. 
 
 Bernardo and Alphbnso 1522 
 
 Zara's Ear-rings 1523 
 
 The Excommunication of the Cid 152-i 
 
 LODGE, THOMAS. 
 
 Beauty 428 
 
 Rosalind's Madrigal 429 
 
 Ro?ader's Sonetto 430 
 
 Another 431 
 
 LOGAN, JOHN. 
 
 To theCuckoo 962 
 
 Written on a Visit to the Country in 
 
 Autumn 963 
 
 Complaint of Nature 964 
 
 LOKER, T. 
 
 Many, many Years ago 1810 
 
 LONGLANDE, ROBERT. 
 
 Mercy and Truth 17 
 
 Covetousness 18 
 
 LOVELACE, RICHARD. 
 
 Song 352 
 
 ToLucasta 353,354 
 
 To Althea 355 
 
 Song 356 
 
 A Loose Saraband 357 
 
 LYDGATE, JOHN. 
 
 Canace 36 
 
 From " The London Lackpenny " 37 
 
 A Sylvan Retreat 38 
 
 TheGolden Age 39 
 
 God's Providence 40 
 
 LYLY, JOHN. 
 
 Cupid andCampaspe 404 
 
 The Song of Birds 405 
 
 Complaint against Love 406 
 
 Apollo's Song of Daphne 407 
 
 Song to Apollo 408 
 
 LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID. 
 
 Grievances of a Scottish Peasant of the 
 
 16th Century £3 
 
 The Exactions and Delay of the Law... 59 
 
 Description of Squy re M eldrum 60 
 
 Meldrum's Duel with the English Cham- 
 pion Talbart 61 
 
 Christ Coming to Judgment 62 
 
 LYTTELTON, LORD. 
 
 The Progress of Love 904 
 
 To the Rev. Dr. Ayscough 905 
 
 KO. OF POBM. 
 
 To the Memory of the First Lady 
 Lyttelton 906 
 
 LYTTON, LORD. 
 
 The Secret Way 1828 
 
 LYTTON, ROBERT. 
 
 The Apple of Life 1829 
 
 lipilogue 1880 
 
 M. 
 
 MACAULAY, LORD. 
 
 The War of the League 1565 
 
 Naseby 1567 
 
 MACDONALD, GEORGE. 
 
 The Owl and the Bell 1831 
 
 MACKAY, CHARLES. 
 
 The Parting of Lovers 1737 
 
 The Child and the Mourners 1738 
 
 Under the Holly Bough 1739 
 
 What might be Done 1740 
 
 The Good Time Coming 1741 
 
 The Sailor's Wife 1742 
 
 MACNEILL, HECTOR. 
 
 The Ale-house 1595 
 
 The Husband's Return 1596 
 
 Mary of Castle-Cary 1597 
 
 MACPHERSON, JAMES. 
 
 The Cave 939 
 
 MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD. 
 
 The Town Ladies 388 
 
 MALLET, DAVID. 
 
 William and Margaret 897 
 
 Edwin and Emma 898 
 
 Song 899 
 
 A Funeral Hymn 900 
 
 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . 113 
 
 MARSTON, JOHN. 
 
 A Scholar and his Dog 46$ 
 
 MARVELL, ANDREW. 
 
 Thoughts in a Garden 633 
 
 The Emigrants in Bermudas 634 
 
 Young Love 635 
 
 The Nymph Complaining for the Death 
 
 of her Fawn 636 
 
 MASON. 913 
 
 An Ode from Caractacus 914 
 
 Ode to Memory 915 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD. 
 
 The Men of Forty-eight 1745 
 
 No Jewell'd Beauty is my Love 1746 
 
 A Poor Man's Wife 1747 
 
 Kisses 1748 
 
 Sweet and Twenty 1749 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POKM. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my Love 1750 
 
 Old England 1751 
 
 England goes to Battle 1752 
 
 There's no Dearth of Kindness 1753 
 
 To a Beloved One 1754 
 
 A Wail 1755 
 
 Oh, lay thy Hand in mine. Dear ! 1756 
 
 MASSINGER, PHILIP. 
 
 Welcome to the Forest's Queen 463 
 
 The Sweets of Beauty 464 
 
 Death 465 
 
 MAY, THOMAS. 
 
 The Death of Rosamond 367 
 
 MAYNE, JOHN. 
 
 Logan Braes 1605 
 
 Helen of Kirkconnel 1606 
 
 To the River Nith 1607 
 
 Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for 
 the Siller Gun 1608 
 
 MEREDITH, GEORGE. 
 
 Love in the Valley 1744 
 
 MERRICK, JAMES. 
 
 The Chameleon 1016 
 
 The Wish 1017 
 
 MICKLK 
 
 CumnorHall 928 
 
 The Mariner's Wife 929 
 
 MIDDLETON, THOMAS. 
 
 The Three States of Woman 450 
 
 What Love is like 451 
 
 Happiness of Married Life 452 
 
 Devotion to Love 453 
 
 Indignation at the Sale of a Wife's 
 
 Honour 454 
 
 Law 455 
 
 MILMAN, H. H. 
 
 Summons of the Destroying Angel to 
 
 the City of Babylon 1664 
 
 The Fair Recluse 1665 
 
 The Day of Judgment 1666 
 
 Bridal Song 1667 
 
 Hymn 1668 
 
 Brother, thou art gone 1669 
 
 Chorus 1670 
 
 MILTON, JOHN. 
 
 L'Allegro 603 
 
 II Penseroso 604 
 
 Lycidas 605 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity 606 
 
 Praise of Chastity 607 
 
 The Lady's Song in Comus 608 
 
 The Spirit's Epilogue in Comus 609 
 
 On May Morning 610 
 
 Sonnet to the Nightingale 611 
 
 Sonnet on Age of Twenty-three 612 
 
 Sonnet on his Blindness 613 
 
 Sonnet on his Deceased Wife 614 
 
 Sonnet on the late Massacre in Pied- 
 mont 615 
 
 Samson bewailing his Blindness and 
 
 Captivity 616 
 
 Tran^^lation of Horace 617 
 
 Athens 618 
 
 NO. OF rOEM. 
 
 The Invocation and Introduction to 
 
 Paradise Lost 619 
 
 Satan's Address to the Sun 620 
 
 Assembling of the Fallen Angels 621 
 
 Satan meets Sin and Death 622 
 
 Address to Light 623 
 
 The Angelic Worship 624 
 
 Paradise .....TT....- 625 
 
 Adam and Eve 626 
 
 Eve's Recollections 627 
 
 Morning in Paradise 628 
 
 Evening in Paradise 629 
 
 The Messiah 630 
 
 Temperance 631 
 
 Expulsion from Paradise 632 
 
 MOIR, D. M. 
 
 CasaWappy 1534 
 
 Langsyne 1535 
 
 The Unknown Grave 1536 
 
 Hymn 1537 
 
 MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER. 
 
 The Cherry and the Slae 389 
 
 Night is nigh gone 390 
 
 MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 
 
 Night 1384 
 
 The Grave 1385 
 
 Aspirations of Youth 1386 
 
 The Common Lot 1387 
 
 Prayer 1388 
 
 Home 1389 
 
 A Mother's Love 1390 
 
 ToaDaisy 1391 
 
 The Reign of Christ on Earth 1392 
 
 The Stranger and his Friend 1393 
 
 The Field of the World 1394 
 
 MONTGOMERY, ROBERT. 
 
 The Stan-y Heavens 1481 
 
 Picture of War 1482 
 
 Lost Feelings 1183 
 
 MOORE, EDWARD. 
 
 The Happy Marriage 1034 
 
 MOORE, SIR JOHN H. 
 
 L' Amour Timide 983 
 
 Song 984 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS. 
 
 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 1278 
 
 Wreathe the Bowl 1279 
 
 Fill the Bumper fair 1280 
 
 And doth not a Meeting like this 1281 
 
 Friend of my Soul 1282 
 
 Go where Gloiy waits thee ! 1283 
 
 Fly to the Desert .' 1284 
 
 The Harp that once through Tara's 
 
 Halls 1285 
 
 Song 1286 
 
 0! Breathe not his Name 1287 
 
 Those Evening Bells 1288 
 
 Arranmore 1289 
 
 Miriam's Song 1290 
 
 Echoes 1291 
 
 The Light of other Days 1292 
 
 The Journey Onwards 1293 
 
 MORE, HENRY. 
 
 The Philosopher's Devotion 572 
 
 Charity and Humility 573 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 ifo. OF fobm:. 
 
 The Soul and the Body 574 
 
 The Pre-existence of the Soul 575 
 
 MOERIS, WILLIAM. 
 
 From '*The Loves of Guarun" ...1839, 1840 
 
 MOSS, THOMAS. 
 
 The Beggar 1027 
 
 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 1631 
 
 Sword Chant of Thoretein Raudi 1632 
 
 They come ! the Merry Summer 
 
 Months 1633 
 
 The Water, the Water 1634 
 
 The Midnight Wind 1635 
 
 The Cavalier's Song 1636 
 
 The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, 
 
 Mary 1637 
 
 My Held is like to rend, Willie 1638 
 
 The Covenanter's Battle Chant 1639 
 
 When I beneath the cold red earth 
 
 am sleeping 1640 
 
 Song of the Danish Sea-king 1641 
 
 MOULTRIE, JOHN. 
 
 The Three Sons 1801 
 
 N. 
 
 NABBES, THOMAS. 
 
 Song by Love to Physander and Bel- 
 lanima S76 
 
 NASH, THOMAS. 
 
 Spring 439 
 
 The Decay of Summer 440 
 
 The Coming of Winter 441 
 
 Approaching Death 442 
 
 Contentment 443 
 
 Despair of a Poor Scholar 444 
 
 NICCOLS, RICHARD. 
 
 Robert, Duke of Normandy, previ- 
 ously to his eyes being put out 496 
 
 NICHOLSON, WILLIAM. 
 
 The Brownie of Blednoch 1650 
 
 NICOLL, ROBERT. 
 
 Thou^ts of Heaven 1642 
 
 We are Brethren a' 1643 
 
 Wild Flowers 1644 
 
 Death.... ^ ' 1645 
 
 NORTON, HON. MRS. 
 
 Picture of Twilight 1710 
 
 The Mother's Heart ......* 1711 
 
 To Ferdinand Seymour 1712 
 
 We have been Friends together......... 1713 
 
 Allan Percy I714 
 
 Love not I715 
 
 The King of Denmark's Ride 17I6 
 
 NUGENT, EARL. 
 
 Ode to Mankind IO44 
 
 OLDMIXON, JOHN. 
 Sons: 
 
 838 
 
 iO. OF rOEM. 
 
 OLDYS, WILLIAM. 
 
 Song 1021 
 
 OPIE, MRS. AMELIA. 
 
 The Orphan Boy's Tale 1116 
 
 A Lament 1117 
 
 Song 1118 
 
 OTWAY, THOMAS. 
 
 A Blessing 687 
 
 Parting 688 
 
 Picture of a Witch 689 
 
 Song 690 
 
 Description of Morning 691 
 
 OUSELEY, T. J. 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers 1811 
 
 The Seasons of Life 1812 
 
 OVERBURY, SIR THOMAS. 
 
 The Wife ,. 495 
 
 OXFORD, EDWARD, EARL OF. 
 
 Fancy and Desire 494 
 
 PARNELL, TH0^L4.S. 
 
 A Fairy Tale 808 
 
 The Hermit 809 
 
 Hymn to Contentment 810 
 
 Song 811 
 
 Morning Hymn 812 
 
 Noontide Hymn 813 
 
 Evening Hymn 814 
 
 PEELE, GEORGE. 
 
 -lEnone's Complaint 409 
 
 The Song of the enamoured Shepherd. 410 
 
 The Aged Man-at-Arms 411 
 
 England 412 
 
 Joab's Description of David 413 
 
 Joab's Address to David on Death ot' 
 
 Absalom 414 
 
 King David , 415 
 
 Bethsabe bathing 416 
 
 Bethsabe's Address to the Zephyr 417 
 
 David enamoured of Bethsabe. 418 
 
 PENROSE, THOMAS. 
 
 The Helmets 981 
 
 The Field of Battle 982 
 
 PERCY, DR. THOMAS. 
 
 O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me 937 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray 938 
 
 PHILIPS, AMBROSE. 
 
 A Fragment of Sappho 788 
 
 Epistle to the Earl of Dorset 789 
 
 The First Pastoral 790 
 
 To Charlotte Pulteney 791 
 
 PHILIPS, JOHN. 
 
 The Splendid Shilling 6Q& 
 
 PHILIPS, KATHERINE. 
 
 The Inquiry 384 
 
 A Friend 385 
 
 POLLOK, ROBERT. 
 
 Thus stood his Mind 1430 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Hell 1431 
 
 A Scene of Early Love 1432 
 
 The Death of the Young Mother 1 433 
 
 Friendship 1434 
 
 Happiness 1435 
 
 POMFRET, JOHN. 
 
 Custom 677 
 
 The Wish 678 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER. 
 
 The Messiah 770 
 
 Satire 777 
 
 To a Lady 778 
 
 The Man of Ross 779 
 
 The Toilet 780 
 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 781 
 
 The Quiet Life 782 
 
 Moonlight 783 
 
 POPE, DR. WALTER. 
 
 The Old Man's Wish 68G 
 
 PRAED, W. M. 
 
 Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine 1709 
 
 PRINGLE, THOMAS. 
 
 Afar in the Desert 1478 
 
 The Lion and the Giraffe 1479 
 
 The Emigrant's Farewell 1480 
 
 PRIOR, MATTHEW. 
 
 An Ode 747 
 
 A Song 748 
 
 The despairing Shepherd 749 
 
 The Lady's Looking-glass 750 
 
 Cupid and Ganymede 751 
 
 Cupid mistaken 752 
 
 Mercury and Cnpid 753 
 
 The Garland 754 
 
 Henry and Emma 755 
 
 The Thief and the Cordelier 756 
 
 Protogenes and Apelles 757 
 
 Abra'sLove for Solomon 758 
 
 Epitaph, Extempore 759 
 
 For my Own Monument 760 
 
 An Epitaph 761 
 
 On Bishop Atterbury's burying the 
 
 Duke of Buckingham 762 
 
 PROCTER, B. W. 
 
 Address to the Ocean 1673 
 
 Marcelia 1674 
 
 Night 1675 
 
 The Sleeping Figure of Modena 1676 
 
 An Invocation to Birds 1677 
 
 To the Snowdrop Itj78 
 
 Song of Wood Nymphs 1679 
 
 The Blood Horse 1680 
 
 The Sea 1681 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 1682 
 
 The Sea in Calm 1683 
 
 The Hunter's Song 1684 
 
 The Owl 1685 
 
 A Song for the Seasons 1686 
 
 The Poet's Song to his Wife 1687 
 
 Softly woo away her Breath 1688 
 
 The Mother's last Song 1689 
 
 Peace! what do tears avail ? 1690 
 
 A Bridal Dirge 1691 
 
 Hermione * 1692 
 
 A Poet's Thought 1693 
 
 A Petition to Time 1694 
 
 KG. OF POEM. 
 
 Sit down, sad Soul 1695 
 
 Life 1696 
 
 Q. 
 
 QUARLES, FRANCIS. 
 
 What is Lite 292 
 
 The Vanity of the World 293 
 
 Faith 294 
 
 Delight in God only 295 
 
 Song 296 
 
 Hey, then, up go we 737 
 
 QUARLES, JOHN. 
 
 Hymn to the Almighty 676 
 
 R. 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 
 
 The Nymph's Reply 114 
 
 The Country's Recreations 115 
 
 RAMSAY, ALLAN. 
 
 Song 824 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor ... 825 
 
 Ode from Horace 826 
 
 RANDOLPH, THOMAS. 
 
 To a Lady admuring Herself in a Look- 
 ing-glass 358 
 
 From the Muse's Looking-glass 359 
 
 To my Picture 360 
 
 RANDS, W. B. 
 
 Lilliput Levee 1826 
 
 Baby 1827 
 
 REDFORD, JOHN 
 
 Song of Honest Recreation 403 
 
 ROBERTS, W. H. 
 
 Belshazzar and Daniel 979 
 
 The Jews' Return to Jerusalem 980 
 
 ROCHESTER, EARL OF. 
 
 Song 654 
 
 Constancy 655 
 
 Song 656 
 
 Song 657 
 
 ROGERS, SAMUEL. 
 
 From the " Pleasures of Memoiy " ... 1180 
 
 From " Human Life " 1181 
 
 From the " Voyage of Columbus" ... 1182 
 
 Genevra 1183 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty 1184 
 
 A Wish 1185 
 
 An Italian Song 1186 
 
 To the Butterfly 1187 
 
 On a Tear 1188 
 
 ROLLE, RICHARD. 
 
 What is Heaven ? 16 
 
 ROSCOMMON, EARL OP 
 
 Against False Pride 650 
 
 An Author should be sincei'e 651 
 
 A Quack 652 
 
 On the Day of Judgment 653 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 IfO. OF POBM, 
 
 ROSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 
 
 The Blessed Daraozel 1841 
 
 The Portrait 1842 
 
 Newborn Death 1843 
 
 ROSS, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Woo'd and Married and a' 1045 
 
 Mary's Dream 1046 
 
 ROWE, NICHOLAS. 
 
 Colin's Complaint 828 
 
 The Contented Shepherd 829 
 
 Song. 830 
 
 RUSSELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Sonnet to Valclusa 1042 
 
 Sonnet, supposed to be written at 
 Lemnos 1043 
 
 S. 
 
 SANDYS, GEORGE. 
 
 A Thanksgiving 477 
 
 Psalm xlii 478 
 
 Psalm Ixviii 479 
 
 Chorus of Jewish Women , 480 
 
 SAVAGE, RICHARD. 
 
 Remorse 840 
 
 The Wanderer 841 
 
 SCOT, ALEXANDER. 
 
 To his Heart 386 
 
 Rondel of Love 387 
 
 SCOTT, JOHN. 
 
 The Tempestuous Evening 1018 
 
 Ode on hearing the Di-um 1019 
 
 Ode on Privateering 1020 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 
 
 Description of Melrose Abbey 1314 
 
 Love of Country 1315 
 
 Death of Marmion 1316 
 
 Young Lochinvar 1317 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean 1318 
 
 Songs... 1319, 1320 
 
 Border Ballad 1321 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 1322 
 
 Coronach 1323 
 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maiden 1324 
 
 Cadyow Castle 1325 
 
 The Outlaw r. 1326 
 
 A Serenade 1327 
 
 Where shall the Lover rest 1328 
 
 The Maid of Neidpath 1329 
 
 The Pride of Youth 1330 
 
 Rosabelle 1331 
 
 Hunting Soug 1332 
 
 The Palmer 1333 
 
 The Wild Huntsman 1334 
 
 Christmas 1335 
 
 Hymn for the Dead 1336 
 
 SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES. 
 
 To a very Young Lady 667 
 
 Song 668 
 
 Cosmelia's Charms 669 
 
 Song 670 
 
 SEWARD, ANNA. 
 
 The Anniversary 1111 
 
 NO. OP POEM,. 
 
 SEWELL, DR. GEORGE. 
 
 Verses 832 
 
 SHADWELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Inconstancy of Love 700 
 
 SHAKSPERE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Mercy 165 
 
 Night 166 
 
 Night and Music 167 
 
 Grief that cannot be comforted 168 
 
 Flowers 169 
 
 Richard the Second's Lament 170 
 
 Soliloquy of Richard the Second in 
 
 Prison 171 
 
 Hetspur's Defence 172 
 
 Rumour 173 
 
 Sleep 174 
 
 Henry the Fourth's Expostulation 
 
 with his Son 175 
 
 The Answer of the Lord Chief Jus- 
 tice to Henry V 176 
 
 The King's Answer 177 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address to his Sol- 
 diers before Harfieur 178 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address at Agin- 
 
 court 179 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Soliloquy on the 
 
 Battle-field 180 
 
 Gloster's Soliloquy 181 
 
 Wolsey on his Fall 182 
 
 Cranmer's Prophecy of Queen EUza- 
 
 beth 183 
 
 Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death 184 
 
 Macbeth before murdering the King. . . 185 
 
 Cassius to Brutus 186 
 
 Mark Antony's Oration on the Body 
 
 of Csesar 187 
 
 Cleopatra 188 
 
 Life 189 
 
 Appearances 190 
 
 The Uses of Adversity 191 
 
 A Meditative Fool 192 
 
 The World a Stage 193 
 
 Adversity 194 
 
 Beauty 195 
 
 Ceremony 196 
 
 Friends falling off 197 
 
 Gold 198 
 
 Insanity 199 
 
 Self-inspection 200 
 
 Love 201 
 
 England 202 
 
 Order and Obedience 203 
 
 Proper use of Talents 204 
 
 Take the beam out of thine own eye 205 
 
 The Voice of the Dying 206 
 
 A Good Conscience 207 
 
 Good Name 208 
 
 Ariel's Song 209 
 
 The Fairy to Puck 210 
 
 Amiens' Song 211 
 
 SHAW, CUTHBERT. 
 
 From "A Monody to the Memory of 
 
 his Wife" 1036 
 
 SHELLEY, PERCY B. 
 
 Opening of Queen Mab 1359 
 
 The Cloud 1360 
 
 To a Skylark 1361 
 
 Lines to an Indian Air 1362 
 
 I fear thy kisses 1363 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 Love's Philosophy 1364 
 
 To the Night 1365 
 
 The Flight of Love 1366 
 
 One Word is too often prof aned 1367 
 
 Invocation 1368 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection near 
 
 Naples 1369 
 
 Ozymandias of Egypt 1370 
 
 To a Lady, with a Guitar 1371 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 1372 
 
 Autumn 1373 
 
 The Widow Bird 1374 
 
 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 1 375 
 
 Mutability 1376 
 
 SHENSTONE. 
 
 The Schoolmistress 893 
 
 A Pastoral Ballad 894 
 
 Ode to Memory 895 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley. 896 
 
 SHIRLEY, JAMES. 
 
 Upon his Mistress sad 379 
 
 Echo and Narcissus 380 
 
 Shepherd and Shepherdesses 460 
 
 The Common Doom 461 
 
 The Equality of the Grave 462 
 
 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 
 
 Sonnets 107 
 
 SKELTON, JOHN. 
 
 To Mistress Margaret Hussey 63 
 
 SKINNER, JOHN. 
 
 Tullochgorum 1050 
 
 8MART, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 Songto David 994 
 
 From aTx-ip to Cambridge 995 
 
 Ode 996 
 
 SMITH, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Lady Barbara 1743 
 
 SMITH, CHARLOTTE. 
 
 On the Departure of the Nightingale 1099 
 
 Written at the Close of Spring 1100 
 
 Recollections of English Scenery 1101 
 
 SMITH, HORACE. 
 
 Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's 
 
 Exhibition 1418 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers 1419 
 
 On the Death of George III 1420 
 
 SMITH, JAMES. 
 
 The Upas in Marylebone-lane 1417 
 
 SMITH, JAMES AND HORACE. 
 
 The Theatre 1414 
 
 The Baby's D€but 1415 
 
 A Tale of Drury-lane 1416 
 
 SMOLLETT, TOBIAS. 
 
 Ode to Independence 921 
 
 Ode to Leven Water 922 
 
 The Tears of Scotland 923 
 
 SOMERVILLE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Description of a Hare-hunt 806 
 
 Praise of a Country Life 807 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 SOTHEBY, WILLIAM. 
 
 StafiFa 1235 
 
 Approach of Saul and his Guards 
 
 against the Philistines 1236 
 
 Song of the Virgins celebrating the 
 
 Victory 1237 
 
 SOUTHERNE, THOMAS. 
 Song 
 
 827 
 
 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE. 
 
 Autumn Flowers 1530 
 
 The Pauper's Deathbed 1531 
 
 The Last Journey 1532 
 
 Mariner's Hymn 1533 
 
 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 
 
 The Widowed Mother 1213 
 
 A Moonlight Scene 1214 
 
 The Holly-tree 1215 
 
 The Alderman's Funeral 1216 
 
 Love 1217 
 
 The Miser's Mansion 1218 
 
 After Blenheim ; 1219 
 
 The Scholar 1220 
 
 Youth and Age 1221 
 
 The Complaints of the Poor 1222 
 
 The Old Man's Comforts 1223 
 
 The Inchcape Rock 1224 
 
 Bishop Hatto 1225 
 
 Mary the Maid of the Inn 1223 i 
 
 St. Romuald 1227 
 
 SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. 
 
 Love's Servile Lot 108 
 
 Look Home 109 
 
 Times go by turns 110 
 
 The Image of Death Ill 
 
 Scorn not the least 112 
 
 SPENCER, PETER. 
 
 Lines to Fanny 1807 
 
 Sent with a Rose to Rose 1808 
 
 A Thought among the Roses 1809 
 
 SPENCER, HON. W. R. 
 
 Beth G61ert 1395 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends 1396 
 
 SPENSER, EDMUND. 
 
 Una and the Redcross Knight 124 
 
 Una followed by the Lion 125 
 
 The Sqnire and the Dove 126 
 
 Fable of the Oak and the Briar 127 
 
 From the Epithalamion 128 
 
 The House of Riches 129 
 
 The Ministry of Angels 130 j 
 
 Prince Arthur's Address to Night 131 
 
 The Garden of Adonis 132 
 
 The Bower of Bliss 133 
 
 Sonnets 134 
 
 STANLEY, THOMAS. 
 
 The Tomb 565 
 
 Celia Singing 566 
 
 Speaking and Kissing 567 
 
 La Belle Confidante 568 
 
 Note to Moschus 669 
 
 STEPNEY, GEORGE. 
 To the Evening Star. 
 
 682 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 STERLINE, EARL OF, WILLIAM 
 ALEXANDER. 
 
 Sonnets 489 
 
 STILL, BISHOP. 
 
 Drinking Son^j 402 
 
 STIRLING, EARL OF. 
 
 Sonnet 396 
 
 STORER, THOMAS. 
 
 Wolsey's Ambition 490 
 
 Wolsey's Vision 491 
 
 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Song 329 
 
 A Ballad upon a Wedding. 330 
 
 Constancy 331 
 
 Song 332 
 
 SURREY, HOWARD, EARL OF. 
 
 Imprisoned in Windsor, he recounteth 
 
 his Pleasure there passed 64 
 
 No Age Content with his Own Estate. QJ) 
 
 The Means to attain Happy Life QQ 
 
 Description of Spring 67 
 
 How each Thing, save the Lover, in 
 
 Spring re viveth to Pleasure 68 
 
 Description and Praise of his Loue, 
 
 Geraldine 69 
 
 A Vow to Loue 70 
 
 A Lover's Complaint 71 
 
 SWAIN, C. 
 
 The Death of the Warrior-king 1697 
 
 The Voice of the Morning 1698 
 
 The Mother's Hand 1699 
 
 TheOrphanBoy 1700 
 
 Sabbath Chimes 1701 
 
 Love's History 1702 
 
 SWIFT, JONATHAN. 
 
 Morning "771 
 
 Description of a City Shower 772 
 
 Baucis and Philemon 773 
 
 Verses on his own Death 774 
 
 The Grand Question debated 775 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. 
 
 The Sea 1833 
 
 Meleager Dying 1834 
 
 SYLVESTER, JOSHUA. 
 
 The Soul's Errand 119 
 
 To Religion 120 
 
 TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 
 
 The Braes o' Balquhither 1598 
 
 The Braes o' Gleniffer 1599 
 
 The Flower o' Dumblane 1600 
 
 The Midges dance aboon the Bum .... 1601 
 Gloomy Winter's now awa' 1602 
 
 TATE, NAHUM. 
 
 The Birth of Christ 822 
 
 From Psalm civ 823 
 
 TAYLOR, BISHOP JEREMY. 
 
 Of Heaven 555 
 
 KO. OF PftEM. 
 
 TENNANT, WILLIAM. 
 
 From Anster Fair 1628 
 
 The Heroine of Anster Fair..... 1629 
 
 Description of the Comers to the Fair 1630 
 
 TENNYSON, A. 
 
 Song of the Brook 1703 
 
 The Reconciliation 1704 
 
 The Widow and Child 1705 
 
 From In Memoriam 1706 
 
 Lady Clare 1707 
 
 Dora 1708 
 
 TENNYSON, FREDERICK. 
 
 First of March 1804 
 
 The Bridal 1805 
 
 The Blackbird 1806 
 
 THACKERAY, W. M. 
 
 The Age of Wisdom 1762 
 
 Damages Two Hundred Pounds 1763 
 
 THOMPSON, EDWARD. 
 
 The Sailor's Farewell 1038 
 
 Songs 1039, 1040 
 
 THOMSON, JAMES. 
 
 Showers in Spring 864 
 
 Birds Pairing in Spring 865 
 
 Domestic Happiness 866 
 
 Musidora 867 
 
 A Summer Morning 868 
 
 A Summer Evening 869 
 
 Lavinia 870 
 
 The Hai-vest Storm 871 
 
 Autumn Evening Scene 872 
 
 A Winter Landscape 873 
 
 A Hymn 874 
 
 From the Bard's Song in the Castle of 
 
 Indolence 875 
 
 Ode 876 
 
 Hymn on Solitude 877 
 
 The Happy Man 878 
 
 Rule Britannia 879 
 
 THRALE, MRS. 
 
 The Three Warnings 1026 
 
 TICKELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Colin and Lucy 784 
 
 To the Earl of Warwick on the Death 
 of Addison 785 
 
 TIGHE, MARY. 
 
 The Marriage of Cupid and Psyche .... 1121 
 The Lily 1122 
 
 TOPLADY, A. 
 
 Love Divine, all love excelling 1072 
 
 Deathless Principle, arise 1 073 
 
 Rock of Ages cleft for me 1074 
 
 TRAIN, JOSEPH. 
 
 Song 1651 
 
 TRENCH, R. C. 
 
 Harmosan 1802 
 
 Be Patient 1803 
 
 TUSSER, THOMAS. 
 
 An Introduction to the Book of 
 Husbandry 81 
 
TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POESI. 
 
 A Preface to the Buyer of his Book on 
 
 Husbandry 82 
 
 The Ladder to Thrift 83 
 
 Directions for Cultivating a Hop- 
 garden 84 
 
 Housewifery Phj'sic 85 
 
 Good Husbandly Lessons S6 
 
 The Winds 87 
 
 A Christmas Carol 88 
 
 Posies for thine own Bed-chamber 89 
 
 Principal Points of Keligion 90 
 
 U. 
 
 UDALL, NICHOLAS. 
 
 The Work-girl's Song 398 
 
 The Minion Wife 399 
 
 UNCERTAIN. 
 
 Sadne^^s 502 
 
 The Soul's Errand 503 
 
 Content 504 
 
 The Woodman's Walk 505 
 
 Canzonet 506 
 
 The Oxford Riddle 507 
 
 Ambitio Feminini Generis 508 
 
 Nee Sutor ultra 509 
 
 V. 
 
 VANERUGH, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Fable, related by a Beau to ^sop 833 
 
 VAUGHAN, HENRY. 
 
 Early Rising and Prayer 556 
 
 The Feast 5.57 
 
 The Bee 558 
 
 Peace 559 
 
 They are all gone 560 
 
 The Timber 561 
 
 The Rainbow 562 
 
 The Wreath 563 
 
 The Retreat 564 
 
 VERE, AUBREY DE. 
 
 Early Friendship 1789 
 
 Song 1790 
 
 Sonnet 1791 
 
 W. 
 
 WALLER, EDMUND. 
 
 On a Girdle 585 
 
 'On Love 586 
 
 A Panegyric to the Lord Protector. .... 587 
 
 At Penshurst f, 588 
 
 The Bud 589 
 
 Say, lovely Dream 690 
 
 Go, lovely Rose 591 
 
 Old Age and Death 592 
 
 To Amoret " 593 
 
 To Phyllis ;; 594 
 
 Of the Queen 595 
 
 On my Lady Sydney's Picture .' 596 
 
 On my Lady Isabella playing the Lute 597 
 
 To a Lady 598 
 
 Love's Farewell 599 
 
 NO. OP POEM. 
 
 On Loving at First Sight 600 
 
 The Self-banished 601 
 
 The Night-piece "602 
 
 WALSH, WILLIAM. 
 
 Song C83 
 
 WARD, EDWARD. 
 
 Song 835 
 
 WARNER, WILLIAM. 
 
 Tale of Argeutile and Curan 484 
 
 WARTON. JOSEPH. 
 
 To Fancy 974 
 
 WARTON, THOMAS. 
 
 The Hamlet 965 
 
 On Revisiting the River Loddon 966 
 
 Written on a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's 
 
 Monasticon 967 
 
 Sonnet 968 
 
 Inscription in a Hermitage 969 
 
 The Suicide 970 
 
 Ode sent to a Friend on his leaving a 
 
 Favourite Village 971 
 
 A Panegyric on Oxford Ale 972 
 
 The Progress of Discontent 973 
 
 WASTELL, SIMON. 
 
 Man's Mortality 501 
 
 WATSON, THOMAS. 
 
 The Nymphs to their May Queen 122 
 
 Sonnet '. 123 
 
 W^ATTS, DR. 
 
 The Rose 850 
 
 A Summer Evening 851 
 
 Few Happy Matches 852 
 
 The Day of Judgment 853 
 
 God known only to Himself 854 
 
 WEBSTER, JOHN. 
 
 A Dirge 446 
 
 The Madman's Song 447 
 
 The Preparation for Execution 448 
 
 Death 449 
 
 WESLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 Come, thou Traveller 1064 
 
 Weary of Wandering 1065 
 
 Jesu, Lover of my Soul 1066 
 
 WESLEY, JOHN. 
 
 From Tersteege 1067 
 
 From the German 1063 
 
 From Count Zuizendorf 1069 
 
 From Scheffler 1070 
 
 From the German 1071 
 
 WEST, GILBERT. 
 
 Allegorical Desci'iption of Vertu 1032 
 
 WHITE, H. KIRKE, 
 
 To an Early Primrose 1165 
 
 Sonnet 1166 
 
 The St*r of Bethlehem 1167 
 
 A Hymn for Family Worship 1168 
 
 TheChristiad 1169 
 
 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song 1170 
 
 From Clifton Grove 1171 
 
 Hymn 1172 
 
 C2 
 
NAMES OF THE POETS AND TITLES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 WHITEHEAD, PAUL. 
 
 Hunting Song 10-j7 
 
 WHITEHEAD, W. 
 
 Variety 986 
 
 WILDE, DR. ^ _. . . 
 A Complaint of a Learned Divine m 
 Puritan Times 257 
 
 WILSON. A. 
 
 A VilUge Scold surprising her Hus- 
 band in an Alehouse 1593 
 
 Aruular'sStory 1594 
 
 WILSON, JOHN. 
 
 To a Sleeping Child 1421 
 
 The Sabbath Day 1422 
 
 Lines written in a lonely Burial- 
 ground in the Highlands 1423 
 
 The Midnight Ocean 1424 
 
 The Evening Cloud 1425 
 
 Plague Scenes 1426 
 
 Address to a Wild Deer 1427 
 
 Mary 1428 
 
 The Widowed Mother 1429 
 
 WILSON, R. 
 
 The Summer's Queen 432 
 
 WINCHELSEA, ANNE, COUNTESS OF. 
 
 A Nocturnal Reverie , 817 
 
 Life's Progress 818 
 
 WITHER, GEORGE. 
 
 Christmas 271 
 
 Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss 272 
 
 The Companionship of the Muse 273 
 
 A Prisoner's Lay 274 
 
 From "A Dirge" 275 
 
 To a Brother Poet 276 
 
 The just Indignation of the oppressed 277 
 A persecuted Poet's Address to his 
 
 King.. 278 
 
 My Heavenly Father and his erring 
 
 Child 279 
 
 Against hired Flatterers 280 
 
 The 1 48th Psalm paraphrased 281 
 
 The Ford of Arle 282 
 
 The sequestered Retirement of Bent- 
 worth 283 
 
 Prayer for Seasonable Weather 284 
 
 WOLCOT, DR. 
 
 The Pilgrims and the Peas 1147 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Style 1148 
 
 Advice to Landscape Painters 1149 
 
 The Apple Dumplings and a King 1150 
 
 Whitbread's Brewery visited by their 
 
 Majesties 1151 
 
 Lord Gregory 1152 
 
 May-Day ',[\\ 1153 
 
 Epigram on Sleep 1154 
 
 To my Candle , 1155 
 
 WOLFE, CHARLES. 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 1562 
 
 The Death of Mary , 1563 
 
 Song 1564 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 
 
 London, 1802 1189 
 
 The World is too much with us ......:. . 1190 
 
 On King's College Chapel, Cambridge 1191 
 
 Lines 1192 
 
 Lucy 1193 
 
 A Portrait 1194 
 
 Tinteru Abbey 1195 
 
 To a Highland Girl 1196 
 
 An Old Man's Reflections 1197 
 
 Ode 1198 
 
 Yarrow Visited 1199 
 
 To a Distant Friend 1200 
 
 Tothe Skylark 1201 
 
 To the Cuckoo 1202 
 
 Composed at Neidpath Castle 1203 
 
 Upon Westminster Bridge 1204 
 
 Admonition to a Traveller 1205 
 
 The Reaper 1206 
 
 The Daffodils 1207 
 
 To the Daisy 1208 
 
 By the Sea 1209 
 
 To Sleep 1210 
 
 Written in Early Spring 1211 
 
 The two April Mornings 1212 
 
 WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 
 
 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohe- 
 mia 158 
 
 A Farewell to the Vanities of the World 1 59 
 
 The Good Man 160 
 
 A Meditation 161 
 
 On the sudden Restraint of the Earl 
 
 Somerset, then falling from favour, . . 162 
 
 In praise of Angling 163 
 
 WYAT, SIR THOMAS. 
 
 The Lover complaineth of the Un- 
 kindness of his Love 72 
 
 The Lover's Lute cannot be blamed, 
 though it sing of his Lady's Un- 
 kindness 73 
 
 The re-cured Lover exulteth in his 
 Freedom and voweth to remain 
 Free until Death 74 
 
 That Pleasure is mixed with every 
 Pain 75 
 
 A Description of such a one as he 
 would love 76 
 
 An earnest Suit to his unkind Mis- 
 tress not to forsake liim 77 
 
 To his Mistress 78 
 
 He lamenteth that he had ever 
 Cause to doubt his Lady's Faith 79 
 
 WYNTOUN, ANDREW. 
 
 The Return of David II. from Cap- 
 tivity 44 
 
 Interview of St. Serf with Sathanas ... 45 
 
 Y. 
 
 YOUNG, EDWARD. 
 
 Night 855 
 
 On Life, Death, and Immortality 856 
 
 Thoughts on Time 857 
 
 Procrastination 858 
 
 The Emptiness of Riches 859 
 
 The Love of Praise 860 
 
 The Astronomical Lady 861 
 
 The Languid Lady 862 
 
 The Swearer 863 
 
NO. OF POEM. 
 
 A Ballad 803 
 
 A Ballad upoa a Wedding 330 
 
 A Blessing 687 
 
 ABHdalDirge 1691 
 
 A Calm Eve ]545 
 
 A Celebration of Charis 245 
 
 A Christmas Carol 88 
 
 A Christmas Hymn ..... 1063 
 
 A Christmas Hymn 1792 
 
 A Contrast between Female Honour and 
 
 Shame 437 
 
 A Country Song, intituled the Restoration 745 
 
 A Description of a Lady by her Lover 438 
 
 A Description of such a One as he would 
 
 love 76 
 
 A Dialogue between Hope and Fear 319 
 
 A Dirge 446 
 
 AFaiiyTale 808 
 
 A Farewell to the Vanities of the World... 159 
 
 A Farewell to the Valley of Irwan 934 
 
 A Farewell to Tobacco 1229 
 
 A Father reading the Bible 1446 
 
 A Fragment of Sappho 788 
 
 A Friend 385 
 
 A Funeral Hymn 900 
 
 A Good Conscience 207 
 
 A Home in the Heai't 1725 
 
 A Hymn 312 
 
 A Hymn 767 
 
 A Hymn 769 
 
 A Hymn 874 
 
 A Hvmn 1172 
 
 A Hymn to Christ 229 
 
 A Hymn to the Father 228 
 
 A Lament 1117 
 
 A Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 936 
 
 A Letter from Italy 765 
 
 A Little While 1779 
 
 A Loose Saraband 357 
 
 A Lover's Complaint 71 
 
 A Lowering Eve 1544 
 
 A Meditation 161 
 
 A Meditative Fool •.... 192 
 
 A Moonlight Scene 1214 
 
 A Mother's Love 1390 
 
 A Night Scene 287 
 
 A Night Scene 997 
 
 A Nocturnal Reverie 817 
 
 A Nymph's Passion 243 
 
 A Panegyric on Oxford Ale 972 
 
 A Panegyric to the Lord Protector 587 
 
 A Parental Ode to my Son, aged three 
 
 years and five months 1486 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 A Pastoral 1057 
 
 A Pastoral Ballad 894 
 
 A Pastoral of Phillis and Condon 117 
 
 A Pedlar's Story 1594 
 
 A Persecuted Poet's Address to his King.. 278 
 
 A Persian Song of Hafiz 1012 
 
 A Petition to Time 1694 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 1556 
 
 A Poet's Prayer 1557 
 
 A Poet's Thought 1693 
 
 A Poor Man's Wife 1747 
 
 A Portrait 1194 
 
 A Preface to the Buyer of his Book on 
 
 Husbandry 82 
 
 A Prisoner's Lay 274 
 
 A Public Breakfast 1025 
 
 A Quack 652 
 
 A Red Red Rose 1584 
 
 A Remembrance 1726 
 
 A RichFool 371 
 
 A Rose 369 
 
 A Roundelay 424 
 
 ARural Scene 959 
 
 A Scene of Early Life 1432 
 
 A Scholar and his Dog 466 
 
 A Scottish Country Wedding 1162 
 
 A Serenade 1327 
 
 A Song for the Seasons 1686 
 
 A Spring Sabbath Walk 1157 
 
 A Summer Evening 851 
 
 A Summer Evening 869 
 
 A Summer Morning 579 
 
 A Summer Morning 868 
 
 A Summer Sabbath Walk 1158 
 
 A Sunday in Edinburgh 1055 
 
 A Sweet Pastoral 118 
 
 A Sylvan Retreat 38 
 
 A Tale of Drury Lane 1416 
 
 A Tale of Robin Hood 516 
 
 A Thanksgiving 477 
 
 A Thanksgiving for his House 349 
 
 A Thought among the Roses 1809 
 
 A Valediction ^ 337 
 
 A Village Scold surprising her Husband in 
 
 an Alehouse 1593 
 
 A Virtuous Woman 1476 
 
 A VowtoLoue 70 
 
 A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque 649 
 
 A Wail 1755 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 1623 
 
 A Winter Landscape 873 
 
 A Winter Sabbath Walk 1160 
 
 A V7ish 1185 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF rOEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem 1402 
 
 Abra's Love for Solomon 758 
 
 Abstract of Melancholy 487 
 
 Accomplishments of Hudibras 637 
 
 Adam and Eve 626 
 
 Adam Bell 514 
 
 Address to a Wild Deer 1427 
 
 Address to Bishop Valentine 227 
 
 Address to his Native Soil 291 
 
 Address to Light 623 
 
 Address to Miss Agnes Baillie on her 
 
 Birthday 1470 
 
 Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhi- 
 bition 1418 
 
 Address to the Nightingale 121 
 
 Address to the Ocean 1673 
 
 Adelgitha 1312 
 
 Admiral Hosier's Ghost 999 
 
 Admonition to a Traveller 1205 
 
 Adventure of Wallace while Fishing in 
 
 Irvine Water 46 
 
 Adversity 194 
 
 Advice to a Keckless Youth 247 
 
 Advice to Landscape Painters 1149 
 
 Ae Fond Kiss 1576 
 
 Afar in the Desert 1478 
 
 After Blenheim 1219 
 
 Against False Pride - 650 
 
 Against Hired Flatterers 280 
 
 Against Hope 543 
 
 Alexander's Feast 661 
 
 All for Love 1352 
 
 All WeU 1780 
 
 Allan Percy 1714 
 
 Allegorical Description of Vertu 1032 
 
 Allegorical Personages described in Hell... 97 
 
 Almond Blossom 1757 
 
 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene ... 1313 
 Amantium Irse Amoris Redintegratio est,. 91 
 
 Ambitio Feminini Generis 508 
 
 Amiens' Song 211 
 
 Amy nta 1051 
 
 An A ppeal for the Industrious Poor 932 
 
 An Appeal to the Heart 226 
 
 An Author should be sincere 651 
 
 An Autumn Sabbath Walk 1159 
 
 An Earnest Suit to his unkind Mistress not 
 
 to forsake him 77 
 
 An English Fen— Gipsies 1176 
 
 An Epistle to Curio 903 
 
 An Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland 138 
 
 An Epitaph 761 
 
 An Evening Hymn 675 
 
 An Evening Walk in Bengal 1379 
 
 An Introduction to the Book of Husbandry 81 
 
 An Invocation to Birds 1677 
 
 An Italian Song 1186 
 
 An Ode 747 
 
 An Ode 766 
 
 An Ode 768 
 
 An Ode for St. Cecilia's Day 764 
 
 An Ode from Caractacus 913 
 
 An Ode in imitation of Alcseus 1011 
 
 An Old Man's Reflections 1197 
 
 An Old Man's Sorrow 10 
 
 Anacreontics 542 
 
 And doth not a Meeting like this 1281 
 
 Ane Schort Poeme of Tyme 394 
 
 Angling 926 
 
 Another 431 
 
 Answer to a Child's Question 1512 
 
 Apollo's Song of Daphne 407 
 
 Apostrophe to Freedom 32 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Apostrophe to Futurity 1555 
 
 Apostrophe to the Ocean 1347 
 
 Appearances 190 
 
 Approach of Saul and his Guards against 
 
 the Philistines 1236 
 
 Approach of Spring 267 
 
 Approaching Death 442 
 
 April, 1793 1255 
 
 April 1795 
 
 Argalia condemned on False Evidence 581 
 
 Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks 583 
 
 Ariel's Song 209 
 
 Arranmore 1289 
 
 Aspirations of Youth 1386 
 
 A ssembling of the Fallen Angels 621 
 
 At Bamborough Castle 1246 
 
 At his Sister's Grave 1528 
 
 At O-xford, 1786 1244 
 
 At Penshurst 588 
 
 Athens 61S 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 1581 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 1047 
 
 Autumn 1373 
 
 Autumn 1488 
 
 Autumn 1735 
 
 Autumn Evening Scene 872 
 
 Autumn Flowers 1530 
 
 B. 
 
 Baby 1827 
 
 Baby May 1766 
 
 Baby's Shoes 17()7 
 
 Ballad of Dowsabel 146 
 
 Banquet of an English Squire 1124 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 1306 
 
 Battle of Wyoming and Death of Gertrude 1300 
 
 Baucis and Philemon 773 
 
 Be Patient 1803 
 
 Be Merry, Friends 401 
 
 Be Wise to Run thy Race 1076 
 
 Beauty 195 
 
 Beauty 42a 
 
 Beauty beyond the reach of Art 458 
 
 Beauty Suing for Love 419« 
 
 Begone, Dull Care 731 
 
 Belshazzar and Daniel 979" 
 
 Bernardo and Alphonso 1522 
 
 Bertha in the Lane 1560 
 
 Beth G61ert, or the Grave of the Grey- 
 hound 1395 
 
 Bethsabe Bathing 416 
 
 Bethsabe's Address to the Zej)hyi' 417 
 
 Bird, Bee, and Butterfly 1517 
 
 Bird's-nest 1267 
 
 Birds Pairing in Spring 865- 
 
 Bishop Hatto 1225 
 
 Bishop Hubert 1459 
 
 Bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary 1639' 
 
 Bonnie Leslie 1585 
 
 Border Ballad 1321 
 
 Braid Claith 1052 
 
 Bridal Song 459 
 
 Bridal Song 1667 
 
 Bring Flowers 1441 
 
 Bristow Tragedy, or the Death of Sir 
 
 Charles Bawdin 943 
 
 Brother, thou art gone 1669- 
 
 Bruce's Address 1579 
 
 Butterfly and Bee 1269 
 
 By the Sea ' 1209 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 C. • 
 
 yo. OF POBM. 
 
 Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 1582 
 
 Cadyow Castle 1325 
 
 Caesar's Lamentation over Pompey's Head 21-1 
 Canace, condemned to death by her 
 father, yEolus, sends to her g-uilty 
 brother, Macareus, the last testimony 
 
 of her unhappy passion ^36 
 
 Canzonet 506 
 
 Careless Content 1056 
 
 Casa Wappy 1534 
 
 Casablanca 1442 
 
 Cassius to Brutus 186 
 
 Celia Singing 566 
 
 Ceremony 196 
 
 Characterof a Fribble 956 
 
 Character of Shaftesbury 662 
 
 Characterof Sir James, of Douglas 33 
 
 Character of the Ship's Officers 945 
 
 Character of Villiers, Duke of Bucking- 
 ham 663 
 
 Characters of Quin, Tom Sheridan, and 
 
 Giirrick 957 
 
 Characteristic of an Englishman 80 
 
 Charity and Humility 573 
 
 Cherry Hipe 348 
 
 Childhood 1234 
 
 Children 1274 
 
 Choice of a Rural Situation and Descrip- 
 tion of the Ague 924 
 
 Chorus 1670 
 
 Chorus of Flowers 1400 
 
 Chorus of Jewish Women 480 
 
 Christ coming to Judgment 62 
 
 Christmas 271 
 
 Christmas 1335 
 
 Claudian's Old Man of Verona ; 545 
 
 Cleopatra 188 
 
 Colin and Lucy 784 
 
 Colin's Complaint 828 
 
 Come, Evening Gale ! 1541 
 
 Con;o, Holy Spirit, come 1075 
 
 Come, O Thou Traveller 1064 
 
 Come to these Scenes of Peace 1242 
 
 Come unto Me 1109 
 
 Commencement of " Dartmoor " 1513 
 
 Complaining 306 
 
 Complaint against Love 406 
 
 Complaint of a Learned Divine in Puritan 
 
 Times 257 
 
 Complaint of Nature 964 
 
 Composed at Neidpath Castle, the pro- 
 perty of Lord Queeusberr„v, 1803 1203 
 
 Conclusion of the Sougs of Israel 1477 
 
 Constancy 331 
 
 Constancy 655 
 
 Constitutional Limitation of Despotism ... 154 
 
 Content 421 
 
 Content 504 
 
 Content, a Pastoral 1023 
 
 Contented Shepherd 829 
 
 Contentment 443 
 
 Contentment 815 
 
 Coopers Hill 576 
 
 Cornfields 1660 
 
 Coronach 1323 
 
 Cosmelia's Charms 669 
 
 Council of the Officers 948 
 
 Count Zinzondorf 1069 
 
 Country Justices and their Duties 930 
 
 yo. or roEsr. 
 Country Song, intituled the Restoration ... 745 
 
 Covetousness 18 
 
 Cowper's Grave 1558 
 
 Cradle Song 1772 
 
 Cranmer's Prophecy of Queen Elizabeth... 183 
 
 Creation 787 
 
 Crescentius 1461 
 
 CumnorHall '.7:...^r^_, 928 
 
 Cupid 238 
 
 Cupid and Campaspe 404 
 
 Cupid and Ganymede 751 
 
 Cupid Mistaken 752 
 
 Cupio dissolvi 328 
 
 Custom 677' 
 
 Damages Two Hundred Pounds 1763 
 
 Dartmoor 1514 
 
 David and Goliah 144 
 
 David enamoured of Bethsabe 418 
 
 Dawnings of Genius 1412" 
 
 Day of Judgment 853 
 
 DeProfundis 106 
 
 Death 449 
 
 Death 465 
 
 Death 846 
 
 Death 1645 
 
 Death of Eliza, at the Battle of Minden ... 1094 
 
 Death of Marmion 1316 
 
 Death of Sir Henry de Bohun 34 
 
 Deathless Principle, arise ! 1073 
 
 Delight in God only 295 
 
 Description and Praise of his Loue G^raldine 69 
 
 Description of a City Shower 772 
 
 Description of a Hare-hunt 806 
 
 Description of Armida and her Enchanted 
 
 Girdle 148 
 
 Description of Castara 322 
 
 Description of the Comers to the Fair 1630 
 
 Description of Haidee 1348 
 
 Description of Melrose Abbey 1314 
 
 Description of Morning 691 
 
 Description of Morning Birds and Hunting 
 
 the Deer 142 
 
 Description of Spring 67 
 
 Description of Squyre Meldrum 60 
 
 Description of the Priestess of Diana 333 
 
 Despair of a Poor Scholar 444 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib 1343 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib's Army 1092 
 
 Devotion to Love 453 
 
 Diana's Nymphs 472 
 
 Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the 
 
 Country Mouse 49 
 
 Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden... 84 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline 891 
 
 Dirge of Rachel 1475 
 
 Discontent of Men with their Condition ... 250 
 
 Disdain Returned 264 
 
 Distress of the Vessel 947 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Style 1148 
 
 Domestic Happiness 866 
 
 Domestic Love 1298 
 
 Dora 1708 
 
 Dorastus on Fawnia 427 
 
 Drinking Song 402 
 
 Dry up thy Tears, Love 1526 
 
 Dying 673 
 
 Dying in a Foreign Land 1129 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 E. 
 
 yo. OP roEM. 
 
 Early Dawn , 391 
 
 Early Friendship 1789 
 
 Early Love 135 
 
 Early Eising and Prayer 556 
 
 Easter 307 
 
 Echo and Narcissus 380 
 
 Echo and Silence 1520 
 
 Echoes 1291 
 
 Edom O'Gordon 530 
 
 Edwin and Angelina 916 
 
 Edwin and Emma 898 
 
 Elegy 961 
 
 Elegy on Thyrza 1354 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Chxu-chyard ... 910 
 
 England 202 
 
 England 412 
 
 England 1732 
 
 England goes to Battle 1752 
 
 England's Landscape 1516 
 
 English Liberty 1083 
 
 Enjoyment of the Present Hour recom- 
 mended 665 
 
 Epigram 1004 
 
 Epigram , ;, 1005 
 
 Epigi-am 1006 
 
 Epigram on Sleep 1154 
 
 Epilogue 1830 
 
 Epiphany 1380 
 
 Epistle to Joseph Hill 1088 
 
 Epistle to the Earl of Dorset 789 
 
 Epitaph, Extempore 759 
 
 Epitaph on a Living Author 554 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant 1511 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason 915 
 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 244 
 
 Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham 268 
 
 Etexaltavit Humiles 327 
 
 Euphrosyne 1761 
 
 Eve's Recollections 627 
 
 Evening 286 
 
 Evening 393 
 
 Evening Hymn 814 
 
 Evening Hymn 820 
 
 Evening Hymn 1059 
 
 Evening in Paradise 629 
 
 Excommunication of the Cid 1524 
 
 Expulsion from Paradise 632 
 
 F. 
 
 Fable of the Oak and the Briar 127 
 
 Fable related by a Beau to ^sop 833 
 
 Fair Ines 1492 
 
 Faith '.'...'. 294 
 
 Fall of the Rebel Angels 2 
 
 Fancy and Desire 494 
 
 Farewell to Ayrshire 1604 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies 253 
 
 Farewell to Town 116 
 
 Fatal Curiosity 831 
 
 Few Happy Matches ,[., 852 
 
 Fill the Bumper Fair 1280 
 
 First Love's Recollections 141] 
 
 First of March 1804 
 
 Flowers 1(39 
 
 Flowers 975 
 
 Flowers [ 1487 
 
 Fly to the Desert 1284 
 
 NO. OF FOBM. 
 
 For Hope 544 
 
 For my own Monument 760 
 
 For Thoughts 672 
 
 Fragment 1620 
 
 I Friend of my Soul 1282 
 
 } Friends falling off 197 
 
 Friendship 843 
 
 Friendship 1434 
 
 From "ADirge" 275 
 
 From a " Monody to the Memory of his 
 
 Wife" 1036 
 
 From a Poem entitled * ' Amanda " 706 
 
 From a Trip to Cambridge, or the Grateful 
 
 Fair 995 
 
 From " Anster Fair" 1628 
 
 From Bishop Heber's Journal 1378 
 
 From Clifton Grove 1171 
 
 From '' Conversation" 1080 
 
 From "Count Zinzendorf" 1069 
 
 From "Endymion" 1819 
 
 From " Friendship in Absence " 550 
 
 From his " Invocation to Melancholy" .... 1041 
 
 From " Human Life " 1181 
 
 From "In Memoriam" 1706 
 
 From India 1776 
 
 From "Lilliput Levee" 1826 
 
 From"Rollo" 219 
 
 From " Scheffler " 1070 
 
 From "Tersteege" , 1067 
 
 From the Bard's Song in the "Castle of 
 
 Indolence" .. , 875 
 
 From the " Blessed Damozel " 1841 
 
 From the Epithalamion 128 
 
 From the "Fate of Amy" 1406 
 
 From the German 1068 
 
 From the German 1071 
 
 From the " Hymn to Light " 547 
 
 From the " Improvisatore " 1400 
 
 From the " London Lackpennv " 37 
 
 From the "Loves of Gudrun" 1839, 1840 
 
 From the ' ' Muses' Looking-glass " 359 
 
 From the Pindaric Odes 548 
 
 From the " Pleasures of Memory " 1180 
 
 From the "Portrait" 1842 
 
 From the "Prophecy of Famine" 958 
 
 From the ' ' Voyage of Columbus " 1 182 
 
 Frost at Midnight 1507 
 
 G. 
 
 Garment of Good Ladies ''50 
 
 Gentle Hugh Herries 1626 
 
 GentlestGirl 1731 
 
 Ginevra 1183 
 
 Gipsies 931 
 
 Gloomy Winter's now awa' 1602 
 
 Gloster's Soliloquy 181 
 
 Glow-worm 1270 
 
 Go, lovely Ro.se ! 591 
 
 Go, pretty Birds ! 471 
 
 Go, where Glory waits Thee 1283 
 
 God known only to Himself 854 
 
 God's Providence 40 
 
 Gold 198 
 
 Gondibert 372 
 
 Good Husbandly Lessons 86 
 
 Good-morrow 104 
 
 Good Name 208 
 
 Good-night! H 
 
 Good-night! 105 
 
 Good-nitxht. and jov be wi' ye a' ! 1611 
 
 Greenwich Hill ....* 1142 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 II 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Grief that cannot be comforted 168 
 
 Grievances of a Scottish Peasant of the Six- 
 teenth Century 58 
 
 GrongarHill 880 
 
 H. 
 
 Haidee and Juan at the Feast 1350 
 
 Haidee visits the Shipwrecked Don Juan.. 1349 
 
 Hallowed Ground 1309 
 
 Hamc, Hame, Hame 1617 
 
 Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death 184 
 
 Hannibal's Oath 1466 
 
 Happiness 1435 
 
 Happiness of a Coimtry Life 960 
 
 Happiness of Married Life 452 
 
 Happiness of the Shepherd's Life 314 
 
 Harmosan 1802 
 
 He laraenteth that he had ever cause to 
 
 doubt his Lady's Faith 79 
 
 Helen of Kirkconnel 1606 
 
 Hell 1431 
 
 Henry and Emma 755 
 
 Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the In- 
 fernal Regions 98 
 
 Henry the Fifth's Address at Agincourt ... 179 
 Henry the Fifth's Address to his Soldiers . 
 
 before Harfleur 178 
 
 Henry the Fourth's Expostulation with his 
 
 Son 175 
 
 Henry the Sixth's Soliloquy on the Battle- 
 field 180 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa' 1590 
 
 Hermione 1692 
 
 Heroine of Anster Fair 1629 
 
 Hey, then, up go we 737 
 
 Highland Mary 1586 
 
 Highland Poor 1120 
 
 Hills o' Gallowa' 1648 
 
 His hatred of the Scots 377 
 
 Hogarth 954 
 
 Hohenlinden 1304 
 
 Home 1389 
 
 Homer and Virgil 681 
 
 Honour 552 
 
 Hope 1239 
 
 Hope triumphant in Death 1297 
 
 Hotspur's Defence 172 
 
 Household Treasures 1815 
 
 Housewifery Physic 85 
 
 How each thing, save the Lover, -in Spring 
 
 reviveth to Pleasure 68 
 
 How Robin Hood lends a poor Knight Four 
 
 Hundred Pounds 521 
 
 How's my Boy? 1671 
 
 Hudibras commencing Battle with the 
 
 Rabble 640 
 
 Hudibras consulting the Lawyer 642 
 
 Hunting of the Cheviot 528 
 
 Hunting Song 1037 
 
 Hunting Song 1332 
 
 Hymn ]537 
 
 Hymn (16th Sunday after Trinity) 1G68 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- 
 
 mouni 1504 
 
 Hymn for Family Worship 1168 
 
 Hymn for the Dead 1336 
 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 1324 
 
 Hymn on Solitude 877 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity 606 
 
 Hymn to Adversity .' 908 
 
 NO. OT POEM. 
 
 Hymn to Content 1106 
 
 Hymn to Contentment 810 
 
 Hymn to God the Father 246 
 
 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 1375 
 
 Hymn to the Almighty 676 
 
 Hymn to the Father 228 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers _1419 
 
 Hyma to the Name of Jesus 298 
 
 I am all alone 1527 
 
 I fear thy Kisses 1363 
 
 I love my King and Country well 733 
 
 I remember, I remember 1491 
 
 I thank j'ou twice 739 
 
 Idleness 400 
 
 If that were true ! 1781 
 
 II Penseroso 604 
 
 Imagination 155 
 
 Imprisoned in Windsor, he recounteth his 
 
 Pleasure there passed 64 
 
 In a Year 1786 
 
 In praise of Angling 163 
 
 In 1»ho Days o' Langsyne 1646 
 
 In what manner the Soul is united to the 
 
 Body 224 
 
 Incitement to Perseverance 1836 
 
 Inconstancy of Love 700 
 
 Inconstancy of the Multitude 698 
 
 Indignation at the Sale of a Wife's 
 
 Honour 454 
 
 Insanity 199 
 
 Inscription in a Hermitage 969 
 
 Inscription on the Tomb of Cowper. 1090 
 
 Instability of Human Greatness 315 
 
 Interview of St. Serf with Sathanas 45 
 
 Introduction of Foreign Vices deprecated 136 
 Introduction to the "Flower and the 
 
 Leaf" 25 
 
 Invitation to Izaak Walton 647 
 
 Invocation 1368 
 
 Invocation to Rain in Summer 1764 
 
 Iphigenia and Agamemnon 1275 
 
 Iris the Rainbow 1835 
 
 Is it come? 1782 
 
 Is this a time to plant and build ? 1798 
 
 Isaac Ashford, a Noble Peasant 11 74 
 
 J. 
 
 Jacob 1550 
 
 Jaffar 1403 
 
 James bewails his Captivity 42 
 
 •James first sees the Lady Jane 48 
 
 Jealousy 426 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 1631 
 
 Jenny dang the Weaver 1609 
 
 Jenny's Bawbee 1610 
 
 Jesu, Lover of my Soul 1066 
 
 Joab's Address to David on the Death of 
 
 Absalom 414 
 
 Joab's Description of David 413 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean 1318 
 
 John Anderson 1589 
 
 John the Baptist 365 
 
 Journey into France 252 
 
 Julia 347 
 
xl 
 
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 K. 
 
 irO. OF POEM. 
 
 Kilmeny 1615 
 
 King Arthur's Death 95 
 
 King David 415 
 
 King Edward IV. and the Tanner of Tarn- 
 worth 536 
 
 King James I. and the Tinkler ..: 717 
 
 Kiug John and the Abbot of Canterbury 529 
 
 Kisses 1748 
 
 KublaKlian 1509 
 
 L. 
 
 L' Allegro 603 
 
 L'Amour Timide 983 
 
 La Belle Confidante 568 
 
 La Belle Dame sans Merci *... 1825 
 
 Labour and Genius, or the Millstream and 
 
 the Cascade • 985 
 
 Lady Jilice 723 
 
 Lady Barbara 1743 
 
 Lady Clare 1707 
 
 Langsyne 1535 
 
 Last Verses of L. E. L 1469 
 
 Lavinia 870 
 
 Law 455 
 
 Life 189 
 
 Life 256 
 
 Life 1696 
 
 Life and ImmortaUty 990 
 
 Life's Progress 818 
 
 Lilliput Levee 1838 
 
 Lines 1192 
 
 Lines addressed to my Children 1128 
 
 Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son 1146 
 
 Lines to an Indian Air 1362 
 
 Lines to Fanny 1807 
 
 Lines written in a Lonely Burial-ground 
 
 in the Highlands 1423 
 
 Lines written in the Churchyard of Pvich- 
 
 mond, Yorkshire 1383 
 
 Little Children 1659 
 
 Little John in the Service of the Sheriff of 
 
 Nottingham 523 
 
 Little Eed Riding Hood 1463 
 
 Little Streams 1656 
 
 Loehiel's Warning 1303 
 
 Logan Braes 1605 
 
 Loudon 884 
 
 London, 1802 1189 
 
 Look Home 109 
 
 Lord Beichan 533 
 
 Lord Delaware 715 
 
 Lord Gregory 1152 
 
 Lord UUin's Daughter 1307 
 
 Losses 1784 
 
 Lost FeeUngs 1483 
 
 Love 201 
 
 Love 481 
 
 Love 693 
 
 Love 1217 
 
 Love 1505 
 
 Love 1672 
 
 Love and Clory 1138 
 
 Love and Kature 1518 
 
 Love Divine, all Love excelling 1072 
 
 Love in the Valley 1744 
 
 Love in Women 697 
 
 Love of Country 1315 
 
 Love of Praise 860 
 
 NO. OS- POEM. 
 
 Love not 1735 
 
 Love will find out the way 534 
 
 Love without Return 468 
 
 Love's Darts 339 
 
 Love's Darts 483 
 
 Love's Farewell 599 
 
 Love's History 1 702 
 
 Love's Philosophy 1364 
 
 Love's Servile Lot 108 
 
 Loyalty confined 513 
 
 Lucy 1193 
 
 Lucy's Flittin' 1649 
 
 Lullaby 434 
 
 Lycidas 605 
 
 M. 
 
 Macbeth, before Murdering the King 185 
 
 MacFlecknoe 660 
 
 Madness of Orestes 467 
 
 Mahmoud 1404 
 
 Maid of Athens 1338 
 
 Man 309 
 
 Man's Mortality 501 
 
 Many, many Years ago 1810 
 
 Marcelia 1674 
 
 Marguerite of France 1440 
 
 Mariner's Hymn 15-33 
 
 Markxii. 17 301 
 
 Mark Antony's Oration on the Body of 
 
 Csesar 187 
 
 Marriage of Cupid and Psyche — Psyche's 
 
 Banishment 1121 
 
 Mary 1428 
 
 Mary Morison 1578 
 
 Mary of Castle Cary 1597 
 
 Marj', the Maid of the Inn 1226 
 
 Mary's Dream 1046 
 
 Massacre of the Macpherson 1662 
 
 Maternal Care 1299 
 
 May, 1795 1257 
 
 May Day 1153 
 
 Melancholy 215 
 
 Meldrum's Duel with the EngUsh Champion, 
 
 Talbart 61 
 
 Meleager Dying 1834 
 
 Memory of the Dead 1812 
 
 Mercury and Cupid 753 
 
 Mercy 24 
 
 Mercy 165 
 
 Mercy and Truth 17 
 
 Mercy should have mitigated Justice 933 
 
 xMidnight Hymn 821 
 
 Midnight Wind 1635 
 
 Miriam's Song 1290 
 
 Miscellaneous Thoughts 644 
 
 Mr. Murray's Proposal 1294 
 
 Moonlight 783 
 
 Moonrise 1794 
 
 Morning 285 
 
 Morning 771 
 
 Morning 940 
 
 Morning and Evening 1729 
 
 Morning Hymn 812 
 
 Morning Hymn ..'. 819 
 
 Morning in May 57 
 
 Morning in Paradise 628 
 
 .Morning Landscape 989 
 
 Mother and Son 1770 
 
 Mortimer, Earl of March, and the Queen, 
 surprised by Edward III. in Notting- 
 ham Castle 141 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 xli 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
 wo. ov roEM. 
 
 Mountain Children 1653 
 
 Music's Duel 300 
 
 Musidora 8(57 
 
 ]Mustering of the Trades to shoot for the 
 
 Siller Gun 1608 
 
 Mutability 1376 
 
 My Bonnie Mary 1577 
 
 My Fantasy will never turn 397 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands 1580 
 
 My Heavenly Father and His erring Child 279 
 
 31y Held is like to rend, Willie 1638 
 
 MyNanie, 1618 
 
 My only Jo and Dearie, 1603 
 
 My own dear Country 1736 
 
 My Wife's a winsome, wee Thing 1588 
 
 N. 
 
 Napoleon and the Sailor 1311 
 
 Naseby 1567 
 
 Nature and Love 213 
 
 Nee Sntor ultra 509 
 
 Nehusta's Lover 1725 
 
 Netley Abbey 1256 
 
 Newborn Death 1843 
 
 Night 166 
 
 Night 288 
 
 Night 855 
 
 Night 1384 
 
 Night 1675 
 
 Night and Music 167 
 
 Night at Sea 1464 
 
 Night is nigh gone 390 
 
 No Age content with his own Estate J^o 
 
 No Jewell'd Beauty is my Love 1746 
 
 No Treasure without Gladness 53 
 
 Nomine Labia mea aperies 325 
 
 NocgtoDgpaw 1139 
 
 Noon 1548 
 
 Noontide Hymn , 813 
 
 Noontide of a Summer's Day 392 
 
 Not ours the Vows 1456 
 
 Note to Moschus 569 
 
 Nothing on Earth Permanent 6 
 
 Notre Dame 1549 
 
 November 1574 
 
 Nympl| complaining for the Death of her 
 Fawn 636 
 
 0. 
 
 ! breathe not his Name 1287 
 
 ! Mary, go and call the Cattle Home 1799 
 
 O ! Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' Me ._ 937 
 
 ! where do Fairies hide their Heads .' 1502 
 
 Ode 236 
 
 Ode 876 
 
 Ode 888 
 
 Ode 996 
 
 Ode 1198 
 
 Ode from Horace 826 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 1823 
 
 Ode on hearing the Drum 1019 
 
 Ode on Mankind 1044 
 
 Ode on Privateering 1020 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson 892 
 
 Ode on the Spring 911 
 
 Ode sent to a Friend on his leaving a 
 
 favourite Village 971 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 1822 
 
 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 1131 
 
 KO. OF POESr. 
 
 Ode to Aurora 977 
 
 Ode to Evening 889 
 
 Ode to Independeuco 921 
 
 Ode to Leven-water 922 
 
 Ode to Memory 895 
 
 Ode to Memory 914 
 
 Ode to Peace ......,,^_ 993 
 
 Ode to Pity 887 
 
 Ode to Solitude 1015 
 
 Ode to Spring 1104 
 
 Ode to the Evening Star 1134 
 
 Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower 834 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 1372 
 
 (Enone's Complaint 409 
 
 Of a Precise Tailor 153 
 
 Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw 1583 
 
 Of Church 156 
 
 Of Discretion in Giving 54 
 
 Of Discrefton in Taking 55 
 
 Of Fortune 151 
 
 Of Heaven 655 
 
 Of Myself 540 
 
 Of Solitude 653 
 
 Of the Queen 695 
 
 Of Treason 150 
 
 Of Writers who carp at other Men's Books 152 
 
 Oh! lay thy Hand in mine, Dear! 1756 
 
 Oh, the pleasant Days of Old ! 1783 
 
 Old Age and Death 592 
 
 Old England 1751 
 
 On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 907 
 
 On a Distant View of England 1252 
 
 On a Girdle 585 
 
 On a Sprig of Heath 1119 
 
 On a Tear 1188 
 
 On an Infant Dying as soon as born 1231 
 
 On Bishop Atterbury's Burying the Duke 
 
 of Buckingham, MDCcxx ' 762 
 
 On King's College Chapel, Cambridge 1191 
 
 On leaving a Village in Scotland 1250 
 
 On Life, Death, and Immortality 856 
 
 On Love 586 
 
 On Loving at First Sight ' 600 
 
 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford 240 
 
 On May Morning 610 
 
 On Mr. W. Montague's Ptetuni from Travel 265 
 
 On Mrs. A. H. at a Concert 1030 
 
 On my Lady Isabella playing the Lute 597 
 
 On my Lady Sydney's Picture 596 
 
 On Phillis Walking before Sunrise 378 
 
 On Pi,ecovery jrom Sickness 1061 
 
 On Pisvie wing the Foregoing 1 260 
 
 On Revisiting Oxford 1258 
 
 On Revisiting the River Loddon 966 
 
 On Shakspere 1670 
 
 On the Birth of the Princess Royal 1397 
 
 On the Day of Judgment 653 
 
 On the Death of George III 1420 
 
 On the Death of Sir Bevil Grenville 482 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Robert Levett 886 
 
 On the Death of the Rev. William Beuwell 1259 
 
 On the Departure of the Nightingale 1099 
 
 On the Earl of Strafford's Trial and Death 577 
 
 On the Fmieral of Charles 1 1243 
 
 On the Poverty of Poets 955 
 
 On the Receipt of his Mother's Picture .... 1081 
 
 On the Sight of his Mistress' House 708 
 
 On the Sudden Restraint of the Earl of So- 
 merset, then falling from favour 162 
 
 On the Tomb of Mrs. Unwin 1091 
 
 On Vicissitude 912 
 
 One Summer Nisrht 1728 
 
 One Way of Love 1785 
 
xlii 
 
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 One Word is too often profaned 1367 
 
 Opening of Queen Mab 1359 
 
 Opening of the Minstrel 988 
 
 Opening of the Second Book of the Task... 1086 
 
 Opening of the Songs of Zion 1474 
 
 Order and Obedience 203 
 
 Owen of Carron 935 
 
 Ozymandias of Egypt 1370 
 
 P. 
 
 Palamon and Arcite ; or, the Knight's Tale 659 
 
 Paradise 625 
 
 Parting 688 
 
 Parting 1529 
 
 Passage of the Red Sea 1377 
 
 Passing away 1444 
 
 Passions .' 696 
 
 Patience 436 
 
 Patient Grissell 526 
 
 Path of Life 1261 
 
 Paucitatem Dierum meorura nuncia mihi., 326 
 
 Peace 559 
 
 Peace! What do tears arail ? 1690 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia 1538 
 
 Persian Song of Hafiz 1012 
 
 Personal Appearance of Hudibras .'. 639 
 
 Persuasion to Mothers to Suckle their own 
 
 Children 1096 
 
 Persuasions to Love 266 
 
 Pestilence of the Fifteenth Century 927 
 
 Phoebe Dawson 1175 
 
 Philanthropy — Mr. Howard 1095 
 
 Philomela 1760 
 
 Philomela's Ode 425 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 1322 
 
 Picture of a Witch 689 
 
 Picture of Twilight 1710 
 
 Picture of War 1482 
 
 Pictures of Native Genius 1554 
 
 Pixies of Devon 1515 
 
 Plague Scenes 1426 
 
 Plighting Troth 212 
 
 Portrait of a Poor Gallant 249 
 
 Posies for thine own Bedchamber 89 
 
 Power and Gentleness ; or, the Cataract 
 
 and Streamlet 1453 
 
 Praise of a Country Life 807 
 
 Praise of Chastity 607 
 
 Praise of Good Women 15 
 
 Praise of Women 27 
 
 Praise to God 1110 
 
 Prattle your Pleasure under the Rose 742 
 
 Prayer 1388 
 
 Prayer ; 1519 
 
 Prayer for Indifference 987 
 
 Prayer for Seasonable Weather 284 
 
 Pre-existency of the Soul 575 
 
 Preparation for Execution 448 
 
 Preparing to meet God 1062 
 
 Pride of Youth 1330 
 
 Primrose 1266 
 
 Prince Ai-thur's Address to-Night 131 
 
 Principal Points of Religion 90 
 
 Procrastination 858 
 
 Proper U.se of Talents 204 
 
 Protogenes and Apelles 757 
 
 Psalm xiii 500 
 
 Psalm xxiii 499 
 
 Psalm xxiii,, Paraphrase on 770 
 
 Psalm XXX 498 
 
 Psalm xlii 478 
 
 NO. OF roEai. 
 
 Psalm xlviii 479 
 
 Psalm civ 823 
 
 Psalm cxlviii. Paraphrased -281 
 
 E. 
 
 Rainbow 310 
 
 ReaUty of a True Religion 157 
 
 Reason 658 
 
 Rebellion 1543 
 
 Recollections of English Scenery 1101 
 
 Recommendation of a High Situation on 
 
 the Sea-coast 925 
 
 Reconciliation 1704 
 
 Red, Red Rose 1584 
 
 Reflections 1178 
 
 Reign of Christ on Earth 1392 
 
 Religion of Hudibras 638 
 
 Remorse 840 
 
 Remorse 952 
 
 Render to Csesar the Things which are 
 
 Caesar's 1817 
 
 Requiescat in Pace ! 1832 
 
 Requirements of a Tutor 248 
 
 Retaliation 917 
 
 Retirement 991 
 
 Richard II. , the Morning before his Murder 137 
 
 Richard the Second's Lament 170 
 
 Rinaldo at Mount Olivet and the Enchanted 
 
 Wood 149 
 
 Robene and Makyne 38 
 
 Robert, Duke of Normandy, previously to 
 
 his Eyes being put out 496 
 
 Robin Goodfellow 510 
 
 Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale 517 
 
 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 519 
 
 Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar 520 
 
 Robin Hood reimburses himself of his Loan 524 
 Robin Hood rescuing the Widow's three 
 
 Sons 518 
 
 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 525 
 
 Rock of Ages, cleft for Me 1074 
 
 Rondel of Love 387 
 
 Rosabelle 1331 
 
 Rosader's Sonetto 430 
 
 Rosalind's Madrigal 429 
 
 Rosiphele's Vision of Ladies , . . 30 
 
 Rule Britannia 879 
 
 Rumour 1' 3 
 
 Rural Sounds 10' d 
 
 Ruth 1413 
 
 S. 
 
 Sabbath Chimes 1701 
 
 Sadness 502 
 
 St. Peter's Day 1797 
 
 St. Romuald 1227 
 
 Sally in our Alley 1035 
 
 Samela • 420 
 
 Samson bewailing his Blindness and Cap- 
 tivity 616 
 
 Sardanapalus 1723 
 
 Satan 1546 
 
 Satan meets Sin and Death 622 
 
 Satan's Address to the Sun 020 
 
 Satan's Speech 3 
 
 Satire 777 
 
 Say, lovely Dream ! 590 
 
 Scene of Early Love 1432 
 
 Scenes and Musings of the Peasant Poet... 1413 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 jtliii 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Scorn not the Least 112 
 
 Scotland 1135 
 
 Scotland 1156 
 
 Search after God 476 
 
 Self-inspection 200 
 
 Self-murder 694 
 
 Sent with a rose, to Rose 1808 
 
 Sephestia's Song to her Child 422 
 
 Severed Friendship 1510 
 
 She walks in Beauty 1353 
 
 She's gane to dwell in Heaven 1621 
 
 Sheepfold 1265 
 
 Shepherds and Shepherdesses 460 
 
 Shepherd's Song 474 
 
 Shipwreck by Drink 475 
 
 Shipwrecked Sohtary's Song to the Night . 1170 
 
 Showers in Spring 864 
 
 Sic Vita 255 
 
 Sir Francis Drake 492 
 
 Sir John Barleycorn 719 
 
 Sir Sidney Smith 1137 
 
 Sit down, Sad Soul 1695 
 
 Sketches from a Painter's Studio 1775 
 
 Sleep 174 
 
 Sleep 497 
 
 Smoking Spiritualized 711 
 
 Smollett 953 
 
 Softly woo away her breath 1688 
 
 Soliloquy of Richard the Second in Prison 171 
 
 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 1787 
 
 Solitary Life 395 
 
 Song by Love, to Physander and Bellanima 376 
 
 Song by Rogero, in the " Rovers " 1145 
 
 Song for a Highland Drover returning from 
 
 England 1127 
 
 Song for St. Cecilia's D3y at Oxford 763 
 
 Song for the Seasons 1686 
 
 Song— May Eve ; or, Kate of Aberdeen ... 1022 
 
 Song of Hesi^erus 239 
 
 Song of Honest Recreation 403 
 
 Song of the Brook 1703 
 
 Song of the Danish Sea King 1641 
 
 Song of the Greek Poet 1344 
 
 Song of the Virgins celebrating the Victory 1237 
 
 Song of Wood Nymphs 1679 
 
 Song— The Blind Boy 1033 
 
 Song- The Parting Kiss 1000 
 
 Song to Apollo 408 
 
 Song to Celia 242 
 
 Song to David 994 
 
 Song to Echo 1098 
 
 SongtoMay 1097 
 
 Song to Morpheus 578 
 
 SongtoPan 220 
 
 Songs, 216, 232, 241, 254, 258, 259, 260, 
 262, 263, 289, 290, 296, 329, 332, 343, 
 352, 356, 373, 488, 571, 654, 656, 657, 
 ms, 670, 679, 680, 683, 684, 685, 690, 
 701, 702, 703, 704, 705, 748, 811, 824, 
 827, 830, 835, 836, 837, 838, 882, 883, 
 899, 984, 1001. 1021, 1039, 1040, 1112, 
 1113, 1118, 1286, 1302, 1319, 1320, 1485, 
 1499, 1508, 1564, 1573, 1651, 1790. 
 
 Sonnet made on Isabella Markham 99 
 
 Sonnet on a Wet Summer 1009 
 
 Sonnet on Age of T wenty-three 612 
 
 Sonnet on His Blindness 613 
 
 Sonnet on His late Deceased Wife 61 4 
 
 Sonnet on Sabbath Morn 1130 
 
 Sonnet on the Late Massacre in Piedmont 615 
 Sonnet, supposed to be written at Lemnos 1043 
 
 Sonnet to the Nightingale 611 
 
 Sonnet to the Redbreast 1008 
 
 no. OF I'OEM. 
 
 Sonnet to Valclusa 1042 
 
 Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss 272 
 
 Sonnets, 107, 123, 134, 140, 147, 164, 235, 
 396, 485, 489, 968, 1007, 1010, 1166, 
 1249, 1251, 1254, 1569, 1791, 1824 
 
 Sonnets to a Friend 1571 
 
 Sospetto d'Herode, Lib. I ^....^ 297 
 
 Speaking and Kissing 567 
 
 Speech 692 
 
 Spring 41 
 
 Spring 363 
 
 Spring 439 
 
 Spring 941 
 
 Spring 1382 
 
 Spring Cuckoo 1264 
 
 Staffa 1235 
 
 Stanzas for Music 1340 
 
 Stanzas on the Sea 1457 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples,. 1369 
 
 Starlight Frost 1271 
 
 Sudden Change 299 
 
 Summer's Evening 1263 
 
 Summer Morning 1408 
 
 Summer is i-cumen in 12 
 
 Summer Spoi'ts 457 
 
 Summer Woods 1658 
 
 Summons of the Destroying Angel to the 
 
 City of Babylon 1664 
 
 Sunday 302 
 
 Sunday in Edinburgh 10.55 
 
 Sunrise 1262 
 
 Sweet and Twenty 1749 
 
 Sweet Content 433 
 
 Sweet Spirit of Mv Love 1750 
 
 Sweet William's Farewell 802 
 
 Swiftness of Time 102 
 
 Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi 1632 
 
 T. 
 
 Take the Beam out of thine Own Eye 205 
 
 Tale of Argentile and Curan 484 
 
 Tale of Drury Lane, by W. S 1416 
 
 Tamo'Shanter 1591 
 
 Taste 902 
 
 Temperance 631 
 
 Tendencies of the Soul towards the Infinite 901 
 
 Terrors of a Guilty Conscience 976 
 
 Tetrastic 1013 
 
 That Pleasiu-e is mixed with every Pain ... 75 
 That the Soul is more than a Perfection or 
 
 Reflection of the Sense 222 
 
 That the Soul is more than the Tempera- 
 ture of the Humours of the Body 223 
 
 The Adopted Child 1452 
 
 The Age of Wisdom 1762 
 
 The Aged Man-at-Arms 411 
 
 The Alderman's Funeral 1216 
 
 The Alehouse 1595 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers 1811 
 
 The Angel of the World 1551 
 
 The Angelic Worship 624 
 
 The Anniversai-y 1111 
 
 The Answer of the Lord Chief Justice to 
 
 Henry V 176 
 
 The Apple Dumplings and a King 1150 
 
 The Apple of Life 1829 
 
 The Annies at Salamis 998 
 
 The Arraignment of a Lover 101 
 
 The Astronomical Lady 861 
 
 The Author's Picture 978 
 
xUv 
 
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 so. OF POEM. 
 
 The Awakine; of Eadymion 1465 
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt 143 
 
 The Baby's Debut, by W. \V 1415 
 
 The Bard 909 
 
 The Battle of Byland's Path 35 
 
 The Bee 558 
 
 The Beggar 1027 
 
 The Belgian Lovers and the Plague 1093 
 
 The Better Land 1445 
 
 The Birth of Christ 822 
 
 The Birth of Eobin Hood 515 
 
 The Blackbird 1S06 
 
 The Black-cock 1471 
 
 The Blind Beggar of Bednall Green 714 
 
 The Blood Horse 1680 
 
 The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary 1637 
 
 The Boat-race 1777 
 
 The Bower of Bliss 133 
 
 The Braes o' Balquhither 1598 
 
 The Braes o' Gleniffer 1599 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow 881 
 
 The Brave Earl Brand, and the King of 
 
 England's Daughter 721 
 
 TheBreakof Day 233 
 
 The Bridal 1805 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 1495 
 
 The Brier.. 1273 
 
 The Brook-side '. 1717 
 
 The Broom-Flower 1657 
 
 The Brown Jug 1014 
 
 The Brownie of Blednock 1650 
 
 TheBud 589 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 1562 
 
 The Burial of the Righteous 1161 
 
 The Burial-March of Dundee 1663 
 
 The Bush aboon Traquair 1028 
 
 The Call 308 
 
 The Cameronian Cat 738 
 
 The Cameronian's Dream 1652 
 
 The Canterbury Tales 19 
 
 The Catholick 712 
 
 The Cavalier's Farewell to his Mistress ... 743 
 
 The Cavalier's Song 1636 
 
 The Cave 939 
 
 The Chameleon 1016 
 
 The Character of Chatham 1077 
 
 The Cherry and the Slae 389 
 
 The Child and the Mourners 1738 
 
 The Child and the Watcher 1559 
 
 The Childe of EUe 535 
 
 The Child's First Grief 1448 
 
 The Christening , 1232 
 
 The Christiad 1169 
 
 The Chronicle 541 
 
 The Church-builder 839 
 
 The Cloud 1360 
 
 The Cobbler and the Vicar of Bray 744 
 
 The Coming of Winter 441 
 
 The Commencement of Dartmoor 1513 
 
 The Common Doom 461 
 
 The Common Lot ; 1387 
 
 The Companionship of the Muse 273 
 
 The Complaint "... 549 
 
 The Complaints of the Poor 1222 
 
 The Compliment 261 
 
 The Confession 445 
 
 The Contented Shepherd ! 829 
 
 The Convict Ship .." 1525 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 1592 
 
 The Council of Horses 799 
 
 The Country Ballad-singer 804 
 
 The Country Life 345 
 
 The Country's Recreations 115 
 
 NO. OF POEJI. 
 
 The Covenanter's Battle Chant 1639 
 
 The Cross 1730 
 
 The Cuckow and the Nightingale. '21 
 
 The Daffodils 1207 
 
 The Day of Judgment 853 
 
 The Day of Judgment 1666 
 
 The Death-bed 1497 
 
 The Death-bell 469 
 
 The Death of a Good Man 848 
 
 The Death of Haidee 1351 
 
 The Death of Jauusa and Ammurat 584 
 
 The Death of Mary 1563 
 
 The Death of Rosamond 367 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous 1108 
 
 The Deatli of the Warrior King 1697 
 
 The Death of the Young Mother 1433 
 
 The Death of Wallace 47 
 
 The Decay of Summer 440 
 
 The Demand of Justice 313 
 
 The Departure of the Swallow 1661 
 
 The Deserted Village 919 
 
 The Despairing Shepherd 749 
 
 The Dispensary 786 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 1087 
 
 The Dream 234 
 
 The Dream 1241, 1341 
 
 The Dream of Eugene Aram 1494 
 
 The Duplicity of Women 26 
 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 781 
 
 The Dying Sailor 1177 
 
 The Elder Scripture 1796 
 
 The Elephant in the Moon 643 
 
 The Emigrant's Adieu to Ballyshannon.... 1838 
 
 The Emigrant's Farewell 1480 
 
 The Emigrants in Bermudas 634 
 
 The Emptiness of Riches 859 
 
 The Envious Man and the Miser 31 
 
 The Equality of the Grave 462 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes 1820 
 
 The Evening Cloud 1425 
 
 The Exactions and Delay of the Law 59 
 
 The Excommunication of the Cid 1524 
 
 The Excursion 1553 
 
 The E.xile'sSong 1647 
 
 The Fair Recluse 1665 
 
 The Fairies of the Caldonlaw 1654 
 
 The Fairy to Puck 210 
 
 The Farmer's Boy 725 
 
 The Farmer's Ingle 1053 
 
 The Farmer's Life 1123 
 
 The Father and Child 1724 
 
 The Father of Pharonnida discovers her 
 
 Attachment to Argalia 582 
 
 The Feast 557 
 
 The Field of Battle 982 
 
 The Field of the World 1394 
 
 The Fireside 1024 
 
 The First Day 1 
 
 The First Pastoral 790 
 
 The Fishermen 1800 
 
 The Flight of Love 1366 
 
 The Flower 304 
 
 The Flower o'Dumblane 1600 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 1048 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest 1049 
 
 The Ford of Arle 282 
 
 The Fox at the Point of Death 798 
 
 The French Army in Russia 1539 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray 938 
 
 The Friend of Humanity and the Knife- 
 grinder 1144 
 
 The Garden of Adonis 132 
 
 The Garden Gate 729 
 
NO. OF POEM. 
 
 TheGarlcand 754 
 
 The Giants and the Abbey 1295 
 
 The Gipsy's Malison 1233 
 
 The Girl of Cadiz 1339 
 
 The Gladiator 1346 
 
 The Goat without a Beard 796 
 
 The Golden Age 39 
 
 The Golden Glove 716 
 
 The Good Man 160 
 
 The Good Time coming 1741 
 
 The Gospel 1058 
 
 The Grand Question debated 775 
 
 The Grasp of the Dead 1467 
 
 The Gi-ave 842 
 
 The Grave 847 
 
 The Grave 1385 
 
 The Grave of Anna 1141 
 
 The Graves of a Household 1439 
 
 The Greenland Missionaries 1078 
 
 The Greenwich. Pensioners 1240 
 
 The Greenwood 1241 
 
 The Hamlet, an Ode 965 
 
 The Happy Man 8 
 
 The Happy Man 878 
 
 The Happy Marriage 1034 
 
 The Hare and many Friends 801 
 
 The Harp that once through Tara's Halls . 1285 
 
 The Harvest Storm 871 
 
 The Haunch of Venison 920 
 
 The Haymaker's Song 728 
 
 The Heir of Linne 537 
 
 The Helmets 981 
 
 The Hermit 809 
 
 The Hermit 992 
 
 The Heroine of Auster Fair 1629 
 
 The Highland Poor 1120 
 
 The Hills o' Gallowa' 1648 
 
 The Hitchin May-day Song 727 
 
 The Holly Tree 1215 
 
 The Homes of England 1436 
 
 The Hour of Prayer 1443 
 
 The House of Fame 23 
 
 The House of liiches 129 
 
 The Hunter's Song 1684 
 
 The Hunting of the Cheviot 528 
 
 The Husband's Return 1596 
 
 The Image of Death Ill 
 
 The Image of Jealousy in the Chapel of 
 
 Diana 334 
 
 The Immortality of the Soul 225 
 
 The Impressed Sailor Boy 1163 
 
 The Inchcape Eock 1224 
 
 The Induction to the Complaint of Henry, 
 
 Duke of Buckingham 9Q 
 
 The Inquiry 384 
 
 The InterWew of Vortigem with Rowen ... 14 
 The Invocation and Introduction to Para- 
 dise Lost ; 619 
 
 The Ivy Green 1818 
 
 The Jews' Return to Jerusalem 980 
 
 The Journey onwards 1293 
 
 The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove 722 
 
 The Just Indignation of the Oppressed 277 
 
 The Reach i' the Creel 718 
 
 The King of Denmark's Ride 1716 
 
 The King's Answer 177 
 
 The Kiss, a Dialogue 340 
 
 The Kitten 1473 
 
 The Knight releases his Lands and suc- 
 cours a Yeoman 522 
 
 The Ladder to Thrift 83 
 
 The Lady's Looking-glass 750 
 
 The Lady's Song in "Comus" 608 
 
 XO. OF POFM. 
 
 The Land of My Birth 1721 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 1451 
 
 The Languid Lady 862 
 
 The Lark 473 
 
 The Lass of Lochroyan 539 
 
 The Last Journey 1532 
 
 The Last Time I came o'er the Moor 825 
 
 The Last Verses of Chaucer ....TTir.rr -28 
 
 The Light of other Days 1292 
 
 The Lily 1122 
 
 The Lion and Giraffe 1479 
 
 The Lion and the Cub 794 
 
 The Long-ago 1719 
 
 The Lost Leader 1788 
 
 The Lot of Thousands 1115 
 
 The Love of Praise 860 
 
 The Love that is requited with Disdain 93 
 
 Tlie Loved One was not there 1743 
 
 The Lover complaineth of the Unkiudness 
 
 of His Love 72 
 
 The Lover requesteth some Friendly Com- 
 fort, affirming his Constancy 92 
 
 The Lover's Lute cannot be blamed, 
 though it smg of his Lady's Unkind- 
 
 ness 73 
 
 The Loyal Soldier 746 
 
 The Mad Lover 382 
 
 The Madman's Song 447 
 
 The Madness of Orestes 467 
 
 The Maid's Lament 1272 
 
 The Maid of Neidpath 1329 
 
 The Man of Ross 779 
 
 The Mariner's Wife 929 
 
 The Marriage of Cupid and Psyche 1121 
 
 The Massacre of the Macpherson 1662 
 
 The Means to attain Happy Life 66 
 
 The Memory of the Dead 1793 
 
 The Men of Forty-eight 1745 
 
 The Men of Old 1718 
 
 The Merle and Nightingale 51 
 
 The Mermaid 1132 
 
 The Messiah 630 
 
 The Messiah • 776 
 
 The Midges dance aboon the Burn 1601 
 
 The Midnight Messenger 710 
 
 The Midnight Ocean 1424 
 
 The Midnight Wind 1635 
 
 The Minion Wife 399 
 
 The Ministry of Angels 130 
 
 The Minstrel's Song in Ella 944 
 
 The Miser 844 
 
 The Miser's Mansion 1218 
 
 The Miseries of a Poet's Life 9,50 
 
 The Monkey 1655 
 
 The Monkey who had seen the World 792 
 
 The Moon was a-waning 1614 
 
 The Morning Star 375 
 
 The Mother's Hand 1699 
 
 The Mother's Heart 1711 
 
 The Mother's last Song 1689 
 
 The Mow 726 
 
 The Muster for the First Crusade 13 
 
 The Nabob 1102 
 
 The New Litany 735 
 
 The New-mown Hay 730 
 
 The New Year 646 
 
 The New Year's Gift 1472 
 
 The Night before the Battle of Waterloo... 1358 
 The Night-piece ; or, a Pictxire Drawn in 
 
 the Dark 602 
 
 The Nightingale 1506 
 
 The Nobility exhorted to the Patronage of 
 Learning 139 
 
xlvi 
 
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 so. OP roHM. 
 
 The Nobleman's generous Kindness 720 
 
 The Noontide of a Summer's Day 392 
 
 TheNuu liOl 
 
 The Nutbrown Maid 94 
 
 The Nymph's Reply 114 
 
 The Nymphs to their May Queen 122 
 
 The Odour 305 
 
 The Old and Young Courtier 511 
 
 The Old Arm-chair 1720 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 1230 
 
 The Old Farm-gate " 1722 
 
 The Old Hen and the Cock 795 
 
 The Old Man's Comforts 1223 
 
 The Old Man's Wish 686 
 
 The Old Protestant's Litany 736 
 
 The Old Water-mill 1724 
 
 The One Gray Hair 1277 
 
 The Only Eest 7 
 
 The Orphan Boy 1700 
 
 The Orphan Boy's Tale IIIG 
 
 The Outlaw 1326 
 
 The Owl 1685 
 
 The Owl and the Bell 1831 
 
 The Oxford Riddle 507 
 
 The Painter 1542 
 
 The Painter who pleased NobodyandEvery- 
 
 body 793 
 
 The Palmer 1333 
 
 The Parish Workhouse and Apothecary ... 1173 
 
 The Parrot 1310 
 
 The Parting of Lovers 1737 
 
 The Passionate Shephoi-d to his Love 113 
 
 The Past 1727 
 
 The Pauper's Death-bed 1531 
 
 The Philosopher's Devotion 572 
 
 The Pilofrims and the Peas 1147 
 
 The Pixies of Devon 1515 
 
 The Poet and the Rose 800 
 
 The Poet's Bridal-day Song 1622 
 
 The Poet's Hour 1547 
 
 The Poet's Song to his Wife 1687 
 
 The Power of Love 217 
 
 The Praise of a Solitary Life 366 
 
 The Pre-existency of the Soul 575 
 
 The Preparation for Execution 448 
 
 The Pride of Youth 1330 
 
 The Primrose 270 
 
 The Primrose 1409 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon 1345 
 
 The Progress of Discontent 973 
 
 The Progress of Love 904 
 
 The Prophecy 942 
 
 The Puritan 740 
 
 The Queen 1774 
 
 The Quiet Life 782 
 
 The Rainbow 310 
 
 The Rainbow 562 
 
 The Real and the Ideal 456 
 
 The Reaper 1206 
 
 The Reconciliation 1704 
 
 The Re-cured Lover exulteth in his Free- 
 dom, and voweth to remain Free nntil 
 
 Death 74 
 
 The Reign of Christ on Earth 1392 
 
 The Resolve 381 
 
 The Resurrection 849 
 
 The Retirement 648 
 
 The Retreat 564 
 
 The Return of David II. from Captivity ... 44 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 1503 
 
 The Rose 850 
 
 The Roundhead 741 
 
 The Sabbath Day 1422 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 The Sailing of Beowulf 9 
 
 The Sailor's Farewell 1038 
 
 The Sailor's Wife 1742 
 
 The Saint's Encouragement 370 
 
 The Scholar 1220 
 
 The Schoolmistress 893 
 
 The Sea 1681 
 
 The Sea 1833 
 
 The Sea in Calm 1683 
 
 The Seasons of Life 1812 
 
 The Secret Way 1828 
 
 The Seeds of Love 671 
 
 The Seeker 816 
 
 The Self-banished 601 
 
 The sequestered Retirement of Bentworth 283 
 
 The Shepherd and his Wile 423 
 
 The Shepherd Boy 1462 
 
 The Ship departing from the Haven 946 
 
 The Shipwreck of the Caravel of Grace .... 56 
 
 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song 1170 
 
 The Sick Man and the Angel 797 
 
 The Skylark 1613 
 
 The Sleep 1561 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty 1184 
 
 The Sleeping Figure of Modena 1676 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 1308 
 
 The Soldier's Home 1125 
 
 The Solitary Tomb 1458- 
 
 The Song of the Enamoured Shepherd 410 
 
 The Song of the Shirt 1496 
 
 The Songs of Birds 405 
 
 The Sorcerers of Vain Delights 311 
 
 The Soul and Body 574 
 
 The Soul in Despair 5 
 
 The Soul's Errand 119 
 
 The Soul's Errand 503 
 
 The Spanish Lady's Love 538 
 
 The Spirit's Epilogue in ''Comus" 609 
 
 The Splendid Shilling 666 
 
 The Spring 368 
 
 The S<iuire and the Dove 126 
 
 The Squiere's Tale 20 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem 1167 
 
 The Starry Heavens 1481 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 1682 
 
 The Stranger and his Friend 1393 
 
 The Suicide 970 
 
 The Summer's Queen 432 
 
 The Sun rises bright in France 1627 
 
 The Swearer 863 
 
 The Sweets of Beauty 464 
 
 The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets 29 
 
 The Tar for all Weathers 1136 
 
 The Tears of Scotland 923 
 
 The Tempestuous Evening 1018 
 
 The Temptation of Eve 4 
 
 The Theatre 1414 
 
 The Thief and the Cordelier 756 
 
 The Thought of Death -. 674 
 
 The Three Knights 713 
 
 The Three Sons 1801 
 
 The Three States of Woman 450 
 
 The Three Warnings 1026 
 
 The Thrush's Nest 1410 
 
 The Timber 561 
 
 The Toilet 780 
 
 TheTomb 565 
 
 The Town Child and Country Child 1624 
 
 The Town Ladies 388 
 
 The Traveller 918 
 
 The Treasures of the Deep 1437 
 
 The Troubadour 1468 
 
 The Tub Preacher 734 
 
ALPHABETICAL LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 xlvii 
 
 KO. OIP POBM. 
 
 The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 527 
 
 The Two April Mornings 1212 
 
 The Unknown Grave 1536 
 
 The Upas in Marylebone Lane 1417 
 
 The Useful Plow 724 
 
 The Uses of Adversity 191 
 
 The Valediction 570 
 
 The Vanity of Human Learning 221 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes 885 
 
 The Vanity of the Beautiful 103 
 
 The Vanity of the World 293 
 
 The Vessel going to Pieces 949 
 
 The Voice of Spring 1438 
 
 The Voice of the Dying 206 
 
 The Voice of the Morning 1698 
 
 The Votaress of Diana 336 
 
 The Waiting-maid 551 
 
 The Wanderer 841 
 
 The Wandering Wind = 1450 
 
 The War of the League 1565 
 
 The Water! the Water ! 1634 
 
 The Water Lady 1498 
 
 The Water o' Wearie's Well 532 
 
 The Widow and Child 1705 
 
 The Widow Bird 1374 
 
 The Widowed Mother 1213 
 
 The Widowed Mother 1429 
 
 The Wife 495 
 
 The Wife's Appeal 1778 
 
 The Wife's Funeral 1179 
 
 TheWild Huntsman 1334 
 
 The Will 230 
 
 The Winds 87 
 
 The Winter Evening 1084 
 
 The Wish 546 
 
 The Wish 678 
 
 The Wish 1017 
 
 The Witch's Cave 335 
 
 The Wreath 563 
 
 The Woodman's Walk 505 
 
 The Work-girl's Song 398 
 
 The World a Stage 193 
 
 The World is too much with us 1190 
 
 The Worn Wedding Ring 1768 
 
 The Young Man's Wish 709 
 
 The Young Maxwell 1619 
 
 Theodore and Honoria 664 
 
 There be those 1455 
 
 There is an Ancient Man 1733 
 
 There is a Garden in her Face 486 
 
 There's no Dearth of Kindness 1753 
 
 They are all gone 560 
 
 They come, the Merry Summer Months ... 1633 
 
 Think on thy Home 364 
 
 Think not of the Future 1501 
 
 Thomas the Rhymer 531 
 
 Those Evening Bells 1288 
 
 Thou art gone to the Grave 1381 
 
 Thou hast vow'd by thy Faith, ray Jeanie 1625 
 
 Thoughts of Heaven 1642 
 
 Thoughts in a Garden 633 
 
 Thoughts on Time 857 
 
 Thus stood his Mind 1430 
 
 Time's Alteration 512 
 
 Time's Song 1814 
 
 Tiroes go by turns 110 
 
 Tintern Abbey 1195 
 
 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 1278 
 
 To a Bcioved One 1754 
 
 To a Brother Poet 276 
 
 To a Child embracing his Mother 1 489 
 
 To a Coy Lady 383 
 
 To a Cricket 1764 
 
 KG. OV POBIC. 
 
 To a Daisy 1391 
 
 To a Distant Friend 1200 
 
 To a Family Bible 1447 
 
 To a Highland Girl 1196 
 
 To a Lady 698 
 
 To a Lady 778 
 
 To a Lady admiring Herself in a Looking- 
 glass 358 
 
 To a Lady I know, aged One 1771 
 
 To a Lady with a Guitar 1371 
 
 To a Lady with some Painted Flowers 1105 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy , 1575 
 
 To a Nightingale 361 
 
 To a Skylark , 1361 
 
 To a Sleeping Child 1421 
 
 To a Sleeping ChUd 1837 
 
 To a Tuft of Early Violets 1143 
 
 To a very Young Lady..; 667 
 
 To Althea (from Prison) 355 
 
 To Amoret 593 
 
 To an Early Primrose 1165 
 
 To Autumn 1521 
 
 ToBelshazzar 1357 
 
 To Blossoms 341 
 
 ToCastara 317 
 
 To Castara, inquiring why I loved her 318 
 
 To Castara (the Record of Innocent 
 
 Love) 323 
 
 To Certain Golden Fishes 1572 
 
 To Charlotte Pulteney 791 
 
 To Chloe 338 
 
 ToCorinna 351 
 
 To Daffodils 342 
 
 To Fancy 974 
 
 To Ferdinand Seymour 1712 
 
 Tofind God 850 
 
 To Hester 1228 
 
 To his Coy Love 145 
 
 To his Empty Purse 22 
 
 To his Heart 386 
 
 To his Lute 362 
 
 To his Mistress 78 
 
 To his Mistress 645 
 
 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia ... ]58 
 
 To his Son Vincent Corbet 251 
 
 To his Wife 1126 
 
 To his Wife 1600 
 
 Tolanthe 1133 
 
 To Lucasta (going to the Wars) 353 
 
 To Lucasta (from Prison) 354 
 
 To Macaulay •.. 1276 
 
 To Mary (Mrs. Unwin) 1082 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 1587 
 
 ToMeadows 344 
 
 To Mrs. Bishop 1002 
 
 To Mrs. Bishop 1003 
 
 T o Mistress Margaret Hussey 63 
 
 To my Candle 1155 
 
 To my Daughter, on being separated from 
 
 her on her Marriage 1114 
 
 To my Daughter, on h er Birthday 1490 
 
 To my Noblest Friend 324 
 
 To my Picture 360 
 
 To my Son 1164 
 
 To Phyllis 694 
 
 To Posterity 493 
 
 To Primroses filled with Morning Dew ... 346 
 
 To Religion 120 
 
 To Roses in the Bosom of Castara 316 
 
 To Saxham 269 
 
 ToSeymors 321 
 
 To Sleep 218 
 
 To Sleep 1210 
 
 d 
 
ITO. OF POEM. 
 
 To T. L. H,, six yeaxs old, during a Sick- 
 ness 1398 
 
 To the Bramble Flower 1552 
 
 To the Butterfly 1187 
 
 To the Comet of 1811 ^ 1616 
 
 Tothe Cuckoo 962 
 
 To the Cuckoo 1202 
 
 To the Daisy 1208 
 
 To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of 
 
 Addison 785 
 
 To the Evening Primrose 1454 
 
 To the Evening Star 682 
 
 To the Evening Star 1301 
 
 To the First Cuckoo of the year 1816 
 
 To the Glowworm 1405 
 
 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 1399 
 
 To the Holy Trinity , 237 
 
 To the Memory of a Lady 1540 
 
 To the Memory of the First Lady Lyttelton 906 
 
 Tothe Night 1365 
 
 To the Nightingale 707 
 
 To the Passions 890 
 
 To the Queen 374 
 
 To the Reverend Dr. Ayscough 905 
 
 To the River CherweU 1253 
 
 To the River Nith 1607 
 
 To the River Tweed 1248 
 
 To the River Wensbeck .' 1247 
 
 To the Skylark 1201 
 
 To the Snowdrop 1678 
 
 Tothe Spring 320 
 
 To the Tron Kirk Bell 1054 
 
 To Thomas Moore 1337 
 
 To Time 1238 
 
 To Tom Bowling 1140 
 
 ToW. G. B 1773 
 
 To-morrow, Lord, is Thine 1060 
 
 Town and Country 1484 
 
 Translation of Horace, Odes, I. 5 617 
 
 Tribute to a Mother on her Death 1 089 
 
 True Beauty in Woman 1821 
 
 Tullochgorum 1050 
 
 Tweedside 1029 
 
 Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine 1709 
 
 Two April Mornings 1212 
 
 U. 
 
 Una and the Red Cross Knight , 124 
 
 Una followed by the Lion 125 
 
 Under the Holly Bough 1739 
 
 Unprepared for Death 845 
 
 Upon his Mistress sad 879 
 
 Upon Westminster Bridge 1204 
 
 Urania I759 
 
 Valediction 231 
 
 Vanity of Earthly Things 52 
 
 Variety 986 
 
 Verses 832 
 
 Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden ... 100 
 
 Verses on his Own Death 774 
 
 Verses written when alone in an Inn at 
 
 Southampton 1031 
 
 Vicarious Justice 641 
 
 Virgin Purity. 580 
 
 Virtue 303 
 
 KO. OP POEM. 
 
 Virtue and Vice.. , 435 
 
 Vision of Beishazzar. 1356 
 
 W. 
 
 Walking the Streets of London 805 
 
 War Song on the Victory of Brunnenburg 1296 
 
 Warriors 699 
 
 Washing-day 1107 
 
 We are Brethren a' 1643 
 
 We have been Friends together 1713 
 
 Weary of Wandering 1065 
 
 Wedding Words....... 1769 
 
 Welcome to the Forest's Queen 463 
 
 What ails this Heart o' mine ? 1103 
 
 What is Heaven ? 16 
 
 WhatisLife? 292 
 
 What is Life ? , , 1407 
 
 What is Love? 470 
 
 What Love is like 451 
 
 What might be done 1740 
 
 When I beneath the cold red Earth am 
 
 sleeping 1640 
 
 When the King comes Home in Peace 
 
 again 732 
 
 When the Kye comes Hame 1612 
 
 When we two parted 1342 
 
 Where shall the Lover Rest ? 1328 
 
 Whitbread's Brewery visited by their 
 
 Majesties 1151 
 
 Wife, Chddren, and Friends 1396 
 
 Wild Flowers 1644 
 
 William and Margaret , 897 
 
 Willow Song 1449 
 
 Winter Evening in t he Country 1085 
 
 Winter Redbreast 1268 
 
 Wishes for Obscurity 695 
 
 Wolseyon his Fall 182 
 
 Wolsey's Ambition 490 
 
 Wolsey's Vision 491 
 
 Woman's Voice 1758 
 
 Woo'd and married and a' 1045 
 
 W^ork-girl's Song 398 
 
 Wreathe the Bowie 1279 
 
 Wretchedness of a School Usher 951 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley 896 
 
 Written at the Close of Spring 1100 
 
 Written at Tynemouth, Northumberland, 
 
 after a Tempestuous Voyage 1245 
 
 Written in a blank leaf of Dugdale's 
 
 " Monasticon " , 967 
 
 Written in Early Spring 1211 
 
 Written on a Visit to the Country in 
 
 Autumn 963 
 
 Y. 
 
 Yarrow Visited 1199 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 1305 
 
 Ye're all the World to me. Lassie 1813 
 
 Young Lochinvar 1317 
 
 Young Love , 635 
 
 Youth and Age 1221 
 
 Youth and Age 1355 
 
 Z. 
 
 Zara's Ear-rings. ,...,.....„„r 1523 
 
THE FIKST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 HO. OP POBM. 
 
 A band, a bobwig, and a feather 833 
 
 A brace of sinners, for no ^ood 1147 
 
 A broad stream, smooth with deep-grass'd 
 
 fields 1775 
 
 A chieftain to the Highlands bound 1307 
 
 A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 1425 
 
 A cobbler and a curate once disputed 509 
 
 A country life is sweet ! 724 
 
 A curious eye 334 
 
 A curse upon that faithless maid 704 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous 
 
 well 76 
 
 A fair young May went up the street 718 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 1210 
 
 A fool ! a fool ! I met a fool i' the 
 
 forest 192 
 
 A fox, in life's extreme decay 798 
 
 A gentle knight was pricking on the 
 
 plain 124 
 
 A gentle maid, of rural breeding 986 
 
 A gentle squire would gladly entertain 248 
 
 A good Pope was thilk time at Rome that 
 
 hecht Urban 13 
 
 A happy bit hame this auld world would be 1643 
 
 A jewel for my lady's ear 1769 
 
 "A knife," dear girl, "cuts love," they 
 
 say! 1002 
 
 A learn'd society of late 643 
 
 A little child, beneath a tree 1738 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand 616 
 
 A mighty pain to love it is 542 
 
 A monkey, to reform the times 792 
 
 A mother's love — how sweet the name ! 1390 
 
 A noble marquess 526 
 
 A nobleman lived in a village of late 720 
 
 A pp,rrot from the Spanish main 1310 
 
 A poor wayfaring man of grief 1393 
 
 A quack (too scandalously mean to name) 652 
 
 A star has left the kindling sky 1469 
 
 A steed ! a steed of matchless speed 1636 
 
 A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing 153 
 
 A thousand miles from land are we 1682 
 
 A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon... 550 
 A tree gi'ew in Java, whose pestilent rind... 1417 
 A veteran gambler, in a tempest caught ... 1006 
 
 A wandering orphan child was I 1699 
 
 A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright ... 1313 
 A wealthy young squire of Tamworth, we 
 
 hear 716 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid 1320 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 1623 
 
 A widow bird sate mourning for her love... 1374 
 A wretch had committed all manner of evil 839 
 A! fredome is a nobill thing ! 32 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 1402 
 
 ActsDon lost, in middle of his sport 123 
 
 Adieu, farewell earth's bliss 442 
 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred 
 
 and born 1838 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 1576 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride 1478 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 1351 
 
 After giving, I speak of taking 55 
 
 Again, how can she but immortal be ? 225 
 
 Again, sweet siren, breathe again 1133 
 
 Again the chief th' instructive draught ex- 
 
 tendt 948 
 
 Ah ! Chi oris, that I now could sit 667 
 
 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh 1327 
 
 Ah ! from mine eyes the tears unbidden 
 
 start 1252 
 
 Ah ! I remember well (and how can 1 135 
 
 Ah, lovely Lichfield ! that so long hast 
 
 shone 1111 
 
 Ah, me! full sorely is my heart forlorn ... 893 
 
 Ah, me ! the little tyrant thief 357 
 
 Ah, mourn, thou loved retreat ! No more 971 
 
 Ah, ope. Lord Gregorj'-, thy door 1152 
 
 Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate 883 
 
 Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair 427 
 
 Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run 966 
 Ah ! what is love ? It is a pretty thing ... 424 
 Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb... 988 
 
 Alas! in how grim 5 
 
 Alas ! that moon should ever beam 1498 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth 1510 
 
 Alexis shunned his fe Wow-swains 749 
 
 All human things are subject to decay 660 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was mooi''d 802 
 
 All June I bound the rose in sheaves 1785 
 
 All men loved him for his bounty 33 
 
 All praise to Thee, my God, this night 820 
 
 All smatterers are more brisk and pert ... 644 
 
 All the world's a stage 193 
 
 All these, and more came flocking ; but 
 
 with looks 621 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 1505 
 
 All we have is God's, and yet 301 
 
 All white hung the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet 
 
 stream 1472 
 
 All wit and fancy, like a diamond 644 
 
 All ye, who far from town, in rural hall .... 1009 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bow'rs 220 
 
 Almighty Father ! let Thy lowly child 1557 
 
 Alone she was, her head against the wall... 1839 
 
 Along the garden walk I stray'd 1807 
 
 Along the mead Europa walks 569 
 
 Amang the birks sac blithe and gay 1648 
 
 c^2 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POBU. 
 
 Amarantha sweet and fair 356 
 
 Among thy fancies tell me this 340 
 
 An ancient story I'll tell you anon 529 
 
 An old dull sot, who toU'd the clock 642 
 
 An old song made by an aged old pate 511 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 929 
 
 And doth not a meeting like this make 
 
 amends 1281 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came 1349 
 
 And eke this house hath of entries 23 
 
 And first within the porch and jaws of hell 97 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home. . . 1534 
 
 And is the swallow gone? 1661 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? And is there 
 
 love 130 
 
 And is this the old mill-stream that ten 
 
 years ago 1724 
 
 And is this Yarrow ?— this the stream 1199 
 
 And now before young David could come in 144 
 
 And now, lashed on by destinj'- severe 949 
 
 And now, philanthropy ! thy rays divine... 1095 
 And now, to be brief, let's pass over the 
 
 rest 717 
 
 And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
 played 780 
 
 And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land 1475 
 
 And so I glad^ of the season sweet 25 
 
 And the night was dark and calm '. . 1466 
 
 And then came Covetise, can I him not 
 
 descrive? 18 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair ... 1354 
 And thou hast walk'd about (how strange 
 
 astory!) 1418 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 1335 
 
 And what is life ? An hour-glass on the 
 
 run 1407 
 
 And what's a life ?— a weary pilgrimage ... 292 
 And when the king wist that they were ... 34 
 
 And where have you been, my Mary 1654 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain? 1222 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus 77 
 
 And with that word she smiled, and ne'er- 
 
 theless 148 
 
 Anger, in hasty words or blows 586 
 
 Another nymph, amongst the many fair ... 758 
 Are they not senseless, then, that think 
 
 the soul 222 
 
 Ariel to Miranda :— Take 1371 
 
 Array'd a half -angelic sight 1232 
 
 Art thou a thing of mortal birth 1421 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
 bers? 433 
 
 As after noon, one summer's day 752 
 
 As at the approach of winter all 644 
 
 As bird in cage debarr'd the use of wings. . . 496 
 
 As, by some tyrant's stern command 936 
 
 As by the shore at break of day 1286 
 
 As chaos which by heavenly doom 1416 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of preven- 
 tion • 760 
 
 As due by many titles, I resign 235 
 
 As fireflaucht hastily glancing 62 
 
 As fresh Aurore to mighty Tithon spouse 57 
 
 As homeward by the evening star 1263 
 
 As I walked forth one summer's morn 730 
 
 As I was pausing in a morning aire 394 
 
 As in an evening, when the gentle air 286 
 
 As it fell upon a day 121 
 
 As near Porto-Bello lying ' 999 
 
 As on a summer's day 829 
 
 As one who, long by wasting sickness worn 1254 
 
 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew 774 
 
 As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side... 1245 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 1293 
 
 As through the land at eve we went 1704 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away '231 
 
 As we bene on the high hills situate 56 
 
 As when, to one, who long hath watch' d the 
 
 morn 1007 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows 260 
 
 Ask me why I send you here 270 
 
 At £eatt^/s bar as I did stand 101 
 
 At length escaped from every human eye . . . 906 
 
 At Sarra, in the land of Tartaric 2C 
 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet 
 
 isstill 992 
 
 At Willie's wedding on the green 1609 
 
 Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful 
 
 treasure 441 
 
 Avenge, Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, 
 
 whose bones 615 
 
 Awake, my muse, and leave to dream of 
 
 loves 489 
 
 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 819 
 
 B. 
 
 Back and side go bare, go bare 402 
 
 Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils 972 
 Batter my heart, three-personed God ; for 
 
 you 235 
 
 Be merry, friends, take ye no thought 401 
 
 Be merry, man, and take nought far in mynd 53 
 Be patient ! Oh, be patient ! put yoiu* ear 
 
 against the earth 1803 
 
 Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer 858 
 
 Be wise to run thy race 1076 
 
 Beat on, proud billows : Boreas, blow 513 
 
 Beauteous and bright is he among the 
 
 tribes 413 
 
 Beauties, have you seen this toy 238 
 
 Beautiful children of the woods and fields ! 1644 
 
 Beauty, alas ! where wast thou born 419 
 
 Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ... 195 
 
 Because I oft in dark abstracted guise 107 
 
 Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe 230 
 
 Before my face the picture hangs Ill 
 
 Began then himself equip 4 
 
 Begone dull care ! 731 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 1206 
 
 Behold upon the swelling wave 1039 
 
 Behold where thou dost lie 1397 
 
 Below the bottom of the great abyss 297 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn 1357 
 
 Beneath the beech, whose branches bare... 970 
 
 Beneath this stony roof reclined 969 
 
 Bereave me not of fancy's shadowy dreams 1244 
 
 Beside her babe who sweetly slept 1 429 
 
 Betwixt two sloping verdant hills 985 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber thus alone 43 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping 1779 
 
 Bid me not go where neither suns nor 
 
 showers 337 
 
 Bing, bim, bang, borne ! 1831 
 
 Bird, bee, and butterfly — the favourite 
 
 three 1517 
 
 Bird of the wilderness 1613 
 
 Blame not my lute ! for he must sound ... 73 
 Bless God, my soul ! Thou, Lord, alone ... 823 
 
 Blessed as the immortal gods is he 788 
 
 Blest temple, haile, where the chast altar 
 
 stands 321 
 
 Blossom of the almond trees 1757 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind 211 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 VO. OF POEM. 
 
 Bone-weary, many-childed, trouble-tried ! 1553 
 
 Bonny Kilmeny gaed np the glen 1615 
 
 Born in yon blaze of orient sky 1097 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead ... 1315 
 
 Bright star ! by Venus fix'd above 682 
 
 Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been 
 
 dight 940 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the 
 
 morning 1380 
 
 Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal 
 
 board 1441 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us 1 669 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride 881 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly 1021 
 
 But all our praises why should lords en- 
 gross? 779 
 
 But happy they ! the happiest of their 
 
 kind! 866 
 
 But how shall we this union well express ? 224 
 But if the breathless chase o'er hill and 
 
 dale 926 
 
 But see the fading many-colour'd woods ... 872 
 But sith 'tis so there is a trespass done ... 24 
 But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign 932 
 But wood and wild, the mountain and the 
 
 dale 1161 
 
 By Logan streams that rin saedeep 1605 
 
 By painful steps at last we labourup 681 
 
 By sylvan waves that westward flow 1 702 
 
 By this had chanticleer, the village cock... 285 
 
 C. 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes 1582 
 
 Cajlia is cruel : Sylvia, thou 685 
 
 Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren 446 
 Can gold calm passion, or make i*eason 
 
 shine? 859 
 
 Can you paint a thought ? or number 458 
 
 Care-charmer sleep, son of the sable Night 140 
 
 Care-charming sleep, thou easer of all woes 218 
 
 Careful observers may foretell the hour ... 772 
 
 Careful sorrowing 10 
 
 Cease to blame my melancholy 984 
 
 Cecilia, whose exalted hymns 763 
 
 Celia and I the other day 750 
 
 Checke thy forward thoughts, and know... 319 
 
 Cheeks as soft as July peaches 1766 
 
 Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry 348 
 
 Chei-well ! how pleased along thy willow'd 
 
 hedge 1253 
 
 Child amidst the flowers at j)lay 1443 
 
 Child of the country! free as air 1624 
 
 Child of the potent spell and nimble eye... 1041 
 Child of the sun ! pursue thv rapturous 
 
 fliffht .'. 1187 
 
 Children are what the mothers are 1274 
 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years 338 
 
 Chloris, yourself you so excel 598 
 
 Clarinda came at last 336 
 
 Close in the covert of an hazel copse 867 
 
 Clysdale, as thy romantic vales I leave 1250 
 
 Cold is the senseless heart that never 
 
 strove 1010 
 
 Come, all ye feathery people of mid air ... 1677 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds 1612 
 
 Come, all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled 690 
 
 Come back, come back together 1463 
 
 Come, come away 745 
 
 Come, evoninge gale ! the crimsonne rose 1541 
 
 Come, Evening, once again, season of peace 1085 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Come, gentle sleep ! attend thy votary's 
 
 prayer 1154 
 
 Come, gentle zephyr, trick'd with those 
 
 perfumes 417 
 
 Come, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried 1050 
 
 Come here, come here, and dwell 1679 
 
 Come, Holy Spirit, come ^...,,.,^..^ 1075 
 
 Come, list and hark, the bell doth toll 469 
 
 Come, listen to me, you gallants so free . . . 517 
 
 Come, little infant, love me now 635 
 
 Come, live with me and be my love 113 
 
 Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life ! 308 
 
 Come, O come, with sacred lays 281 
 
 Come, thou traveller unknown 1064 
 
 Come, said Jesus' sacred voice 1109 
 
 Come, sleep, sleep, the certain knot of 
 
 peace 107 
 
 Come to these scenes of peace 1242 
 
 Come, ye brown oaks, and stoop your 
 
 heavy boughs 1548 
 
 Come ye into the summer woods 1658 
 
 Comes next from Ross-shire and from 
 
 Sutherland 1630 
 
 Comforts lasting, loves encreasing 459 
 
 Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine 886 
 
 Connubial Fair ! whom no fond transport 
 
 wanns 1096 
 
 Contentment, parent of delight 815 
 
 Cosmelia's charms inspire my lays 669 
 
 Crowns, therefore keep your oaths of 
 
 coronation 154 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 404 
 
 Cursed with xinnumber'd groundless fears 976 
 Custom, the world's great idol, we adore... 677 
 
 D. 
 
 Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms... 602 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power 908 
 
 Daughter of Time, sincere Posterity 493 
 
 Daughters of Israel ! praise the Lord of 
 
 Hosts! 1237 
 
 Day stai's ! that ope your eyes with morn 
 
 to twinkle 1419 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place 162 
 
 Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd 
 
 with tears 1470 
 
 Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd 1024 
 
 Dear Fanny, nine long years ago 1490 
 
 Dear is my little native vale 1186 
 
 Dear Joseph, five and twenty years ago . . . 1088 
 Dear to my heart as life's warm stream ... 1114 
 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams 
 
 with mild ale 1014 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have 
 
 called thee 235 
 
 Deathless principle, arise ! 1073 
 
 Death's shafts fly thick ! Here falls the 
 
 village swain 847 
 
 Deem as you list upon good cause 79 
 
 Deem not devoid of elegance the sage 967 
 
 Defeating oft the labours of the year 871 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! Oh the unworthy 
 
 lord! 1203 
 
 Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms 1158 
 
 Despairing beside a clear stream 828 
 
 Didst thou but know the inly touch of love 201 
 Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and 
 
 stars 658 
 
 Do I not know a great man's power and 
 
 might 277 
 
lii 
 
 THE FIRST LIXES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Do not beguile my heart 306 
 
 Do not unjustly blame 645 
 
 Do you ask me what the birds say ? The 
 
 sparrow, the dove 1512 
 
 Down to the vale this water steers 1197 
 
 Drink to me, only with thine eyes 212 
 
 Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those 
 
 beauteous feet 312 
 
 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes 251 
 
 Dry up thy tears, love ! — I fain would be 
 
 gay! 1526 
 
 Dwellers by lake and hill! 1653 
 
 E. 
 
 Each opening season, and each opening 
 
 scene 1413 
 
 Earl Gawain woo'd the Lady Barbara 1743 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair. 1204 
 
 Enj oy the present smiling hour 665 
 
 Equipp'd and bent for heaven I left yon 
 
 world 1421 
 
 Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade 1511 
 
 Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent ... 927 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 1345 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky! ... 1201 
 Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture 
 
 glow 989 
 
 Even the lag flesh 849 
 
 Even thus amid thy pride and luxury 1666 
 
 Evening and morning — those two ancient 
 
 names 1729 
 
 Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend 1249 
 
 Faintly bray'd the battle's roar 982 
 
 Fair and soft, and gay and young 684 
 
 Fair as imshaded light or as the day 374 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 342 
 
 Fair Echo, rise ! sick-thoughted nymph, 
 
 awake 380 
 
 Fair Fidelia,, tempt no more 743 
 
 Fair flower that shunn'st the glare of day 1454 
 
 Fair is thy level landscape, England fair ... 1516 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair 140 
 
 Fair lady, when you see the grace 358 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 341 
 
 Fair Rosomond within her bower of late ... 367 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France 143 
 
 Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts 
 
 therefore 440 
 
 Fair ! that you may truly know 593 
 
 Faire mistresse of the Earth, with garlands 
 
 crown'd 320 
 
 Fall'npile! I ask not what has been ithy 
 
 fate 1256 
 
 False world, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend 233 
 
 Famous was Beowulf 9 
 
 Fancies are but streams "*" 456 
 
 Fai' have I clambered in my mind [ 573 
 
 Far in a wild, unknown to public view 809 
 
 Farin the country of Arden ] 146 
 
 Far in the windings of a vale 898 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell to all my great- 
 
 .^iiess! 182 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies 253 
 
 Farewell, sweet groves to you ! 275 
 
 Farewell the field s of Irwan's vale .'.'.." 934 
 
 NO. OE POEM. 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, and may 648 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean - 824 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies ! pleasing trou- 
 bles 159 
 
 Father in heaven ! who gave me breath ... 1537 
 
 Father, wake, the storm is loud 1734 
 
 Few are thy days and full of woe 964 
 
 Few have lived ; 1727 
 
 Fhairshon swore a feud 1662 
 
 Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause 370 
 
 Fill the bowl with rosy wine 542 
 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 1280 
 
 First shall the heavens want starry light... 431 
 
 First think, my soul, if I have foes 274 
 
 First-love will with the heart remain 1411 
 
 Five years have pass'd ; five summers, with 
 
 the length 1195 
 
 Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns 1119 
 Flowers to the fair ; to you these flowers I 
 
 bring 1105 
 
 Fly from the press, and dwell with soth- 
 
 fastness 28 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me 1284 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flies you 241 
 
 Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness 315 
 
 Foolish Prater, what dost thou 542 
 
 For his religion, it was fit 638 
 
 For many a coal-black tribe and cany 
 
 spear 1377 
 
 For me who feel, whene'er I touch the lyre 1089 
 
 For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy 157 
 
 For, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie... 27 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 78 
 
 Fortitude then stood steadfast in his might 39 
 Fortune, men say, doth give too much to 
 
 many 151 
 
 Friend of my soul ! this goblet sip 1282 
 
 Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me 
 
 your ears 187 
 
 Friendship, like love, is but a name 801 
 
 From an extempore prayer and a godly 
 
 ditty 735 
 
 From Ashur's vales when proud Sennache- 
 rib trod 1092 
 
 From depth of doole wherein my soule doth 
 
 dwell 106 
 
 From frozen climes, and endless tracts of 
 
 snow 789 
 
 From fruitful beds and flowery borders ... 558 
 
 From Oberon in fairy land 510 
 
 From Pembroke's princely dome, where 
 
 mimic art 968 
 
 From that rich valley, where the angels 
 
 laidhim 491 
 
 From Tuskane came my ladies worthy race 69 
 Full of the art of brewing beer 1151 
 
 G. 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed 1680 
 
 Gane were but the winter cauld 1620 
 
 Gather ye rose-buds, while ye may 343 
 
 Genius of the forest shades 1128 
 
 Gentle nymphs, be not refusing 289 
 
 Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a 
 
 rhyme 1137 
 
 Gentlest girl 1731 
 
 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming 
 
 mom 351 
 
 Give mo more love, or more disdain 262 
 
 Gloomy winter's now awa' 1602 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 HO. OF POEM. 
 
 Go, blushing flow'r ! 1808 
 
 Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine 1577 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 591 
 
 Go, my Willy, get thee gone 276 
 
 Go, seek in the wild glen 1626 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest 119 
 
 Go to your bosom 205 
 
 Go where glory waits thee 1283 
 
 Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 1118 
 
 God hath a thousand hand^s to chastise ... 40 
 God sendeth and giveth both mouth and 
 
 meat 86 
 
 God, who the universe doth hold 499 
 
 Golden slumbers kiss your eyes 434 
 
 Good husbandmen must moil and toil 81 
 
 Good huswife provides, ere a sickness do 
 
 come 8o 
 
 Good-morrow to thy sable beak 1471 
 
 Good muse, rock me asleep 118 
 
 Good name in man and woman, dear, my 
 
 Lord 208 
 
 Good-night, and joy be wi' ye a' 1611 
 
 Gr-r-r — there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 1787 
 Great God, whose sceptre rules the earth... 676 
 Great Strafford, worthy of that name, 
 
 though all 577 
 
 Green Httle vaulter in the sunny grass 1399 
 
 Grieve not, fond man, nor let one tear 468 
 
 H. 
 
 Had Cain been Scot, God would have 
 
 changed his doom 377 
 
 Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 1350 
 
 Hail, beauteous Dian, queen of shades 472 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 962 
 
 Hail, Bishop Valentine ! whose day this is 227 
 
 Hail, gentle stream ! for ever dear 1607 
 
 Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven, 
 
 firstborn 623 
 
 Hail, mildly pleasing solitude 877 
 
 Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good 553 
 
 Hail, progeny divine ! 1063 
 
 Hail thou, my native soil ' thou blessed 
 
 plot .: 291 
 
 Hail to the Lord's anointed 1392 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 1361 
 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be... 1617 
 
 Happy insect, what can be 542 
 
 Happy the man who his whole time doth 
 
 bound 545 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 782 
 
 Happy those early days, when 1 564 
 
 Hark! ah, the Nightingale ! 1760 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the clash and clang 1236 
 
 Hark ! now everything is still 448 
 
 Hark ! the cock crows, and yon bright 
 
 star 646 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder 
 
 bridge 1084 
 
 Harp of Zion, pure and holy 1474 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning 
 
 star 1504 
 
 Haunts of my youth ! 1101 
 
 Having this day my horse, my hand, my 
 
 lance 107 
 
 Haymakei's, rakers, reapers, and mowers... 457 
 
 He comes ; thy God.. Israel, comes 1062 
 
 He ended ; and the Archangel soon drew 
 
 nigh 632 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 1323 
 
 NO. or POEM. 
 
 He, o'er his sceptre bowing, rose 630 
 
 He raised the golden cup from the board 1468 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 264 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his 
 
 mind 138 
 
 He was bot twintie yeiris of age 60 
 
 He's not the happy man to~ whrrm-^is 
 
 given 878 
 
 Hear me, God ! 246 
 
 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain 1028 
 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell 1508 
 
 Hear ye, ladies that despise 217 
 
 Heart-tearing cai-es and quiv' ring fears ... 115 
 Heaven doth with us as we with torches do 204 
 Heaven hath its crown of stars, the Earth 1754 
 
 Heaven's verge extreme 1300 
 
 Hence all you vain delights 215 
 
 Hence, heart, with her that must depart... 386 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy 603 
 
 Hence, vain deluding joys 604 
 
 Hengist that day did his might 14 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold 1348 
 Her cell was hewn out in the marble rock. 335 
 Her dainty hand nestled in mine, rich and 
 
 white 1747 
 
 Her form was as the morning's blithesome 
 
 star 1629 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 1140 
 Here did presumption her pavilion spread 311 
 
 Here, stranger, in this humble nest 554 
 
 Hei-e the lank-sided miser, worst of felons 844 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa' 1590 
 
 Hey, now the day 's dawning 390 
 
 High in the airy element there hung 310 
 
 High mounted on an ebon throne on which 581 
 
 High peace to the soul of the dead 1540 
 
 High thoughts ! 1642 
 
 Higher, higher, will we climb 1386 
 
 His golden locks time hath to silver turned 411 
 
 His tawny beard was th' equal grace 639 
 
 Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin... 1762 
 
 Ho, sailor of the sea ! 1671 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead 1705 
 
 Hope ! of all ills that men endure 544 
 
 Hope ! whose weak being ruin'd is 543 
 
 Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air 416 
 Household treasures, household treasures 1815 
 
 How are Thy servants blest, Lord ! 768 
 
 How beautiful is night ! 1213 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what joys 
 
 have I known 1034 
 
 How blest the man who, in these peaceful 
 
 plains 960 
 
 How calmly, gliding through the dark blue 
 
 sky ... 1214 
 
 How cheerfully th' unpartiall sunne 327 
 
 How custom steels the human breast 1020 
 
 How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, 
 
 deep , 1160 
 
 How delicious is the winning 1302 
 
 How fair is the rose ! what a beautiful 
 
 flower 850 
 
 How fine has the day been, how bright 
 
 was the sun 851 
 
 How fond are men of rule and place 794 
 
 How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean... 304 
 
 How gaily is at first begun 818 
 
 How happy is he born and taught 160 
 
 How long must women wish in vain 700 
 
 How lovely is this wilder'd scene 1616 
 
 How many summers, love 1687 
 
 How many thousand of my poorest subjects 174 
 How miserable a thing is a great man 695 
 
Uv 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 JTO. OF POBM. 
 
 How mournfully this burial-ground 1423 
 
 How near am I now to a happiness 452 
 
 How pleasant came thy rushing, silver 
 
 Tweed! 1156 
 
 How shall I meet thee, summer, wont to fill 1257 
 How shocking must thy summons be, 
 
 Death! 845 
 
 How short is life's uncertain space ! 1017 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 888 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
 
 youth 612 
 
 How soothing is that sound of far-oft wheels 1735 
 
 How sweet the answer echo makes 1291 
 
 How sweet the harmonies of Afternoon ! ... 1806 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this 
 
 bank 167 
 
 How sweet thy modest light to view 1134 
 
 How sweetly doth My Master sound ! — My 
 
 Master 305 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze 633 
 
 How wither'd, perish'd seems the form ... 1122 
 How wonderful is Death 1359 
 
 I. 
 
 I am all alone ! and the visions that play... 1527 
 I am an Englishman, and naked I stand 
 
 here 80 
 
 I am as I am, and so will I be 74 
 
 I am content, I do not care 1056 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee 1362 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 
 
 flowers 1360 
 
 I cannot change as others do 655 
 
 I chanced, my dear, to come upon a day... 489 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hern 1703 
 
 I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long ... 1438 
 
 I disdain all pomp when thou ai-t by 693 
 
 I do not love thee for that fair 261 
 
 I envy not in any moods 1706 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maid 1363 
 
 I had a vision : evening sat in gold 1543 
 
 I hate that drum's discordant sound 1019 
 
 I hate the man who builds his name 800 
 
 I hate these potent madmen, who keep all 699 
 1 have a son, a little son, a boy just five 
 
 years old 1801 
 
 I have an eye for her that's fair 706 
 
 I have been in love, and in debt, and in 
 
 drink 382 
 
 I have been studying how to compare 171 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had com- 
 panions 1230 
 
 '* I have no hopes," the duke he says, and 
 
 dies 762 
 
 I have no muses that will serve the turn ... 280 
 
 I hear theespeak of the better land 1445 
 
 I heard a sick man's dying sigh 1709 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 1211 
 
 I hold as faith 712 
 
 I know not that the men of old 1718 
 
 I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus ... 186 
 
 I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste 838 
 
 I lent my gossop my meir to fetch hame 
 
 coals 59 
 
 I'll not such favour to rebellion show 698 
 
 I look'd upon his brow— no sign 1461 
 
 I love (and have some cause to love) the 
 
 earth 295 
 
 I love, and he loves me again 243 
 
 I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare 1720 
 
 wo. OF POKM. 
 
 I love my king and country well 733 
 
 I loved him as young Genius loves 1460 
 
 I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone... 1272 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land 1370 
 
 I met four chaps yon birks amang 1610 
 
 I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes 
 
 would read 140 
 
 I must not say that thou wert true 1761 
 
 I never hear the sound of thy glad bells ... 1258 
 
 I n ever loved ambitiously to climb 443 
 
 I never sawe my Ladye laye apart 71 
 
 I own I like not Johnson's turgid style 1148 
 
 I pity, from my soul, unhapp}- men 651 
 
 I pray thee, cease thy counsel 168 
 
 I pray thee, love, love me no more 145 
 
 I prithee leave this peevish fashion 383 
 
 I prith ee send me back my heart 332 
 
 I remember, I remember 1491 
 
 I remember well one svimmei-'s night 1728 
 
 I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest... 1126 
 I sail'd from the Downs in the " Nancy"... 1136 
 
 I saw him last on this terrace proud 1 420 
 
 I saw where in the shroud did lurk 1231 
 
 I sing the name which none can say 298 
 
 I sought Thee round about, Thou my 
 
 God! 476 
 
 I sowed the seeds of love, it was all in the 
 
 spring 671 
 
 I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes 396 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been 330 
 
 I then did use the person of your father ... 176 
 
 I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God 1068 
 
 I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, 
 
 and say 1260 
 
 I've a letter from thy sire 1742 
 
 I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray 1294 
 
 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking 1048 
 
 I've often wished that I had clear 777 
 
 I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud 299 
 
 I've seen the smiling 1049 
 
 I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West ... 1()31 
 
 I wander'd by the brook-side 1717 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 1207 
 
 I was a scholar : seven useful springs 466 
 
 I went fi'om England into France 252 
 
 I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat 1594 
 I will go back to th^ great sweet mother ... 1833 
 
 I will not have the mad Clytie 1487 
 
 I wish I had a cottage snug and neat 1628 
 
 I wish I was where Anna lies 1141 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies 1606 
 
 I wot not how the world's degenerate 250 
 
 If all the world and love were young 114 
 
 If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song ... 889 
 If dumb too long, the drooping muse hath 
 
 stay'd 785 
 
 If heaven the grateful liberty would give... 678 
 
 If I could but attain my wish ._ 709 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died ... 1563 
 If I live to grow old, for I find I go down 686 
 
 If in that breast, so good, so pure 983 
 
 If she doth then the subtle sense excel ... 223 
 
 If the quick spirits in your eye 263 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice ur 
 
 chance 1183 
 
 If thou wert by my side, my love 1378 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright ... 1314 
 
 If we no old historian's name 384 
 
 If we, O Dorset ! quit the city throng 790 
 
 If you become a nun, dear 1401 
 
 Illustrious England, ancient seat of kings 412 
 Image of her whom I love more than she 234 
 Imperial bird, who wont to .soar 996 
 
NO. OF POEM. 
 
 In a croniquethus I rede 29 
 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene 549 
 
 In a dream of the night I was wafted 
 
 away 1652 
 
 In a howm whose bonny buniie 1595 
 
 In a maiden time professed 450 
 
 In a melancholy study 257 
 
 In ancient times, as story tells 778 
 
 In Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight 744 
 
 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days 808 
 
 In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame 659 
 In eddying course when leaves began to 
 
 fly , 1520 
 
 In going to my naked bed, as one that 
 
 would have slept 91 
 
 In haste he sent to gather fresh recruits ... ]828 
 
 In heaven, one holiday, you read . . 751 
 
 In martial sports I had my cunning tried... 107 
 
 In May as that Aurora did upspring 51 
 
 In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 1234 
 In pride of wit, with high desire of fame... 147 
 
 In Rome no temple was so low ...,,..,. 644 
 
 In search of things that secret are my 
 
 mated muse began 93 
 
 In such a night, when every louder wind... 817 
 
 In sullen humour one day Jove 753 
 
 In summer time, when leaves grow green 53^6 
 
 In summer when the shawes be shene 516 
 
 In sunlight and in shade , 1514 
 
 In the days o' langsyne when we carles 
 
 were young- 1646 
 
 In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower... 1685 
 
 In the merry month of June 728 
 
 In the Parliament House, a great rout has 
 
 been there 715 
 
 In the summer time, when leaves grow 
 
 green..- 520 
 
 In those low paths which poverty sur- 
 rounds 1412 
 
 In vain you tell your parting lover 748 
 
 la Ver, that full of virtue is and good 41 
 
 In walks of humour, in that cast of style 954 
 
 I:, what torn ship soever I embark 229 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 1509 
 
 In yonder brake there is a nest 1267 
 
 In yonder grave a Druid lies 892 
 
 r the thrang of stories tellin' 1593 
 
 Interr'd beneath this marble stone 761 
 
 Interval of grateful shade 1059 
 
 Invidious grave ! how dost thou rend in 
 
 sunder '. 843 
 
 Inhigenia, when she heard her doom 1275 
 
 Is chance a guilt, that my disastrous heart 840 
 Is it come ? they said, on the banks of the 
 
 Nile 1782 
 
 "Is there no hope ?" the sick man said ... 797 
 
 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream 1044 
 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me ... 185 
 
 Is this a time to plant and build 1798 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas 530 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ... 1209 
 
 It is a place where poets crown'd 1558 
 
 It is an ancient mariner ,,. 1503 
 
 It is not that I love you less 601 
 
 It is the midnight hour : the beauteous 
 
 sea 1424 
 
 It is written on the rose 1444 
 
 It standeth so ; a deed is do' 94 
 
 It was a beauteous lady richly dress'd 1714 
 
 It was a dreary place. The shallow brook 1674 
 
 It was a friar of orders gi-ay 938 
 
 It was a summer evening 1219 
 
 It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood ... 1432 
 
 vo. or POEM 
 
 It was near a thicky shade 423 
 
 It was not by vile loitering in ease 875 
 
 It was not in the winter 1485 
 
 It was the calm and silent night ! 1792 
 
 It was the time when 'gainst the breaking 
 
 day 149 
 
 It was the time when the still moon ....^^ 548 
 
 It was the winter wild 606 
 
 It was when from Spain across the Main 
 
 the Cid had come to Rome 1524 
 
 Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier 1043 
 
 Jesu, Lover of my soul 1066 
 
 Jesus, thy Blood and Righteousness , 1069 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John 1589 
 
 John Bull for pastime took a prance 1139 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 1087 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us 1788 
 
 Justice gives sentence many times 641 
 
 K. 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Glen- 
 
 iffer 1599 
 
 King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 1670 
 
 Know this, my brethz-en, heaven is clear ... 737 
 Knowledge's next organ is imagination ... 155 
 
 Ladies, though to your conquering eyes ... 701 
 Lady Alice was sitting in her bower 
 
 window 723 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed 05 
 
 Land of my fathers ! though no mangrove 
 
 here 1135 
 
 Langsyne ! how doth the word come back 1535 
 
 Lately on yonder swelling bush 589 
 
 Launch thy bark, mariner! 1533 
 
 Lead the black bull to slaughter, with the 
 
 boar 265 
 
 Lessons sweet of Spring returning 1795 
 
 Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain 258 
 
 Let God, the God of battle, rise 479 
 
 Let long-lived pansies here their scents 
 
 bestow 975 
 
 Let me speak, sir 183 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue 793 
 
 Let observation, with extensive view 885 
 
 Let others sing of knights and paladins . . . 164 
 Let their vile cunning in their limits pent . 136 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go 1598 
 
 Like as the culver, on the bared bough ... 134 
 
 Like as the damask rose you see 501 
 
 Like some vision olden 1462 
 
 Like the low murmur of the secret stream 1519 
 
 Like the violet, which alone 322 
 
 Like to a light fast lock'd in lanthom dark 574 
 
 Like to Diana in her summer weed 420 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere 428 
 
 Like to the falling of a star 255 
 
 Lips, lips, open ! 1837 
 
 Lithe and listen, gentlemen 537 
 
 Lithe and lysteu, genty Imen 521 
 
 Little streams are light and shadow 1656 
 
M 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF PO EM 
 
 liO ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps 1299 
 Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering 
 
 light 1171 
 
 Lo ! now on earth is he 8 
 
 Lo what is it to luve 387 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 911 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 1303 
 
 Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wail- 
 ing I'ound him 1465 
 
 Long he wooed a maid all innocence and 
 
 truth 1518 
 
 Long in thy shackles, liberty 354 
 
 Long of yore, on the mountain, the voice 1830 
 Look back ! a thought which borders on 
 
 despair 952 
 
 Look, how the flower which ling'ringly 
 
 doth fade 364 
 
 Look, how the industrious bee in fragrant 
 
 May 492 
 
 Look on these waters with how solt a kiss 1545 
 Look once more ere we leave this specular 
 
 mount 6T8 
 
 Lookout, bright eyes, and bless the air !... 216 
 
 Look up to Pentland's towering toj) 826 
 
 Look what immortal floods the sunset poui-s 1683 
 
 Look where my dear Hamilla smiles 1030 
 
 Ldose every sail to the breeze 1040 
 
 Lord! as the hart embost with heat 478 
 
 Lord, how long, how long wilt thou 500 
 
 Lord, should the sun, the clouds, the wind 284 
 
 Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 349 
 
 Lord, to Thee while I am living 498 
 
 Lord Beichan was a noble lord 533 
 
 Lord Ronald coui'ted Lady Clare 1707 
 
 Love divine, all love excelling 1072 
 
 Love in fantastic triumph sat 705 
 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee 429 
 
 Love is by fancy led about 837 
 
 Love is like a lamb and love is like a lion... 451 
 Love is the happy privilege of the mind ... 1672 
 
 Love is too great a happiness 644 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds 108 
 
 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's 
 
 soul 385 
 
 Love not ! love not ! ye hapless sons of 
 
 clay! 1715 
 
 Love still has something of the sea 668 
 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 1489 
 
 Love's heralds should be thoughts 201 
 
 Lovely Devonia ! land of flowers and songs ! 1513 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind 810 
 
 Low in a glen 1163 
 
 Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees 869 
 
 Lullaby^lullaby, baby dear ! 1772 
 
 Lyth and lysten, gentyll men 523 
 
 M. 
 
 Magnificence of ruin ! what has time 1539 
 
 Magnificent creature ! so stately and 
 
 bright! 1427 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part 1338 
 
 Man ! foolish man ! 747 
 
 Man 's a poor deluded bubble [ 1001 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale I ... 1321 
 
 Margarita first possest 541 
 
 Mark the soft-falling snow 1058 
 
 Martial the things that do attain fit? 
 
 May the Babylonish curse 1 229 
 
 Meantime, the moist malignity to shun ... 925 
 Meanwhile, the adversary of God and man 622 
 
 KO. OF POEM. 
 
 Melancholy, hence, and get 379 
 
 Melpomene, the muse of tragic songs 409 
 
 Merry it was in the green forest.... 514 
 
 Merry Margaret 63 
 
 Methinks I can remember when a shade ... 1726 
 Methinks I could have bome to live my 
 
 days 1730 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here 1383 
 
 Meth ought I heard a butterfly 1269 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint... 614r 
 
 'Mid the cloud-enshi-ouded haze 1835 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! ... 1165 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this 
 
 hour 1189 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill 1185 
 
 Mistress Matrossa hopes to be a lady 508 
 
 Mona on Snowdon calls 913 
 
 Monkey, little merry fellow 1655 
 
 Morn on the waters ! and purple and bright 1525 
 Morpheus, the humble god, that dwells ... 578 
 Most earnest was his voice ! most mild his 
 
 look 1157 
 
 Mother of Wisdom ! thou whose sway 914 
 
 " Mother, the storm, how it shrieks 
 
 without!" 1770 
 
 Mother's wag, pretty boy 422 
 
 Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 923 
 
 Mournfully! O mournfully 1635 
 
 Muses, that sing Love's sensual empiric ... 485 
 
 My boat is on the shore 1337 
 
 My brier that smelledst sweet 1273 
 
 My brother Jack was nine in May 1415 
 
 My Daphne's hair is twisted gold 407 
 
 My days among the dead are passed 1220 
 
 My days have been so wondrous free 811 
 
 My dear mistress has a heart 657 
 
 My earl}'^ love, and must we part ? 1529 
 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rin|;s ! they've dropfc 
 
 into the well 1523 
 
 My father was an a\ild man and an hoar ... 58 
 
 My God, I heard this day 309 
 
 My God, now I from sleep awake 821 
 
 My God, Thy service well demands 1061 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
 
 pains 1822 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 1192 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 
 
 not here 1580 
 
 My held is like to rend, Willie 1638 
 
 My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye 438 
 
 My liege, I did deny no prisoners 172 
 
 My loved, my honour' d, much-respected 
 
 friend! 1592 
 
 My lute, awake ! perform the last 72 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst 
 
 grow 362 
 
 My own dear country ! thy remembrance 
 
 comes 1736 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep- 
 hook 1051 
 
 My song hath closed, the holy dream 1477 
 
 My soul, there is a country 559 
 
 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent... 1057 
 My untried Muse shall no high tone assume 1125 
 
 X. 
 
 Napoleon's banners at Boulogne 1311 
 
 Needy knife-grinder ! whither are you 
 
 going? 1144 
 
 Never any more 1786 
 
THE FIRST LINES OP THE POEMS. 
 
 Ivl 
 
 KO. OP POEM. 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in nougat allied... 1174 
 
 Night is the time for rest 138i 
 
 Night ! thou foul mother of annoyance 
 
 sad 131 
 
 No cloud, no relict of the sunken day 1506 
 
 No jewell'd beauty is my love 1746 
 
 No, my fair cousin 179 
 
 No plate had John and Joan to hoard 1004 
 
 No seas again shall sever 1780 
 
 No season this for counsel or delay ! 947 
 
 No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but 
 
 all 624 
 
 No s||r in the air, no stir in the sea 1224 
 
 Noble the mountain stream 1453 
 
 Nobles and heralds, by your leave 759 
 
 Noe monument of me remaine 325 
 
 Nor rm-al sights alone, but rural sounds... 1079 
 North-east, not far from this great pool, 
 
 there lies 282 
 
 North winds send hail, south winds bring 
 
 rain 87 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a fimeral note 1562 
 Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me 
 
 was stirr'd 1458 
 
 Not caring to observe the wind 600 
 
 Not in the swaying of the summer trees ... 1758 
 
 Not ours the vows of such as plight 1456 
 
 Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or 
 
 pride 482 
 
 Not unremember'd is the hour when 
 
 friends 1434 
 
 Nothing did make me, when I loved them 
 
 ^best 437 
 
 Nothing is to man so dear 15 
 
 Nothing so true as what you once let fall... 778 
 Nought is there under heaven's wide hol- 
 lo wness 125 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight 
 
 ^gray 629 
 
 Now dawns the morn, and on Mount Olivet 980 
 Now fai-e thee well, England : no further I'll 
 
 roam 1127 
 
 Now, from his eastern couch, the sun 1737 
 
 Now, gentle sleep hath closed up those 
 
 eyes 272 
 
 Now, glory to our England 1752 
 
 Now, glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 
 
 whom all glories are 1565 
 
 Now, golden Autumn from her open lap... 806 
 Now great Hyperion left his golden throne 287 
 Now, hardly here and there a hackney 
 
 coach 771 
 
 Now, 'mid the general glow of opening 
 
 blooms 1162 
 
 Now morn her rosy steps in th' eastern 
 
 clime 628 
 
 Now morn, with rosy-coloured finger, raised 979 
 Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile ... 191 
 
 Now, m}^ fairest friend 169 
 
 No w our work 's done, thus we feast 726 
 
 Now, sober industry, illustrious power ! ... 959 
 Now that the winter 's gone, the earth hath 
 
 lost 267 
 
 Now the bright morning star, day's har- 
 binger 610 
 
 Now the golden morn aloft 912 
 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the 
 
 Persian throne was done 1802 
 
 Now to thy silent presence. Night ! 1675 | 
 
 Now westward Sol had spent the richest 
 
 beams 300 
 
 Now what is love I will thee tell 470 
 
 Nowe is the knyght went on his way 522 
 
 O } 
 
 NO. OP POEM. \ 
 
 ■ 0! Arr^nm ore, loved An-anmore 1289 
 
 • O beauteous God ! uncircumscribed treasure 555 
 
 O blithe new comer ! Ihaveheax'd 1202 
 
 O Brignall banks are wild and fair .T...,— . 1326 
 
 come away 557 
 
 O cruel love, on thee I lay 406 
 
 day most calm, most bright 302 
 
 O did you ever hear of the brave Earl 
 
 Brand 1521 
 
 faithful love, by poverty embraced ! 054 
 
 .for a lodge in some vast wilderness 1 786 
 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain 1 4^4 
 
 O gentle love, ungentle for thy deed JO 
 
 O give me, kind Bacchus, thou God of the 
 
 vine 835 
 
 happy, if ye knew your happy state 807 
 
 O happy persecution, I embrace thee 453 
 
 happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear 107 
 O hard condition, and twin-bom with great- 
 ness 196 
 
 O Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity 237 
 
 O ignorant poor man ! what dost thou bear 226 
 
 O lady, leave thy silken thread 1499 
 
 O, let us howl some heavy note 447 
 
 listen, listen, ladies gay! 1331 
 
 O Lord ! another day is flown 1168 
 
 O Lord, my God, in mercy turn 1172 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see 1329 
 
 Mary, go and call the cattle home 1799 
 
 O Memory ! celestial maid 1 895 
 
 0, my heart, my heart is sick awishing and 
 
 awaiting 1832 
 
 0, my luve's like a red, red rose 1584 
 
 O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me 937 
 
 nightingale, best poet of the grove 876 
 
 nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray,, 611 
 
 parent of each lovely muse ! 974 
 
 perfect light, which shed away 391 
 
 O saw ye bonnieLeshe 1585 
 
 saw ye not fair Ines ? 1492 
 
 O say not that my heart is cold 1564 
 
 Osay ! what is that thing call'd light 1033 
 
 O! sing unto my roundelay 944 
 
 O Solitude, I'omantic maid ! 1015 
 
 O sun ! thou o'er Athenian towers 998 
 
 O talk not to me of a name great in story , 1352 
 
 O the broom, the yellow broom 1657 
 
 O, the month of May, the merry month of 
 
 May 432 
 
 thou great Power ! in whom we move ... 161 
 
 thou, that sitt'st upon a throne 994 
 
 O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd 620 
 
 thou, the friend of man assign'd 887 
 
 thou, the nymph with placid eye 1 1]06 
 
 O Thou, to whose all- searching sight 1071 
 
 thou vast ocean ! ever-sounding sea ! 1673 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to 
 
 lay 1238 
 
 tuneful voice ! I still deplore 1113 
 
 Tweed ! a stranger, that with wandering 
 
 feet 1248 
 
 wha will shoe my bonny foot ? 539 
 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 1825 
 
 when did baby come 1827 
 
 0! where do fairies hide their heads 1502 
 
 O ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph 
 
 from the North 1507 
 
 wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's 
 
 being 1372 
 
 O Willie 's large o' limb and lith 515 
 
Iviii 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 UO. or POEM. 
 
 ye wild groves, where is now your 
 
 bloom ? 990 
 
 O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren 
 
 and bare 1023 
 
 O'er the gay vessel, and her daring band... 945 
 O'er the level plain, where mountains greet 
 
 me as I go 1814 
 
 O'er winter's long unclement sway 834 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 1583 
 
 Of all deeds yet this strikes the deepest 
 
 wound , . , 454 
 
 Of all the cities in Romanian lands 664 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 1035 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign ... 107 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 1561 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares 683 
 
 Of comfort no man speak 170 
 
 Of Isi-ael's sweetest singer now I sing 415 
 
 Of Jupiter thus I find y-writ. 31 
 
 Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair . 784 
 
 Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 619 
 
 OfNelson and the North 1306 
 
 Of old, when ScaiTon his companions invited 917 
 
 Of these the false Acbitophel was first 662 
 
 Of time and nature eldest born 977 
 
 Oft am I by the women told 542 
 
 Oft has it been my lot to mark ... 1016 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 1292 
 
 Oft I've implored the gods in vain 987 
 
 Oft that wild untutor'd race would draw... 1295 
 
 Oh ! a dainty plant is the ivy green .. 1818 
 
 Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of 
 
 pride 1725 
 
 Oil ! breathe not his name ! let it sleep in 
 
 the shade 1287 
 
 Oh! call my brother back to me ! 1448 
 
 Oh, come you from the Indies, and, soldier, 
 
 • can you tell 1776 
 
 Oh ! do not wrong my honest simple truth 212 
 
 Oh, don't go in to-night, John ! 1778 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou never shai-ed my fate 1500 
 
 Oh ho w this spring of love resembleth 201 
 
 Oh ! I shall not forget, until memory depart 1457 
 
 Oh, lay thy hand in mine, dear ! 1756 
 
 Oh Lord, in sickness and in health ,.,. 1261 
 
 Oh, Mary, at thy window be 1578 
 
 Oh ! my black soul, now thou art sum- 
 moned 235 
 
 Oh ! my golden days of childhood 1810 
 
 Oh! my love's a winsome lady 1749 
 
 Oh ! my love's like the steadfast sun 1622 
 
 Oh, never talk again to me 1339 
 
 Oh, reader ! hast thou ever stood to see . . . 1215 
 
 Oh, sunny curls ! oh eyes of blue !... 1771 
 
 Oh that the chemist's magic art 1188 
 
 Oh that those lips had language ! Life has 
 
 pass'd 1081 
 
 Oh the bells ' the morning bells ! 1805 
 
 Oh the pleasant days of old, which so often 
 
 people praise ! , 1783 
 
 Oh! the sad day.. !!!.!!!!!!!!!. 674 
 
 Oh those little, those little blue shoes I!!!!! 1767 
 
 Oh, thou conqueror 214 
 
 Oh twilight ! Spirit that doth render birth 1710 
 
 Oh ! weep not that our beauty wears 1 483 
 
 Oh! well may the poets make a fuss '. 1484 
 
 Oh ! what is this which shines so bright.... 1270 
 
 Oh! when 'tis summer weather 1241 
 
 Oh ! who hath tasted of Thy clemency..,.. 477 
 
 Oh! why left I my hame ? 1647 
 
 Oh, young Lochiuvar is come out of the 
 
 west , 1317 
 
 Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons 722 
 
 i NO. OP POEM. 
 
 j On a hill there grows a flower 117 
 
 j On Carron' s side the primrose pale 935 
 
 I On either side is level fen, a prospect wild 
 
 i and wide 1176 
 
 [ On Jura's heath now sweetly swell 1132 
 
 : On Leven's banks, while free to rove 922 
 
 I On Linden, when the sun was low 1304 
 
 On parent knees, a naked new-bom child.. 1013 
 
 ! On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene 1055 
 
 I On sure foundations let your fabric rise ... 650 
 
 On that deep, retiring shore 1719 
 
 On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks af- 
 fright .^043 
 
 On Trinity Monday in the morn 95 
 
 On Wednesday the false Southron furth 
 
 brocht 47 
 
 On yonder hill a castle stands 535 
 
 Once in the flight of ages past 1387 
 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, 
 
 once more 178 
 
 Once on a time, a monarch, tired with 
 
 whooping 1150 
 
 One day, it matters not to know 1227 
 
 One kind wish before we part 1000 
 
 One kiss more, sweet! 1748 
 
 One more Unfortunate 1495 
 
 One word is too often profaned 1367 
 
 Open the door, some pity to show ! 1333 
 
 Open your ears : for which of you will stop 173 
 Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright 
 
 blades in our hand 1641 
 
 Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud 
 
 had lower'd 1308 
 
 Our life is twofold ; sleep hath its own 
 
 i world 1341 
 
 I Our native land — our native vale 1480 
 
 ; Our sighs were numerous, and profuse- our 
 
 j tears. ., '. 1433 
 
 I Our task is done ! — on Gunga's breast 1379 
 
 Out of her swoone when she did abbraide.. 36 
 Out of the west coast, a wench, as me- 
 
 thought ......,, 17 
 
 Out upon it, I have loved 331 
 
 Over hill, over dale 210 
 
 Over the mountains 534 
 
 Oxford and Cambridge shall agree 732 
 
 • P. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day 473 
 
 Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace 436 
 
 Patriots, alas ! the few that have been 
 
 found 1077 
 
 Peace, heaven-descended maid ! whose 
 
 powerful voice 993 
 
 Peace! what can tears avail ?... 1690 
 
 Phyllis ! why should we delay , 594 
 
 Pibroch ofDonuilDhu 1322 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot • 398 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! 1027 
 
 Placed, by false Manto, in a closet, which 584 
 
 Poor robin sits and sings alone 1268 
 
 Pope, to whose reed beneath the beechen 
 
 shade 904 
 
 Praise to God, immortal praise 1110 
 
 Pray thou thy days be long before thy 
 
 death 1834 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 1388 
 
 Prepare the hallow'd strain, my muse 764 
 
 Pretty firstling of the year ! ,.. 1678 
 
 Prince of the fallen ! around thee sweep... 1546 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 lix 
 
 wo. OF POKM. 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood 1330 
 
 Pursuing beauty, men descry 827 
 
 Put the broidery- frame away 15(50 
 
 Q. 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair 239 
 
 Quin, from afar, lured by the scent of fame 957 
 Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares 163 
 
 E. 
 
 Rarely, rarely, comest thou 1368 
 
 Reader, when these dumb stones have told 268 
 
 Reason thuswith life 189 
 
 Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae... 1618 
 
 Religion, thou life of life 120 
 
 Remember us poor Mayers all ! 727 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow 918 
 
 Render to Csesar things which Caesar's are 1817 
 
 Restless forms of living light 1572 
 
 Restrain your child ; you'll soon believe . . . 795 
 Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights 109 
 Rise, heart ! thy Lord is risen. Sing His 
 
 praise 307 
 
 Rise, lady ! Mistress, rise ! 488 
 
 Rise ! sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn 168-1 
 Rise, then, Aristo's son, assist my muse ... 575 
 
 Robene sat on gud grene hill 48 
 
 Rock of Ages, clef t for me 1074 
 
 Roses, in breathing forth their scent 566 
 
 Rosy child, with forehead fair 1712 
 
 '\ Ruin seize thee, ruthless king 909 
 
 S. 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going 1791 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! ... 1820 
 
 Satan harangued 3 
 
 Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain 
 
 thing 1597 
 
 Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours 
 
 away ? 905 
 
 Say, from what golden quivers of the sky 547 
 Say, lovely dream ! where couldst thou find 590 
 
 Say, mighty love, and teach my song 852 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth 1836 
 
 Say, why was man so eminently raised 901 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure 1604 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 1579 
 
 See, brother, how the wicked throng and 
 
 crowd 359 
 
 See, how fair Corinna lies 702 
 
 See, see ! 571 
 
 See ! stretch'd on nature's couch of grass 1005 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of love 245 
 
 See the star that leads the day 812 
 
 Seest thou how gaily my young master 
 
 goes 249 
 
 See st thou not, in clearest days 273 
 
 Set me whereas the sunne doth parche the ' 
 
 grene 70 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love 290 
 
 She comes adown the pale blue depths of 
 
 heaven 1811 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 1193 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing 1588 
 
 KG. OF FOBIC. 
 
 She loves, and she confesses too 552 
 
 She rose, and all enchanted gazed 1121 
 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh ... 1759 
 
 She stood breast-high amid the corn 1493 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 1353 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 1194 
 
 She's gane to dwell in heaven, my lassie .^. 1621 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot ...... ~. 1581 
 
 Silent nymph, with curious eye 880 
 
 Silent with passion, which his eyes in- 
 flamed 582 
 
 Silver Phoebe spreads 997 
 
 Since I did leave the presence of my love. . . 134 
 
 Since I in storms most used to be 563 
 
 Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 572 
 
 Sing forth, sweete cherubin (for we have 
 
 choice 317 
 
 . . . Sing, heavenly muse ! 666 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dis- 
 persing 1790 
 
 Sing to Apollo, god of day 408 
 
 Sir, I hate the countrie's durt and manners, 
 
 yet 324 
 
 Sit down, sad soul, and count 1695 
 
 Sitting by a river'sside 425 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 1131 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee 1398 
 
 Sleep, downy sleep, come close my eyes ... 675 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile 1184 
 
 Sleep on, baby, on the floor 1559 
 
 Sleep ! The ghostly winds are blowing !... 1689 
 
 Slowly, with measured tread 1532 
 
 So cruel prison how could betide, alas 64 
 
 So now is come our joyful' st feast 271 
 
 So on a time he desired to play 46 
 
 So on he fares, and to the border comes ... 625 
 
 So on he passed, till he comen hath 1032 
 
 So she rose, and went forth thro' the city... 1829 
 
 So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height 1094 
 
 Softly woo away her breath 1688 
 
 Some ask'd me where the rubies grew 347 
 
 Some men delight huge buildings to behold 489 
 
 Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love ... 861 
 Some of their chiefs were princes of the 
 
 land 663 
 
 Some wifis of the borowstoun 388 
 
 Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin' ... 1596 
 
 Soul, not yet from heaven beguiled 1773 
 
 Sound the fife, and cry the slogan 1663 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark 
 
 sea! 1290 
 
 Sow in the morn thy seed 1394 
 
 Speak, goddess ! since 'tis thou that best , 
 
 canst tell •;••• 786 
 
 Special Jurymen of England ! who admire 
 
 your country's laws 1763 
 
 Speech is morning to the mind 692 
 
 Spirit of light and life ! when battle rears 1482 
 Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my 
 
 side 235 
 
 Spite of his spite, which that in vain 397 
 
 Sporting through the forest wide 1659 
 
 Spring, the sweet spi'ing, is the year's 
 
 pleasant king 439 
 
 Staffa, I scaled thy summit hoar 1235 
 
 Stand and ad ore ! how glorious He 854 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee 1301 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake 1116 
 
 Stay, sweet ! and do not rise 233 
 
 Still Herald of the Morn ! whose ray 375 
 
 Still young and fine, but what is still in 
 
 view 562 
 
 Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies 1556 
 
Is 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 no. OF POEM. 
 
 Sublimer strains, rustic muse ! prepare 804 
 Such moving sounds from such a careless 
 
 touch ! 597 
 
 Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' tiame ! 596 
 Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows by- 
 giving 1233 
 
 Summer is i-cumen in ; 12 
 
 Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern 
 
 heaven 1065 
 
 Sure such a wretch as I was never bom ... 995 
 
 Sure the last end 848 
 
 Sure there are poets which did never dream 576 
 Sure thou didst flourish once, and many 
 
 springs 561 
 
 Sure 'tis a serious thing to die ! My soul 846 
 
 Sweet are the charms of her I love 836 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of con- 
 tent 421 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain 919 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early 
 
 hours 361 
 
 Sweet country life, to such unknown 345 
 
 Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire 1104 
 
 Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright 303 
 
 Sweet Echo ! sleeps thy vocal shell 1098 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st 
 
 unseen 608 
 
 Sweet flowers ! that from your humble beds 1143 
 
 Sweet Highland girl ! a very shower 1196 
 
 Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere 134 
 
 Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 1108 
 
 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my 
 
 sight 1012 
 
 Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! ... 1099 
 
 Sweet, solitary life ! lovely dumb joy 395 
 
 Sweet spirit of my love ! 1750 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy 
 
 goodly train 363 
 
 Sweetest Love, I do not go 232 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave 1365 
 
 T. 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds 
 
 dear 915 
 
 Take, oh ! take those lips away 219 
 
 Tasteful illumination of the night 1405 
 
 Tax not the royal saint with vain expense 1191 
 
 Tell me not of a face that's fair 381 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 353 
 
 Tell me, great all-knowing God ! 326 
 
 Tell me what is a poet's thought ? 1693 
 
 Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien 863 
 
 Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer 
 
 or fatter 920 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadfui'day'.'.'.".'.'.* 653 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day 1336 
 
 That house's form within was rude and 
 
 strong 129 
 
 That rock 's his haunt. There's not in all 
 
 our hills 1542 
 
 That sound bespeaks salvation on her way 1078 
 That thou wilt be pleased to grant our 
 
 requests ygg 
 
 That which her slender waist confined ......' 585 
 
 The air which thy smooth voice doth 
 
 break 567 
 
 The All-powerful bad 2 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 
 
 the fold 1343 
 
 Theautnrrin is old 1488 
 
 IfO. OF POKM. 
 
 The awful shadow of some unseen power... 1376 
 The barge she sat in like a burnish'd 
 
 throne '188 
 
 The beam-repelling mists arise 814 
 
 The bee is humming in the sun 1264 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of 
 
 time 857 
 
 The blessed Damozel lean'd out 1841 
 
 The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary 1637 
 
 The blushing rose and purple flower 464 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck 1442 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 1451 
 
 The bride cam' out o' the byre 1045 
 
 The Brutons thus departed hence, seven 
 
 kingdoms here begone 484 
 
 The budding floweret blushes at the light 941 
 
 The castle clock had toll'd midnight 124^ 
 
 The course of true love never did run 
 
 smooth 201 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day... 910 
 
 The cushat crouds, the corbie cries 389 
 
 The daisies peep from every field 1153 
 
 The day goeth down red darkling 1755 
 
 The day was spent, the moon shone bright 729 
 The dew is on the summer's greenest 
 
 grass 1645 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall 928 
 
 The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 1276 
 
 The emphatic speaker dearly loves to 
 
 oppose 1080 
 
 The farmer's life displays in every part ... 1123 
 
 The f eather'd songster chanticleer 943 
 
 The feeling is a nameless one 1528 
 
 The flower that smiles to-day 1376 
 
 The flowers the sultry summer kills 1406 
 
 The flowers were blooming fresh and fail-... 1816 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 1364 
 
 The fi'ost performs its secret ministry 1507 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately 
 
 wove 1100 
 
 The gates were then thrown open 1296 
 
 The gentle season of the year 502 
 
 The Gipsy race my pity rarely move 931 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 462 
 
 The god of love and benedicite 21 
 
 The golden sun that brings the day 506 
 
 The half -seen memories of childish days ... 1789 
 
 The harlot muse, so passing gay 950 
 
 The harp that once through Tara's halls ... 1285 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed 1319 
 
 The heavens on high perjietually do move 102 
 
 The hierarchy is out of date .' 739 
 
 The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled ... 965 
 The hour is come ! the hour is come ! 
 
 With voice 1664 
 
 The house's form within was rude and 
 
 strong 129 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !.., 1344 
 The king to Gondibex't is grown so kinde... 372] 
 
 The Kingwas on his throne 1356 
 
 The languid lady next appears in state ... 862 
 
 The lark has sung his carol in the sky 1181 
 
 The lark now leaves his watery nest 373 
 
 The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to 
 
 build 595 
 
 The last and greatest herald of heaven's 
 
 King 365 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor 825 
 
 The lift was clear, the mom serene 1608 
 
 The lives of frail men are compared by 
 
 the sages 649 
 
 The lopped trees in time may grow again... 110 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare 770 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 Ixi 
 
 NO. OF FO-RU. 
 
 The lovely purple of the noon's bestow- 
 ing • I'iG^ 
 
 The lovely young Lavinia once had friends S70 
 
 The mellow year is hasting to its close 1574 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn 1601 
 
 The moon had climb'd the highest hill 1046 
 
 The moon shines bright : — In such a night 
 
 as this \Q^ 
 
 The moon was a-waning -"^91^ 
 
 The morning hath not lost her virgin blush 579 
 
 The morning pearls 580 
 
 The Moslem spears were gleaming 14-10 
 
 The momitains high, whose lofty tops do 
 
 meet the haughty sky 92 
 
 The Muses are turn'd gossips ; they have 
 
 Ic^t 1107 
 
 The night-helm grew dusky 11 
 
 The north-east spends his rage ; he now 
 
 shut up 864 
 
 The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded 1312 
 
 The organ peals ; at once, as some vast wave 1549 
 
 The Percy out of Northumberland 528 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose 754 
 
 The proudest pitch of that victorious spirit 294 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strain'd 165 
 
 The rapid motion of the spheres 480 
 
 The readers and the hearers like my books 152 
 
 The room is old — the night is cold 1700 
 
 The roses grew so thickly 1809 
 
 The sable mantle of the silent night 288 
 
 The sails were f url'd ; with many a melting 
 
 close 1182 
 
 The sea ! the sea ! the open sea! 1681 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 
 
 power ! 1346 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 592 
 
 The season comes when first we met 1112 
 
 The sheep were in the fold at night 1265 
 
 The sheiyf dwelled in Nctyngharae 524 
 
 The silver moon at midnight cold and still 1129 
 
 The silver moon's enamour'd beam 1022 
 
 The sluggish morn as yet undress'd 378 
 
 The smiling morn, the breathing spring ... 899 
 
 The social laws from insult to protect 930 
 
 The soft green grass is growing 1812 
 
 The soote season, that bud and bloom foi-th 
 
 brings 67 
 
 The soul of man is larger than the sky 1570 
 
 The soule which doth with God unite 328 
 
 The spacious firmament on high 766 
 
 The spearmen heard the bugle sound 1395 
 
 The stars are shining overhead 1271 
 
 The stately homes of England 1436 
 
 The summer and autumn had been so wet 1225 
 The sun from the east tips the mountains 
 
 with gold 1037 
 
 The sun had set behind yon hills 725 
 
 The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben 
 
 Lomond 1600 
 
 The sun is swiftly mounted high 81 3 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear 1369 
 
 The sun rises bright in France 1627 
 
 The suii was sinking on the mountain zone 1550 
 The sun's bright orb, declining all serene 946 
 
 The thirsty earth soaks up the rain 542 
 
 The time so tranquil is and clear 892 
 
 The tongues of dying men 206 
 
 Ths topsails shiver in the wind 1038 
 
 The tree of deepest root is foimd 1026 
 
 The troops exulting sat in order round 783 
 
 The truest characters of ignorance 644 
 
 . . . The Turks had ought 583 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past 1082 
 
 NO. or POEir. 
 
 The voice of the morning is calling to 
 
 childhood 1698 
 
 The wanton troopers riding by 636 
 
 The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is 
 
 wailing 1373 
 
 The water ! the water ! 1634 
 
 The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn... rrr... -1334 
 
 The wind is up, the field is bare 939 
 
 The wind, the wandering wind 1450 
 
 The wisest of the wise 1277 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon 1190 
 
 The world is still deceived with ornament 190 
 The wrathfull winter prochinge on a pace 96 
 
 "Thee, Mary, with this ring i wed" 1003 
 
 Thee, senseless stock, because thou'rt 
 
 richly gilt 371 
 
 Thee will I love, my strength, my tower... 1070 
 Theirs is yon house that holds the parish 
 
 poor 1173 
 
 . . . their harboury was tane 49 
 
 Then came the jovial day, no streaks of 
 
 red 1124 
 
 Then clariouns and trumpets blew 61 
 
 Then died, lamented, in the strength of 
 
 life 1179 
 
 Then first came Henry, Duke of Bucking- 
 ham 98 
 
 Then Gudrun turned 1849 
 
 Then hear me, bounteous Heaven 687 
 
 Then may I trust her body with her mind 495 
 
 Then wisdom again 6 
 
 Ther is lyf withoute ony deth 16 
 
 There are noble heads bowed down and 
 
 pale 1697 
 
 There are twelve months in all the year ... 518 
 
 There be none of beauty's daughters 1340 
 
 There be those who sow beside 1455 
 
 There cam a bird out o' a bush 532 
 
 There cam a strange wight to our town-en' 1650 
 There came a man making his hasty moan 1404 
 
 There came three men out of the west 719 
 
 There did three knights come from the west 713 
 
 There dwells a people on the earth 507 
 
 There grew an aged tree on the green 127 
 
 There had not hero as yet ^ 1 
 
 There is a book, who runs may read 1796 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep 1385 
 
 There is a flower, a little flower 1391 
 
 There is a garden in her face 486 
 
 There is a gloomy gi-andeur in the sun 1544 
 
 There is a jewel which no Indian mine can 
 
 buy 504 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride... 1389 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods... 1347 
 There is a willow grows ascavmt the brook 199 
 
 There is an ancient man who dwells 1733 
 
 There is an old proverb which all the world 
 
 knows 742 
 
 There is continual spring and harvest there 132 
 
 There she sits in her Island home 1751 
 
 There the most dainty paradise on ground 133 
 
 There was a Cameronian cat 738 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night 1358 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream "^^^^ 
 
 There was an eye whose partial glance 1117 
 
 There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r 527 
 
 "There, win the cup, and you shall have 
 
 my girl 1777 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys 1741 
 
 There's a magical tie to the land of our 
 . home 1721 
 
Ixii 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 »0. OF POEM. 
 
 There's glory on thy mountains, proud 
 
 Bengal l;"*-^! 
 
 There's grandeur in this sounding storm 1018 
 
 There's music in the morning air 17* '1 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness 1753 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like 
 
 that it takes away 13/)o 
 
 These are great maxims, sir, it is confess'd 697 
 These, as they change. Almighty Father, 
 
 these 874 
 
 These thoughts, night ! are thine 855 
 
 They answer in a joint and corporate voice 197 
 They are all gone into the world of light... 560 
 
 They are flown 1515 
 
 They course the glass, and let it take 
 
 no rest 103 
 
 They grew in beauty, side by side 1439 
 
 They rose in freedom's rare sunrise 1745 
 
 They seized the keys, they patrolled the 
 
 street 1826 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die 1217 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flatt'ring say 266 
 
 Think not of the future, the prospect is 
 
 uncertain 1501 
 
 This battle fares like to the morning's war 180 
 
 . . . This gentleman and I 475 
 
 This Indian weed, now withered quite 711 
 
 This is her picture as she was 1842 
 
 This man of half a million 1216 
 
 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire ... 240 
 This only grant me, that my means may 
 
 " lie 540 
 
 This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd 
 
 Isle 202 
 
 This said, with hasty rage, he snatch'd . . . 640 
 This song 's of a beggar who long lost his 
 
 sight 714 
 
 This truth of old was sorrow's friend 942 
 
 This was the ruler of the land 1538 
 
 This wavering warld's wretchedness 52 
 
 This world is full of variance 26 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 1288 
 
 Those few pale autumn flowers 1530 
 
 Those whiter lilies which the early morn ... 368 
 Thou angel sent amongst us, sober Law ... 455 
 Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer 
 
 deplore thee 1381 
 
 Thou askest what has changed my heart... 1476 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin 
 
 leaves "... 369 
 
 Tliou earnest with kind looks, when on the 
 
 brink I059 
 
 Thou gallant court, to thee farewell ! 1 1'i 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf ! I486 
 
 Thou hast beauty bright and fair 1692 
 
 Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie 1625 
 Thouhiddenloveof God, whose height ... 1067 
 
 Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray 1587 
 
 Thou lone companion of the spectred 
 
 ^,^'S^^ [■ 1155 
 
 Thou maid of gentle light ! thy straw- wove 
 
 vest 1521 
 
 Thou mouldering mansion, whose embat- 
 tled side 1218 
 
 Thou spirit of the spangled night !......... ]il70 
 
 Thou still unravished brideof (juietuess !... 1823 
 Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved...... 1797 
 
 Thou, to whose eyes'l bend, at whose com- 
 mand ^fj5 
 
 Thou wealthy man of large possessions here 710 
 Though clouds obscured the morning hour 1142 
 Though frost and snow lock'd from mine 
 
 iro. OF POBlff. 
 
 Though grief and fondness in my breast 
 
 rebel - 884 
 
 Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd 
 
 decrees 1146 
 
 Thoughts! what are they? 672 
 
 Three days before my Mar^-'s death 1428 
 
 Three fishers went sailing out into the west 1800 
 Thi'ice happy he who by some shady grove 366 
 Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded 
 
 fame 903 
 
 Thrice, O thrice happy shepherd's life and 
 
 state! 314 
 
 Through a close lane as I pursued my jour- 
 ney 689 
 
 Through a fair forest as I went 505 
 
 Through the gaunt woods the winds are • 
 
 shrilling cold 1804 
 
 Through the hushed air the whit'ning 
 
 shower descends 873 
 
 Through winter streets to steer your course 
 
 aright 805 
 
 Thus Eve replied : *'0 thou for whom 627 
 
 Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 1169 
 
 Thus, having in few images exprest 156 
 
 Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of 
 
 care 775 
 
 Thus stood his mind when round him came 
 
 a cloud 1430 
 
 Thus were they fechtand in the pass 35 
 
 Thus when the plague, upborne on Belgian 
 
 air 1093 
 
 Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue 1603 
 
 Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows ... 1552 
 Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties 
 
 wear 200 
 
 Thy maid ! Ah ! find some nobler theme 551 
 Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought ... 1298 
 Thy wish was father, Harry, to that 
 
 thought 175 
 
 Th}' spirit, independence, let me share . . . 921 
 Till at the last, among the bowes glade ... 38 
 
 Timely blossom, infant fair 791 
 
 Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmj'- sleep ! 856 
 
 'Tis affection but dissembled 481 
 
 'Tis certain, that the modish passions 796 
 
 'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity 607 
 
 'Tis long ago — we have toil'd and traded... 1781 
 'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er moun- 
 tain and mere 1632 
 
 'Tis past ! no more the summer blooms!... 963 
 'Tis past : the iron north has spent his rage 961 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark 1573 
 
 'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze 1408 
 
 'Tis sweet to view from half- past five to six 1414 
 
 'Tis the first primrose ! see how meek 1266 
 
 'Tis the hourof even now 1459 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer 1278 
 
 To all you ladies now at land 680 
 
 To battle! To battle ! 1639 
 
 To be, or not to be, that is the question ... 184 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb ; 891 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent 1824 
 
 To pray to God continually 90 
 
 To speak of gifts and almos deeds 54 
 
 To take thy calling thankfully 83 
 
 To the brook and the willow that heard 
 
 him complain 830 
 
 To the deep woods 865 
 
 To the ocean now I fly 609 
 
 To the sound of timbrels sweet 1667 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 896 
 
 To view these walls each night I come 
 
 alone r. 708 
 
so. OF POEM. 
 
 To you, my purse, and to none other 
 
 wight 22 
 
 To-day Death seems to me an infant child 1843 
 Together will ye walk through long, long 
 
 streets 1426 
 
 To-morrow, Lord, is Thine 1060 
 
 Too late, alas ! I must confess 656 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 1694 
 
 Tread softly ! bow the head 1531 
 
 Treading the path to nobler ends 599 
 
 Treason doth never prosper; what's the 
 
 reason? 150 
 
 True Thomas lay on Huntley bank 531 
 
 Trusting in God with all her heart and 
 
 mind 1091 
 
 *' Turn, gentle hermit of the dale 916 
 
 Turn I my looks imto the skies 430 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won ... 661 
 
 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour 897 
 
 'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd 1446 
 
 'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold, 
 
 pale moon 1467 
 
 'Twas in the prime of summer time 1494 
 
 'Twas midnight — every mortal eye was 
 
 clo-sed 981 
 
 'Twas when the seas were roaring 803 
 
 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk- 
 
 tree was fa'in ., 1649 
 
 Twenty lost years have stolen their hours 
 
 away 1031 
 
 Twice has the sun commenced his annual 
 
 round 1164 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village 
 
 green 1180 
 
 Two boys, whose birth beyond all question 
 
 springs 958 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall 626 
 
 Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting 
 
 make 283 
 
 Two summers since I saw at Lammas 
 
 fiair 1175 
 
 U. 
 
 Under yonder beech tree, standing on the 
 
 green sward 1744 
 
 Underneath this myrtle shade 542 
 
 Underneath this sable herse 244 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers 
 
 burn 1297 
 
 Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care... 933 
 
 Upon a couch of silk and gold 1676 
 
 Upon a time a neighing steed 799 
 
 Upon the white sea-sand : 1784 
 
 Upon two stony tables, spread before 
 her 313 
 
 V. 
 
 Vain world, what is in thee ? 570 
 
 Vengeance will sit above our faults 236 
 
 Venomous thorns that are so sharp and 
 
 keen 75 
 
 Victorious men of earth no more 461 
 
 Virtue's branches wither, virtue pines 435 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame 781 
 
 Voice of summer, keen and shrill 1765 
 
 W. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time 128 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay 1332 
 
 Walking in a shady grove .t~" , — 445 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play 1 473 
 
 Wan wordy, crazy, dinsome thing 1054 
 
 Was not Christ ourSaviour 88 
 
 We are born ; we laugh ; we weep 1696 
 
 We are the sweet flowers 1400 
 
 We gather'd round the festive board 1723 
 
 We have been dwellers in a lovely land ... 1732 
 
 We have been friends together 1713 
 
 We love the king who loves the law 1083 
 
 We oft by lightning read in darkest 
 
 nights 696 
 
 We saw and woo'd each other's eyes 323 
 
 We that have known no greater state 474 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 1212 
 
 We watched her breathing thro' the night 1497 
 
 Weary of wand'ring from my God 1065 
 
 Weave no more the marriage chain ! 1691 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson- tippid flower 1575 
 
 Weep, weep, you Argonauts 467 
 
 Weep you no more, sad fountains 497 
 
 Weigh me the fire ; or, canst thou find 350 
 
 Welcome, pale primrose ! starting up be- 
 tween ; 1409 
 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, to this shady 
 
 green 463 
 
 Welcome, welcome, happy pair 376 
 
 Well, children of men 7 
 
 Well observe the rule of Not too much 631 
 
 Well said the wise man, now proved true 
 
 by this 126 
 
 Well, then ; I now do plainly see 546 
 
 Were I at once empower'd to show 951 
 
 Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin 
 
 keeks 1053 
 
 Whanne that April with his shoures sote . 19 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine? H03 
 
 What art thou. Mighty One ! and where 
 
 thy seat? 1166 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ! 1029 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail 405 
 
 What blessings attend, my dear mother, 
 
 all those 1025 
 
 What constitutes a state ? 1011 
 
 What creature 's that, with his short hairs 741 
 What heart can think, or tongue express . 400 
 What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and 
 
 cells 1437 
 
 What household thoughts around thee, as 
 
 their shrine 1447 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell 251 
 
 What ! irks it, David, that the victor 
 
 breathes 414 
 
 What is the existence of man's life 256 
 
 What is't to us if taxes rise or fall? 955 
 
 What lookest thou herein to have 82 
 
 What might be done if men were wise 1740 
 
 What pleasure, then, to walk and see 393 
 
 What slender youth, bedewed with liquid 
 
 odours 617 
 
 What stands upon the highland ? 1794 
 
 What stronger breastplate than a heart 
 
 untainted 207 
 
 What then is taste, but these internal 
 
 powers 902 
 
 What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled 1042 
 e 
 
Ixiv 
 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 What torments are allotted those sad 
 
 spirits 694 
 
 What tunes, what words, what looks, what 
 
 wonders pierce 418 
 
 What was 't awaken'd first the untried ear 1569 
 What will not men attempt for sacred 
 
 praise? 860 
 
 What wisdom m«re, what better life, than 
 
 pleasethGod to send 89 
 
 What would I have you do ? I'll teU you, 
 
 kinsman 247 
 
 What would it pleasure me to have my 
 
 throat cut 449 
 
 ^Vllat's hallowed ground ? Has earth a 
 
 clod 1309 
 
 Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel... 1149 
 When age hath made me what I am not 
 
 now 360 
 
 When all the fiercer passions cease 1178 
 
 When all thy mercies, my God 767 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command. 879 
 When by God's inward light a happy child 1422 
 
 When cbapman billies leave the street 1591 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high 637 
 
 When come was the month of May 30 
 
 When, cruel fair one, I am slain 565 
 
 When day is done, and clouds are low ...... 1547 
 
 When, doff' d his casque, he felt free air . . . 1316 
 When evening listen'd to the dripping oar 1240 
 When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and 
 
 fond 1731 
 
 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul 
 
 leave 556 
 
 When from my humble bed I rise 1262 
 
 When gods had framed the sweets of 
 
 woman's face 426 
 
 When homeward bands their several ways 
 
 disperse 1159 
 
 When hope lies dead within the heart 1115 
 
 When I beneath the cold red earth am 
 
 sleeping 1640 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent ... 613 
 When I first came to London, I rambled 
 
 about 816 
 
 When I go musing all alone 487 
 
 When m the crimson cloud of even 991« 
 
 When in the field of Mars we lie 746 
 
 When Israel of the Lord beloved 1324 
 
 When love with unconfined wings 355 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 1228 
 
 When marshall'd on the nightly plain 1167 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young ... 890 
 When now mature in classic knowledge ... 973 
 
 When on my sick bed I languish 673 
 
 When on the breath of autumn breeze ... 1660 
 
 When our heads are bow'd with woe 1668 
 
 When Phillis watched her harmless sleep . 703 
 When Phoebus lifts his head out of the 
 
 winter's wave 142 
 
 When poets wrote, and painters drew ...... 757 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 1325 
 
 When rising from the bed of death 769 
 
 When Robin Hood and Little John '. 525 
 
 When shaws be sheen, and swards full fair 519 
 
 When silent time wi' lightly foot 1102 
 
 When spring unlocks the flowers to paint 
 
 the laughingsoil 1382 
 
 When that the fields put on their gay attire 1008 
 When the black-letter* d list to the gods 
 
 was presented 139g 
 
 Wheu the fierce north wind, with his airy 
 
 forces 853 
 
 When the lamp is shatter'd 1366 
 
 • NO, OV POEM. 
 
 When the merry lark did gild 1686 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the . 
 
 kye at hame 1047 
 
 When this old cap was new 512 
 
 When thou has spent the hngring day in 
 
 pleasure and delight 105 
 
 When travels grete in matters thick 403 
 
 When we two parted 1342 
 
 When we were idlers with the loitering 
 
 rills 1571 
 
 When wert thou bom. Desire ? In pride 
 
 and pomp of May 494 
 
 When Windsor walls sustain'd my wearied 
 
 arm 68 
 
 Whence comes my love ? Oh, heart disclose ; 99 
 Whence could arise this mighty critic 
 
 spleen 953 
 
 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 1145 
 
 Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst en- 
 chantment 688 
 
 Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle ? 1619 
 
 Where is that learned wretch that knows . 483 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 1328 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there lurk 1 209 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 634 
 
 Where, where is the gate that once served 
 
 to divide 1722 
 
 Where words are weak and foes encoun- 
 
 t'ring strong 112 
 
 Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the 
 
 scene 1120 
 
 Whereas in ward fiill oft I would bewail ... 42 
 
 Where'er I turn my eyes 1036 
 
 Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets 1435 
 
 Whether the soul receives intelligence 137 
 
 While here my muse in discontent doth 
 
 sing 278 
 
 While in my matchless graces wrapt I 
 
 stand 978 
 
 While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer 588 
 
 While on those lovely looks I gaze 654 
 
 While St. Serf, in til a stead 45 
 
 While shepherds watched their flocks by 
 
 night 822 
 
 While slowly wanders thy sequester'd 
 
 stream 1247 
 
 While that the armed Hand doth fight 
 
 abroad 203 
 
 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand 587 
 While you, my lord, the rural shades 
 
 admire 765 
 
 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime ... 647 
 Whilst some afltect the sun, and some the 
 
 shade 842 
 
 Whither goest thou ? Here be woods as 
 
 green 213 
 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight ? 1793 
 
 Who has e'er been at Paris must needs 
 
 know the Gr^ve 756 
 
 Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly 
 
 fix'deyes 1226 
 
 Who should this stranger be ? And then 
 
 this casket 831 
 
 Who sleeps below ? — Who sleeps below ? ... 1536 
 
 Who so to marry a minion wife 399 
 
 Who thus were ripe for high contemplating 1819 
 Whom fancy persuadeth, among other 
 
 crops 84 
 
 Whose was that gentle voice, that whisper- 
 ing sweet 1255 
 
 Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant . 1200 
 Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, 
 
 death 465 
 
THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS. 
 
 Ixv 
 
 so. OF POEM. 
 
 Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 346 
 
 Why, Damon, with the forward day 832 
 
 Why did my parents send me to the schools 221 
 
 Why didst thou raise such woeful wail 100 
 
 W^hy doth the stubborne iron prove 318 
 
 Why is't damnation to despair and die .... 444 
 
 Why, little charmer of the air 707 
 
 Why should you swear I am forsworn 352 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover! 329 
 
 Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty 181 
 Why this will lug your priests and servants 
 
 from your sides 198 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, ladye 1318 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave me, gentle child ? 1452 
 
 Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang 1651 
 
 Will you heara Spanish lady ,... 538 
 
 Willow ! in thy breezy moan 1449 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 228 
 
 Wine, wine, in a morning 679 
 
 Wish'd morning 's come ; and now upon 
 
 the plains 691 
 
 With cheerful step the traveller 1221 
 
 With face and fashion to be known 734 
 
 With face and fashion to be known 74U 
 
 With farmer Allan at the farm abode 1708 
 
 With fingers weary and worn 1496 
 
 With fragrant flowers we strew the way . . . 122 
 With how sad steps, moon, thou climb' st 
 
 With little hereto do" or'see'.' !!!"!!!!!!.".'!."." 1208 
 
 With quicken'd step 868 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred mom 1130 
 
 With some good ten of his chosen men, 
 
 Bernardo hath appear'd 1522 
 
 With that low cunning, which in fools 
 
 supplies 956 
 
 Within a little silent grove hard by .* 333 
 
 Within a thick and spreading hawthorn 
 
 bush 1410 
 
 Within the castle hath the queen devised.. 141 
 Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor 37 
 Woman ! when I behold thee, flippant, vain 1821 
 
 Woodmen, shepherds, come away 460 
 
 Word was brought to the Danish king 1716 
 
 Would my good lady love me best 50 
 
 Would you know what's soft ? I dare 259 
 
 Wouldst thou view the lion's den ? 1479 
 
 Wreathe the bowl 1279 
 
 Y. 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around . 1586 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers... ^^... 907 
 
 Ye have been fresh and green .~ 344 
 
 Ye holy towers that shade the wave- worn 
 
 steep 1246 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing 471 
 
 Ye mariners of England 1305 
 
 Ye midnight shades ! o'er Nature spread... 900 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ... 776 
 Ye quenchless stars ! so eloquently bright 1481 
 Ye rocks ! ye elements ! thou shoreless 
 
 main 1555 
 
 Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale 882 
 
 Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay 894 
 
 Ye wha are fain to hae your name 1052 
 
 Ye who amid this feverish world would 
 
 wear 924 
 
 Ye who have scorn'd each other 1739 
 
 Ye who with warmth, the public triumph 
 
 feel 1090 
 
 Yee blushing virgins happie are 316 
 
 Yes ! there are real mourners. — I have seen 1177 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye !... 1205 
 
 Yes, wife, I'd be a throned king 1774 
 
 Yet, as through Tagus' fair transparent 
 
 streams 490 
 
 Yet, I confess, in this mv pilgrimage ...... 279 
 
 Yet in prison was King l)avy '.. 44 
 
 Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more 605 
 " You are Old Father William," the young 
 
 man cried 1223 
 
 You are right, justice, and you weigh this 
 
 well 177 
 
 You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds 787 
 You earthly souls that count a wanton 
 
 flame 568 
 
 Yon mansion, made by beaming tapers gay 841 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night 158 
 
 You mighty lords that with respected grace 139 
 
 You that haue spent the silent night 104 
 
 You were used to say 194 
 
 Young Henry was as brave a youth 1138 
 
 Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; 
 
 ah, summers not a few 1768 
 
 e'2 
 
i 
 
BIOGEAPHIES OF THE AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 Adams, John Quincy. 
 
 Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan. 
 
 Allston, Washington. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan. 
 
 Barlow, Joel. 
 
 Honeywood, St. John. 
 
 Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe. 
 
 Bryant, WiUiam Cullen. 
 
 Hopkinson, Joseph. 
 
 Stoddard, R. H. 
 
 Clifton, William. 
 
 Humphreys, David. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard. 
 Trumbull, John. 
 
 Dwight, Timothy. 
 
 Leland, Charles G. 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 
 
 Tuckerman, Henry Theodore. 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf. 
 
 Freneau, Phillip. 
 
 Morris, Greorge P. 
 
 wmis, N. P. 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 
 
 
 
 NAMES OF AMERICAN POETS WITH NUMBERS OF POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Adams, John Quincy 1 850 
 
 Akers, Elizabeth 1938-1945 
 
 Allston, Washington 1853 
 
 Barlow, Joel 1848 
 
 Bryant, William Ciillen 
 
 1855-1859 
 
 Clark, Willis G 1898 
 
 Clifton, William 1852 
 
 Dwight, Timothy 1846 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 
 
 1864-1870 
 English, Thomas Dunn .... 1918 
 Freneau, Phillip 1844 
 
 KO. OF POEM. 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene 1860-1862 
 Hoffman, Charles Fenno... 1871 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell 
 
 1889-1897 
 
 Honeywood, St. John 1849 
 
 Hopkinson, Joseph 1851 
 
 Humphreys, David 1847 
 
 Leland, Charles G.... 1921-1923 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 
 
 1872-1883 
 Lowell, James Russell 1911-1917 
 
 Morris, George P 1863 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan.... 1899-1908 
 
 ■so. OF POEM. 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan 
 
 1919, 1920 
 
 Saxe, J. G 1936,1937 
 
 Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe.. 1854 
 
 Stoddard, R. H 1932-1935 
 
 Taylor, Bayard 1924-1931 
 
 Trumbull, John 1845 
 
 Tuckerman, Henry Theodore 
 
 1909, 1910 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf 
 
 1885-1888 
 Willis, N. P 1884 
 
 NAMES OF AMEEICAN POETS WITH THE TITLES OF POEMS. 
 
 ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY. 
 The Wants of Man 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 1850 
 
 1938 
 
 1939 
 
 1940 
 
 1941 
 
 
 KO. OP POEM. 
 
 1942 
 
 Kisses 
 
 1943 
 
 AKERS, ELIZABETH. 
 
 Broken Faith 
 
 Time 
 
 Endurance 
 
 Singiag in the Rain 
 
 Rock me to Sleep] 
 
 1944 
 
 1945 
 
 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. 
 America to Great Britain..:. 
 
 1853 
 
Ixviii 
 
 AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 MO. OF FOBH. 
 
 BARLOW, JOEL. 
 
 Burning of New England Villages 1848 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
 
 The Prairies 1855 
 
 ForestHymn 1856 
 
 The Antiquity of Freedom 1857 
 
 Oh Mother of a Mighty Race 1858 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 1859 
 
 CLARK, WILLIS G. 
 
 Euthanasia 1898 
 
 CLIFTON, WILLIAM. 
 
 To Wmiam Gifford, Esq 1852 
 
 DWIGHT, TIMOTHY. 
 
 England and America 1846 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
 
 "Good-bye, Proud World!" 1864 
 
 To the Humble Bee 1865 
 
 The Snow-storm 1866 
 
 The Problem 1867 
 
 The Poet 1868 
 
 Dirge 1869 
 
 The Mountain and the Squirrel 1870 
 
 ENGLISH, THOMAS DUNN. 
 
 Ben Bolt 1918 
 
 FRENEAU, PHILIP. 
 
 The Dying Indian 1844 
 
 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 
 
 Burns 1860 
 
 Alnwick Castle 1861 
 
 Marco Bozzaris 1862 
 
 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO. 
 
 The Origin of Mint Juleps 1871 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 
 
 On Lending a Punch-Bowl 1889 
 
 An Evening Thought 1890 
 
 La Grisette 1891 
 
 The Treadmill Song 1892 
 
 Latter-Day Warnings 1893 
 
 The Old Man's Dream 1894 
 
 What we all Think 1895 
 
 The Last Blossom 1896 
 
 Contentment 1897 
 
 HONEYWOOD, ST. JOHN. 
 
 Crimes and Punishments 1849 
 
 HOPKINSON, JOSEPH. 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! 1851 
 
 HUMPHREYS, DAVID. 
 
 Western Emigration 1847 
 
 LELAND, CHARLES G. 
 
 Theleme 1921 
 
 A Dream of Love 1922 
 
 The Three Friends ',[,[ 1923 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. 
 
 Nuremburg 1872 
 
 The Arsenal at Springfield 1873 
 
 The Skeleton in Armour 1874 
 
 A Psalm of Life 1875 
 
 « NO. OP POBM. 
 
 Endymion 1876 
 
 The Beleagured City 1877 
 
 It is not always May 1878 
 
 Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 1879 
 
 Maidenhood 1880 
 
 The Children's Hour 1881 
 
 A Spring Landscape 1882 
 
 The Wreck of the Hesperus 1883 
 
 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 
 
 To the Dandelion 1911 
 
 The Poet 1912 
 
 The Sirens 1913 
 
 An Incident in a Railroad Car 1914 
 
 The Heritage 1915 
 
 To the Future 1916 
 
 The Fountain 1917 
 
 MORRIS, GEORGE P. 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree 
 
 1863 
 
 POE, EDGAR ALLAN. 
 
 Annabel Lee 1899 
 
 Ulalume: A Ballad 1900 
 
 Dream-land 1901 
 
 Lenore 1902 
 
 Israfel 1903 
 
 The Bells ; 1904 
 
 To F. S. 1905 
 
 For Annie 1906 
 
 The Raven 1907 
 
 The Conqueror Worm 1908 
 
 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 
 
 The Brickmaker 1919 
 
 My Hermitage 1920 
 
 SAXE, J. G. 
 
 The Way of the World 1936 
 
 Ye Tailyor-man 1937 
 
 SCHOOLCRAFT, HENRY ROWE. 
 
 Geehale : An Indian Lament 1854 
 
 STODDARD, R. H. 
 
 Leonatus 1952 
 
 The Shadow of the Hand 1933 
 
 Invocation to Sleep 1934 
 
 At Rest 1935 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD. 
 
 Bedouin Song 1924 
 
 The Arab to the Palm 1925 
 
 Kubleh 1926 
 
 The Poet in the East 1927 
 
 Kilimandjaro 1928 
 
 An Oriental Idyll 1929 
 
 Hassan to his Mare 1930 
 
 The Phantom 1931 
 
 TRUMBULL, JOHN. 
 
 Character of McFingal 1845 
 
 TUCKERMAN, HENRY THEODORE. 
 
 Mary 1909 
 
 Florence 1910 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. 
 
 The Ballad of Cassandra South wick... 1885 
 
 Pentucket 1886 
 
 Randolph of Roanoke 1887 
 
 Democracy 1888 
 
 WILLIS, N. P. 
 
 April Violets 
 
 1884 
 
TITLES OF THE AMERICAN POEMS, 
 
 NO. OF POBM. 
 
 Alnwick Castle 1861 
 
 America to Great Britain. 1853 
 
 Annabel Lee 1899 
 
 Antiquity of Freedom, The 1 857 
 
 April Violets 1884 
 
 Arab to the Palm 1925 
 
 Arsenal at Springfield, The 1873 
 
 At Rest 1935 
 
 Ballad of Cassandra Southwick, The 1885 
 
 Bedouin Song 1924 
 
 Beleagured City, The 1877 
 
 Bells, The 1904 
 
 Ben Bolt 1918 
 
 Brickmaker, The 1919 
 
 Broken Faith 1938 
 
 Burning of New England Villages 1848 
 
 Bums 1860 
 
 Character of McFingal 1845 
 
 Children's Hour, The 1881 
 
 Conqueror Worm, The 1908 
 
 Contentment 1897 
 
 Crimes and Pvmishments 1849 
 
 Democracv 18S8 
 
 Dirge 1869 
 
 Dream, A 1942 
 
 Dream of Love, A 1922 
 
 Dreamland 1901 
 
 Dying Indian, The 1844 
 
 Endurance 1940 
 
 Endymion 1876 
 
 England and America 1846 
 
 Euthanasia 1898 
 
 Evening Thought, An 1890 
 
 Florence 1910 
 
 Fountain, The 1917 
 
 For Annie 1906 
 
 Forest Hymn .'.. 1856 
 
 Geehale : an Indian Lament 1854 
 
 *' Good-bye, Proud World !" 1864 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! 1851 
 
 Hassan to his Mare 1930 
 
 Heritage, The , 1915 
 
 Incident in a Railway Car, An 1914 
 
 Invocation to Sleep 1934 
 
 Israfel 1903 
 
 It is not always May 1878 
 
 Kilimandjaro 1928 
 
 Kisses 1943 
 
 Kubleh 1926 
 
 LaGrisette 1891 
 
 Last Blossom, The 1896 
 
 so. OX' POBIC. 
 
 Latter-day Warnings 1893 
 
 Lenore 1902 
 
 Leonatus 1932 
 
 Lost 1945 
 
 Maidenhood 1880 
 
 Marco Bozzaris 1862 
 
 Mary 1909 
 
 Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 1879 
 
 Mountain and the Squirrel, The 1870 
 
 My Hermitage 1920 
 
 Nuremburg 1872 
 
 Oh Mother of a Mighty Race 1858 
 
 Old Man's Dream, The 1894 
 
 On Lending a Punch-Bowl 1889 
 
 Oriental Idyll, An 1929 
 
 Origin of Mint Juleps, The 1871 
 
 Pentucket 1886 
 
 Phantom, The 1931 
 
 Poet in the East, The 1927 
 
 Poet, The ]868 
 
 Poet, The 1912 
 
 Prairies, The 1855 
 
 Problem, The 1867 
 
 Psalm of Life, A 1875 
 
 Randolph of Roanoke 1887 
 
 Raven, The 1907 
 
 Rock me to Sleep 1944 
 
 Shadow of the Hand, The 1933 
 
 Skeleton in Armour, The 1874 
 
 Singing in the Rain 1941 
 
 Su-ens. The 1913 
 
 Snow-storm, The 1866 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 1859 
 
 Spring Landscape, A 1882 
 
 Theleme 1921 
 
 Three Friends, The 1923 
 
 Time 1939 
 
 To F. S. 1905 
 
 To the Dandelion 1911 
 
 To the Future 1916 
 
 To the Humble Bee 1865 
 
 To William Gifford, Esq 1852 
 
 Treadmill Song, The 1892 
 
 Ulalume: a Ballad 1900 
 
 Wants of Man, The 1850 
 
 Way of the World, The 1936 
 
 Western Emigration 1847 
 
 What we all Think 1895 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree 1863 
 
 Wreck of the HesjJerus, The 1883 
 
 Ye Tailyor-mau 1937 
 
Ixx 
 
 AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 FIEST LINES OF AMERICAN POEMS. 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Again I sit within the mansion 1931 
 
 Ah, broken is the golden bowl 1902 
 
 Ah, Clemence, when I saw thee last 1891 
 
 All hail! thou noble land 1853 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky 1866 
 
 A silver javelin which the hills 1929 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent 1862 
 
 A youth would marry a maiden 1936 
 
 Back again, darling? day of delight !.... 1942 
 Backward, turn backward, Time, in your 
 
 flight 1944 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight 1881 
 
 Buds on the apple-boughs 1938 
 
 By a route obscure and lonely 1901 
 
 Come, my beauty ! come, my desert 
 
 darling! 1930 
 
 Dear, common flower, that grow'st beside 
 
 the way 1911 
 
 Don'tyou remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 1918 
 
 Draw the curtains round your bed 1934 
 
 Fine humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! 1865 
 
 For this present, hard 1868 
 
 From the desert, I come to thee 1924 
 
 Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home.. 1864 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land 1851 
 
 Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains 1928 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells 1904 
 
 Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 
 
 pines 1857 
 
 He spoke of Bums ; men rude and rough.. 1914 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race 1861 
 
 How much the heart may bear, and yet 
 
 not break! 1940 
 
 How sweetly on the wood-girt town 1886 
 
 I dream'd I lay beside the dark blue Rhine 1922 
 
 If sometimes in the dark blue eye 1890 
 
 I have found violets. April hath come on. 1884 
 
 I have read in some old marvellous tale 1877 
 
 I have three friends, three glorious friends, 
 
 three dearer could not be 1923 
 
 Hike a church, I like a cowl 1867 
 
 In heaven and earth a spirit doth dwell ... 1903 
 In the old days of awe and keen-eyed 
 
 wonder 1912 
 
 In the valley of Pegnitz, where across broad 
 
 meadow lands 1872 
 
 In these cold shades, beneath these shift- 
 ing skies 1852 
 
 Into the sunshine 1917 
 
 I sat one night on a palace step 1921 
 
 It was many and many a year ago 1899 
 
 It was the schooner Hesperus 1883 
 
 Knows he who tills this lonely field 1869 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 1919 
 
 Little I ask; my wants are few 1897 
 
 Lo! 'Tis a gala night 1908 
 
 Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes......... 1880 
 
 Man wants but little here below 1850 
 
 Methinks, when on the languid eye '. 1898 
 
 Next to thee, fair gazelle 1925 
 
 Of crimes, empoison'd source of human 
 
 woes 1849 
 
 NO. OF POEM. 
 
 Oh, fairest born of love and light 1888 
 
 Oh for one hour of youthful joy ! 1894 
 
 Oh, mother Earth ! upon thy lap 1887 
 
 Oh mother of a mighty race 1858 
 
 0, Land of Promise ! from what Pisgah's 
 
 height 1916 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary « 1907 
 
 On yonder lake I spread the sail no more 1844 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried 1859 
 
 Princes, when soften' d in thy sweet em- 
 brace 1910 
 
 Right jollie is ye tailyor-man 1937 
 
 Soon fleets the sunbright form, by man 
 
 adored 1846 
 
 '' Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! " 1874 
 
 Tell me not in mournful numbers 1875 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the crisis 1906 
 
 That age was older once than now 1895 
 
 The blackbird is singing on Michigan's 
 
 shore 1854 
 
 The black-eyed children of the Desert drove 1926 
 
 The fair boy Leonatus 1932 
 
 The green trees whisper'dlow and mild 1882 
 
 The groves were God's first temples 1856 
 
 The kiss of friendship, kind and calm 1943 
 
 The mouutain and the squirrel 1870 
 
 The poet came to the land of the East 1927 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands 1915 
 
 The rising moon has hid the stars 1876 
 
 The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary 1913 
 
 These are the gardens of the desert, these 1855 
 
 The skies they are ashen and sober 1900 
 
 The stars are rolling in the sky 1892 
 
 The sun is bright, the air is clear 1878 
 
 The word has come ; — go forth 1945 
 
 This ancient, silver bowl of mine, it tells 
 
 of good old times 1889 
 
 This is" the arsenal. From floor to ceiling 1873 
 Though young no more we still would 
 
 dream 1896 
 
 Thou would'st be loved ?— then let thy 
 
 heart 1905 
 
 Through solid curls of* smoke, the bursting 
 
 fires 1848 
 
 Tis said that the Gods, on Olympus of old 1871 
 To the God of all sure mercies let my 
 
 blessing rise to-day 1885 
 
 What though the name is old and ofb re- 
 peated 1909 
 
 When legislators keep the law 1893 
 
 When Yankees, skill'd in martial rule 1845 
 
 Where the elm-tree branches by the rain 
 
 arestirr'd 1941 
 
 Wild rose of Alio way, my thanks 1860 
 
 With all that's ours, together let us rise... 1847 
 
 With folded hands the lady lies 1935 
 
 Within a wood one summer's day _ 1920 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! .' 1863 
 
 Yes, the year is growing old 1879 
 
 You see the tree that sweeps my window 
 
 pane? 1939 
 
 You were very charming, madam 1933 
 
iBoDH^oftBoetrH 
 
THE FIRST PEUIOD, 
 
 FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE YEAR HOO. 
 
 « "T)ELOVED indeed," says dear old genial Dibdin, "is the poetry of our own country." 
 JD It expresses all the great changes England has undergone. It tells of its manners and 
 customs, of its thoughts and feehngs, of its hopes and fears, of its inner and outward life. One 
 cannot read it without gaining an insight into the every-day experience of our forefathers. 
 Whatever is keenly felt is sure to manifest itself in language of touching verse. And thus it has 
 been in times gone by ; the real life of the people, of the prince and the peasant, has found an 
 utterance in the poetry of our gifted bards. Indeed, more of true history may be learnt from 
 even the slight and almost despised Ballad, sung about the streets, than from the more 
 dignified and solemn narrative of the historian. He takes generally what is called a deep 
 and philosophical view of events and men and manners, but one little song sung by a few 
 strolling minstrels before the houses of the rich or poor tells us more of what England was, 
 and what were England's feelings, than all this pomp and parade of philosophic learning. 
 Just indeed as one may know a man for years, and never, notwithstanding admiration for his 
 intellect and accomplishments, get one gUmpse of his heart, and yet in some unforeseen 
 moment of sudden joy or sorrow learn for the first time the deep tenderness of his heart ; so 
 with the poetry of any land ; it opens up the unselfish soul of a nation ; it shows that there is 
 the freshness of spring, when all seems sear and withered with frost and snow and sleet and 
 winter ; it reveals the love of the holy and the best, and brings down to earth, as it were, 
 heaven in its purity and sweetness, and divine, untainted loveliness and glory. 
 
 And also, poetry reveals the darker doings of mankind, opens up the terrible passions of 
 mankind, shows human nature as it too often is, thoroughly regardless of the pure and the 
 beautiful and the good. Yet, this is but exceptional, its spirit is rather to breathe sweet and 
 loving accents, to gatter together earth's beauties, to depict scenes of fairest loveliness, to 
 tell of holiest sacrifices, to bring down as it were the very glories of a world beyond to a 
 world which knows sorrow and pain and sickness and death. 
 
 This our earliest period is characterized by many features which make it essentially different 
 to all the rest. Its poetry is the rude utterance of a rude but brave people. A few mission- 
 aries of Christ were almost the only ones who helped to a purer faith and feeling. Then came 
 wars, and invasions, and mixture of races ; still the old primitive British Church, planted likely 
 by the Apostle St. Paul, maintained her hold upon the affections of the people and influenced 
 even her conquerors. But Rome came and conquered, Augustine came ; — then attacks from 
 Danes, then William the Norman ; thus the language became inundated with words from 
 other nations, our own early speech was considered vulgar, the conquerors' speech prevailed. 
 Yet notwithstanding all this confusion, the early speech of our old forefathers maintained a 
 hold which to this day has not been lost. The poetry therefore of this period will be found to be 
 of a varied nature, exhibiting great force and vigour, and sometimes verses of touching 
 sweetness and beauty. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 C^DMON. 
 
 Caedmon is considered the earliest of our 
 English poets. He was a man sprung from 
 the people, and at one time in his life was a 
 mere cowherd. He was, however, addressed 
 one night by a stranger, as he thought, in his 
 sleep, and asked to sing a song. He replied 
 that he could not, when the stranger urged 
 that he could, and that he could singr the 
 
 " Creation." Caedmon then, wondering at 
 himseK, began to sing most beautiful verses. 
 He soon afterwards awoke, and went im- 
 mediately to the Reeve of Whitby, who, wise 
 and good man that he was, took him to the 
 abbey and told the wondrous story to the 
 Abbess Hilda. He recounted the last night's 
 adventure and repeated the verses, which at 
 once obtained the admiration of the persons 
 present. They then explained to him other 
 
 1* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. [First Period.— J^roj??, tlie 
 
 parts of Holy Scripture, whereupon he went 
 home and produced a beautiful poem. At the 
 request of the abbess he became a monk, and 
 continued to write poems founded on Sacred 
 History. 
 
 Our readers will notice the striking re- 
 semblance between Casdmon's account of 
 " The Fall of Man," &c., and portions of 
 Milton's " Paradise Lost." Conybeare, in his 
 " Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry," says 
 — " The pride, rebellion, and punishment of 
 Satan and his princes have a resemblance to 
 Milton so remarkable, that most of this por- 
 tion might be almost literally translated by a 
 cento of lines from the great poet." The time 
 of Csedmon's death is uncertain, probably 
 about 680. 
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT. 
 
 Alfred the Great was the youngest son of 
 Ethelwolf, king of the West Saxons, and 
 Osburga, daughter of Oslac the Goth, who 
 inherited the blood of the sub-kings of the 
 Isle of Wight. At the age of five he was sent 
 to Rome, whore Leo IV. anointed him with 
 the royal unction. When only twenty-two 
 years of age he found himseK the monarch of 
 a distracted kingdom. After several un- 
 fortunate battles with the Danes, he dis- 
 banded his followers and wandered about 
 the woods, and finally found shelter in the 
 cottage of a herdsman named Denulf, at 
 Athelney, in Somersetshire. Here occurred 
 the interesting event which has pleased so 
 many boys and girls — the burning of the 
 cakes. Receiving information that Odun, 
 Earl of Devon, had obtained a victory over 
 the Danes in Devonshire, and had taken their 
 magical standard, he disguised himself as a 
 harper and obtained admission to the Danish 
 camp, where his skill was so much admired 
 that he was retained a considerable time, and 
 was admitted to play before King Gorm, or 
 Guthrum, and his chiefs. Having, by these 
 means, gained a knowledge of his enemy, he 
 collected his vassals and nobles, surprised the 
 Danes at Eddington, and completely defeated 
 them, in May, 878. The king behaved with 
 great magnanimity to his foes, giving up the 
 kingdom of East Anglia to those of the 
 Danes who embraced the Christian religion. 
 He now put his kingdom into a state of 
 defence, and greatly increased his navy, and 
 by his energy, activity, bravery, and wisdom 
 the country became exceedingly prosperous. 
 He is said to have fought fifty- six battles by 
 sea and land, although his valour as a warrior 
 has excited less admiration than his wisdom 
 as a legislator. He composed a body of 
 statutes, instituted trial by jury, divided the 
 kingdom into shires and tithings. He was 
 so exact in his government that robbery was 
 unheard of, and gold chains might be left in 
 the highways untouched. He also formed a 
 parliament, which met in London twice a year. 
 
 There was so little learning in his time, that 
 from the Thames to the Humber hardly a j 
 man could be found who understood Latin. j 
 To remedy this state of things, he invited 
 learned men from all parts, and endowed 
 schools throughout the kingdom ; and if 
 indeed he was not the founder of the University 
 of Oxford, he raised it to a reputation which it 
 had never before enjoyed. Among other acts 
 of munificence to that seat of learning he 
 founded University College. Ho himself was 
 a learned prince, composed several works, 
 translated the historical works of Orosius and 
 Bede, some religious and moral treatises, 
 perhaps ^sop's Fables and the Psalms of 
 David ; also the Metres of Boethius. He 
 divided the twenty-four hours into three 
 equal parts ; one he devoted to the service of 
 God, another to public affairs, and the third 
 to rest and refreshment. In private life he 
 was benevolent, pious, cheerful and affable ; 
 the story of his giving the poor beggar half 
 his loaf when famished himself is one of the 
 many things which have won for him the love 
 and admiration of all true Englishmen. Ho was 
 born at Wantage in Berkshire, 849 ; died 900. 
 — See Becton's Universal Biography, p. 50. 
 
 ROBERT OF GLOUCESTER. 
 
 Robert of Gloucester lived during the reigns 
 of Henry III. and Edward I. ; and composed, 
 in verse, " The Chronigle of English Affairs," 
 from the earliest to his own times. He was a 
 monk of Gloucester Abbey ; hence he is called 
 Robert of Gloucester. Warton describes the 
 work as alike destitute of art and imagination, 
 and in many parts even less poetical than the 
 prose history by Geoffrey of Monmouth, from 
 which most of the events were taken. 
 Another critic, however, speaks of his poem 
 as in general appropriate and dramatic, 
 proving not only his good sense, but also his 
 eloquence. There are several copies of his 
 work, which was edited by Hearne and pub- 
 lished in 1724. — See Chambers, vol. i. p. 6. 
 
 ROBERT DE BRUNNE. 
 
 Robert de Brunne, or Robert Mannyng, a 
 native of Brunne, in Lincolnshire, was a canon 
 of the Gilbertine order, and resident in the 
 priory of Sempringhani ten years in the time 
 of Prior John of Camelton, and five years with 
 John of Clyntone. In 1303 he began his 
 translation, or rather paraphrase, of " Manuel 
 Peche," or " Manuel des Peches," that is, 
 " The Manuel of Sins." It is a long production, 
 treating of the Decalogue and the Seven 
 Deadly Sins, which are illustrated by many 
 legendary stories. It was never printed, but 
 is preserved in the Bodleian Library ]\ISS,, 
 No. 415, and in the Harlcian MSS., No. 
 1,701. In this work ho remonstrates tipoo 
 the introduction of foreign terms into the 
 
Earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 language: "I seke," says he, "no straunge 
 Ynglyss." 
 
 But a more important work of his is " A 
 Metrical Chronicle of England." The former 
 part is a translation from an old French poet, 
 called Maister Wace, or Gasse, who copied 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth in a poem called 
 " Roman des Rois d'Angleterre." The second 
 part of " De Brunne's Chronicle," beginning 
 from CadwaUader, and ending with Edward 
 I., is translated principally from a chronicle 
 by Peter Langtoft, an Augustine canon of 
 BridHngton, in Yorkshire, who is supposed to 
 have died in the reign of Edward II., and was 
 therefore a contemporary of De Brunne. 
 Hearne edited De Brunno, but suppressed 
 much of. the translation. Both Ellis and 
 Warton refer to this poet. — AUbone, vol. i. 
 p. 269. 
 
 RICHARD ROLLE. 
 
 Richard RoUe, a hermit of the order of St. 
 Augustine and doctor of divinity, who lived a 
 solitary life near the nunnery of Hampole, 
 four miles from Doncaster. He wrote metrical 
 paraphrases of certain parts of Scripture, and 
 an original poem of a moral and religious 
 nature, entitled, " The Pricks of Conscience ;" 
 but of the. latter work it is not certainly 
 known that he composed it in English, there 
 being some reason for believing that, in its 
 present form, it is a translation from a Latin 
 original written by him. — Chamhcrs, vol. i. 
 p. 11. 
 
 ROBERT LANGLANDE. 
 
 Robert Langlande was one of the first 
 disciples of Wickliffe, and composed a curious 
 poem, entitled " The Visions of Piers Plow- 
 man," intended as a satire on almost every 
 description of men, but especially the clergy. 
 It is written in blank verse, with wit and 
 humour, in an alliterative measure. — (See 
 Beeton's Dictionary of Universal Biogra'pliy , 
 p. 627.) Chambers says of this work : " ' The 
 Vision of Pierce Plowman,' a satirical poem, 
 ascribed to Robert Longlande, a secular priest, 
 also shows very expressively the progress 
 which was made, about the middle of the 
 fourteenth century, towards a literary style. 
 This poem, in many points of view, is one of 
 the most important works that appeared in 
 England previous to the invention of printing. 
 It is the popular representative of the doc- 
 trines which were silently bringing about the 
 Reformation, and it is a peculiarly national 
 poem, not only as being a much purer specimen 
 of the English language than Chaucer, but as 
 exhibiting the revival of the same system of al- 
 literation which characterized the Anglo-Saxon 
 poetry. It is, in fact, both in this peculiarity 
 and in its political character, characteristic 
 of a great literary and political revolution, in 
 which the language as well as the independence 
 
 of the Anglo-Saxons had at last gained the 
 ascendency over those of the Normans. 
 Pierce i|||represented as faUing asleep on the 
 Malvern Hills, and as seeing, in his sleep, a 
 series of visions ; in describing these, he ex- 
 poses the corruptions of society, but particu- 
 larly the dissolute lives of the rehgious orders, 
 with much bitterness." — Cha^yihers, volTl. p. 11. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer, 1328—1400, the father 
 of English poetry, was a native of London. 
 His parentage and early life are involved 
 in great obscurity, and the honour of his 
 education is claimed by both Universities. 
 He was a great favourite at the court of 
 Edward III., and a devoted adherent to the 
 celebrated John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, 
 whose sister-in-law, Philippa de Rouet, ac- 
 cepted the offer of his hand. By this connec- 
 tion the poet became linked with the good or 
 ill fortune which attaches to greatness. But 
 this generally received narrative has been 
 doubted by some critics. In 1356 we find 
 Chaucer bearing arms in the expedition of 
 Edward III. against France. For some time 
 he was held as a prisoner of war by the enemy. 
 In 1367 he was allowed an annual pension of 
 twenty marks, between two or three hundred 
 pounds of our present money ; and in 1373 
 was employed in an embassy to Genoa on 
 affairs of the State. A year later than this he 
 was appointed Comptroller of the Customs of 
 Wool, &c. It was during this visit to Italy — 
 he had before travelled on the Continent — that 
 he enjoyed some delightful converse with 
 Petrarch, to which he alludes in the Prologue 
 to the Gierke's Tale : — 
 
 " I wol you tell a tale, which that I 
 Learned at Padowe of a worthy clerk. 
 As preved by his wordes and his werk ; 
 Fraunceis Petrark, the laureat pocte, 
 Highte this clerk whos rhetorike swete 
 Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie. 
 As Lynyan did of philosophic," &c. 
 
 Mr. Tyrwhitt is inclined to doubt this 
 meeting of the poets, but De Sala promised 
 to prove its occurrence. He died before he 
 fulfilled the pledge. Four years before this 
 acquaintance, Chaucer had added to the 
 evidence of his own poetical talents by the 
 Lament for the Death of Blanche, Duchess 
 of Lancaster, entitled "The Book of the 
 Duchesse." In the early part of the reign of 
 Richard II. our poet became involved in the 
 political religious troubles of the day, espousing 
 the cause of John Comberton (John de 
 Northampton), a warm champion of the 
 doctrines of Wickliffe. Comberton was im- 
 prisoned, while Chaucer escaped the same 
 fate by a precipitate flight to the Continent. 
 Of course he lost his place in the Customs. 
 He was so imprudent as to return to London 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [First Period. 
 
 within a short period ; was committed to the 
 Tower, and only released by disclosing the 
 names and projects of his late associa|Bs. For 
 this breach of confidence he subsequently ex- 
 perienced great remorse, and composed his 
 " Testament of Love," in which he complains 
 of the change in his fortunes and of the 
 disgrace in which his conduct had involved 
 him. 
 
 Campbell, in his " Specimens of the British 
 Poets," says, " It is not known what he 
 revealed; certainly nothing to the prejudice of 
 John of Gaunt, since that prince continued to 
 be his friend. To his acknowledged partisans, 
 who had betrayed and tried to starve him during 
 his banishment, he owed no fidelity. It is 
 true that extorted evidence is one of the last 
 ransoms which a noble mind would wish to 
 pay for liberty ; but before Ave blame Chaucer 
 for making any confession, we should con- 
 sider how fair and easy the lessons of 
 uncapitulating fortitude may appear on the 
 outside of a prison, and yet how hard it may 
 be to read them by the light of a dungeon. 
 As far as date's can be "guessed at in so 
 obscure a transaction, his hberation took place 
 after Eichard had shaken off the domineering 
 party of Gloucester, and had begun to act for 
 himself. Chaucer's political errors — and he 
 considered his share in the late conspiracy as 
 an error of judgment, though not of intention — 
 had been committed while Eichard was a 
 minor, and acknowledgment of them might 
 seem less humiliating when made to the 
 monarch himself, than to an usurping faction 
 ruling in his name. He was charged too, by 
 his loyalty, to make certain disclosures im- 
 portant to the peace of the kingdom ; and his 
 duty as a subject, independent of personal 
 considerations, might well be put in competi- 
 tion with ties to associates already broken by 
 their treachery." — Campbell, p. 2. 
 
 In 1389 his great patron returned from 
 abroad, and Chaucer's fortunes improved. He 
 was appointed Clerk of the Works at West- 
 minster, and soon after to those at Windsor. 
 He retained these offices scarcely two years, 
 when he retired, at the age of sixty-four, to 
 Woodstock, at which quiet town he composed 
 his immortal " Canterbury Tales." In 1394 
 he received a pension of .£20 per annum, and 
 during the last year of Eichard' s reign he 
 was granted yearly a tun of wine. These 
 were continued under the new reign, with an 
 additional pension of forty marks. He did 
 not long live to enjoy this accession of for- 
 tune, for on the 25th of October, 1400, he 
 died. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 " Chaucer's forte," writes a poet and critic, 
 "is description; much of his moral reflection 
 is superfluous ; none of his painting charac- 
 teristic. His men and women are not mere 
 ladies and gentlemen, hke those who furnish 
 apologies for Boccaccio's stories. They rise 
 before us minutely traced, profusely varied, 
 and strongly discriminated. Their features 
 
 and casual manners seem to have an amusing 
 cougruity with their moral characters. He 
 notices minute cu'cumstances as if by chancej 
 but every touch has its effect on our con- 
 ception so distinctly, that we seem to live and 
 travel Avith his personages throughout the 
 journey." 
 
 JOHN GOWEE. 
 
 j John Gower, 1325 (?)— 1402, was con- 
 I temporary and friend of Chaucer. He was a 
 I student of law in the Inner Temple, a man of 
 substance, much esteemed, and lost his sight 
 about three years previous to his death. Be- 
 yond these particulars nothing further is 
 known. His monument is still to be seen in 
 I St. Saviour's Church. As to his poems, it 
 j may truly be said, " that even in the lighter 
 strains of his muse he sought to be the in- 
 structor of the dark age in which his lot was 
 cast." Peacham, in his " Compleat Gentle- 
 man," says, "His verses are full of good and 
 brave moralitie." " Indeed," as Warton 
 remarks, "if Chaucer had not existed, the 
 compositions of Gower would have been 
 sufficient to rescue the reigns of Edward III. 
 and Eichard II. from the imputation of 
 barbarism." 
 
 JOHN BAEBOUE. 
 
 John Barbour, Barber, Barbere, or Barbar, 
 Archdeacon of Aberdeen, died 1396, is one of 
 the earliest Scottish poets and historians. 
 The date and place of his birth are un- 
 known. He wrote a metrical chronicle, 
 entitled "The Bruce," which recounts the 
 heroic deeds of Eobert I. in support of his 
 country's independence. Some writers affirm 
 that the work was undertaken at the request 
 of Eobert' s son and successor. He wrote 
 another work, in which he gives a genealogical 
 history of the kings of Scotland, and traces 
 their origin to the Trojan colony of Brutus. 
 In 1357 we find that he received from 
 Edward III,, of England, a safe-conduct in 
 these words : " John Barber, Archdeacon of 
 Aberdeen, with three scholars in his company. 
 Coming in order to study in the University 
 of Oxford, and perform his scholastic exer- 
 cises." A learned writer says, " Our Arch- 
 deacon was not only famous for his extensive 
 knowledge in the philosophy and divinity of 
 those times, but still more admired for his 
 admirable genius for English poetry ; in 
 which he composed a history of the life and 
 glorious actions of Eobert Bruce — a work 
 not only remarkable for its copious cir- 
 cumstantial details of the exploits of that 
 illustrious prince and his brave companions 
 in arms, Eandolff, Earl of Lloray, and the 
 Lord James Douglas, but also for the beauty 
 of its style, which is not inferior to that of 
 his contemporary Chaucer." 
 
THE BOOK OF POETEY. 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. 
 
 From the Earliest Times to 1400. 
 
 I.— THE I'lKST DAY. 
 
 The dusky ways. 
 
 
 Then was the glory-bright 
 
 There had not here as yet, 
 
 Spirit of heaven's Guardian 
 
 Save oavern-shade, 
 
 Borne over the deep 
 
 Aught been ; 
 
 With utmost speed : 
 
 But this wide abyss 
 
 The Creator of angels bade, 
 
 F Stood deep and dim, 
 
 The Lord of life. 
 
 Strange to its Lord, 
 
 Light to come forth 
 
 Idle and useless ; 
 
 Over the spacious deep. 
 
 On which looked with his eyes 
 
 Quickly was fulfilled 
 
 The King firm of mind, 
 
 The high King's behest ; 
 
 And beheld those places 
 
 For him was holy light 
 
 Void of joys ; 
 
 Over the waste, 
 
 Saw the dark cloud 
 
 As the Maker bade. 
 
 Lower in eternal night, 
 
 Then sundered 
 
 Swart under heaven. 
 
 The Lord of triumphs 
 
 Dark and waste, 
 
 Over the ocean-flood 
 
 Until this worldly creation 
 
 Light from darkness. 
 
 Through the world existed 
 
 Shade from brightness. 
 
 Of the Glory-King. 
 
 Then gave names to both 
 
 1 Here first shaped 
 
 The Lord of life. 
 
 The Lord eternal. 
 
 Light was first 
 
 Chief of all Creatures 
 
 Through the Lord's word 
 
 Heaven and earth ; 
 
 Named day ; 
 
 The firmament upreared, 
 
 Beauteous, bright creation ! 
 
 And this spacious land 
 
 Well pleased 
 
 Established, 
 
 The Lord at the beginning 
 
 By His strong Powers, 
 
 The procreative time. 
 
 The Lord Almighty. 
 
 The first day saw 
 
 The earth as yet was 
 
 The dark shade 
 
 Not green with grass ; 
 
 Swart prevailing 
 
 Ocean covered, 
 
 Over the wide abyss. 
 
 Swart in eternal night. 
 Far and wide, 
 
 Ccedmon, hy Benjamin Thor^pe. — Ahov.t C60. 
 
C^DMON'.] 
 
 FALL OF THE EEEEL ANGELS. [First Period.— JVom the 
 
 2.— THE FAT,L OF THB EEBEL ANGELS. 
 
 Be a vassal. 
 
 '^ Why shall I toil ? " said ho ; 
 
 The All-powerful harl 
 
 " To me it is no whit needful 
 
 Angel-tribes, 
 
 To have a superior ; 
 
 Tlirougli might of hand, 
 
 I can with my hands as many 
 
 The holy Lord, 
 
 Wonders v/ork ; 
 
 Ten established. 
 
 I have great power 
 
 In whom He trusted well 
 
 To form 
 
 That they His service 
 
 A diviner throne, 
 
 Would follow. 
 
 A higher in heaven. 
 
 Work His wiU ; 
 
 Why shall I for his favor serve, 
 
 Therefore gave he them wit, 
 
 Bend to him in such vassalage ? 
 
 And shaped them with his hands, 
 
 I may be a god as he. 
 
 The holy Lord. 
 
 Stand by me strong associates. 
 
 He had placed them so happily. 
 
 Who will not fail me in the strife. 
 
 One He had made so powerful, 
 
 Heroes stern of mood, 
 
 So mighty in his mind's thought. 
 
 They have chosen me for chief, 
 
 He let him sway over so much. 
 
 Eenowned warriors ! 
 
 Highest after himself in heaven's kingdom. 
 
 With such may one devise counsel. 
 
 He had made him so fair. 
 
 With such capture his adherents ; 
 
 So beauteous was his form in heaven, 
 
 They are my zealous friends. 
 
 That came to him from the Lord of Hosts, 
 
 Faithful in their thoughts ; 
 
 He was like to the light stars. 
 
 I may be their chieftain, 
 
 It was his to work the praise of the Lord, 
 
 SAvay in this realm : 
 
 It was his to hold dear his joys in heaven^ 
 
 Thus to me it seemeth not right 
 
 And to thank his Lord 
 
 That I in aught 
 
 For the reward that He had bestowed on him 
 
 Need cringe 
 
 in that light ; 
 
 To God for any good ; 
 
 Then had He let him long possess it ; 
 
 I -will no longer be his vassal." 
 
 But he turned it for himself to a worse thing, 
 
 When the All-powerful it 
 
 Began to raise war upon Him, 
 
 All had heard, 
 
 Against the highest ruler of heaven, 
 
 That his angel devised 
 
 Who sitteth in His holy seat. 
 
 Great presumption 
 
 Dear was he to our Lord, 
 
 To raise up against his Master, 
 
 But it might not be hidden from Him 
 
 And spake proud words 
 
 That His angel began 
 
 Foolishly against his Lord, 
 
 To be presumptuous, 
 
 Then must he expiate the deed, 
 
 Eaised himself against his Master, 
 
 Share the work of war. 
 
 Sought speech of hate, 
 
 And for his punishment must have 
 
 Words of pride towards him. 
 
 Of all deadly ills the greatest. 
 
 Would not serve God, 
 
 So doth every man 
 
 Said that his body was 
 
 Who against his Lord 
 
 Light and beauteous. 
 
 Deviseth to war. 
 
 Fair and bright of hue : 
 
 With crime against the great Euler. 
 
 He might not find in lais mind 
 
 Then was the Mighty angry. 
 
 That he would God 
 
 The highest Eulcr of heaven 
 
 In subjection. 
 
 Hurled him from the lofty seat ; 
 
 His Lord, serve : 
 
 Hate had he gained at his Lord, 
 
 Seemed to himseK 
 
 His favor he had lost, 
 
 That he a power and force 
 
 Incensed with him was the Good in his mind. 
 
 Had greater 
 
 Therefore must he seek the gulf 
 
 Than the holy God 
 
 Of hard hell-torment. 
 
 Could have 
 
 For that he had warred with heaven's Enler. 
 
 Of adherents. 
 
 • He rejected him then from his favor. 
 
 Many words spake 
 
 And cast him into hell, 
 
 The angel of Presumption ; 
 
 Into the deep parts, 
 
 Thought, through his own power. 
 
 "Wliere he became a devil : 
 
 How he for himself a stronger 
 
 The fiend with all his comrades 
 
 Seat might make. 
 
 Fell then from heaven above, 
 
 Higher in heaven : 
 
 Through as long as three nights and days, 
 
 Said that him his mind impelled, 
 
 The angels from heaven into heU ; 
 
 That he west and north 
 
 And them all the Lord transformed to devils. 
 
 Would begin to work, 
 
 Because they his deed and word 
 
 Would prepare structures : 
 
 Would not revere ; 
 
 Said it to him seemed doubtful 
 
 Therefore them in a worse light. 
 
 That he to God would 
 
 Under the earth beneath, 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 SATAN'S SPEECH. 
 
 [C-EDMON. 
 
 » Almighty God 
 
 His dire punishment. 
 
 Had i)laced triumpliless 
 
 Then spake he the words : — 
 
 In the swart hell ; 
 
 " This narrow place is most unlike 
 
 There they have at even, 
 
 That other that we ere knew. 
 
 Immeasurably long-, 
 
 High in heaven's kingdom, 
 
 Each of all the fiends, 
 
 Which my Master bestowed on me. 
 
 A renewal of fire ; 
 
 Though we it, for the All-powerful, 
 
 Then cometh ere dawn 
 
 May not possess, 
 
 The eastern v.dnd, 
 
 Must cede our realm. 
 
 Frost bitter cold, 
 
 Yet hath he not done rightly, 
 
 Ever fire or dart ; 
 
 That he hath struck us down 
 
 Some hard torment 
 
 To the fiery abyss 
 
 They must have, 
 
 Of the hot hell, 
 
 It was wrought for them in punishment, 
 
 Bereft us of heaven's kingdom, 
 
 Their world (life) was changed : 
 
 Hath it decreed 
 
 For their sinful course 
 
 With mankind 
 
 He fiUed hell with the apostates. 
 
 To people. 
 
 The angels continued to hold 
 
 That of sorrows is to me the greatest, 
 
 The heights of heaven's kingdom, 
 
 That Adam shall, 
 
 Those who ere God's pleasure executed ; 
 
 Who of earth was wrought. 
 
 The others lay fiends in the fire. 
 
 My strong 
 
 Who ere had had so much 
 
 Seat possess ; 
 
 Strife with their Euler : 
 
 Be to him in delight 
 
 Torment they suffer. 
 
 And we endure this torment, — 
 
 Burning heat intense, 
 
 Misery in this hell. 
 
 In midst of hell 
 
 Oh ! had I power of my hands, 
 
 Firo and broad flames ; 
 
 And might one season 
 
 So also the bitter reeks, 
 
 Be without, 
 
 Smoke and darkness, 
 
 Be one winter's space, 
 
 For that they the service 
 
 Then with this host I 
 
 Of God neglected. 
 
 But around me lie 
 
 Them their folly deceived ; 
 
 Iron bonds ; 
 
 The angel's pride 
 
 Presseth this cord of chain, — 
 
 They would not the All-powerful' s 
 
 I am powerless ! 
 
 Word revere. 
 
 Me have so hard 
 
 Tliey had great torment : 
 
 Tlae clasps of hell. 
 
 Then were they fallen 
 
 So firmly grasped ! 
 
 To the fiery abyss. 
 
 Here is a vast fire 
 
 Into the hot hell. 
 
 Above and underneath. 
 
 Through frenzy 
 
 Never did I see 
 
 And through pride ; 
 
 A loathier landskip ; 
 
 Tliey sought another land. 
 
 The flame abateth not ; 
 
 That was void of light 
 
 Hot over heU. 
 
 And was full of flame, 
 
 Me hath the clasping of these rings, 
 
 A great receptacle of fire. 
 
 This hard-polished band, 
 
 Ccedmon, hy Benjamin Thorpe. — Ahout 660. 
 
 Impeded in my course, 
 Debarred mo from my way ; 
 
 
 My feet are bound, 
 
 
 3.— SATAN'S SPEECH. 
 
 My hands manacled ; 
 Of these hell-doors aro 
 
 Sat^n harangued. 
 
 The ways obstructed, 
 
 Sorrowing spake, 
 
 So that with aught I cannot 
 
 He who hell henceforth 
 
 From these limb-bonds escape ; 
 
 Should rule, 
 
 About me lie 
 
 Govern the abyss. 
 
 Of hard iron 
 
 He was erst God's angel, 
 
 Forged with heat. 
 
 Fair in heaven, 
 
 Huge gratings, 
 
 Until him his mind urged, 
 
 With which me God 
 
 And his pride 
 
 Hath fastened by the neck. 
 
 Most of all, 
 
 Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind, 
 
 That he would not 
 
 And that knew also 
 
 The Lord of host's 
 
 The Lord of hosts, 
 
 Word revere. 
 
 That should us, through Adam, 
 
 Boiled Avithin him 
 
 Evil befall 
 
 His thought about his heart. 
 
 About the realm of heaven, 
 
 Hot was without him 
 
 Where I had power of my bauds. 
 
C-EDMON.] 
 
 THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. [First Period.— ^rom the 
 
 But we now suffer chastisement in hell, 
 
 Which is darkness and heat, — 
 
 Grim, bottomless ; 
 
 God hath us himself 
 
 Swept into these swart mists, 
 
 Thus he cannot us accuse of any sin 
 
 That we against him in the land framed e\al ; 
 
 Yet hath he deprived us of the light, 
 
 Cast us into the greatest of all torments : 
 
 We may not for this execute vengeance, 
 
 Eeward him with aught of hostility, 
 
 Because he hath bereft us of the light. 
 
 He hath now devised a world 
 
 Where he hath wrought man 
 
 After his own likeness. 
 
 With whom he will re-people 
 
 The kingdom of heaven with pure souls ; 
 
 Therefore must we strive zealously 
 
 That we on Adam, if we ever may. 
 
 And likewise on his offspring, our wrongs 
 repair. 
 
 Corrupt him there in his will. 
 
 If we may it in any way devise. 
 
 Now I have no confidence farther in this bright 
 state. 
 
 That which he seems long destined to enjoy. 
 
 That bliss with his angel's power. 
 
 We cannot that ever obtain. 
 
 That we the mighty God's mind weaken ; 
 
 Let us avert it now from the children of men. 
 
 That heavenly kingdom, now we may not 
 have it ; 
 
 Let us so do that they forfeit his favour, 
 
 That they pervert that which he with his word 
 commanded. 
 
 Then with them will he be wroth in mind. 
 
 Will cast them from his favor ; 
 
 Then shall they seek this heU, 
 
 And these grim depths ; 
 
 Then may we them have to ourselves as vassals 
 
 The children of men in this fast durance. 
 Begin we now ^about the warfare to con- 
 sult : — 
 
 If to any follower I 
 
 Princely treasures 
 
 Gave of old. 
 
 While we in that good realm 
 
 Happy sat, 
 
 And in our seats had sway, 
 
 Then me he never, at time more precious, 
 
 Could with recompense 
 
 My gift repay ; 
 
 If in return for it he would 
 
 (Any of my followers) 
 
 Be my supporter. 
 
 So that up from hence he 
 
 Forth might 
 
 Pass through these barriers ; 
 
 And had power with him, ' 
 
 That he with wings 
 
 Might fly,— 
 
 Revolve in cloud, — 
 
 To where stand wrought 
 
 Adam and Eve, 
 
 On earth's kingdom. 
 
 With weal encircled : — 
 
 And we are hither cast 
 
 Into this deep den. 
 
 Now with the Lord are they 
 
 Far higher in esteem. 
 
 And may for themselves that weal possess 
 
 That we in heaven's kingdom 
 
 Should have, — 
 
 Our realm by right : 
 
 This counsel is decreed 
 
 For mankind. 
 
 That to me is in my mind so painful, 
 
 Rueth in my thought. 
 
 That they heaven' s«kingdom 
 
 For ever shall possess. 
 
 If any of you may 
 
 With aught so turn it. 
 
 That they God's word 
 
 Through guile forsake, 
 
 Soon shall they be the more hateful to him ; 
 
 If they break his commandment, 
 
 Then will he be incensed against them : 
 
 Afterwards will the weal be turned from them, 
 
 And for them punishment will be prepared, — 
 
 Some hard lot of evil." 
 
 Ccedmon, hy Benjamin Thorpe. — About 660. 
 
 4.— THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. 
 
 Began then himself equip 
 
 The apostate from God, 
 
 Prompt in arms. 
 
 He had a crafty soul ; 
 
 On his head the chief his helmet set, 
 
 And it full strongly bound, 
 
 Braced it with clasps. 
 
 He many speeches knew 
 
 Of guileful words ; 
 
 "Wheeled up from thence, 
 
 Departed through the doors of hell. 
 
 (He had a strong mind) 
 
 Lion-like in air, 
 
 In hostile mood. 
 
 Dashed the fire aside 
 
 With a fiend's power ; 
 
 Would secretly 
 
 The subjects of the Lord. 
 
 With wicked deeds, 
 
 Men deceive. 
 
 Mislead and pervert. 
 
 That they might become hateful to Gofl. 
 
 He journeyed then. 
 
 Through his fiend's might. 
 
 Until he Adam 
 
 On earth's kingdom, 
 
 The creature of God's hand. 
 
 Found ready, 
 
 Wisely wrought. 
 
 And his wife also. 
 
 Fairest woman ; 
 
 Just as they knew many things 
 
 Of good to frame, 
 
 Which to them, his disciples. 
 
 The Creator of mankind 
 
 Had himself pointed out ; 
 
 And by them two 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. 
 
 L(J.a;DMON 
 
 Trees stood, 
 
 To where he knew the liandiwork 
 
 That were without 
 
 Of heaven's King to be : 
 
 Laden with fruit, — 
 
 Began then ask him. 
 
 With produce covered ; 
 
 With his first word 
 
 As them the powerful God, 
 
 The enemy with lies, 
 
 High King- of Heaven, 
 
 " Gravest thou aught. 
 
 With his hands had set, 
 
 Adam, up with God ? 
 
 That there the child of man 
 
 I on his errand hither have ~ 
 
 Might choose 
 
 Journeyed from far ; 
 
 Of good and evil, — 
 
 Nor was it now long since 
 
 Every man 
 
 That with himseK I sat, [journey, 
 
 Of weal and woe. 
 
 When he me bade to travel on this 
 
 The fruit was not alike; 
 
 Bade that of this fruit thou eat. 
 
 The one so pleasant was, 
 
 Said that thy power and strength 
 
 Fair and beautiful, 
 
 And thine understanding 
 
 Soft and delicate, — 
 
 Would become greater, 
 
 That was Life's tree ; 
 
 And thy body 
 
 He might for ever 
 
 Brighter far, — 
 
 After live. 
 
 Thy form more beauteous ; 
 
 Be in the world. 
 
 Said that to thee of my treasure need 
 
 Who of this fruit tasted, 
 
 Would not be in the world. 
 
 So that him after that 
 
 Now thou hast willingly 
 
 Age might not impair, 
 
 Wrought the favor 
 
 Nor grievous sickness ; 
 
 Of heaven's King, 
 
 But he might ever be 
 
 Gratefully served 
 
 Forthwith in joys. 
 
 Thy Master, 
 
 And his life hold ; 
 
 Hast ma,de thee dear with thy Lord 
 
 The favor of heaven's King 
 
 I heard him thy deeds and words 
 
 Here in the world have. 
 
 Praise in his brightness, 
 
 To him should be decreed 
 
 And speak about thy life. 
 
 Honours in the high heaven 
 
 So must thou execute 
 
 When he goeth hence. 
 
 What hither, into this land, 
 
 Then was the other 
 
 His angels bring. 
 
 Utterly black, 
 
 In the world are broad 
 
 Dim and dark, — 
 
 Green places. 
 
 That was Death's tree. 
 
 And God ruleth 
 
 Which much of bitter bare. 
 
 In the highest 
 
 Both must know 
 
 Eealm of heaven. 
 
 Every mortal. 
 
 The All-powerful above 
 
 Evil and good ; 
 
 WiU not the trouble 
 
 Waned in this world, 
 
 Have himseK 
 
 He in pain must ever, 
 
 That on this journey he should come, 
 
 With sweat and with sorrows, 
 
 The Lord of men ; 
 
 After Kve 
 
 But he his vassal sendeth 
 
 Whoe'er should taste 
 
 To thy speech. 
 
 Of what on this tree grew ; 
 
 Now biddeth he thee, by messages, 
 
 Age should from him take 
 
 Science to learn ; 
 
 Of bold deeds 
 
 Perform thou zealously 
 
 The joys, and of dominion. 
 
 His message. 
 
 And death be him allotted. 
 
 Take thee this fruit in hand. 
 
 A little while he should 
 
 Bite it and taste ; 
 
 His life enjoy, 
 
 In thy breast thou shalt be expanded 
 
 Then seek of lands 
 
 Thy form the fairer ; 
 
 With fire the swartest ; 
 
 To thee hath sent the powerful God, 
 
 To fiends should minister 
 
 Thy Lord, this help 
 
 Where of all perils is the greatest 
 
 From heaven's kingdom." 
 
 To people for a long season. 
 
 Adam spake. 
 
 That the foe weU knew ; 
 
 Where on earth he stood, 
 
 The devil's dark messenger, 
 
 A self-created man. 
 
 Who warred with God, 
 
 " When I the Lord of triumph, 
 
 Cast him then into a worm's body, 
 
 The mighty God, 
 
 And then twined about 
 
 Heard speak 
 
 The tree of death. 
 
 With strong voice ; 
 
 Through devil's craft. 
 
 And He me here standing bade 
 
 There took of the fruit, 
 
 Hold His commandments • 
 
 And again tm*ned him thence 
 
 And me gave this bride, 
 
C23DMON.J 
 
 THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. [First Period— :From the 
 
 This wife of beauteous mien ; 
 
 And me bade bewaro 
 
 That in the tree of death 
 
 I were not deceived, 
 
 Too much seduced : 
 
 He said that the swart hell 
 
 Should inhabit 
 
 He who in his heart aught 
 
 Should admit of sin. [v/ith lies, 
 
 I know not (for thou may'st come 
 
 Through dark design) 
 
 That thou art the Lord's 
 
 Messenger from heaven ; 
 
 Nay, I cannot of thy orders, 
 
 Of thy words, nor courses. 
 
 Aught understand, — 
 
 Of thy journey, nor of thy sajdngs. 
 
 I know what He himself commanded me, 
 
 Our Preserver, 
 
 When Him last I saw ; 
 
 He bade me His words revere 
 
 And well observe, 
 
 Execute His instructions. 
 
 Thou art not like 
 
 To any of His angels 
 
 That I before have seen, 
 
 Nor showest thou me 
 
 Any token 
 
 "Which He to me in pledge 
 
 Hath sent. 
 
 My Lord, through favor ; 
 
 Therefore I thee cannot obey. — 
 
 But thou mayest take thee hence. 
 
 I have firm trust 
 
 On the Almighty God above, 
 
 Who wrought me with his arms 
 
 Here with his hands ; 
 
 He can me, from His high realm, 
 
 Gift with each good. 
 
 Though he send not his vassal." 
 
 He turned him, wroth of mood, 
 To where he saw the woman 
 On earth's realm, 
 Eve standing. 
 Beautifully formed ; 
 Said that the greatest ills 
 To all their offspring 
 From thenceforth 
 In the world would be. 
 " I know that the supreme God with you 
 Will be incensed. 
 As I to him this message 
 Myself relate, 
 
 When I from this journey come 
 Over a long way ; 
 That ye will not well execute 
 Whatsoever errand he 
 From the east hither 
 At this time sendeth. 
 Now must he come himself 
 For your answer. 
 His errand may not 
 His messenger command ; 
 Therefore know I that he with you will 
 
 be angry ; 
 The Mighty, in his mind. 
 
 If thou nathloss wilt, 
 
 A willing woman, 
 
 My words obey. 
 
 Then from this mayst thou amply 
 
 Counsel devise. 
 
 Consider in thy breast. 
 
 That from you both thou mayst 
 
 Ward off punishment, 
 
 As I shall show thee. 
 
 Eat of this fruit, 
 
 Then will thine eyes become so clear 
 
 That thou mayst so widely 
 
 Over all the world 
 
 See afterwards. 
 
 And the throne of himself, 
 
 Thy Lord, and have 
 
 His grace henceforward. 
 
 Thou mightest Adam 
 
 Afterwards rule. 
 
 If thou his affection have, 
 
 And he trust in thy words. 
 
 If thou soothly say to him 
 
 What monitions thou thyseK 
 
 Hast in thy breast, 
 
 AVlierefore thou God's mandate 
 
 By persuasion hast performed ; 
 
 He the hateful strife, 
 
 The evil answer. 
 
 Will abandon 
 
 In his breast's recess ; 
 
 So we both to him 
 
 One purpose speak : 
 
 Urge thou him zealously. 
 
 That he may follow thy instruction, 
 
 Lest ye hateful to God, 
 
 Your Lord, 
 
 Should become. 
 
 If thou perfect this attempt, — 
 
 Best of women, — 
 
 I will conceal from your Lord 
 
 That to me so much calumny 
 
 Adam spake, 
 
 Evil words, 
 
 Accuseth me of untruths, 
 
 Sayeth that I am anxious for mischiefs, 
 
 A servant of the malignant, 
 
 Not God's angel. 
 
 But I so readily know all 
 
 The angels' origins, 
 
 The roofs of the high heavens, — 
 
 So long was the while 
 
 That I diligently 
 
 Served God, » 
 
 Throagh faithful mind. 
 
 My Master, 
 
 The Lord himself, — 
 
 I am not like a devil." 
 
 He led her thus with lies, 
 
 And with wiles instigated 
 
 The woman to that evil, 
 
 Until began within her 
 
 The serpent's counsel boil 
 
 (To her a weaker mind had 
 
 The Creator assigned), 
 
 So that she her mood 
 
 Began relax, after these allurements ; 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. [C^dmon. 
 
 f Therefore she of the enemy received, 
 
 And all day urged him 
 
 Against the Lord's word, 
 
 To that dark deed. 
 
 Of death's tree ^ 
 
 That they their Lord's 
 
 The noxious fruit. 
 
 Will break. 
 
 Then tcJ her spouse she spake : — 
 
 The fell envoy stood by. 
 
 " Adam, my lord, 
 
 Excited his desires, 
 
 This fruit is so sweet. 
 
 And with wiles urged him, 
 
 Mild in the breast ; 
 
 Dangerously followed him. "^ — 
 
 And this bright messenger, 
 
 The foe was full near 
 
 God's angel good. 
 
 Who on that dire journey 
 
 I by his habit see 
 
 Had fared 
 
 That he is the envoy 
 
 Over a long way : 
 
 Of our Lord, 
 
 Nations he studied 
 
 Heaven's King; 
 
 Into that great perdition 
 
 His favour it is for us 
 
 Men to cast. 
 
 Better to gain 
 
 To corrupt and to mislead, 
 
 Than his aversion. 
 
 That they God's loan. 
 
 If thou to him this day 
 
 The Almighty's gift, 
 
 Spake aught of harm, 
 
 Might forfeit, 
 
 Yet will ho it forgive, 
 
 The power of heaven's kingdom ; 
 
 If we to him gbedience 
 
 For the hell-miscreant 
 
 WiU show. 
 
 Well knew 
 
 What shall profit thee such hrieful strife 
 
 That they God's ire 
 
 With thy Lord's messenger ? 
 
 Must have, 
 
 To us is his favor needful ; 
 
 And hell-torment. — 
 
 He may bear our errands 
 
 The torturing punishment, — 
 
 To the All-powerful, 
 
 Needs receive. 
 
 Heavenly King. 
 
 Since they God's command 
 
 I can see from thence 
 
 Had broken. 
 
 Where He himself sitteth, 
 
 What time he (the fiend) seduced, 
 
 That is south-east. 
 
 With lying words. 
 
 With bliss encircled. 
 
 To that evil counsel 
 
 Him who formed this world ; 
 
 The beauteous woman. 
 
 I see his angels 
 
 Of females fairest. 
 
 Encompass him 
 
 That she after his will spake, 
 
 With feathery wings, 
 
 Was as a help to him 
 
 Of all folks greatest, 
 
 To seduce God's handiwork. 
 
 j Of bands most joyous. 
 
 Then she to Adam spake — 
 
 Who could to me 
 
 Fairest of women — 
 
 Such perception give 
 
 Full oft, 
 
 If now it 
 
 Till in the man began 
 
 God did not send, 
 
 His mind to turn. 
 
 Heaven's Euler? 
 
 So that he trusted to the promise 
 
 I can hear from far. 
 
 Which to him the woman 
 
 ' And so widely see, 
 
 Said in words : 
 
 Through the whole world, 
 
 Yet did she it through faithful mind, — 
 
 Over the broad Creation ; 
 
 Knev*^ not that hence so many ills, 
 
 I can the joy of the firmament 
 
 Sinful woes. 
 
 Hear in heaven ; 
 
 Must follow 
 
 ; It became light to me in mind, 
 
 To mankind. 
 
 From without and from within. 
 
 Because she took in mind 
 
 After the fruit I tasted. 
 
 That she the hostile envoy's 
 
 I now have of it, 
 
 Suggestions would obey. 
 
 Here in my hand. 
 
 But weened that she the favor 
 
 I My good lord, — 
 
 Of heaven's King 
 
 I will fain give it thee ; 
 
 Wrought with the words 
 
 I believe that it 
 
 Which she to the ma,n 
 
 Came from God, 
 
 Eevealed, as it were a token. 
 
 Brought by his command, 
 
 And vowed them true ; 
 
 From what this messenger told me 
 
 Till that to Adam, 
 
 With cautious words ; 
 
 Within his breast 
 
 It is not like to aught 
 
 His mind was changed, 
 
 Else on earth : 
 
 And his heart began 
 
 But, — so this messenger sayeth, — 
 
 Turn to her will. 
 
 That it directly cam.e from God." 
 
 He from the woman took 
 
 She spake to him oft. 
 
 Hell and death, 
 
C^DMON.] THE SOUL IN DESPAIE. [First Period.— From the 
 
 Though it was not so called, 
 
 Joyful that they may : 
 
 But it the name of fruit 
 
 But the stark storm, 
 
 Must have ; 
 
 When it string comes 
 
 Yet was it death's dream, 
 
 From north and east. 
 
 And the devil's artifice, 
 
 It quickly takes away 
 
 Hell and death, 
 
 The beauty of the rose. 
 
 And man's perdition, 
 
 And also the northern storm, 
 
 The destruction of human kind, 
 
 Constrained by necessity, 
 
 That they made for food 
 
 ' That it is strongly agitated 
 
 Unholy fruit ! 
 
 Lashes the spacious sea 
 
 Thus it came within him, 
 
 Against the shore. 
 
 Touched at his heart. 
 
 Alas ! that on earth 
 
 Laughed then and played 
 
 Aught of permanent 
 
 The bitter-purposed messenger. 
 
 Work in the world 
 
 Ccedmon, hy Benjamin Tlwrpe. — About 6G0. 
 
 Does not ever remain." 
 
 
 King Alfred's Metres of Boethius. — About 880 
 
 5.— THE SOUL IN DESPATT?,. 
 
 
 Alas ! in how grim 
 
 7.— THE ONLY EEST. 
 
 And how bottomless 
 A gulf labours 
 The darkling mind, 
 When it the strong 
 Storms lash 
 
 Well, children of men. 
 Throughout the middle earth ! 
 Let every one of the free 
 Aspire to the 
 
 Of worldly cares ; 
 
 When it, thus contending, 
 
 Its proper light 
 
 Once forsakes, 
 
 And in woe forgets 
 
 The everlasting joy, 
 
 And rushes into the darkness 
 
 Of this world, 
 
 Afflicted with cares ! 
 
 Thus has it now befallen 
 
 This my mind ; 
 
 Now it no more knows 
 
 Of good for God, 
 
 But lamentations 
 
 Eternal good 
 
 Which we are speaking about, 
 
 And to the felicities 
 
 That we are telling of. 
 
 Let him who is now 
 
 Straitly bound 
 
 With the vain love 
 
 Of this great 
 
 Middle earth. 
 
 Also quickly seek for himself 
 
 Full freedom, 
 
 That he may arrive 
 
 At the felicities 
 
 For the good of souls ; 
 
 For the. external world : 
 To it is need of comfort. 
 
 For that is the only rest • 
 Of all labours ; 
 The desirable haven 
 
 King Alfred's Metres of Boethius.— About 8S0. 
 
 To the lofty ships 
 
 
 Of our mind, — 
 
 
 A great tranquil station ; 
 
 6.— NOTHING ON EAETH PEEMANENT. 
 
 That is the only haven 
 
 
 Which ever is, 
 
 Then Wisdom again 
 
 After the waves 
 
 His treasury of words unlocked, 
 
 Of our labours, 
 
 Sung various maxims, 
 
 And every storm, 
 
 And thus expressed himseK : — 
 
 Always calm. 
 
 " When the Sun 
 
 That is the refuge, 
 
 Clearest shines. 
 
 And the only comfort, 
 
 Serenest in the heaven, 
 
 Of aU the wretched, 
 
 Quickly are obscured 
 
 After these 
 
 Over the earth 
 
 Worldly labours. 
 
 All other stars ; 
 
 That is a pleasant place. 
 
 Because their brightness is not 
 
 After these miseries. 
 
 Brightness at all, 
 
 To possess. 
 
 Compared with 
 
 But I well know, 
 
 The Sun's light. 
 
 That neither golden vessels, 
 
 When mild blows 
 
 Nor heaps of silver. 
 
 The south and western wind 
 
 Nor precious stones. 
 
 Under the clouds, 
 
 Nor the wealth of the middle earth, 
 
 Then quickly grow 
 
 The eyes of the mind 
 
 The flowers of the field, 
 
 
 Ever enlighten ; 
 
earliest Time? to 1400.] 
 
 AN OLD IVL\N'S SOBEOW, 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Nor aught improve 
 Their sharjpness 
 To the contemplation 
 Of true felicities ; 
 But they rather 
 The mind's eyes 
 Of every man 
 
 Make bhnd in their breasts, 
 Than make them clearer. 
 For everything 
 That in this present 
 Life delights 
 Are poor 
 Earthly things, 
 Ever fleeting ! 
 But wonderful is that 
 Splendor and brightness 
 Which every one of things 
 V7ith splendour enlightens, 
 And afterwards 
 Entirely rules. 
 The Euler wiUs not 
 That our souls 
 Shall perish ; 
 But he himself will thera 
 With a ray illumine, — 
 The Ruler of life ! 
 If, then, any man, 
 With the clear eyes 
 Of his mind, may 
 Ever behold 
 The clear brightness 
 Of heaven's light. 
 Then will he say 
 That the briglitness of the sun 
 Is darkness ; 
 So every man, 
 Compared with 
 That great light 
 Of God Almighty, 
 That is to every soul 
 Eternal without end. 
 To blessed souls. 
 King Alfred's Metres of Boethius. — About 880. 
 
 Discover to the skies 
 The right path 
 To the eternal region 
 Of our souls. 
 
 King Alfred's Metres of Boethius.- 
 
 -About 880. 
 
 8.— THE HAPPY MAN. 
 
 Lo ! now on earth is ho 
 
 In every thing 
 
 A happy man. 
 
 If he may see 
 
 The clearest 
 
 Heaven- shining stream, 
 
 The noble fountain 
 
 Of all good ; 
 
 And of himself 
 
 The swarthy mist, — 
 
 The darkness of the mind, — 
 
 Can dis|>el ! 
 
 We will, as yet, 
 
 With God's help. 
 
 With old and fabulous 
 
 Stories instruct 
 
 Thy mind ; 
 
 That thou the better maycst 
 
 9.— THE SAILING OF BEOWULF. 
 
 Famous was Beowulf ; 
 
 Wide sprang the blood 
 
 Which the heir of the Shylds 
 
 Shed on the lands. 
 
 So shall the bracelets 
 
 Purchase endeavor, 
 
 Freely presented 
 
 As by thy fathers ; 
 
 And all the young men, 
 
 As is their custom. 
 
 Cling round their leader 
 
 Soon as the war comes. 
 
 Lastly, thy people 
 
 The deeds shall bepraiso 
 
 Which their men have perfonned. 
 
 When the Shyld had awaited 
 
 The time he should stay, 
 
 Came many to face 
 
 On the billows so free. 
 
 His ship they bore out 
 
 To the brim of the ocean, 
 
 And his comrades sat down 
 
 At their oars as he bade : 
 
 A word could control 
 
 His good fellows, the Shylds. 
 
 There, at the Hythe, 
 
 Stood his old father. 
 
 Long to look after him. 
 
 The band of his comrades, 
 
 Eager for outfit. 
 
 Forward the Atheling. 
 
 Then all the people 
 
 Cheered their loved lord. 
 
 The giver of bracelets. 
 
 On the deck of the ship 
 
 He stood by the mast. 
 
 There was a treasure, 
 
 Won from afar. 
 
 Laden on board. 
 
 Ne'er did I hear 
 
 Of a vessel appointed 
 
 Better for battle, 
 
 With weapons of war, 
 
 And waistcoats of wool. 
 
 And axes and swords. 
 
 Modernized by W. Taylor. — About 900. 
 
 10.— AN OLD MAN'S SOEEOW. 
 
 Careful, sorrowing, 
 
 He seeth in his son's bower 
 
 The wine-hall deserted. 
 
 The resort of the wind noiseless. 
 
 The knight sleepeth ; 
 
 The warrior, in darkness. 
 
 There is not there 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 [FiKST Period. — Fror^i the 
 
 Noise of the harp, 
 Joy in the dwelling's, 
 As there was before. 
 Then departcth he into song-s, 
 Singeth a lay of sorrow, 
 One after one ; — 
 All seemed to him too wide, 
 The plains and the dwelling-place. 
 Modernized hy John M. Kemole. — About 900. 
 
 II.— GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 The night-helm grew dusky, 
 Dark over the vassals ; 
 The court all rose, 
 The mingled-haired 
 Old Scylding 
 Would visit his bed ; 
 The Ge^t wished the 
 Renowned warrior to rest 
 Immeasurably well. 
 Soon him the foreigner. 
 Weary of his journey. 
 The hall-thane guided forth. 
 Who, after a fitting manner, 
 Provided all that 
 The thane needed. 
 Whatsoever that day 
 The sailors over the deep 
 Should have. 
 
 The magnanimous warrior i-ested. 
 The house rose aloft. 
 Carved and variegated with gold ; 
 The stranger slept therein 
 Until the pale raven. 
 Blithe of heart, 
 Announced the joy of heaven. 
 The bright sun, to be come. 
 Modernized hy John M. Kemhle. — Ahoid 900. 
 
 12.— SUMMEE IS I-CUMEN IN.* 
 
 Summer is i-cumen in, 
 Llude sing cuccu ; 
 Groweth sed, and bloweth mod, 
 And springth the wde nu. 
 Sing cuccu, cuccu. 
 
 Awe bleteth after lomb, 
 
 Lhouth after calue eu ; 
 
 BuUuc sterteth. bucke verteth ; 
 
 Murio sing cuccu, 
 
 Cuccu, cuccu. 
 Wei singes thu cuccu, 
 Ne swik thu nauer nu ; 
 
 Sing cuccu nu, 
 
 Sing cuccu. 
 
 Alout 900. 
 
 * This is the most aiscient English sonp that appears 
 in onr manuscripts with the musical notes annexed. 
 The music is of that species of composition which is 
 called Canon in the Unison, and is supposed to be of 
 the fifteenth century.— Waeton's "History of English 
 Poetry." 
 
 The Song of Summer. 
 
 Summer is a coming in. 
 
 Loud sing, cuckow ; 
 Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, 
 And springeth the wood now. 
 
 Sing, cuckow, cuckow. 
 
 Ewe bleateth after lamb, 
 
 Loweth calf after cow, 
 
 Bullock starteth, buck depart eth, 
 
 Merry sing, cuckow, 
 
 Cuckow, cuckow. 
 Well singeth the cuckow, 
 Nor cease to sing now ; 
 
 Sing cuckow, now, 
 
 Sing cuckow. 
 
 Modernized hy Warton. — About 1785. 
 
 13.— THE MUSTER FOR THE FIRST 
 CRUSADE. 
 
 A good pope was thilk time at Rome, that 
 
 hecht Urban, 
 Tha.t preached of the creyserie, and crej'sed 
 
 mony man. 
 Therefore he send preachers through all 
 
 Christendom, 
 And himself a-this-side the mounts and to 
 
 France come ; 
 And preached so fast, and with so great 
 
 wisdom. 
 That about in each lend the cross fast me 
 
 nome. 
 In the year of grace a thousand and sixteen. 
 This great creyserie began, that long was 
 
 i-seen. 
 Of so much folk nyme the cross, ne to the 
 
 holy land go, 
 Me ne see no time before, ne suth nathemo. 
 For seK women ne beleved, that they ne wend 
 
 thither fast, 
 Ne young folk [that] feeble were, the while 
 
 the voyage y-last. 
 So that Robert Curthose thitherward his 
 
 heart cast, 
 And, among other good knights, ne thought 
 
 not be the last. 
 He wends here to Englond for the creyserie, 
 And laid William his brother to wed Nor- 
 mandy, 
 And borrowed of him thereon an hundred 
 
 thousand mark, 
 To wend with to the holy lend, and that was 
 
 somedeal stark. * * 
 The Earl Robert of Flanders mid him wend 
 
 also, 
 And Eustace Earl of Boulogne, and mony 
 
 good knight thereto. 
 There wend the Duke Geoffrey, and the Earl 
 
 Baldwin there, 
 And the other Baldwin also, that noble men 
 
 were. 
 And kings syth all three of the holy lond. 
 The Earl Stephen de Blois wend eke, that 
 
 great power had on hond, 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 WHAT IS HEAVEN"? 
 
 [ElCHARD EOLLE. 
 
 And Eobert's sister Curtliose espoused had to 
 
 wive. 
 There wend yet other knights, the best that 
 
 were alive ; 
 As the Earl of St GUes, the good Raymond, 
 And Niel the king's brother of France, and 
 
 the Earl Beanmond, 
 And Tancred his nephew, and the bishop also 
 Of Podys, and Sir Hugh the great earl 
 
 thereto ; 
 And folk also without tale, of all this west 
 I end 
 
 Of Englond and of France, thitherward gan 
 
 wend, 
 Of Normandy, of Denmark, of Norway, of 
 
 Britain, 
 Of "Wales and of Ireland, of Gaacony and of 
 
 Spain, 
 Of Provence and of Saxony, and of Alemain, 
 Of Scotlond and of Greece, of Eome and 
 
 Aquitain. * * 
 
 Robeyi: of Gloucester. — About 1260. 
 
 14. 
 
 * 
 
 -THE INTEEVIEW OF VORTIGEEN 
 WITH EOWEN. 
 
 Hengist that day did his might. 
 That all were glad, king and knight. 
 And as they were best in glading. 
 And well cup-shotten, knight and king. 
 Of chamber Eowenen so gent. 
 Before the kiag in hall she went. 
 A cup with wine she had in hand, 
 And her attire was well farand. 
 Before the king on knee set, 
 And in her language she him gret 
 ' Laverd king, wassail ! ' said she. 
 The king asked. What should be. 
 On that language the king ne couth 
 A knight her language lerid in youth, 
 Bregh hight that knight, bom Breton, 
 That lerid the language of Saxon. 
 This Bregh was the latimer. 
 What she said told Vortiger. 
 ' Sir,' Bregh said, ' Eowen you greets. 
 And king calls and lord you leets. 
 This is their custom and their gest. 
 When they are at the ale or feast, 
 Hk man that loves vrhere him think. 
 Shall say Wassail ! and to him drink. 
 He that bids shall say. Wassail ! 
 The tother shall say again, Drinhhail ! 
 That says Wassail drinks of the cup, 
 Kissing his fellow he gives it up. 
 Drinkhail he says, and drinks thereof, ' 
 Kissing him in bourd and skof.' 
 The king said, as the knight gan ken, 
 ' Drinkhail,' smiling on Eowenen. 
 Eowen drank as her list. 
 And gave the king, syne him kissed. 
 There was the first wassail in dede. 
 And that first of fame gaed. 
 Of that wassail men told great tale. 
 And wassail when they were at ale. 
 
 And drinkhail to them that drank, 
 
 Thus was wassail ta'en to thank. 
 
 Fell sithes that maidin ying 
 
 Wassailed and kissed the king. 
 
 Of body she was right avenant, 
 
 Of fair colour with sweet semblant. 
 
 Her attire full well it seemed, ~ ~ 
 
 Mervelik the king she queemed. 
 
 Of our measure was he glad. 
 
 For of that maidin he wax all mad. 
 
 Drunkenness the fiend wrought, 
 
 Of that paen was all his thought. 
 
 A mischance that time him led, 
 
 He asked that paen for to wed. 
 
 Hengist would not draw o lite, 
 
 Bot granted him all so tite. 
 
 And Hors his brother consented soon. 
 
 Her friends said, it were to done. 
 
 They asked the king to give her Kent, 
 
 In dowery to take of rent. 
 
 Upon that maidin his heart was cast ; 
 
 That they asked the king made fast. 
 
 I ween the king took her that day, 
 
 And wedded her on paen's lay. 
 
 Robert Be Brunne. — About 1320. 
 
 15.— PEAISE OF GOOD WOMEN. 
 
 Nothing is to man so dear 
 
 As woman's love in good manner. 
 
 A good woman is man's bliss. 
 
 Where her love right and stedfast is. 
 
 There is no solace under heaven, 
 
 Of all that a man may neven. 
 
 That should a man so much glew, 
 
 As a good woman that loveth true : 
 
 Ne dearer is none in God's hurd, 
 
 Than a chaste woman with lovely wurd. 
 
 Robert De Brunne. — About 1320. 
 
 1 6. —WHAT IS HEAVEN? 
 
 Ther is lyf withoute ony deth. 
 
 And ther is youthe without ony elde ; 
 
 And ther is alle manner welthe to welde : 
 
 And ther is rest without ony travaiUe ; 
 
 And ther is pees without ony strife, 
 
 And ther is alle manner lykinge of lyf : — 
 
 And ther is bright somer ever to se. 
 
 And ther is severe wynter in that countrie : — 
 
 And ther is more worshipe and honour, 
 
 Then evere hade kynge other emperour. 
 
 And ther is grete melodic of aungeles songe. 
 
 And ther is prey sing hem amonge. 
 
 And ther is alle manner frendshipe that may be. 
 
 And ther is evere perfect love and charite ; 
 
 And ther is wisdom without folye, 
 
 And ther is honeste without vileneye. 
 
 Al these a man may joyes of hevene call : 
 
 Ac yutte the most sovereyn joye of alle 
 
 Is the sighte of Goddes bright face. 
 
 In wham resteth alle manere grace. 
 
 Richard Rolle. — About 1350. 
 2 
 
Egbert Longlande.j 
 
 MEECY AND TEUTH. 
 
 FFiRST Period. — From the 
 
 17.— MEECY AND TEUTH. 
 
 Out of the west coast, a wench, as me thought, 
 Came walking in the way, to hell- ward she 
 
 looked ; 
 Mercy hight that maid, a meek thing withal, 
 A fuU benign burd, and buxom of speech ; 
 Her sister, as it seemed, came soothly walking, 
 Even out of the east, and westward she looked, 
 A full comely creature. Truth she hight, 
 For the virtue that her followed afeard was 
 
 she never. 
 When these maidens mette, Mercy and Truth, 
 Either axed other of this great wonder, 
 Of the din and of the darkness, &c. 
 
 Robert Longlande. — About 1850. 
 
 18.— COVETOUSNESS. 
 And then came Covetise, can I him not cCe- 
 
 scrive, 
 So hungrily and hoUow Sir Hervey him looked ; 
 He was beetle-browed, and babber-lipped also. 
 With two bleared een as a blind hag, 
 And as a leathern purse lolled his cheeks. 
 Well syder than his chin, they shriveled for eld : 
 And as a bondman of his bacon his beard was 
 
 bedrivelled. 
 With an hood on his head andalousyhat above. 
 And in a tawny tabard of twelve winter age, 
 Al so-torn and baudy, and fuU of lice creeping ; 
 But if that a louse could have loupen the better, 
 She should not have walked on the welt, it 
 
 was so threadbare. 
 
 Robert Longlande. — About 1350. 
 
 19.— THE CANTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Whanne that April with his shoures sote 
 The droughte of March hath perced to the rote, 
 And bathed every veine in swiche licour. 
 Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour ; 
 Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe 
 Enspired hath in every holt and hethe 
 The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
 Hath in the Eam his halfe cours yronne, 
 And smale foules maken melodic, 
 That slepen alle night with open eye, 
 So priketh hem nature in hir corages ; 
 Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 
 And palmeres for to seken strange strondes. 
 To serve halwes couthe in sondry londes ; 
 And specially, from every shire's ende 
 Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende, 
 The holy bKsful martyr for to seke, 
 That hem hathholpen, whan that they were seke. 
 
 BefeUe, that, in that seson on a day, 
 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
 Eedy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
 To Canterbury with devoute corage. 
 At night was come into that hostelrie 
 Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 
 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfaUe 
 In felawship, and pUgriraes were they aUe, 
 
 That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wide. 
 And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
 
 And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reSte, 
 So hadde I spoken Avith hem everich on, 
 That I was of hir felaAVship anon. 
 And made forword erly for to rise, 
 To take oure way ther as I you devise. 
 
 But natheles, while I have time and space, 
 Or that I forther in this tale pace, 
 Me thinketh it accordant to reson. 
 To tellen you alle the condition 
 Of eche of hem, so as it semed me, 
 And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; 
 And eke in what araie that they were inne : 
 And at a knight than wol I firste beginne. 
 
 A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the time that he firste began 
 To riden out, he loved chevalrie, 
 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. 
 Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre. 
 And therto hadde he ridden, no man ferre, 
 As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, 
 And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 
 
 At Alisandre he was whan it was wonne. 
 Ful often time he hadde the bord begonne 
 Aboven aUe nations in Pruce. 
 In Lettowe hadde he reysed, and in Euce, 
 No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 
 In Gernade at the siege eke hadde he be 
 Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie. 
 At Leyes was he, and at Satalie, 
 Whan they were wonne ; and in the Grete see 
 At many a noble armee hadde he be. 
 An mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, 
 And foughten for our faith at Tramissene 
 In listes thries, and ay slain his fo. 
 
 This Uke worthy knight hadde ben also 
 Somtime with the lord of Palatie, 
 Agen another hethen in Turkie : 
 And evermore he hadde a sovereine pris. 
 And though that he was worthy he was wise, 
 And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
 He never yet no vilanie ne sayde 
 In alle his lif , unto no manere wight. 
 He was a veray parfit gentil knight. 
 
 But for to tellen you of his araie, 
 His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie. 
 Of fustian he wered a gipon, 
 AUe besmotred with his habergeon, 
 For he was late ycome fro his viage. 
 And wente for to don his pilgrimage. 
 
 With him ther was his sone a yonge Squier, 
 A lover, and a lusty bacheler. 
 With lockes cruU as they were laide in presse. 
 Of twenty yere of age he was I gesse. 
 Of his stature he was of even lengthe, 
 And wonderly deliver, and grete of strengthe. 
 And he hadde be somtime in chevachie, 
 In Flaundres, in Artois, and in Picardie, 
 And borne him wel, as of so litel space. 
 In hope to stonden in his ladies grace. 
 
 Embrouded was he, as it were a medo 
 Alle ful of freshe floures, white and rede. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 [Chaucek. 
 
 Singing he was, or floyting all the day, 
 He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. 
 Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. 
 Wei coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride. 
 He conde songes make, and well endite, 
 Juste and eke dance, and welt)ourtraie and write. 
 So hote he loved, that by nightertale. 
 He slep no more than doth the nightingale. 
 
 Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, 
 And carf before his fader at the table. 
 
 A Yeman hadde he, and servantes no mo 
 At that time, for him luste to ride so ; 
 And he was cladde in cote and hode of grene 
 A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene 
 Under his belt he bare ful thriftily. 
 Wei coude he dresse his takel yemanly : 
 His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe. 
 And in his hond he bare a mighty bowe. 
 
 A not-hed hadde he, with a broune visage. 
 Of wood-craft coude he wel alle the usage. 
 Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracer, 
 And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, 
 And on that other side a gaie daggere, 
 Hameised wel, and sharpe as point of spare : 
 A Cristofre on his breste of silver shene. 
 An home he bare, the baudrik was of grene. 
 A forster was he sothely as I gesse. 
 
 Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
 That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy ; 
 Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; 
 And she was cleped madame Eglentine. 
 Ful wel she sange the service devine, 
 Entuned in hire nose fid swetely ; 
 And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly, 
 After the scole of Stratford atte bowe, 
 For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe. 
 At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle ; 
 She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
 Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. 
 Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 
 Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. 
 In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. 
 Hire over lippe wiped she so clene, 
 That in hire cuppe was no f erthing sene 
 Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 
 Ful semely after hire mete she raught. 
 And sikerly she was of grete disport, 
 And ful plesant, and amiable of port, 
 And peined hire to contrefeten chere 
 Of court, and ben estatelich of manere, 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 
 But for to speken of hire conscience. 
 She was so charitable and so pitous. 
 She wolde wepe if that she saw a mous 
 Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. 
 Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
 With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel brede. 
 But sore wept she if on of hem were dede, 
 Or if men smote it with a yerde smerte : 
 And all was conscience and tendre herte. 
 
 Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was ; 
 Hire nose tretis ; her eyen grey as glas ; 
 Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and red ; 
 But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
 
 It was almost a spanne brode I trowe ; 
 For hardily she was not undergrowe. 
 
 Ful fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware. 
 Of smale coraU aboute hire arm she bare 
 A pair of bedes, gauded aU with grene ; 
 And thereon heng a broche of gold ful shene, 
 On whiche was first y^vriten a crouned A^ 
 And after. Amor vincit omnia. 
 
 Another Nonne also with hire hadde she 
 That was hire chappelline, and Preestes thre. 
 
 A Monk ther was, a fayre for the maistrie, 
 An out-rider, that loved venerie ; 
 A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
 And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel 
 
 here 
 Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere. 
 And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
 Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
 
 The reule of seint Maure and of seint Beneit, 
 Because that it was olde and sondele streit, 
 This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace. 
 And held after the newe world the trace. 
 He yave not of the text a pulled hen, 
 That saith, that hunters ben not holy men ; 
 Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles, 
 Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 
 This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 
 This ilke text held he not worth an oistre. 
 And I say his opinion was good. 
 What shulde he studie, and make himselven 
 
 wood, 
 Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore, 
 Or swinken with his hondes, and laboure, 
 As Austin bit ? how shal the world be served ? 
 Let Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
 Therefore he was a prickasoure a right ; 
 Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight; 
 Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 
 Was aU his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 
 I saw his sieves purfiled at the hond 
 With gris, and that the finest of the lond. 
 And for to fasten his hood under his chinne, 
 He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne : 
 A love-knotte in the greter ende ther was. 
 His hed was balled, and shone as any glas, 
 And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
 His eyen stepe, and rolling in his hed, 
 That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
 His bootes souple, his hors in gret estat. 
 Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 
 He was not pale as a forpined gost. 
 A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
 His palfrey was as broune as is a bery. 
 
 A Frere ther was, a wanton and a mery, 
 A Limitour, a ful solempne man. 
 In all the ordres foure is non that can 
 So moche of daliance and fayre langage. 
 He hadde ymade ful many a mariage 
 Of yonge wimmen, at his owen cost. 
 Until his ordre he was a noble post. 
 Ful wel beloved, and familier was he 
 With frankeleins over all in his contree, 
 
 2# 
 
Chatjces,] 
 
 THE CATEEBUEY TALES. [First Period.— jProm the 
 
 And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun : 
 For he had power of confession, 
 As saide himselfe, more than a ourat, 
 For of his ordre he was licentiat. 
 Ful swetely herde he confession, 
 And plesant was his absolution. 
 He was an esy man to give penance, 
 Ther as he wiste to han a good pitance : 
 For unto a poure ordre for to give 
 Is signe that a man is well yshrive. 
 For if he gave, he dorste make avant. 
 He wiste that a man was repentant. 
 For many a man so harde is of his herte. 
 He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 
 Therefore in stede of weping and praieres, 
 Men mote give silver to the poure freres. 
 
 His tippet was ay farsed ful of knives. 
 And pinnes, for to given fayre wives. 
 And certainly he hadde a mery note. 
 Wei coude he singe and plaien on a rote. 
 Of yeddinges he bare utterly the pris. 
 His nekke was white as the flour de lis. 
 Thereto he strong was as a champioun. 
 And knew wel the tavernes in every toun, 
 And every hosteler and gay tapstere, - 
 Better than a lazar or a beggere. 
 For unto swiche a worthy man as he 
 Accordeth nought, as by his faculte, 
 To haven with sike lazars acquaintance. 
 It is not honest, it may not avance. 
 As for to delen with no swiche pouraille. 
 But all with riche, and sellers of vitaille. 
 
 And over all, ther as profit shuld arise, 
 Curteis he was, and lowly of servise. 
 Ther n'as no man no wher so vertuous. 
 He was the beste begger in all his hous : 
 And gave a certaine ferme for the grant, 
 Non of his brethren came in his haunt. 
 For though a widdewe hadde but a shoo, 
 (So plesant was his In principio) 
 Yet wold he have a ferthing or he went. 
 His pourchas was wel better than his rent. 
 And rage he coude as it hadde ben a whelp, 
 In lovedayes, ther coude he mochel help. 
 For ther was he nat like a cloisterere, 
 With thredbare cope, as is a poure scolere, 
 But he was like a maister or a pope. 
 Of double worsted was his semicope. 
 That round was as a belle out of the presse. 
 Somwhat he lisped for his wantonnesse. 
 To make his English swete upon his tonge ; 
 And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe, 
 His eyen twinkeled in his hed aright, 
 As don the sterres in a frosty night. 
 This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
 In mottelee, and highe on hors he sat, 
 And on his hed a Flaundrish bever hat. 
 His bootes elapsed fayre and fetisly. 
 His resons spake he ful solempnely, 
 Souning alway the encrese of his winning. 
 He wold the see were kept for any thing 
 Betwixen Middleburgh and Orewell. 
 Wel coud he in eschanges sheldes seUe. 
 This worthy man ful wel his wit besette ; 
 
 Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
 So stedefastly didde he his governance, 
 With his bargeines, and with his chevisance. 
 Forsothe he was a worthy man withalle, 
 But soth to sayn, iii'ot how men him calle. 
 
 A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also, 
 That unto logike hadde long ygo. 
 As lene was his hors as is a rake. 
 And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
 But loked holwe, and therto soberly, 
 Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy, 
 For he hadde geten him yet no benefice, 
 Ne was nought worldly to have an office. 
 For him was lever han at his beddes hed 
 Twenty bokes clothed in blake or red, 
 Of Aristotle, and his philosophic. 
 Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie. 
 But all be that he was a philosophre, 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre 
 But all that he might of his frendes hente. 
 On bokes and on lerning he it spente, 
 And besily gan for the soules praie 
 Of hem, that yave him wherwith to scolaie. 
 Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. 
 Not a word spake he more than was nede ; 
 And that was said in forme and reverence. 
 And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. 
 Souning in moral vertue was his speche. 
 And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 
 
 A Sergeant of the Lawe ware and wise, 
 That often hadde yben at the paruis, 
 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
 Discrete he was, and of gret reverence : 
 He semed swiche, his wordes were so wise. 
 Justice he was ful often in assise, 
 By patent, and by pleine commissioun ; 
 For his science, and for his high renoun. 
 Of fees and robes had he many on. 
 So grete a pourchasour was no wher non. 
 All was fee simple to him in effect, 
 His pourchasing might not ben in suspect. 
 No wher so besy a man as he ther n'as. 
 And yet he semed besier than he was. 
 In termes hadde he cas and domes alle. 
 That fro the time of king Will, weren falle. 
 Thereto he coude endite, and make a thing, 
 Ther coude no wight pinche at his writing. 
 And every statute coude he plaine by rote. 
 He rode but homely in a medlee cote. 
 Girt with a seint of silk, with barres smalo 
 Of his array tell I no lenger tale. 
 
 A Frankelein was in this compagnie : 
 White was his berd, as is the dayesie. 
 Of his complexion he was sanguin. 
 Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in win. 
 To liven in delit was ever his wone, 
 For he was Epicure's owen sone, 
 That held opinion, that plein delit 
 Was veraily felicite parfite. 
 An housholder, and that a grete was he ; 
 Seint Julian he was in his contree. 
 His brede, his ale, was alway after on ; 
 A better envyned man was no wher non. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE CANTERBUEY TALES. 
 
 [Chaucer. 
 
 Withouten bake mete never was Ms hous, 
 Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous, 
 It snewed in his hoiis of mete and drinke, 
 Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke. 
 After the sondry sesons of the yere, 
 So changed he his mete and his sjoupere. 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe. 
 And many a breme, and many a luce in stewe. 
 Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were 
 Poinant and sharpe, and redy all his gere. 
 His table dormant in his halle alway 
 Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 
 
 At sessions ther was he lord and sire. 
 Ful often time he was knight of the shire. 
 An anelace and a gipciere all of silk, 
 Heng at his girdel, white as morwe milk. 
 A shereve hadde he ben, and a contour. 
 Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour. 
 
 An Haberdashek, and a Carpenter, 
 A Webbe, a Deter, and a Tapiser, 
 Were alle yclothed in o livere. 
 Of a solempne and grete fratemite. 
 Ful freshe and newe hir gere ypiked was. 
 Hir knives were ychaped not with bras, 
 But all with silver, wrought ful clene and wel, 
 Hir girdeles and hir pouches every del. 
 Wel semed eche of hem a fayre burgeis, 
 To sitten in a gild halle, on the deis. 
 Everich for the wisdom that he can, 
 Was shapelich for to ben an alderman. 
 For catel hadden they ynough and rent. 
 And eke hir wives wolde it wel assent : 
 And elles certainly they were to blame. 
 It is ful fayre to ben ycleped madame, 
 And for to gon to vigiles all before, 
 And have a mantel reaUich ybore. 
 
 A Coke they hadden with hem for the nones. 
 To boil the chikenes and the marie bones, 
 And poudre marchant, tart and galingale. 
 Wel coude he knowe a draught of London ale. 
 He coude roste, and sethe, and broile, and frie, 
 Maken mortrewes, and wel bake a pie. 
 But gret harm was it, as it thoughte me. 
 That on his shinne a mormal hadde he. 
 For blanc manger that made he with the best. 
 
 A Shipman was ther, woned fer by West ; 
 For ought I wote, he was of Dertemouth. 
 He rode upon a rouncie, as he couthe. 
 All in a gouno of f aiding to the knee. 
 A dagger hanging by a las hadde hee 
 About his nekke under his arm adotm. 
 The hote sommer hadde made his hewe al broun. 
 And certainly he was a good felaw. 
 Ful many a draught of win he hadde draw 
 From Burdeux ward, while that the chapmen 
 
 slepe. 
 Of nice conscience toke he no kepe. 
 If that he faught, and hadde the higher hand. 
 By water he sent hem home to every land. 
 But of his craft to reken wel his tides, 
 His stremes and his strandes him besides. 
 His herberwe, his mone, and his lodemanage, 
 Ther was non swiche, from Hull unto Cartage. 
 
 Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake : 
 
 With many a tempest hadde his herd be shake. 
 
 He knew wel alle the havens, as they were. 
 
 Fro Gotland, to the Cape de finistere. 
 
 And every creke in Bretagne and in Spaine : 
 
 His barge ycleped was the Magdelaine. 
 
 With us ther was a Doctour of Phisike, 
 In all this world ne was ther non him like 
 To speke of phisike, and of surgerie : 
 For he was grounded in astronomic. 
 He kept his patient a ful gret del 
 In houres by his magike naturel. 
 Wel coude he f ortunen the ascendent 
 Of his images for his patient. 
 
 He knew the cause of every maladie, 
 Were it of cold, or hote, or moist, or drie. 
 And wher engendred, and of what humour, 
 He was a veray parfite practisour. 
 The cause yknowe, and of his harm the rote, 
 Anon he gave to the sike man his bote. 
 Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries 
 To send him dragges, and his lettuaries. 
 For eche of hem made other for to winne : 
 Hir frendship n'as not ncAve to beginne. 
 Wel knew he the old Esculapius, 
 And Dioscorides, and eke Eufus ; 
 Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien ; 
 Serapion, Basis, and Avicen ; 
 Awerois, Damascene, and C-onstantin ; 
 Bernard and Gatisden, and GUbertin. 
 Of his diete mesurable was he, 
 For it was of no superfluitee 
 But of gret nourishing, and digestible. 
 His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
 In sanguin and in perse he clad was alle 
 Lined with taffata, and with sendalle. 
 And yet he was but esy of dispence : 
 He kepte that he wan in the pestilence. 
 For gold in phisike is a cordial ; 
 Therefore he loved gold in special. 
 
 A good WiF was ther of beside Bathe, 
 But she was som del defe, and that was scathe. 
 Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt, 
 She passed hem of Ipres, and of Gaunt. 
 In all the parish wif ne was ther non, 
 That to the offring before hire shulde gon. 
 And if ther did, certain so wroth was she. 
 That she was out of alle charitee. 
 Hire coverchief s weren ful fine of ground ; 
 I dorste swere, they weyeden a pound : 
 That on the Sonday were upon hire hede. 
 Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet rede, 
 Ful streite yteyed, and shoon ful moist and 
 
 newe. 
 Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew. 
 She was a w^orthy woman all hire live, 
 Housbondesat the chirche dore hadshehadfive, 
 V/ithouten other compagnie in youthe. 
 But therof nedeth not to speke as nouthe. 
 And thries hadde she ben at Jerusaleme. 
 She hadde passed many a strange streme. 
 At Borne she hadde ben, and at Boloine, 
 In Galice at Seint James, and at Coloine. 
 She coude moche of wandring by the way. 
 
Chaucer.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 [First Period. — From tlu 
 
 Gat-tothed was she, sothly for to say. 
 Upon an ambler esily she sat, 
 Twimpled wel, and on hire hede an hat, 
 As brode as is a bokeler, or a targe. 
 A fete mantel about hire hippes large, 
 And on hire fete a pair of sporres sharpe. 
 In felawship wel eoude she laughe and carpe. 
 Of remedies of love she knew parchance, 
 For of that arte she coude the olde dance. 
 
 A good man ther was of religioun, 
 That was a poure Persone of a toun : 
 But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
 His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. 
 And in adversite ful patient : 
 And swiche he was ypreved often sithes. 
 Ful loth wer him to cursen for his tithes, 
 But rather wolde he yeven out of doute. 
 Unto his poure parishens aboute, 
 Of his offring, and eke of his substance. 
 He coude in litel thing have suffisance. 
 Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, 
 But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, 
 In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 
 The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, 
 Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf . 
 This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf , 
 That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
 And this figure he added yet therto. 
 That if gold ruste, what shuld iren do ? 
 For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, 
 No wonder is a lewed man to rust : 
 And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe, 
 To see a shitten shepherd, and clene shepe : 
 Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
 By his clenenesse, how his shepe shulde live. 
 
 He sette not his benefice to hire. 
 And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, 
 And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
 To seken him a chanterie for soules, 
 Or with a brotherhede to be withold : 
 But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
 So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
 He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
 And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
 He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
 Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, 
 But in his teching discrete and benigne. 
 To drawen folk to heven, with fairenesse, 
 By good ensample was his besinesse : 
 But it were any persone obstinat. 
 What so he were of highe or low estat, 
 Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 
 A better preest I trowe that no wher non is. 
 He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
 Ne maked him no spiced conscience, 
 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
 He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. 
 
 With him ther was a Plowman, was his 
 brother. 
 That hadde ylaid of dong ful many a f other. 
 
 A trewe swinker, and a good was he, 
 Living in pees, and parfite charitee. 
 God loved he beste with all his herte 
 At alle times, were it gain or smerte. 
 And than his neighebour right as himselve. 
 He wolde thresh, and therto dike, and delve, 
 For Cristes sake, for every poure wight, 
 Withouten hire, if it lay in his might. 
 
 His tithes paied he ful fayre and wel 
 Both of his propre swinke, and his catel. 
 In a tabard he rode upon a mere. 
 
 Ther was also a Eeve, and a Millere, 
 A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also, 
 A Manciple, and myself, ther n'ere no mo. 
 
 The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 
 Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ; 
 That proved wel, for over all ther he came, 
 At wrastling he wold bere away the ram. 
 He was short shuldered brode, a thikke gnarre, 
 Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre, 
 Or breke it at a renning with his hede. 
 His berd as any sowe or fox was rede. 
 And therto brode, as though it were a spade. 
 Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 
 A wert, and theron stode a tufte of heres, 
 Eede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 
 His nose-thirles blacke were and wide. 
 A swerd and bokeler, bare he by his side. 
 His mouth as wide was as a fomeis. 
 He was a j angler, and a goliardeis. 
 And that was most of sinne, and harlotries. 
 Wel coude he stelen come, and tollen thries. 
 And yet he had a thomb of gold parde. 
 A white cote and a blew hode wered he. 
 A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune. 
 And therwithall he brought us out of toune. 
 
 A gentil Manciple was ther of a temple. 
 Of which achatours mighten take ensemple 
 For to ben wise in bying of vitaille. 
 For whether that he paide, or toke by taille, 
 Algate he waited so in his achate, 
 That he was ay before in good estate. 
 Now is not that of God a ful fayre grace, 
 That swiche a lewed mannes wit shal pace 
 The wisdom of an hepe of lered men ? 
 
 Of maisters had he mo than thries ten, 
 That were of lawe expert and curious : 
 Of which ther was a dosein in that hous, 
 Worthy to ben stewardes of rent and lond 
 Of any lord that is in Englelond, 
 To maken him live by his propre good, 
 In honour detteles, but if he were wood, 
 Or live as scarsly, as him list desire ; 
 And able for to helpen all a shire 
 In any cas that mighte fallen or happe ; 
 And yet this Manciple sette hir aller cappe. 
 
 The Eeve was a slendre colerike man, 
 His berd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
 His here was by his eres round yshome. 
 His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
 Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
 Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene. 
 Wel coude he kepe a garner and a binne : 
 
Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 [Chaucer 
 
 I 
 
 Ther was non auditour coude on him winne. 
 Wei wiste he by the drought, and by the rain, 
 The yelding of his seed, and of his grain. 
 His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie, 
 His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie. 
 Were holly in this reves governing, 
 And by his covenant yave he rekening, 
 Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age ; 
 Ther coude no man bring him in arerage, 
 Ther n'as baUlif, ne herde, ne other hine, 
 That he ne knew his sleight and his covine : 
 They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 
 His wonning was f ul fayre upon an heth, 
 With grene trees yshadewed was his place. 
 He coude better than his lord pourchace. 
 Ftd riche he was ystored privHy. 
 His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 
 To yeve and lene him of his owen good. 
 And have a thank and yet a cote and hood. 
 In youthe he lerned hadde a good mistere. 
 He was a wel good wright, a carpentere. 
 This reve sate upon a right good stot. 
 That was all pomelee grey and highte Scot, 
 A long surcote of perse upon he hade. 
 And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 
 Of Norfolk was t^is reve, of which I tell, 
 Beside a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
 Tucked "he was, as is a frere aboute, 
 And ever he rode the hinderest of the route. 
 
 A SoMPNOUB was ther with us in that place, 
 That hadde a fire-red cherubinnes face, 
 For sausefleme he was, with eyen narwe. 
 As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe. 
 With scalled browes blake, and pilled berd : 
 Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
 Ther n'as quiksilver, litarge, ne brimston, 
 Boras, ceruse, ne oHe of tartre non, 
 Ne oinement that wolde dense or bite. 
 That him might helpen of his whelkes white, 
 Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. 
 Wel loved he garlike, onions, and lekes, 
 And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood. 
 Than wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood. 
 And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 
 Than wold he speken no word but Latin. 
 A fewe termes coude he, two or three, 
 That he had lerned out of som decree ; 
 No wonder is, he herd it all the day. 
 And eke ye knowen wel, how that a jay 
 Can clepen watte, as wel as can the pope. 
 But who so wolde in other thing him grope. 
 Than hadde he spent all his philosophic, 
 Ay, Questio quid juris, wolde he crie. 
 
 He was a gentil harlot and a kind ; 
 A better felaw shulde a man not find. 
 He wolde suffre for a quart of wine, 
 A good felaw to have his concubine 
 A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full. 
 Ful prively a finch eke coude he pull. 
 And if he found o where a good felawe, 
 He wolde techen him to have non awe 
 In swiehe a cas of the archedekenes curse ; 
 But if a mannes soule were in his purse ; 
 Bor in his purse he shulde ypunished be. 
 Purse is the archedekenes helle, said he. 
 
 But wel I wote, he lied right in dede : 
 Of cursing ought eche gilty man him drede. 
 For curse wol sle right as assoiling saveth, 
 And also ware him of a significavit. 
 
 In danger hadde he at his owen gise 
 The yonge girls of the diocise, 
 And knew hir conseil, and was of hir rede. 
 A gerlond hadde he sette upon his hede^ 
 As gret as it were for an alestake : 
 A bokeler hadde he made him of a cake. 
 
 With him ther rode a gentil Pardonere 
 Of Eouncevall, his frend and his compere. 
 That streit was comen from the court of Eome. 
 Ful loude he sang. Come hither, love, to me. 
 This sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun. 
 Was never trompe of half so gret a soun. 
 This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax, 
 But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax : 
 By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde, 
 And ther with he his shulders overspradde. 
 Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on, 
 But hode for jolite, ne wered he non. 
 For it was trussed up in his wallet. 
 Him thought he rode al of the newe get, 
 Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. 
 Swiehe glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. 
 A vemicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe. 
 His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, 
 Bret-ful of pardon come from Eome al hote. 
 A vols he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. 
 No berd hadde he, ne never non shuld have, 
 As smothe it was as it were newe shave ; 
 I trowe he were a gelding or a mare. 
 
 But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware, 
 Ne was ther swich an other pardonere. 
 For in his male he hadde a pilwebere, 
 "Which, as he saide, was our ladies veil : 
 He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl 
 Whiche Seint Peter had, whan that he went 
 Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent. 
 He had a crois of laton full of stones, 
 And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 
 But with these relikes, whanne that he fond 
 A poure persone dwelling up on lond. 
 Upon a day he gat him more moneie 
 Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie. 
 And thus with fained flattering and japes, 
 He made the persone, and the peple, his apes. 
 
 But trewely to tellen atte last. 
 He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast. 
 Wel coude he rede a lesson or a stone. 
 But alderbest he sang an offertorie : 
 For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
 He must preche, and wel afile his tonge, 
 To winne silver, as he right wel coude : 
 Therfore he sang the merier and loude. 
 
 Now have I told you shortly in a clause, 
 Th'estat,th'araie, thenombre, and eke the cause 
 Why that assembled was this compagnie 
 In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrie. 
 That highte the Tabard, faste by the BeUe. 
 But now is time to you for to telle, 
 How that we baren us that ilke night, 
 Whan we were in that hostelrie alight. 
 
Chaucer.] 
 
 THE CANTERBUEY TALES. 
 
 [FiKST Period. — From the 
 
 And after wol I telle of our viage, 
 
 And all the remenant of our pilgrimage. 
 
 But firste I praie you of your curtesie, 
 That ye ne arette it not my vilanie, 
 Though that I plainly speke in this matere, 
 To tellen you hir wordes and hir chere ; 
 Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely. 
 For this ye knowen al so wel as I, 
 Who so shall telle a tale after a man, 
 He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can, 
 Everich word, if it be in his charge, 
 All speke he never so rudely and so large ; 
 Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe. 
 Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe. 
 He may not spare, although he were his brother. 
 He most as wel sayn o word, as an other. 
 Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ. 
 And wel ye wote no vilanie is it. 
 Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede, 
 The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede. 
 
 Also I praie you to forgive it me. 
 All have I not sette folk in hir degree, 
 Here in this tale, as that they shulden stonde. 
 My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 
 
 Gret chere made oure hoste us everich on. 
 And to the souper sette he us anon : 
 And served us with vitaille of the beste. 
 Strong was the win, and wel to drinke us leste. 
 A semely man our hoste was with alle. 
 For to han ben a marshal in an halle. 
 A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
 A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe : 
 Bold of his speche, and wise and wel ytaught, 
 And of manhood him lacked righte naught. 
 Eke therto was he right a mery man. 
 And after souper plaien he began, 
 And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, 
 Whan that we hadden made our rekeninges ; 
 And saide thus : " Now, lordinges, trewely 
 Ye ben to me welcome right hertily : 
 For by my trouthe, if that I shal not lie, 
 I saw nat this yere swiche a compagnie 
 At ones in this herbewe, as is now. 
 Fayn wolde I do you mirthe, and I wiste how. 
 And of a mirthe I am right now bethought. 
 To don you ese, and it shall coste you nought. 
 Ye gon to Canterbury ; God you spede. 
 The blisful martyr quite you your mede ; 
 And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way, 
 Ye shapen you to talken and to play : 
 For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non. 
 To riden by the way dombe as the ston : 
 And therfore wold I maken you disport. 
 As I said erst, and don you some comfort, 
 And if you liketh aUe by on assent 
 Now for to stonden at my jugement : 
 And for to werchen as I shal you say 
 To-morwe, when ye riden on the way, 
 Now by my faders soule that is ded. 
 But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed. 
 Hold up your hondes withouten more speche." 
 
 Our conseil was not longe for to seche : 
 Us thought it was not worth to make it wise. 
 And granted him withouten more aviso, 
 And bad him say his verdit, as him lesto. 
 
 " Lordinges," (quod he) " now herkenethfor 
 the beste ; 
 But take it nat, I pray you, in disdain ; 
 This is the point, to speke it plat and plain", 
 That eche of you to shorten with youre way, 
 In this viage, shall tellen tales tway. 
 To Canterbury ward, I mene it so. 
 And homeward he shall tellen other two, 
 Of aventures that w^hilom han befalle. 
 I And which of you that bereth him best of alle, 
 That is to sayn, that telleth in this cas 
 Tales of best sentence and most solas, 
 Shal have a souper at your aller cost 
 i Here in this place sitting by this post, 
 j "VVhan that ye comen agen from Canterbury, 
 j And for to maken you the more mery, 
 I I wol my selven gladly with you ride, 
 
 Eight at min owen cost, and be your gide. 
 I And who that wol my jugement withsay, 
 I Shal pay for alle we spenden by the way. 
 And if ye vouchesauf that it be so. 
 Telle me anon withouten wordes mo. 
 And I wol erly shapen me therfore." 
 
 This thing was granted, and our othes swore 
 With ful glad herte, and projiden him also. 
 That he wold vouchesauf for to don so, 
 And that he wolde ben our governourj 
 And of our tales juge and reportour, 
 And sette a souper at a certain pris ; 
 And we wol ruled ben at his devise, 
 In highe and lowe : and thus by on assent, 
 We ben accorded to his jugement. 
 And therupqn the win was fette anon. 
 We dronken, and to reste wenten eche on, 
 Withouten any longer tarrying. 
 
 A morwe whan the day began to spring, 
 Up rose our hoste, and was our aller cok. 
 And gaderd us togeder in a flok. 
 And forth we riden a litel more than pas, 
 Unto the watering of Seint Thomas : 
 And ther our hoste began his hors arest. 
 And saide, " lordes, herkeneth if you lest. 
 Ye wete your forword, and I it record. 
 If even song and morwe song accord. 
 Let se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
 As ever mote I drinken win or ale, 
 Who so is rebel to my jugement, 
 Shal pay for alle that by the way is spent. 
 Now draweth cutte, or that ye f orther twinne. 
 He which that hath the shortest shal beginne. 
 " Sire knight," (quod he) " my maister and 
 my lord. 
 Now draweth cutte, for that is min accord. 
 Cometh nere" (quod he) "my lady prioresse, 
 And ye, sire clerk, let be your shamefacednesse, 
 Ne studie nought : lay hand to, every man." 
 
 Anon to drawen every wight began. 
 And shortly for to tellen as it was, 
 Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas. 
 The sothe is this, the cutte felle on the knight, 
 Of which ful blith and glad was every -wight ; 
 And tell he must his tale as was reson, 
 By forword, and by composition. 
 As ye han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo ? 
 And whan this good man saw that it v,^a3 SQ^ 
 As he that wise was and obedient 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBURY TALES. 
 
 [Chaucee. 
 
 II 
 
 To kepe his forword by his free assent, 
 He saide ; " Sithen I shal begin this game, 
 What, welcome be the cutte a Goddes name. 
 Now let us ride, and herkeneth what I say." 
 
 And with that word we riden forth our way ; 
 And he began with right a mery chore, 
 His tale anon, and saide as ye shul here. 
 
 Chaucer.— About 1380. 
 
 20.— THE SQUIEEES TALE. 
 
 At Sarra, in the lond of Tartaric, 
 
 Ther dwelt a king that werreied Russie, 
 
 Thurgh which ther died many a doughty man : 
 
 This noble king was cleped Cambuscan, 
 
 Which in his time was of so gret renoun, 
 
 That ther n'as no wher in no regioun, 
 
 So excellent a lord in alle thing : 
 
 Him lacked nought that longeth to a king, 
 
 As of the secte of which that he was borne. 
 
 He kept his lay to which he was ysworne, 
 
 And therto he was hardy, wise, and riche, 
 
 And pitous and just, and alway yliche, 
 
 Trewe of his word, benigne and honourable ; 
 
 Of his corage as any centre stable ; 
 
 Yong, fresh, and strong, in armes desirous. 
 
 As any bachelor of all his hous. 
 
 A faire person he was, and fortunate, 
 
 And kept alway so wel real estat, 
 
 That ther n'as no wher swiche another man. 
 
 This noble king, this Tartre Cambuscan, 
 Hadde two sones by EKeta his wif. 
 Of which the eldest sone highte Algarsif , 
 That other was ycleped CambaUo. 
 
 A doughter had this worthy king also, 
 That yongest was, and highte Canace : 
 But for to tellen you all hire beautee, 
 It lith not in my tonge, ne in my conning, 
 I dare not undertake so high a thing : 
 Min English eke is unsufiicient. 
 It muste ben a Rethor excellent, 
 That coude his colours longing for that art. 
 If he shuld hire descriven ony part : 
 I am not swiche, I mote speke as I can. 
 
 And so befell, that whan this Cambuscan 
 Hath twenty winter borne his diademe. 
 As he was wont fro yere to yere I deme, 
 He let the feste of his nativitee 
 Don crien, thurghout Sarra his citee, 
 The last Idus of March, after the yere. 
 
 Phebus the sonne ful jolif was and clere, 
 For he was nigh his exaltation 
 In Martes face, and in his mansion 
 In Aries, the colerike hote signe : 
 Ful lusty was the wether and benigne 
 For which the foules again the sonne shene, 
 What for the seson ane the yonge grene, 
 Ful loude songen hir affections : 
 Hem semed han getten hem protections 
 Again the swerd of winter kene and cold. 
 
 This Cambuscan, of which I have you told. 
 In real vestiments, sit on his deis 
 With diademe, ful high in his paleis ; 
 Ai\d holte his feste solempne and so riche. 
 That in this world ne was ther non it liche, 
 
 Of which if I shal teUen all the array, 
 Than wold it occupie a somers day ; 
 And eke it nedeth not for to devise 
 At every cours the order of hir service. 
 I wol not tellen of hir strange sewes, 
 Ne of hir swannes, ne hir heronsewes. 
 Eke in that lond, as tellen knightes old, 
 Ther is som mete that is ful deintoe Hold; 
 That in this lond men recche of it ful smal : 
 Ther n'is no man that may reporten al. 
 I wol not tarien you, for it is prime, 
 And for it is no fruit, but losse of time, 
 Unto my purpose I wol have recours. 
 
 And so befell that after the thridde cours 
 While that this king sit thus in his nobley, 
 Herking his ministralles hir thinges pley 
 Beforne him at his bord deliciously. 
 In at the halle dore al sodenly 
 Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras. 
 And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas ; 
 Upon his ihombe he had of gold a ring. 
 And by his side a naked swerde hanging : 
 And up he rideth to the highe bord. 
 In all the halle ne was ther spoke a word. 
 For mervaille of this knight ; him to behold 
 Ful besily they waiten yong and old. 
 
 This strange knight that come thus sodenly 
 Al armed save his hed ful richely, 
 Salueth king and quene, and lordes alle 
 By order, as they saten in the halle, 
 With so high reverence and observance, 
 As wel in speche as in his contenance, 
 That Gawain with his olde curtesie, 
 Though he were come agen out of Faerie, 
 Ne coude him not amenden Avith a word. 
 And after this, beforn the highe bord 
 He with a manly vois sayd his message, 
 After the forme used in his langage, 
 Withouten vice of sillable or of letter. 
 And for his tale shulde seme the better. 
 Accordant to his wordes was his chore. 
 As techeth art of speche hem that it lere. 
 Al be it that I cannot soune his stile, 
 Ne cannot climben over so high a stile. 
 Yet say I this, as to comun entent, 
 Thus much amounteth all that ever he ment, 
 If it so be that I have it in mind. 
 
 He sayd ; " The king of Arabic and of Inde, 
 My Hege lord, on this solempne day 
 Salueth you as he best can and may. 
 And sendeth you in honour of your feste 
 By me, that am al redy at your heste. 
 This stede of bras, that esily and wel 
 Can in the space of a day naturel, 
 (This is to sayn, in four and twenty houres) 
 Wher so you list, in drought or elles shoures, 
 Beren your body into every place. 
 To which your herte willeth for to pace, 
 Withouten wemme of you, thurgh foule or faire. 
 Or if you list to fleen as high in the aire. 
 As doth an egle, whan him list to sore. 
 This same stede shal here you evermore 
 Withouten harme, till ye be ther you lest, 
 (Though that ye slepen on his back or rest 
 And turne again, Avith writhing of a pin. 
 He that it wrought, he coude many a gin ; 
 
Chaucee.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBUEY TALES. [First Period. — From the 
 
 He waited many a constellation, 
 
 Or he had don this operation. 
 
 And knew ful many a sele and many a bond. 
 
 " This mirrour eke, that I have in min hond, 
 Hath swiche a might, that men may in it see, 
 Whan ther shal falle ony adversitee 
 Unto your regne, or to yourself also, 
 And openly, who is your frend or fo. 
 And over all this, if any lady bright 
 Hath set hire herte on any maner wight, 
 If he be false, she shal his treson see, 
 His newe love, and all his subtiltee 
 So openly, that ther shal nothing hide. 
 
 " Wherfore again this lusty somer tide 
 This mirrour and this ring, that ye may se, 
 He hath sent to my lady Canace, 
 Your excellente doughter that is here. 
 
 " The vertue of this ring, if ye wol bere, 
 Is this, that if hire list it for to were 
 Upon hire thombe, or in hire purse it here, 
 Ther is no foule that fleeth under heven, 
 That she ne shal wel understond his steven, 
 And know his mening openly and plaine, 
 And answere him in his langage again : 
 And every gras that groweth upon rote 
 She shal eke know, and whom it wol do bote. 
 All be his woundes never so depe and wide. 
 
 "This naked swerd, thathangeth by my side, 
 Swiche vertue hath, that what man that it smite, 
 Thurghout his armure it wol kerve and bite, 
 Were it as thicke as is a braunched oke : 
 And what man that is wounded with the stroke 
 Shal never be hole, til that you list of grace 
 To stroken him with the platte in thilke place 
 Ther he is hurt ; this is as much to sain, 
 Ye moten with the platte swerd again 
 Stroken him in the wound, and it wol close. 
 This is the veray soth withouten glose. 
 It failleth not, while it is in your hold." 
 
 And whan this knight hath thus his tale told, 
 He rideth out of halle, and doun he light : 
 His stede, which that shone as sonne bright, 
 Stant in the court as stille as any ston. 
 This knight is to his chambre ladde anon, 
 And is unarmed, and to the mete ysette. 
 Thise presents ben ful richelich yfette. 
 This is to sain, the swerd and the mirrour, 
 And borne anon into the highe tour. 
 With certain officers ordained therfore ; 
 And unto Canace the ring is bore 
 Solempnely, ther she sat at the table ; 
 But sikerly, withouten any fable. 
 The hors of bras, that may not be remued ; 
 It stant, as were to the ground yglued ; 
 Ther may no man out of the place it drive 
 For non engine, of windas, or polive : 
 And cause why, for they con not the craft. 
 And therfore in the place they han it laft, 
 Til that the knight hath taught hem the manere 
 To voiden him, as ye shal after here, 
 
 Gret was the proes that swarmed to and fro 
 To gauren on this hors that stondeth so : 
 For it so high was, and so brod and long. 
 So wel proportioned for to be strong. 
 Eight as it were a stede of Lumbardie ; 
 Therwith so horsly, and so quik of eye, 
 
 As it a gentil Poileis courser were : 
 For certes, fro his tayl unto his ere 
 Nature ne art ne coud him not amend 
 In no degree, as all the peple wend. 
 
 But evermore hir moste wonder was, 
 How that it coude gon, and was of bras ; 
 It was of faerie, as the peple semed. 
 Diverse folk diversely han demed ; 
 As many heds, as many wittes ben. 
 They murmured, as doth a swarme of been. 
 And maden skiUes after hir fantasies, 
 Eehersing of the olde poetries. 
 And sayd it was ylike the Pegasee, 
 The hors that hadde winges for to flee, 
 Or elles it was the Grekes hors Sinon, 
 That broughte Troye to destruction, 
 As men moun in thise olde gestes rede. 
 
 " Min herte," quod on, "isevermore indrede, 
 I trow som men of armes ben therin, 
 That shapen hem this citee for to win : 
 It were right good that al swiche thing were 
 
 know." 
 Another rowned to his felaw low. 
 And sayd, " He lieth, for it is rather like 
 An apparence ymade by som magike. 
 As jogelours plain at thise festes grete." 
 Of sondry doutes thus they jangle and trete. 
 As lewed peple demen comunly 
 Of thinges, that ben made more subtilly 
 Than they can in hir leAvednesse comprehende. 
 They demen gladly to the badder ende. 
 
 And som of hem wondred on the mirrour, 
 That born was up in to the maister tour, 
 How men mighte in it swiche thinges see. 
 
 Another answered, andsayd, " Itmight wel be 
 Naturelly by compositions 
 Of angles, and of slie reflections ; " 
 And saide that in Eome was swiche on. 
 They speke of Alhazen and Vitellon, 
 And Aristotle, that writen in hir lives 
 Of queinte mirrours, and of prospectives, 
 As knowen they, that han hir bookes herd. 
 
 And other folk han wondred on the swerd, 
 That wolde percen thurghout every thing : 
 And fell in speche of Telephus the king. 
 And of Achilles for his queinte spere. 
 For he coude with it bothe hele and dere. 
 Eight in swiche wise as men may with the 
 
 swerde, 
 Of which right now ye have yourselven herd. 
 They speken of sondry harding of metall, 
 And speking of medicines therwithall. 
 And how, and whan it shuld yharded be, 
 Which is unknow algates unto me. 
 
 Tho speken they of Canacees ring, 
 And saiden all, that swiche a wonder thing 
 Of craft of ringes herd they never non. 
 Save that he Moises and king Salomon 
 Hadden a name of conning in swiche art. 
 Thus sain the peple, and drawen hem apart. 
 
 But natheles som saiden that it was 
 Wonder to maken of fcrne ashen glas. 
 And yet is glas nought like ashen of feme, 
 But for they han yknowen it so feme, 
 Therfore ceseth hir jangling and hir wonder. 
 
 As sore wondren som on cause of thonder. 
 
earliest Times to 1400. 
 
 THE CANTEEBUEY TALEJ 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 On ebbe and floud, on g-ossomer, and on mist, 
 And on all thing, til that the cause is wist. 
 
 Thus janglen they, and demen and devise. 
 Til that the king gan fro his bord arise. 
 Phebus hath left the angle meridional, 
 And yet ascending was the beste real, 
 The gentil Leon, with his Aldrian, 
 Whan that this Tartre king, this Cambuscan, 
 Eose from his bord, ther as he sat ful hie : 
 Beforne him goth the loude minstralcie. 
 Til he come to his chambre of parements, 
 Ther as they sounden divers instmments. 
 That it is like an heven for to here. 
 
 Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere 
 For in the Fish hir lady set ful hie. 
 And loketh on hem with a frendly eye. 
 
 This noble king is set upon his trone ; 
 rhis straunge knight is fet to him ful sone. 
 And on the daunce he goth with Canace. 
 
 Here is the revell and the jolitee, 
 That is not able a duU man to devise : 
 He must han knowen love and his servise, 
 And ben a festlich man, as fresh as May, 
 That shulde you devisen swiche array. 
 
 Who coude tellen you the forme of daunces 
 So uncouth, and so freshe contenaunces, 
 Swiche subtil lokings and dissimulings. 
 For dred of jalous mennes apperceivings ? 
 No man but Launcelot, and he is ded. 
 Therfore I passe over all this histyhed, 
 I say no more but in this jolinesse 
 I lete hem, tU men to the souper hem dresse. 
 
 The steward bit the spices for to hie 
 And eke the win, in all this melodic ; 
 The ushers and the squierie ben gon. 
 The spices and the vnn is come anon : 
 They ete and drinke, and whan this had an end. 
 Unto the temple, as reson was, they wend : 
 The service don, they soupen all by day. 
 What nedeth you rehersen hir array ? 
 Eche man wot wel, that at a kinges fest 
 Is plentee, to the most and to the lest, 
 And deintees mo than ben in my knowing. 
 
 At after souper goth this noble king 
 To seen this hors of bras, with all a route 
 Of lordes and of ladies him aboute. 
 Swiche wondring was ther on this hors of bras. 
 That sin the gret assege of Troye was, 
 Ther as men wondred on an hors also, 
 Ne was ther swiche a wondring, as was tho. 
 But finally the king asketh the knight 
 The vertue of this courser, and the might, 
 And praied him to tell his governaunce. 
 
 This hors anon gan for to trip and daunce. 
 Whan that the knight laid hond up on his rein, 
 And saide, " Sire, ther n'is no more to sain, 
 But whan j'ou list to riden any where. 
 Ye moten triU a pin, stant in his ere. 
 Which I shall tellen you bet^vixt us two, 
 Ye moten nempne him to what place also. 
 Or to what contree that you list to ride. 
 
 " And whan ye come ther as you list abide, 
 Bid him descend, and trill another pin, 
 (For therin lieth the effect of all the gin) 
 And he wol doun descend and don your will. 
 And in that place he wol abiden still : 
 
 Though al the world had the contrary swore. 
 He shal not thennes be drawe ne be bore. 
 Or if you list to bid him thennes gon, 
 Trille this pin, and he wol vanish anon 
 Out of the sight of every maner wight. 
 And come agen, be it by day or night, 
 "Whan that you list to clepen him again 
 In swiche a guise, as I shal to you sain ~~ 
 Betwixen you and me, and that ful sone. 
 Eide whan you list, ther n'is no more to done." 
 Enf ourmed whan the king was of the knight, 
 And hath conceived in his wit aright 
 The maner and the forme of all this thing, 
 Ful glad and blith, this noble doughty king 
 Eepaireth to his revel, as beforne. 
 The bridel is in to the tour yborne, 
 And kept among his jewels lefe and dere : 
 The hors vanisht, I n'ot in what manere, 
 Out of hir sight, ye get no more of me : 
 But thus I lete in lust and jolitee 
 This Cambuscan his lordes festejdng, 
 TU that wel nigh the day began to spring. 
 
 Pars Secunda. 
 
 The norice of digestion, the slepe, 
 Gan on hem winke, and bad hem taken kepe, 
 That mochel drinke, and labour wol have rest : 
 And with a galping mouth hem all he kest. 
 And said, "that it was time to lie adoun. 
 For blood was in his dominatioun : 
 Cherisheth blood, natures frend," quod he. 
 
 They thanken him galping, by two by three ; 
 And every wight gan drawe him to his rest. 
 As slepe hem bade, they toke it for the best. 
 
 Hir dremes shul not now be told for me ; 
 Ful were hir hedes of fumositee. 
 That causeth dreme, of which ther is no charge. 
 They slepen til that it was prime large. 
 The moste part, but it were Canace ; 
 She was ful mesurable, as women be. 
 For of hire father had she take hire leve 
 To gon to rest, sone after it was eve ; 
 Hire liste not appalled for to be. 
 Nor on the morwe unfestliche for to see ; 
 And slept hire firste slepe, and than awoke. 
 For swiche a joye she in hire herte toke 
 Both of hire queinte ring, and of hire mirrour, 
 That twenty time she chaunged hire colour ; 
 And in hire slepe right for the impression 
 Of hire mirrour she had a vision. 
 Wlierfore, or that the sonne gan up glide, 
 She clepeth upon hire maistresse hire beside. 
 And saide, that hire luste for to arise. 
 
 Thise old women, that ben gladly wise. 
 As is hire maistresse, answered hire anon. 
 And said : " Madame, whider wol ye gon 
 Thus erly ? for the folk ben all in rest." 
 
 " I wol," quod she, " arisen (for me lest 
 No longer for to slepe) and walken aboute." 
 
 Hire maistresse clepeth women a gret route, 
 And up they risen, wel a ten or twelve ; 
 Up riseth freshe Canace hireselve. 
 As rody and bright, as the yonge sonne. 
 That in the Eam is f oure degrees yronne j 
 No higher was he, when she redy was ; 
 And forth she walketh esily a pas, 
 
Chaucer.] 
 
 THE CANTEEBURY TALES. 
 
 [First Period. — Fro^n the 
 
 Arrayed after the lusty seson sote 
 Lightely for to playe, and walken on fote, 
 Nonglit but with five or sixe of her meinie ; 
 And in a trenche forth in the park goth she. 
 
 The vapour, which that fro the erthe glode, 
 Maketh the sonne to seme rody and brode : 
 But natheles, it was so faire a sight, 
 That it made all hir hertes for to light. 
 What for the seson, and the morwening, 
 And for the foules that she herde sing. 
 For right anon she wiste what they ment 
 Eight by hir song, and knew al hir entent. 
 
 The knotte, why that every tale is tolde, 
 If it be taried til the lust be colde 
 Of hem, that han it herkened after yore, 
 The savour i^asseth ever lenger the more, 
 For fulsumnesse of the prolixitee : 
 And by that same reson thinketh me 
 I shuld unto the knotte condescende. 
 And makcn of hire walking sone an ende. 
 
 Amidde a tree for-dry, as white as chalk, 
 As Canace was playing in hire walk, 
 Ther sat a faucon over hire hed ful hie, 
 That with a pitous vois so gan to crie, 
 That all the wood resouned of hire cry, 
 And beten had hire self so pitously 
 With bothe hire winges, til the rede blood 
 Ean endelong the tree, ther as she stood. 
 And ever in on alway she cried and shright, 
 And with hire bek hireselven she so twight. 
 That ther n'is tigre, ne no cruel best. 
 That dwelleth other in wood, or in forest, 
 That n'olde han wept, if that he wepen coude, 
 For sorwe of hire, she shright alway so loude. 
 
 For ther was never yet no man on live. 
 If that he coude a faucon well descrive, 
 That herde of swiche another of fayrencsse 
 As wel of plumage, as of gentUesse, 
 Of shape, of all that might yrekened be. 
 A faucon peregrine semed she 
 Of fremde lond, and ever as she stood. 
 She swouned now and now for lack of blood, 
 Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree. 
 
 This faire kinges doughter Canace, 
 That on hire finger bare the queinte ring, 
 Thurgh which she understood wel every thing 
 That any foule may in his leden sain. 
 And coude answere him in his leden again. 
 Hath understonden what this faucon seyd, 
 And wel neigh for the routhe almost she deyd : 
 And to the tree she goth ful hastily. 
 And on this faucon loketh pitously, 
 And held hire lap abrode, for wel she wist 
 The faucon muste fallen from the twist 
 Whan that she swouned next, f or f ante of blood. 
 A longe while to waiten hire she stood. 
 Til at the last she spake in this manere 
 Unto the hauk, as ye shul after here, 
 
 " What is the cause, if it be for to tell, 
 That ye ben in this furial peine of hell ? " 
 Quod Canace unto this hauk above ; 
 " Is this for sorwe of deth, or losse of love ? 
 For as I trow, thise be the causes two. 
 That causen most a gentil herte wo. 
 Of other harme it nedeth not to speke. 
 For ye yourself upon yourself a^vreke. 
 
 Which preveth wel, that other ire or drede 
 
 Mote ben encheson of your cruel dede, 
 
 Sin that I se non other wight you chace. . 
 
 For the love of God, as doth yourselven grace : 
 
 Or what may be your helpe ? for west ne est 
 
 Ne saw I never er now no brid ne best. 
 
 That ferde with himself so pitously. 
 
 Ye sle me with your sorwe veraily, 
 
 I have of you so gret compassioun. 
 
 For Goddes love come fro the tree adoun ; 
 
 And as I am a kinges doughter trewe, 
 
 If that I veraily the causes knewe 
 
 Of your disese, if it lay in my might, 
 
 I wold amend it, or that it were night, 
 
 As wisly help me the gret God of kind. 
 
 And herbes shal I right ynough yfind. 
 
 To elen with your hurtes hastily." 
 
 Tho shright this faucon yet more pitously 
 Than ever she did, and fell to ground anon,. 
 And lith aswoune, as ded as lith a ston, 
 Til Canace hath in hire lappe hire take, 
 Unto that time she gan of swoune awake : 
 And after that she out of swom:e abraido» 
 Eight in hire haukes leden thus she sayde. 
 
 " That pitee renneth sone in gentil herto 
 (Feling his similitude in peine s smerte) 
 Is proved alle day, as men may see. 
 As wel by werke as by auctoritee, 
 For gentil herte kitheth gentillesse. 
 I see wel, that ye have on my distresse 
 Compassion, my faire Canace, 
 Of veray womanly benignitee. 
 That nature in jour principles hath set. 
 But for non hope for to fare the bet. 
 But for to obey unto your herte free. 
 And for to maken other yware by me. 
 As by the whelpe chastised is the loon, 
 Eight for that cause and that conclusion. 
 While that I have a leiser and a space, 
 Min harme I wol confessen er I pace." 
 And ever while that on hire sorwe told. 
 That other wept, as she to water wold. 
 Til that the faucon bad hire to be still. 
 And with a sike right thus she said hire till. 
 
 " Ther I was bred, (alas that ilke day !) ' 
 And fostred in a roche of marble gray 
 So tendrely, that nothing ailed me. 
 I ne wist not what was adversitee. 
 Til I coud flee ful high under the skic. 
 
 " Tho dwelled a tercelet me fasto by. 
 That semed welle of alle gentillesse, 
 Al were he ful of treson and falsenesse. 
 It was so wrapped under humble chere. 
 And under hew of trouth in swiche manere. 
 Under plesance, and under bcsy peine, 
 That no wight coud have wend he coudo feine. 
 So depe in greyn he died his coloures. 
 Eight as a serpent hideth hiui under floures, 
 Til he may see his time for to bite ; 
 Eight so this god of loves hypocrite 
 Doth so his ceremonies and obeisance. 
 And kepeth in semblaunt alle his observance, 
 That souneth unto gentillnesse of love. 
 As on a tombe is alle the faire above. 
 And under is the corps, swiche as ye wote ; 
 Swiche was this hypocrite both cold and hote, 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE CANTERBUEY TALES. 
 
 [Chaucer 
 
 And in this v/ise he served his entent, 
 That, save the fend, non wiste what he ment : 
 Til he so long had weped and complained. 
 And many a yere his service to me fained, 
 Til that min herte, to pitous and to nice, 
 Al innocent of his crowned malice, 
 For-fered of his deth, as thoughte me, 
 Upon his othes and his seuretee, 
 Gratinted him love, on this conditioun, 
 That evermo min honour and renonn 
 Were saved, bothe privee and apert ; 
 This is to say, that, after his desert, 
 I 3'ave him all min herte and all my thought, 
 (God wote, and he, that other wayes nought) 
 And toke his herte in chaunge of min for ay. 
 But soth is said, gon sithen is many a day, 
 A trewe wight and a theef thinken not on. 
 
 " And whan he saw the thing so fer ygon, 
 That I had granted him fully my love, 
 In swiche a guise as I have said above, 
 And yeven him my trewe herte as free 
 As he swore that he yaf his herte to me. 
 Anon this tigre, ful of doublenesse, 
 Fell on his knees with so gret humblesse, 
 With so high reverence, as by his chore, 
 So like a gentU lover of manere, 
 So ravished, as it semed, for the joye. 
 That never Jason, ne Paris of Troye, 
 Jason ? certes, ne never other man. 
 Sin Lamech was, that alderfirst began 
 To loven two, as wTiten folk beforne, 
 Ne never sithen the first man was borne, 
 Ne coude man by twenty thousand part 
 Contrefete the sophimes of his art ; 
 Ne were worthy to unbocle his galoche, 
 Ther doublenesse of faining shuld approche, 
 Ne coude so thanke a wight, as he did me. 
 His maner was an heven for to see 
 To any woman, were she never so wise ; 
 So painted he and kempt, at point devise, 
 As wel his wordes, as his contenance. 
 And I so loved him for his obeisance. 
 And for the trouthe I demed in his herte. 
 That if so were that any thing him smerto, 
 Al were it never so lite, and I it wist, 
 Me thought I felt deth at myn herte twist. 
 And shortly, so ferforth this thing is went. 
 That my will was his willes instrument ; 
 This is to say, my will obeied his will 
 In alle thinge, as fer as reson fill, 
 Keping the boundes of my worship ever : 
 Ne never had I thing so lefe, ne lever. 
 As him, God wot, ne never shal no mo. 
 
 " This lasteth longer than a yere or two, 
 That I supposed of him nought but good. 
 But finally, thus at the last it stood, 
 That fortune wolde that ho muste twin 
 Out of that x^laco, which that I was in. 
 Wher me was wo, it is no question ; 
 I cannot make of it description. 
 For o thing care I tellen boldely, 
 I know what is the peine of deth therby, 
 Swiche harme I felt, for he ne might byleve. 
 
 " So on a day of me he toke his leve. 
 So sorweful eke, that I wend veraily, 
 That he had felt as mochel harme as I, 
 
 Whan that I herd him speke, and sawe his 
 
 hewe. 
 But natheles, I thought he was so trewe. 
 And eke that he repairen shuld again 
 Within a litel while, soth to sain, 
 And reson wold eke that he muste go 
 For his honour, as often happeth so,_ _ 
 That I made vertue of necessitee. 
 And toke it wel, sin that it muste be. 
 As I best might, I hid fro him my sorwe. 
 And toke him by the hond, Seint John to 
 
 borwe, 
 And said him thus ; ' Lo, I am youres all, 
 Beth swiche as I have ben to you and shall.' 
 - " What he answerd, it nedeth not reherse ; 
 Who can say bet than he, who can do worse ? 
 Whan he hath al wel said, than hath he done. 
 Therfore behoveth him a ful long spone. 
 That shal ete with a fend ; thus herd I say. 
 
 "So at the laste he muste forth his way, 
 And forth he fleeth, til he come ther him lest. 
 Whan it came him to purpos for to rest, 
 I trow that he had thilke text in mind, 
 That alle thing repairing to his kind 
 Gladeth himself ; thus sain men as I gesse : 
 Men loven of propre kind newefangelnesse. 
 As briddes don, that men in cages fede. 
 For though thou night and day take of hem 
 
 hede. 
 And strew hir cage faire and soft as silke. 
 And give hem sugre, hony, bred, and milke. 
 Yet right anon as that his dore is up, 
 He with his feet wol spurnen doun his cup, 
 And to the wood he wol, and wormes ete ; 
 So newefangel ben they of hir mete, 
 And loven noveltees of propre kind ; 
 No gentniesse of blood ne may hem bind. 
 
 " So ferd this tercelet, alas the day ! 
 Though he were gentil borne, and fresh, and 
 
 gay. 
 And goodly for to seen, and humble, and free. 
 He saw upon a time a kite flee, 
 And sodenly he loved this kite so. 
 That all his love is clone fro me ago : 
 And hath his trouthe falsed in this wise. 
 Thus hath the kite my love in hire service, 
 And I am lorn withouten remedy." 
 
 And with that word this faucon gan to cry. 
 And swouneth eft in Canacees barme. 
 Gret was the sorwe for that haukes harme, 
 That Canace and all hire women made ; 
 They n'isten how they might the faucon glade. 
 But Canace horn bereth hire in hire lap, 
 And softely in piastres gan hire wrap, 
 Ther as she with hire bek had hurt hireselve. 
 
 Now cannot Canace but herbes delve 
 Out of the ground, and maken salves newe 
 Of herbes precious and fine of hewe. 
 To helen with this hauk ; fro day to night 
 She doth hire besinesse, and all hire might. 
 And by hire beddes hed she made a mew, 
 And covered it with velouettes blew. 
 In signe of trouth, that is in woman sene ; 
 And all without the mew is pointed grene, 
 In which were pointed all thise false foules, 
 As ben thise tidifes, tercelettes, and owles ; 
 
Chaucer.] 
 
 CUCKOW AND NIGHTmaALE. [First Period.— i^rowi- the 
 
 And pies, on hem for to cry and chide, 
 Right for despit were peinted hem beside. 
 
 Thus lete I Canace hire hank keping. 
 I wol no more as now speke of hire ring, 
 TU it come eft to purpos for to sain. 
 How that this faucon gat hire love again 
 Repentant, as the story telleth us. 
 By mediation of Camballus 
 The kinges sone, of which that I you told. 
 But hennesforth I wol my processe hold 
 To speke of aventures, and of batailles. 
 That yet was never herd so gret mervailles. 
 
 First wol I tellen you of Cambuscan, 
 That in his time many a citee wan : 
 And after wol I speke of Algarsif, 
 How that he wan Theodora to his wif, 
 For whom ful oft in gret peril he was, 
 Ne had he ben holpen by the hors of bras. 
 And after wol I speke of Camballo, 
 That fought in listes with the brethren two 
 For Canace, er that he might hire winne, 
 And ther I left I wol again beginne. 
 # * # # 
 
 Chaucer. — About 1380. 
 
 21.— THE CUCKOW AND THE NIGHTIN- 
 GALE. 
 
 The god of love and benedicite, 
 How mighty and how great a lord is he, 
 For he can make of low hertes hy, 
 And of high low, and like for to dy, 
 And herd hertes he can maken free. 
 
 He can make within a little stound 
 
 Of sicke folke hole, fresh, and soimd, 
 
 And of hole he can make seeke, 
 
 He can bind and vnbinden eke 
 
 That he woU have bounden or vnbound. 
 
 To tell his might my wit may not suffice, 
 For he can make of wise folke full nice, 
 For he may do all that he woll devise, 
 And lithy folke to destroyen vice. 
 And proud hertes he can make agrise. 
 
 Shortly all that ever he woll he may, 
 Against him dare no wight say nay, 
 For he can glad and greve whom him liketh, 
 And who that he woll, he lougheth or siketh, 
 And most his might he shedeth ever in May. 
 
 For every true gentle herte free. 
 
 That with him is, or thinketh for to be, 
 
 Againe May now shall have some stering, 
 
 Or to joy or els to some mourning. 
 
 In no season so much, as thinketh me. 
 
 For whan they may here the birds sing, 
 And see the floures and the leaves spring. 
 That bringeth into hir remembraunce 
 A manner ease, meddled with grevaunce. 
 And lustie thoughts full of great longing. 
 
 And of that longing commeth hevinesse, 
 And thereof gtoweth of great sicknesse. 
 And for lacke of that that they desire. 
 And thus in May beri hertes set on fire. 
 So that they brennen forth in great distresse. 
 
 I speak^ this of feeling truly. 
 
 If I be old and vnlusty. 
 
 Yet I have felt of the sicknesse through May 
 
 Both hote and cold, and axes every day, 
 
 How sore ywis there wote no wight but I. 
 
 I am so shaken with the fevers white. 
 
 Of all this May sleepe I but a lite, 
 
 And also it is not like to me. 
 
 That any herte should sleepy be, 
 
 In whom that Love his firy dart woll smite. 
 
 But as I lay this other night waking, 
 I thought how lovers had a tokening, 
 And among hem it was a commune tale. 
 That it were good to here the nightingale, 
 Rather than the lend cuckow sing. 
 
 And than I thought anon as it was day, 
 I would go some where to assay 
 If that I might a nightingale here, 
 For yet had I none heard of all that yere, 
 And it was th© the third night of May. 
 
 And anone as I the day aspide. 
 
 No lenger would I in my bed abide, 
 
 But vnto a wood that was fast by, 
 
 I went forth alone boldely. 
 
 And held the way downe by a brooke side. 
 
 Till I came to a laund of white and green. 
 
 So faire one had I never in been, 
 
 The ground was green, ypoudred with daisie. 
 
 The floures and the greues like hy, 
 
 AU greene and white, was nothing els seene. 
 
 There sate I downe among the faire flours. 
 And saw the birds trip out of hir hours. 
 There as they rested hem all the night. 
 They were so joyfull of the dayes light. 
 They began of May for to done honours. 
 
 They coud that seruice all by rote. 
 There was many a louely note. 
 Some song loud as they had plained. 
 And some in other manner voice yfained, 
 And some all out with the full throte. 
 
 They proyned hem, and made hem right gay, 
 And daunceden and lepten on the spray, 
 And euermore two and two in fere, 
 Right so as they had chosen hem to yere 
 In Feuerere vpon saint Ualentines day. 
 
 And the riuer that I sate vpon. 
 It made such a noise as it ron, 
 Accordaunt with the birds armony, 
 Me thought it was the best melody 
 That might ben yheard of any mon. 
 
 And for delite I wote neuer how 
 
 I fell in such a slomber and a swow, 
 
 Nat all asleepe, ne fully waking. 
 
 And in that swow me thought I heard sing 
 
 The sorry bird, the leaud cuckow. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 CUCKOW AND NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 [Chaucer. 
 
 And that was on a tree right fast by, 
 But who was than euill apaid but I : 
 " Now God," quod I, "that died on the crois 
 Teue sorrow on thee, and on thy leaud vois, 
 Full little joy haue I now of thy cry." 
 
 And as I with the cuckow thus gan chide, 
 
 I heard in the next bush beside 
 
 A nightingale so lustely sing. 
 
 That with her clere voice she made ring 
 
 Through all the greene wood wide. 
 
 "Ah, good nightingale," quod I than, 
 " A little hast thou ben too long hen, 
 For here hath ben the leaud cuckow, 
 And songen songs rather than hast thou, 
 I pray to God euill fire her bren." 
 
 But now I woll you tell a wonder thing, 
 As long as I lay in that swouning. 
 Me thought I wist what the birds ment, 
 And what they said, and what was hir entent, 
 And of hir speech I had good kno^ving. 
 
 There heard I the nightingale say, 
 " Now, good cuckow, go somewhere away, 
 And let vs that can singen dwellen here, 
 For euery wight escheueth thee to here, 
 Thy songs be so elenge in good fay." 
 
 "What," quod she, "what may thee aylen now, 
 It thiaketh me, I sing as well as thou, 
 For my song is both true and plaine, 
 And though I cannot crakeU so in vaine, 
 As thou dost in thy throte, I wot neuer how. 
 
 " And euery wight may vnderstand mee, 
 But nightingale so may they not done thee, 
 For thou hast many a nice queint cry, 
 I haue thee heard saine, ocy, ocy, 
 How might I know what that should be ? " 
 
 "Ah ! foole," quod she, "west thou not what 
 
 it is, 
 Whan that I say, ocy, ocy, ywis. 
 Than meane I that I would wonder faine, 
 That all they were shamefully yslaine, 
 That meanen ought againe loue amis. 
 
 " And also I would that aU tho were dede, 
 That thinke not in loue hir life to lede. 
 For who so that wol not the god of loue serue, 
 I dare well say he is worthy to sterue. 
 And for that skill, ocy, ocy, I grede." 
 
 " Eye," quod the cuckow, " this is a queint law, 
 
 That euery wight shall loue or be to draw. 
 
 But I forsake all such companie. 
 
 For mine entent is not for to die, 
 
 Ne neuer while I liue on Loues yoke to draw. 
 
 " For louers ben the folke that ben on liue. 
 That most disease haue, and most vnthriue. 
 And most endure sorrow, wo, and care. 
 And least feelen of welfare, 
 What nedeth it ayenst trouth to striue." 
 
 " What," quod she, " thou art out of thy mind, 
 How might thou in thy churlenesse find 
 To speake of Loues seruaunts in this wise, 
 For in this world is none so good seruise 
 To euery wight that gentle is of kind. 
 
 " For thereof truly commeth all gooi^e^e. 
 All honour and all gentlenesse, 
 Worship, ease, and all hertes lust, 
 Parfite joy, and full assured trust, 
 lohtie, pleasaunce, and freshnesse, 
 
 " Lowlyhead, largesse, and curtesie, 
 Semelyhead, and true companie, 
 Drede of shame for to done amis : 
 For he that tridy Loues seruaunt is, 
 Were lother be shamed than to die. 
 
 " And that this is soth that I sey. 
 
 In that beleeue I will liue and dey, 
 
 And cuckow so I rede that thou do ywis : " 
 
 " Than," quod he, " let me neuer haue blisse 
 
 If euer I vnto that counsaile obey. 
 
 " Nightingale thou speakest wonder faire. 
 But for all that is the sooth contraire. 
 For loue is in yong folke, but rage, 
 And in old folke a great dotage. 
 Who most it vseth, most shall enpaire. 
 
 " For thereof cometh disease and heuinesse. 
 So sorow and care, and many a great sicknesse 
 Despite, debate, anger, and enuie, 
 Deprauing, shame, vntrust, and jelousie. 
 Pride, mischeefe, pouerty, and woodnesse : 
 
 " Louing is an oflRce of despaire. 
 
 And one thing is therein that is not faire, 
 
 For who that getteth of loue a little blisse. 
 
 But if he be alway therewith ywis. 
 
 He may full soone of age haue his haire. 
 
 " And, nightingale, therefore hold thee ny. 
 For leue me well, for all thy queint cry. 
 If thou be ferre or long fro thy make. 
 Thou shalt be as other that been forsake. 
 And than thou shalt hoten as doe I." 
 
 " Fie," quod she, " on thy name and on thee. 
 The god of loue ne let thee neuer ythee. 
 For thou art worse a thousand fold than 
 
 wood. 
 For many a one is full worthy and fuU good. 
 That had be naught ne had loue ybee. 
 
 " For euermore Loue his seruants amendeth, 
 And from all euill taches hem defendeth. 
 And maketh hem to brenne right in a fire. 
 In trouth and in worshipfull desire, 
 And whan him liketh, joyinough hemsendeth." 
 
 "Thou nightingale," he said, "be still, 
 For Loue hath no reason, but it is will, 
 For oft time vntrue folke he easeth. 
 And true folke so biterly he displeaseth. 
 That for default of courage he let hem spiU.' 
 
Chaucer.] 
 
 CUCKOW AND NIGHTINGALE. [First Period.— From ihe 
 
 Than tooke I of the nightingale keepe, 
 How she cast a sigh out of her deepe, 
 And said, " Alas that euer I was bore, 
 I can for tene not say one word more," 
 And right with that word she brast out to 
 weepe. 
 
 " Alas," quod she, " my herte woll to breake, 
 To hearen thus this leaud bird speake 
 Of Loue, and of his worshipfull seruise. 
 Now, god of loue, thou help me in some wise, 
 That I may on this cuckow been awreake." 
 
 Me thought than he stert vp anone, 
 And glad was I that he was agone. 
 And euermore the cuckow as he flay, 
 Said, "Farewell, farewell, popingay." 
 As though he had scorned me alone. 
 
 And than came tL ^ nightingale to mee, 
 And said, " Friend forsooth I thanke thee, 
 That thou hast \\^oa me to rescow. 
 And one auow to loue make I now. 
 That aU this May I woll thy singer be." 
 
 I thanked her, and was right well apaied : 
 " Ye," quod she, " and be thou not dismaied, 
 Tho thou haue herd the cuckow erst than me, 
 For if I line, it shall amended be 
 The next May, if I be not afiraied. 
 
 " And one thing I woll rede thee also, 
 Ne leue thou not the cuckow, ne his loues so. 
 For all that he hath said is strong leasing :" 
 " Nay," quod I, " thereto shall nothing me 
 
 bring, 
 For loue and it hath doe me much wo. 
 
 "Ye, vse," quod she, " this medicine 
 
 Euery day this May or thou dine. 
 
 Go looke vpon the fresh daisie. 
 
 And though thou be for wo in point to die. 
 
 That shall full greatly lessen thee of thy pine. 
 
 "And looke alway that thou be good and 
 
 trew, 
 And I woll sing one of the songs new 
 For loue of thee, as loud as I may crie : " 
 And than she began this song full hie, 
 " I shrew all hem that been of loue vntrue." 
 
 And whan she had song it to the end, 
 *'.Now farewell," quod she, " for I mote wend. 
 And god of loue, that can right well, and jnsuj, 
 As much joy send thee this day, 
 As any yet louer he euer send." 
 
 Thus taketh the nightingale her leaue of me, 
 I pray to God alway with her be, 
 And joy of loue he send her euermore. 
 And sidlde us fro the cuckow and his loro, 
 For there is not so false a bird as he. 
 
 Forth she flew the gentle nightingale 
 To all the birds that were in that dale, 
 And gate hem all into a place in fere, 
 And besoughten hem that they would here 
 Her disease, and thus began her tale. 
 
 " The cuckow, well it is not for to hide. 
 How the cuckow and I fast haue chide, 
 Euer sithen it was day light, 
 I pray you all that ye do me right 
 On that foule false vnkind bridde." 
 
 Than spake o bird for aU, by one assent, 
 " This matter asketh good auisement, 
 For we ben birdes here in fere, 
 And sooth it is, the cuckow is not here, 
 And therefore we woll haue a parliment. 
 
 " And thereat shall the egle be our lord, 
 And other peres that been of record, 
 And the cuckow shall be after sent, 
 There shall be yeue the judgement, 
 Or els we shall finally make accord. 
 
 " And this shall be without nay 
 The morrow after Saint Ualentines day. 
 Under a maple that is faire and grene. 
 Before the chamber window of the queue. 
 At Woodstocke vpon the grene lay." 
 
 She thanked hem, and than her leaue toko, 
 And into an hauthorne by that broke, 
 And there she sate and song vpon that tree, 
 " Terme of life loue hath withhold me," 
 So loud that I with that song awoke. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
 lend book with thy foul rudenesse, 
 
 Sith thou haste neither beauty ne eloquence. 
 Who hath thee caused or yeue the hardinosso 
 For to appeare in my ladies presence, 
 
 1 am full siker thou knowest her beneuolenoc, 
 Full agreeable to all her abying, 
 
 For of all good she is the best lining. 
 
 Alas that thou ne haddest worthinesse, 
 To shew to her some pleasaunt sentence, 
 Sith that she hath through her gentillesse 
 Accepted the seruant to herr digne reuerence, 
 O, me repenteth that I ne had science 
 And leiser als, to make thee more flourishing, 
 For of all good she is the best liuing. 
 
 Beseech her meekely with all lowlinesse. 
 
 Though I be ferro from her in absence. 
 
 To think on my trouth to her and stedfast- 
 
 And to abridge of my sorrowes the violence. 
 Which caused is, wherof knoweth your sa- 
 pience. 
 She like among to notifie me her liking 
 For of all good she is the best liuing. 
 
 liANUOTE. 
 
 Aurore of gladnesse, and day of lustinesse, 
 Lucern a night with heauenly influence 
 Illumined, root of beauty and goodnesse. 
 Suspires, which I effunde in silence, 
 Of grace I beseech alledge let your writing. 
 New of all good, sith ye be best liuing. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
 Chaucer.- 
 
 •About 1380. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 FEOM " THE FLOWER AND LEAF. 
 
 [Chaucei 
 
 22.— TO HIS EMPTY PURSE. 
 
 To you my pizrse and to none other wight 
 
 CoTTiplaine I, for ye be my lady dere, 
 
 I am sorry now that ye be light, 
 
 For certes ye now make me heauy chere, 
 
 Me were as lefe laid vpon a bere, 
 
 For which vnto your mercy thus I crie, 
 
 Be heauy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, 
 That I of you the blissful sowne may here, 
 Or see your colour like the sunne bright, 
 That of yelowness had neuer pere, 
 Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, 
 Queene of comfort and of good companie. 
 Be heauy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now purse that art to me my lines light, 
 And sauiour, as do^vne in this world here, 
 Out of this towne helpe me by your might, 
 Sith that you woll not be my treasure, 
 For I am shaue as nere as any frere, 
 But I pray vnto your curtesie, 
 Be heauy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
 Chaucer. — About 1380. 
 
 23.— THE HOUSE OF FAME. 
 
 And eke this house hath of entrees 
 
 As many as leaves ben on trees 
 
 In summer, when that they ben green ; 
 
 And on the roof yet men may sene 
 
 A thousand bolis, and well mo, 
 
 To letten the sound out ygo. 
 
 And by day, in every tide, 
 
 Ben all the doores open wide ; 
 
 And by night each one is unshetto ; 
 
 Ne porter is there none to let, 
 
 Ne manere tidings in to pace ; 
 
 Ne never rest is in that place, 
 
 That it n' is filled full of tidings, 
 
 Either loud, or of whisperings. 
 
 And, ever, all the House's angles 
 
 Is full of rownings and of jangles ; 
 
 Of wars, of peace, of marriages. 
 
 Of rests, of labour, of viages. 
 
 Of abode, of death, of life. 
 
 Of love, of hate, accord, of strife ; 
 
 Of loss, of lore, and of winnings, 
 
 Of health, of sickness, or le sings ; 
 
 Of faire weather, and tempestis. 
 
 Of qualm, of folke, and of beastis ; 
 
 Of divers transmutations 
 
 Of estates and of regions ; 
 
 Of trust, of dread, of jealousy, 
 
 Of wit, of winning, of foUy ; 
 
 Of plenty, and of great famine ; 
 
 Of cheap, of dearth, and of mine ; 
 
 Of good, or of misgovernment, 
 
 Of fire, and divers accident. 
 
 Chaucer. — About 1380. 
 
 24.— M E R C Y. 
 But, sith 'tis so there is a trespass done. 
 Unto Mercy let yield the trespassour. 
 It is her office to redress it soon, 
 For Trespass is to Mercy a mirrbur. 
 And like as the sweet hath the price by sour, 
 So by Trespass, Mercy hath all her might : 
 Without Trespass, Mercy hath lack of light. 
 
 What should Physic do but if Sickness were ? 
 What needeth salve but if there were a sore ? 
 What needeth drink where thirst hath no 
 
 power ? 
 What should Mercy do, but Trespass go afore ? 
 But Trespass, Mercy woll be little store ; 
 Without Trespass near execution, 
 May Mercy have ne chief perfection. 
 
 ChoMcer.— About 1380. 
 
 25.— INTRODUCTION TO " THE FLOWER 
 AND THE LEAF." 
 
 And so I, glade of the season sweet 
 Was happid thus ; upon a certain night 
 As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeet 
 Was unto me ; but why that I ne might 
 Rest I ne wist, for there n' 'as earthly wight. 
 As I suppose, had more of hertis ease 
 Than I, for I n' 'ad sickness nor disease. 
 
 Wherefore I marvell'd greatly of myself 
 That I so long withouten sleepe lay. 
 And up I rose three hours after twelve. 
 About the springing of the gladsome day. 
 And on I put my gear and mine array. 
 And to a pleasant grove I 'gan to pass. 
 Long or the taright sunne uprisen was ; 
 
 In which were oakes great, straight as a line, 
 Under the which the grass so fresh of hue 
 Was newly sprung, and an eight foot or nine 
 Every tree well from his fellow grew 
 With branches broad, laden with leaves new. 
 That springen out against the sonne sheen, 
 Some very red, and some a light glad green, 
 
 Which, as methought, was aright pleasant sight; 
 And eke the burdis songis for to hear. 
 Would have rejoiced any earthly wight, 
 And I, that couth not yet in no manere 
 Hearen the nightingale of all the year, 
 Full busily hearkened with heart and ear 
 If I her voice perceive could any where. 
 
 And at the last a path of little brede 
 I found, that greatly had not used be. 
 For it forgrowen was with grass and weed. 
 That well unneathis a wight might it see. 
 Thought I, "This path some whider goth, 
 
 parde ! " 
 And so I followed it till it me brought 
 To a right pleasant herbir well ywrought, 
 
 Which that benched was, and with turves new 
 Freshly turved, whereof the greene grass 
 So small, so thick, so soft, so fresh of hue. 
 That most like to green wool, wot I, it was ; 
 The hedge also that yeden in compass, 
 
Chaucek.] 
 
 DUPLICITY OF WOMEN. 
 
 [First Period. — From the 
 
 And closed in alle the green herbere 
 With sycamore was set and eglatere 
 
 Within, in fere so well and cunningly, 
 That every branch and leaf grew by measure 
 Plain as a board, of an height by and by ; 
 I see never a thing, I you ensure, 
 So well ydone ; for he that took the cure 
 It for to make, I trow, did all his pain, 
 To make it pass all tho that men have seen. 
 Choicer. — About 1380. 
 
 26.— THE DUPLICITY OF WOMEN. 
 
 This vrorld is full of variance, 
 In everything, who taketh heed. 
 That faith and trust, and all Constance, 
 Exiled be, this is no drede. 
 And save only in womanhead, 
 I can ysee no sikemess ; 
 But for all that yet, as I read, 
 Beware alway of doubleness. 
 
 Also that the fresh summer flowers. 
 The white and red, the blue and green, 
 Be suddenly with winter showers, 
 Made faint and fade, withouten ween, 
 That trust is none, as ye may seen, 
 In no thing, nor no steadfastness. 
 Except in women, thus I mean ; 
 Yet aye beware of doubleness. 
 
 The crooked moon (this is no tale), 
 Some while isheen and bright of hue, 
 And after that full dark and pale. 
 And every moneth changeth new, 
 That who the very sothe knew 
 All thing is built on brittleness, 
 Save that women alway be true ; 
 Yet aye beware of doubleness. 
 
 The lusty freshe summer's day. 
 And Phoebus with his beames clear, 
 Towardes night they draw away. 
 And no longer list t' appear, 
 That in this present life now here 
 Nothing abideth in his fairness. 
 Save women aye be found entere, 
 And devoid of all doubleness. 
 
 The sea eke with his sterne wawes 
 Each day yfloweth new again, 
 And by the concourse of his lawes 
 The ebbe floweth in certain ; 
 After great drought there cometh rain ; 
 That farewell here all stableness, 
 Save that women be whole and plein ; 
 Yet aye beware of doubleness. 
 
 Fortunes wheel go'th round about 
 A thousand times day and night, 
 Whose course standeth ever in doubt 
 For to transmue she is so light. 
 For which adverteth in your sight 
 Th' untrust of worldly fickleness, 
 Save women, which of kindly right 
 Ne hath no touch of doubleness. 
 
 What man ymay the wind restraia. 
 Or holden a snake by the tail ? 
 Who may a slipper eel constrain 
 That it will void withouten fail ? 
 Or who can driven so a nail 
 To make sure newfangleness. 
 Save women, that can gie their sail 
 To row their boat with doubleness ? 
 
 At every haven they can arrive 
 Whereas they wot is good passage ; 
 Of innocence they sannot strive 
 With wawes, nor no rockes rage ; 
 So happy is their lodemanage 
 With needle' and stone their course to dregs', 
 That Solomon was not sc sage 
 To find in them no doubleness : 
 
 Therefore whoso doth them accuse 
 Of any double intention, 
 To speake rown, other to muse, 
 To pinch at their condition. 
 All is but false collusion, 
 I dare right well the soth express. 
 They have no better protection. 
 But shroud them under doubleness. 
 
 So well fortuned is their chance, 
 The dice to-turnen up so down. 
 With sice and cinque they can advance, 
 And then by revolution 
 They set a fell conclusion 
 Of lombes, as in sothfastness. 
 Though clerkes maken mention 
 Their kind is fret with doubleness. 
 
 Sampson yhad experience 
 That women were full true yf ound ; 
 Wlien Dalila of innocence 
 With shear es "gan his hair to round ; 
 To speak also of Rosamond, 
 And Cleopatra's faithfulness. 
 The stories plainly will confound 
 Men that apeach their doubleness. 
 
 Single thing is not ypraised. 
 Nor of old is of no renown, 
 In balance when they be ypesed. 
 For lack of weight they be borne down. 
 And for this cause of just reason 
 These women all of rightwisness 
 Of choice and free election 
 Most love exchange and doubleness. 
 
 l'envoye. 
 
 O ye women ! which be inclined 
 By influence of your nature 
 To be as pure as gold yfined, 
 And in your truth for to endure, 
 Armeth yourself in strong armure, 
 (Lest men assail your sikemess). 
 Set on your breast, yourself t' assure, 
 A mighty shield of doubleness. 
 
 Chaucer. — About 1380. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] 
 
 THE TALE OF THE COFFERS. 
 
 [John Gower. 
 
 27.— PRAISE OF WOMEN. 
 
 For, this ye know well, tho' I wonldin lie, 
 In women is all truth and steadfastness ; 
 For, in good faith, I never of them sie 
 But much worship, bounty, and gentleness, 
 Right coming, fair, and full of meekeness ; 
 Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure, 
 Is this goodly and angelic creature. 
 
 And if it hap a man be in disease, 
 She doth her business and her full pain 
 With all her might him to comfbrt and 
 
 If fro his disease him she might restrain : 
 In word ne deed, I wis, she woU not faine ; 
 With all her might she doth her business 
 To bringen him out of his heaviness. 
 
 Lo, here what gentleness these women have, 
 If we could know it for our rudeness ! 
 How busye they be us to keep and save 
 Both in hele and also in sickness, 
 And alway right sorry for our distress ! 
 In every raanere thus shew they ruth, 
 That in them is aU goodness and all truth. 
 
 Chaucer.— About 1380. 
 
 II 
 
 28.— THE LAST VERSES OF CHAUCER. 
 
 {Written on Ms Deathbed.) 
 
 Fly from the press, and dwell with sothf ast- 
 ness ; 
 
 Suffice unto thy good though it be small ; 
 For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, 
 Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all ; 
 Savour no more than thee behoven shall ; 
 Rede well thyself, that otherfolk can'st rede, 
 And truth thee shall deliver 't is no drede. 
 
 Pain thee not each crooked to redress 
 In trust of her that tumeth as a ball ; 
 Great rest standeth in little business ; 
 Beware also to spurn against a nallo ; 
 Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall ; 
 Deemeth thyself that deemest other's deed, 
 And truth thee shall deliver 't is no drede. 
 
 That thee is sent receive in buxomness ; 
 The wrestling of this world asketh a fall ; 
 Here is no home, here is but wilderness ; 
 Forth, pilgrim, forth ; O beast out of thy stall ; 
 Look up on high, and thank thy God of all ; 
 Waiveth thy lust and let thy ghost thee lead, 
 And truth thee shall deliver 't is no drede. 
 
 Che 
 
 -About 1400. 
 
 29.— THE TALE OF THE COFFERS OR 
 CASKETS, «&c. 
 
 In a cronique thus I rede : 
 Aboute a king, as must nede, 
 Ther was of knyghtes and squiers 
 Gret route, and eke of officers : 
 Some of long time him hadden served, 
 And thoughten that they haue deserved, 
 Avancement, and gon withoute : 
 And some also ben of the route, 
 That comen but a while agon, 
 And they avanced were anon. 
 
 These olde men upon this thing. 
 So as they durst, ageyne the king 
 Among hemself compleignen ofte : 
 ".But there is nothing said so softe. 
 That it ne comith out at laste : 
 The king it wiste, and als so faste. 
 As he which was of high prudence : 
 He shope therefore an evidence 
 Of hem that pleignen in the cas 
 To knowe in whose defalte it was : 
 And all within his owne entent, 
 That non ma wiste what it ment. 
 Anon he let two cofres make. 
 Of one semblance, and of one make, 
 So lich, that no lif thilke throwe. 
 That one may fro that other knowe : 
 They were into his chamber brought, 
 But no man wot why they be wrought, 
 And natheles the king hath bede 
 That they be set in privy stede, 
 As he that was of wisdom slih ; 
 Whan he therto his time sih. 
 All prively that none it wiste, 
 His owne hondes that one chiste 
 , Of fin gold, and of fin perie. 
 The which out of his tresorie 
 Was take, anon he fild full ; 
 That other cofre of straw and mull 
 With stones meynd he fild also : 
 Thus be they full bothe two. 
 So that erliche upon a day 
 He had within, where he lay, 
 Ther should be tofore his bed 
 A bord up set and faire spred : 
 And than he let the cofres fette 
 Upon the bord, and did hem sette. 
 He knewe the names well of tho, 
 The whiche agein him grutched so, 
 Both of his chambre, and of his halle. 
 Anon and sent for hem alle ; 
 And seide to hem in this wise. 
 
 There shall no man his hap despise : 
 I wot well ye have longe served. 
 And god wot what ye have deserved ; 
 But if it is along on me 
 Of that ye unavanced be. 
 Or eUes if it belong on yow, 
 The sothe shall be proved now : 
 To stoppe with your evil word, 
 Lo ! here two cofres on the bord ; 
 Chese which you list of bothe two ; 
 
 3* 
 
John Go web.] 
 
 EOSIPHELE'S VISION. 
 
 [First i'EUiOD. — From tim 
 
 And witeth well that one of the 
 
 Of women but a few it wist. 
 
 Is with tresor so full begon, 
 
 And forth she went privily 
 
 That if he happe thempon 
 
 Unto a park was fast by, 
 
 Ye shall be riche men for ever : 
 
 All softe walkend on the grass, 
 
 Now chese and take which yon is lever 
 
 Till she came there the land was 
 
 But be well ware ere that ye take. 
 
 Through which ran a great rivere. 
 
 For of that one I undertake 
 
 It thought her fair, and said, " Here 
 
 Ther is no maner good therein, 
 
 «' WiU I abide, under the shaw ; " 
 
 Wherof ye mighten profit winne. 
 
 And bade her women to vdthdraw. 
 
 Now goth together of one assent. 
 
 And there she stood alone still. 
 
 And taketh your avisement ; 
 
 To think what was in her wiU.- 
 
 For but I you this day avance, 
 
 She saw the sweet flowers spring ; 
 
 It stant upon your owne chance. 
 
 She heard (the) glad fowls sing ; 
 
 Al only in defalte of grace ; 
 
 She saw beastes in their kind, 
 
 So shall be shewed in this place 
 
 The buck, the doe, the hart, the hind, 
 
 Upon you all well afjm, 
 
 The males go with the female : 
 
 That no defalte shal be myn. 
 
 And so began there a quareU 
 
 They knelen all, and with one vois 
 
 Between love and her owne heart. 
 
 The khig they thonken of this chois : 
 
 From which she couthe not astart. 
 
 And after that they up arise, 
 
 And as she cast her eye about, 
 
 And gon aside and hem avise. 
 
 She saw, clad iu one suit, a rout 
 
 And at laste they accorde 
 
 Of ladies, where they comen ride 
 
 (Wherof her tale to recorde 
 
 Along under the wood side ; 
 
 To what issue they be falle) 
 
 On fair ambulend horse they set. 
 
 A knyght shall speke for hem aUe : 
 
 That were all white, fair, and great ; 
 
 He kneleth doun unto the king, 
 
 And everiche one rid on side. 
 
 And seith that they upon this thing. 
 
 The saddles were of such a pride, 
 
 Or for to winne, or for to lese, 
 
 So rich saw she never none 
 
 Ben aU. avised for to chese. 
 
 With pearls and gold so well begone ; 
 
 Tho toke this knyght a yerd on honde, 
 
 In kirtels and in copes rich 
 
 And goth there as the cofres stonde, 
 
 They were all clothed all alich, 
 
 And with assent of everychone 
 
 Departed even of white and blue 
 
 He leith his yerde upon one, 
 
 With all lustes that she knew 
 
 And seith the king how thilke same 
 
 They were embroidered over all ; 
 
 They chese in reguerdon by name. 
 
 Their bodies weren long and sma,ll. 
 
 And preith him that they might it have. 
 
 The beauty of their fair face 
 
 The king, which wolde his honor save, 
 
 There may no earthly thing deface : 
 
 Whan he had heard the common vois, 
 
 Corownes on their heads they bare 
 
 Hath granted hem her owne chois, 
 
 As each of them a queen were ; 
 
 And toke hem therupon the keie ; 
 
 That aU the gold of Croesus' hall 
 
 But for he wolde it were scie 
 
 The least coronal of all 
 
 What good they have as they suppose, 
 
 Might not have bought, after the worth : 
 
 He bad anon the cofre unclose, 
 
 Thus comen they ridend forth. 
 
 Which was fulfild with straw and stones : 
 
 John Goiver.— About 1390. 
 
 Thus be they served all at ones. 
 
 
 This king than in the same stede. 
 
 '^~ 
 
 
 Anon that other cofre undede, 
 
 
 Where as they sihen gret richesse, 
 
 31.— THE ENVIOUS MAN AND THE 
 
 Wei more than they couthen gesse. 
 
 MISEE. 
 
 Lo ! seith the king, now may ye see 
 
 Of Jupiter thus I find y-writ, 
 
 That ther is no defalte in me ; 
 
 How whilom that he would wit, 
 
 Forthy my self I wol acquite. 
 And bereth he your owne wite 
 Of that fortune hath you refused. 
 
 Upon the plaints which he heard 
 Among the men, how it fared, 
 As of the wrong condition 
 
 Thus was this wise king excused : 
 And they lefte off her evil speche, 
 
 To do justification ; 
 
 And for that cause down he sent ' 
 
 And mercy of her king beseche. 
 
 An angel, that about went. 
 
 John Gowcr. — Ahout 1390. 
 
 That he the sooth know may. 
 
 
 So it befel upon a day, 
 
 
 This angel which him should inform 
 
 30.— EOSIPHELE'S VISION OF LADIES. 
 
 Was clothed in a man's form, 
 And overtook, I understand. 
 
 When come was the month of May, 
 
 Two men that wenten over lend ; 
 
 She would walk upon a day. 
 
 Through which he thought to aspy 
 
 And that was ere the sun arist, 
 
 His cause, and go'th in company. 
 
earliest Times to 1400.] DEATH OF SIE HENEY DE BOHUN. [John Babbouk. 
 
 This anorel with his words wise 
 
 Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
 
 Opposeth them in sundry wise ; 
 
 He le\'ys at ese that frely levys ! 
 
 Now loud words and now soft, 
 
 A noble hart may haiff nane ese. 
 
 That made them to disputen oft ; 
 
 Na ellys nocht that may him plese, 
 
 And each his reason had, 
 
 Gyff fredome f ailythe : for fre liking 
 
 And thus with tales he them led, 
 
 Is yeamyt our all othir thing 
 
 With good examination. 
 
 Na he, that ay hase levyt fre, _ 
 
 Till he knew the condition, 
 
 May nocht knaw weiU the propyrte, 
 
 What men they were both two ; 
 
 The angyr, na the wrechyt dome. 
 
 And saw well at last tho. 
 
 That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 
 
 That one of them was covetous. 
 
 Bot gyff he had assayit it, 
 
 And his fellow was en-\dous. 
 
 Than aU perquer he suld it wyt ; 
 
 And thus when he hath knowledging, 
 
 And suld think fredome mar to pryse 
 
 Anon he feigned departing, 
 
 Than all the gold in warld that is. 
 
 And said he mote algate wend ; 
 
 Jolm Barbour. — About 1390. 
 
 But hearken now what fell at end ! 
 
 
 For then he made them understond, 
 That he was there of God's sond, 
 
 
 
 And said them for the kindship. 
 
 33.— CHARACTER OF SIR JAMES OF 
 
 He Avould do them some grace again. 
 
 DOUGLAS. 
 
 And bade that one of thom should sain 
 
 AU men loved him for his bounty, 
 For he was of full fair efFeir, 
 
 What thing is him levest to crave, 
 
 And he it shall of gift have. 
 
 Wise, courteous, and debonair. 
 
 And over that ke forth with all 
 
 Darge, and luffand als was he. 
 
 He saith, that other have shall 
 
 And oure all things loved lawte. 
 
 The double of that his fellow axeth ; 
 
 * * * 
 
 And thus to them his grace he taxeth. 
 
 He was in aU his deedis leal ; 
 
 The Covetous was wonder glad ; 
 And to that other man he bade, 
 And saith, that he first ax should j 
 
 For him dedeynyeit not to deal 
 With treachery, na with falset : 
 His heart on high honoiir was set ; 
 And him contentit on sic manere. 
 
 For he supposeth that he would 
 
 That aU him loved that were him near. 
 
 Make his axing of world's good ; 
 For then he knew well how it stood ; 
 If that himsell by double weight 
 
 But he was not so fair, that we 
 Should speak greatly of his beauty. 
 In visage he was some deal grey, 
 And had black hair, as I heard say ; 
 But of limbs he was well made, 
 With banys great, and shoulders braid. 
 * * * 
 
 Shall after take, and thus by sleight 
 
 Because that he would win. 
 He bade his fellow first begin. 
 This Envious, though it be late, 
 
 When that he saw he mote, algate, 
 Make his axing first, he thought. 
 If he his worship and profit sought 
 It shall be double to his fere, 
 
 When he was blythe he was lovelj^, 
 And meek, and sweet in company ; 
 But who in battle might him see. 
 Another countenance had he. 
 
 That he would chuse in no mn.nner. 
 
 
 But then he showeth what he was 
 
 Jolm Barbour. — About 1390. 
 
 Toward envy, and in this case, 
 Unto this angel thus he said, 
 And for his gift thus he prayed, 
 
 
 34.— DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN. 
 
 To make him blind on his one ee, 
 
 And when the king wist that they were 
 
 So that his fellow nothing see. 
 
 In hale battle, comand sae near, 
 
 
 His battle gart he weel array. 
 
 This word was not so soon spoke, 
 
 He rade upon a little palfrey, 
 
 Than his one ee anon was loke : 
 
 Lawcht and joly array and 
 
 And his feUow forthwith also 
 
 His battle, with an ax in hand. 
 
 Was blind on both his eyes two. 
 
 And on his bassinet he bare 
 
 Tho was that other glad enough : 
 
 An hat of tyre aboon ay where ; 
 
 That one wept, and that other lough. 
 
 And, thereupon, into takin, 
 
 He set his one ee at no cost, 
 
 Ane high crown, that he was king. 
 
 Whereof that other two hath lost. 
 
 And when Gloster and Hereford were 
 
 I^v John Govjer. — About 1390. 
 
 With their battle approachand near. 
 
 
 Before them aU there came ridand, 
 With helm on held and spear in hand, 
 
 I^^^t 
 
 j 32.— APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM. 
 
 Sir Henry tho Boon, the worthy. 
 That was a wicht knicht, and a hardy. 
 
 A ! fredome is a nobill thing ! 
 
 And to the Earl of Hereford cousin ; 
 
 Fredome mayso man to haiff liking ! 
 
 Armed in arms gude and fine ; 
 
John Babbouk.] 
 
 BATTLE OF BYLAND'S PATH. 
 
 [First Period. 
 
 Came on a steed a bowshot near, 
 
 Before all other that there were : 
 
 And knew the king', for that he saw 
 
 Hun sae range his men on raw, 
 
 And by the crown that Avas set 
 
 Also upon his bassinet. 
 
 And toward him he went in hy. 
 
 And the king sae apertly 
 
 Saw him come, foronth all his fears, 
 
 In hy till him the horse ho steers. 
 
 And when Sir Henry saw the king 
 
 Come on, forontin abasing, 
 
 Tin him he rode in great hy. 
 
 He thought that he should weel lichtly 
 
 Win him, and have him at his will, 
 
 Sin' he him horsit saw sae ill. 
 
 Sprent they samen intill a l3Tig ; 
 
 Sir Henry missed the noble king ; 
 
 And he that in his stirrups stude, 
 
 With the ax, that was hard and gude, 
 
 With sae great main, raucht him a dint, 
 
 That nouther hat nor helm micht stint 
 
 The heavy dush, that he him gave, 
 
 That near the head till the harns clave. 
 
 The hand-ax shaft frushit in tway ; . 
 
 And he down to the yird gan gae 
 
 All flatlings, for him failit micht. 
 
 This was the first straik of the ficht, 
 
 That was performit douchtily. 
 
 And when the king's men sae stoutly 
 
 Saw him, richt at the first meeting, 
 
 Forouten doubt or abasing, 
 
 Have slain a knicht sae at a straik, 
 
 Sic hard'ment thereat gan they tak, 
 
 That they come on richt hardQy. 
 
 When Englishmen saw them sae stoutly 
 
 Come on, they had great abasing ; 
 
 And specially for that the king 
 
 Sae smartly that gude knicht has slain, 
 
 That they withdrew them everilk ane. 
 
 And durst pot ane abide to ficht : 
 
 Sae dreid they for the king's micht. * * 
 
 When that the king repairit was, 
 
 That gart his men all leave the chase, 
 
 The lordis of his company 
 
 Blamed him, as they durst, greatumly, , 
 
 That he him put in aventure, 
 
 To meet sae stith a knicht, and stour, 
 
 In sic point as he then was seen. 
 
 For they said weel, it micht have been 
 
 Cause of their tynsal everilk ane. 
 
 The king answer has made them nane, 
 
 But mainit his hand- ax shaft sae 
 
 Was -with the straik broken in tway. 
 
 Jolin Barhoiir. — About 1390. 
 
 35.— THE BATTLE OF BYLAND'S PATH. 
 
 Thus were they fechtand in the pass, 
 And when the king Eobert, that was 
 Wiss in his deid, and anerly, 
 Saw his men sae right doughtily 
 The path upon their fajds ta' ; 
 And saw his fayis defend them sae ; 
 Then gart he all the Irishry 
 That were intill his company. 
 Of Argyle and the Isles alsua, 
 Speed them in great hy to the brae. 
 And bade them leave the path haly 
 And climb up in the crags hy ; 
 And speed them fast the height to ta' : 
 Then might men see them stoutly gae. 
 And climb all gate up the height, 
 And leave not for their fayis might. 
 Maugre their fayis, they bare them sae 
 That they are gotten abune the brae. 
 Then might men see them fight felly ; 
 And rusche their fayis sturdily. 
 And they that till the pass were gane, 
 Maugre their fayis, the height has tane ; 
 Then laid they on with all their might ; 
 There might men see them feUy fight. 
 
 John Barbour. — About 1390, 
 
THE SECOND PERIOD, 
 
 FROM UOO TO 1558. 
 
 WARTON, with great beauty and justice, compares the appearance of Chaucer in our 
 language to a premature day in an English spring ; after which the gloom of winter 
 returns, and the buds and blossoms, which have been called forth by a transient sunshine, are 
 nipped by frosts and scattered by storms. The causes of the relapse of our poetry, after 
 Chaucer, seem but too apparent in the annals of English history, which during five reigns of 
 the fifteenth century continue to display but a tissue of conspiracies, proscriptions, and blood- 
 shed. Inferior even to France in literary progress, England displays in the fifteenth century a 
 still more mortifying contrast with Italy. Italy, too, had her rehgious schisms and public 
 distractions ; but her arts and Uterature had always a sheltering-place. They were even 
 cherished by the rivalship of independent communities, and received encouragement from the 
 opposite sources of commercial and ecclesiastical wealth. Eut v:e had no Nicholas the Fifth, 
 nor house of Medicis. In England, the evils of civil war agitated society as one mass. There 
 was no refuge from them — no inclosure to fence in the field of improvement — no mound to 
 stem the torrent of public troables. Before the death of Henry VI., it is said that one half of 
 the nobihty and gentry in the kingdom had perished in the field, or on the scafi'old. Whilst 
 in England the pubhc spirit was thus brutalized, whilst the value and security of life were 
 abridged, whilst the wealth of the rich was employed only in war, and the chance of patronage 
 taken from the scholar ; in Italy, princes and magistrates vied with each other in caUing men 
 of genius around them, as the brightest ornaments of their states and courts. The art of 
 printing came to Italy to record the treasures of its literary attainments ; but when it came to 
 England, with a very few exceptions, it could not be said, for the purpose of diffusing native 
 literature, to be a necessary art. A circumstance, additionally hostile to the national genius, 
 may certainly be traced in the executions for religion, which sprang up as a horrible novelty 
 in our country in the fifteenth century. The clergy were determined to indemnify themselves 
 for the exposures which they had met with in the preceding age, and the unhallowed com- 
 promise which Henry IV. made with them, in return for supporting his accession, armed them, 
 in an evil hour, with the torch of persecution. In one point of improvement, namely, in the 
 boldness of religious inquiry, the North of Europe might already boast of being superior to 
 the South, with aU its learning, wealth, and elegant acquirements. The Scriptures had been 
 opened by Wickliffe, but they were again to become "a fountain sealed, and a spring shut up." 
 Amidst the progress of letters in Italy, the fine arts threw enchantment around superstition ; 
 and the warm imagination of the South was congenial to the nature of Catholic institutions. 
 But the English mind had already shown, even amidst its comparative barbarism, a stern 
 independent spirit of religion ; and from this single proud and elevated point of its character, 
 it was now to be crushed and beaten down. Sometimes a baffled struggle agaiast oppression 
 is more depressing to the human faculties than continued submission. 
 
 Our natural hatred of tyranny, and we may safely add, the general test of history and 
 experience, would dispose us to believe religious persecution to be necessarily and essentially 
 baneful to the elegant arts, no less than to the intellectual pursuits of mankind. It is natural 
 to think, that when punishments are let loose upon men's opinions, they wlU spread a 
 contagious alarm from the understanding to the imagination. They wiU make the heart grow 
 close and insensible to generous feelings, where it is unaccustomed to express them freely ; and 
 the graces and gaiety of fancy wiU be dejected and appalled. In an age of persecution, even 
 the living study of his own species must be comparatively darkened to the poet. He looks 
 round on the characters and countenances of his fellow-creatures ; and instead of the naturally 
 cheerful and eccentric variety of their humours, he reads only a sullen and oppressed 
 uniformity. To the spirit of poetry we should conceive such a period to be an impassable 
 Avernus, where she would drop her wings and expire. Undoubtedly this inference will be 
 
THE SECOND PERIOD.— FEOM 1400—1558. 
 
 found warranted by a general survey of the history of Genius. It is, at the same time, im- 
 possible to deny, that wit and poetry have in some instances flourished coeval with ferocious 
 bigotry, on the same spot, and under the same government. The literary glory of Spain was 
 posterior to the establishment of the Inquisition. The fancy of Cervantes sported in its 
 neighbourhood, though he declared that he could have made his writings still more enter- 
 taining if he had not dreaded the Holy Office. But the growth of Spanish genius, in spite of 
 the co-existence of religious tyranny, was fostered by imcommon and glorious advantages in 
 the circumstances of the nation. Spain (for we are comparing Spain in the sixteenth with 
 England in the fifteenth century) was, at the period aUuded to, great and proud in an empire 
 on which it was boasted that the sun never set. Her language was widely diffused. The 
 wealth of America for a while animated all her arts. Robertson says that the Spaniards dis- 
 covered at that time an extent of political knowledge which the English themselves did not 
 attain for more than a century afterwards. Religious persecutions began in England at a time 
 when she was comparatively poor and barbarous, yet after she had been awakened to so much 
 intelligence on the subject of religion as to make one half of the people indignantly impatient 
 of priestly tyranny. If we add to the political troubles of the age, the circumstances of 
 religious opinions being silenced and stifled by penal horrors, it will seem more wonderful that 
 the spark of literature was kept alive, than that it did not spread more widely. Yet the 
 fifteenth century had its redeeming traits of refijiement, the more wonderful for appearing in 
 the midst of such unfavourable circumstances. It had a Fortescue, although he wandered in 
 exile, unprotected by the constitution wliich he explained and extolled in his writings. It had 
 a noble patron and lover of letters in Tiptoft, although he died by the hands of the executioner. 
 It witnessed the founding of many colleges in both of the universities, although they were 
 still the haunts of scholastic quibbling ; and it produced, in the venerable Pecock, one con- 
 scientious dignitary of the church, who wished to have converted the Protestants by appeals 
 to reason, though for so doing he had his books, and, if he had not recanted in good time, would 
 have had his body also, committed to the flames. To these causes may be ascribed the back- 
 wardness of our poetry between the dates of Chaucer and Spenser. I speak of the chasm 
 extending to, or nearly to, Spenser ; for, without undervaluing the elegant talents of Lord Surrey, 
 I think we cannot consider the national genius as completely emancipated from oppressive 
 circumstances, till the time of Elizabeth. There was indeed a commencement of our poetry 
 under Henry VIII. It was a fine, but a feeble one. English genius seems then to have come 
 forth, but half assured that her day of emancipation was at hand. There is something 
 melancholy even in Lord Surrey's strains of gallantry. The succession of Henry VIII. gave 
 stability to the government, and some degree of magnificence to the state of society. But 
 tyranny was not yet at an end ; and to judge, not by the gross buffoons, but by the few minds 
 entitled to be called poetical, which appear in the earlier part of the sixteenth century, we may 
 say that the English Muse had still a diffident aspect and a faltering tone. * * * * 
 
 The Scottish poets of the fifteenth, and of a part of the sixteenth century, would also justly 
 demand a place in any history of our poetry that meant to be copious and minute ; as the 
 northern "makers," notwithstanding the difference of dialect, generally denominate their 
 language " Inglis." Scotland produced an entire poetical version of the ^neid, before Lord 
 Surrey had translated a single book of it ; indeed, before there was an English version of any 
 classic, excepting Boethius, if he can be called a classic. Virgil was only known in the 
 EngKsh language through a romance of the Siege of Troy, published by Caxton, which, as 
 Bishop Douglas observes, in the prologue to his Scottish iEneid, is no more like Virgil than 
 the devil is like St. Austin. Perhaps the resemblance may not even be so great. But the 
 Scottish poets, after all that has been said of them, form nothing like a brilliant revival of 
 poetry. They are on the whole superior, indeed, in spirit and originality to their English 
 contemporaries, which is not saying much ; but tt-eir style is, for the most part, cast, if possible, 
 in a worst taste. The prevailing fault of English diction, in the fifteenth century, is redundant 
 ornament, and an affectation of Anglicising Latin words. In this pedantry and use of " aureate 
 terms," the Scottish versifiers went even beyond their brethren of the south. Some exceptions 
 to the remark, I am aware, may be found in Dunbar, who sometimes exhibits simplicity and 
 lyrical terseness ; but even his style has frequent deformities of quaintness, false ornament, 
 and alliteration. The rest of them, when they meant to be most eloquent, tore up words from 
 the Latin, which never took root in the language, like children making a mock garden with 
 flowers and branches stuck in the ground, which speedily wither. — Campbell's Essay on 
 English Poetry. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE. 
 
 John Jjjdgsite, who flourished about the 
 year 1430, was an Augustine monk of St. Ed- 
 mund's Bury. " His muse," says Warton, "was 
 of universal access, and he was not only the 
 poet of the monastery, but of the world in 
 general. If a disguising was intended by the 
 company of Goldsmiths, a mask before His 
 Majesty at Eltham, a May-game for the 
 sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming 
 before the Lord Mayor, a procession of 
 pageants from the creation for the festival 
 of Corpus Christi, or a card for the corona- 
 tion, Lydgate was consulted and gave the 
 poetry." He travelled in France and Italy. 
 Ho kept a school for pupils of the higher 
 classes in versification. He ^vrote, according 
 to Eitson, in his " BibHographica Poetica," 
 no fewer than 251 works. He was a good 
 mathematician and also an accomplished 
 scholar. Bom 1375, died 1461. 
 
 JAMES I. 
 
 James I., King of Scotland, the son of 
 Robert 111. , was taken by the English on his 
 passage to France, and kept in confinement 
 eighteen years. In 1423 he obtained his li- 
 berty on Marrying Joanna Beaufort, daughter 
 of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he had 
 fallen in love from seeing her walking in the 
 royal gardens at Windsor while he was a 
 prisoner there, and who is believed to be the 
 lady alluded to in James's pleasing poem of 
 the " King's Quhair." On his return to 
 Scotland he severely punished his uncle, the 
 Duke of Albany, and others, who had mis- 
 governed the country in his absence, in con- 
 sequence of which a conspiracy was formed, 
 and he was murdered in his private apart- 
 ments in 1437. James I. was a most accom- 
 phshed gentleman, and a poet of no little 
 merit. He invented a sort of plaintive 
 melody, which was greatly admired and imi- 
 tated in Italy, in which country he was, in 
 consequence, long remembered with respect. 
 He was one of the most skilful harpers of his 
 time, and excelled all competitors in the use 
 of that instrument. Three compositions of 
 his have come down to us, " Christ's Kirk on 
 
 the Green," the "King's Quhair," and 
 " Peebles at the Play," which exhibit no 
 mean degree of intellectual power and literary 
 skill. — Beeton's TJniverscd Biography, p. 548. 
 
 ANDREW WYNTOUN. 
 
 Andrew Wyntoun lived in the early part of 
 the 15th century. He was a priest of St. 
 Serf's monastery in Lochleven. He wrote a 
 chronicle of his country in rhyme. It is 
 " valuable as a picture of ancient manners, as 
 a repository of historical anecdotes, and as a 
 specimen of the Kterary attainments of our 
 ancestors. It contains a considerable number 
 of fabulous legends, such as we may suppose 
 to have been told beside the parlour fire of a 
 monastery of those days." — Chambers's CyclO' 
 pxdia of English Literature, vol. i. p. 28. 
 
 BLIND HAERY. 
 
 Blind Harry, or Henry the Minstrel, lived 
 about the close of the 15th century. He sang 
 the adventures of Wallace, and the poem, in 
 eleven books, is full of animated descriptions 
 of battle and heroic deeds. William Hamilton 
 of Gibertfield paraphrased it into modem 
 Scotch. In its new dress it has been exceed- 
 ingly popular among the peasantry, and tended 
 greatly to kindle the genius of Bums. 
 
 ROBERT HENRYSONE. 
 
 Little is known of this poet's history. 
 He was a schoolmaster at Dunfermhne, 
 and a monk of the Benedictine order. He 
 wrote a number of poems, the chief of 
 which are "The Testament of Cresseide," 
 being a sequel to Chaucer's Troilus and 
 Cresseide " Fabils," thirteen in number. 
 His best fable is the " Vpoulands Mouse and 
 the Burgesse Mouse ; " but his most exquisite 
 production is " Robene and Makyne," which is 
 probably the earliest specimen of pastoral 
 poetry in the Scottish language. Dr. David 
 Irving, in his "Lives of the Scottish Poets," 
 thus speaks of him : — " The various v-'orka of 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Second Period. 
 
 Henrysone afford so excellent a specimen of 
 the Scottish language and versification, that a 
 complete collection, printed with due accuracy 
 and accompanied with proper illustrations, 
 could not fan to be highly acceptable to the 
 lovers of our early literature. The poems of 
 Henrysone are given in the collections of 
 Hailes, Pinkerton, Ramsay, Sibbald, Irving, 
 and EUis." He died some time before the 
 year 1508. 
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAE. 
 
 William Dunbar, born 1465, died 1530. 
 Dunbar was a native of Salton, East Lothian, 
 Scotland. He received his education at the 
 University of St. Andrew. He became a 
 Franciscan friar, and preached in Scotland, 
 England, and France. James IV. gave him 
 residence at the court, and employed him in 
 diplomatic services. He wrote " The Thistle 
 and Rose," an allegory celebrating the 
 marriage of James IV. of Scotland with 
 Margaret, daughter of Henry VII. ; " The 
 Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through 
 Hell;" and "The Golden Terge." - His 
 " Merle and Nightingale " exhibits much 
 beauty. " The Two Married Women and the 
 Widow " is in a rich vein of humour : it is 
 however indelicate. Sir Walter Scott ex- 
 presses a very high opinion of Dunbar; he 
 says, " that he is unrivalled by any poet that 
 Scotland has yet produced ; " and Ellis speaks 
 in equally high terms : " Dunbar's peculiar 
 excellence is much good sense and sound 
 morality, expressed with force and concise- 
 ness, llis style, whether grave or humorous, 
 whether simple or ornamented, is always 
 energetic; and though all his compositions 
 cannot be expected to possess equal merit, we 
 seldom find in them a weak or redundant 
 stanza." His poems were published with 
 notes by Sir David Dabymple. Strange to 
 say that, with a very slight exception, all his 
 writings remained in manuscript till the 
 beginning of the last century. 
 
 GAWAIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 Gawain Douglas, bom at Brechin 1475, 
 died 1522. He was the third son of Arclii- 
 bald, fifth Earl of Angus, and became Bishop 
 of Dunkeld. He was educated at the Univer- 
 sity of Paris, and having entered the church, 
 he was ever regarded as a lover of peace. He 
 was a poet of considerable power, and his 
 principal production, " The Palice of Honour," 
 wiU often remind the reader of Bunyan's 
 Pilgrim's Progress. He is, however, best 
 known for his translation of Virgil's .^neid 
 into Scottish verse : the first version of any 
 classic author into the British language. 
 Hallam, in " Introduction to Literary History," 
 says " the character of Douglas's original 
 poetry seems to be that of the middle ages in 
 
 general — prolix, though sometimes animated, 
 descriptive of sensible objects." Warton 
 speaks of him as highly poetical ; and Irving 
 as a bold and energetic writer. 
 
 SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 
 Sir David Lyndsay was born abo'at 1490- 
 He served King James V. in a variety of 
 offices, as sewer, carver, cupbearer, purse, 
 master, and was afterwards appointed Lord 
 Lyon King at Arms. He was given to hu- 
 mour and satire ; and though so intimately 
 connected with the court, yet he boldly de- 
 nounced its foibles and abuses. The clergy, 
 who then led for the most part very dissolute 
 lives, he strongly assailed. His writings 
 doubtless contributed in no little degree to 
 help forward the Reformation in Scotland. 
 He died about the year 1555. 
 
 JOHN SKELTON. 
 
 John Skelton was bom either in Cum- 
 berland, or more probably in Norfolk, about 
 1460. He was educated at Oxford, and after- 
 wards became Rector of Diss. His conduct 
 was very unsuitable for a clergyman, although 
 some allowance must be made for the general 
 laxity of the times. Through an attack in 
 his poem " Why come ye not to Court ? " on 
 Cardinal Wolsey, then in the zenith of power, 
 he was compelled to seek refuge with Islip, 
 the Abbot of Westminster. With this kind 
 and faithful friend he lived till his death, in 
 1529. His works consist chiefly of satires 
 and sonnets : there are also some severe remarks 
 on Lily, a noted grammarian at that period. 
 The Rev. Alexander Dyce has published his 
 poems. 
 
 HENEY HOWARD. 
 
 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, bom 1518, 
 died 1547. He was the third son of Thomas, 
 Earl of Surrey, and third Duke of Norfolk, by 
 his second duchess, Elizabeth, daughter of 
 Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. He was the 
 companion of Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Rich- 
 mond, Henry VIII. 's natural son. Both were 
 sent to Cardinal College, now called Christ 
 Church, Oxford. He married in 1535 Lady 
 Frances Vere. In 1542 he soi-ved under his 
 father in Scotland. Two years afterwards he 
 was appointed Field-Marshal of the English 
 army on the Continent. He distinguished him- 
 self greatly at the sieges of Landrecy and 
 Boulogne. He became highly popular, and de- 
 servedly so, as his valour, skill, and accom- 
 plishments were great. But this the jealous 
 Henry could ill brook. He was recalled from 
 the Continent and imprisoned immediately on 
 his arrival in England. He was then charged, 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 on the most trifling and flimsy pretences, with 
 high treason. He was convicted, and on the 
 19th January, 1547, this brave, generous, 
 noble-hearted man was beheaded on Tower 
 Hill, through the caprice of a relentless 
 tji-ant. He left two sons and three daughters. 
 Robert Chambers rightly describes the poetry 
 of Surrey as " remarkable for a flowing melody, 
 correctness of style, and purity of expression. 
 He was the first to introduce the sonnet and 
 blank verse into English poetry. The gentle 
 and melancholy pathos of his style is well 
 exemplified in the verses which he wrote 
 during his captivity in Windsor Castle." He 
 was celebrated by Drayton, Dryden, Fenton, 
 and Pope ; and Sir Walter Raleigh says, " he 
 was no less valiant than learned, and of excel- 
 lent hopes." Lodge, in "Biographical Ac- 
 counts of the Holbein Portraits," states that 
 " the character of Henry, Earl of Surrey, re- 
 flects splendour even upon the name of Howard. 
 He revived, in an age too rude to enjoy fully 
 those beauties which mere nature could not but 
 in some degree relish, the force of expression, 
 the polished style and the passionate senti- 
 ments of the best poets of antiquity." Hallam," 
 in his "Literary History of Europe," writes, 
 "the taste of this remarkable man is more than 
 his poetical genius. He did much for his own 
 country and his native language." 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat the Elder was bom at 
 Allington Castle, in Kent, in 1503. He was 
 educated at the University of Cambridge. 
 He married early, and was ia great repute 
 with Henry VIII. , who sent him on many 
 difficult missions, ia all of which he showed 
 great wisdom and knowledge of mankind. It 
 is believed that he was attached to Anne 
 Boleyn before her marriage with the king. 
 His poems were one of the last works read by 
 the ill-fated queen. Once Wyat seems to 
 have lost his influence at court, for he was 
 committed to the Tower ; but though unfairly 
 tried, was honourably acquitted. He once 
 again became a favourite with the capricious 
 and tyrannical monarch. " In the autumn of 
 1542, he received orders to meet the Spanish 
 Ambassador, who had landed at Falmouth, 
 and to conduct him to London. In this 
 journey he overheated himseK with riding, and 
 was seized at Sherborne with a malignant 
 fever, which carried him off, after a few days' 
 illness, in his thirty-ninth year." — {CamphelVs 
 Specimens of the British Poets.) He wrote 
 many beautiful songs and sonnets, principally 
 at his paternal seat of Allington. He also 
 translated David's Psalms into English verse. 
 
 ANDREW BOURiD. 
 
 Andrew Bourd, born about 1500, died 1549. 
 was a native of Sussex, and educated at 
 
 Oxford. Hearne tells us that he " frequented 
 markets and fairs where a conflux of people 
 used to get together, to whom he prescribed, 
 and to induce them to flock thither the more 
 readily, he would make humorous speeches." 
 He published " Pryncyples of Astronomy e " in 
 1540 ; in 1542 he issued " The First Boke of 
 the Introduction of Knowledge, the-which doth 
 teach a man to speake part of al manor of 
 languages, and to know the usage and fashion 
 of al maner of countryes, &c.," of which work 
 Dibdiu says, " Probably the most curious and 
 generally iateresting volume ever put forth 
 from the press of the Coplands." He "svi-ote 
 the well-known and celebrated "Merrie Tales 
 of the Mad Men of Gotham." This "was 
 accounted a book full of wit and mirth by 
 scholars and gentlemen. Afterwards being 
 often printed, is now sold only on the stalls of 
 ballad-singers." — (Athen. Oxon.) He wrote 
 " The Breviarie of Healthe for all Manner of 
 Sicknesses and Diseases," &c., 1547, which 
 was approved by the University of Oxford. 
 In the dedicatory Epistle to the College of 
 Physicians he thus writes : " Egregious doctors 
 and masters of the eximious and arcane 
 science of physic, of your urbanity exas- 
 perate not yourselves against me for making 
 this little volume of physic." See Wood's 
 " Athen. Oxon.," Bliss's edit. ; Warton's "Eng- 
 lish Poetry"; Dibdin's "Ames"; "Brit. 
 Bibliog. " ; Ritson's " Bibliog. Poet. " ; Dodd's 
 " Ch. Hist.," vol. i. ; Cooper's " Muses' 
 Library " ; Phillips's " Theatrum Poet. 
 Angl. " ; Hearne' s " Pref. to Benedictus Abbas 
 Petroburg" ; Chalmers's " Biog. Diet." 
 
 THOMAS TUSSER. 
 
 Thomas Tusser, born 1523, died 1580. 
 Little is known of this poet beyond that " he 
 was well educated, commenced Hfe as a 
 courtier under the patronage of Lord Paget, 
 but became a farmer, pursuing agriculture at 
 Ratwood, in Sussex, Ipswich, Fairstead in 
 Essex, Norwich, and other places ; that he 
 was not successful, and had to betake himself 
 to other occupations, such as those of a cho- 
 rister, fiddler, &c. ; and that finally he died a 
 poor man in London, in the year 1580. Tusser 
 has left only one work, published in 1557, 
 entitled ' A Hundred Good Points of Hus- 
 bandrie,' written in simple, but at the same 
 time strong verse. It is our first, and not 
 our worst didactic poem." — Geo. Gilfillan's 
 Specimens, with Memoirs of the less known 
 British Poets. 
 
 RICHARD EDWARDS. 
 
 Richard Edwards, 1523—1566. One of the 
 earliest dramatic writers, educated at Coitus 
 Christi College, and Christchxirch, Oxford. 
 He was one of the contributors of the 
 " Paradyse of Daynty Devises," author of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Second Period- 
 
 " Damon and Pythias." This " Damon and 
 Pythias" was the foremost of English dramas 
 On classical subjects, and was] acted before 
 Queen Elizabeth in 1566. He wrote also the 
 comedy of " Palfflmon and Arcyte," which was 
 performed in the hall of his former coUege, 
 Christchurch, in the same year ; and Wood, in 
 " Athen. Oxon.," Bliss's edit., i. 353, gives a 
 most interesting account of the acting 
 thereof in the presence of Eoyalty, when the 
 cry of the hounds was so well imitated that 
 many of the scholars "were so much taken 
 and surprised, supposing it had been real, 
 that they cried out, ' Tljere, there — he's caught, 
 he's caught ! ' All which the queen merrily 
 beholding, said, ' Oh, excellent ! those boys in 
 very truth are ready to leap out of the 
 windows to foUow the hounds.' " Edwards's 
 madrigals and other poetical productions were 
 very popular. See Puttenham' s ' ' Arte of Eng. 
 Poets" ; Wood's " Annals" ; Sir E. Brydges's 
 edit, of Phillips's " Theatrum Poetarum " ; 
 " Brit. Bibliog." vol. iii. ; Hawkins's " Hist, of 
 
 Music" ; EUis's " Spec. Eng. Poet." ; Warton's 
 "Hist, of Eng. Poet."; "Biog. Dramat. " ; 
 Collier's "Hist, of Dram, Poet." ; and Drake^s 
 " Shakspeare and his Times." 
 
 WILLIAJVI HUNNIS. 
 
 William Hunnis was chapel-master to Queen 
 Elizabeth. He wrote " Certayne Psalms in 
 English Metre," 1550; also in 1578 a "Hyve 
 full of Hunny, containing the First Booke of 
 Moses called Genesis turned into English. 
 Metre." He published "Seven Sobs of a 
 Sorrowful Soule for Sinne," &c., in 1585 
 " Eecreations," in 1588, and other works 
 See "Bibl. Anglo. Poet."; Lowndes's "Bibl 
 Man."; Brydges's "Brit. Bibliog."; Camp, 
 bell's " Spec, of Eng. Poets " ; Dibdin's "Lib 
 Comp.," ed. 1825, 655; HaUam's "Lit. Hist 
 of Europe," ed. 1854, ii. 120; Collier's 
 " Annals of the Stage," vol. i. p. 235. 
 
SECOND PEEIOD. 
 
 From 1400 to 1558. 
 
 CONDEMNED TO DEATH 
 BY HER FATHER iEOLUS, SENDS TO 
 HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS 
 THE LAST TESTIMONY OF HER UN- 
 HAPPY PASSION. 
 
 Out of hev swoone when she did abbraide, 
 Knowing no mean but death in her distresse, 
 To her brother full piteouslie she said, 
 "Cause of my sorrowe, roote of my heavinesse, 
 That whilom were the sourse of my gladnesse, 
 When both our joyes by -sville were so disposed, 
 Under one key our hearts to be enclosed. 
 
 This is mine end, I may it not astarte ; 
 
 brother mine, there is no more to saye ; 
 Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart 
 For to remember specially, I praye, 
 
 If it befall my littel sonne to dye. 
 
 That thou mayst after some mind on us have, 
 
 Suffer us both be buried in one grave. 
 
 1 hold him strictly twene my armes twein, 
 Thou and Nature laide on me this charge ; 
 He, guUtlesse, muste with me suffer paine. 
 And, sith thou art at freedom and at large, 
 Let kindnesse oure love not so discharge, 
 But have a minde, wherever that thou be, 
 Once on a day upon my child and me. 
 
 On thee and me dependeth the trespace 
 Touching our guilt and our great offence, 
 But, welaway ! most angelik of face 
 Our childe, young in his pure innocence, 
 Shall agayn right suffer death's violence, 
 Tender of limbes, God wote, full guiltelesse 
 The goodly faire, that lieth here speechless. 
 
 A mouth he has, but wordis hath he none ; 
 Cannot complaine alas ! for none outrage : 
 Nor grutcheth not, but lies here all alone 
 Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage. 
 What heart of stele could do to him damage. 
 Or suffer him dye, beholding the manere 
 And looke benigne of his twein eyen clere." — 
 
 Writing her letter, awhapped all in drede, 
 In her right hand her pen ygan to quake. 
 And a sharp sword to make her hearte blede, 
 In her left hand her father hath her take. 
 
 And most her sorrowe was for her childea sake, 
 Upon whose face in her barme sleepynge 
 Full many a tere she wept in complayning. 
 After all this so as she stoode and quoke. 
 Her child beholding mid of her peines smart, 
 Without abode the sharpe sword she tooke. 
 And rove herself e even to the hearte ; 
 Her childe fell down, which mighte not astert, 
 Having no help to succour him nor save. 
 But in her blood theselfe began to bathe. 
 
 J»7m Lydgate. — About 1420. 
 
 37.— FROM 
 
 THE LONDON LACK- 
 PENNY." 
 
 Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor 
 Would do for me aught, altho' I should die, 
 
 Which seeing I gat me out of the door, 
 Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 
 " Master what will you kopen or buy ? 
 
 Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read ? 
 
 Lay down your silver and here may you speed." 
 
 Then to Westminster gate I presently went, 
 When the sun it was at high prime : 
 
 And cooks to me they took good intent, 
 And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, 
 Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine, 
 
 A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread. 
 
 But, wanting money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then unto London I did me hie. 
 Of all the land it beareth the price. 
 
 " Hot peascods ! " — one began to cry, 
 
 " Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise." 
 One bade me draw near and buy some spice. 
 
 Pepper and saffron they 'gan me bid, 
 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then to the Cheepe I 'gan me drawn. 
 Where much people I saw for to stand. 
 
 One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn ; 
 Another he taketh me by the hand, — 
 "Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land." ' 
 
 I never was used to such things indeed. 
 
 And, wanting money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then went I forth by London Stone, 
 Through out all Canwyke Street. 
 
 Drapers much cloth me offered anon. 
 
 Then comes me one cried — "Hot sheep' sfeet." 
 One cried " Mackrell ! " — " Rysses green ! " 
 another 'gan greit. 
 
(OHN LtDGATE. 
 
 A SYLVAN RETEEAT. 
 
 [Second Period. — 
 
 One bade me buy a hood to cover my head, 
 But, for want of money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then I hied me unto East Cheepe. 
 
 One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie. 
 Pewter pots they clattered on a heap. 
 
 There was harp, pipe, and minstrally. 
 
 " Yea, by cock ! nay, by cock ! " — some 'gan 
 cry. 
 Some sang of Jenkin and Julian for their meed. 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then into Cornhill anon I yode, 
 
 Where was much stolen gear ; among 
 
 I saw where hung mine own hood. 
 That I had lost among the throng. 
 To buy my own hood I thought it wrong ; 
 
 I knew it, well as I did my creed, 
 
 But, for lack of money, I could not speed. 
 
 The tavemer took me by the sleeve, 
 
 " Sir," says he, " will you our wine assay ? " 
 
 I answered, " That cannot much me grieve, — 
 A penny can do no more than it may." 
 I drank a pint, and for it did pay : 
 
 Yet sore a hungered from thence I yede. 
 
 And, wanting money, I could not speed. 
 
 John Lydgate. — About 1420. 
 
 38.— A SYLVAN RETEEAT. 
 
 Till at the last, among the bowes glade. 
 Of adventure, I caught a pleasant shade ; 
 Full smooth, and plain, and lusty for to seen. 
 And soft as velvet was the yonge green : 
 Where from my horse I did alight as fast, 
 And on the bow aloft his reine cast. 
 So faint and mate of weariness I was, 
 Tliat I me laid adown upon the grass. 
 Upon a brinke, shortly for to tell. 
 Beside the river of a crystal well ; 
 And the water, as I reherse can. 
 Like quicke silver in his streams y-ran, 
 Of which the gravel and the brighte stone, 
 As any gold, against the sun y- shone. 
 
 John Lydgate. — About 1420. 
 
 39.— THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 Fortitude then stood steadfast in his might ; 
 Defended widows ; cherished chastity ; 
 Knighthood in prowess gave so clear a light, 
 Girt with his sword of truth and equity. 
 
 John Lydgate. — About 1420. 
 
 40.— GOD'S PEOVIDENCE. 
 
 God hath a thousand handes to chastise ; 
 A thousand dartes of punicion ; 
 A thousand bowes made in divers wise ; 
 A thousand arlblasts bent in his dongeon. 
 John Lydgate. — About 1420. 
 
 41.— SPEING. 
 
 QUHAIR: CANTO II. 
 
 In Ver, that full of virtue is and good, 
 When Nature first beginneth her emprise. 
 That whilom was, by cruel frost and flood. 
 And showers sharp, oppressed in many wise : 
 And Cynthius beginneth to arise 
 High in the east, a morrow soft and sweet, 
 Upwards his course to drive in Ariete ; 
 
 II. 
 Passit but midday four 'greis, even 
 Of length and breadth his angel wingis bright 
 He spread upon the ground down from the 
 
 heaven ; 
 That for gladness and comfort of the sight. 
 And with the tickling of his heat and light. 
 The tender flowris openit them and sprad. 
 And in their nature thankit him for glad. 
 
 James I. of Scotland. — About 1420. 
 
 42.— JAMES BEWAILS HIS CAPTIVITY. 
 CANTO i:. 
 
 Whereas in ward full oft I would bewail. 
 My deadly life full of pain and penn^nce, 
 Saying right thus: — "What have I guilt, to fail 
 My freedom in this world and my pleasaunce ? 
 Since every wight thereof has suffisance. 
 That I behold, — and I, a creature 
 Put from all this : — ^hard is mine aventure. 
 
 " The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea, 
 They live in freedom, everich in his kind, 
 A.nd I, a man — and lacketh liberty ! 
 What shall I sayn ? What reason may I find 
 That fortune should do so ? " Thus in my mind ; 
 My folk I would argewe — but all for nought — 
 Was none that might that on my paines rought. 
 James I. of Scotland. — About 1420. 
 
 43.— JAMES FIEST SEES THE LADY 
 JANE. 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 
 Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
 For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone. 
 And to the window gan I walk in hy 
 To see the world and folk that went forbye. 
 As, for the time, though I of mirthis food 
 Might have no more, to look it did me good. 
 
 Now was there made, fast by the towris wall, 
 
 A garden fair ; and in the comers set 
 
 Ane arbour green, with wandis long and 
 
 small 
 Railed about, and so with trees set 
 W^as all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet 
 That lyi was none walking there forbye. 
 That might within scarce any wight espy. 
 
From 1400 to 15^8.] 
 
 THE EETUEN OF DAVID II. 
 
 [Andrew Wtntoun. 
 
 30 thick tlie boug-Ms and the leavis green 
 
 Beskaded ail tha alleys that there were, 
 
 And niids of every arbour might be seen 
 
 The sharpe greene sweete juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair with branches here and there, 
 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
 
 The boughis spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the smiiile greene twistis sat, 
 The little sweete nightingale, and sung 
 Sc loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the gardens and the wallis rung 
 Eight of their song. * * 
 
 Cast I down mine eyes again, 
 
 I 
 
 Where as I saw, walking under the tower. 
 Full secretly, new comen here to plain. 
 The fairist or the freshest younge flower 
 That ever I saw, methought, before that hour, 
 For which sudden abate, anon astart. 
 The blood of all my body to my heart. 
 
 And though I stood abasit tho a lite. 
 No wonder was ; for why ? my wittis all 
 Were so overcome with pleasance and delight, 
 Only through letting of my eyen fall, 
 That suddenly my hear-t became her thrall, 
 For ever of free wUl, — for of menace 
 There was no token in her sweete face. 
 
 And in mj^ head I drew right hastily, 
 And eftesoons I leant it out agam, 
 And saw her walk that very womanly, 
 With no wight mo', but only women twain. 
 Then gan I study in myself, and sajTi, 
 " Ah, sweet ! are ye a worldly creature, 
 Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature ? 
 
 Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, 
 And comin are to loose me out of band ? 
 
 Or are ye very Nature the goddess, 
 That hove depainted with your heavenly hand, 
 Tliis garden full of flowers as they stand ? 
 What shall I think, alas ! what reverence 
 Shall I mister unto your excellence ? 
 
 If ye a goddess be, and that ye like 
 
 To do me pain, I may it not astart : 
 
 If ye be warldly wight, that doth mo sike. 
 
 Why list God make you so, my dearest heart, 
 
 To do a seely prisoner this smart. 
 
 That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo ? 
 
 And therefore mercy, sweet ! sin' it is so." * 
 
 Of her array the form if I shall write. 
 Towards her golden hair and rich attire. 
 In fretwise couchit with pearlis white 
 And great balas leaming as the fire. 
 With mony ane emeraut and fair sapphire ; 
 And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue. 
 Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue. 
 
 Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, 
 Forged of shape like to the amorcts, 
 So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold. 
 The plumis eke like to the flower jonets ; 
 And other of shape like to the flower jonets ; 
 
 And above all this, there was, well I wot, 
 Beauty enough to make a world to doat. 
 
 About her neck, white as the fire amail, 
 A goodly chain of small orfevory, 
 "Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail. 
 Like to ane heart shapen verily. 
 That as a spark of low, so v/antonly — 
 Seemed burning upon her white throat, 
 Now if there was good party, God it wot. 
 
 And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, 
 Ane hook she had upon her tissue white, 
 That goodlier had not been seen to-forow, 
 As I suppose ; and girt she was alite. 
 Thus halflings loose for haste, to such delight 
 It was to see her youth in goodlihede. 
 That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport, 
 
 Bounty, rich.es, and womanly feature, 
 
 God better wot than my pen can report : 
 
 Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sur3. 
 
 In every point so guided her measure, 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
 
 That nature might no more her child avance ! 
 
 # * * # 
 
 And when she walked had a little thraw 
 Under the sweete greene boughis bent, 
 Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw. 
 She turned has, and fm*th her wayis went ; 
 But tho began mine aches and torment. 
 To see her part and follow I na might ; 
 Methought the day was turned into night. 
 James I. of Scotland. — About 1420. 
 
 44. 
 
 -THE EETUEN OF DAVID II. FEOM 
 CAPTIVITY. 
 
 Yet in prison was King Davy. 
 And when a lang time was gane by, 
 Frae prison and perplexitio 
 To Berwick Castle brought was he. 
 With the Earl of Northamptoun, 
 For to treat there of his ransoun. 
 Some lords of Scotland come there. 
 And als prelates, that wisest were. 
 Four days or five there treated they. 
 But they accorded by nae way ; 
 For English folk all angry were, 
 And ay spak rudely mair and mair. 
 While at the last the Scots party. 
 That dred their faes' feliony. 
 All privily went hame their way ; 
 At that time there nae mair did they. 
 The king to London then was had, 
 That there a lang time after bade. 
 
 After syne, with mediatioun 
 Of messengers, of his ransoun 
 Was treated, while a set day 
 Till Berwick him again brought they. 
 And there was treated sae, that he 
 Should of prison delivered be. 
 And freely till his lands found. 
 To pay ane hundred thousand pound 
 
1 
 
 Andrew Wtntoun.] INTERVIEW OF ST. SERF. Second Period. — 
 
 Of silver, intil fourteen year 
 
 To that St. Serf answered there, 
 
 And [while] the payment [payit] were, 
 
 " Of creatures made he was maker. 
 
 To make sae lang truce took they, 
 
 A maker micht he never be. 
 
 And a,ffirmed with seal and fay. 
 
 But gif creatures made had he." 
 
 Great hostage there leved he, 
 
 The devil askit him, " Why God of noucht 
 
 That on their awn dispense should be. 
 
 His werkis aU fuU gude had Avroucht." 
 
 Therefore, while they hostage were, 
 
 St. Serf answered, " That Goddis will 
 
 Expense but number made they there. 
 
 Was never to make his werkis iU, 
 
 The king was then delivered free, 
 
 And as envious he had been seen, 
 
 And held his way tiU his countrie. 
 
 Gif nought but he full gude had been." 
 
 "With him of Enghsh brought he nane, 
 
 St. Serf the devil askit than, 
 
 Without a chamber-boy alane. 
 
 " Where God made Adam, the first man ?" 
 
 The whether, upon the morn, when he 
 
 " In Ebron Adam formit was," 
 
 Should wend till his counsel privy, 
 
 St. Serf said. And till him Satha.nas, 
 
 The folk, as they were wont to do, 
 
 " Where was he, eft that, for his vice, 
 
 Pressed right rudely in thereto : 
 
 He was put out of Paradise ?" 
 
 But he right suddenly can arrace 
 
 St. Serf said, " Where he was made." 
 
 Out of a macer's hand a mace. 
 
 The devil askit, " How lang he ba,fle 
 
 And said rudely, " How do we now ? 
 
 In Paradise, after his sin." 
 
 Stand still, or the proudest of you 
 
 " Seven hours," Serf said, "bade he therein." 
 
 Shall on the head have with this mace 1 " 
 
 " When was Eve made ? " said Sathanas. 
 
 Then there was nane in aU this place, 
 
 " In Paradise," Serf said, " she was." * * 
 
 But all they gave him roo:a in hy ; 
 
 The devil askit, " Why that ye 
 
 Durst Tia.Tie press further that were by ; 
 
 Men, are quite delivered free, 
 
 His council door might open stand, 
 
 Through Christ's passion precious boucht, 
 
 That nane durst tiU it be pressand. 
 
 And we devils say are noucht ?" 
 
 Radure in prince is a gude thing ; 
 
 St. Serf said, " For that ye 
 
 For, but radure, all governing 
 
 Fell through your awn iniquity ; 
 
 Shall all time but despised be : 
 
 And through ourselves wo never fell, 
 
 And where that men may radure see, 
 
 But through your fellon false counsell." * * 
 
 They shall dread to trespass, and sae 
 
 Then saw the devil that he could noucht, 
 
 Peaceable a king his land may ma'. 
 
 With all the wiles that he Avrought, 
 
 Thus radure dred that gai-t him be. 
 
 Overcome St. Serf. He said than 
 
 Of Ingland but a page brought he, 
 
 He kenned him for a wise man. 
 
 And by his sturdy 'ginning 
 
 Forthy there he gave him quit. 
 
 He gart them aU have sic dreading. 
 
 For he wan at him na profit. 
 
 That there was nane, durst nigh him near, 
 
 St. Serf said, " Thou wretch, gae 
 
 But wha by name tha.t called were. 
 
 Frae this stead, and 'noy nae mae 
 
 He led with radure sae his land. 
 
 Into this stead, I bid ye." 
 
 In aU time that he was regnand, 
 
 Suddenly then passed he ; 
 
 That nane durst weU withstand his wiU, 
 
 Frae that stead he held his way. 
 
 All wiTmiTig bowsome to be him till. 
 
 And never was seen there to this day. 
 
 Andreiu Wyntoun.— About 1430. 
 
 Andreio Wy^itoun. — About 1430. 
 
 45-— INTERVIEW OF ST. SERF WITH 
 
 46.— ADVENTURE OF WALLACE WHILE 
 
 SATHANAS. 
 
 FISHING IN IRVINE WATER.' 
 
 While St. Serf, intil a stead, 
 
 So on a time he desired to play. 
 
 Lay after matins in his bed. 
 
 In Aperil the three-and-twenty day, 
 
 The devil came, in foul intent 
 
 Till Irvine water fish to tak ho went. 
 
 For til found him with argument, 
 
 Sic fantasy fell in his intent. 
 
 And said, " St. Serf, by thy werk 
 
 To lead his net a child fiu-th with him yede. 
 
 I ken thou art a cunning clerk." 
 
 But he, or noon, was in a fellon dread. 
 
 St. Serf said, " Gif I sae be, 
 
 - His swerd he left, so did he never again ; 
 
 Foul wretch, what is that for thee ? '* 
 
 It did him gude, suppose he suffered pain. 
 
 The devil said, " This questibn 
 
 Of that labour as than he was not slie. 
 
 I ask in our coUation — 
 
 Happy he was, took fish abunrla.ritiy. 
 
 Say where was God, wit ye oucht. 
 
 Or of the day ten hours o'er couth pass. 
 
 Before that heaven arid erd was wroucht ? " 
 
 Ridand there came, near by where Wallace was. 
 
 St. Serf said, " In himself steadless 
 
 The Lord Percy, was cajitain than of Ayr ; 
 
 His Godhead hampered never was." 
 
 Frae then' heturned, and couth to Glasgow fare. 
 
 The devil then askit, "What cause he h^rl 
 
 Part of the court had Wallace, labour seen, 
 
 To make the creatures that he made ? " 
 
 TiU him rade five, clad into ganand green, 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 THE DEATH OF WALLACE. 
 
 [Blind Harey. 
 
 And said soon, " Scot, Martin's fish we wald 
 
 have ! " 
 Wallace meekly again answer him gave. 
 " It were reason, methink, ye should have part, 
 Waith should be dealt, in all place, with free 
 
 heart." 
 He bade his child, "Give them of ourwaithing." 
 Tlie Southron said, " As now of thy deahng 
 We will not tak ; thou wald give us o'er small." 
 He lighted down and frae the child took all. 
 Wallace said then, " Gentlemen gif ye be, 
 Leave us some part, we pray for charity. 
 Ane aged knight serves our lady to-day ; 
 Gude friend, leave part, and tak not all away." 
 '• Thou shall have leave to fish, and tak thee 
 
 mae, 
 All this forsooth shall in our flitting gae. 
 We serve a lord ; this fish shall tiU him gang." 
 Wallace answered, said, "Thou art in the 
 
 wrang." 
 " Wham thous thou, Scot ? in faith thou 'serves 
 
 a blaw." 
 Till him he ran, and out a swerd can draw. 
 WUliara was wae he had nae wappins there 
 But the poutstaff, the whilk in hand he bare. 
 Wallace with it fast on the cheek him took, 
 With sae gude will, while of his feet he shook. 
 The swerd flew frae him a fur-braid on the land. 
 Wallace was glad, and hint it soon in hand ; 
 And with the swerd awkward he him gave 
 Under the hat, his craig in sunder drave. 
 By that the lave lighted about Wallace, 
 He had no help, only but God's grace. 
 On either side full fast on him they dang, 
 Great peril was gif they had lasted lang. 
 Upon the head in great ire he strak ane ; 
 The shearand swerd glade to the collar bane. 
 Ane other on the arm he hit so hardily. 
 While hand and swerd baith in the field can He. 
 The tother twa fled to their horse again ; 
 He stickit him was last upon the plain. . 
 Three slew he t'here, twa fled with all their 
 
 might 
 After their lord ; but he was out of sight, 
 Takand the muir, or he and they couth twine. 
 Till him they rade anon, or they wald blin. 
 And cryit, " Lord, abide ; your men are mar- 
 tyred down 
 Eight cruelly, here in this false region. 
 Five of our court here at the water bade. 
 Fish for to bring, though it nae profit made. 
 We are scaped, but in field slain are three." 
 The lord speirit, " How mony might they be ? " 
 "We saw but ano that has discomfist us all." 
 Then leugh he loud, and said, " Foul mot you 
 
 fall! 
 Sin' ane you all has put to confusion. 
 Wha meins it maist the devil of hell him 
 
 drown ! 
 This day for mc, in faith, he bees not sought." 
 AVhen Wallace thus thia worthy wark had 
 
 wrought, 
 Their horse he took, and gear that left was 
 
 there. 
 Gave ower that craft, he yede to fish nae 
 
 mair. ^ 
 
 Went till his eme, and tald him of this deed, 
 And he for woe well near worthit to weid. 
 And said, " Son, thir tidings sits me sore. 
 And, be it known, thou may tak scaith there- 
 fore." 
 " Uncle," he said, " I will no langeritjidn, 
 Thir southland horse let see gif I can ride." 
 Then but a child, him service for to mak, 
 His eme's sons he wald not with him tak. 
 This gude knight said, " Dear cousin, pray I 
 
 thee. 
 When thou wants gude, come fetch eneuch 
 
 frae me." 
 Silver and gold he gart on him give, 
 Wallace inclines, and gudely took his leave. 
 
 Blind Harry.— About 1460. 
 
 47.— THE DEATH OF WALLACE. 
 
 On Wednesday the false Southron furth 
 
 brocht 
 To martyr him, as they before had wrocht. 
 Of men in arms led him a full great rout. 
 With a bauld sprite guid Wallace blent about : 
 A priest he asked, for God that died on tree. 
 King Edward then commanded his clergy. 
 And said, " I charge you, upon loss of life, 
 Nane be sae bauld yon tyrant for to shrive. 
 He has reigned long in contrar my highness." 
 A blyth bishop soon, present in that place ; 
 Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord; 
 Again' the king he made this richt record, 
 And said, " Myself shall hear his confession. 
 If I have micht in contrar of thy crown. 
 An thou through force v/ill stop me of this 
 
 thing, 
 I vow to God, who is my righteous king. 
 That all England I shall her interdite. 
 And make it known thou art a heretic. 
 The sacrament of kirk I shall him give : 
 Syne take thy choice, to starve or let him live. 
 It were mair weil, in worship of thy crown. 
 To keep sic ane in life in thy bandoun. 
 Than all the land and good that thou hast 
 
 reived. 
 But cowardice thee ay fra honour dreived. 
 Thou has thy life rougin in wrangeous deed ; 
 That shall be seen on thee or on thy seed." 
 The king gart charge they should the bishop 
 
 ta. 
 But sad lords counseUit to let him ga. 
 All Englishmen said that his desire was richt. 
 To Wallace then he rakit in their sicht 
 And sadly heard his confession till ane end : 
 Humbly to God his sprite he there commend 
 Lowly him served with hearty devotion 
 Upon his knees and said ane orison. * * 
 A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever 
 Fra his childheid — fra it wald nocht dissever; 
 Better he trowit in wyage for to speed. 
 But then he was dispalyed of his weed. 
 This grace ho asked at Lord Clifford, that 
 
 knicht. 
 To let him have his psalter-book in sicht. . 
 
— 
 
 Egbert Henrysone.] EOBENE AND MAKTNE. [Second Period.— 
 
 He gart a priest it open before him hald, 
 
 VI. 
 
 "VVTiile they till him had done all that they wald, 
 
 He. Makyne, to morne this ilka tyde. 
 
 Stedfast he read for ought they did him there; 
 
 And ye will meit me heir ; 
 
 Feil Southrons said that Wallace felt na sair. 
 
 Peradventure my scheip may gang be- 
 
 Guid devotion, sae, was his beginning, 
 
 syde, 
 
 Conteined therewith, and fair was his ending. 
 
 QuhiU we haif liggit full neir, 
 
 While speech and sprite at anis all can fare 
 
 Bot maugre haif I, an I byde, 
 
 To lasting bliss, we trow, for evermair. 
 
 Fra they begin to steir, 
 
 Blind Harry.— About 1460. 
 
 Quhat lyis on hairt I wiU nocht hyd, 
 
 
 Makyne then mak gud cheir. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She. Eobene thou reivis me roif and rest, 
 
 48.— EOBENE AND MAKYNE, 
 
 
 I luve but the allone, 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 He. Makyne adew ! the sone gois west, 
 
 I. 
 
 The day is neirhand gone. 
 
 Eobene sat on gud grene hill, 
 
 She. Eobene, in dule I am so drest, 
 
 Keipand a flock of fie : 
 
 That luve will be my bone. 
 
 Mirry Makyne said him tiU, 
 
 He. Ga luve, Makyne, quhair evir thou list, 
 
 Eobene thou rew on me : 
 
 For leman I lue none. 
 
 I haif the luvit, lowd and still 
 
 
 This yieris two or thre ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My dule in dern bot gif thou dill, 
 
 She. Eobene, I stand in sic a style. 
 
 Doubtless bot dreid I die. 
 
 I sicht, and that fiiU sair. 
 
 
 He. Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhile, 
 
 II. 
 
 At hame God gif I wair. 
 
 He. Eobene answerit, be the rude, 
 
 She. My hinny Eobene, talk ane quhyle ; 
 
 Nathing of lufe I knaw ; 
 
 Gif thou wilt do na mair. 
 
 Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud, 
 
 He. Makyne, sum uther man begyle ; 
 
 Lo quhair they raik on raw. 
 
 For hamewart I wiU fair. 
 
 Quhat has marrit the in thy mude, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Makyne to me thow schaw ? 
 
 
 Or what is luve, or to be lu'ed, 
 
 Eobene on his wayis went, 
 
 Eain wald I leir that law. 
 
 As licht as leif of tre : 
 
 
 Makyne" murnit in her intent, 
 
 III. 
 
 And trow'd him nevir to se, 
 
 She. At luvis leir gif thow will leir. 
 Take thair an A, B, C, 
 Be kind, courtas, and fair of feir, 
 Wyse, hardy, and fre. 
 
 Eobene brayd attour the bent, 
 Than Makyne cryit on hie, 
 Now ma thow sing, for I am schent, 
 Quha,t alls lufe with me. 
 
 Se that no danger do the deir, 
 
 X. 
 
 Quhat dule in dern thow drie, 
 Preiss the with pane at all poweir, 
 
 Makyne went hame withouttin faiU, 
 Full werry aftir couth weip, 
 
 Be patient, and previe. 
 
 Than Eobene in a fuU fair daiU, 
 
 
 AssembHt all his scheip. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be that sum parte of Makyne' s ail, 
 
 He. Eobene answerit her agane, 
 
 Ourthrow his hairt cowd creip. 
 
 I wait not quhat is luve. 
 
 He followit hir fast thair till assaill, 
 
 But I haif marveU, in certaine, 
 
 And tiU hir tuke gude keep. 
 
 Quhat makis the this wanrufe. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The weddir is fair, and I am fane, 
 My scheip gois haUl aboif, 
 An we wald play us in this plane 
 They wald us baith reproif . 
 
 He. Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne, 
 A word for ony thing ; 
 For all my luve it shall be thine, 
 Withouttin departing. 
 
 V. 
 
 All thy hairt for till have myne, 
 
 
 Is all my cuvating, . 
 
 She. Eobene take tent unto my tale, 
 
 My scheip, to morne, qnhyle honrisnyne 
 
 And wirk all as I reid, 
 
 Will need of no kepin'g. 
 
 And thow sail haif my hart all haile 
 
 
 Eik and my maidenheid. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sen God sendis bute for baill, 
 
 For of my pane thow made it play, 
 
 And for muming remeid, 
 
 And aU in vain I spend. 
 
 I dern with the, but gif I dai1l, 
 
 As thow hes done, sa sail I say, 
 
 Doubtless I am bot deid. 
 
 Miirae on, I think to mend. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] DINNEE gUVEN BY THE TO"\VN MOUSE. 
 
 [R. Henrysone. 
 
 He. Makyne the howp of all my heill, 
 My hairt on the is sett 
 And evir mair to the be leill, 
 Quhile I ma3^ leif, but lett. 
 Never to faill, as utheris faill, 
 Quhat grace that evir I get. 
 
 She. Robene, with the I will not deill, 
 Adew ! for thus we mett. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Makyne wont hame blythe aneuche, 
 
 Attoure the holtis hair ; 
 
 Robene mumit, and Makyne leuch, 
 
 Scho sang, he sichit sair. 
 
 And so left him baith wo and wrench, 
 
 In dolour and in cair, 
 
 Kepand his bird under a heuch, 
 
 Amang the holtis hair. 
 
 Robert Henrysone. — Aboid 1490. 
 
 49. — DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN 
 MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE. 
 
 * * * their harboury was tane 
 Intill a spence, where victual was plenty, 
 Baith cheese and butter on lang shelves richt 
 
 hie, 
 With fish and flesh enough, baith fresh and salt, 
 And pockis full of groats, baith meal and malt. 
 
 After, when they disposit were to dine, 
 Withouten grace they wuish and went to meat. 
 On every dish that cookmen can divine, 
 Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit ; 
 Ane lordis fare thus can they counterfeit. 
 Except ane thing — they drank the water clear 
 Instead of wine, but yet they made gude cheer. 
 
 With blyth upcast and merry countenance. 
 The elder sister then spier' d at her guest, 
 Gif that sho thoucht by reason difference 
 Betwixt that chalmer and her sairy nest. 
 " Yea, dame," quoth sho, " but how lang will 
 
 this last ? " 
 " For evermair, I wait, and langer too ; " 
 " Gif that be true, ye are at ease," quoth sho. 
 
 To eik the cheer, in plenty f urth they broucht 
 
 A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, 
 
 A threif of cakes, I trow sho spared them 
 
 noucht. 
 Abundantly about her for to deal. 
 Furmage full fine sho broucht instead of jeil, 
 A white candle out of a coffer staw. 
 Instead of spice, to creish their teeth witha'. 
 
 Thus made they merry, while they micht nae 
 
 mair, 
 An Hail Yule, hail ! " they cryit up on hie ; 
 But after joy aftentimes comes care, 
 And trouble after grit prosperity. 
 Thus as they sat in all their solity, 
 The Spenser cam with keyis in his hand, 
 Opened the door, and them at dinner fand. 
 
 They tarried not to wash, as I suppose, 
 But on to gae, wha micht the foremost win ; 
 The burgess had a hole and in sho goes, 
 Her sister had nae place to hide her in ; 
 To see that silly mouse it was great sin, 
 Sae desolate and wild of all gude rede^^ 
 For very fear sho fell in swoon, near dead. 
 
 Then as God wald it fell in happy case, 
 The Spenser had nae leisure for to bide, 
 Nowther to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase. 
 But on he went and cast the door up-wide. 
 This burgess mouse his passage weel has spied. 
 Out of her hole sho cam and cried on hie, 
 " How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be." 
 
 The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, 
 
 And for the deid sho was full dreadand, 
 
 For till her heart strake mony waeful stound, 
 
 As in a fever trembling foot and hand ; 
 
 And when her sister in sic plight her fand. 
 
 For very pity sho began to greet. 
 
 Syne comfort gave, with words as honey sweet. 
 
 " Why lie ye thus ? Rise up, my sister dear, 
 Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast." 
 The other answered with a heavy cheer, 
 I may nought eat, sae sair I am aghast. 
 Lever I had this forty dayis fast. 
 With water kail, and green beans and peas. 
 Then all your feast with this dread and 
 disease. 
 
 With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her rise ; 
 To board they went, and on together sat. 
 But scantly had they drunken anes or twice. 
 When in cam Gib Hunter, our jolly cat. 
 And bade God speed. The burgess up then 
 
 gat, 
 And till her hole she fled as fire of flint ; 
 Bawdrons the other by the back has hent. 
 
 Frae foot to foot he cast her to and frae. 
 While up, while down, as cant as only kid ; 
 While wald he let her run under the strae 
 While wald he wink and play with her buik- 
 
 hid; 
 Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did '; 
 While at the last, through fair fortune and 
 
 hap. 
 Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap. 
 
 Syne up in haste behind the paneling, 
 
 Sae hie sho clam, that Gilbert might not get her, 
 
 And by the cluiks craftily can hing. 
 
 Till he was gane, her cheer was all the better : 
 
 Syne down sho lap, when there was nane to 
 
 let her ; 
 Then on the burgess mouth loud couth sho cry, 
 " Fare weel sister, here I thy feast defy. 
 
 " Thy mangery is minget all with care. 
 
 Thy guise is gude, thy gane-fnll sour as gall ; 
 
 The fashion of thy feris is but fair. 
 
 So shall thou find hereafterward may fall. 
 
 I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane wall. 
 
 Of my defence now frae yon cruel beast 
 
 Almighty God, keep me frae sic a feast ! ,i # 
 
Robert Henrtsone.] THE GAEMENT OF GOOD .LADIES. [Second Period. 
 
 " Were I into the place that I cam frae, 
 
 For weal nor wae I should ne'er come again." 
 
 With that sho took her leave, and forth can 
 
 gae, 
 While through the com, while through the 
 
 plain. 
 When she was forth and free she was right 
 
 fain. 
 And merrily linkit unto the muir, 
 I cannot tell how afterward sho fure. 
 
 But I heard syne she passit to her den, 
 As warm as woo', suppose it was not grit, 
 Full beinly stuffit was baith butt and ben. 
 With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and 
 
 wheat ; 
 Whene'er sho liked, sho had enough of meat, 
 In quiet and ease, withouten [ony] dread, 
 But till her sister's feast nae mair sho gaed. 
 
 From the Moral. 
 
 Blissed be simple life, withouten dreid ; 
 
 Blissed be sober feast in quiete ; 
 
 Wha has eneuch of no more has he neid. 
 
 Though it be little into quantity. 
 
 Grit abundance, and blind prosperitj^ 
 
 Oft trmis make ane evil conclusion ; 
 
 The sweetest life, theirfor, in this country, 
 
 Is of sickerness, with small possession. 
 
 Robert Henrysone. — About 1490. 
 
 50.— THE GAEMENT OF GOOD LADIES. 
 
 Would my good lady love me best. 
 
 And work after my will, 
 I should a garment goodliest 
 
 Gar make her body till. 
 
 Of high honour should be her hood, 
 
 Upon her head to wear, 
 Garnish' d with governance, so good 
 
 Na deeming should her deir. 
 
 Her sark should be her body next, 
 
 Of chastity so white : 
 With shame and dread together mixt, 
 
 The same should be perfyte. 
 
 Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, 
 
 Lacit with lesum love ; 
 The mailies of continuance. 
 
 For never to remove. 
 
 Her gown should be of goodliness. 
 
 Well ribbon' d with renown ; 
 Purfill'd with pleasure in ilk place, 
 
 Furrit with fine fashioun. 
 
 Her belt should be of benignity, 
 
 About her middle meet ; 
 Her mantle of humility. 
 
 To thole both wind and weit. 
 
 Her hat should be of fair having, 
 
 And her tippet of truth ; 
 Her patelet of good pausing, 
 
 Her hals-ribbon of ruth. 
 
 Her sleeves should be of esperance, 
 
 To keep her fra despair : 
 Her glovis of good governance. 
 
 To hide her fingers fair. 
 
 Her shoen should be of sickerness, 
 
 In sign that she not slide ; 
 Her hose of ho^iesty, I guesSj 
 
 I should for her provide. 
 
 Would she put on this garment gay, 
 
 I Tiurst swear by my seill. 
 That she wore never green nor gray 
 
 That set her half so weel. 
 
 Robert Henrysone. — About 1490, 
 
 51.— THE MEELE AND NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 In May, as that Aurora did upspring. 
 With crystal een chasing the cluddes sable, 
 I heard a Merle with merry notis sing 
 A sang of love, with voice right comfortable. 
 Again' the orient beamis, amiable, 
 Upon a blissful branch of laurel green ; 
 This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 Under this branch ran down a river bright, 
 Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, 
 Again' the heavenly azui-e skyis light. 
 Where did upon the tother side pursue 
 A Nightingale, with sugared notis new, 
 Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone ; 
 This was her song, and of a sentence true. 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 With notis glad, and glorious harmony, 
 This joyful merle, so salust she the day, 
 While rung the woodis of her melody, 
 Sajdng, Awake, ye lovers of this May ; 
 Lo, fresh Flora has flourished every spray. 
 As nature has her taught, the noble queen, 
 The field been clothit in a new array ; 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, 
 Na made this merry gentle nightingale ; 
 Her sound went with the river as it ran, 
 Out through the fresh and flourished lusty 
 
 vale ; 
 Merle ! quoth she, O fool ! stint of thy tale, 
 For in thy song good sentence is there none. 
 For both is tint, the time and the travail 
 Of every love but upon God alone. 
 
 Cease, quoth the Merle, thy preaching. Night- 
 ingale : 
 Shall folk their youth spend into holiness ? 
 Of young Sanctis, grows auld f eindis, but fable ; 
 Fye, hypocrite, in yeiris tenderness. 
 Again' the law of kind thou goes express. 
 That crookit age makes one with youth serene, 
 Whom nature of conditions made diverse : 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
1400 to 1558. J 
 
 NO TREASUEE WITHOUT GLADNESS. [William Dunbar. 
 
 The Nightingale said, Fool, remember thee, 
 That both in youth and eild, and every hour, 
 The love of God most dear to man suld be ; 
 That him, of nought, wrought like his own 
 
 figour, 
 And died himself, fro' dead him to succour ; 
 O, whether was kythit there true love or none ? 
 He is most true and steadfast paramour, 
 And love is lost but upon him alone. 
 
 The Merle said, Why put God so great beauty 
 In ladies, with sic womanly having, 
 But gif he would that they suld lovit be ? 
 To love eke nature gave them inclining, 
 And He of nature that worker was and king, 
 Would nothing frustir put, nor let be seen, 
 Into his creature of his own making ; 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 The Nightingale said. Not to that behoof 
 Put God sic beauty in a lady's face, 
 That she suld have the thank therefor or luve. 
 But He, the worker, that put in her sic grace ; 
 Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space. 
 And every gudeness that been to come or gone 
 The thank redounds to him in every place : 
 All love is lost, but upon God alone. 
 
 O Nightingale ! it were a story nice, 
 That love suld not depend on charity ; 
 And, gif that virtue contrar be to vice, 
 Then love maun be a virtue, as thinks me ; 
 For, aye, to love envy maun bontrar' be : 
 God bade eke love thy neighbour fro the 
 
 spleen ; 
 And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be ? 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 The Nightingale said. Bird, why does thou 
 
 rave ? 
 Man may take in his lady sic delight. 
 Him to forget that her sic virtue gave. 
 And for his heaven receive her colour white ; 
 Her golden tressit hairis redomite, 
 Like to Apollo's beamis tho they shone, 
 Suld not him blind fro' love that is perfite ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 The Merle said, Love is cause of honour aye. 
 Love makis cowards manhood to purchase. 
 Love makis knichtis hardy at essay. 
 Love makis wretches full of largeness, 
 Love makis sweir folks full of business. 
 Love makis sluggards fresh and well be seen, 
 Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness -, 
 A lusty life in Lovis service been. 
 
 The Nightingale said, True is the contrary ; 
 Sic frustis love it blindis men so far. 
 Into their minds it makis them to vary ; 
 In false vain-glory they so drunken are. 
 Their wit is r/ont, of woe they are not waur, 
 While that all worship away be fro' them 
 
 gone. 
 Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well 
 
 say I daur, 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 Then said the Merle, Mine error I confess : 
 This frustis love is all but vanity : 
 Blind ignorance me gave sic hardiness. 
 To argue so again' the verity ; 
 Wherefore I counsel every man that he 
 With love not in the feindis net be tone. 
 But love the love that did for his love die : 
 All love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 Then sang they both with voices loud and 
 
 clear. 
 The Merle sang, Man, love God that has thee 
 
 wrought. 
 The Nightingale sang, Man, love the Lord 
 
 most dear, 
 That thee and all this world made of nought. 
 The Merle said. Love him that thy love has 
 
 sought 
 Fro' heaven to earth, and here took flesh and 
 
 bone. 
 The Nightingale sang. And with his dead thee 
 
 bought : 
 All love is lost, but upon him alone. 
 
 Then flew thir birdis o'er the boughis sheen, 
 Singing of love amang the leavis small ; 
 Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis 
 
 grein. 
 Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail : 
 Me to recomfort most it does avail, 
 Again for love, when love I can find none, 
 To think how sung this Merle and Nightin- 
 gale ; 
 AU love is lost but upon God alone. 
 
 William Dunhar. — About 1505. 
 
 52. —THE VANITY OF EAETHLY 
 THINGS. 
 
 This wavering warld's wretchedness 
 The failing and fruitless business, 
 The misspent time, the service vain, 
 
 For to consider is ane pain. 
 
 The sliding joy, the gladness short. 
 The feigned love, the false comfort. 
 The sweir abade, the slightful train. 
 
 For to consider is ane pain. 
 
 The suggared mouths, with minds therefra. 
 The figured speech, with faces tway ; 
 The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain. 
 For to consider is ane pain. 
 
 WilUcmi Dunbar. — About 1505. 
 
 53.— NO TEEASUEE WITHOUT GLAD- 
 NESS. 
 
 Be merry, man, and tak nought far in mynd 
 The wavering of this wretched world of 
 sorrow, 
 To God be humble, to thy friend be kind, 
 
William Dunbar.] OF DISCRETION IN GIVING. [Second Period.— 
 
 Aud with thy neighbours gladly lend and 
 
 Some to the rich gives his gear. 
 
 borrow ; 
 
 That might his giftis weel forbear ; 
 
 Hia chance to-night it may be thine to- 
 
 And, though the poor for fault sould die,- 
 
 morrow. 
 
 His cry not enters in his ear : 
 
 Be blythe in heart for ony aventure ; 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 For Avith wysane it hath been said aforrow, 
 Without gladness availeth no treasure. 
 
 Some gives to strangers with faces new. 
 That yesterday fra Flanders flew ; 
 
 Mak the gude cheer of it that God thee sends; 
 For warld's wrack but weilfare nought 
 avails, 
 
 And to auld servants list not see, 
 Were they never of sae gTeat virtue : 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 Na gude is thine, save only but thou spends — 
 
 Some gives to them can ask and pleinyie, 
 
 Eemenant all, thou bruikis but with bails 
 
 Some gives to them can flatter and feignie ; 
 
 Seek to solace when sadness thee assails, 
 
 Some gives to men of honestie, 
 
 In dolour lang thy life may not endure ; 
 
 And halds all j anglers at disdenyie : 
 
 Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sail, 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 Without gladness availis no treasure. 
 
 Some gettis gifts and rich arrays. 
 
 Follow on pity ; flee trouble and debate ; 
 With famous folkis hold thy company. 
 
 To swear all that his master says. 
 
 Though all the contrair weel knaws he ; 
 
 Are mony sic now in thir days : 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 Be charitable and humble in thine estate, 
 For wardly honour lestis but a cry. 
 
 For trouble in earth take no melancholy ; 
 
 Some gives to gude men for their thews ; 
 
 Be rich in patience, if thou in goods be poor. 
 
 Some gives to trumpours and to shrews ; 
 
 Who livfs merry he lives mightily ; 
 
 Some gives to knaw his authoritie, 
 
 Without gla.dnesa availis no treasure. 
 
 But in their office gude fund in few is ; 
 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 William Dunbar.— About 1505. 
 
 
 
 Some givis parochines full wide, 
 
 
 Kirks of St. Bernard and St. Bride, 
 The people to teach and to o'ersee, 
 
 
 54.— OF DISCRETION IN GIVING. 
 
 Though he nae wit has them to guide : 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 To speak of gifts and almos deeds ; 
 
 Willia/ni Dunbar.— About 1505. 
 
 Some gives for merit, and some for meeds ; 
 
 
 Some wardly honour to uphie ; 
 Some gives to them that nothing needs ; 
 
 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 55.— OF DISCRETION IN TAKING. 
 
 Some gives for pride and glory vain ; 
 
 After Giving I speak of Taking, 
 
 Some gives with grudging and with pain ; 
 
 But little of ony gude forsaking ; 
 
 Some gives on prattick for supplie ; 
 
 Some takes o'er little authoritie. 
 
 Some gives for twice as gude again : 
 
 And some o'er mickle, and that is glaiking 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some gives for thank, and some for threat ; 
 
 The clerks takes benefices with brawls, 
 
 Some gives money, and some gives meat ; 
 
 Some of St. Peter and some of St. Paul's ; 
 
 Some givis wordis fair and slie ; 
 
 Tak he the rents, no care has he. 
 
 And gifts fra some may na man treit : 
 
 Suppose the devil tak all their sauls : 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some is for gift sae lang required. 
 
 Barons taks fra the tenants puir 
 
 While that the craver be so tired, 
 
 All fruit that growis on the fur, 
 
 That ere the gift delivered be. 
 
 In mails and gersoms raisit o'er hie ; 
 
 The thank is frustrate and expired ; 
 
 And gars them beg fra door to door : 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some gives so little full wretchedly, 
 
 Some merchands taks unleesome wine, 
 
 That all his gifts are not set by. 
 
 Whilk maks their packs oft time full thin, 
 
 And for a hood-pick halden is he, 
 
 By their succession as ye may see. 
 
 That all the warld cries on him, Fje ! 
 
 That ill- won gear 'riches not the kin : 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some in his giving is so large, 
 
 Some taks other mennis tacks, 
 
 That all o'erladen is his barge ; 
 
 And on the puir oppression maks. 
 
 Then vice and prodigalitie, 
 
 And never remembers that he maun die, 
 
 There of his honour does discharge : 
 
 Till that the gallows gars him rax : 
 
 In Giving sould Discretion be. 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 [Gawain Douglas. 
 
 Some taks by sea, and some by land, 
 And never fra taking can hald their hand, 
 
 Till he be tyit up to ane tree ; 
 And syne they gar him understand, 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some wald tak all his neighbour's gear ; 
 Had he of man as little fear 
 
 As he has dread that God him see ; 
 To tak then sould he never forbear : 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Some wald tak all this warld on breid ; 
 And yet not satisfied of their need. 
 
 Through heart unsatiable and greedie ; 
 Some wald tak little, and can not speed : 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 Great men for taking and oppression, 
 Are set full famous at the Session, 
 
 And puir takers are hangit hie, 
 Shawit for ever, and their succession : 
 
 In Taking sould Discretion be. 
 
 William Dunbar. — Ahout 1505. 
 
 56.— THE SHIPWRECK OF THE CARA- 
 VEL OF GRACE. 
 
 PART III. STANZA VII. 
 
 As we bene on the high hills situate, 
 
 "Look do^v^l," quoth she, "conceive in what 
 
 estate 
 Thy wretched world thou may consider now ! " 
 At her command, with meikle dread, God 
 
 wait, 
 Out oure the hill sae hideous, high, and strait 
 I blent adown, and felt my body grow : — 
 This brukil earth, sae little till allow, 
 Methought I saw burn in a fiery rage 
 Of stormy sea whilk might nae manner 
 
 'suage. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 That terrible tempest's hideous wallis huge 
 Were maist grislie for to behald or judge, 
 Where neither rest nor quiet might appear ; 
 There was a perilous place folk for to lodge, 
 There was nae help, support, nor yet refuge. 
 Innumerable folk I saw fiotterand in fear, 
 Whilk perished on the weltering wallis weir. 
 And secondly I saw a lustie barge 
 Oureset with seas and many a stormy charge. 
 
 This goodly Carwell, taiklit traist on raw. 
 With blanched sail, milk-white as ony snaw, 
 Right souer, tight, and wonder strangly 
 
 beildit. 
 Was on the bairdin wallis quite o'erthraw. 
 Contrariously the blusterous winds did blaw 
 In bubbis thick, that nae ship's sail might 
 
 wield it. 
 Now sank she low, now high to heaven up- 
 
 heildit ; 
 
 At every part sae (the) sea windis draif. 
 While on ane sand the ship did burst and 
 claif. 
 
 It was a piteous thing, — alaik, alaik ! 
 To hear the doleful cry when that she straik ; 
 Maist lamentable the perished folk to see ! 
 Sae famist, drowkit, mait, forwrought, and 
 
 walk; 
 Some on ane plank of fir-tree, and some of 
 
 aik ; 
 Some hang upon a takill, some on ane tree ; 
 Some frae their grip soon washen by the sea ; 
 Part drownit, part to the rock fleit or swam 
 On raips or buirds, syne up the hill they clam. 
 
 Tho at my nymph briefly I did enquire, 
 
 What signified that fearful wonders seir ; 
 
 " Yon multitude," said she, " of people 
 
 drownit, 
 Are faithless folk, whilkis, while they are here, 
 Misknawis God, and follows their pleseir. 
 Wherefore they shall in endless fire be brint, 
 Yon lusty ship thou sees perished and tint. 
 In whom yon people made ane perilous race, 
 She hecht the Carwell of the state of Grace." 
 
 Ye bene all bom the sons of ire, I guess, 
 Syne through baptism gets grace and faith- 
 fulness; 
 Then in yon Carwell surely ye remain. 
 Oft stormested with this warld' s bruckleness, 
 While that ye fall in sin and wretchedness. 
 
 pain. 
 Then ship-broke shall ye drown in endless 
 Except by faith ye find the plank again, 
 By Christ working good works, I understand ; 
 Remain therewith ; thir shall you bring to 
 land. 
 
 Oawain Douglas. — Alout 1510. 
 
 57.— MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, 
 Ished of her saffron bed and ivor house. 
 In cram'sy clad and grained violate. 
 With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, 
 Unshet the windows of her large hall. 
 Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, 
 And eke the heavenly portis chrystalline 
 Un warps braid, the warld till illumine ; 
 The twinkling streamers of the orient 
 Shed purpour spraings, with gold and azure 
 
 ment 
 Eons, the steed, with ruby harness red, 
 Above the seas liftis furth his head. 
 Of colour sore, and somedeal brown as berry, 
 For to alichten and glad our emispery ; 
 The fiame out-bursten at the neisthirls. 
 So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * 
 
Gawain Douglas.] 
 
 MOENING IN MAY. 
 
 [Second Feeiod.- 
 
 While shortly, with the bleezand torch of day, 
 Abulyit in his lemand fresh array, 
 Furth of his palace royal ishit Phoebus, 
 "With golden crown and visage glorious, 
 Crisp hairs, bricht as chrysolite or topaz ; 
 For whase hue micht nane behald his face. * * 
 The auriate vanes of his throne soverane 
 With glitterand glance o'erspread the oceane ; 
 The large fludes, lemand all of licht, 
 But with ane blink of his supernal sicht. 
 For to behald, it was ane glore to see 
 The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, 
 The soft season, the firmament serene. 
 The loune illuminate air and firth amene. * * 
 And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread 
 Under the feet of Phoebus' suly art- steed ; 
 The swarded soil embrode with selcouth hues, 
 Wood and forest, obnumbrate with bews. * * 
 Towers, turrets, kimals, and pinnacles hie, 
 Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair citie, 
 Stude painted, every fane, phiol, and stage, 
 Upon the plain ground by their awn umbrage. 
 Of Eolus' north blasts havand no dreid, 
 The soil spread her braid bosom on-breid ; 
 The corn-crops and the beir new-braird 
 With gladsome garment revesting the yefd. * 
 The prai besprent with springand sprouts 
 
 dispers 
 For caller humours on the dewy nicht 
 Eendering some place the gerse-piles their 
 
 licht ; 
 As far as cattle the lang summer's day 
 Had in their pasture eat and nip away ; 
 And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, 
 • Submits their heids to the young sun's safe- 
 guard. 
 Ivy leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall ; 
 The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all ; 
 Furth of fresh bourgeons the wine grapes 
 
 ying 
 Endland the trellis did on twistis hing ; 
 The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees 
 O'erspreadand leaves of nature's tapestries ; 
 Soft grassy verdure after balmy shouirs. 
 On curland stalkis smiland to their flouirs. * * 
 The daisy did on-breid her crownal small. 
 And every flouer unlappit in the dale. * * 
 Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. 
 The young green bloomed strawberry leaves 
 
 amang ; 
 Jimp jeryflouirs thereon leaves unshet, 
 Fresh primrose and the purpour violet ; * * 
 Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, 
 Opened and shew their crestis redemite. * * 
 Ane paradise it seemed to draw near 
 Thir galyard gardens and each green herbere 
 Maist amiable wax the emeraut meads ; 
 Swarmis souchis through out the respand 
 
 reeds. 
 Over the lochis and the fludis gray, 
 Searchand by kind ane place where they should 
 
 lay. 
 Phoebus' red fowl, his cural crest can steer. 
 Oft streikand furth his heckle, crawand cleer. 
 Amid the wortis and the rutis gent 
 Pickand his meat in alloys where he went, 
 
 His wivis Toppa and Partolet him by — 
 A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. 
 The painted powne pacand with plumes gym, 
 Kest up his tail ane proud plesand wheel-rim, 
 Ishrouded in his feathering bright and sheen, 
 Shapand the prent of Argus' hundred een. 
 Amang the bowis of the olive twists. 
 Sere small fowls, workand crafty nests, 
 Endlang the hedges thick, and on rank aiks 
 Ilk bird rejoicand with their mirthful makes. 
 In corners and clear fenestres of glass, 
 FuU busily Arachne weavand was, 
 To knit her nettis and her wobbis slie, 
 Therewith to catch the little midge or flie. 
 So dusty powder upstours in every street, 
 While corby gaspit for the fervent heat. 
 Under the bowis bene in lufely vales. 
 Within fermance and parkis close of pales. 
 The busteous buckis rakis furth on raw, 
 Herdis of hertis through the thick wood-shaw. 
 The young fawns foUowand the dun daes, 
 Kids, skippand through, runnis after raes. 
 In leisurs and on leyis, little lambs 
 Full tait and trig socht bletand to their dams. 
 On salt streams wolk Dorida and Thetis, 
 By rinnand strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, 
 Sic as we clepe wenches and damysels. 
 In gersy graves wanderand by spring wells ; 
 Of bloomed branches and flowers white and 
 
 red, 
 Plettand their lusty chaplets for their head. 
 Some sang ring-songes, dances, leids, and 
 
 rounds. 
 With voices shrill , while all the dale resounds. 
 Whereso they walk into their caroling. 
 For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. 
 Ane sang, " The ship sails over the salt faem, 
 Will bring the merchants and my leman hame." 
 Some other sings, " I will be blythe and licht. 
 My heart is lent upon so goodly wicht." 
 And thoughtful lovers rounis to and fro, 
 To leis their pain, and plein their jolly woe. 
 After their guise, now singand, now in sorrow, 
 With heartis pensive the lang summer's mor- 
 row. 
 Some ballads list indite of his lady ; 
 Some livis in hope ; and some all utterly 
 Despairit is, and sae quite out of grace, 
 His purgatory he finds in every place. * * 
 Dame Nature's menstrals, on that other part 
 Their blissfull lay intoning every art, * * 
 And all small fowlis singis on the spray, 
 Welcome the lord of licht, and lampe of day. 
 Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green. 
 Welcome quickener of fiourist flouirs sheen. 
 Welcome support of every rute and vein, 
 Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain. 
 Welcome the birdis beild upon the brier, 
 Welcome master and ruler of the year, 
 Welcome weelfare of husbands at the plews, 
 Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and bews. 
 Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads. 
 Welcome the life of every thing that spreads. 
 Welcome storer of all kind bestial. 
 Welcome be thy bricht beamis gladdand all.* * 
 Gawain Dovglas. — About 1510. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] DESCEIPTION OF SQUYEE MELDEUM. [Sib David Ltndsay. 
 
 58.— GEIEVANCES OF A SCOTTISH PEA- 
 SANT OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTUEY. 
 
 Pauper. 
 
 My father was an anld man and ane hoar, 
 And was of age four score (of) years or more. 
 And Maid, my mother, was four score and 
 
 fifteen, 
 And with my labour I did them baith sustene. 
 We had ane meir that carryit salt and coal, 
 And ever ilk year she brought us hame ane 
 
 foal. 
 We had three ky, that was baith fat and fair, 
 Nane tidier into the toun of Ayr. 
 My father was sac waik of bluid and bane 
 That ho deit, wheref5re my mother made 
 
 great mane ; 
 Then she deit within ane day or two, 
 And there began my poverty and wo. 
 Our gude grey meir was baitand on the field, 
 And our land's laird took her for his heryield. 
 The vicar took the best cow by the heid 
 Incontinent, when my father was deid. 
 And when the vicar heard tell how that my 
 
 mother 
 Was deid, f ra hand, he took till him the other. 
 Then Meg, my wife, did murn baith even and 
 
 morrow. 
 Till at the last she deit for verie sorrow ; 
 And when the vicar heard tell my wife was 
 
 deid, 
 The thrid cow he cleibet by the head. 
 Their upmest clais, that was of raploch grey, 
 The vicar gart his dark bear them away. 
 When all was gane, I micht mak nae debeat. 
 But with my bairns passed for till beg my 
 
 meat. 
 Now have I tauld you the black veritie, 
 How I am brocht into this misery. 
 
 Diligence. 
 How did the parson ? was he not thy gude 
 
 freend ? 
 
 Paxi/per. 
 
 he curst me for my tiend. 
 
 And halds me yet under that same process, 
 That gart me want the sacrament at Pasche. 
 In gude faith. Sir, thocht he wad cut my 
 
 throat, 
 I have nae gear except ane English groat, 
 Whilk I purpose to give ane man of law. 
 
 Diligence. 
 
 Thou art the daftest fule that e'er I saw. 
 Trows thou, man, by the law to get remeid 
 Of men of kirk ? Na, nocht till thou be deid. 
 
 Pauper. 
 
 Sir, by what law, tell me, wherefore or why ? 
 That ane vicar should tak fra me three ky ? 
 
 Diligence. 
 
 They have nae law excepting consuetude, 
 WhUk law to thom is sufficient and cude. 
 
 Pauper. 
 
 Ane consuetude aganes the common weil. 
 Should be nae law, I think, by sweet Sanct 
 
 GeiU. 
 Whaiir will ye find that law, teU gif ye can, 
 To tak three ky fra ane puir husband man ? 
 Ane for my father, and for my wife- ane other. 
 An the thrid cow he took for Maid, my 
 
 mother. 
 
 Diligence. 
 It is their law ; all that they have in use, 
 Thocht it be cow, sow, ganer, gryce, or guse. 
 
 Pauper. 
 Sir I wad speir at you ane question ; 
 Behald some prelates of this region — 
 
 Diligence. 
 Hald thy tongue, man, it seems that thou 
 
 were mangit. 
 Speak thou of priests, but doubt, thou will be 
 hangit. 
 
 Sir Dawid Lyndsay. — About 1520. 
 
 59.— THE EXACTIONS AND DELAY OF 
 THE LAW. 
 
 Pauper. 
 
 I lent my gossop my meir to fetch hame coals, 
 And he her droun'd into the querrel holes. 
 And I ran to the consistory for to plenye, 
 And there I happened amang ane greedy 
 
 menye. 
 They gave me first ane thing they call ci- 
 
 tanddtm ; 
 Within aucht days I gat but lihellandum ; 
 Within ane month I gat ad opponendv/ni ; 
 In ane half year I gat inter loquendum ; 
 An syne I gat — how caU ye it.? — ad repli- 
 
 candtun ; 
 But, I could never ane word yet understand 
 
 him. 
 An then, they gart me cast out mony placks. 
 And gart me pay for four and twenty acts ; 
 But or they came half gate to concludendicin. 
 The fient a plack was left for to defend him. 
 Thus they postpon'd me twa year, with their 
 
 train. 
 Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again. 
 An then thir rooks they roupit wonder fast, 
 For sentence silver they cryit at the last. 
 Of pronunciandum they made me wonder 
 
 fain ; 
 But I gat ne'er my gude grey meir again. 
 
 Sir David Lyndsay. — About 1520. 
 
 60, 
 
 DESCEIPTION OF SQUYEE MEL- 
 DEUM. 
 
 He was bot twintie yeiris of age, 
 Quehen he began his vassalage : 
 Proportionat weill, of mid stature : 
 Feirie and wicht and micht endure 
 
Sib David Lyndsay.] MELDEUM'S DUEL. [Second Period. — 
 
 Ovirset with travell both nicht and day, 
 
 And sweitlie to the Squiyre said, 
 
 Eicht hardie baith in ernist and play : 
 
 Thou knawis the cunning that we made, 
 
 Bl3dth in countenance, richt fair of face, 
 
 Quhilk of us twa suld tyne the field, 
 
 And stude woill ay in his ladies grace : 
 
 He suld baith hors and armour yield 
 
 For he "was wondir amiabill, 
 
 Till him that wan, quhairfore I will 
 
 And in all deidis honourabill ; 
 
 My hors and harness geve the till. 
 
 And ay his honour did advance, 
 
 Then said the Squyer, courteouslie, 
 
 In Ingland first and syne in France 
 
 Brother, I thank you hartfullie ; 
 
 And thare his manheid did assail 
 
 Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, 
 
 Under the kingis great admirall. 
 
 For I have gotten that I would have. 
 
 Quhen the greit navy of Scotland 
 Passit to the sea againis Ingland. 
 
 Sir Dcuvid Lyndsay. — About 1520. 
 
 Sir David Lyndsay. — About 1520. 
 
 
 62.— CHEIST COMING TO JUDGMF.NT. 
 
 
 6i.— MELDEUM'S DUEL WITH THE 
 
 As fireflaucht hastily glancing, 
 
 ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBAET. 
 
 Descend shall the maist heavenly King. 
 
 Then clariouns and trumpets blew, 
 
 As Phoebus in the orient 
 
 And weiriours many hither drew ; 
 
 Lightens in haste the Occident, 
 
 On eviry side come mony man 
 
 Sae pleasandly he shall appear 
 
 To behald Avha the battel wan. 
 
 Amang the heavenly cluddis clear, 
 
 The field was in the meadow green. 
 
 With great power and majesty, 
 
 Quhare everie man micht weil be seen : 
 
 Above the country of Judie ; 
 
 The heraldis put tham sa in order. 
 
 As clerkis doth conclude in haill, 
 
 That na man past within the border, - 
 
 Direct above the lusty vale 
 
 Nor preissit to com within the green, 
 
 Of Josaphat and Mount Olivet : 
 
 Bot heraldis and the campiouns keen ; 
 
 An prophecy there shall complete. 
 
 The order and the circumstance 
 
 The angels of the orders nine 
 
 Wer lang to put in remembrance. 
 
 Environ shall that throne Divine 
 
 Quhen thir twa nobill men of weir 
 
 With heavenly consolation. 
 
 Wer Weill accouterit in their geir, 
 
 Making him ministration. 
 
 And in thair handis strong burdounis, 
 
 In his presence there -shall be borne 
 
 Than trumpettis blew and clarionnis, 
 
 The signs of cross and crown of thorn, 
 
 And heraldis cryit hie on hicht. 
 
 Pillar, naillis, scourgis, and spear, 
 
 Now let thame go — God shaw the richt. 
 
 With everilk thing that did him deir, 
 
 # * * # # 
 
 The time of his grim passion ; 
 
 Than trumpettis blew triumphantly, 
 
 And, for our consolation. 
 
 And thay twa campiouns eagerlie, 
 
 Appear shall, in his hands and feet 
 
 They spurrit their hors with speiron breist, 
 
 And in his side, the print complete 
 
 Pertly to prief their pith they preist. 
 
 Of his five woundis precious. 
 
 That round rink-room was at utterance. 
 
 Shining like rubies radious. 
 
 Bot Talbart's hors with ane mischance 
 
 Sir David Lyndsay. — About 1520. 
 
 H (outterit, and to run was laith ; 
 
 
 Quharof Talbart was wonder wraith. 
 
 
 
 The Squyer furth his rink he ran, 
 
 
 Commendit weill with every man. 
 
 63.— TO MISTEESS MAEGAEET HUSSEY. 
 
 And him discharget of his speir 
 
 Merry Margaret, 
 
 Honestlie, like ane man of weir. 
 
 As midsummer flower, 
 
 * * # # # 
 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 The trenchour of the Squyreis speir 
 
 Or hawk of the tower ; 
 
 Stak still into Sir Talbart's geir; 
 
 With solace and gladness, 
 
 Than everie man into that steid 
 
 Much mirth and no madness. 
 
 Did all beleve that he was dede. 
 
 All good and no badness ; 
 
 The Squyer lap richt haistiUie 
 
 So joyously. 
 
 From his coursour deliverlie, 
 
 So maidenly. 
 
 And to Sir Talbart made support, 
 
 So womanly, 
 
 And humillie did him comfort. 
 
 Her demeaning, 
 
 Wlien Talbart saw into his schield 
 
 In everything, 
 
 Ane otter in ane silver field. 
 
 Far, far passing 
 
 This race, said he, I sair may rew. 
 
 That I can indite. 
 
 For I see weill my dreame was true ; 
 
 Or suffice to write. 
 
 Mothocht yon otter gart me bleid. 
 
 Of merry Margaret, 
 
 And buir mo backwart from my sted ; 
 
 As midsummer flower, 
 
 But heir I vow to God soverane. 
 
 Gentle as falcon 
 
 That I sail never just agano. 
 
 Or hawk of the tower ; 
 
fVom 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 NO AGE CONTENT. 
 
 [Howard, E. of SurreTv 
 
 As patient and as still, 
 
 And as full of goodwill^ 
 
 As fair Isiphil, 
 
 Coliander. 
 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 
 Good Cassander ; 
 
 Stedfast of thonght, 
 
 Well made, well wrought 
 
 Far may be sought, 
 
 Ere you can find 
 
 So courteous, sc kind, 
 
 As merry Margaret, 
 
 This midsummer flower, 
 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
 John Shelton. — About 1520. 
 
 64.— IMPRISONED IN WINDSOE, HE EE- 
 COUNTETH HIS PLEASUEE THEEE 
 PASSED. 
 
 So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 
 As proud Windsor ? Where I in lust and joy, 
 With a king's son. my childish years did pass. 
 In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy; 
 Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. 
 The large green courts, where we were wont to 
 
 rove, 
 With eyes upcast unto the maiden's tower. 
 And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. 
 The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue. 
 The dances short, long tales of great delight ; 
 With words and looks that tigers could but rue. 
 When each of us did plead the other's right. 
 The palm play, where desported for the game. 
 With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love. 
 Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame. 
 To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. 
 The gravell'd ground, with sleeves tied on the 
 
 holm. 
 On foaming horse with swords and friendly 
 
 hearts ; 
 With cheer as though one should another whelm , 
 Where we have fought, and chased oft with 
 
 darts. 
 With silver drops the meads yet spread for ruth ; 
 In active games of nimblenesa and strength. 
 Where we did strain, trained with swanns of 
 
 youth, 
 Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length. 
 The secret groves, which oft we made resound 
 Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; 
 Eecording oft what grace each one had found. 
 What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. 
 The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 
 With reins avail'd, and swift ybreathed horse, 
 With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, 
 Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. 
 The void walls eke that harbour' d us each 
 
 night : 
 Wherewith, alas ! revive within my breast 
 The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; 
 Tlio pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; 
 
 The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; 
 The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; 
 The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just. 
 Wherewith we past the Avinter nights away. 
 And -with this thought the blood forsakes the 
 
 face ; 
 The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : 
 The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! 
 Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew : 
 place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 
 Give me account, where is my noble fere ? 
 Whom in thy walls thou didst each night 
 
 enclose ; 
 To other lief : but unto me most dear. 
 Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue, 
 Eeturns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
 Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew. 
 In prison pine, with bondage and restraint : 
 And with remembrance of the greater grief, 
 To banish the less, I find my chief relief. 
 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 65. 
 
 -NO AGE CONTENT WITH HIS 
 OWN ESTATE. 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed. 
 
 In study as I were, 
 I saw within my troubled head, 
 
 A heap of thoughts appear. 
 
 And every thought did show 
 
 So lively in mine eyes. 
 That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 
 
 As cause of thoughts did rise. 
 
 I saw the little boy. 
 
 In thought how oft that ho 
 Did wish of God, to scape the rod, 
 
 A tall young man to be. 
 
 The young man eke that feels 
 His bones with pains opprest. 
 
 How he would be a rich old man, 
 To live and lie at rest : 
 
 The rich old man that sees 
 
 His end draw on so sore. 
 How he would be a boy again, 
 
 To live so much the more. 
 
 Whereat fuU oft I smiled. 
 To see how all these three, 
 
 From boy to man, from man to boy, 
 Would chop and change degree : 
 
 And musing thus, I think, 
 
 The case is very strange, 
 That man from wealth, to live in woe, 
 
 Doth ever seek to change. 
 
 Thus thoughtful as I lay, 
 
 ■ I saw my withered skin, 
 How it doth show my dented thews. 
 The flesh was worn so thin ; 
 
Howard, E. of Surrey.] 
 
 TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 [Second Period. — 
 
 And eke my toothless chaps, 
 
 The gates of my right way, 
 That opes and shuts as I do speak, 
 
 Do thus unto me say : 
 
 The white and hoarish hairs. 
 
 The messengers of age. 
 That show, like lines of true belief, 
 
 That this life doth assuage ; 
 
 Bids thee lay hand, and feel 
 
 Them hanging on my chin. 
 The which do write two ages past, 
 
 The third now coming in. 
 
 Hang up, therefore, the bit 
 
 Of thy young wanton time ; 
 And thou that therein beaten art, 
 
 The happiest life define : 
 
 Whereat I sighed, and said, 
 
 Farewell my wonted joy, 
 Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, 
 
 To every little boy ; 
 
 And tell them thus from me, 
 
 Their time most happy is, 
 If to their time they reason had. 
 
 To know the truth of this. 
 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 66.— THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY 
 LIFE. 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 The happy Hfe, be these, I find. 
 
 The riches left, not got with pain ; 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. 
 
 The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife. 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 
 Without disease, the healthful life ; 
 The household of continuance : 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 
 
 True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 
 The night discharged of all care ; 
 
 Where wine the wit may not oppress. 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 
 Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 
 Contented with thine own estate, 
 
 Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 
 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 67.— DESCEIPTION OF SPEING. 
 
 The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 
 
 brings, 
 With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
 The turtle to her make hath told her tale. 
 Summer is come, for every spray now springs. 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 
 The fishes fleet with new repaired scale ; 
 
 The adder all her slough away she flings : 
 The swift swallow pursueth the flies small ; 
 The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 
 Winter is worn that was the flower's bale. 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 68.— HOW EACH THING, SAVE THE 
 LOVER, IN SPEING EEVIVETH TO 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 When Windsor walls sustain'd my wearied arm ; 
 My hand my chin, to ease my restless head ; 
 The pleasant plot revested green with warm ; 
 The blossom' d boughs with lusty ver y spread ; 
 The flower' d meads, the wedded birds so late 
 Mine eyes discover ; and to my mind resort 
 The jolly woes, the hateless short debate, 
 The rakehell life that longs to love's disport. 
 Wherewith, alas ! the heavy charge of care 
 Heap'd in my breast, breaks forth against my 
 
 wiU 
 In smoky sighs that overcast the air. 
 My vapour' d eye such dreary tears distU, 
 The tender green they quicken where they fall ; 
 And I half bend to throw me down withal. 
 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 69.. 
 
 -DESCEIPTION AND PEAISE OF 
 HIS LOUE GEEALDINE. 
 
 From Tuskane came my ladies worthy race : 
 Faire Florence was sometime her auncient 
 
 seate 
 The western yle, whose plesant shore doth face 
 Wnde Cambers clifs, did gyve her liuely 
 
 heate : 
 Fostred she was with milke of Irish brest ; 
 Her sire, an Erie ; her dame of princes blood ; 
 From tender yeres, in Britain she doth rest 
 With klnges childe, where she tasteth costly 
 
 fooL 
 Hoiisdon did first present her to mine yien ; 
 Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine she hight ; 
 Hampton me taught to Avishe her first for 
 
 mine : 
 And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her 
 
 sight. 
 
 Her beauty of kind, her vertues from aboue ; 
 
 Happy is he, that can obtaine her loue ! 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 7o._A VOW TO LOUE. 
 
 Set me whereas the sunne doth parche tho 
 
 grene. 
 Or where his beames do not dissolue the 5'se : 
 In temperate heate where he is felt and sene : 
 In presence prest of people madde or wise ; 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 THE LOVER'S LUTE. 
 
 [Sir Thomas Wyat. 
 
 Set me in hye, or yet in low degree ; 
 In longest night, or in the shortest daye : 
 In clearest skie, or where cloudes thickest be ; 
 In lusty youth, or when my heeres are graye : 
 Set me in heauen, in earth, or els in hell, 
 In hyll or dale, or in the foming flood, 
 Thrall, or at large, aliue whereso I dwell, 
 Sicke or in health, in euill fame or good : 
 Hers will I be, and onely with this thought 
 Content my self, although my chaunce be 
 nought. 
 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey. — About 1535. 
 
 71.— A LOVEE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 I never sawe my Ladye laye apart. 
 
 Her comet blacke, in colde nor yet in heate, 
 
 Sith fyrst she knew my griefe was growen so 
 
 greate ; 
 Whiche other fansies driueth from my hart 
 That to my seK I do the thought reserue, 
 The which unwares did wound my woeful 
 
 brest ; 
 But on her face mine eyes mought neuer rest : 
 Yet sins she knew I did her loue and serue. 
 Her golden tresses cladde alway with blacke ; 
 Her smyling lokes that hid thus euermore, 
 And that restraines whiche I desire so sore : 
 So dothe thys cornet goueme me alacke ; 
 In somer, sunne : in winters breathe, a froste : 
 Wherby the light of her faire lokes I lost. 
 Howard, Earl of Su/rrey. — About 1535. 
 
 72. — THE LOVER COMPLAINETH OF 
 THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE. 
 
 My lute, awake ! perform the last 
 Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
 And end that I have now begun ; 
 For when this song is sung and past, 
 My lute be still, for I have done. 
 
 As to be heard where ear is none, 
 As lead to grave in marble stone. 
 My song may pierce her heart as soon : 
 Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? 
 No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 
 
 The rocks do not so cruelly 
 Repulse the waves continually, 
 As she my suit and affection ; 
 So that I am past remedy ; 
 Whereby my lute and I have done. 
 
 Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
 Of simple hearts, thorough Love's shot, 
 By whom, unkind ! thou hast them won : 
 Think not he hath his bow forgot, 
 Although my lute and I have done. 
 
 Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, 
 That mak'st but game of earnest payne. 
 Think not alone under the sun, 
 Unquit the cause thy lovers plaine, 
 Although my lute and I have done. 
 
 May chance thee lye withred and old, 
 In winter nights that are so cold, 
 Playning in vain unto the moon ; 
 Thy wishes then dare not be told ; 
 Care then who list ! for I have done. 
 
 And then may chaunce thee to repent 
 The time that thou hast lost and spent. 
 To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon ; 
 Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 
 And wish and want, as I have done. 
 
 Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
 Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
 And ended is that I begun ; 
 Now is this song both sung and past ; 
 My lute ! be still, for I have done. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat.— About 1535. 
 
 73.— THE LOVER'S LUTE CANNOT BE 
 BLAMED, THOUGH IT SING OF HIS 
 LADY'S UNKINDNESS. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound 
 
 Of this or that as liketh me ; 
 For lack of wit the Lute is bound 
 
 To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; 
 Though my songs be somewhat strange, « 
 And speak such words as touch my change. 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 My Lute, alas ! doth not offend, 
 
 Though that per force he must agree 
 
 To sound such tunes as I intend, 
 To sing to them that heareth me ; 
 
 Then though my songs be somewhat plain. 
 
 And toucheth some that use to feign. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 My Lute and strings may not deny, 
 But as "l strike they must obey ; 
 
 Break not them then so wrongfully, 
 But wreak thyself some other way ; 
 
 And though the songs which I indite, 
 
 Do quit thy change with rightful spite, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Spite asketh spite, and changing change, 
 And falsed f^th, must needs be known ; 
 
 The faults so great, the case so strange ; 
 Of right it must abroad be blown : 
 
 Then since that by thine own desert 
 
 My songs do teU how true thou art. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Blame but thyseK that hast misdone, 
 And well deserved to have blame ; 
 
 Change thou thy way, so evil begone, 
 
 And then my Lute shall sound that same ; 
 
 But if till then my fingers play, 
 
 By thy desert their wonted way, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
Sir Thomas Wtat.] 
 
 THE RE-CURED LOVER EXULTETH. 
 
 [Second Period. — 
 
 Farewell ! Tmknown ; for though thou break 
 My strings in spite with great disdain, 
 
 Yet have I found out for thy sake, 
 Strings for to string my Lute again : 
 
 And if perchance this silly rhyme, 
 
 Do make thee blush at any time, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 8vr Thomas Wyat.-—Alout 1535. 
 
 74.— THE EE-CUEED LOVEE EXULTETH 
 IN HIS FEEEDOM, AND VOWETH TO 
 REMAIN FEEE UNTIL DEATH. 
 
 I am as I am, and so wiU I be ; 
 But how that I am none knoweth truly. 
 Be it ill, be it weU, be I bond, be I free, 
 I am as I am, and so will I be. 
 
 I lead my life indifferently ; 
 
 I mean nothing but honesty ; 
 
 And though folks judge full diversely, 
 
 I am as I am, and so will I die. 
 
 I do not rejoice, nor yet complain, 
 Both mirth and sadness I do refrain. 
 And use the means since folks will feign ; 
 Yet I am as I am, be it pleasant or pain. 
 
 Divers do judge as they do trow. 
 Some of pleasure and some of woe, 
 Yet for all that nothing they know ; 
 But I am as I am, wheresoever I go. 
 
 But sir'^-' j'jdgers do thus decay, 
 Let every man his judgment say ; 
 I will it take in sport and play. 
 For I am as I am, whosoever say nay. 
 
 Who judgeth weU, weU God them send ; 
 Who judgeth evil, God them amend ; 
 To judge the best therefore intend, • 
 For I am as I am, and so wiU I end. 
 
 Yet some there be that take delight, 
 To judge folk's thought for envy and spite ; 
 But whether they judge me wrong or right, 
 I am as I am, and so do I write. 
 
 Praying you all that this do read. 
 To trust it as you do your cre^d ; 
 And not to think I change my weed, 
 For I am as I am, however I speed. 
 
 But how that is I leave to you ; 
 Judge as ye Hst, false or true, 
 Ye know no more than afore ye knew. 
 Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue. 
 
 And from this mind I will not flee, 
 But to you all that misjudge me, 
 I do protest, as ye may see, 
 That I am as I am, and so will be. 
 
 Svr Thomas Wyat. — Ahout 1535. ' 
 
 75- 
 
 -THAT PLEASURE IS MIXED WITH 
 EVERY PAIN. 
 
 Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen 
 Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and fair of 
 hue, 
 
 Poison is also put in medicine, 
 
 And unto man his health doth oft renew. 
 
 The fire that all things eke consuraeth clean. 
 May hurt and heal : then if that this be 
 true, 
 
 I trust some time my harm may be my health. 
 
 Since every woe is joined with some wealth. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat. — About 1535. 
 
 76.— A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE 
 AS HE WOULD LOVE. 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well. 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to behold 
 With gladsome cheer, aU grief for to expeU ; 
 With sober looks so would I that it should 
 Speak without words, such words as none can 
 
 teU; 
 The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
 With wit and these, might chance I might be 
 
 tied. 
 And knit again with knot that should not slide. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat.— About 1535. 
 
 77.— AN EAENT^ST SUIT TO HIS UNKIND 
 MISTEESS NOT TO FOESAKE HIM. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame. 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 That hath lov'd thee so long ? 
 In wealth and woe among : 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 That hath given thee my heart, 
 Never for to depart. 
 Neither for pain nor smart, 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 And have no more pity 
 
 Of him that loveth thee ; 
 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat.— Ahout 1535. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] INTRODUCTION TO BOOK OF HUSBANDRY, [Thomas Tusseb. 
 
 78.— TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 
 Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
 My great travail so gladly spent, 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet when first began 
 The weary life, ye know since whan, 
 The suit, the service, none teU can ; 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet the great assays, 
 The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, 
 The painful patience in delays, 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not ! — Oh ! forget not this. 
 How long ago hath been, and is 
 The mind that never meant amiss, 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not then thine own approved, 
 The which so long hath thee so loved, 
 Whose steadfast faith yet never moved. 
 Forget not this ! 
 
 Svr Thomas Wyat—Ahoiit 1535. 
 
 ^79.— HE LAMENTETH THAT HE HAD 
 EVER CAUSE TO DOUBT HIS LADY'S 
 FAITH. 
 
 Deem as ye list upon good cause, 
 I may or think of this or that ; 
 But what or why myself best knows. 
 Whereby I think and fear not. 
 But thereunto I may well think 
 The doubtful sentence of this clause ; 
 I would it were not as I think ; 
 I would I thought it were not. 
 
 For if I thought it were not so, 
 Though it were so, it griev'd me not ; 
 Unto my thought it were as tho 
 I hearkened though I hear not. 
 At that I see I cannot wink, 
 Nor from my thought so let it go : 
 I would it were not as I think ; 
 I woidd I thought it were not. 
 
 Lo ! how my thought might make me free. 
 Of that perchance it needs not : 
 Perchance none doubt the dread I see ; 
 I shrink at that I bear not. 
 But in my heart this word shall sink. 
 Until the proof may better be : 
 I would it were not as I think ; 
 I would I thought it were not. 
 
 If it be not, shew no cause why 
 I should so think, then care I not ; 
 For I shall so myself apply 
 To be that I appear not. 
 That is, as one that shall not shrink 
 To be your own until I die ; 
 And if that be not as I think, 
 Likewise to think it is not. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat^Ahout 1635. 
 
 80. 
 
 -CHARACTERISTIC OF AN 
 ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, 
 Musing in my mind what garment I shall 
 
 wear, 
 For now I wiU wear this, and now 1 will wear 
 
 that. 
 Now I will wear I cannot teU what : 
 AU new fashions be pleasant to me, 
 I will have them whether I thrive or thee : 
 Now I am a fisher, all men on me look 
 What should I do but set cock on the hoop f 
 What do I care if all the world me fail, 
 I will have a garment reach to my tail. 
 Then I am a minion, for I wear the new gmse, 
 The next year after I hope to be wise — 
 Not only in wearing my gorgeous array, 
 For I will go to learning a whole summer's 
 
 day; 
 I will learn Latin, Hebrew, Greek, and French, 
 And I Avill learn Dutch sitting on my bench. 
 I do fear no man, each man feareth me ; 
 I overcome my adversaries by land and by sea : 
 I had no peer if to myself I were true ; 
 Because I am not so, diverse times do I rue : 
 Yet I lack nothing, I have all things at wiU, 
 If I were wise and would hold myself stiU, 
 And meddle with no matters but to me per- 
 taining. 
 But ever to be true to God and my king. 
 But I have such matters rolling in my pate. 
 That I will and do — I cannot tell what. 
 No man shall let me, but I will have my mind. 
 And to father, mother, and friend, I'U be 
 
 unkind. 
 I will follow mine own mind and mine old 
 
 trade : 
 Who shaU let me ? The devil's nails are un- 
 
 pared. 
 Yet above all things new fashions I love well. 
 And to wear them my thrift I will sell. 
 In all this world I shall have but a time : 
 Hold the cup, good fellow, here is thine and 
 
 mine ! 
 
 Andrew Bourd. — Ahoxit 1537. 
 
 Si.—AN INTRODUCTION TO THE BOOK 
 OF HUSBANDRY. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Good husbandmen must moil and toil, 
 
 To lay to live, by laboured field : 
 Their wives, at home, must keep such coil, 
 As their like acts may profit yield. 
 For well they know. 
 As shaft from bow, 
 Or chalk from snow, 
 A good round rent their lords they give, 
 And must keep touch in all tjieir pay ; 
 With credit crackt, else for to live. 
 Or trust to legs, and run away. 
 
Thomas Tusseb.] A PEEFACE. 
 
 [Second Period. — 
 
 Though fence, well kept, is one good point, 
 
 9. 
 
 To hold that thine is lawfully. 
 
 And tilth well done, in season due ; 
 
 
 For stoutness, or for flattery. 
 
 Yet needing salve, in time t' anoint, 
 
 10. 
 
 To wed good wife for company. 
 
 Is all in all, and needfull true : 
 
 
 And live in wedlock honestly. 
 
 As for the rest. 
 
 11. 
 
 To furnish house with housholdry, 
 
 Thus think I best, 
 
 
 And make provision skilfrdly. 
 
 As friend doth guest, 
 
 12. 
 
 To join to wife good family. 
 
 With hand in hand to lead thee forth, 
 
 
 And none to keep for bravery. 
 
 To Ceres camp, there to behold 
 
 13. 
 
 To suffer none live idely, 
 
 A thousand things, as richly worth, 
 
 
 For fear of idle knavery. 
 
 As any pearl is worthy gold. 
 
 14. 
 
 To courage wife in huswifery. 
 
 Thomas Tusser.^About 1557. 
 
 
 And use weU doers gentily. 
 
 
 15. 
 
 To keep no more but needfuUy, 
 
 
 16. 
 
 And count excess unsavoury. 
 To raise betimes the lubberly, 
 
 
 82.— A PEEFACE TO THE BUYEE OF 
 
 
 Both snorting Hoh and Margery. 
 
 HIS BOOK ON HUSBANDEY. 
 
 17. 
 
 To walk thy pastures usually. 
 To spy ill neighbour's subtilty. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 18. 
 
 To hate revengement hastily; 
 
 What lookest thou herein to have ? 
 Fine verses thy fancy to please ? 
 
 19. 
 
 For losing love and a,mity. 
 
 To love thy neighbour, neighbourly. 
 
 And shew him no discourtesy. 
 
 Of Tna,Tiy my betters that crave : 
 Look nothing but rudeness in these. 
 
 20. 
 
 To answer stranger civilly, 
 But shew him not thy secresy. 
 
 "What other thing lookest thou then ? ' 
 
 21. 
 
 To use no man deceitfully, 
 
 Grave sentences many to find ? 
 
 
 To offer no man villainy. 
 
 Such, poets have, twenty and ten, 
 
 22. 
 
 To learn how foe to pacify. 
 
 Yea thousands, contenting thy mind. 
 
 
 But trust him not too hastily. 
 
 
 23. 
 
 To keep thy touch substantially, 
 
 What look ye, I pray you shew what ? 
 
 
 And in thy word use constancy. 
 
 Terms painted with rhetorick fine ! 
 
 24. 
 
 To make thy bands advisedly. 
 
 Good husbandry seeketh not that, 
 
 
 And come not bound through suerty. 
 
 Nor is't any meaning of mine. 
 
 25. 
 
 To meddle not with usury, 
 
 What lookest thou, speak at the last ? 
 
 Good lessons for thee and thy wife ? 
 Then keep them in memory fast, 
 
 To help as a comfort to life. 
 
 26. 
 27. 
 
 Nor lend thy money foolishly. 
 To hate to live in infamy. 
 Through craft, and living shiftingly. 
 To shun all kind of treachery, 
 For treason endeth, horribly. 
 
 What look ye for more i^ my book ? 
 
 28. 
 
 To learn to shun ill company, 
 
 Points needfull and meet to be known ? 
 
 
 And such as live dishonestly. 
 
 Then daily be suer to look, 
 
 29. 
 
 To banish house of blasphemy, 
 
 To save to be siier thine own. 
 
 
 Lest crosses cross, unluckily. 
 
 Thomas Tusser.— About 1557. 
 
 30. 
 
 To stop mischance through policy 
 For chancing too unhappily. 
 
 
 31. 
 
 To bear thy crosses, patiently. 
 For worldly things are slippery. 
 
 
 83.— THE LADDEE TO THEIFT. 
 
 32. 
 
 To lay to keep from misery, 
 Age coming on, so creepingly. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 33. 
 
 To pray to God, continually. 
 
 
 For aid against thine enemy. 
 
 1. To take thy calling thankfuUy, 
 
 34. 
 
 To spend thy Sabbath holily. 
 
 And shun the path to beggary. 
 
 
 And help the needy poverty. 
 
 2. To grudge in youth no drudgery. 
 
 35. 
 
 To live in conscience quietly, 
 
 To come by knowledge perfectly. 
 
 
 And keep thyself from malady. 
 
 3, To count no travell slavery, 
 
 36. 
 
 To ease thy sickness speedily. 
 
 That brings in penny saverly. 
 
 
 Ere help be past recovery. 
 
 4. To follow profit, earnestly. 
 
 37. 
 
 To seek to God for remedy. 
 
 But meddle not with pilfery. 
 
 
 For witches prove unluckily. 
 
 5. To get by honest practisy, 
 
 
 
 And keep thy gettings covertly. 
 
 
 These be the steps, unfeignedly. 
 
 6. To lash not out, too lashingly, 
 
 
 To climb to thrift by husbandry. 
 
 For fear of pinching penury. 
 
 
 
 7. To get good plot, to occupy. 
 
 These steps both reach, and teach thee shall, 
 
 And §tore and use it, husbandly. 
 
 To come by thrift, to shift withaU. 
 
 8. To shew to landlord courtesy, 
 
 
 
 And keep thy covenants orderly. 
 
 
 TJiomas Tusser. — About 1557. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 GOOD HUSBANDLY LESSONS. 
 
 [Thomas Tusser. 
 
 84.— DIEECTIONS FOR CULTIVATING A 
 HOP-GARDEN. 
 
 "Whom fancy persuadeth, among otlier crops, 
 Tq have for his spending sufficient of hops, 
 Must willingly follow, of choices to choose, 
 Such lessons approved, as skilful do use. 
 
 Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay. 
 Is naughty for hops, any manner of way. 
 Or if it bs mingled with rubbish and stone. 
 For dryness and barrenness let it alone. 
 
 Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould, 
 Well dunged and ^vrought, as a garden-plot 
 
 should ; 
 Not far from the water, but not overflown, 
 This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known. 
 
 The sun in the south, or else southly and 
 
 west, 
 Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest ; 
 But \nnd in the north, or else northerly 
 
 east. 
 To the hop is as ill as a fay in a feast. 
 
 Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, 
 Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold ; 
 Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn. 
 And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn. 
 
 The hop for his profit I thus do exalt. 
 It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth malt ; 
 And being well brewed, long kept it will last, 
 And drawing abide — if ye draw not too fast. 
 
 Thomas Tusser. — About 1557. 
 
 85.— HOUSEWIFERY PHYSIC. • 
 
 Good huswife provides, ere a sickness do come. 
 Of sundry good things in her house to hava 
 
 some. 
 Good ojjua composita, and vinegar tart, 
 Rose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine 
 
 heart. 
 Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn. 
 That over-strong heat to good temper may 
 
 turn. 
 White endive, and succory, with spinach enow; 
 All such with good pot-herbs, should follow 
 
 the plough. 
 Get water of fumitory, liver to cool. 
 And others the like, or else lie like a fool. 
 Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such. 
 With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much. 
 Ask Medicus' counsel, ere medicine ye take. 
 And honour that man for necessity's sake. 
 Though thousands hate physic, because of the 
 
 cost, 
 Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be 
 
 lost. 
 Good broth, and good keeping, do much now 
 
 and than : 
 Good diet, with "wisdom, best comforteth man. 
 In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best ; 
 In sickness, hate trouble ; seek quiet and rest. 
 
 Remember thy soul ; lot no fancy prevail ; 
 Make ready to God- ward ; let faith never quail : 
 The sooner thyself thou submittest to God, 
 The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod. 
 
 Thomas Tusser. — About 1557. 
 
 86.— GOOD HUSBANDLY LESSONS, 
 Worthy to bo followed of such as ivould thrive. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 1. God sendeth and giveth, both mouth and 
 
 the meat, 
 And blesseth us all with his benefits great : 
 Then serve we the God, who so richly doth 
 
 give, 
 Shew love to our neighbours, and lay for 
 
 to live. 
 
 2. As bud, by appearing, betok'neth the 
 
 spring, 
 And leaf, by her falling, the contrary 
 
 thing ; 
 So youth bids us labour, to get as we can. 
 For age is a burden to labouring man. 
 
 3. A competent living, and honestly had, 
 Makes such as are godly, both thankful 
 
 and glad : 
 Life, never contented, with honest estate. 
 Lamented is oft, and repented too late. 
 
 4. Count never well gotten, what naughty is 
 
 got. 
 Nor well to account of, which honest is not : 
 Look long not to prosper, that weighest 
 
 not this. 
 Lest prospering faileth, and all go amiss. 
 
 5. True wedlock is best, for avoiding of sin ; 
 The bed undefiled, much honour doth win : 
 Though love be in choosing, far better 
 
 than gold, 
 Let love come with somewhat, the better 
 to hold. 
 
 6. Wliere couples agree not, is rancour and 
 
 strife. 
 Where such be together, is seldom good 
 
 life; 
 Whore couples in wedlock do lovely agree. 
 There f oison remaineth, if wisdom there be. 
 
 7. Who looketh to marry, must lay to keep 
 
 house. 
 For love may not alway be playing with 
 
 douse ; 
 If children increase, and no stay of thine 
 
 own. 
 What afterward follows is soon to be 
 
 known. 
 
 8. Once charged with children, or likely to 
 be. 
 Give over to sojourn, that thinkest to 
 thee ; 5 
 
Thomas Tusser.] GOOD HUSBANDLY LESSONS. [Second Period.— 
 
 Lest grudging of hostess, and craving of 
 
 18. Make husbandry bailiff, abroad to provide. 
 
 nurse, 
 
 Make huswifery daily, at home for to guide : 
 
 Be costly and noisome to thee and thy 
 
 Make coffer, fast locked, thy treasure to 
 
 purse. 
 
 keep, 
 
 
 Make house to be siier, the safer to sleep. 
 
 9. Good husha.nds that loveth good houses to 
 
 
 keep. 
 
 19. Make bandog thy scoutwatch, to bark at 
 
 Are oftentimes careful when others do sleep : 
 
 a thief. 
 
 To spend as they may, or to stop at the 
 
 Make courage for life, to be capitain chief : 
 
 first. 
 
 Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to 
 
 For nmning in danger, or fear of the worst. 
 
 begin, 
 
 
 Make gunstone and arrow, shew who is 
 
 10. Go count with thy coffers, when harvest 
 
 within. 
 
 IS in. 
 Which way for thy profit to save or to win : 
 
 20. The credit of master, to brothel his man, 
 
 Of t'one or them both, if a savour we smell, 
 
 And also of mistress, to minikin Nan, 
 
 House-keeping is godly, wherever we dwell. 
 
 Be causers of opening a number of gaps, 
 
 
 That letteth in mischief, and many mishaps. 
 
 11. Son, think not thy money, purse bottom 
 
 
 to bum. 
 
 21. Good husband he trudgeth to bring in the 
 
 But keep it for profit, to serve thine own 
 
 gains. 
 
 turn: 
 
 Good huswife she drudgeth, refusing no 
 
 A fool and his money be soon at debate. 
 
 pains. 
 
 Which after, with sorrow, repents him too 
 
 Though husband at home, be to count, ye 
 
 late. 
 
 wot what. 
 
 
 Yet huswife, within, is as needful as that. 
 
 12. Good bargain adoing, make privy but few. 
 
 
 In selling, refrain not, abroad it to shew : 
 
 22. What helpeth in store, to have never so 
 
 In making, make haste, and away to thy 
 
 much, 
 
 pouch. 
 
 Half lost by ill usage, ill huswives and 
 
 In selling, no haste, if ye dare it avouch. 
 
 such? 
 
 
 So, twenty load bushes, cut down at a clap. 
 
 13. Good landlord, who findeth, is blessed of 
 
 Such heed may be taken, shall stop but a 
 
 God,— 
 
 , gap. 
 
 A cumbersome landlord is husbandman's 
 
 
 rod; 
 
 23. A retcheless servant, a mistress that 
 
 He noyeth, destroyeth, and all to this drift, 
 
 scowls, 
 
 To strip his poor tenant of farm and of 
 
 A ravening mastiff, and hogs that eat 
 
 thrift. 
 
 . fowls. 
 
 
 A giddy brain master, and stroyall his 
 
 14. Eent-corn, whoso payeth, (as worldlings 
 
 knave, 
 
 would have. 
 
 Brings ruling to ruin, and thrift to licr 
 
 So much for an acre) must live like a slave ; 
 
 grave. 
 
 Eent-corn to be paid, for a reas'nable rent. 
 
 
 At reas'nable prices, is not to lament. 
 
 24. With some upon Sundays, their tables do 
 reek. 
 And half the week after, their dinners do 
 
 15. Once placed for profit, look never for ease. 
 
 Except ye beware of such michera as 
 
 seek, 
 
 these,— 
 
 Not often exceeding, but always enough, 
 
 Unthriftiness, Slothfulness, Careless and 
 
 Is husba,ndly fare, and the guise of the 
 
 Eash, 
 
 plough. 
 
 That thrusteth thee headlong, to run in 
 
 
 the lash. 
 
 25. Each day to be feasted, what husbandi-y 
 
 16. Make Money thy drudge, for to follow thy 
 
 worse, 
 Each day for to feast, is- as ill for the 
 
 work. 
 
 purse ; 
 
 Make Wisdom comptroller, and Order thy 
 
 Yet measurely feasting, with neighbours 
 
 clerk : 
 
 among. 
 
 Provision cater, and Skill to be cook. 
 
 Shall make thee beloved, and live the more 
 
 Make Steward of all, pen, ink, and thy 
 book. 
 
 long. 
 
 26. Things husbandly handsome, let workma,n 
 
 17. Make hunger thy sauce, ^s a med'cine for 
 
 contrive, 
 
 health. 
 
 But build not for glory, that thinkest to 
 
 Make thirst to be butler, as physic for 
 
 thrive ; 
 
 wealth : 
 
 Who fondly in doing, consumeth his stock. 
 
 Make eye to be usher, good usage to have. 
 
 In the end for his folly, doth get but a 
 
 Make bolt to be porter, to keep out a knave. 
 
 mock. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 GOOD HUSBANDLY LESSONS. 
 
 [Thomas Tusser. 
 
 27. Spend none but your oAvn, howsoever ye 
 
 spend, 
 For bribing and shifting have seldom good 
 
 end : 
 In substance although ye have never so 
 
 much, 
 Delight not in parasites, harlots, and such. 
 
 28. Be suerty seldom, (but never for much) 
 For fear of purse, pennyless, hanging by 
 
 such ; 
 Or Scarhorow warning, as iU I believe, 
 When, (Sir, I arrest ye !) gets hold of thy 
 
 sleeve. 
 
 29. Use (legem pone) to pay at thy day, 
 But use not (oremus) for often delay : 
 Yet (prcesta quoesumus) out of a grate, , 
 Of all other collects, the lender doth hate. 
 
 30. Be pinched by lending, for kiffc nor for 
 
 kin, 
 Nor also by spending, by such as come in ; 
 Nor put to thine hand, betwixt bark and 
 
 the tree. 
 Lest through thine own foUy, so pinched 
 
 thou be, 
 
 31. As lending to neighbour, in time of his 
 
 need, 
 
 Wins love of thy neighbour, and credit 
 doth breed ; 
 
 So never to crave, but to live of thine 
 own. 
 
 Brings comforts a thousand, to many un- 
 known. 
 
 32. ^Vho living but lends ? and be lent to they 
 
 must. 
 Else buying and selling must lie in the 
 
 dust : 
 But shameless and crafty that desperate 
 
 are, 
 Make many, full honest, the worser to fare. 
 
 33. At some time to borrow, account it no 
 
 shame. 
 If justly thou keepest thy touch for the 
 
 same : 
 Who quick be to borrow, and slow be to 
 
 pay, 
 Their credit is naught, go they never so 
 
 gay. 
 
 34. By shifting and borrowing, who so as 
 
 lives, 
 Not weU to be thought on, occasion gives : 
 Then lay to live warily, and wisely to 
 
 spend ; 
 For prodigall livers have seldom good end. 
 
 35. Some spareth too late, and a number with 
 
 him, — 
 The fool at the bottom, the wise at the 
 
 brim : 
 Who careth, nor spareth, till spent he 
 
 hath all, 
 Of bobbing, not robbing, be fearful he shall. 
 
 36. Where wealthiness floweth, no friendship 
 
 can lack, 
 Whom poverty pincheth, hath freedom as 
 
 slack : 
 Then happy is he, hj example that can 
 Take heed by the fall, of a mischieved man. 
 
 37. Who breaketh his credit, or cracketh it 
 
 twice, 
 Trust such with a suerty, if ye be wise : 
 Or if he be angry, for asking thy due. 
 Once even, to him afterward, lend not anev.^, 
 
 38. Account it well sold, that is justly well 
 
 paid. 
 And count it well bought, that is never 
 
 denaid ; 
 But yet here is t'one, here is t'other doth 
 
 best, 
 For buyer and seller, for quiet and rest. 
 
 39. Leave princes' affaires, undescanted on. 
 And tend to such doings as stands thee 
 
 upon : 
 Fear God, and offend not the prince, nor 
 
 his laws. 
 And keep thyself out of the magistrate's 
 
 claws. 
 
 40. As interest, or usury playoth the devil. 
 So hil-back and fil-belly biteth as evil : 
 Put dicing among them, and docking the 
 
 dell. 
 And by and by after, of beggary smell. 
 
 41. Once weekly, remember thy charges to 
 
 cast. 
 Once monthly, see how thy expences may 
 
 last : 
 If quarter declareth too much to be spent, 
 For fear of ill year, take advice of thy 
 
 rent. 
 
 42. Who orderly ent'reth his payments in 
 
 book. 
 May orderly find them again, (if he look :) 
 And he that intendeth, but once for to 
 
 pay, 
 Shall find this in doing, the quietest way. 
 
 43. In dealing uprightly, this counsel I teach. 
 First reckon, then write, ere to purse ye 
 
 do reach ; 
 Then pay and dispatch him, as coon as ye 
 
 can, 
 For ling'ring is hinderance, to many a man. 
 
 44. Have weights, I advise thee, for silver and 
 
 gold. 
 For some be in knavery, now a-days bold ; 
 And for to be siier, good money to pay, 
 Eeceive that is current, as near as ye may. 
 
 45. Delight not, for pleasure, two houses to 
 
 keep. 
 Lest charge, without measure, upon thee 
 
 do creep ; 
 And Jankin and Jenylcin cozen thee so. 
 To make thee repent it, ere year about go. 
 
Thomas Tussee.] 
 
 GOOD HUSBANDLY LESSONS. 
 
 [ Second Period. — 
 
 46. Tho stone that is rolling, can gather no 
 
 moss, 
 Who often removeth is aiier of loss : 
 The rich it compelleth, to pay for his 
 
 pride. 
 The poor it undoeth, on every side. 
 
 47. The eye of the master enricheth the hutch, 
 The eye of the mistress availeth as much ; 
 Which eye, if it govern, with reason and 
 
 skUl, 
 Hath servant and service, at pleasure and 
 will. 
 
 48. Who seeketh revengement of every wrong, 
 In quiet nor safety, continueth long : 
 
 So he that of wilfulness, trieth the law, ' 
 Shall strive for a coxcomb, and thrive as 
 a daw. 
 
 49. To hunters and hawkers take heed what 
 
 ye say, 
 Mild answer with courtesy, drives them 
 
 away ; 
 So where a man's better will open a gap, 
 E«sist not with rudeness, for fear of mis- 
 hap. 
 
 50. A' man in this world, for a churl that is 
 
 known, 
 Shall hardly in quiet, keep that is his own:. 
 Where lowly, and such as of courtesy 
 
 smells. 
 Finds favour and friendship, wherever he 
 
 dwells. 
 
 51. Keep truly thy Sabbath, the better to 
 
 Keep servant from gadding, but when it 
 
 is need : 
 Keep fish-day and fasting-day, as they do 
 
 fall, 
 What custom thou keepest, let others 
 
 keep all. 
 
 52. Though some in their tithing, be slack or 
 
 too bold. 
 Be thou unto Godward, not that way too 
 
 cold : 
 Evil conscience grudgeth, and yet we do 
 
 see, 
 111 tithers, ill thrivers most commonly be. 
 
 53. Pay weekly thy workman, his houshold 
 
 to feed. 
 Pay quarterly servants, to buy as they 
 
 need : 
 Give garment to such as deserve, and no 
 
 mo. 
 Lest thou and thy wife, without garment 
 
 do go. 
 
 54. Beware rasTcahilia, — slothful to work, 
 Purloiners and filchers, that loveth to 
 
 lurk: 
 Away with such lubbers, so loth to take 
 
 pain. 
 That rolls in expences, but never no gain. 
 
 55. Good wife and good children are worthy 
 
 to eat, 
 Good servant, good labourer, earneth their 
 
 meat ; 
 Good fellow, good neighbour, that fellowly 
 
 guest. 
 With heartile welcome, should have of the 
 
 best. 
 
 56. Depart not with all that thou hast to thy 
 
 child. 
 Much less unto other, for being beguil'd : 
 Lest if thou wouldst gladly possess it 
 
 again, 
 Look, for to come by it, thou wettest not 
 
 when. 
 
 57. The greatest preferment that child we can 
 
 give 
 Is learning and nurture, to train him to 
 
 live ; 
 Wliich whoso it wanteth, though left as a 
 
 squire, 
 Consumeth to nothing, as block in the fire. 
 
 58. When God hath so blest thee, as able to live. 
 And thou hast to rest thee, and able to 
 
 give ; 
 Lament thy offences, serve God for amends, 
 Make soul to be ready, when God for it 
 ■ sends. 
 
 59. Send fruits of thy faith to heaven, af ore- 
 
 hand. 
 For mercy here doing, God blesseth thy 
 
 land ; 
 He maketh thy store with his blessing to 
 
 swim, • 
 
 And after, thy soul to be blessed with him. 
 
 60. Some lay to get riches, by sea and by land. 
 And vent'rcth his life, in his enemies hand ; 
 And setteth his soul upon six or on seven, 
 Not caring nor fearing, for hell nor for 
 
 heaven. 
 
 61. Some pincheth and spareth, and pineth 
 
 his life, 
 To coffer up bags, for to leave to his wife ; 
 And she (when he dieth) sets open the 
 
 chest. 
 For such as can soothe her, and all away 
 
 wrest. 
 
 62. Good husband preventing the frailness of 
 
 some. 
 Takes part of God's benefits, as they do 
 
 come : 
 And leveth to wife and his children the 
 
 rest. 
 Each one his own part, as he thinketh it 
 
 best. 
 
 63. These lessons approved, if wisely ye note, 
 May save and advantage ye, many a 
 
 groat; 
 Which if ye can follow, occasion found, 
 Then every lesson may save ye a pound. 
 
 Thomas Tusscr. — About 1557. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] • POSIES FOE THINE OWN BED-CHAMBER. [Thomas Tusseb. 
 
 S;.— THE WINDS. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 North vnnds send hail, South v>'inds bring 
 
 rain, 
 East winds wo bewail, West winds blow 
 
 amain : 
 North-east is too cold, South-east not too 
 
 warm, 
 North-west is too bold. South-west doth no 
 
 harm. 
 
 The North is a noyer to grass of all stiites, 
 
 The East a destroj'or to herb and all fruits ; 
 
 The South, with his showers, refrosheth the 
 corn, 
 
 The West, to aU flowers, may not be for- 
 borne. 
 
 The West, as a father, all goodness doth 
 
 bring, 
 The East, a forbearer no manner of thing : 
 The South, as unkind, drawcth sickness too 
 
 near, 
 The North, as a friend, maketh all again 
 
 clear. 
 
 With temperate wind, we be blessed of God, 
 With tempest we find, we are beat -with his 
 
 rod: 
 AU power, we know, to remain in his hand, 
 How ever wind blow, by sea or by land. 
 
 Though winds do rage, as winds were 
 
 wood. 
 And cause spring tides to raise great 
 And lofty ships leave anchor in mud 
 Bereaving many of life, and of blood ; 
 Yet true it is, as cow chews cud, 
 And trees, at spring, do yield forth bud, 
 Except wind stands, as never it stood, 
 It is an iU wind turns none to good. 
 
 Thomas Tusser. — Aboi'.t 1557. 
 
 flood. 
 
 88.— A GHEISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 Was not Christ our Saviour, 
 Sent to us fro God above ? 
 Not for our good beha\dour, 
 But only of his mercy and love. 
 If this be true, as true it is, 
 
 Truly in deed 
 Great thanks to God to yield for this, 
 
 Then had we need. 
 
 This did our God, for very troth. 
 
 To train to him the soul of«man. 
 
 And justly to perform his oath, 
 
 To Sarah and to Abram than 
 
 That through his seed all nations should 
 
 Most blessed be : 
 As in duo time, perform he would. 
 
 As now v^e see. 
 
 3. Wliich wondrously is brought to pass. 
 And in our sight already done, 
 
 By sending, as his promise was, 
 
 (To comfort us) his only Son, 
 
 Even Christ, I mean, that virgin's child, 
 
 In Bethlem born. 
 That lamb of God, that prophet mild, 
 
 With crowned thorn. 
 
 4. Such was his love to save us all, 
 From dangers of the curse of God, 
 That we stood in by Adam's fall. 
 And by our own deserved rod. 
 
 That through his blood and holy name 
 
 Who so believes. 
 And fly from sin, and abhors the same. 
 
 Free mercy he gives. 
 
 5. For these glad news this feast doth bring, 
 To God the Son and Holy Ghost, 
 
 Let man give thanks, rejoice and sing, 
 From world to world, from coast to coast, 
 For all good gifts so many ways. 
 
 That God doth send. 
 Let us in Christ give God the praise, 
 
 TiU life shall end. 
 
 At Christmas be merry, and thankful withall, 
 And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with 
 
 the small ; 
 Yea all the year long, to the poor let us give, 
 God's blessing to follow us, whiles we do live. 
 
 TJiomas Tusser. — Ahont 1557. 
 
 89. 
 
 -POSIES FOE THINE OWN BED- 
 CHAMBER. 
 
 1. What wisdom more, what better life, than 
 
 pleaseth God to send. 
 What worldly goods, what longer use, than 
 pleaseth God to lend ? 
 
 2. What better fare, than well content, agree- 
 
 ing Avith thy wealth. 
 What better guest than trusty friend, in 
 sickness and in health ? 
 
 3. What better bed than conscience good, to 
 
 pass the night with sleep. 
 What better work, than daily care, from 
 sin thyself to keep ? 
 
 4. What better thought, than think on God, 
 
 and daily him to serve. 
 What better gift than to the poor, that 
 ready be to sterve ? 
 
 5. What greater praise of God and man, than 
 
 mercy for to shov/, 
 Who merciless, shall mercy find, that mercy 
 shews to few ? 
 
 G. What worse despair, than loth to die, for 
 fear to go to hell ? 
 What greater faith than trust in God, 
 through Christ in heaven to dwell ? 
 
 Thomcs Tusser. — About 15i;7. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE NUT-BROW^ MAID. 
 
 [Second Period. 
 
 Which soon should gi'ieve you, I believe, 
 
 And ye would gladly than 
 That I had to the green wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. Sith I have here been partiner 
 
 With you of joy and bliss, 
 I must also part of your wo 
 
 Endure, as reason is. 
 Yet I am sure of one pleasure, 
 
 And, shortly, it is this. 
 That, where ye be, me seemeth, par die, 
 
 I could not fare amiss. 
 Without more speech, I you beseech 
 
 That ye were soon agone, 
 For, to my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. If ye go thither, ye must consider. 
 
 When ye have list to dine, 
 There shall no meat be for you geto, 
 
 Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine, 
 No sheetes clean, to lie between, 
 
 Made of thread and twine ; 
 None other house but leaves and boughs, 
 
 To cover your head and mine. 
 Oh mine heart sweet, this evil diet. 
 
 Should make you pale and wan ; 
 Wherefore I will to the green wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. Among the wild deer, such an archer. 
 
 As men say that ye be. 
 Ye may not fail of good vittail. 
 
 Where is so great plentie. 
 And water clear of the river, 
 
 Shall be full sweet to me. 
 With which in heal I shall right weel 
 
 Endure, as ye shall see ; 
 And ere we go, a bed or two 
 
 I can provide anone ; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. Lo yet before, ye must do more. 
 
 If ye will go with me ; 
 As cut your hair up by your oar. 
 
 Your kirtle to the knee ; 
 With bow in hand, for to \vithstand 
 
 Your enemies, if need be ; 
 'And this same night, before day-light, 
 
 To wood-ward will I flee. 
 If that ye will aU this fulfiU, 
 
 Do't shortly as ye can : 
 Else will I to the green wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 >S7ic. I shall, as now, do more for you, 
 
 Than 'longeth to womanheed, 
 To short my hair, a bow to bear, 
 
 To shoot in time of need. 
 Oh, my sweet mother, before all other 
 
 For you I have most dread ; 
 "But now adieu ! I must ensue 
 
 "Where fortune doth me lead. 
 All this make ye : Now let us flee ; 
 
 The day comes fast upon : 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. Nay, nay, not so ; yc shall not go. 
 
 And I shall tell you why : 
 Your appetite is to be light 
 
 Of love, I weel espy : 
 For like as ye have said to me. 
 
 In like wise, hardily. 
 Ye would answer whoever it were, 
 
 In way of company. 
 It is said of old, soon hot, soon cold ; 
 
 And so is a woman, 
 Wherefore I to the wood will go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. If ye take heed, it is no need 
 
 Such words to say by me ; 
 For oft ye prayed and me assayed, 
 
 Ere I loved you, pardie : 
 And though that I, of ancestry, 
 
 A baron's daughter be. 
 Yet have you proved how I you loved, 
 
 A squire of low degree ; 
 And ever shall, whatso befal ; 
 
 To die therefore anon ; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 He. A baron's child to be beguiled, 
 
 It were a cursed deed ! 
 To be fellaw with an outlaw. 
 
 Almighty God forbid ! 
 It better were, the poor squier 
 
 Alone to forest yede. 
 Than I should say, another day, 
 
 That, by my cursed deed, 
 We were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, 
 
 The best rede that I can, 
 Is, that I to the green wood go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. Whatever befall, I never shall, 
 
 Of this thing you upbraid ; 
 But, if ye go, and leave me so, 
 
 Then have ye me betrayed. ' 
 Eemember weel, how that you deal ; 
 
 For if ye, as ye said. 
 Be so unkind to leave behind, 
 
 Your love, the Nut-Bro^vn Maid, 
 Trust me truly, that I shall die 
 
 Soon after ye be gone ; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. If that ye went, ye should repent ; 
 
 For in the forest now 
 I have purveyed me of a maid. 
 
 Whom I love more than you; 
 Another fairer than ever ye were, 
 
 I dare it weel avow. 
 And of you both each should be -vvrotli 
 
 With other, as I trow : 
 It were mine ease to live in peace ; 
 
 So will I, if I can ; 
 Wherefore I to the wood will go, 
 
 Alone, a banished man. 
 
 She. Though in the wood I understood 
 Ye had a paramour. 
 All this may not remove my thought, 
 But that I will be your. 
 
From 1400 to 1558.] 
 
 KING ARTHUR'S DEATH. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 I 
 
 And she shall find me soft and kind 
 
 And courteous every hour ; 
 Glad to fulfill all that' she wiU 
 
 Command me to my power. 
 For had ye, lo, an hundi-ed mo, 
 
 Of them I would be one; 
 For, in my mind, of all mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 JTc. Mine own dear love, I see thee prove 
 
 That ye bo kind and true ; 
 Of maid and wife, in all my life, 
 
 The best that ever I knew. 
 Bo moiTy and glad ; no more be sad ; 
 
 The case is changed now ; 
 For it were ruth, that, for your truth, 
 
 Ye should have cause to rue. 
 Bo not dismayed ; whatever I said 
 
 To 5'ou, when I began ; 
 I will not to the greenwood go, 
 
 I am no banished man. 
 
 Slic. These tidings be more glad to me, 
 
 Than to bo made a queen, 
 If I were sure they would endure : 
 
 But it is often seen. 
 When men -will break promise, they speak 
 
 The wordes on the spleen. 
 Ye shape some wile me to beguile, 
 
 And steal from me, I ween : 
 Than v/ere the case worse than it was, 
 
 And I more woe-begone : 
 For, in my mind, of aU mankind 
 
 I love but you alone. 
 
 He. Ye shall not need further to dread : 
 
 I will not disparage. 
 You (God defend !) sith ye descend 
 
 Of so great a lineage. 
 Now understand ; to Westmoreland, 
 
 Which is mine heritage, 
 I will you bring ; and with a ring, 
 
 By way of marrihge, 
 I ^vill you take, and lady make, 
 
 As shortly as I can : 
 Thus have you won an erly's son, 
 
 And not a banished man. 
 
 A'lionymous. — About 1502. 
 
 i 
 
 95.— KING ARTHUR'S DEATH. 
 
 On Trinity Monday in the morn. 
 
 This sore battayle was doomed to be ; 
 Where many a knight cried, " Well-awayo ! 
 
 Alack, it v/as the more pity. 
 Ere the first crowing of the cook. 
 
 When as the king in his bed lay, 
 Ho tliought Sir Gawaine to him came. 
 
 And there to him these words did say ; 
 " Now, as ye are mine uncle dear. 
 
 And as you prize your life, this day 
 meet not with your foe in fight ; 
 
 Put off the battayle, if ye may j 
 
 For Sir Launcelot is now in France, 
 And with him many a hardy knight. 
 
 Who will within this month be back. 
 And will assist ye in the fight." 
 
 The king then called his nobles all, 
 Before the breaking of the day ;_ 
 
 And told them how Sir Gawaine camo 
 And there to him these words did say. 
 
 His nobles all this counsel gave. 
 
 That, early in the morning, he 
 Should send away an herald at arms 
 
 To ask a parley fair and free. 
 
 Then twelve good knights King Arthur chose. 
 The best of all that \N'ith hiin were. 
 
 To parley with the foe in field. 
 
 And make with him agreement fair. 
 
 The king he charged all his host. 
 
 In readiness there for to bo : 
 But no man should no weapon stir, 
 
 Unless a sword drawn they should see. 
 
 And Mordred on the other part, 
 
 Twelve of his knights did Kkewise bring ; 
 
 The best of all his compan;^, 
 
 To hold the parley with the king. 
 
 Sir Mordred also charged his host, 
 
 In readiness there for to be ; 
 But no man should no weapon stir. 
 
 But if a sword drawn they should see. 
 
 For he durst not his uncle trust. 
 Nor he his nephew, sooth to tell : 
 
 Alack ! it was a woeful case. 
 As e'er in Christentie befel. 
 
 But when they were together met, 
 And both to fair accordance brought ; 
 
 And a month's league between them set. 
 Before the battayle should be fought ; 
 
 An adder crept forth of a bush, 
 
 Stvmg one o' the king's knights on the knee : 
 Alack ! it was a woeful chance, 
 
 As ever wds in Christentie. 
 
 When the knight found him wounded sore, 
 And saw the wild- worm hanging there, 
 
 His sword he from his scabbard drew ; 
 A piteous case as ye shall hear. 
 
 For when the two hosts saw the sword. 
 
 They joined battayle instantly : 
 Till of so many noble knights, 
 
 On one side there were left but three. 
 
 For all were slain that durst abide. 
 And but some few that fled aAvay : 
 
 Ay me ! it was a bloody field, 
 
 As o'er was fought on summer's day. 
 
 Upon King Arthur's ov/n party, 
 
 Only himself escaped there, 
 And Lukyn, Duke of Gloster, free. 
 
 And the king's butler, Bedevere. 
 
 And when the king beheld his knights. 
 All dead and scattered on the mould ; 
 
 The tears fast trickled down liis face : 
 That manly face in fight so bold. 
 
Anonymous.] KIl^G AETHUB'S DEATH. [Second Period. 
 
 " Now rest ye all, brave knights," he said, 
 
 " With this good falchion in my hand, 
 
 " So true and faithful to your trust ; 
 
 Oft have I reaped the bloody field : 
 
 And must ye then, ye valiant hearts, 
 
 But now the fatal hour is come. 
 
 Be left to moulder into dust ? 
 
 That never more I may thee wield." 
 
 " Most loyal have ye been to me. 
 
 The duke to the river side he went. 
 
 Most true and faithful unto death : 
 
 And there his own sword in threw he ; 
 
 And, oh ! to raise ye up again. 
 
 But he kept back Excalibar, 
 
 How freely could I yield my breath ! 
 
 He kept it back in privitie. 
 
 " But see the traitor's yet alive, 
 
 For all of Cologne was the blade ; 
 
 Lo, where he stalks among the dead ! 
 
 And all the hilt of precious stone ; 
 
 Now bitterly he shaU. abye. 
 
 " And ever alack ! " then said the knight. 
 
 And vengeance fall upon his head." 
 
 " Must such a sword away be thrown ? " 
 
 " Oh, stay, my liege," then said the duke, 
 
 Then back he came unto tlie king. 
 
 " O stay for love and charitie ; 
 
 Who said, " Sir Lukyn, what did you see ?" 
 
 Eemember what the vision spake, 
 
 " Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
 
 Nor meet your foe, if it may be. 
 
 Blew o'er the waters fair and free." 
 
 " 0, stay mo not, thou worthy wight, 
 
 " go again," then said the king. 
 
 This debt my loyal knights I owe : 
 
 " good Sir Lukyn go again ; 
 
 Betide me life, betide me death, 
 
 Into the river throw my sword. 
 
 I will avenge them of their foe." 
 
 Nor keep me lingering here in pain." 
 
 Then straight he grasped his trusty spear. 
 
 The duke then to the river went. 
 
 And on his horse then mounted he : 
 
 And the king's scabbard in threw he ; 
 
 As his butler holpe him to his horse. 
 
 But he kept back Excalibar, 
 
 His bowels gnished to his knee. 
 
 And hid it underneath a tree. 
 
 " Alas ! " then said the noble king. 
 
 Then back he came to tell the king, 
 
 " That I should live this sight to see ! 
 
 Who said, " Sir Lukyn, saw ye aught ? " ' 
 
 To see this good knight here be sla.iu, 
 
 " Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
 
 All for his love in helping me ! ' ' 
 
 Now with the angry waters fought." 
 
 He put his spear into his rest, 
 
 " Lukyn, Lukyn," said the king. 
 
 And to Sir Mordred loud gan cry — 
 
 " Twice hast thou dealt deceitfully ; 
 
 " Now set thyself upon thy guard. 
 
 Alack, whom may we ever trust, 
 
 For, traitor, now thy death is nigh." 
 
 When such a knight so false can be ? 
 
 Sir Mordred lifted up his sword, 
 
 " Say, wouldst thou have thy master dead, 
 
 And fierce to meet the king ran he : 
 
 All for a sword that wins thine eye ? 
 
 The king his spear he through him thrust ; 
 
 Now go again, and throw it in. 
 
 A fathom thorow his bodie. 
 
 Or here the one of us shall die." 
 
 When Mordred felt the stroke of death. 
 
 The duke, all shent with this rebuke, 
 
 And found that he was woujided so ; 
 
 No answer made unto the king ; 
 
 He thrust himself upon the spe^r, 
 And struck the king a deadly blow. 
 
 But to the river took the sword. 
 
 And threw it far as he could fling. 
 
 Then grimly died Sir Mordered, . 
 
 Presently upon that tree ; 
 And bloody streams ran from the king 
 
 Ere to the duke returned he. 
 
 A hand and an arm did meet the sword, 
 And flourished three times in the air ; 
 
 Then sunk beneath the running stream, 
 And of the duke was seen nae mair. 
 
 
 All sore astonished stood the duke ; 
 
 Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake, — 
 
 He stood as still, as still mote be : 
 
 " Sir knight, thou hast been faithful tried, 
 
 Then hastened back to toll the king ; 
 
 Now take my sword Excalibar, 
 
 But he was gone from under the tree. 
 
 That hangs so freely by my side. 
 
 But to what place he could not tell. 
 
 " take my sword Excalibar, 
 
 For never after he did him spye ; 
 
 And there into the river throw : 
 
 But he saw a barge go from the land, 
 
 For here, henceforth, beneath this tree 
 
 And he heard ladies howl and cry. 
 
 All use of weapons I forego. 
 
 And whether the king was there, or not, 
 
 " And fare thee well, thou trusty sword, 
 
 He never knew, nor ever colde ; 
 
 A better ne'er had valiant knight, 
 
 For from that sad and direful day, 
 
 With thee full oft, and many a day. 
 
 Ho never more was seen on mould. 
 
 Ha-ve I withstood my foe in fight. 
 
 Anonymous. — About 1550. 
 
THE THIED PERIOD, 
 
 FROM 1558 TO 1649. 
 
 THIS period has been termed the glorious age of English literature. The greatest names 
 will be found in clusters, whether it be in poetry, or philosophy, or politics ; Slmkspere, 
 Bacon, Spenser, Sydney, Hooker, Taylor, Barrow, Ealeigh, Napier, and Hobbes, and 
 many others adorn its annals. In all probability the Reformation tended, Avith other causes, 
 to produce this. Through printing, the treasures of Greece and Eome were laid open to the 
 public. Then came translations from many of the highest works of Spain and Italy. Tasso 
 was translated by Fairfax ; Ariosto by Harrington ; Homer and Hesiod by Chapman. Boccaccio, 
 Petrarch, Dante, Aretino, Machiavel, Castiglione, all were opened up to the English reader in 
 his own tongue. Sir Thomas North's translation of Plutarch did much to give incidents and 
 facts to the dramatic writers, who used them freely ; but, above all, the Bible, for the first 
 time placed within the power of the poorest to read, was doubtless the greatest means of 
 quickening the hearts and intellects of the great and glorious writers of the age. Hazlitt, in 
 one of his own eloquent passages, says : — 
 
 " The translation of the Bible was the chief engine in the great work. It threw open, by 
 a secret spring, the rich treasures of religion and morality, which had been there locked up 
 as in a shrine. It revealed the visions of the prophets, and conveyed the lessons of inspired 
 teachers (such they were thought) to the meanest of the people. It gave them a common 
 interest in the common cause. Their hearts burned within them as they read. It gave a 
 mmd to the people by giving them common subjects of thought and feeling. It cemented 
 their union of character and sentiment : it created endless diversity and collision of opinion. 
 They found objects to employ their faculties, and a motive in the magnitude of the con- 
 sequences attaching to them, to exort the utmost eagerness in the pursuit of truth, and the 
 most daring intrepidity in maintaining it. ReUgious controversy sharpens the understanding 
 by the subtlety and remoteness «f the topics it discusses, and braces the -will by their infinite 
 importance. We perceive in the history of this period a nervous mascuUne intellect. No 
 levity, no feebleness, no indifference ; or if there were, it is a relaxation from the intense 
 anxiety which gives a tone to its general chai'acter. But there is a gravity approaching to 
 piety ; a seriousness of impression, a conscientious severity of argument, an habitual fervour 
 and enthusiasm in their mode of handling almost every subject. The debates of the school- 
 men were sharp and subtle enough ; but they wanted interest and grandeur, and were besides 
 confined to a few : they did not afi^ect the general mass of the community. But the Bible was 
 thrown open to aU ranks and concJitions, ' to run and read,' with its wonderful table of con- 
 tents from Genesis to the Revelations. Every village in England would present the scene so 
 weU described in Burns' s ' Cotter's Saturday Night.' I cannot think that all this variety and 
 knowledge cotdd be thrown in all at once upon the mind of a people and not make some im- 
 pression upon it, the traces of which might be discerned in the manners and literature of the 
 age. For to leave more disputable points, and take only the historical parts of the Old 
 Testament, or the moral sentiments of the New, there is nothing like them in the power of 
 exciting awe and admiration or of riveting sympathy. We see what Milton has made of the 
 account of the ' Creation,' from the manner in which he has treated it, imbued and im- 
 pregnated with the spirit of the time of which we speak. Or what is there equal (in that 
 romantic interest and patriarchal simplicity which goes to the heart of a country and rouses it, 
 as it were, from its lairs and wildernesses) equal to the story of Joseph and his Brethren, of 
 Rachel and Laban, of Jacob's dream, of Ruth and Boaz, the descriptions in the book of Job, 
 the deliverance of the Jews out of Egypt, or the account of their captivity and return from 
 Babylon ? There is in all these parts of the Scripture, and numberless more of the same kind, 
 to pass over the Orphic hymns of David, the prophetic denunciations of Isaiah, or the 
 gorgeous visions of Ezekiel, an originality, a vastness of conception, a depth and tenderness 
 of feeling, and a touching simplicity in the mode of narration, which he who does not feel, 
 need be made of no ' penetrable stuff.' There is something in the character of Christ too, 
 (leaving religious faith quite out of the question), of more sweetness and majesty, and more 
 likely to work a change in the mind of man, by the contemplation of its idea alone, than any 
 to be found in history, whether actual or feigned. This character is that of a subhme 
 
THE THIED PERIOD.— FROM 1558—1649. 
 
 humanity, sucli as was never seen on earth before, nor since. This shone manifestly both in 
 his words and actions. Wo see it in his washing the Disciples' feet the night before His death, 
 that unspeakable instance of humility and love, above all art, all meanness, and all pride, and 
 in the leave He took of them on that occasion : ' My peace I give unto you, that peace which 
 the world cannot give, give I unto you ; " and in His last commandment, that ' they should 
 love one another.' Who can read the account of His behaviour on the cross, when turning to 
 his mother. He said, ' Woman, behold thy son ; ' and to the disciple John, ' Behold thy 
 mother;' and 'from that hour that disciple took her to his own home,' mthout having his 
 heart smote within him ? We see it in His treatment of the woman taken in adultery, and in 
 His excuse for the woman who poured precious ointment on His garment as an offering of 
 devotion and love, which is here all in all. His religion was the religion of the heart. We 
 see it in His discourse with the Disciples as they walked together towards Emmaus, when 
 their hearts burned -within them ; in His sermon from the mount, in His parable of the Good 
 Samaritan, and in that of the Prodigal Son — in every act and word of His life, a grace, a 
 mildness, a dignity and love, a patience and wisdom worthy of the Son of God. His v/hole 
 life and being were imbued, steeped in this word, charity ; it was the spring, the well-head 
 from which every thought and feeling gushed into act ; and it was this that breathed a mild 
 glory from His face in that last agony upon the cross, when the meek Saviour bowed His head 
 and died, praying for His enemies. He was the first true teacher of morality ; for He alone 
 conceived the idea of a pure humanity. He redeemed man from the worship of that idol, self ; 
 and instructed him, by precept and example, to love his neighbour as himself, to forgive our 
 enemies, to do good to those that curse us and despitefully use us. He taught the love of 
 good for the sake of good, without regard to personal or sinister views, and made the affections 
 of the heart the sole seat of morality, instead of the pride of the understanding or the 
 sternness of the will. In answering the question, ' Who is our neighbour ? ' as one who 
 stands in need of our assistance, and whose wounds we can bind up, He has done more to 
 humanize the thoughts and tame the unruly passions, than all who have tried to reform and 
 benefit mankind. The very idea of abstract benevolence, of the desire to do good because 
 another wants our services, and of regarding the human race as one family, the offspring of 
 one common parent, is hardly to be found in any other code or system. It was to the Jews a 
 stumbhng-block, and to the Greeks foolishness. The Greeks and Romans never thought of 
 considering others ; but as they were Greeks or Romans, as they were bound to them by 
 cei-tain positive ties ; or, on the other hand, as separated from them by fiercer antipathies. 
 Their virtues were the virtues of political machines ; their vices were the vices of demons, 
 ready to inflict or to endure pain with obdurate and remorseless inflexibility of purpose. But 
 in the Christian religion ' we perceive a softness coming over the heart of a nation, and the 
 iron scales that fence and harden it, melt and drop off.' It becomes malleable, capable of 
 pity, of forgiveness, of relaxing in its claims, and remitting its power. We strike it, and it 
 does not hurt us : it is not steel or marble, but flesh and blood, clay tempered with tears, and 
 * soft as sinews of the new-born babe.' The gospel was first preached to the poor, for it 
 consulted their wants and interests, not its own pride and arrogance. It first promulgated 
 the equality of mankind in the community of duties and benefits. It denounced the iniquities 
 of the chief Priests and Pharisees, and declared itself at variance with principalities and 
 powers, for it sympathizes not with the oppressor, but the oppressed. It first abolished 
 slavery, for it did not consider the power of the will to inflict injury, as clothing it with a 
 right to do so. Its law is good, not power. It at the same time tended to wean the mind from 
 the grossness of sense, and a particle of its divine flame was lent to brighten and purify the 
 lamp of love ! " 
 
 There have been persons who, being sceptics as to the divine mission of Chi-ist, have 
 taken an unaccountable prejudice to His doctrines, and have been disposed to deny the merit 
 of His character ; but this was not the feeling of the great men in the age of Elizabeth 
 (whatever might be their belief), one of whom says of Him, with a boldness equal to 
 its piety : — 
 
 "The best of men 
 That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer ; 
 A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; 
 The first true gentleman that ever breathed." 
 
 This was old honest Decker, and the lines ought to embalm his memory to every one who 
 has a sense either of religion, or philosophy, or true genius. Nor can I help thinking that we 
 may discern the ti'aces of the influence exerted by religious faith in the spirit of the poetry of 
 the age of Elizabeth, in the means of exciting terror and pity, in the delineation of the 
 passions of grief, remorse, love, sympathy, the sense of shame, in the fond desires, the longings 
 after immortality, in the heaven of hope, and the abyss of despair it lays open to us. 
 
 The literature of this age then, I would say, was strongly influenced (among other 
 causes) first, by the spirit of Christianity, and secondly, by the spirit of Protestantism. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 THOMAS %ACKVILLE. 
 
 Thoma-s Sackvillo, Earl of Dorset, born 
 1536, died 1608, was distingTiislied both by 
 high official position, Lord High Treasurer of 
 England, and poetical eminence. He was one 
 of the commissioners who tried Mary Queen 
 of Scots, and it Avas he who was deputed to 
 announce her sentence to that much-to-be 
 pitied lady. When a student at the Inner 
 Temple he wrote a tragedy, " Gorboduc," 
 which was performed by the students in a 
 Christmas entertainment and afterwards 
 before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 
 1561. He contributed the Induction and 
 Legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the 
 " Mirror of Magistrates." Campbell says, 
 " He carried taste and elegance even into his 
 formal political functions, and for his 
 eloquence was styled the bell of the Star 
 Chamber. As a poet, his attempt to unite 
 allegory with heroic narrative and his giving 
 our language its earliest regular tragedy, 
 evince the views and enterprise of no or- 
 dinary mind ; but, though the induction to 
 the ' Mirror for Magistrates * displays some 
 potent sketches, it bears the complexion of 
 a saturnine genius, and resembles a bold and 
 gloomy landscape on which the sun never 
 shines. As to ' Gorboduc,' it is a piece of 
 monotonous recitals, and cold and heavy 
 accumulation of incidents. As an imitation 
 of classical tragedy it is peculiarly unfortu- 
 nate, in being without even the unities of 
 place and time, to circumscribe its dulness." 
 Sir Philip Sydney, in his " Defence of Poesie," 
 speaks, however, in much more favourable 
 strains. " ' Gorboduc ' is full of stately 
 speeches and well-sounding phrases, clyming 
 to the height of Seneca his style, and as full 
 of notable moralitie, which it doth most 
 delightfully teach and so obtayne the very 
 end of poesie " ; and Warton referring to the 
 " Complaint " of Henry Duke of Buckingham 
 says, it is written "with a force and even 
 elegance of expression, a copiousness of 
 phraseology, and an exactness of versification, 
 not to be found in any other part of the 
 collection." See Warton's "Hist, of Eng. 
 Poetry ; " Hor. Walpole's " Royal and Noble 
 Authors " ; Collins' s " Peerage " by Brydges. 
 
 JOHN HAEEINGTON. 
 
 John Harrington, born 1534, died 1582. 
 He was imprisoned by Queen Mary for his 
 suspected attachment to Queen Elizabeth, by 
 whom he was afterwards rewarded with a 
 grant of lands. He wrote but little, but that 
 little causes us to regret that he did not write 
 more. "His love verses," says Campbell, 
 " have an elegance and terseness more modern, 
 by an hundred years, than those of his con- 
 temporaries." Hallam adds, "they are as 
 polished as any written at the close of the 
 Queen's reign." See " Nugaj Antiquas"; 
 Ellis's " Specimens " ; Hallam' s " Lit. Hist, 
 of Europe." 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 George Gascoigne, born 1537, died }577, 
 after studying for some time at Cambridge, 
 removed to Gray's Inn, which he left for the 
 army, and served in Holland, where he re- 
 ceived a captain's commission from the 
 Prince of Orange. Returning to England, he 
 became a courtier, and contributed to the 
 festivities which enlivened the business of 
 statesmen and the progress of the queen. 
 The name of the princely pleasures of " Kenil- 
 worth Castle," one of Gascoigne's masques, 
 will remind many of our readers of Amy 
 Robsart and Sir Richard Varney, of the 
 ambitious Earl and his imperious mistress. 
 Among Gascoigne's best-known pieces are : 
 " The Glasse of Government, a Tragicall 
 Comedie, Lon., 1575 " ; " The Steele Glas, a 
 Satyre, 1576 " ; "A Delicate Diet for daintie 
 mouthde Droonkards ; wherein the fowle 
 abuse of common carousing and quaffing with 
 heartie draughtes is honestly admonished, 
 1576"; "The Droome of Doomes Day; 
 wherein the frailties and miseries of man's 
 life are lively portrayed and learnedly set 
 forth, 1586 " ; " The Comedie of Supposes, 
 and the Tragedie of Jocasta, in the collective 
 edition of his whole woorkes, 1587." Warton 
 says, that the comedy of "Supposes" was 
 the first comedy written in English prose ; 
 and Dr. Farmer in his Essay on Shakspere 
 says that the latter borrowed part of the 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Thikd Period. 
 
 plot and of the phraseology of this play, and 
 transferred it into his " Taming of the Shrew." 
 This was the opinion of Chalmers, Warton, and 
 Gifford. Phillips in his " Theat. Poet." says, 
 that the poetical works of Gascoigne have 
 been thought worthy to be quoted among the 
 chief of that time, and Sir S. E. Brydges in 
 his edition of Phillips's book says, " From 
 what I have seen of his works, his fancy 
 seems to have been sparkling and elegant, 
 and he always writes with the powers of a 
 poet." Hallam deems his minor poems, es- 
 pecially one called " The Arraignment of a 
 Lover," as having much spirit and gaiety. 
 Headley, in his " Select Beauties of Ancient 
 English Poetry," speaks of him as a writer 
 whose mind, though it exhibits few marks of 
 strength, is not destitute of delicacy ; he is 
 smooth, sentimental, and harmonious. See AUi- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet, of Eng. Lit. " ; " Athen. 
 Oxon." ; Whetstone's " Remembrance of Gas- 
 coigne"; " Censura Literaria"; Eitson's 
 "Bibl. Poetica"; Watts's " Bibl. Brit."; 
 Chalmers's " British Poets." 
 
 SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney was born at Penhurst, in 
 Kent, in 1554. He was a cliivalrous English 
 soldier and poet. In his fifteenth year he was 
 sent to Christ Church, Oxford, and at the age 
 of seventeen he wemt on his travels. He was 
 in Paris during the massacre of St. Bartho- 
 lomew, and was obliged to take refuge in the 
 abode of Sir Francis Walsingham, the English 
 ambassador. After visiting various cities in 
 Hungary, Italy, and Germany, he in 1575 
 returned to England, and in the following 
 year Queen Elizabeth ai)pointed him ambas- 
 sador to the Emperor Rudolph, at whose 
 court he contracted an intimacy with the 
 famous Don John of Austria. On account of 
 his declaring his sentiments freely against .the 
 queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou, in 
 1580, in his remonstrance to her majesty, he 
 retired from court, and in his retreat wrote 
 his celebrated romance "Arcadia," and his 
 " Defence of Poesie." In 1582 he received 
 the honour of knighthood, and in 1585 was 
 appointed governor of Flushing, and general 
 of the troops sent to the assistance of the 
 United Provinces. About this time his repu- 
 tation for wisdom and valour stood so high, 
 that he was thought a fit person to be a can- 
 didate for the crown of Poland ; but the 
 queen would not consent to the loss of " the 
 jewel of lier dominions." In September, 1586, 
 Sir Philip displayed extraordinary bravery at 
 the battle of Zutphen, but received a mortal 
 wound in the thigh as he was mounting his 
 third horse, having had two slain under him. 
 His conduct whilst leaving the battle-field 
 illustrates his noble character. " In which 
 sad progress," says his biographer. Lord 
 Brook, " passing along by the rest of the army 
 
 where his uncle the general, the Earl of Lei- 
 cester, was, and being thirsty with excess of 
 bleeding, he called for some drink, which 
 was presently brought him ; but as he was 
 putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a 
 poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his 
 last at the same feast, ghastly casting up his 
 eyes at the bottle, which, Sir Phihp perceiving, 
 took it from his head before he drank and 
 delivered it to the pw^r man with these words, 
 ' Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.' " 
 This wound proved fatal twenty-five days 
 afterwards. His body was brought home and 
 buried in St. Paul's Cathedral. In addition 
 to the works already mentioned, Sir Philip 
 wrote sonnets, " Ourani'" a poem, and several 
 other pieces. — (Beeton's Diet. Universal Biog.) 
 Campbell speaks in the following terms of 
 our poet: — "The contemporaries of Sydney 
 knew the man, and foreigners, no less than 
 his own countrymen, seem to have felt from 
 his personal influence and conversation, an 
 homage for him, that could only be paid to a 
 commanding intellect guiding the principles 
 of a noble heart. The variety of his ambition, 
 perhaps, unfavourably divided the force of 
 his genius; feeling that he could take dif- 
 ferent paths to reputation, he did not confine 
 himself to one, but was successively occupied 
 in the punctilious duties of a courtier, the 
 studies and pursuits of a scholar and traveller, 
 and in the life of a soldier, of which the chi- 
 valrous accomplishments could not be learnt 
 without diligence and fatigue. All his ex- 
 cellence in those pursuits, and all the cele- 
 brity that would have placed him among the 
 competitors for a crown, was gained in a life 
 of thirty-two years. His sagacity and inde- 
 pendence are recorded in the advice which he 
 gave to his o^vn sovereign. In the quarrel 
 with Lord Oxford, he opposed the rights of an 
 English commoner to the prejudices of aris- 
 tocracy and of royalty itself. At home he 
 was the patron of literature. All England 
 wore mourning for his death. Perhaps the 
 well-known anecdote of his generosity to the 
 dying soldier speaks more powerfully to the 
 heart than the whole volumes of elegies, in 
 Hebrew, Greek and Latin, that were pub- 
 lished at his death by the Universities." 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Robert Southwell, born 1560, died 1595. 
 He was descended from an ancient family in 
 Norfolk, but educated at the English college 
 in Douay, after which he became a Jesuit at 
 Rome. He was appointed prefect of studies 
 there in 1585, but soon afterwards he was 
 sent as a missionary to England. The 
 Countess of Arundel, who appointed him her 
 chaplain, proved a generous and faithful friend. 
 He resided much with her. In July, 1592, he 
 was apprehended as being implicated in secret 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 I 
 
 conspireicies against the government. He was 
 kept in prison nearly three years, and was 
 during that period often subjected to the 
 torture of the rack. He thus suffered no less 
 than ten times. He acknowledged that he was 
 a priest and a Jesuit, that he came to England 
 to preach the Catholic religion, and that for 
 this he was ready to lay down his life ; but he 
 would never admit any knowledge of the con- 
 spiracies. He Avas at last brought to trial at 
 the King's Bench, condemned and executed 
 according to the barbarous custom of the 
 period, the next day, at Tyburn. In the 67th 
 volume of the *' Gentleman's Magazine" there 
 is given a list of his writings and a sketch of 
 his life. Eobert Aria Willmott says, " One 
 of the least known, though certainly not the 
 least deser\dng writers of the age of Elizabeth, 
 was Robert Southwell. His poetical compo- 
 sitions do not entitle him to an elevated rank 
 either by their fancy or their power, yet they 
 contain many thoughts that often ' he too deep 
 for tears,' and as ' a warbler of poetic prose ' 
 he will be found to have few rivals ; of all 
 our early poets, Southwell recalls most freshly 
 the manner of Goldsmith ; not that he ever 
 opened the same vein of pleasantry, or 
 acquired the art of making a history of 
 animals as amusing as a Persian tale ; the 
 resemblance is te be traced in the naturalness 
 of the sentiment, the propriety of the expres- 
 sion, and the easy harmony of the verse." 
 In his own times Southwell's works were very 
 popular. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 SrB WALTEE EALEIGH. 
 
 Sir Walter Ealeigh was born at Hayes, 
 Devonshire, in 1552. In 1568 he was sent to 
 Oriel College, Oxford, where " he was worthily 
 esteemed a proficient in oratory and philo- 
 sophy," but did not long remain. He entered 
 the troop of gentlemen volunteers who went 
 to the assistance of the Protestants of France, 
 and in which he remained five or six years. 
 He subsequently joined the expedition of 
 General Norris in the Netherlands, in aid of 
 the Prince of Orange. Soon after his return, 
 he engaged with his brother-in-law, Sir 
 Humphrey Gilbert, in a voyage to America, 
 whence they returned in 1579. The next year 
 he was in Ireland, and distinguished himself 
 against the rebels of Munster. On his return 
 to England, he gained the favour of Queen 
 Elizabeth by a romantic piece of gallantry. 
 Her Majesty, while taking a walk, stopped at 
 a muddy place, hesitating whether to proceed 
 or not ; on which Ealeigh took off his new 
 plush cloak, and spread it on the ground. 
 The queen trod gently over the foot-cloth and 
 soon rewarded the sacrifice of a cloak. In 
 1584 he fitted out a squadron and endeavoured 
 to establish the colony, named in honour of 
 Elizabeth, Virginia. After spending ,£40,000, 
 
 he abandoned the attempt to a mercantile 
 corporation. The expedition brought home 
 the tobacco-plant and the potato. Sir Walter 
 bore a distinguished part in the defeat of the 
 Spanish Armada in 1588. In 1595 he sailed 
 to Guiana and destroyed the capital of 
 Trinidad. He was one of those who brought 
 about the fall of Essex, and remained in the 
 favour of the queen till her death. In the 
 succeeding reign his fortunes changed. He 
 was stripped of his preferments, tried and 
 condemned for high treason, on a charge the 
 i most frivolous and without the least evidence. 
 He remained in the Tower thirteen years, 
 during which he \vrote several works on 
 various subjects of great importance, the best 
 of which was the " History of the World," 
 which was published in 1614. The year 
 following he was released, in consequence of 
 the flattering account which he had given of 
 some rich mines in G-uiana. On gaining his 
 liberty, he sailed to that country, in search of 
 j those pretended mines, instead of discovering 
 I which, he burnt the Spanish town of St. 
 i Thomas, and returned to England, where on 
 j the complaint of Gondomar, the Spanish 
 I ambassador, he was apprehended, and, in a 
 j most unprecedented manner, beheaded at 
 1 Westminster, 1618, on his former sentence. 
 His works are historical, philosophical, poet- 
 ical and pohtical. As an author, Hume 
 declares him to be the "best model of our 
 ancient style ; ' ' and Hallam speaks of him as 
 "lesspedantic than most of his contemporaries, 
 seldom low, and never affected." 
 
 NICHOLAS BEETON. 
 
 Nicholas Breton, bom 1555, died 1624. He 
 is supposed to have been of a Staffordshire 
 family. He published a number of poetical 
 pieces. Sir Egerton Brydges writes : " The 
 ballad of Phillida and Coridon, reprinted by 
 Percy, is a delicious little poem ; and if we 
 are to judge from this specimen, his poetical 
 powers — for surely he must have had the powers 
 of a poet — were distinguished by simplicity, at 
 once easy and elegant." "Nicholas Breton," 
 says Phillips, in his " Theatrum Poetarum," " a 
 writer of pastorals, sonnets, canzons and 
 madrigals, in which kind of writing he keeps 
 company with several other contemporary 
 emulators of Spenser and Sir Philip Sydney in 
 a published collection of selected odes of the 
 chief pastoral sonnetteers, &c. of that age." 
 " His happiest vein," remarks Campbell, "isin 
 little pastoral pieces." — SeeEitson's "Biblio. 
 Poetica"; Lowndes's "Brit. Bibhographer," 
 Bohn's edit. 
 
 CHEISTOPHEE MAELOWE. 
 
 Christopher Marlowe was born about the 
 year 1565. He studied at Cambridge, and 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 took the M.A. degree in 1587. He became a 
 writer for the stage and probably an actor. 
 His life was disgraceful. At the early age of 
 thirty he was killed in a disreputable quarrel, 
 his own sword being turned against him in a 
 house of ill-fame. He translated several of 
 the classics. He also wrote '/ Dr. Faustus " ; 
 " Edward the Second " ; " The Jew of Malta " ; 
 " Tamborlaine the Great"; "Lust's Domi- 
 nion" ; "Dido, Queen of Carthage" ; and the 
 " Massacre at Paris." They convey abund- 
 ant proof of the great power their author 
 possessed of drawing characters more than 
 human in their intense malignity and terrible 
 depth of villany. The bishops ordered his 
 translations of " Ovid's Love Elegies " to be 
 burnt in public for their licentiousness, although 
 CampbeU justly adds, that if all the licentious 
 poems of that period had been included in the 
 martyrdom, Shakspere's " Venus and Adonis " 
 would have hardly escaped. — See Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." ; Campbell's " Specimens 
 of the British Poets." 
 
 JOSHUA SYLVESTEE. 
 
 Joshua Sylvester, born 1563, died in Holland 
 1618. Ho was a merchant adventurer, and 
 was in great favour with Queen Elizabeth and 
 King James. Prince Henry, son of the latter 
 monarch, appointed him his poet pensioner. 
 He wrote several poems, and translated into 
 English verse, Du Bartas's " Divine Weeks 
 and Works," and some pieces from Fracas- 
 tarius. He was called by his contemporaries, 
 Silver-tongued. — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. 
 Biog." J Campbell's "Specimens.** 
 
 EICHAED BAENFIELD. 
 
 Eichard Barnfield was born in 1574, and 
 entered at Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1589. 
 He wrote " The Affectionate Shepherd " ; 
 " The Encomium of Lady Pecunia, or the 
 Praise of Money " ; " The Complaint of Poetrie 
 for the Death of Liberalitie" ; "The Combat 
 between Conscience and Coveteousness in the 
 Minds of Men"; and "Poems in divers 
 Humours." In what year he died is unknown. 
 —See Eose's '1 Biog. Diet."; Ellis's " Speci- 
 mens " ; Eitson's " Bib. Poet. " ; Warton's 
 "Hist, of Eng. Poetry": AUibono's "Crit.- 
 Diet, of Eng. Lit." 
 
 THOMAS WATSON. 
 
 Thomas Watson, bom 1560, died about 
 1592. Ho was a native of London, and 
 studied the common law. Stevens preferred 
 his sonnets to Shakspere's; but Campbell 
 wittUy remarks, "Watson's sonnets are all 
 
 of eighteen lines; and perhaps in their 
 superfluity of four, Stevens thought their 
 excellence to consist; for as he loved quantity 
 in Shakspere, he would like hidk in another." 
 — Campbell's Sjpecimens. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSEE. 
 This eminent poet was born in 1553, and 
 educated at Pembroke College, Cambridge, 
 where he took his degree , but not obtaining 
 his fellowship, he quitted the university. 
 His earliest poem was the "Shepherd's 
 Calendar," first published in 1579, which 
 he dedicated to Sir Philip Sydney, who 
 became his patron, and introduced him at 
 court. In 1580 he was appointed by the 
 Earl of Leicester, Secretary to Lord Grey, 
 Viceroy of Ireland, and obtained a grant of 
 lands at Kilcolmain, in the county of Cork, 
 where he built a house, and finished his 
 celebrated poem, "The Faerie Queen." In 
 the rebellion begun by the Earl of Tyrone, 
 his house was fired, and one of his children 
 perished in the conflagration ; upon which he 
 retired to London. He died in 1599, and was 
 buried near Chaucer in Westminster Abbey. 
 Pope says : " There is something in Spenser 
 which pleases us as strongly in one's old age 
 as it did in one's youth. I. read the 'Faerie 
 Queen ' when I was about twelve with a vast 
 deal of delight; " and Professor Craik, inhis 
 admirable " Sketches of Literature and Learn- 
 ing in England," observes : " Without calling 
 Spenser the greatest of .all poets, we may still 
 say that his poetry is the most poetical of all 
 poetry." — See Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog. " ; 
 Campbell's "Specimens" ; Chambers's "Cyclo. 
 English Lit." vol. i. 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Samuel Daniel was bom at Taunton, 
 Somersetshire in 1562. He was educated at 
 Magdalen Hall, Oxford, and was subsequently 
 tutor to the celebrated Anne Clifford, daughter 
 of George, Earl of Cumberland, and afterwards 
 Countess of Pembroke. We know little of 
 his history. He resided for some years, it 
 seems, in a small house in the parish of St. 
 Luke, London, associated with. Shakspeare, 
 Marlowe, Chapman and others, and towards 
 the close of his life, retired to a farm at 
 Beckington, near Philips-Norton, in Somerset- 
 shire. He wrote a number of works. Drum- 
 mond says of him, " for sweetness and rhyming, 
 second to none," and Bolton remarks of his 
 writings that they " containe somewhat a flat, 
 yet withal a very pure and copious English, 
 and words as warrantable as any man's, and 
 fitter perhaps for prose than measure." 
 Gabriel Harvey admires Daniel for his efforts 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 to enricli and improve his native tongue. 
 Langbaine, in his "Dramatic Poets," speaks 
 of him as " one whose memory will ever be 
 fresh in the minds of those who favotir history 
 or poetry." Fuller, in his " Worthies," calls 
 him " an exquisite poet." Headley says, " he 
 has skill in the pathetic, and his pages are 
 disgraced with neither pedantry nor conceit," 
 in which opinion he is confirmed by the 
 illustrious author of the "Introduction to the 
 Literature of Europe," who writes, " It is 
 the chief praise of Daniel, and must have 
 contributed to what popularity he enjoyed in 
 his OAvn age, that his English is eminently 
 pure, free from affectation, archaism, and 
 from pedantic innovation, with very little that 
 is now obsolete." — See Allibone's " Crit. Diet, 
 of Eng. Lit." : Chambers's "Cycl." vol. i. ; 
 Campbell's "Specimens"; Drake's " Shak- 
 spere and his Times." 
 
 MICHAEL DEAYTON. 
 
 Michael Drayton is said to have been born 
 at Hartshill, Warwickshire, in 1653. He 
 studied some time at Oxford, and was in- 
 debted to Sir Henry Goodeve, the Countess 
 of Bedford, and Sir Walter Aston. To the 
 hospitality of the last-mentioned patron he 
 refers, when complaining of his want of suc- 
 cess in gaining the smiles of the court, upon 
 the accession of James I. : " All my long- 
 nourished hopes (were) even buried alive 
 before my face ; so uncertain in this world 
 be the end of our dearest endeavours ! And 
 whatever is herein (the "Poly-Olbion") that 
 tastes of a free spirit, I thankfully confess 
 to proceed from the continued bounty of my 
 truly noble friend, Sir Walter Aston ; which 
 hath given me the best of those hou.rs, whose 
 leisure hath effected this which now I pub- 
 Msh ; " and again : 
 
 " Trent, by Tlxall graced, the Astons' 
 
 ancient seat. 
 Which oft the Muse hath found her safe 
 
 and sweet retreat." 
 
 The Earl of Dorset proved as kind to his 
 age as Sir Walter Aston had to his earlier 
 years, and under the roof of this generous 
 nobleman he spent his declining days in re- 
 pose and comfort, beloved by his associates 
 and admired by his countrymen at large. In 
 1613 appeared the first of his principal work, 
 the "Poly-Olbion," containing eighteen songs; 
 this he reprinted in 1622 with the addition of 
 twelve songs, making thirty in the whole, or 
 thirty thousand lines, written in Alexandrian 
 couplets ! He wrote the " Shepherd's Gar- 
 land" ; the " Barrens' Warres" ; " England's 
 Heroical Epistles " ; the " Downfall of Robert 
 of Normandy"; " Holy Himnes " ; " Nym- 
 phidia"; the " Court of Fayrie " ; "Elegies " ; 
 
 and other works. It is said of the " Nym- 
 phidia," that it "can never become obsolete 
 until the spirit of true poetry shall have lost 
 its charms." Burton, the antiquary of Leices- 
 tershire, considers that the name alone of 
 Drayton exalted the poetical eminence of 
 England to an equality with Italy" itself. 
 Bishop Nicolson, in his English "Hist. Lib.," 
 commends the accuracy of the "Poly-Olbion " : 
 " It affords a much truer account of this king- 
 dom, and the dominion of Wales, than could 
 well be expected from the pen of a poet." 
 This work is, indeed, a most singular perform- 
 ance. Imagine a poet gravely proposing as 
 the subject of his muse, a chorographical de- 
 scription of all the tracts, rivers, mountains, 
 forests, and other parts of the renowned isle 
 of Great Britain, with intermixture of the 
 most remarkable stories, antiquities, wonders, 
 &c., of the same. Headley remarks, that " his 
 ' Poly-Olbion ' is one of the most singular 
 works this country has produced, and seems 
 to me eminently original. The information 
 contained in it is in general so accurate, that he 
 is quoted as an authority by Heame and 
 Wood. His perpetual allusions to obsolete 
 traditions, remote events, remarkable facts 
 and personages, together with hia curious 
 genealogies of rivers, and his taste for natural 
 history, have contributed to render his work 
 very valuable to the antiquary." — See Allibone' s 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng.Xit." ; Hallam's " Introduc. 
 to Lit. His."; Brydges' " Imaginative Biog." ; 
 Disraeli's "Amenities of Lit."; Drake's "Shak- 
 spere and his Times." 
 
 EDWARD FAIRFAX, B.D. 
 
 Edward Fairfax, B.D., was the second son 
 of Sir Thomas Fairfax, of Denton, in York- 
 shire, and passed his days in lettered ease at 
 his seat at Fuyistone. He wrote a poetical 
 history of Edward the Black Prince, twelve 
 eclogues, a " Discourse of Witchcraft," some 
 letters against the Church of Rome, and a 
 translation of Tasso's " Recovery of Jeru- 
 salem." Few translators have been honoured 
 with commendations from so many distin- 
 guished authorities. The names of King 
 James, King Charles, Drj'den, Waller, Collins, 
 Milton, Hume, Charles Lamb, by no means 
 exhaust the list. Its ease, elegance, and 
 exactness, for the age in which it was trans- 
 lated, is surprising. — See AUibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit."; Dryden's preface to his 
 " Fables " ; Hume's " History of England " ; 
 "London Quarterly Review"; Phillips's 
 " Theat. Poet." 
 
 SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. 
 
 Sir John Harrington, born 1561, died 1612. 
 He was the son of John Harrington, the poet 
 
 6 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Thied Pekiod.- 
 
 FULKE GEEVILLE. 
 
 Fulke Gre\Tlle, Lord Brooke, born 1554, 
 died 1628, was the son of Sir Fiilke Greville, 
 of Beauchamp Court, in Warwickshire. He 
 entered at Trinity Colleg-e, Cambridge, and 
 afterwards completed his studies at Oxford. 
 After attaining distinction at court, and being 
 honoured by a seat at the Privy Council, he 
 was assassinated by one of his domestics, 
 named Ralph Heywood. He ordered the fol- 
 lowing inscription to be placed on his own 
 grave : " Servant to Queen Elizabeth, Coun- 
 cillor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip 
 Sydney." He wrote a variety of works, 
 among which are: "A Treatise of Human 
 Learning," in fifteen stanzas; " An Inquisition 
 upon Fame and Honour," in eighty-six stan- 
 zas; the "Life of the renowned Sir Philip 
 Sydney"; "Alaham," a tragedy; "Musta- 
 pha," a tragedy ; a " Letter of Travell." 
 
 we have already noticed, and was a great 
 favourite with his godmother, Queen Elizabeth, 
 although temporarily banished from cotu-t for 
 writing a witty work upon an objectionable 
 theme, entitled " The Metamorphosis of Ajax." 
 Lon. 1596, 8vo. A licence was refused for 
 printing this work, yet it nevertheless went 
 through three impressions. Sir John also 
 published " Orlando Furioso," translated into 
 English verse, which was the first version of 
 Ariosto in our language. The first fifty stanzas 
 of Book XXXII. were translated by Francis 
 Harrington, Sir John's youngest brother. 
 Ellis says of this work, " that although much j 
 admired at the time, it is now found to be 
 inaccurate and feeble;" yet, notwithstanding 
 this, Warton remarks, that " it enriched our 
 poetry by a communication of new stories of 
 fiction and imagination, both of the romantic 
 and comic species of Gothic machinery and 
 familiar manners." Campbell speaks in higher 
 terms : " The translation of the ' Jerusalem ' 
 was published when he was a young man, was 
 inscribed to Queen Elizabeth, and forms one 
 of the glories of her reign." Sir John pub- 
 lished a number of works, among which was 
 the " Nugse Antiquos," being a miscellaneous 
 collection of original papers in prose and 
 verse, of the times of Henry VIII. , Edward 
 VI., Mary, Elizabeth, and James, by Sir J. H. 
 and others who lived in those times. These 
 volumes should be in the library of every 
 historical student. " Sir John Harrington 
 appears to have been a gentleman of great 
 pleasantry and humour ; his fortune was easy, 
 the court his element, and wit, not his busi- 
 ness, but diversion." — See Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens " ; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; 
 Hallam's "Lit. Hist, of Europe " ; " Censura 
 Literaria"; Cooper's "Muses' Library," p. 
 297; Bishop Mcolson's "Enghsh Hist. Lib."; 
 Park's Advert, to his edition of "Nugas 
 Antiquae." 
 
 Richard Baxter, the celebrated nonconformist, 
 speaks highlj'- of one of his works. HaUam, 
 in his "Literary History of Europe," says: 
 " Lord Brooke's poetry is chiefly worth notice 
 as an indication of that thinking spirit upon 
 political science, which was to produce the 
 riper speculation of Hobbes and Harrington 
 and Locke." — See Walpole's "Royal and 
 Noble Authors"; Langbaine's "Dramatical 
 Poets " ; Baxter's " Poetical Fragments " ; 
 Charles Lamb; Hazlitt's "Table Talk: of 
 Persons one would wish to have seen " ; 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Camp- 
 bell's " Specimens." 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton, born at Bocton-Mal- 
 herbe, in Kent, in 1568. Foreseeing the fall 
 of Essex, to whom he was secretary, he left 
 the kingdom, but returned on the accession of 
 James, and was appointed ambassador to the 
 court of Venice. Towards the close of his 
 life, he took deacon's orders, and was nomi- 
 nated Provost of Eton. He wrote the " Ele- 
 ments of Architecture"; " Parallel between 
 the Earl of Essex and the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham" ; "Characters of some Kings of Eng- 
 land" ; "Essay on Education" ; and "Poems," 
 printed in the Reliqua3 Wottonian83, by good 
 old Isaac Walton. He died in 1639. If the 
 reader has not seen the "Life ofc Vfotton," 
 by Walton, let him by all means get it ; a 
 greater treat is not in the whole language of 
 biography than this life by the quaint and 
 delightful angler. — See Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens " ; Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." ; 
 Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 
 Henry Constable was educated at Oxford, 
 but took his B.A. degTce at St. John's College, 
 Cambridge, in 1579. He published " Diana, 
 or the Excellent Conceitful Sonnets of H. C, 
 &c.," in 1584. Ellis thinks he was bom in 
 1568, but it is quite uncertain, as also is the 
 time of his death. Dr. Birch, in his " Me- 
 moirs of Queen Elizabeth," supposes that he 
 was the same Henry Constable who, for his 
 zeal in the Catholic religion, was long obliged 
 to live in a state of banishment. He returned 
 to England, however, about the beginning of 
 James's reign. — See Edmund Bolton's " Hy- 
 percritica " ; Ellis's " Specimens " ; Malone's 
 "Shakspere," x. 74; Todd's "Milton"; War- 
 ton's " English Poetry " ; Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens " ; Allibone's " Ciit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 William Shakspere, born 1564, died 1616. 
 The neglect of Shakspere by his countrymen, 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 immediately /after his own age, or rather the 
 little attention then paid to the personal 
 history of poets, has left to the anxious curi- 
 osity of modern admiration slight materials 
 for the construction of his biography. Official 
 documents, tradition, and scattered notices in 
 various writers, have been carefully gleaned to 
 procure a few meagre facts from which we 
 may trace the great poet's living career. He 
 was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwick- 
 shire, in April, 1564. His father, a wool- 
 comber or glover, seems to have been de- 
 scended from a family of yeomen settled at 
 Snitterfield, near Warwick, and, marrying a 
 mstic heiress, Mary Arden (who inherited a 
 farm of some value), he went to Stratford to 
 reside as a tradesman. He became high- 
 bailiff of the town, and possessed several 
 houses in Stratford; but his circumstances 
 declined. It is conjectured that a short course 
 in the Stratford grammar-school was all the 
 regular education Shakspere ever received. 
 The necessity of a,ssistance in .his business 
 forced his father to withdraw him early from 
 school. The traditionary anecdotes of his 
 youth indicate anything but the earnest 
 student anxiously expanding the rudimentary 
 acquirements received from a village peda- 
 gogue ; and yet the question of his learning 
 has employed the elaborate, and often sar- 
 castic and angry erudition of hostile critics. 
 But Shakspere's "wit" was "made of 
 Atalanta's heels : " an hour of a mind like his 
 could extract the honey, the acquisition of 
 which employed the days and nights of less 
 vigorous intellects. If we cannot believe, in 
 all its circumstances, the traditionary tale of 
 the deer-stealing in Charlecote Park, the 
 angry vengeance of Sir Thomas Lucy, and 
 the forced flight of the poet from his native 
 place ; we can yet discern in the compelled 
 hurry of his marriage, that the ardour of his 
 temperament had involved him in irregularities 
 and imprudences. He married, at the age of 
 eighteen, Anne Hathaway, a young woman 
 seven years older than himself, the daughter 
 of a " substantial yeoman" in the neighbour- 
 hood. Three or four years after his marriage 
 he removed to London, having possibly per- 
 ceived the incipient tendencies of his genius 
 during the occasional visits of the metropolitan 
 players to Stratford. In London we soon find 
 the poet in comparative opulence. He rapidly 
 acquired a large property in more than one 
 theatre. The order in which he produced his 
 dramatic compositions has been a subject of 
 keen inquiry ; but the minute researches of 
 editors elicit few satisfactory results. In 
 whatever order his dramas were produced, he 
 soon vindicated the immense superiority of 
 his genius by universal popularity. He was 
 the companion of the nobles and the wits of 
 the time, and a favourite of Elizabeth herself, 
 at whose request some of his pieces were 
 written. The wealth which his genius re- 
 alized enabled him, comparatively early in 
 
 life, to retire from his professional career. 
 He had purchased an estate in the vicinity of 
 his native town ; but his tranquil retirement 
 was of no long duration : he enjoyed it only 
 four years. He died April 23rd (St. George's 
 day), 1616, and was buried " on theTiorth side 
 of the chancel in the great church of Strat- 
 ford." His bust is placed in the wall over his 
 grave : on the stone beneath is the following 
 epitaph : — 
 
 " Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear 
 To dig the dust inclosed here. 
 Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves my bones." 
 
 His only son had died early ; all the children 
 of his married daughters died without issue. 
 
 The works of Shakspere consist of thirty- 
 seven plays, tragedies, comedies, and histories ; 
 the poems "Venus and Adonis," and "Tar- 
 quin and Lucrece," with a collection of sonnets. 
 Of the thirty-seven plays, "Titus Andronicus," 
 "Pericles," and " Henry VI.," with portions 
 of some others, have been doubted by critics 
 to be authentically Shakspere's ; and some 
 have claimed for him other authorless pieces 
 of the period. The total want of care to pre- 
 serve and to authenticate the productions of 
 his genius before his death, has been supposed 
 to indicate the poet's perfect indifference to 
 fame. 
 
 The worship with which Shakspere is 
 
 universally regarded in this country disposes 
 
 us to love him on trust. The estimation of 
 
 { his contemporaries and rivals proves him not 
 
 undeserving of this regard. The "gentle 
 
 j Shakspere" was universally beloved. Gif- 
 
 I ford has extracted the gall even from expres- 
 
 I sions that were esteemed as the sarcasm of 
 
 Ben Jonson's surly ingi'atitude. 
 
 The subject of Shakspere's dramatic and 
 poetical character is so vast, that it would be 
 idle here to attempt its analysis. The vai-iety 
 of its attributes has, as might have been ex- 
 pected, drawn both censure and applause from 
 different tastes and ages. Voltaire could see 
 in " Hamlet " only the work of a " drunken 
 savage." The mechanical pedantry of Rymer 
 sees in "Othello" only "a bloody farce": 
 "a tragedy of a pocket-handkerchief." We 
 shall quote the celebrated i)assage of Dryden, 
 eulogized by Johnson as " a perpetual model 
 of encomiastic criticism ; exact without mi- 
 nuteness, and lofty without exaggeration" : — 
 " He (Shakspere) was the man, who of all 
 modem, and, perhaps, ancient jioets, had the 
 largest and most comprehensive soul. All the 
 ! images of nature were still present to him, 
 I and he drew them, not laboriously', but luckily. 
 I When he describes anything, you more than 
 I see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him 
 I to have wanted learning give him the greater 
 I commendation : he was naturally learned ; he 
 I needed not the spectacles of books to read 
 I natui'c ; he looked inwards and found her 
 1 there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; 
 
 6* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Pekiod. — 
 
 were he so, I should do him injury to compare 
 him with the greatest of mankind. He is 
 many times flat, insipid ; his comic wit de- 
 generating into clinches, his serious into bom- 
 bast. But he is always great, when great 
 occasion is presented to him ; no man can say 
 he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did 
 not then raise himself as high above the rest 
 of poets — 
 
 Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi." 
 
 This "epitome of excellence," as Johnson 
 terms the above criticism, must constitute 
 our sole tribute to Shakspere's merits. 
 The voluminous admiration of more modern 
 times does not contain a very great deal more 
 than is compressed into the vigour of Dry den's 
 remarks. We would simply invite attention 
 to the higher views of the philosophy of 
 Shakspere's literature, suggested by the 
 fine imagination of Coleridge. Poets have 
 always been Shakspere's best critics. 
 
 See the " Poetry and Poets of Britain," by 
 Daniel Scrymgeour, pp. 83 — 85 ; Chambers's 
 " Cyc Eng. Lit.," vol. i. ; Beeton's " Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEE. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, bom 1586, died 
 1616; born 1576, died 1625. those names, 
 united by friendship and confederate genius, 
 ought not to be disjoined. Francis Beau- 
 mont was the son of Judge Beaumont of the 
 Common Pleas, and was born at Grace-Dieu, 
 in Leicestershire, in 1586. He studied at 
 Oxford, and passed from thence to the Inner 
 Temple ; but his application to the law cannot 
 be supposed to have been intense, as his first 
 play, in conjunction with Fletcher, was acted 
 in his twenty-first year, and the short re- 
 mainder of his life was devoted to the drama. 
 He married Ursula, daughter and co-heiress 
 of Sir Henry Isle/, of Kent, by whom he had 
 two daughters, one of whom was alive, at a 
 great age,, in the year 1700. He died in 1616, 
 and was buried at the entrance of St. Bene- 
 dict's chapel, near the Earl of Middlesex's 
 monument, in the collegiate church of St. 
 Peter, Westminster. As a lyrical poet, 
 F. Beaumont would be entitled to some 
 remembrance, independent of his niche in 
 the drama. 
 
 John Fletcher was the son of Dr. E. Fletcher, 
 bishop of London : he was bom, probably, in the 
 metropolis, in 1576, and was admitted a pen- 
 sioner of Bennet College about the age of 
 fifteen. His time and progress at the univer- 
 sity have not been traced, and only a few 
 anecdotes have been gleaned about the manner 
 of his life and death. Before the marriage 
 of Beaumont, we are told by Aubrey, that 
 Fletcher and he lived together in London, 
 near the Bankside, not far from the theatre. 
 
 had one * * * in the same house betAveen 
 them, the same clothes, cloalf, &c. Fletcher 
 died in the great plague of 1625. A friend 
 had invited him to the country, and he un- 
 fortunately staj^ed in town to get a suit of 
 clothes for the visit, during which time he 
 caught the fatal infection. He was interted 
 in St. Saviour's, Southwark, where his grave, 
 like that of Beaitmont's in Westminster, is 
 Avithout an inscription. 
 
 Fletcher survived his dramatic associate 
 ten years ; so that their share in the drama 
 that passes by their joint names was far from 
 equal in quantity, Flqtcher having written 
 between thirty and forty after t^e death of 
 his companion. Eespecting those Avhich ap- 
 peared in their common lifetime, the general 
 account is, that Fletcher chiefly supplied the 
 fancy and invention of their pieces, and that 
 Beaumont, though he Avas the younger, dic- 
 tated the cooler touches of taste and accuracy. 
 This tradition is supported, or rather exagge- 
 rated, in the verses of Cartwright to Fletcher, 
 in which he says, 
 
 " Beaumont Avas fain 
 To bid thee bo more dull ; that's Avrite 
 
 again, 
 And bate some of thy fire which from thee 
 
 came 
 In a clear, bright, full, but too large a 
 
 flame." 
 
 Many verses to the same effect might be 
 quoted, but this tradition, so derogatory to 
 Beaumont's genius, is contradicted by other 
 testimonies of rather tin earlier date, and 
 coming from AVi-iters Avho must have known 
 the great dramatists themselves much better 
 than CartAArright. Ben Jonson speaks of 
 Beaumont's originality with the emphasis 
 peculiar to the expression of all his opinions ; 
 and Earle, the intimate friend of Beaumont, 
 ascribed to him, while Fletcher was still alive, 
 the exclusive claim to those three distinguished 
 plays, the " Maid's Tragedy," " Philaster," 
 and " King and No King " ; a statement 
 which Fletcher's friends were likely to ha\-e 
 contradicted, if it had been untrue. If Beau- 
 mont had the sole or chief merit of those 
 pieces, he could not have been what CartAATight 
 Avould have us believe, the mere prunor of 
 Fletcher's luxuriances; an assessor, Avho made 
 him Avrite again and more dully. Indeed, 
 Avith reverence to their memories, nothing that 
 they have left us has much the appearance 
 of being twice written ; and whatever their 
 amiable editor, Mr. ScAvard, may say about 
 the correctness of thei? plots, the manage- 
 ment of their stories would lead us to suspect, 
 that neither of the duumvirate troubled them- 
 seh^es much about correctness. Their charm 
 is vigour and variety ; their defects, a coarse- 
 ness and grotesqueness that betray no circum- 
 spection. There is so much more hardihood 
 than discretion in the arrangement of their 
 scenes, that if Beaumont's taste and judgment 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 had the disposal of them, he fully proved him- 
 self the junior partner. But it is not pro- 
 bable that their departments were so divided. 
 Still, however, the scanty lights that enable 
 lis to guess at what they respectively wrote, 
 seem to warrant that distinction in the cast 
 of their genius which is made in the poet's 
 allusion to 
 
 " Fletcher's keen treble, and deep Beau- 
 mont's base." 
 
 Beaumont was the deeper scholar. Fletcher 
 is said to have been more a man of the world. 
 Beaumont's vein was more pathetic and 
 solemn, but he was not without humour ; 
 for the mock-heroic scenes, that are excellent 
 in some of their pla3\s, are universally as- 
 cribed to him. Fletcher's muse, except where 
 she sleeps in pastorals, seems to have been a 
 nymph of boundless unblushing pleasantry. 
 Fletcher's admirers warmly complimented his 
 originality at the expense of Beaumont, on 
 the streng-th of his superior gaiety, as if gay 
 thoughts must necessarily be more original 
 than serious ones, or depth of sensibility be 
 allied to shaUo^vness of invention. We are 
 told also, that Beaumont's taste leant to the 
 hard and abstract school of Jonson, while his 
 coadjutor followed the wilder graces of Shak- 
 spere. But if Earle can be credited for 
 Beaumont's having written " Philaster," we 
 shall discover him in that tragedy to be the 
 very opposite of an abstract painter of charac- 
 ter ; it has the spirit of individual life. The 
 piece owes much less to art than it loses by 
 negligence. Its forms and passions are those 
 of romance, and its graces, evidently imitated 
 from Shakspere, want only the fillet and 
 zone of art to consummate their beauty. 
 
 On the whole, while it is generally allowed 
 that Fletcher was the gayer, and Beaumont 
 the graver genius of their amusing theatre, it 
 is unnecessary to depreciate either, for they 
 were both original and creative ; or to draw 
 invidious comparisons between men, who, 
 themselves, disdained to be rivals. 
 
 See Campbell's " Specimens " ; Fuller's 
 "Worthies"; Cunningham's "Biog. Hist, of 
 Eug." ; Schlegel's " Dramatic Literature " ; 
 " General Biog. Diet." ; " Lord Macaulay " ; 
 Shaw's "Outlines of English Literature"; 
 Spalding's " Hist." 
 
 SIE JOHN DAVIES. 
 
 Sir John Davies, born 1570, died 1626. 
 He was a native of Wiltshire, educated at 
 Queen's College, Oxford, and afterwards 
 studied law. In 1603, ho was sent as Soli- 
 citor-General to Ireland, soon rose to be 
 Attorney-General, and subsequently was ap- 
 pointed one of the Judges of Assize. In 1607 
 he was knighted, and after filling several 
 offices with great credit, he was in 1626 ap- 
 
 pointed Lord Chief Justice of England, but 
 died suddenly, before the ceremony of settle- 
 ment or installation could be performed. 
 Campbell says that Sir John was expelled 
 from the Temple for beating Richard Martin, 
 who was afterwards Recorder of London. His 
 "Poeme of Dauncing," which h£_wrote in 
 fifteen days, appeared in 1596, and, curious 
 enough, with a dedicatory sonnet " To his 
 very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin." In 1599, 
 although the dedication to Queen Elizabeth 
 bears date 1592, appeared his " Nosce Teip- 
 sum : this Oracle expounded in two Elegies : 
 1st. Of Human Knowledge : 2nd. Of the'^Soul 
 of Man and the Immortality thereof." Richard 
 Baxter calls it " an excellent Poem, in open- 
 ing the nature, faculties, and certain immor- 
 tality of man's soul ; " and Hallam says, 
 " Perhaps no language can produce a poem, 
 extending to so great a length, of more con- 
 densation of thought, or in which fewer lan- 
 guid verses will be found." 
 
 " Sir John Davies and Sir William Dave- 
 nant," writes Southe}^ " avoiding equally the 
 opposite faults of too artificial and too careless 
 a style, wrote in numbers, which for precision 
 and clearness, and felicity and strength, have 
 never been surpassed." 
 
 He published a number of law books; among 
 which are : " Reports of Cases in the Law in 
 the King's Courts in Ireland," 2 Jac. L, 10 
 Jac. I., 1604-12, with a learned preface. 
 These were the first reports of Irish judgments 
 which had ever been made public during the 
 400 years tliat the laws of England had existed 
 in that kingdom. " An Abridgement of Coke's 
 Reports." The great Earl of Chatham, Bishop 
 Nicolson, and other eminent men, speak in the 
 highest terms of Sir John. Indeed, in versa- 
 tility of talent, brilliancy of imagination, 
 political wisdom, and literary taste, he has 
 been equalled but by few Englishmen. — See 
 Campbell's " Specimens " ; Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit. " ; " Athen. Oxon." ; Johnson 
 and Chalmers's "English Poets"; Marvin's 
 "Legal Bibl." ; AVallace's "Reporters"; 
 " Retrosp. Review," vol. xliv., 1822. 
 
 JOHN DONNE, D.D. 
 
 John Donne, D.D., bom 1573, died 1651. 
 The life of Donne is more interesting than 
 his poetry. He was descended from an an- 
 cient family ; his mother, was related to Sir 
 Thomas More, and to Heywood, the epigram- 
 matist. A prodigy of youthful learning, he 
 was entered of Hart Hall, now Hertford 
 College, at the unprecedented age of eleven : 
 he studied afterwards with an extraordinary 
 thirst for general knowledge, and seems to 
 have consumed a considerable patrimony on 
 his education and travels. Having accom- 
 panied the Earl of Essex in his expedition to 
 Cadiz, he jDurposed to have set out on an 
 
lilOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 extensive course of travels, and to have visited 
 the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem. Though 
 compelled to give up his design by the in- 
 superable dangers and difficulties of the 
 joiimey, he did not come home till his mind 
 had been stored with an extensive knowledge 
 of foreign languages and manners, by a resi- 
 dence in the south of Europe. On his return 
 to England, the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere 
 made him his secretary, and took him to his 
 house. There he formed a mutual attachment 
 to the niece of Lady Ellesmere, and without 
 the means or prospect of support, the lovers 
 thought proper to marry. The lady's father. 
 Sir George More, on the declaration of this 
 step, was so transported with rage, that he 
 insisted on the chancellor's driving Donne 
 from his protection, and even got him im- 
 prisoned, together with the witnesses of the 
 marriage. He was soon released from prison, 
 but the chancellor would not again take him 
 into his service ; and the brutal father-in-law 
 would not support the unfortunate pair. In 
 their distress, however, they were sheltered 
 by Sir Francis Wolley, a son of Lady Elles- 
 mere by a former marriage, with whom they 
 resided for several years, and were treated 
 with a kindness that mitigated their sense of 
 dependence. 
 
 Donne had been bred a Catholic, but on 
 mature reflection had made a conscientious 
 renunciation of that faith. One of his warm 
 friends, Dr. Morton, afterwards bishop of 
 Durham, wished to have provided for him, by 
 generously surrendering one of his benefices : 
 he therefore pressed him to take holy orders, 
 and to return to him the third day with his 
 answer to the proposal. "At hearing of 
 this," says his biographer, "Mr. Donne's 
 faint breath and perplexed countenance gave 
 visible testimony of an inward conflict. He 
 did not, howevei*, return his answer till the 
 third day ; when, with fervid thanks, he 
 declined the offer, telling the bishop that 
 there were some errors of his life which, 
 though long repented of, and pardoned, as he 
 trusted, by God, might yet be not forgotten 
 by some men, and which might cast a dishonour 
 on the sacred office." We are not told what 
 those irregularities were ; but the conscience 
 which could dictate such an answer was not 
 likely to require great offences for a stumbling- 
 block. This occurred in the poet's thirty- 
 fourth year. 
 
 After the death of Sir F. Wolley, hia next 
 protector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he 
 accompanied on an embassy to France. His 
 wife, with an attachment as romantic as 
 poet could wish for, had formed the design of 
 accompanying him as a page. It was on this 
 occasion, and to dissuade her from the design, 
 that he addressed to her the verses beginning, 
 " By our first strange and fatal interview." 
 Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, 
 how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone 
 in his chamber in Paris, saw the vision of his 
 
 beloved wife appear to him with a dead infant 
 in her arms, a story which wants only cre- 
 dibility to be interesting. He had at last the 
 good fortune to attract the regard of 'King 
 James ; and, at his majesty's instance, as he 
 might now consider that he had outlived the 
 remembrance of his former follies, he was 
 persuaded to become a clergyman. In this 
 capacity he was successively appointed chap- 
 lain to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, 
 vicar of St. Dunstan's, Fleet Street, and 
 Dean of St. Paul's. His death, at a late age, 
 was occasioned by consumption. Ho was 
 buried in St. Paul's, where his figure yet 
 remains in the vault of St. Faith's, carved 
 from a painting for which he sat a few days 
 before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet. 
 — SeeCampbell's "Specimens"; Scrymgeour's 
 " Poetry and Poets of Britain " ; " London 
 Quarterly Review," lix. 6, 1837 ; Isaak Wal- 
 ton's "Life of Donne"; Walton's "Life," 
 by Zouch ; Drake's " Shakspere and his 
 Times"; "Retros. Rev.," viii. 31, 1823; 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637. Benja- 
 min, or, according to his own abbreviation of 
 signature, Ben Jonson, was born in West- 
 minster. His family is said to have been 
 originally from Annandale. Losing his father, 
 a preacher in Westminster, before his birth, 
 the benevolence of a friend placed him at 
 Westminster School, where he attracted the 
 notice of the celebrated Camden, at that 
 period second master in that establishment. 
 His mother having married a bricklayer, Ben 
 was taken from school and made to work at 
 his stepfather's business. From this disagree- 
 able occupation he escaped by enlisting into 
 the army. Ho served one campaign in the 
 Low Countries, and on his return he is said 
 to have been a short time at St. John's 
 College, Cambridge ; but this wants confirma- 
 tion. He took to the stage, fought a duel 
 with a brother actor, whom he killed, and 
 was thrown into prison. In prison he became 
 a convert to the Roman Catholic religion, 
 which he professed for a number of years 
 afterwards. 
 
 On his release he resumed his efforts to 
 procure a subsistence from a connection with 
 the theatres. Slender as were his resources 
 and prospects, at the age of twenty he 
 married ; and pursued with indomitable per- 
 severance, under groat disadvantages, those 
 studies which ultimately rendered liim one of 
 the most learned men of his time. Although 
 his talents procured liim notice and distinction, 
 his circumstances continued still straitened. 
 Gifford disproves satisfactorily the frequently 
 alleged generous patronage of Jonson, in his 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 necessity, by Shakspere, and, equally satis- 
 factorily, the alleged ingi-atitude and malignity 
 of Jonson. His early efforts, as was the 
 custom of the time, were made in joint works 
 with Marston, Decker, and others. His fii'st 
 acknowledged piece that has descended to us 
 is " Every Man in his Humour." Its success, 
 if not materially improving his finances, 
 prodigiously increased his reputation. A 
 rapid succession of pieces of great excellence 
 placed him in the first rank of dramatic 
 writers. Fairer prospects of emolument 
 opened to him on the accession of James I. 
 From that period he almost abandoned the 
 stage, and employed himself in the production 
 of his series of beautiful masques for the 
 amusement of the Court and of the nobility. 
 This species of writing Jonson may claim the 
 credit of having brought to perfection, and 
 it may almost be said to have died with 
 him. 
 
 It was during these happier j'ears that he 
 acquired those habits of conviviality to which 
 his enemies have given a less gentle name. 
 His company was courted by all the talent 
 of the time, and the suppers of the " Mer- 
 maid" are mentioned with enthusiasm by 
 those who had enjoyed their keen encounters 
 of contending wits. Much of the obloquy 
 against Jonson has arisen from a result of a 
 journey he undei-took to Scotland in 1618. 
 He had visited the poet Drummond of Haw- 
 thomden. Drummond' s notes of their conver- 
 sations were published partiallj', under the 
 sanction of his son, in 1711, long after his 
 own and Jonson' s death. They contained 
 strictures, reckoned to be malignant, on many 
 of Jonson' s contemporaries and on some of 
 his patrons. Jonson' s biographer, Gifford, 
 falls furiously on Drummond for the treachery 
 implied in the noting down of confidential 
 conversations, as these have been the founda- 
 tion of aspersions of the worst kind on 
 Jonson' s character. 
 
 The death of James deprived Jonson of a 
 kind and indulgent patron. He had succeeded 
 Daniel in the hitherto honorary office of 
 laureate, and received for it a small pension ; 
 but he was neglected by Charles I., and the 
 concluding years of his life were spent under 
 the pressure of poverty and disease, during 
 which, however, his indefatigable pen was 
 seldom unemployed. He died in 1637, and 
 was buried in Westminster Abbey. The 
 flagstone over his grave was inscribed by 
 some familiar friend with the words "Oh, 
 rare Ben Jonson." 
 
 Gifford heroically defends Jonson from the 
 calumnies heaped on his memory, especially 
 by the commentators of Shakspere, and 
 vindicates for his author the possession of 
 qualities that commanded the affection and 
 respect of the first men of the time, and 
 caused his death to be felt as a public loss. 
 He seems to have been a man of strong and 
 independent character ; somewhat rough and 
 
 arrogant in manner, but liberal and kind- 
 hearted in temper, mth the frankness and 
 bluntness of a true Englishman. His works 
 display a veneration for aU that is high- 
 minded and virtuous ; his learning is so 
 prodigious that his commentators pant with 
 difticulty after his footsteps. He has not 
 been popular since his own ago ;~ Gifford 
 assigns for this various reasons. — See vol. i. 
 p. 135, et scq. His characters want indivi- 
 duality, and illustrate "humours" rather 
 than minds. His wit is brilliant, "but does 
 not make the heart laugh." His two trage- 
 dies, "Sejanus" and "Catiline," lofty, ornate, 
 and correct in the costume of Roman manners, 
 are frigid and passionless. " In the plots of 
 his comedies he is deserving of undisputed 
 praise." Aristophanes, Terence, and Plautus 
 are his models. At the head of his comedies 
 in reputation stand 
 
 " The Fox, the Alchemist, and Silent "Woman, 
 Done by Ben Jonson, and outdone by no 
 man." 
 
 His language is nervous and masculine ; " per- 
 haps," says Dryden, "he did a httle too 
 much Romanize our tongue." His masques 
 abound in passages of the most airy and 
 animated beauty. 
 
 Leigh Hunt in his "Men, Women, and 
 Books," says, " I do not think that his 
 poetical merits are yet properly appreciated. 
 I cannot consent that the palm of humour 
 alone shall be given to him while in wit, 
 feeling, pathos, and poetical diction ho is to 
 be sunk fathoms below Fletcher and Massin- 
 ger. In the last particular I think that he 
 excels them both, and, indeed, all his contem- 
 poraries except Shakspeare." SeeScrymgeour's 
 "Poetry and Poets of Britain"; Schlegel's 
 " Dramat. Art and Lit." ; Hazlitt's " Lect. 
 on the English Comic Writers " ; Disraeli's 
 " Amenities of Literature "; the " Humours 
 of Jonson"; Austin and Ralph's "Lives of 
 the Poets-Laureate"; Mary Russell Mitford's 
 j " Recollections of a Literary Life." 
 
 JOSEPH HALL, D.D. 
 
 Joseph HaU, D.D., bom 1574, died 1656, 
 one of the most eminent English divines and 
 scholars, was a native of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, 
 and. educated at Emanuel College, Cambridge, 
 where, for a short time, he read the Rhetoric 
 Lecture in the Schools. He became Rector 
 of Halstead, was subsequently presented by 
 Lord Denny to Waltham Holy Cross, and next 
 made a Prebendary of the Collegiate Church of 
 Wolverhampton. In 1618 he was sent to the 
 Synod of Dort, was made Bishop of Exeter 
 in 1627, and translated to Norwich in 1641. 
 On the occurrence of the rebellion, after 
 suffering imprisonment and enduring various 
 
BIOGEAPHIGAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 other hardships, he was sequestered and reduced 
 to great poverty. He retired to Higham, 
 near Norwich, wliere he spent the rest of his 
 days on a straitened income, but in the active 
 discharge of ministerial duty. As a man of 
 profound learning, fervent piety, and practical 
 philanthropy, liis name should be had in ever- 
 lasting remembrance. He was distinguished 
 as a poet and as a prose Avi-iter, and wrote many 
 sermons, controversial tracts against Roman- 
 ism, and other theological treatises. The Rev. 
 John Whitefoote, in his funeral sermon, saj's : 
 "He was noted for a singular wit from his 
 youth ; a most acute rhetorician and an ele- 
 gant poet. He understood many tongues ; 
 and in the rhetorick of his own he was second 
 to none that lived in his time." See AUi- 
 bone's "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; "Selections of 
 Hall's Works," by Rev. Josiah Pratt, 1808 ; 
 Orme's "Bibl.Bib."; Dibdin's "Lit. Comp."; 
 Bicker steth's " Christian Student " ; Hallam's 
 " Lit. Hist, of Europe " ; Fuller's " Worthies 
 of Leicestershire " ; Rev. Chas. Bridges' s 
 " Memoir of Miss M. J. Graham" ; Campbell's 
 " Specimens." 
 
 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 This witty and good-natured bishop was born 
 in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, 
 however, had the honour to be known to and 
 sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at 
 Westminster and Oxford ; and having received 
 orders, was made successively Bishop of Ox- 
 ford and of Norwich. He was a most facetious 
 and rather too convivial person ; and a collec- 
 tion of anecdotes about him might be made, 
 little inferior, in point of wit and coarseness, 
 to that famous one, once so popular in Scot- 
 land, relating to the sayings and doings of 
 George Buchanan. He is said, on one occa- 
 sion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad- 
 singer in his professional duty by arraying 
 himself in his leathern jacket and vending 
 the stock, being possessed of a fine presence 
 and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally 
 doffing his clerical costume, he adjourned 
 with his chaplain. Dr. Lushington, to the 
 wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were 
 both speedily drowned, the one of the pair 
 exclaiming, " Here's to thee, Luthington," 
 and the other, "ELere's to thee, Corbet." 
 Men winked at those irregularities, probably 
 on the principle mentioned by Scott, in refer- 
 ence to Prior Aymer, in " Ivanhoe,"— *" If 
 Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or re- 
 mained late at the banquet, men only shrugged 
 up their shoulders by recollecting that the 
 same irregularities were practised by many of 
 his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities 
 whatsoever to atone for them." Corbet, on 
 the other hand, was a kind as well as a con- 
 vivial — a warm-hearted as well as an eccentric 
 man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and 
 sectaries ; his attention to his duties was re- 
 
 spectable ; his talents were of a high order, 
 and he had in him a vein of genius of no 
 ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his 
 poems were not published till 1647. They are 
 of various merit, and treat of various subjects. 
 In his " Journey to France," you see the 
 humourist, who, on one occasion, when the 
 country people were flocking to be confirmed, 
 cried, " Bear off, there, or I'll confirm ye with 
 my staff." In his lines to his son Vincent, 
 we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the 
 good man; and in his "Farewell to the 
 Fairies," the fine and fanciful poet. See 
 Gilfillan's "Memoirs of the Less Kno-vvn 
 British Poets"; Aubrey's "Letters"; 
 "Life," by Gilchrist ; "Athen. Oxon." 
 
 DR. HENRY KING. 
 
 Dr. Henry King, born 1592, died 1669. 
 He was chaplain to James I. and Bishop of 
 Chichester. His poems, elegies, paradoxes, 
 and sonnets have a neatness, elegance, and 
 even a tenderness which entitle them to more 
 attention than they now obtain. To this 
 testimony of Peter Cunningham, Robert 
 Chambers says, " His language and imagery 
 are chaste and refined." See Campbell's 
 "Specimens"; Chambers's " Cycl. Eng. 
 Lit." vol. i. 118. 
 
 DR. WILDE. 
 
 Dr. Wilde was a dissenting minister. 
 We know not the dates of his birth and death. 
 He Avrote "Iter Boreale" a poem; and a 
 comcdj^, entitled " The Benefice." 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 This delectable versifier was born in 1589, 
 in Gloucestershire, from an old family in 
 which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus 
 Christi College, Oxford, but neither matricu- 
 lated nor took a degree, After finishing his 
 travels, he returned to England, and became 
 soon highly distinguished, in the Court of 
 Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, 
 and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the 
 Privy Chamber and Server in Ordinary to the 
 King. He spent the rest or his life as a gay 
 and gallant courtier ; and in the intervals of 
 pleasure produced some light but exquisite 
 poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took 
 place in 1639, to have become very devout, 
 and bitterly to have deplored the licentious- 
 ness of some of his verses. 
 
 Indelicate choice of subject is often, in 
 Carew, combined with great delicac.y of execu- 
 tion. No one touches dangerous themes vrith. 
 
From 1558 fo 1649.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces 
 are aU fugitive, but they suggest great possi- 
 bilities, which his mode of life and his prema- 
 ture removal did not permit to be realized. 
 Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like 
 George Herbert, " the painted pleasures of a 
 court," and, like Prospero, dedicated himself 
 to "closeness," with his marvellous facility 
 of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his 
 nice exuberance of fancy, he might have pro- 
 duced some work of Horatian merit and 
 classic permanence. See Gilfillan's " Speci- 
 mens and Memoirs of the Less-known British 
 Poets"; " Athen. Oxon." ; Lloyd's "Wor- 
 thies"; Langbaine's " Dramatick Poetry"; 
 "Bishop Percy"; Headley's "Beauties of 
 Ancient EngHsh Poetry"; also HaUam's 
 " Introduction to Literary History." 
 
 GEOEGE WITHER. 
 
 George Wither, born 1588, died 1667, was 
 a voluminous author, in the midst of disasters 
 and sufferings that would have damped the 
 spirit of any but the most adventurous and 
 untiring enthusiast. Some of his happiest 
 strains were composed in prison : his limbs 
 were incarcerated -within stone walls and iron 
 bars, but his fancy was among the hills and 
 plains, •with shepherds hunting, or loitering 
 -with Poesy, by rustling boughs and murmur- 
 ing springs. There is a freshness and natural 
 vivacity in the poetry of Wither, that render 
 his early works a "perpetual feast." We 
 cannot say that it is a feast " where no cinide 
 surfeit reigns," for he is often harsh, obscure, 
 and affected ; but he has an endless diversity 
 of style and subjects, and true poetical feeling 
 and expression. Wither was a native of 
 Hampshire, and received his education at 
 Magdalen College, Oxford. He first appeared 
 as an author in the year 1613, when he pub- 
 lished a satire, entitled "Abuses Stript and 
 A^Tiipt." For this he was thrown into the 
 Marshalsea, where he composed his fine poem, 
 "The Shepherds' Hunting." When the 
 abuses satirised by the poet had accumulated 
 and brought on the civil war, Wither took the 
 popular side, and sold his paternal estate to 
 raise a troop of horse for the parliament. 
 He rose to the rank of a major, and in 1642 
 was made governor of Farnham Castle, after- 
 wards held by Denham. Wither was accused 
 of deserting his appointment, and the castle 
 was ceded the same year to Sir William 
 Waller. During the struggles of that period, 
 the poet was made prisoner by the royalists, 
 and stood in danger of capital punishment, 
 when Denham interfered for his brother bard, 
 alleging, that as long as Wither lived, he 
 (Denham) would not be considered the worst 
 poet in England. The joke was a good one, 
 if it saved Wither' s life ; but George was not 
 frightened from the perilous contentions of 
 the times. He was afterwards one of Crom- 
 
 well's majors-general, and kept watch and 
 ward over the royalists of Surrey. From the 
 sequestrated estates of these gentlemen. 
 Wither obtained a considerable fortune ; but 
 the Restoration came, and he was stript of 
 all his possessions. He remonstrated loudly 
 and angrily ; his remonstrances w:ere_yoted 
 libels, and the unlucky poet was again thrown 
 into prison. He published various treatises, 
 satires, and poems, during this period, though 
 he was treated with great rigour. He was 
 released, under bond for good behaviour, in 
 1663, and survived nearly four years after- 
 wards, dying in London on the 2nd of May 
 1667. 
 
 Wither' s fame as a poet is derived chiefly 
 from his early productions, written before he 
 had imbibed the sectarian gloom of the Pu- 
 ritans, or become embroiled in the struggles 
 of the civil war. A collection of his poems 
 was published by himself in 1622, with the 
 title, "Mistress of Philarete ; " his "Shep- 
 herds' Hunting," being certain Eclogues 
 written during the time of the author's im- 
 prisonment in the Marshalsea, appeared in 
 1633. His "Collection of Emblems, Ancient 
 and Modern, Quickened vdih Metrical Illus- 
 trations," made their appearance in 1635. His 
 satirical and controversial works were nume- 
 rous, but are now forgotten. Some authors 
 of our own day (Mr. Southey in particular) 
 have helped to popularise Wither, by frequent 
 quotation and eulogy ; but Mr. Ellis, in his 
 " Specimens of Early English Poets," was the 
 first to point out " that playful fancy, pure 
 taste, and artless delicacy of sentiment, which 
 distinguish the poetry of his early youth." 
 His poem on Christmas affords a lively picture 
 of the manners of the times. His " Address 
 to Poetry," the sole yet cheering companion 
 of his prison solitude, is worthy of the theme, 
 and superior to most of the effusions of that 
 period. The pleasure with which he recounts 
 the various charms and the "divine skill" of 
 his Muse, that had derived nourishment and 
 delight from the "meanest objects" of ex- 
 ternal nature — a daisy, a bush, or a tree ; and 
 which, when these picturesque and beloved 
 scenes of the country were denied him, could 
 gladden even the vaults and shades of a 
 prison, is one of the richest offerings that has 
 yet been made to the pure and hallowed shrine 
 of poesy. The superiority of intellectual 
 pursuits over the gratifications of sense, and 
 all the malice of fortune, has never been more 
 touchingly or finely illustrated. See Cham- 
 bers's " Cycl. Engl. Lit. " vol. i. 125 ; Camp- 
 bell's " Specimens " ; R. A. Willmott's " Lives 
 of the Sacred Poets," a delightful work. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 William Browne, born 1590, died 1645. He 
 was a native of Tavistock, in Devonshire, and 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Pebiod. — 
 
 edvicated at Exeter College, Oxford, about the 
 beginning of the reign of James I. He wrote 
 "Britannia's Pastoralls " ; "The Shepherd's 
 Pipe " ; and other poems. His poetry was 
 very popular in his own day, but fell after- 
 wards into neglect. Yet Thomas Miller, one 
 of the most dehcious writers on country 
 scenes of the present day, says, " He carries 
 with him the true aroma of old forests ; his 
 lines are mottled with mosses, and there is a 
 gnarled ruggedness upon the stems of his 
 trees. His waters have a wet look and 
 splashing sound about them, and you feel the 
 fresh air play around you while you read. 
 His birds are the free denizens of the fields, 
 and they send their songs so life-like through 
 the covert, that their music rings upon the 
 ear, and you are carried away with his sweet 
 pipings." See Alhbone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit."; "London Monthly Eev.," 1772; Sir 
 EgertonBrydges's ed. of Browne's "Poems." 
 
 ERANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 Francis Quarles, born 1592, died' 1644. 
 His writings are more like those of a divine, 
 or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man 
 of the world, who held various pubUc situa- 
 tions, and died at the age of fifty-two. Quarles 
 was a native of Essex, educated at Cambridge, 
 and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. 
 He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth, 
 Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop 
 Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. 
 He espoused the cause of Charles I., and was 
 so harassed by the opposite party, who in- 
 jured his property, and plundered him of his 
 books and rare manuscripts, that his death was 
 attributed to the afiiiction and ill-health 
 caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding 
 his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a 
 tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that 
 might have mollified the rage of his perse- 
 cutors. His poems consist of various pieces 
 — " Job Militant " ; " Sion's Elegies " ; " The 
 History of Queen Esther " ; " Argalus and 
 Parthenia"; "The Morning Muse"; "The 
 Feast of Worms"; and "The Divine Em- 
 blems." The latter were published in 1645, 
 and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's 
 nephew, styles Qaarles " the darling of our 
 plebeian judgments." The eulogium still 
 holds good to some extent, for the Divine 
 Emblems, with their quaint and grotesque 
 illustrations, are still found in the cottages of 
 our peasants. After the Restoration, when 
 everything sacred and serious was either ne- 
 glected or made the subject of ribald jests, 
 Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to 
 the public. Even Pope, who, had he. read 
 him, must have relished his lively fancy and 
 poetical expression, notices only his bathos 
 and absurdity. The better and more tolerant 
 taste of modem times has admitted the 
 divine emblemist into the " laurelled frater- 
 
 nity of poets," where, if he does not occupy 
 a conspicuous place, he is at least sure of his 
 due measure of homage and attention. Em- 
 blems, or the union of the graphic and poetic 
 arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and 
 religion, had been tried with success by 
 Peacham and Wither. Quarles, however, 
 made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, his model, and 
 from the " Pia Desideria " of this author 
 copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. 
 His style is that of his age — studded with 
 conceits, often extravagant in conception, and 
 presenting the most outre and ridiculous 
 combinations. There is strength, however, 
 amidst his contortions, and true wit mixed 
 up with the false. His epi"grammatic point, 
 uniting wit and devotion, has been considered 
 the precursor of Young's " Night Thoughts." 
 The fastidious and elegant taste of Campbell 
 evidently influenced him in giving judgment on 
 Quarles, and although there is much truth in 
 what he says, still he treats tmjustly the various 
 good qualities of this poet. See Chambers's 
 " Cycl. Eng. Lit. " i. 129 ; Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens"; R, A. Willmott's "Lives of the 
 Sacred Poets" ; "Rctrosp. Rev." v. 180. 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 Richard Crashaw, born 1615 (P), died 1650. 
 His father was a preacher at the Temple 
 Church in London. The time of the poet's 
 birth is uncertain. In 1637 he is found in 
 possession of a fellowship in Cambridge, from 
 which he Avas ejected by the Parhanientary 
 army for non-compHance with the covenant. 
 He went to France, and became a Roman 
 Catholic. By the patronage of the exiled 
 English queen, Henrietta Maria, he obtained 
 an ecclesiastical situation in Italy, and 
 became a canon of the Church of Loretto, 
 where he died. 
 
 Crashaw' s poetry is of a fervid religious 
 character. Ho " formed his style on the most 
 quaint and conceited school of Italian poetry, 
 that of Marino " (Campbell), whose " Sosi>etto 
 d'Herode " he partly translated. It is chiefly 
 in translation that the strength of Crashaw is 
 visible. His pieces are never tedious, but full 
 of the strained and exaggerated conceits of 
 the school of Donne ; ho had a rich warm 
 fancy, and a delicate car for music. The 
 Roman Catholic cast of his religious poetry 
 may have contributed to its neglect in this 
 country. See Scrymgeour's " Poetry and 
 Poets of Britain"; Allibone's "Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit. " ; Dr. Johnson's " Life of Cowley" ; 
 Ellis's "Specimens"; Campbell's " Speci- 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 George Herbert, born 1593, died 1032, was 
 a descendant of the Earls of Pembroke, and a 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 younger brother of Lord Herbert of Cher- 
 biiry. He was born at Montgomery Castle in 
 Wales, educated at Westminster School, and 
 there elected to Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 of which he was elected fellow ; University 
 Orator 1619 ; took holy orders and was made 
 Prebendary of Layton Ecclesia, in the diocese 
 of Lincoln, by Archbishop Williams ; and in 
 1630 was presented by Charles I. to the living 
 of Bemerton. For the deeply interesting 
 account of this good man's life our readers 
 must turn to the charming pages of Izaak Wal- 
 ton. He pubKshed several works in prose and 
 poetry ; one of the best is " The Temple, Sacred 
 Poems and Private Ejaculations." Within a 
 few weeks of its issue from the press, twenty 
 thousand copies were sold. The " Priest to the 
 Temple, or the Country Parson ; his Character 
 and Rule of Holy Life " is much admired. 
 Coleridge thus speaks of our poet : " Having 
 mentioned the name of Herbert, that model 
 of a man, a gentleman, and a clergyman, let 
 me add, that the quaintness of some of his 
 thoughts — not his diction, than which nothing 
 can be more pure, manly, and unaffected, has 
 blinded modern readers to the general merits 
 of his poems, which are for the most part ex- 
 quisite in their kind." Cowper, in his melan- 
 choly, when neither nature nor the classics 
 had any charms for him, found pleasure in 
 reading Herbert. He says, " At length I met 
 with Herbert's Poems, and gothic and uncouth 
 as they were, I yet found in them a strain of 
 piety which I could not but admire. This was 
 the only author I had any delight in reading. 
 I pored over him all day long, and though I 
 found not here what I might have found — a 
 cure for my malady — yet it never seemed so 
 much alleviated as while I was reading him." 
 There is an exquisite sketch of Herbert's life 
 and critique on his poems in Gilfillan's " In- 
 troduction to the Poet's Works." See Preface 
 to " Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems and 
 Private Ejaculations"; Baxter's "Poetical 
 Fragments " ; E. A. Willmott's " Lives of 
 the Sacred Poets"; Allibone's "Crit. Diet. 
 Ener. Lit." 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Giles Fletcher, born 1588, died 1623. He 
 was the younger brother of Phineas, and died 
 twenty-three years before him. He was a 
 covisin of Fletcher the dramatist, and the son 
 of Dr. Giles Fletcher, who was employed in 
 many important missions in the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth, and, among others, negotiated a 
 commercial treaty with Russia greatly in the 
 favour of his own country. Giles is supposed to 
 have been born in 1588. He studied at Cam- 
 bridge ; published his noble i)oem, "Christ's 
 Victory and Triumph," in 1610, when he was 
 twenty- three years of age; was appointed to 
 the living of Alderston, in Sufiblk, where he 
 
 died, in 1623, at the early age of thirty-five, 
 "equally loved," says old Wood, "of the 
 Muses and the Graces." 
 
 The poem, in four cantos, entitled " Christ's 
 Victory and Triumph," is one of almost 
 Miltonic magnificence. With a wing as easy 
 as it is strong, he soars to heaven, and fills 
 the austere mouth of Justice and~fho~golden 
 lips of Mercy with language worthy of both. 
 He then stoops down on the Wilderness of 
 the Temptation, and paints the Saviour and 
 Satan in colours admirably contrasted, and 
 which in their brightness and blackness can 
 never decay. Nor does he fear, in fine, to 
 pierce the gloom of Calvary, and to minglo 
 his note with the harps of angels, saluting 
 the Redeemer, as He sprang from the grave, 
 with the song, " He is risen, He is risen — 
 and shall die no more." The style is steeped 
 in Spenser — equally mellifluous, figurative, 
 and majestic. In allegory the author of the 
 "Fairy Queen" is hardly superior, and in 
 the enthusiasm of devotion Fletcher surpasses 
 him far. From the great light thus early 
 kindled and early quenched, Milton did not 
 disdain to draw with his " golden urn." 
 " Paradise Regained " owes much more than 
 the suggestion of its subject to "Christ's 
 Victory;" and is it too much to say that, 
 had Fletcher lived, he might have shone 
 in the same constellation with the bard 
 of the "Paradise Lost"? The plan of our 
 "Specimens" permits only a few extracts. 
 Let those who wish more, along with a 
 lengthened and glo-sving tribute to the author' s 
 genius, consult Blackn-ood for November, 
 1835. The reading of a single sentence will 
 convince them that the author of the paper 
 was Christopher North. — (Gilfillan's Specimens 
 u'ithMem. of tlieLess-himrn British Poets;yo\.i. 
 190.) Antony Wood tell us that Giles was 
 "equally beloved of the Muses and the Graces." 
 See Headley's "Beauties Anc. Eng. Poet."; 
 Campbell's " Specimens " ; Hallam's " In- 
 troduction to Lit. of Europe " ; Allibone. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, 
 
 the brother of Phineas. Of Phineas we know 
 
 nothing except that he was born in 1584, 
 
 j educated at Eton and Cambridge, became 
 
 j Rector at Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he re- 
 
 ' mained for twenty-nine j^ears, surviving his 
 
 brother ; that he wrote an account of the 
 
 founders and learned men of his university ; 
 
 that in 1633 he published " The Purple 
 
 Island " ; and that in 1650 he died. 
 
 His "Purple Island" (with which we first 
 became acquainted in the writings of James 
 Hervey, author of the " Meditations," who 
 was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, 
 and highly ingenious allegory, forming an 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 elaborate picture of Man, in his body and soul. ; 
 and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both of 
 fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although 
 it cannot for a moment be compared with 
 his brother's " Clu-ist's Victory and Triumph," 
 either in interest of subject or in splendour of 
 genius. — (Gilfillan's Specimens of Lcss-knoivn 
 British Poets, vol. i. 315.) The great Milton 
 is said to have ingenuously confessed that he 
 owed his immortal work of "Paradise Lost" 
 to Mr. Fletcher's " Locustse." See " Retrosp. 
 Eev." ii. 342, 120; Headley; Hallam; Pref. 
 to Eev. J. Sterling's Poems ; Warton. 
 
 WILLIAM HABINGTON. 
 
 William Habington, born 1605, died 1654. 
 This amiable man and irreproachable poet 
 was born at Hindlip, in Worce.stershire, on 
 the 5th of November, 1605, — a most memor- 
 able day in the history of the Habington 
 family ; for they were Papists, The discovery 
 of the gunpowder plot is believed to -have 
 come from his mother; and his father, who 
 had been six years imprisoned for his supposed 
 concern in Babington's conspiracy, was con- 
 demned to die for concealing some of the gun- 
 powder traitors in his house. Whether or not 
 he had actually been so far implicated in their 
 legal guilt is not certain; but he owed his 
 pardon to the intercession of his brother-in- 
 law, Lord Morley. 
 
 They were a wealthy family. William was 
 educated in the Jesuit College at St. Omer, 
 and afterwards at Paris, in the hope that he 
 might enter into that society. But he pre- 
 ferred a -\viser, and better, and happier course 
 of life ; and returning to his own countrj^, 
 married Lucy, daughter of William Herbert, 
 first Lord Powis, the Castara of his poems. 
 He died when he had just completed his 
 fortieth year, and was buried in the family 
 vault at Hindlip. The poems were introduced, 
 for the first time, into a general collection, by 
 Mr. Chalmers, most properly. He appears 
 in them to have thoroughly deserved the 
 happiness which during his short life he 
 enjoyed.— (Southey's Brit. Poet. 975.) The 
 Laureate was mistaken in saying "fortieth 
 year," it was in his forty-ninth year that- 
 Habington died. See Gilfillan's "Spec, 
 with Mem. of Less-known Brit. Poets'" ; Alii, 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; " Cens. Lit." 
 viii. 227-233, also pp. 387-396; Headlev's 
 " Anc. Eng. Poet." 
 
 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 Sir John Suckling, bom 1608, died 1641. 
 This poet, who gives levity its gayest ex- 
 pression, was the son of the comptroller of 
 the household to Charles I. Langbaine tells 
 
 us that he spoke Latin at five years of age ; 
 but with what correctness or fluency we are 
 not informed. His versatile mind certainly 
 acquired many accomplishments, and filled a 
 short life with many pursuits, for he was a 
 traveller, a soldier, a lyric and dramatic poet, 
 and a musician. After serving a campaign 
 under Gustavus Adolphus, he returned to 
 England, Avas favoured by Charles I., and 
 wrote some pieces, which were exhibited for 
 the amusement of the court Avith sumptuous 
 splendour. When the civil wars broke out he 
 expended Jei200 on the equipment of a regi- 
 ment for the king, which was distinguished, 
 however, only by its finery and cowardice. A 
 brother poet crowned his disgrace with a 
 ludicrous song. The event is said to have 
 affected him deeply with shame ; but he did 
 not live long to experience that most incurable 
 of the heart's diseases. Having learnt that 
 his servant had robbed him, he drew on his 
 boots in great haste ; a rusty nail, that was 
 concealed in one of them, pierced his heel, and 
 produced a mortification, of which he died. 
 His poems, his five plays, together with his 
 letters, speeches, and tracts, have been col- 
 lected into one volume. — (Campbell's Sped- 
 
 TilCilS, p. 181.) 
 
 JOHN CHALKHILL. 
 
 John Chalkhill is a name prefixed by Izaak 
 Walton to a work published by him in 1683, 
 entitled " Thealma and Clearchus : a Pastoral 
 History in Smooth and Easie Verse." Some 
 have supposed the work written by the genial 
 angler himself ; but this can scarcely be, 
 when he describes Chalkhill as a man in his 
 time " generaU}'- known and as v/ell beloved ; 
 for he was humble and obliging in his 
 behaviour ; a gentleman, a scholar, very in- 
 nocent and prudent ; and indeed his whole 
 life was useful, quiet, and virtuous." The 
 " Lond. Retrosp. Rev.," 1821, pronounces 
 " the versification extremely sweet and 
 equable. Occasionallj^ harsh lines and un- 
 licensed rhymes occur ; but they are only 
 exceptions to the general style of the poem — 
 the errors of haste or negligence." Gilfillan 
 writes in his highest style of eloquence about 
 this i^oem : — "Thealma and Clearchus " may 
 be called the "Arcadia" in rhyme. It re- 
 sembles that work of Sir PhiHp Sidney, not 
 only in subject, but in execution. Its plot is 
 dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to 
 luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its 
 characters are mere shadows. But although 
 a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings 
 beautifully before our imagination that early 
 period in the world's history, in which poets 
 and painters have taught us to beheve, when 
 the hea.vens were nearer, the skies clearer, 
 the fat of the earth richer, the foam of the sea 
 brighter, than in our degenerate days ; — when 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 shepherds, reposing" under broad, umbrageous 
 oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the groves 
 the shadows of angels, and on the mountain- 
 summits the descending footsteps of God. 
 Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, 
 perhaps Shelley most, in the ideality of his 
 conception, the enthusiasm of his spirit, and 
 the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 William CartAvright, born 1611, died 1643. 
 He was a native of Northway, Gloucestershire, 
 educated at Westminster, and Christchurch, 
 Oxford. He was ordained in 1638. In 1643 
 he was chosen Proctor of the University of 
 Oxford and Eeader in Metaphysics, and died 
 the same year of malignant fever. He wrote 
 " The Eoyal Slave," a Tragi-Comedy ; " Tragi- 
 comedies, with other Poems " ; " Poemata 
 Gra3ca et Latina" ; and other pieces. Cart- 
 wright was held in„ high estimation by his 
 contemporaries. Dr. Fell, Bishop of Oxford, 
 says : " Cartwright is the utmost man can 
 come to." Ben Jonson writes : " My son 
 Cartwright writes like a man," Anthony 
 Wood declares, that " he was another Tully 
 and Virgil, as being most excellent for oratory 
 and poetry." Gerard Langbaine confirms all 
 this eulogium by : " He was extremely remark- 
 able both for his outward and inward endow- 
 ments, his body being as handsome as his 
 soul. He was an excellent orator, and yet an 
 admirable poet — a quality which Cicero, with 
 all his pains, could not attain to." The king, 
 who was at Oxford when he died, went in 
 mourning for him. GilfiUan says : " One is 
 reminded of the description given of Jeremy 
 Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, 
 by his young and florid beauty, and his sub- 
 lime and raised discourses, made men take 
 him for an angel newly descended from the 
 climes of Paradise." See Allibone's " Grit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 EOBEET HEEEICK. 
 
 Eobert Herrick, born 1591, died 1662 (?). He 
 is said to have been descended from Eric, a 
 Danish chief who lived in the time of Alfred 
 the Great. He was born in Cheapside, 
 London, studied at Cambridge, presented to 
 the living of Dean Prior, Devonshire, in 1629; 
 was deprived by Cromwell in 1648, and re- 
 instated in his living by Charles II. in 1660. 
 At the age of fifty-six he published his " Noble 
 Numbers, or Pious Pieces," and soon after his 
 " Hesperides, or Works both Human and 
 Divine, of Eobert Herrick, Esq.," his minis- 
 terial prefix being now laid aside. Many of 
 
 these poems were very licentious; but under- 
 neath all there can be discerned a higher 
 nature, which, had it fallen on different times, 
 might have gained the love and respect of all 
 good men. Gilfillan calls him " a bird with 
 tropical plumage and norland sweetness of 
 song." Drake, in his " Literary Hours," did 
 much towards reviving the poems of Herrick, 
 which had all but sunk into oblivion. Yet 
 even he, with all his admiration, had to speak 
 in strong language of the unclerical and im- 
 moral nature of many poems. So injudiciously 
 are the contents of his volume disposed, and 
 so totally divested of order and propriety, that 
 it would almost seem the poet wished to pollute 
 and bury his best eflfusions in a mass of non- 
 sense and obscenity. AlKbone says, " Herrick 
 is a most exquisite poet, but unfortunately 
 delighted with the wanderings of a libertine 
 muse." Mary Eussell Mitford, in her charm- 
 ing " EecoUections of a Literary Life," tells us 
 that " his real delight was among flowers and 
 bees, and nymphs and cupids ; and certainly 
 these graceful subjects were never handled 
 more gracefully." Campbell says, whilst ad- 
 mitting, as every one must, the sad licentious- 
 ness of Herrick, that " where the ore is pure, 
 it is of high value." In the forty- fifth volume 
 of Blackwood's Marjazino the writer re- 
 marks that our poet displays considerable 
 fa(5ility of simple diction and considerable 
 variety of lyrical versification. He is suc- 
 cessful in imitating the sprightliness of Ana- 
 creontic gaiety and the lucid neatness of the 
 ancient anthologists." And the " London 
 Eetrospective Eeview," v. 156-180, adds, " his 
 poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of 
 king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firma- 
 ment, sparkling with a myriad stars. But let 
 our poet in his more thoughtful moments 
 speak : 
 
 " For these my unbaptized rhymes — 
 Writ in my wild unhallowed times, — 
 For every sentence, clause, and word. 
 That 's not inlaid with thee, O Lord ! 
 Forgive me, God, and blot each line 
 Out of my book that is not thine. 
 But if 'mongst all thou findest one 
 Worthy thy benediction. 
 That one of all the rest shall be 
 The glory of my work and me." 
 
 Peace be to his ashes ! 
 
 EICHAED LOVELACE. 
 
 Eichard Lovelace, bom 1618, died 1658. 
 Gilfillan, in an admirable article on this 
 writer, says : " This iinlucky cavalier and 
 bard was born in 1618. He was the son of 
 Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich,, in Kent. 
 He was educated, some say at Oxford, and 
 others at Cambridge — took a master's degree, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 and was afterwards presented at Court. An- 
 thony Wood thus describes his personal 
 appearance at the age of sixteen : — ' He was 
 the most amiable and beautiful person that 
 eye ever beheld, — a person also of innate 
 modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, 
 which made him then, but especially after 
 when he retired to the great city, much 
 admired and adored by the fair sex.' Soon 
 after this, he was chosen by the county of 
 Kent to deliver a petition from the inhabi- 
 tants to the House of Commons, praying them 
 to restore the king to his rights, and to settle 
 the government. Such offence was given by 
 this to the Long Parliament, that Lovelace 
 was thrown into prison, and only liberated on 
 heavy bail. His paternal' estate, which 
 amounted to .£500 a-year, was soon exhausted 
 in his efforts to promote the royal cause. In 
 1646, he formed a regiment for the service of 
 the King of France, became iis colonel, and 
 was wounded at Dunkirk. Ere leaving Eng- 
 land, he had formed a strong attachment to 
 a Miss Lucy Saoheverell, and had written 
 much poetry in her praise, designating her as 
 Lux-Casta. Unfortunately, hearing a report 
 that Lovelace had died at Dunkirk of his 
 wounds, she married another, so that, on his 
 return home in 1648, he met a deep disap- 
 pointment ; and to complete his misery, the 
 ruling powers cast him again into prison, 
 where he lay till the death of Charles. Like 
 some other men of geniixs, he beguiled his 
 confinement by literary employment ; and in 
 1649, he published a book under the title of 
 ' Lucasta,' consisting of odes, sonnets, songs, 
 and miscellaneous poems, most of which had 
 been previously composed. After the execu- 
 tion of the king, he was liberated ; but his 
 funds were exhausted, his heart broken, and 
 his constitution probably injured. He gi*a- 
 dually sunk ; and Wood says that he became 
 very poor in body and purse, was the object 
 of charity, ' went in ragged clothes, and 
 mostly lodged in obscure and dirty places.' 
 Alas for the Adonis of sixteen, the beloved of 
 Lucasta, and the envied of all ! Some have 
 doubted these stories about his 'extreme 
 poverty; and. one of his biographers asserts, 
 that his daughter and sole heir (but who, 
 pray, was his wife and her mother ?) married 
 the son of Lord Chief Justice Coke, and 
 brought to her husband the estates of her 
 father at Kingsdown, in Kent. Aubrey, how- 
 ever, corroborates the statements of Wood ; 
 and, at all events, Lovelace seems to have 
 died, in 1658, in a wretched alley near Shoe 
 Lane. 
 
 There is not much to be said about his 
 poetry. It may be compared' to his person — 
 beautiful, but dressed in a stiff mode. We do 
 not, in every point, homologate the opinions 
 of Prynne, as to the ' unloveliness of love- 
 locks;' but we do certainly look with a 
 mixture of contempt and pity on the self- 
 imposed trammels of affectation in style and 
 
 manner which bound many of the poets of 
 that period. The wits of Charles II. were 
 more disgustingly licentious : but their very 
 carelessness saved them from the conceits of 
 their predecessors ; and, while lowering tho 
 tone of morality, they raised unwittingly the 
 standard of taste. Some of the songs of 
 Lovelace, however, such as ' To Althea, from 
 Prison,' are exquisitely simple, as well as 
 pure. Sir Egerton Brydges has found out 
 that Byron, in one of his bepraised para- 
 doxical beauties, either copied, or coincided 
 with, our poet. In the ' Bride of Abydos,' 
 he says of Zuleika — 
 
 ' The mind, the music breathing from her 
 face.' 
 
 Lovelace had, long before, in the song of 
 ' Orpheus Mourning for his Wife,' employed 
 the words — 
 
 ''Oh, could you view the melody 
 
 Of every grace. 
 And music of her face, 
 
 You'd drop a tear ; 
 Seeing more harmony 
 
 In her bright eye 
 Than now you hear.' 
 
 While many have praised, others have 
 called this idea nonsense ; although, if we 
 are permitted to speak of the harmony of the 
 tones of a cloud, why not of the harmony pro- 
 duced by the consenting lines of a counte- 
 nance, where every grace melts into another, 
 and the various features and expressions fluc- 
 tuate into a fine whole ? Whatever, whether 
 it be the beauty of the human face, or the 
 quiet lustre of statuary, or the mild glory of 
 moonlight, gives the effect of music, and, like 
 that divine art, 
 
 * Pours on mortals a beautiful disdain,' 
 
 may surely become music's metaphor and 
 poetic analogy." 
 
 To this beautiful critique we may add the 
 words of Thomas B. Shaw, who says : — 
 " Some of his most charming lyrics were 
 written in prison ; and the beautiful lines 
 to Althea, composed when the author was 
 closely confined in the Gate-house at West- 
 minster, remind us of the caged bird, which 
 learns its sweetest and most plaintive notes, 
 when deprived of its Avoodland liberty." 
 
 THOMAS EANDOLPH. 
 
 Thomas Randolph, born 1605, died 1634. 
 He was bom near Daventry ; was a scholar 
 and poet. His jiioces are worthy of better 
 treatment than they have received. Through 
 excess, he died at the age of twenty-nine. 
 His chief plays were : " The Muses' Looking- 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Glass," and " The Jealous Lovers." Camp- 
 bell says : " His execution is vigorous ; his 
 ideal characters are at once distinct and 
 various, and compact vnth. the expression 
 which he purposes to give them." 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOXD. 
 
 William Drummond, bom 1585, died 1649. 
 Druramond, the first Scotch poet who wrote 
 well in Enghsh, wnr. born at Hawthomden 
 (Southey), near Edinburgh. His father, Sir 
 John Drummond, lield a situation about the 
 person of James VI. The poet, in his youth, 
 studied law, but relinquishing that profession, 
 he retired to a life of ease and literature on 
 his " delightful " patrimonial estate. His 
 happiness was suddenly interrupted by the 
 death of a lady to whom he was betrothed ; 
 he spent several years in seeking by travel a 
 refuge from liis sorrow. He married, late in 
 life, Elizabeth Logan, attracted to her, it is 
 said, by her resemblance to his first love. 
 He was warmly attached to Charles I. : grief 
 for the king's death, it is alleged, shortened 
 his life. 
 
 Drummond's works consist of sonnets, 
 madrigals, and religious and occasional 
 poems ; among the latter is the ludicrous 
 Latin doggrel " Polemo-Middinia." His son- 
 nets are estimated by Hazlitt as the finest in 
 the language, and approaching nearest to the 
 Italian model. Drummond's fancy is luxu- 
 riant, but tinctured v/ith frigid conceits. His 
 versification is floAving and harmonious. Even 
 Ben Jonson's arrogance condescended to 
 " envy " the author of " The Forth Feasting." 
 He is the writer of a forgotten history of the 
 Jameses. 
 
 THOMAS MAY. 
 
 Thomas May, bom 1595, died 1650. Camp- 
 bell, in his "Specimens," writes: "Thomas 
 May, whom Dr. Johnson has pronounced the 
 best Latin poet of England, was the son of 
 Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield, in Sussex. 
 During the earlier part of his public life he 
 was encouraged at the court of Charles I., in- 
 scribed several poems to his majesty, as well 
 as wrote them at his injunction, and received 
 from Charles the appellation of ' his poet.' 
 During this connection with royalty, he wrote 
 his five dramas, translated the Georgics and 
 Pharsalia, continued the latter in English as 
 well as Latin, and, by his imitation of Lucan, 
 acquired the reputation of a modern classic in 
 foreign countries. It were much to be wished, 
 that on siding with the Parliament in the civil 
 wars, he had left a valedictory testimony of 
 regret for the necessity of opposing, on public 
 
 gi'ounds, a monarch who had been personally 
 kind to him. The change was stigmatized as 
 ungrateful ; and it was both sordid and un- 
 gi-ateful, if the account given by his enemies 
 can be relied on, that it was owing to the 
 king's refusal of the laurcateship, or of a 
 pension — for the story is told iri^diffbrent 
 ways. All that can be suggested in May's 
 behalf is, that no comphmentary dedications 
 could pledge his iirinciples on a great question 
 of public justice, and that the motives of an 
 action are seldom traced Anth scrupulous 
 truth, where it is the bias of the narrator 
 to degrade the action itself. Clarendon, the 
 most respectable of his accusers, is exactly in 
 this situation. He begins by praising his epic 
 poetry as among the best in our language, and 
 inconsistently concludes by pronouncing that 
 May deserves to be forgotten. 
 
 " The Parhament, from whatever motive he 
 embraced their cause, appointed him their 
 secretary and historiographer. In tliis capa- 
 city he wrote his Breidary, which Warburton 
 pronounces ' a just composition according to 
 the rules of history.' It breaks off, much to 
 the loss of the history of that time, just at 
 the period of the Self-denying Ordinance. 
 Soon after this publication he went to bed 
 one night in apparent health, having drank 
 freely, and was found dead in the morning. 
 His death was ascribed to his nightcap being 
 tied too tightly under his chin. Andrew 
 Marvel imputes it to the cheerful bottle. 
 Taken together, they were no bad receipt 
 for suffocation. The vampire revenge of his 
 enemies in digging him up from his grave, is 
 an event too notorious in the liistory of the 
 Restoration. They gave him honourable com- 
 panj-- in this sacrilege, namely, that of Blake. 
 
 " He has ventured in narrative poetry on a 
 similar difficulty to that Shakspere encoun- 
 tered in the historical drama, but it is un- 
 necessary to show with how much less success. 
 Even in that department, he has scarcely 
 equalled Daniel or Drayton." 
 
 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshawe, bom 1607, died 
 1666. He was the brother of Lord Fan- 
 shawe, and secretary to Prince Rupert : 
 appointed ambassador to the court of Spain 
 by Charles II., and died at Madrid in 1666. 
 He translated Camoens' " Lusiad," and the 
 " Pastor Fido" of Guarini. He wrote many 
 smaller poems. His song, "The Saints' En- 
 couragement," 1643, is full of clever satire, 
 and all his verse is forcible, with here and 
 there a touch of the true poet's beauty. — 
 (Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit.," p. 187.) "He 
 holds," says Gilfillan, " altogether a respect- 
 able, if not a very high place, among our 
 early translators and minor poets." 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Pepi<->d. — 
 
 SIE WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 Sir William Daveiiant, bom 1605, died 
 1668. By far the best critique on the works 
 .-)£ this poet, together with sketch of liis life, 
 23 by Campbell, who writes : " Davenant's 
 ijersonal history is sufficiently curious, A\dthout 
 attaching importance to the insinuation of 
 Wood, so gravely taken up by Mr. Malone, 
 that he was the son of Shakspere. He was 
 the son of a vintner at Oxford, at whose 
 house the immortal poet is said to have 
 frequently lodged. Having risen to notice 
 by his tragedy of ' Albovine,' he wrote masques 
 for the court of Charles L, and was made 
 governor of the king and queen's company of 
 actors in Drury Lane. In the civil wars, we 
 find the theatric manager quickly transmuted 
 into a lieutenant-general of ordnance, knighted 
 for his services at the siege of Gloucester, and 
 afterwards negotiating between the king and 
 his advisers at Paris. There he began his 
 poem of ' Gondibert,' which he laid aside 
 for a time for the scheme of canying a colony 
 from France to Virginia ; but his vessel was 
 seized by one of the parliament ships, he was 
 thrown into prison, and owed his life to 
 friendly interference, it is said to that of 
 Milton, whose friendship he returned in kind. 
 On being liberated, his ardent activity was 
 shov/'n in attempting to restore theatrical 
 amusements in the very teeth of bigotry 
 and Puritanism, and he actually succeeded so 
 far as to open a theatre in the Charter-house 
 Yard. At the Restoration, he received the 
 patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's 
 Inn, which he held till his death. 
 
 " 'Gondibert' has divided the critics. It is 
 undeniable, on the one hand, that he showed 
 a high and independent conception of epic 
 poetry, in wishing to emancipate it from the 
 slavery of ancient authority, and to establish 
 its interest in the dignity of human nature, 
 without incredible and stale machinery. His 
 subject was well chosen from modern romantic 
 story, and he strove to give it the close and 
 compact symmetry of the drama. Ingenious 
 and witty images, and majestic sentiments, 
 are thickly scattered over the poem. But 
 Gondibert,- who is so formally described, has 
 certainly more of the cold and abstract air of 
 an historical, than of a poetical portrait, and, 
 unfortunately, the beauties of the poem are 
 those of elegy and epigram, more than of 
 heroic fiction. It wants the charm of free and 
 forcible narration ; the life-pulse of interest is 
 incessantly stopped by solemn pauses of re- 
 flection, and the story works its way through 
 an intricacy of superfluous fancies, some beau- 
 tiful and others conceited ; but all, as they are 
 united, tending to divert the interest, like a 
 multitude of weeds upon a stream, that en- 
 tangle its course while they seem to adorn it." 
 
 See " Athen. Oxon." ; Knox's "Essays" ; 
 Bishop Kurd's " Crit. Com. Notes and 
 Dissert." iii. 138 — 144 ; Biog. and Sketches 
 prefixed to Hcadley's Collect., vol. i. 
 
 JOHN HALL. 
 
 John Hall, bom 1627, died 1656. He was 
 bom at Durham, and educated at St. John's, 
 Cambridge. In 1646 he published a volume 
 of Poems ; he practised at the bar, and died in 
 his twenty-ninth year. 
 
 THOMAS NABBES. 
 
 Thomas Nabbes, born (unknown), died 1649. 
 He wrote in the reign of Charles 1. ; was 
 secretary to some noble or prelate, near 
 Worcester. The chief of his dramatic pieces 
 were, for none are extant, " Microcosmus " ; 
 " Spring's Glory " ; " Bride " ; " Charles I.," 
 a tragedy; " Swetman," a comedy. He wrote 
 also a continuation of Knolles's " History of 
 the Turks." He had also a share in the col- 
 lection called "Fancy's Theatre," with Tat- 
 ham, Richard Brome, and others. — See Shaw's 
 "Hist. English Hist."; Campbell's "Spec. 
 Brit. Poets." 
 
 JOHN CLEVELAND. 
 
 John Cleveland, born 1613, died 1658. He 
 was the son of a Leicestershire clergyman, 
 and greatly distinguished himself, on the side 
 of the king, during the civil war, both as 
 I soldier and poet. He was educated at Christ's 
 College and St. John's College, Cambridge. 
 In 1647 he published a satire on the Scotch ; 
 was imprisoned in 1655, released by Cromwell, 
 but soon afterwards died. Some of his 
 writings, though conceited, contain true 
 poetry. Butler is said to have borrowed 
 greatly from him in his " Hudibras." — (Shaw's 
 " Hist. Eng. Lit.") Fuller, in his " Worthies 
 of Leicestershire," whites of him as "a general 
 artist, pure Latinist, exquisite orator, and, 
 which was his master-piece, eminent poet." 
 His epithets were pregnant mth metaphors, 
 carrying in them a difficult plainness ; difficult 
 at hearing, plain at the consideration thereof. 
 His lofty fancy may seem to stride from the 
 top of one mountain to the top of another, so 
 making to itself a constant level champaign of 
 continued elevations." 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 James Shirley, bom 1596, died 1666. James 
 Shirley was born in London. He was educated 
 at Cambridge, where he took the degree of 
 A.M., and had a curacy for some time at or 
 near St. Albans ; but embracing popery, became 
 a schoolmaster (1623) in that town. Leaving 
 this employment, he settled in London as a 
 dramatic writer, and between the years 1625 
 
From 1558 to 1619.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 and 1666 published thirty-nine plays. In the 
 civil wars he followed his patron, the Earl of 
 Newcastle, to the field ; but on the decline of 
 the royal cause, returned to London, and, as 
 the theatres were now shut, kept a school in 
 Whitefriars, where he educated many eminent 
 characters. At the reopening of the theatres 
 he must have been too old to have renewed 
 his dramatic labours ; and what benefit the 
 Restoration brought him as a royalist, we are 
 not informed. Both he and his wife died on 
 the same day, immediately after the great fire 
 of London, by which they had been driven out 
 of their house, and probably owed their deaths 
 to their losses and terror on that occasion. • 
 
 ALEXANDER BROME. 
 
 Alexander Brome, born 1620, died 1666. 
 He was an attorney in the Lord Mayor's 
 Court and a poet. He contributed greatly to 
 the promotion of the Restoration by the 
 severity and ridicule with which he treated 
 the Roundheads in th.e day of their power. 
 He had also a share in the translation of 
 Horace, with Fanshawe, Holiday, Cowley, 
 and others, and published a single comedy, 
 "The Cunning Lovers" which was acted in 
 1651, at the private house in Drury. Camp- 
 bell says : " There is a playful variety in his 
 metre, that probably had a better elfect in 
 song than in reading. His thoughts on love 
 and the bottle have at least the merit of being 
 decently jovial, though he arrays the trite 
 arguments of convivial invitation in few 
 original images." It seems that Brome had 
 intended to translate Lucretius. Izaak 
 Walton commends him highly. 
 
 KATHERINE PHILLIPS. 
 
 Katherine Phillips, bom 1631, died 1664. 
 Very little is known, remarks GilfiUan in his 
 *' Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known 
 British Poets," of the life of this lady-poet. 
 She was born in 1631. Her maiden name was 
 Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., 
 of the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, pub- 
 lished under the name of " Orinda," were 
 very popular in her lifetime, although it was 
 said they were published without her consent. 
 She translated two of the tragedies of Cor- 
 neille, and left a volume of letters to Sir 
 Charles Cotterell. These, however, did not 
 appear till after her death. She died of 
 small-pox — then a deadly disease — in 1664. 
 She seems to have been a favourite alike with 
 the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy 
 Taylor addressed to her his " Measures and 
 Offices of Friendship ; " Dry den praised her-; 
 and Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating 
 
 her poems while she was living, paid rhymed 
 tributes to her memory when dead. Her 
 verses are never commonplace, and always 
 sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure 
 and the stature of lofty poetry. 
 
 ALEXANDER SCOT. 
 
 Alexander Scot flourished about the year 
 1562. He wi'ote several short satires and some 
 miscellaneous poems, the prevailing amatory 
 character of wliich caused him to be called 
 the Scottish Anacreon, though there are many 
 points wanting to complete his resemblance 
 to the Teian bard. — Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. 
 Lit.," vol. i. 154 ; Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 SIR RICHARD MAITLAND. 
 
 Sir Richard Maitland, born 1496, died 1586, 
 is more celebrated as a collector of poems 
 than as an original poet. There is however 
 much good taste displayed in his own pro- 
 ductions. 
 
 ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Alexander Montgomery was the author of 
 an allegorical poem called "The Cherry and 
 the Sloe," published in 1597, which long 
 continued a favourite, and the metre of which 
 was adopted by Burns. — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 ALEXANDER HUME. 
 
 The time and place of his birth are un- 
 known. He was a clergyman, and published, 
 in 1589, a volume of hymns or sacred songs ; 
 he died in 1609. 
 
 KING JAMES VI. 
 
 King James VI. published, in 1584, a volume 
 of poetry, "Essays of a Prentice in the 
 Divine Art of Poesie, with the rewlis and 
 cautelis to be pursued and avoided." 
 
 EARL OF ANCRUM. 
 
 Earl of Ancrum, born 1578, died 1654. 
 Wrote some sonnets of considerable merit. 
 
 EARL OF STIRLING. 
 
 Earl of Stirling, born 1580, died 1640, 
 published, in 1637, " Recreations with the 
 
 7 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Muses," of wMch says Campbell, "there is 
 elegance of expression in a few of his shorter 
 pieces." 
 
 THOMAS INGELAND. 
 
 Scarcely anything is known of this author, 
 excepting that he wrote " A Pretie and 
 Merie New Enterlude, entitled the Dis- 
 obedient Child." 
 
 NICHOLAS UDALL. 
 
 Nicholas Udall wrote the earliest comedy 
 in the English language, "Ealph Eoyster 
 Doyster," which was acted in 1551. He for 
 a long time executed the duties of Master of 
 Eton College. 
 
 JOHN HEYWOOD. 
 
 John Heywood was a man of considerable 
 attainments, but who seemed to have per- 
 formed the duties of jester at the court of 
 Henry VIII. 
 
 JOHN STILL. 
 
 John Still, bom 1543, died 1607. He was 
 master of St. John's and Trinity Colleges, 
 Cambridge, and became afterwards bishop of 
 Bath and Wells, He wrote " Gammer Gur- 
 ton's Needle," which seems to have been the 
 second earliest regular comedy published in 
 our language. The whole intrigue consists in 
 the search instituted after this unfortunate 
 little implement, which is at last discovered 
 by Hodge himself, on suddenly sitting down 
 in the garment which Gammer Gurton had 
 been repairing. The play is included 
 
 in Dodsley's collection. — See Campbell's 
 "Specimens" ; Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JOHN LTLT. 
 
 John Lyly was bom in Kent in 1554, and 
 produced nine plarjrs between the years 1579 
 and 1600. They were mostly written for 
 court entertainments, and performed by the 
 scholars of St. Paul's. He was educated at 
 Oxforrt, and many of his plays are on my- 
 thological subjects, as " Sappho and Phaon," 
 "Endymion," the "Maid's Metamorphosis!" 
 &c. His stjde is affected and unnatural, yet 
 like his own Niobo, in the " Metamorphosis," 
 "oftentimes he had sweet thoughts, some- 
 times hard conceits; betwixt both a 'kind of 
 yieldixig-." By his " Euphues," or the "Ana- 
 
 tomy of Wit," Lyly exercised apowerful though 
 injurious influence on the fashionable literature 
 of his day, in prose composition as well as in 
 discourse. His plays were not important 
 enough to found a school. Hazlitt was a 
 warm admirer of Lyly's "Endymion," but 
 evidently, from the feelings and sentiments 
 it awakened, rather than the poetry. " I 
 know few things more perfect in characteristic 
 painting," he remarks, " than the exclamation 
 of the Phrygian shepherds, who, afraid of 
 betraying the secret of Midas' s ears, fancy 
 that 'the rery reeds bow down, as though 
 they listened to their talk ; ' nor more affect- 
 ing in sentiment, than the apostrophe ad- 
 dressed by his friend Eumenides to Endymion, 
 on waking from his long sleep. ' Behold the 
 twig to which thou laidest down thy head is 
 now become a tree.' " There are finer things 
 in the Metamorphosis, as where the prince 
 laments Eurj-mene lost in the woods — 
 
 " Adorned with the presence of my love, 
 The woods I fear such secret power shall 
 
 prove, 
 As they'll shut up each path, hide every way. 
 Because they still would have her go astray. 
 And in that place would always have her 
 
 seen. 
 Only because they would be ever green. 
 And keep the winged choristers still there, 
 To banish winter clean out of the year." 
 
 Or the song of the fairies — 
 
 " By the moon we sport and play, 
 
 With the night begins our day : 
 
 As we dance the dew doth fall ; 
 
 Trip it, little urchins all, 
 
 Lightly as the little bee. 
 
 Two by two, and three by three, 
 
 And about go we, and about go we." 
 
 The genius of Lyly was essentially lyrical. 
 The songs in his plays seem to flow freely 
 from nature. 
 
 GEOEGE PEELE. 
 George Peele, like Lyly, had received a 
 liberal education at Oxford. Ho was one of 
 Shakspere's fellow-actors and fellow-share- 
 holders in the Blackfriars Theatre. He was 
 also employed by the city of London in com- 
 posing and preparing those spectacles and 
 shows which formed so great a portion of 
 ancient civic festivity. His earliest work, 
 " The Arraignment of Paris," was printed 
 anonymously in 1584. His most celebrated 
 dramatic works were the " David and Beth- 
 sabe," and "Absalom," in which there is great 
 richness and beauty of language and occa- 
 sional indications of a high order of pathetic 
 and elevated emotion; but his versification, 
 though sweet, has little variety; and the 
 luxurious and sensuous descriptions in which 
 
From 1588 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Peele most delighted are so numerous, that 
 they become rather tiresome in the end. It 
 should be remarked that this poet was the 
 first to give an example of the peculiar kind 
 of historical play in which Shakspere was 
 afterwards so consummate a master. His 
 "Edward I." is, though monotonous, decla- 
 matory, and stiff, in some sense the fore- 
 runner of such works as " Richard II., " 
 "Eichard III.," or "Henry V. " — Shaw's 
 "Hist. Eng. Lit. " p. 130. See Chambers*5 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. i. ; Campbell's " Spec. 
 Brit. Poets." 
 
 THOMAS NASH AND EOBEET GREENE. 
 
 "Both were Cambridge men, both sharp, 
 and I fear," says Shaw, in his valuable 
 " History of English Literature," " mercenary 
 satirists, and both alike in the profligacy of 
 their lives and the misery of their deaths, 
 though they may have eked out their income 
 by occasionally writing for the stage, were in 
 reality rather pasquinaders and pamphleteers 
 than dramatists — condottieri of the press, 
 shamelessly advertising the services of their 
 ready and biting pen to any person or any 
 cause that would pay them. They were both 
 unquestionably men of rare powers, Nash pro- 
 bably the better man and the abler writer of 
 the two. Nash is famous for the bitter con- 
 troversy with the learned Gabriel Harvey, 
 whom he has caricatured and attacked in 
 numerous pamphlets, in a manner equally 
 humorous and severe. He was concerned with 
 other dramatists in the production of a piece 
 entitled ' Summer's Last Will and Testament,' 
 and in a satirical comedy, ' The Isle of Dogs,' 
 which drew do^vn upon him the anger of the 
 Government, for we know that he was im- 
 prisoned for some time in consequence. 
 
 " Greene was, Hke Nash, the author of a 
 multitude of tracts and pamphlets on the most 
 miscellaneous subjects. Sometimes they were 
 tales, often translated or expanded from the \ 
 ItaUan noveKsts ; sometimes amusing exposures | 
 •of the various arts of coney -catching, wliich | 
 means cheating and swindling, practised at j 
 that time in London, and in which, it is feared, 
 Greene was personally not unversed; some- 
 times moral confessions, Hke Nash's ' Pierce 
 Pennilesse, his Supplication to the Devil,' or 
 Greene's ' Groat worth of Wit,' purporting 
 to be a warning to others against the conse- 
 quences of unbridled passion. Some of these 
 ■confessions are exceedingly pathetic, and would 
 •be more so could the reader divest himself of 
 a lurking suspicion that the whole is often a 
 mere trick to catch a pemiy. The popularity 
 •of these tracts, we know, was very great. 
 The only dramatic work we need specify of 
 Greene's was ' George-a-Green,' the legend of 
 an old English popular hero, recounted with 
 much vivacity and humour," — See Alhbone's 
 
 "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; Chambers's "Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit." ; Campbell's " Specimens " ; Wood's 
 " Fasti Oxon." ; Haslewood's " Censura Lite- 
 raria," ii, 288-300 ; Beloe's " Anec. of Lib. and 
 Scarce Books"; " Drake's Shakspere and his 
 Times": J.Payne Collier's "Hist, of Eng. 
 Dram. Poets," iii. 153-154; Professor Tieck's 
 Preface to his " Shakspere' s Vorschule"; 
 Hallam's "Lit. Hist, of Europe," ii. 173; 
 " British Bibliogi-apher " ; Dibdin's " Lib. 
 Comp."; Lowndes's "Bibl. Man."; Dunlop's 
 " Hist, of Fiction." 
 
 THOMAS LODGE. 
 
 Thomas Lodge, born 1556, died 1625 (?), 
 a physician and dramatic poet ; he was 
 born in Lincolnshire, educated at Trinity Col- 
 lege, Oxford, and first appeared as an author 
 in 1580. Ten of Lodge's poems are contained 
 in the English " HeKcon," published in 1600. 
 To his poem entitled "Eosalynde: Eupheus 
 Golden Legacie," Shakspere was indebted for 
 the plot and incidents of his drama " As You 
 Like It." He is described by Collier as second 
 to Kyd in vigour and boldness of conception ; 
 but as a drawer of character, so essential a 
 part of dramatic poetry, he unquestionably 
 has the advantage. His principal work is 
 a tragedy entitled " The Hounds of Civil 
 War, lively set forth in the two Tragedies 
 of Marius and Sylla." He also composed, in 
 conjunction with Greene, "A Looking-Glass 
 for London and England," the object of which 
 is a defence of the stage against the Puritanical 
 party.— See Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 THOMAS DEKKEE. 
 
 Thomas Dekker was a very industrious 
 author ; he was connected with Jonson in 
 writing for the Lord Admiral's theatre, con- 
 ducted by Henslowe ; but Ben and he became 
 bitter enemies, and the former, in his 
 " Poetaster," performed in 1601, has satirized 
 Dekker under the character of Crispinus, 
 representing himself as Horace. Dekker 
 replied by another drama, " Satiromastix ; or, 
 the Untrussing the Humorous Poet." The 
 poetic diction of Dekker is choice and elegant, 
 but he often wanders into absurdity. He is 
 supposed to have died about the year 1638. 
 His life seems to have been spent in irregu- 
 larity and poverty. According to Oldys, he 
 was three years in the King's Bench. In one 
 of his o^vn beautiful lines he says : 
 
 " We ne'er are angels till our passions die." 
 
 But the old dramatists lived in a world of 
 passion and revelry, want and despair. — 
 
 7* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Thisd Period. — 
 
 (Chambers's " Cyclo. English Lit." vol. ii. 21.) 
 He published the " GitU's Horn Book," of 
 which a new edition was published in 1812, 
 Bristol, 4to, edited by Dr. Nott. Drake says 
 of this work, " His ' Gul's Home Booke, or 
 Fashions to please all Sorts of Guls,' first 
 printed in 1609, exhibits a very curious, mi- 
 nute, and interesting picture of the manners 
 and habits of the middle class of society." — 
 See Lowndes's " Bibl. Man," ; Warton's " Hist. 
 Eng. Poetry" ; " Bibl. Anglo-Poet." ; Collier's 
 *' Hist, of Eng. Dramatic Poets." 
 
 HENRY CHETTLE. 
 
 He was a dramatic writer of the age of 
 Elizabeth. He wrote the tragedy of 
 " Hoffman, or aEevenge for a Father," 1631 ; 
 and was concerned, more or less, according to 
 " Henslowe's Diary," in the production of 
 thirty-eight plays, only four of which have 
 been printed, and have come down to us. — 
 See Allibone's "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; 
 Collier's "Hist, of English Dramatic Poetry " ; 
 Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM HAUGHTON. 
 
 William Haughton was the author of a 
 number of dramatic pieces, of which the 
 comedy of "Englishmen for my Money" is 
 one of the best known. He wrote the comedy 
 of " Patient Grissill," in which he was 
 assisted by Chettle and Dekker. — See " Biog. 
 Dramat. " : Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 DABRIDGECOURT BELCHIEE. 
 
 Dabridgecourt Belchier was admitted at 
 Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, m 1508 ; 
 removed to Christchurch, Oxford, where he 
 took his B.A. in 1600. He translaied into 
 English "Hans Beerport, his Eisible Comedy 
 of See me and See me Not," 1618. Wood 
 ascribes some other pieces to him. — See 
 Allibone's "Crit. Diet. Eng Lit."; Camp- 
 bell's " Specimens." 
 
 JOHN WEBSTEE. 
 
 John Webster, the " noble-minded," as 
 Hazhtt designates him, lived and died about 
 the same time as Dekker, with whom he 
 ^\'rote in the conjunct authorship then so 
 common. His original dramas are the 
 " Duchess of Malfy/' " Guise, crthc Massacre 
 
 of France," the " Devil's Law Case," " Appius 
 and Virginia," and the " White Devil, oi* 
 Vittoria Corombona " Webster, it Jias 
 been said, was clerk of St Andrew's church, 
 Holborn ; but Mr. Dyce, his editor and bio- 
 grapher, searched the registers of the parish 
 for his name without success. The " White 
 Devil" and the "Duchess of MalSy" have 
 divided the opinions of critics as to their 
 relative incnt.-^. They are both poAverful 
 dramas, though filled with " supernumerary 
 horrors." The former was not successful on 
 the stage, and the author published it with a 
 dedication, in which he states, that " most of 
 the people that come to the play-house re- 
 semble those ignorant asses who, visiting 
 stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire 
 for good books, but new books." He Avas 
 accused, like Jonson, of being a slow writer, 
 but he consoles himself with the example of 
 Euripides, and confesses that he did not 
 write with a goose quill Avinged with two 
 feathers. In this slighted play there are 
 some exquisite touches of pathos and natural 
 feeling. The grief of a group of mourners 
 over a dead body is thus described : — 
 
 " I found them winding of Marcello's corse, 
 And there in such a solemn melody, 
 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies. 
 Such as old grandames watching by the dead 
 Were wont to outwear the night with ; that, 
 
 believe me, 
 I had no eyes to guide me forth the room. 
 They were ^o o'ercharged with water.^' 
 
 The funeral dirge for MarceUo, sung by his 
 mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, "that 
 intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve 
 itself into the elements which it contem- 
 plates " : — 
 
 " Call for the robin redbreast and the wren. 
 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover 
 
 The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
 
 Call unto his funeral dole, 
 
 The ant, the field-mou.se, and the mole, 
 
 To raise him hillocks that shaU keep him 
 
 warm, 
 And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no 
 
 harm ; 
 But keep the Avolf far thence, that's foe to 
 
 men, 
 For with his nails he'U dig them up again." 
 
 The following couplet has been admired : — 
 
 "Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ; 
 But look'd to near, have neither heat nor 
 Hght." 
 
 The "Duchess of Malfy" abounds more in 
 the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal 
 offence which the lady gives to her two proud 
 brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a 
 cardinal, by indulging in a generous though 
 infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward. 
 
From- 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 — {Chomhcrs, vol. i. pp. 211, 212.) Shaw says, 
 " But perhaps the most powerful and original 
 genius among the Shaksperian dramatists of 
 the second order is John Webster. His 
 terrible and funereal Muse on ' Death ; ' his 
 wild imagination revelled in images and 
 sentiments which breathe, as it were, the 
 odour of the charnel : his plaj^s are full of 
 pictures recalling with fantastic variety all 
 associations of the weakness and futility of 
 human hopes and interests, and dark question- 
 ings of our future destinies. His literary 
 phj'siognomy has something of that dark, 
 bitter, and woeful expression which makes us 
 thrill in the portraits of Dante. In selecting 
 Buch revolting themes as abounded in the 
 black annals of mediaeval Italy, Webster 
 followed the peculiar bent of his great and 
 morbid genius ; in the treatment of these 
 subjects, we find a strange mixture of the 
 horrible with the pathetic. In his language 
 there is an extraordinary union of complexity 
 and siinplicitj^ : he loves to draw his illustra- 
 tions not only from skulls and graves and 
 epitaphs, ' but also from the most attractive 
 and picturesque objects in nature ; ' and his 
 occasional intermingling of the deepest and 
 ■ most innocent emotion of the most exquisite 
 touches of natural beauty produces the effect 
 of the daisy springing up amid the festering 
 mould of the graveyard." 
 
 more disgrace upon the age than all its genius 
 could redeem ; namely, the fate of Mother 
 Sawyer, the Witch of Edmonton, an aged 
 woman, who had been recently the victim of 
 legal and superstitious murder — 
 
 ' Nil adeo f oedum quod non exacta vetustas 
 Ediderit.' 
 
 The time of his death is unknown." — 
 (Campbell's Specimens, p. 166.) See Shaw's 
 " Hist. Eng. Lit. " ; Professor Spalding's 
 " Hist. Eng. Lit. " ; Weber's ed. of Ford's 
 Works ; Lord Jeffrey's article " Edin. 
 Eev.," X. 275, 304 ; John Gifford, " Quart. 
 Rev.," vi. 462-487 ; Lamb's " Specimens of 
 Eng. Dram. Poets." 
 
 THOMAS MIDDLETON 
 
 Thomas Middleton is admired for a wild 
 and fantastic fancy, whic4i delights in por- 
 traying scenes of witchcraft and supernatural 
 agency — such is the correct estimate of Shaw, 
 in his excellent work, the " Hist, of Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 JOHN FORD. 
 
 John Ford, born 1586, died 1640 (r). " He 
 was born of a respectable family in Devon- 
 shire ; was bred to the law, and entered of 
 the Middle Temple at the age of seventeen. 
 At the age of twenty he published a poem, 
 entitled 'Fame's Memorial,' in honour of the 
 deceased Earl of Devonshire ; and from the 
 dedication of that piece it appears that he 
 chiefly subsisted upon his professional labours, 
 making poetry the solace of his leisure hours. 
 All his plays were published between the years 
 1629 and 1639 ; but before the former period 
 he had for some time been known as a dra- 
 matic writer, his works having been printed a 
 considerable time after their appearance on 
 the stage ; and, according to the custom of 
 the age, had been associated in several works 
 with other composers . With Dekker he 
 loir.ed in drumatizing a story, which reflects 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 " Of the personal history of Philip Mas singer 
 little is known. This excellent poet was born 
 in 1584, and died, apparently very poor, in 
 1640. His birth was that of a gentleman, his 
 education good, and even learned ; for though 
 his stay in the University of Oxford, which 
 he entered in 1602, was not longer than two 
 years, his Avorks prove, by the uniform 
 elegance and refined dignity of their diction, 
 and by the peculiar fondness with which he 
 dwells on classical allusions, that he was in- 
 timately penetrated with the finest essence of 
 the great classical writers of antiquity. His 
 theatrical life, extending from 1604 to his 
 death, appears to have been an uninterrupted 
 succession of struggle, disappointment, and 
 distress ; and we possess one touching docu- 
 ment, proving how deep and general was that 
 distress in the dramatic' profession of the 
 time. It is a letter written to Henslowe, the 
 . manager of the Globe Theatre, in the joint 
 names of Massinger, Field, and Daborne, all 
 poets of considerable popularity, imploring 
 the loan of an insignificant sum to liberate 
 them from a debtors' prison. Like most of 
 his fellow-dramatists, Massinger frequently 
 wrote in partnership with other playAvrights, 
 the names of Dekker, Field, Rowley, Middle- 
 ton, and others, being often found in conjunc- 
 tion with his. We possess the titles of about 
 thirty-seven plays, either entirely or partially 
 written by Massinger, of which number, how- 
 ever, only eighteen are now extant, the re- 
 mainder having been lost or destroyed. These 
 works are tragedies, comedies, and romantic 
 dramas, partaking of both characters. The 
 finest of them are the following : the ' Fatal 
 Dowry ' ; the * Unnatural Combat ' ; the 
 ' Roman Actor,' and the ' Duke of Milan,' 
 in the first category : the ' Bondman,' the 
 ' Maid of Honour,' and the ' Picture,' in 
 the third ; and the ' Old Law,' and ' A New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts,' in the second. The 
 qualities which distinguish this noble writer 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 are, an extraordinary dij^nit}' and elevation 
 of moral sentiment, a sin^lar power of de- 
 lineating the sorrows of pure and lofty minds 
 exposed to unmerited suffering', cast down but 
 not humiliated by misfortune. In these lofty 
 delineations, it is impossible not to trace the 
 reflexion of Massinger's own high but melan- 
 choly spirit. Female purity and devotion he 
 has painted with great skill ; and his plays 
 exhibit many scenes in which he has ventured 
 to sound the mysteries of the deepest passions, 
 as in the ' Fatal Dowry ' and the ' Duke of 
 Milan,' the subject of the latter having some 
 resemblance with the terrible story of ' Ma- 
 riamne.' It was unfortunately indispensable, 
 in order to please the mixed audiences of those 
 days, that comic and farcical scenes should be 
 introduced in every piece ; and for comedy 
 and pleasantry Massinger had no aptitude. 
 This portion of his works is in every case con- 
 temptible for stupid buffoonery, as well as 
 odious for loathsome indecency ; and the 
 coarseness and obscenity of such passages 
 forms so painful a contrast with the general 
 elegance and purity of Massinger's tone and 
 language, that we are driven to the suppo- 
 sition of his having had recourse to other 
 hands to supply this obnoxious matter in 
 obedience to the popular taste. Massinger's 
 style and versification are singularly sweet 
 and noble. No writer of that day is so free 
 from archaisms and obscurities ; and perhaps 
 there is none in whom more constantly appears 
 aU the force, harmony, and dignity, of which 
 the English language is susceptible. From 
 many passages we may draw the conclusion 
 that Massinger was a fervent Catholic. The 
 ' Virgin Martyr' is indeed a Catholic mystery ; 
 and in many plays — as, for example, the ' Re- 
 negade ' — he has attributed to Romanist con- 
 fessors, and even to the then unpopular Jesuits, 
 the most amiable and Christian virtues. If wo 
 desire to characterize Massinger in one sen- 
 tence, we may say that dignity, tenderness, 
 and grace, are the qualities in which he excels." 
 (Shaw's "Hist, of Eng. Lit.," pp. 170, 171.)— 
 See Campbell's " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. i. 
 
 was bred at Christ Church, Oxford. He held 
 the living of East Clandon, in Surrey, but un- 
 fortunately succeeded not only to the living, 
 but to the widow of his predecessor, who, being- 
 a Xantippe, contributed, according to Lang- 
 baine, to shorten his days by the ' violence of 
 her proi-old))(j tongue.'' He had the reputation 
 of an eloquent preacher, and some of his 
 sermons appeared in print." 
 
 JOHN MAESTON. 
 
 Very little is known of this poet. In 1598 
 he published " Certayno Satires," and in 1599, 
 the " Scourge of Villany." He produced also 
 some comedies. Dr. Angus considers the 
 "Satires" decidedly inferior to Hall's, and 
 very poor. — "Handbook of English Lit.," 
 155. 
 
 THOMAS GOFFE. 
 
 Tliomas Goffo, born 1592, died 1627. "Tliis 
 writer," says Campbell, "left four or five 
 dramatic pieces, of very ordinary merit. He 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 The date of birth and death unknown. 
 This poet exhibits a graceful fancy, and one 
 of his plays, "A Woman killed with Kind- 
 ness," is among the most touching of this 
 X)eriod. — Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 GEORGE SANDYS. 
 
 George Sandys, born 1577, died 1643. A 
 traveller and poet. He was the youngest 
 son of the Archbisliop of York. His " Travels 
 in the East," and his translation of 0\T.d's 
 " Metamorphoses," wore very popular. Pro- 
 fessor Spalding says that these translations 
 " are poetically pleasing, and they have a 
 merit in diction and versification which has 
 been acknowledged thankfully by later writers . ' ' 
 — See R. Aris Willmott's " Lives of the 
 Sacred Poets," i. 
 
 SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 
 
 Sidney Godolphin, born 1610, died 1642. 
 He was a native of Cornwall, and the brother 
 of the treasurer Godolphin, and flourished and 
 perished in the Civil wars. Lord Clarendon 
 praised him highly. He wrote several 
 original poems and translations of the " Lives 
 of Dido and Ji]neas," from Virgil, 1358. — 
 Campbell's "Specimens"; Hobbes's " Levia- 
 than." 
 
 WILLIAM WARNER. 
 
 William Warner, born 1558, died 1609, was 
 a native of Oxfordshire, an attorney of the 
 Common Pleas, and the author of "Albion's 
 England." This poem, published in 1586, is 
 a history of England from the Deluge to the 
 reign of James I. It supplanted iif popular 
 favour the " Mirror for Magistrates." The 
 style of the work was much admired in its 
 day, and Meres, in his "Wit's Treasury," 
 says, that by Warner's pen the English tongue 
 was " mightily enriched and gorgeously in- 
 vested in rare ornaments and resplendent 
 habiliments." The tales are chiefly of a 
 merry cast, and many of them indecent. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 GEOEGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 George Chapman, born 1557, died 1634, 
 a native of Hitching- Hill, in the county of 
 Hertford, and studied at Oxford. From 
 thence he repaired to London, and became 
 the friend of Shakspere, Spenser, Daniel, 
 Marlowe, and other contemporaiy men of 
 genius. He was patronised by Prince Henry, 
 and Carr, Earl of Somerset. The death of 
 the one, and the disgrace of the other, must 
 have injured his prospects ; but he is supposed 
 to have had some place at court, either under 
 King James or his consort Anno. He lived 
 to an advanced ago ; and, according to Wood, 
 was a person of reverend aspect, religioiTS, and 
 temperate. Inigo Jones, with whom he lived 
 on terms of intimate friendship, planned and 
 erected a monument to his memory over 
 his burial-place, on the south side of St. 
 Giles's church in the fields ; but it was 
 unfortunately destroyed with the ancient 
 church. 
 
 Chapman seems to have been a favourite of 
 his own times ; and in a subsequent age, his 
 version of Homer excited the raptures of 
 Waller, and was diligenfly consulted by Pope. 
 The latter speaks of its daring fire, though ho 
 owns that it is clouded by fustian. Webster, 
 his fellow dramatist, praises his "full and 
 heightened style," a character which he does 
 not deserve in any favourable sense ; for his 
 diction is chiefly marked by barbarous rugged- 
 noss, false elevation, and extravagant meta- 
 phor. The drama owes him very little ; his 
 " Bussy D'Ambois " is a piece of frigid atro- 
 city, and ia the '• Widow's Tears," where his 
 heroine Cynthia falls in love with a sentinel 
 gfuarding the corpse of her husband, whom 
 she was bitterly lamenting, he has dramatised 
 one of the most puerile and disgusting legends 
 ever fabricated for the disparagement of 
 female constancy. See Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens," p. 130 ; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit."; Warton's "Hist. Eng. Poetry"; 
 Langbaine's " Dramat. Poets." 
 
 EICHAED ALLISON. 
 
 Scarcely anything is known of this writer. 
 He published, in 1590, "A Plaine Confutation 
 of a Treatise of Brownism, entitled, A 
 Description of the Visible Church." " An 
 Houre's Eecreation in Musicke, apt for In- 
 struments and Voyces," appeared in 1606. 
 
 EOBEET BUETON. 
 
 Eobert Burton, born 1576, died 1640. " In 
 every nation," says Shaw, "there may be 
 found a small number of writers who, in their 
 
 life, in the objects of their studies, and in the 
 form and manner of their productions, bear a 
 peculiar _ stamp of eccentricity. No country 
 has been more prolific in such excejitional m.- 
 dividualities than England, and no age than 
 the sixteenth century. There cannot be a 
 more striking example of this^small but 
 curious class than old Eobert Burton, whose 
 life and writings are equally odd. His 
 personal history was that of a retired and 
 laborious scholar, and his principal work, the 
 ' Anatomy of Melancholy,' is a strange com- 
 bination of the most extensive and out-of-the- 
 way reading, with just observation raid a 
 peculiar kind of grave saturnine humour. Tlie 
 object of the writer was to give a complete 
 monograph of Melancholy, and to point out 
 its causes, its symptoms, its treatment, and 
 its cure : but the descriptions given of the 
 various phases of the disease are written m 
 so curious and pedantic a style, accompanied 
 with such an infinity of quaint observation, 
 and illustrated by such a mass of quotations 
 from a crowd of authors, principally the 
 medical writers of the fourteenth and fifteenth 
 centuries, of whom not one reader in a thou- 
 sand in the present day has ever heard, that 
 the ' Anatomy ' possesses a charm which no 
 one can resist who has once fallen under its 
 fascination. 
 
 " The enormous amount of curious 
 quotation with which Burton has incrusted 
 every paragraph and almost every line of his 
 work has rendered him the favourite study of 
 those who wish to appear learned at a small 
 expense ; and liis pages have served as a 
 quarry from which a multitude of authors 
 have borrowed, and often ^vithout acknow- 
 ledgement, much of their materials, as the 
 great Eoman feudal famiUes plundered the 
 Coliseum to construct their frowning fortress- 
 palaces. 
 
 " The greater part of Burton's la- 
 borious life was passed in the University of 
 Oxford, where he died, not without suspicion 
 of having hastened his own end, in order that 
 it might exactly correspond with the astrolo- 
 gical predictions which he is said, being a firm 
 believer in that science, to have drawn from 
 his own horoscope. He is related to have 
 been himself a. victim to that melancholy 
 which he has so minutely described, and his 
 tomb bears the astrological scheme of his own 
 nativity, and an inscription eminently charac- 
 teristic of the man : ' Hie jacet Democritua 
 junior, cui vitam dedit et mortem Melan- 
 cholia.' "—{Hist, of Eng. Lit., p. 106, 107.) 
 Prefixed to the "Anatomy" ia a poem of 
 twelve stanzas on Melancholy, from which 
 Milton borrowed some of the imagery of 
 II Penseroso ; and Dr. Ferriar, of Manchester, 
 created some sensation in 1798, by showing 
 that Sterne had copied passages verbatim, 
 ■vvithout acknowledgement. — Dr. Angus's 
 " Handbook of Eng. Lit. " ; Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 TThird Pekiod. — 
 
 NATHANIEL FIELD. 
 
 Nathaniel Field, in the reigns of James I. 
 and Charles I., wrote "A Woman is a 
 Weathercock," 1612 ; "Amends for Ladies," 
 1618. Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER. 
 
 William Alexander, Earl of Sterline, bom 
 1580, died 1640. "William Alexander, of 
 Menstrie, travelled on the Continent as tutor 
 to the Earl of Argyll ; and after his return 
 to his native country (Scotland), having in 
 vain solicited a mistress, whom he celebrates 
 in his poetry by the name of Aurora, he 
 married the daugliter of Sir William Erskine. 
 Having repaired to the court of James L, he 
 obtained the notice of the monarch, was ap- 
 pointed gentleman usher to Prince Charles, 
 and was knighted by James. Both of those 
 sovereigns patronized his scheme for colonizing 
 Nova Scotia, of which the latter made him 
 lord-lieutenant. Charles I. created him Earl 
 of Sterline in 1633, and for ten years he held 
 the office of secretary of state for Scotland, 
 with the praise of moderation, in times that 
 were rendered peculiarly trying by the 
 struggles of Laud against the Scottish Pres- 
 byterians. He ^vrote some very heavy 
 tragedies ; but there is elegance of expression 
 in a few of his shorter pieces." — (CcunphelVs 
 Specimens, p. 158.) Walpole says of this 
 author, that he was greatly superior to the 
 style of his age. Pinkerton calls "The 
 Paraenesis " a noble poem. Dr. Drake, refer- 
 ing to his tragedies, states that although 
 these pieces are not calculated for the stage, 
 still they include some admirable lessons for 
 sovereign power, and several choruses written 
 with no small share of poetic vigour. Dr. 
 Anderson considers his " Paraenesis " and 
 *' Aurora" almost classical performances, and 
 well meriting publication. — Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit. " ; Chambers's '.' Cyc. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 THOMAS STORER. 
 
 Thomas Storer died 1604. The birth of this 
 poet is unknown. We, however, find him 
 elected a student of Christchurch, Oxford, in 
 1587. Wood says he was the son of John 
 Storer, a Londoner, and that he died in the 
 metropolis. He wrote the " History of Car- 
 dinal Wolsey," and several pastoral pieces in 
 " England's HeHcon." See Campbell's " Spe- 
 
 CHARLES FITZGEFFREY. 
 
 All we know is given by Campbell, who says 
 he was rector of St. Dominic, Cornwall, and 
 died in 1636. 
 
 JOHN DOWLAND. 
 
 John Dowland, died 1615. An English 
 musician, published several musical treatises, 
 amongst which was a translation of Ornitha- 
 phareus's " Micrologus ; or. Art of Singing," 
 fol. 1609, Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 EDWARD VERE, EARL OF OXFORD. 
 
 Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, 
 died 1604, the author of some verses in the 
 " Paradise of Dainty Devices." He sat as 
 Great Chamberlain of England upon the trial 
 of Mary Queen of Scots. The foUov/ing from 
 Disraeli is of interest : — 
 
 "It is an odd circumstance in literary re- 
 search that I am enabled to correct a story 
 which was written about 1680. The ' Aubrey 
 Papers,' recently published -with singular 
 faithfulness, retaining all their peculiarities, 
 even to the grossest errors, were memoranda 
 for the use of Anthony Wood's great work. 
 But beside these, the Oxford antiquary had a 
 very extensive literary correspondence ; and 
 it is known, that when speechless and dying 
 he evinced the fortitude to call in two friends 
 to destroy a vast multitude of papers : about 
 two bushels full were ordered for the fires 
 lighted for the occasion ; and, ' as he was ex- 
 piring, he expressed both his knowledge and 
 approbation of what was done, by throwing 
 out his hands.' These two bushels full were 
 not, however, all his papers ; his more private 
 ones he had ordered not to be opened for 
 seven years. I suspect also, that a great I 
 number of letters were not burnt on this 
 occasion ; for I have discovered a manuscript 
 written about 1720 to 1730, and which, the 
 writer tells us, consists of ' Excerpts out of 
 Anthony Wood's papers.' It is closely 
 written, and contains many curious facts not 
 to be found elsewhere. These papers of 
 Anthony Wood probably still exist in the 
 Ashmolean Museum : should they have 
 perished, in that case this solitary manuscript 
 will be the sole record of many interesting 
 particulars. 
 
 " By these I correct a little story which 
 may be found in the 'Aubrey Papers,' vol. 
 iii. 395. It is an account of one Nicholas 
 Hill, a man of great learning, and in the high 
 confidence of a remarkable and munificent 
 Earl of Oxford, travelling with him abroad. 
 I transcribe the printed Aubi-ey account. 
 
 " '.In his travels with his lord (I forget 
 whether Italy or Germany, but I think the 
 former), a poor man begged him to give him 
 a penny. " A penny ! " said Mr. Hill ; " what 
 dost say to ten pounds?" — "Ah ! ten 
 pounds," said the beggar ; " that would make 
 a man happy." Mr. Hill gave him im- 
 mediately ten pounds, and putt it downe upoA 
 \ account : — " Item, to a heg<jar ten pounds to 
 
From 1558 to 1649.1 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 hiake him happy I' " The point of this story- 
 lias been marred in the telling : it was drawn 
 up from the following letter by Aubrey to 
 A. Wood, dated July 15, 1680. 'A poor man 
 asked Mr. Hill, his lordship's steward, once to 
 give him sixpence, or a shilling, for an alms. 
 " What dost say if I give thee ten pounds ? " 
 — "Ten pounds! that would tiialce a man of 
 me ! " Hill gave it him, and put down in his 
 account, "Item, d810 for maldng a man," 
 which his lordship inquiring about for the 
 oddness of the expression, not only allowed, 
 but was pleased with it.' 
 
 " This philosophical humourist was the 
 steward of Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, in 
 the reign of Elizabeth. Tliis peer was a 
 person of elegant accomplishments ; and Lord 
 Orford, in his ' Noble Authors,' has given a 
 higher character of him than perhaps he may 
 deserve. He was of the highest rank, in 
 great favour with the queen, and, in the style 
 of the day, when all our fashions and our 
 poetry were moulding themselves on the 
 Italian model, he was the ' Mu-rour of Tus- 
 canismo ; ' and, in a word, this coxcombical 
 peer, after seven years' residence in Florence, 
 returned highly ' Italianated.' The ludicrous 
 motive of this peregrination is given in the 
 present manuscript account. Haughty of 
 his descent and alliance, irritable with efre- 
 minate delicacy and personal vanity, a little 
 circumstance almost too minute to be recorded, 
 inflicted such an injurj'- on his pride, that in 
 his mind it required years of absence from the 
 court of England ere it could be forgotten. 
 Once making a lov/ obeisance to the queen, 
 before the whole court, this stately and in- 
 flated peer suffered a mischance, which has 
 happened, it is said, on a like occasion — it 
 was ' light as air ! ' But this accident so 
 sensibly hurt his mawkish dehcacy, and so 
 humbled his aristocratic dignity, that he 
 could not raise his eyes on his roj'al mistress. 
 He resolved from that day to ' be a banished 
 man,' and resided for seven years in Italy, 
 li\-ing in more grandeur at Florence than the 
 Grand Duke of Tuscany. He spent in those 
 years forty thousand pounds. On his return 
 he presented the queen with embroidered 
 gloves and perfumes, then for the first time 
 introduced into England, as Stowe has noticed. 
 Part of the presents seem to have some 
 reference to the Earl's former mischance. 
 The queen received them graciously, and was 
 even painted wearing those gloves ; but my 
 authority states, that the masculine sense of 
 Elizabeth could not abstain from congratu- 
 lating the noble coxcomb ; perceiving, she 
 said, that at length my lord had forgot the 
 mentioning the little mischance of seven years 
 ago ! 
 
 " This peer's munificence abroad was indeed 
 the talk of Europe ; but the secret motive of 
 this was as wicked as that of his travels had 
 been ridiculous. This Earl of Oxford had 
 married the daughter of Lord Burleigh, and 
 
 when this great statesman would not consent 
 to save the life of the Duke of Norfolk, the 
 friend of this earl, he swore to revenge him- 
 self on the countess, out of hatred to his 
 father-in-law. He not only forsook her, but 
 stTidied every means to waste that great in- 
 heritance which had descended to him from 
 his ancestors. Secret history often startles 
 us with unexpected discoveries : the personal 
 afiectations of this earl induced him to quit a 
 court, where he stood in the highest favour, 
 to domesticate himself abroad ; and a family 
 pique was the secret motive of that splendid 
 prodigality which, at Florence,* could throw 
 into shade the court of Tuscany itself." 
 
 SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 
 
 *' Sir Thomas Overbury was born in 1581, 
 and perished in the Tov»'er of London, 1613, 
 by a fate that is too well known. The com- 
 passion of the public for a man of worth, 
 ' Avhose spirit still walked unrevenged amongst 
 them,' together with the contrast of his ideal 
 wife with the Countess of Essex, v/ho was his 
 murderess, attached an interest and popularity 
 to his poem, and made it pass through sixteen 
 editions before the year 165o. His ' Cha- 
 racters, or Witty Descriptions of the Properties 
 of sundry Persons,' is a work of considerable 
 merit ; but unfortunately his prose, as well as 
 his verse, has a dryness and quaintness that 
 seem to oppress the natural movement of his 
 thoughts. As a poet, he has few imposing 
 attractions : his beauties must be fetched by 
 repeated perusal. They are those of solid 
 reflection, predominating over, but not extin- 
 guishing, sensibility ; and there is danger of 
 the reader neglecting, under the coldness and 
 ruggedness of his manner, the manly but un- 
 ostentatious moral feeling that is conveyed in 
 his maxims, which are sterling and liberal, if 
 we can only pardon a few obsolete ideas on 
 female education." — (Campbell's Specimens, 
 p. 74.) How charming is the following de- 
 scription by Overbury : — 
 
 " A fair and happ^'' milkmaid is a country 
 wench, that is so far from making herself 
 beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able 
 to put all face-physic out of countenance. 
 She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to 
 commend virtue ; therefore minds it not. All 
 her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if 
 they had stolen upon her without her know- 
 ledge. The lining of her apparel, which is 
 herself, is far better than outsides of tissue ; 
 for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of 
 the silkworm, she is decked in innocence, — a 
 far better wearing. She doth not, with lying 
 long in bed, spoil both her complexion and 
 conditions. Nature hath taught her, too, im- 
 moderate sleep is rust to the soul ; she rises 
 therefore with Chanticlcre, her dame's cock, 
 and at night makes the lambs her curfew. In 
 
BIOGBAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 milking a cow, and straining the teats through 
 her fingers, it seems that so SAveet a milk- 
 press makes the milk whiter or sweeter ; for 
 never came almond-glore or aromatic oint- 
 ment on her palm to taint it. Tlie golden 
 ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she 
 reaps them, as if they wished to be bound 
 and led prisoners by the same hand that felled 
 them. Her breath is her own, which scents 
 all the year long of June, like a new made 
 haycock. She makes her hand hard with 
 labour, and her heart soft with pity ; and 
 when winter evenings fall early, sitting at her 
 merry wheel, *she sings defiance to the giddy 
 wheel of fortune. She doth aU things with 
 so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not 
 suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do 
 well. She bestows her year's wages at next 
 fair, and in choosing her garments, counts no 
 bravery in the world like decency. The 
 garden and beehive are all her own physic 
 and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. 
 She dares go alono and unfold sheep in the 
 night, and fears no manner of ill, because she 
 means none ; yet, to say truth, she is never 
 alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, 
 honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones ; 
 yet they have their efficacy, in that the.y are 
 not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. 
 Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she 
 dare tell them : only a Friday's dream is all 
 her superstition ; that she conceals for fear of 
 anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, 
 she may die in the si)ring-time to have store 
 of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet." 
 
 RICHARD NICCOLS. 
 
 Richard Niccols, born 1584. He contributed 
 to the "Mirror for Magistrates," which was 
 carried on by Churchyard, Drayton, and others. 
 He wrote the " Cuckoo," in imitation of 
 Drayton'3 " Owl," and a drama, " The 
 j TAv^Tincs' Tragedy," Wood says he was a 
 Londoner, that he studied at Oxford, and 
 obtained some congenial employment. Camp- 
 bell's "Specimens." 
 
 FRANCIS DAVISON. 
 
 Francis Davison, son of William Davison, 
 an eminent statesm.an in the time of Elizabeth. 
 He wrote several pieces in the " Poetical 
 Rhapsody." This collection contains poems by 
 Walter Davison, Sir John Davios, Sir Philip 
 Sydney, Sir Walter Raleigh, the Countess of 
 Pembroke, Spencer, Sir H. Walton, Donne, 
 Greene, and others. "How say you, reader? 
 Is not the above a glorious pageant of poets ? 
 Does not the mere enumeration of them beget 
 in thee a longing to explore the pages which 
 contain their bright thoughts and tuneful 
 lines?" — See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit."; Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 SIMON WASTALL. 
 
 Bom in Westmoreland about 1560 
 about 1630. 
 
 died 
 
TEIED PEEIOD, 
 
 From 1558 to 1649. 
 
 96. — THE rtsTDUCTION TO THE COM- 
 PLAINT OF HENEY, DUKE OE BUCK- 
 INGHAM. 
 
 The ^v^athf^lll winter procMuge on a pace, 
 With blustring blastes had al ybared the treen, 
 And olde Satnrnns -^vith his frosty face 
 With chilling colde had pearst the tender 
 
 g^reen ; 
 The mantels rent, wherein enwrapped been 
 The gladsom groves that nowe laye over- 
 
 throwen, 
 The tapets tome, and every blome down 
 
 blovren. 
 
 The'soyle that erst so seemly was to seen, 
 Was all despoyled of her beauties hewe ; 
 And soot freshe flowers (where with the som- 
 
 mers qtieen 
 Had clad the eai-th) now Boreas blastes downo 
 
 blewe 
 And small fowles flocking, in their song did 
 
 rewo 
 The Avintors -wrath, wher with eche thing de- 
 
 fa.ste 
 In woful wise bewayled the sommer past. 
 
 Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye 
 The naked twigges were shivering all for colde ; 
 And dropping downe the teares abundantly ; 
 Eche thing (me thought) with weping eye me 
 
 tolde 
 The crueU season, bidding me witholde 
 My selfe within, for I was gotten out 
 Into the feldes whereas I walkte about. 
 
 When loe the night with mistie mantels spred. 
 Can darke the daye, and dim the azure skyes, 
 And Venus in her message Hermes sped 
 To bLuddy Ma^rs, to Avyl him not to ryse, _ 
 Wliile she her selfe approcht in speedy wise ; 
 And Virgo hiding her disdainful brest 
 With Thetis now had layd her downe to rest. 
 
 Whiles Scorpio dreading Sagittarius dart. 
 Whose bowe prest bent in sight, the string 
 
 had slypt, 
 Downe slyd into tlie ocean flud aparte, 
 The Boare that in the Iryshe seas had dipt 
 His griesly feetc, with speode from thence he 
 
 whypt ; 
 For Thetis hasting from the Virgines bed 
 Pursued the Bear, that ear she came was fled. 
 
 And PhaBton nowe neare reaching to his race 
 With glistering beames, gold streamynge 
 
 where they bent 
 Was prest to enter in his resting place. 
 Crythius that in the carte fyrste went 
 Had even now attaynde his journeys stent 
 And fast declining hid away his head, 
 While Titan couched him in his purple bed. 
 
 And pale Cinthea with her borrowed light 
 Beginning to supply her brothers place. 
 Was past the noonsteede syre degrees in sight. 
 When sparkling starres amyd the heavens face 
 With twinkling light sheen on the earth apace, 
 That whyle they brought about the nightes 
 
 chare 
 The darke had dimmed the day ear I was ware. 
 
 And sorowing I to see the sommer flowers 
 The livly greene, the lusty leas forlorne, 
 The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers, 
 The fields so fade that floorisht so beforne 
 It taught me wel all earthly thinges bo borne 
 To dye the death, for nought long time may 
 
 last; 
 The sommers beauty yeeldcs to winters blast. 
 
 Then looking upward to the heavens leames 
 With nightes starres thick powdred every 
 
 where, 
 Which erst so glistened with the golden 
 
 streames 
 That chearefull Phebus spread downe from 
 
 his sphere, * 
 
 Beholding darke oppressing day so neare : 
 The sodayne sight reduced to my minde 
 The sundry chaungcs that in earth we fynde. 
 
 That musing on this worldly wealth in thought, 
 Which comes and goes more faster than we see 
 The flyckering flame that with the fyer is 
 
 wrought. 
 My busie minde presented unto me 
 Such fall of pieres as in this realme had be : 
 That ofte I wisht some would their woes de- 
 
 scryve. 
 To warne the rest whom fortune left alive. 
 
 And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pace 
 For that I sawe the night drewe on so fast, 
 In blacke all clad there fell before my face 
 A piteous vvdght, whom woe had al forwastc, 
 
Thoma-S Sackville.1 
 
 ALLEGOEICAL PERSONAGES. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Furth from her iyeu the cristall teares oiit- 
 
 brast, 
 And syghinjj sore her handes she wrong and 
 
 folde. 
 Tare al her heare, that ruth was to beholde. 
 
 Her body small forwithered and forespent, 
 As is the stalk that sommers drought opprest ; 
 Her wealked face ^vith wof ul teares besprent, 
 Her colour pale, and (as it seemd her best) 
 In woe and playnt reposed was her rest. 
 And as the stone that droppes of water weares ; 
 So dented wher her cheekes with fall of teares. 
 
 Her iyes swollen with flowing streames aflote, 
 Wherewith her lookes thro wen up full pi- 
 
 teouslie, 
 Her forceles handes together ofte she smote, 
 With doleful shrikes, that echoed in the skye : 
 Whose playnt such sighes dyd strayt accom- 
 pany, 
 That in my doome was never man did see 
 A Avight but halfe so woe begon as she. 
 
 Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset— About 1563. 
 
 97.— ALLEGOEICAL PERSONAGES DE- 
 SCRIBED IN HELL. 
 
 And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, 
 Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
 With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
 Her MT.'etchednes.s, and, cursing, never stent 
 To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament 
 With thoughtful care ; as she that, all in vain, 
 Would wear and waste continually in pain : 
 
 Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, 
 Whirl' d on each place, as place that vengeance 
 
 brought, 
 So v/as her mind continually in fear. 
 Tost and tormented with the tedious thought 
 Of those devested crimes which she had 
 
 wrought ; 
 With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 
 
 Next, saw avc Dread, all trembling how he 
 
 shook. 
 With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there ; 
 Benumb' d Avith speech; and, with a ghastly 
 
 look, 
 Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear. 
 His cap borne up with staring of his hair ; 
 'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread, 
 And fearing greater dangers than was need. 
 
 And, next, within the entry of this lake, 
 Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire ; 
 Deviai&g means how she may vengeance take : 
 Never in rest, 'till she have her desire ; 
 But frets within so far forth with the fire 
 Of wreaking flames', that now determines she 
 To die by death, or "veng'd by death to be. 
 
 When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, 
 Had show' d 'herself, as next in order set. 
 With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 
 'Till in our eyes another sight we met ; 
 When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, 
 Ruing, alas, upon the woeful plight 
 Of Misery, that next appeared in sight : 
 
 His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away, 
 And eke his hands consumed to the bone ; 
 But, what his body was, I cannot say. 
 For on his carcase raiment had he none. 
 Save clouts and patches pieced one by one ; 
 With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
 His chief defence against the winter's blast : 
 
 His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. 
 Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his 
 
 share, 
 Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 
 As on the which full daint'ly would he fare ; 
 His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare 
 Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold 
 
 ground : 
 To this poor life was Misery y bound. 
 
 Whose wretched state when wo had well be- 
 held. 
 With tender ruth on him, and on his feers, 
 In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we 
 
 held ; 
 And, by and by, another shape appears 
 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers ; 
 His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in, 
 AVith tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin. 
 
 j The morrow grey no sooner hath begun 
 I To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, 
 i But he is up, and to his work jrnn ; 
 But let the night's black misty mantles rise. 
 And with foul dark never so much disguise 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
 But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
 A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; 
 Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
 Of high renown, but, as a living death. 
 So dead alive, of life he drew the breath : 
 
 The body's rest, the quiet of the heart. 
 The travel's ease, the still night's feer was he. 
 And of our life in earth the better part : 
 Riever of sight, and j^et in whom we see 
 Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be ; 
 Without respect, esteem[ing] equally 
 King Crffisus' pomp and Irus' jioverty. 
 
 And next in order sad. Old- A go we found ; 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind ; 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the 
 
 ground, 
 As on the place where nature him assign'd 
 To rest, v.-hon that the sisters had untAvir.'<i 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] ALLEGOEICAL PERSONAGES DESCRIBED. [Thomas Sackville. 
 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life : 
 
 There heard vro him with broke and hollow 
 plaint 
 
 Rue with himself his end approaching fast, 
 
 And all for nought his -vvi-etched mind tor- 
 ment 
 
 With sweet remembrance of his pleasures 
 past. 
 
 And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste ; 
 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and 
 shriek. 
 
 And to be young again of Jove bcseek ! 
 
 But, an the cruel fates so fixed be 
 That time forepast cannot return again, 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he, — 
 That, in such wither' d plight, and wretched 
 
 pain, 
 As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train. 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief 
 He might a while yet linger forth his life. 
 
 And not so soon descend into the pit ; 
 Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath 
 
 slain. 
 With reckless hand in grave doth cover it : 
 Thereafter never to enjoy again 
 The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain. 
 In depth of darkness waste and wear to 
 
 nought. 
 As he had ne'er into the world been brought : 
 
 But who had seen him sobbing how he stood 
 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
 His youth forepast — as though it wrought him 
 
 good 
 To talk of youth, all were his youth fore- 
 gone — 
 He would have mused, and marvel' d much 
 
 whereon 
 This wretched Age should life desire so fain, 
 And knows full well life doth but length his 
 pain : 
 
 Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blcai- 
 
 eyed ; 
 Went on three feet, and sometime crept on 
 
 four ; 
 With old lame bones, that rattled by his side ; 
 His scalp all pil'd, and he with eld forelore, 
 His wither' d fist still knocking at death's 
 
 door; 
 Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his 
 
 breath ; 
 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 
 
 And fast by him pale Malady was placed : 
 Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone ; 
 Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, 
 Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone ; 
 Her breath corrupt ; her keepers every one 
 Abhorring hnr ; her sickness past recure, 
 Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. 
 
 But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see 1 
 We turn'd our look, and on the other side 
 A grislj' shape of Famine mought we see : 
 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that 
 
 cried 
 And roar'd for meat, as she should there have 
 
 died; 
 
 Her body thin and bare as any bone, ~ 
 Whereto was left nought but the case alone. 
 
 And that, alas, was gnawen every where. 
 All full of holes ; that I ne mought refrain 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could 
 
 tear, 
 And Avith her teeth gnash on the bones in vain. 
 When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain 
 Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade 
 Than any substance of a creature made : 
 
 Great was her force, whom stone-wall could 
 
 ngt stay : 
 Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw ; 
 With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay 
 Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw. 
 But eats herself as she that hath no law ; 
 Gnawing, alas ! her carcase all in vain. 
 Where you may count each sinew, bone, and 
 
 On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, 
 That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, 
 Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise 
 As made hell gates to shiver with the might ; 
 Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light 
 Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale 
 
 Death 
 Enthirling it, to rieve her of her breath : 
 
 And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, 
 Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright. 
 That daunts all earthly creatures to his law. 
 Against whose force in vain it is to fight ; 
 Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight. 
 No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest 
 
 tower. 
 But all, perforce, must yield unto his power : 
 
 His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took, 
 And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) 
 With great triumph eftsoons the same he 
 
 shook. 
 That most of all my fears affrayed me ; 
 His body dight with nought but bones, pardy ; 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain. 
 All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein. 
 
 Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, 
 With visage grim, stern look, and blackly 
 
 hued : 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had, 
 That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued ; 
 And in his left (that kings and kingdoms 
 
 rued) 
 Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 
 He razed towns, and threw down towerg and 
 
 all: 
 
•JThomas Sackville.] THE AERAIGNMENT OF A LOVEE. 
 
 [Third Period— 
 
 Cities he saek'd, and realms (that whilom 
 
 flower' d 
 In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) 
 He overwhelm' d, and all their fame devour' d, 
 Consnm'd, destroy" d, wasted, and never ceas'd, 
 'Till he their wealth, their name, and all op- 
 press' d : 
 His face forehew'd with wounds ; and by his 
 
 side 
 There hung his targe, with gashes deep and 
 
 wide. 
 Thomas Soxhvillc, Earl of Dorset. — About 1563. 
 
 98.— HENEY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM 
 IN THE INFEENAL EEGIONS. 
 
 Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, 
 His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn. 
 Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth 
 
 blame. 
 Which of a duke had made him now her scorn ; 
 With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, 
 Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins 
 
 as fast, 
 With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast. 
 
 His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ; 
 His hair all torn, about the place it lain : 
 My heart so molt to see his grief so great, 
 As feelingly, methought, it dropped away : 
 His eyes they whirled about "svithouten stay : 
 With stormy sighs the place did so complain, 
 As if his heart at each had burst in twain. 
 
 Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale. 
 
 And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice ; 
 
 At each of Avhich he shrieked so Av-ithal, 
 
 As though the heavens ryved with the noise ; 
 
 Till at the last, recovering of his voice, 
 
 Supping the tears that all his breast berained. 
 
 On cruel Fortune, weeping thus he plained. 
 
 Thomas Sachville, Earl of Dorset. — Ahoutl5G3. 
 
 99.— SONNET MADE ON ISABELLA 
 MAEKHAM, 
 
 Wlten I first thottght her fair, as she stood o.t 
 the Princess's window, in goodly attire, and 
 talked to divers in the court-yard, 1564. 
 
 Whence comes my love ? Oh, heart, disclose ; 
 It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, 
 From lips that spoil the ruby's praise. 
 From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
 Whence comes my woe ? as freely own ; 
 Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. 
 
 The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
 The lips befitting words most kind, 
 The eye does tempt to love's desire, 
 And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; 
 Yet all BO fair but speak my moan, 
 Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. 
 
 Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
 
 Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek — 
 
 Yet not a heart to save my pain ; 
 
 Oh, Venus, take thy gifts again ! 
 
 Make not so fair to cause o\ir moan, 
 
 Or make a heart that's like our own. 
 
 John Harrington. — About 1564. 
 
 100.— VEESES ON A MOST STONY- 
 HEAETED MAIDEN, 
 
 Who did sorely beguile the Noble Kivightj 
 my true Friend. 
 
 I. 
 
 Why didst thou raise such woeful wail, 
 And waste in briny tears' thy days ? 
 'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, 
 At last gave proof of woman's Avays ; 
 She did, in sooth, display the heart 
 That might have wrought thee greater smart. 
 
 Why, thank her then, not weep or moan ; 
 Let others guard their careless heart. 
 And praise the day that thus made known 
 The faithless hold on woman's art ; 
 Their lips can gloze and gain such root, 
 That gentle youth hath hope of fruit. 
 
 III. 
 
 But, ere the blossom fair doth rise. 
 To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, 
 Creepeth disdain in canker-wise, 
 And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast : 
 There is no hope of all our toil ; 
 There is no fruit from such a soil. 
 
 Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er ; 
 She might have poison'd all thy life ; 
 Such wayward mind had bred thee more 
 Of sorrow had she proved thy vdfe : 
 Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, 
 And bless th^^seK that so art freed. 
 
 No youth shall sue such one to win, 
 Unmark'd by all the shirjing fair, 
 Save for her pride and scorn, such sin 
 As heart of love can never bear ; 
 Like leafless plo.nt in blasted shade, 
 So liveth she — a barren maid. 
 
 Joltn Harrington. — About 1564, 
 
 loi.— THE AEEAIGNMENT OF A LOVEE. 
 
 At Beauty's bar as I did stand. 
 When False Suspect accused me, 
 George, quoth the judge, hold up thy hand. 
 Thou ai-t arraign' d of Flattery ; 
 
Prow 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 GOOD MOREOW. 
 
 [George Gascoigne. 
 
 Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried. 
 Whose judgment thou wilt here abide ? 
 
 My lord, quod I, this lady here, 
 Wliom I esteem above the rest. 
 Doth know my guilt, if any were ; 
 Wherefore her doom doth please me best. 
 Let her be judge and juror both. 
 To try me guiltless by mine oath. 
 
 Quoth Bcanty, No, it fitteth not 
 A prince herself to judge the cause ; 
 Will is our justice, well ye wot. 
 Appointed to discuss our laws ; 
 If you will guiltless seem to go, 
 God and your country quit you so. 
 
 Then Craft the crier call'd a quest. 
 Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere ; 
 A pack of pickthanks were the rest. 
 Which came false witness for to bear ; 
 The jury such, the judge unjust. 
 Sentence was said, " I should be truss'd." 
 
 Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast, 
 To hear the verdict of the bill ; 
 George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast. 
 Thou must go hence to Hcai'y Hill, 
 And there bo hang'd all but the head ; 
 God rest thy soul when thou art dead I 
 
 Down fell I then upon my knee, 
 All flat before dame Beauty's face. 
 And cried. Good Lady, pardon me '. 
 WTao here appeal unto your grace ; 
 You know if I have been untrue, 
 It was in too much praising you. 
 
 And though this Judge doth make such haste 
 To shed with shame my guiltless blood, 
 Yet let your pity first be placed 
 To save the man that meant you good ; 
 So shall you show yoiu'self a Queen, 
 And I may be your servant seen. 
 
 Quoth Beauty, Well ; because I guess 
 What thou dost mean henceforth to be ; 
 Although thy faults deserve no less 
 Than Justice here hath judged thee ; 
 Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife, 
 And be true prisoner all thy life ? 
 
 Yea, madam, quoth I, that I shall ; 
 
 Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties : 
 Why then, quoth she, come when I call, 
 I ask no better warrantise. 
 Thus am I Beantifs bounden thrall, 
 At her command when she doth call. 
 
 George Gascoigne. — About 1575. 
 
 I02.— SWIFTNESS OF TIME. 
 
 The heavens on high perpetually do move ; 
 By minutes meal the hour doth steal away, 
 By hours the days, by days the months remove, 
 And then by months the years as fast decay ; 
 Yea, Virgil's verso and TuUy's truth do say, 
 
 That Time flieth, and never claps her wings ; 
 But rides on clouds, and forward still she 
 flings. 
 
 George Gascoigne. — About 1575. 
 
 103.— THE VANITY OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 They course the glass, and let it take no rest ; 
 They pass and spy who gazeth on their face ; 
 They darkly ask whose beautj'" seemeth best ; 
 They hark and mark who marketh most their 
 
 grace; 
 They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace ; 
 They jealous are of every sight they see ; 
 They strive to seem, but never care to be. 
 
 What grudge and grief our joys may then sup- 
 press. 
 To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold. 
 Now grey as glass ; to feel and find them less ; 
 To scrape the bald skull which was wont to 
 
 hold 
 Our lovely locks with cttrling sticks controul'd j 
 To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair 
 Set fast on fronts which erst were sleek and 
 fair. 
 
 ***** 
 
 George Gascoigne. — About 1575. 
 
 104.— GOOD MOREOW. 
 
 You that haue spent the silent night, 
 
 In sleepe and quiet rest, 
 
 And ioye to see the cheerefull lyght 
 
 That ryseth in the East : 
 
 Now cleare your voyce, now chore your hart, 
 
 Come helpe me nowe to sing : 
 
 Echo willing wight come beare a part, 
 
 To prayse the heauenly King. 
 
 And you whome care in prison keepes, 
 Or sickenes doth suppresse. 
 Or secret sorowe breakes your sleepes, 
 Or dolours doe distresse : 
 Yet beare a part in dolfuU -svise, 
 Yea thinke it good accorde. 
 And acceptable sacrifice, 
 Eche sprite to prayse the Lorde. 
 
 The dreadfull night with darkesomnesse, 
 Had ouer spread the light. 
 And sluggish sleepe with drowsynesse, 
 Had ouer prest our might : 
 A glasse wherin you may beholde, 
 Eche storme that stopes our breath. 
 Our bed the graue, our clothes lyke molde, 
 And sleepe like dreadfull death. 
 
 Yet as this deadly night did laste, 
 But for a little space. 
 And heauenly daye nowe night is past, 
 Doth shewe his ploasaunt face : 
 
George Gascoigne.] 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 So must we hope to see Gods face, 
 
 At last in heauen on hie, 
 
 When we hane chang-'d this mortall place. 
 
 For Immortalitie. 
 
 And of such happes and heauenly ioyes, 
 
 As then we hope to holde, 
 
 All earthly sightes and worldly toyes, 
 
 Are tokens to beholde. 
 
 The daye is like the daye of doome, ^ 
 
 The sunne, the Sonne of man, 
 
 The skyes the heauens, the earth the tombe 
 
 Wherein we rest till than. 
 
 The Eainbowe bending in the skyc, 
 Bedeckte with sundrye hewes, 
 Is like the seate of God on hye, 
 And seemes to tell these newes : 
 That as thereby he promised, 
 To drowne the world no more, 
 So by the bloud which Christ hath shead, 
 He -will our helth restore.. 
 
 The mistie cloudes that fall somtime, 
 And ouercast the skyes, 
 Are like to troubles of our time, 
 Which do but dymme our eyes : 
 But as suche dewes are dryed vp quite, 
 "When Phoebus shewes his face, 
 So are such fansies put to flighte, 
 "VVliere God doth guide by grace. 
 
 The caryon Crowe, that lothsome beast, 
 
 Which cryes agaynst the rayne, 
 
 Both for hir hewe and for the rest, 
 
 The Deuill resembleth playne : 
 
 And as Avith gonnes we kill the Crowe, 
 
 For spoyling our releefe. 
 
 The Deuill so must we ouerthrowe. 
 
 With gonshote of beleefe. 
 
 The little byrdes which sing so sweto, 
 Are like the angelles voyce, 
 "VMiich render God his prayses meeto, 
 And teachc vs to reioyce : 
 And as they more esteeme that myrth, 
 Than dread the nights anoy. 
 So much we deeme our days on earth, 
 But hell to heauenly ioye. 
 
 Unto which Joyes for to attayne 
 God graunt vs all his grace, 
 And sende vs after worldly payne, 
 In heauen to haue a place. 
 Where wee maye still enioye that light. 
 Which neuer shall decaye : 
 Lorde, for thy mercy lend vs might, 
 To see that ioyfuU daye. 
 
 Haud ictns sapio. 
 George Gascoigne. — Ahout 1575. 
 
 105.— GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 When thou hast spent the lingring day in 
 
 pleasure and delight, 
 Or after toyle and wearie waye, dost seeke to 
 
 rest at nighte : 
 
 Unto thy paynes or pleasures past, adds this 
 
 one labour yet. 
 Ere sleepe close vp thyne eye to fast, do not 
 
 thy God forget, 
 But searche within thy secret thoughts, what 
 
 deeds did thee befa,! : 
 And if thou find amisse in ought, to God for 
 
 mercy call. 
 Yea thoiigh thou find nothing amisse, which 
 
 thou canst cal to mind, 
 Yet euer more remember this, there is the 
 
 more behind : 
 And thinke how well so euer it be, that thou 
 
 hast spent the daye, 
 It came of God, and not of thee, so to direct 
 
 thy waye. 
 Thus if thou trie thy dayly deedes, and 
 
 pleasure in this payne, 
 Thy life shall dense thy corne from weeds, 
 
 and thine shal be the gaine : 
 But if thy sinfuU sluggishe eye, will venter 
 
 for to v/inke, 
 Before thy wading will may trye, how far thy 
 
 soule maye sinke, 
 Beware and wake, for else thy bed, v<^hich soft 
 
 and smoth is made, 
 Mi'jy heape more harm vpo thy head, than 
 
 blowes of enmies blade. 
 Thus if this paine procure thine ease, in bed 
 
 as thou doest lye, 
 Perhaps it shall not God displease, to sing 
 
 thus soberly ; 
 I see that sleepe is lent me here, to ease my 
 
 wearye bones. 
 As death at laste shall eke appeere, to ease 
 
 my greeuous grones. 
 My dayly sportes, my panch full fed, haue 
 
 causde my drousie eye, 
 As carelesse life in quiet led, might cause my 
 
 soule to dye : 
 The stretching armes, the yauning breath, 
 
 which I to bedward vse, 
 Are patternes of the pangs of death, when 
 
 life win me refuse. 
 And of my bed echo sundrye part in shaddowes 
 
 doth resemble, 
 The siidry shapes of deth, whose dart shal 
 
 make my flesh to treble. 
 My bed it selfe is like the graue, my sheotes 
 
 the winding sheete, 
 My clothes the mould which I must haue, to 
 
 couer me most meete : 
 The hungry fleas v/hich fritike so freshe, to 
 
 wormes I can copare. 
 Which greedily shall gnaw my fleslie, and 
 
 leaue the bones ful bare : 
 The waking Cock that early crowos to weare 
 
 the night aw.^ye. 
 Puts in my minde the trumpe that blowes 
 
 before the latter day. 
 And as I rise vp lustily, when sluggish sleepe 
 
 is past, 
 So hope I to rise ioyfully, to Judgement at the 
 
 last. 
 Thus wyll I wake, thus wyll I sleepe, thus 
 
 wj'll I hope to ryse, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 DE PEOFUNDIS. 
 
 [George" Gascoigne. 
 
 Thus \v7ll I neither waile nor weepe, but sing 
 
 in godly ^vyse. 
 My bones shall in this bed remaine, my soule 
 
 in God shall trust, 
 By whome I hope to ryse againe from death 
 
 and earthly dust. 
 
 Haud ictus sa/pio. 
 George Gascoigne. — About 1575. 
 
 106.— DE PEOFUNDIS. 
 
 From depth of doole wherein my soule doth 
 
 dwell, 
 From heauy heart which harbours in my 
 
 brest, 
 From troubled sprite which sildome taketh 
 
 rest. 
 From hope of heauen, from dreade of darkesome 
 
 heU. 
 O gracious God, to thee I crye and yell. 
 My God, my Lorde, my louely Lorde aloane, 
 To thee I call, to thee I make my moane. 
 And thou (good God) vouchsafe in gree to 
 
 take. 
 This woefull plaint, 
 WTierein I faint. 
 Oh heare me then for thy great mercies sake. 
 
 Oh bende thine eares attentiuely to hear^ 
 Oh turne thine eyes, behold me how I wayle, 
 Oh hearken Lord, giue eare for mine auaile, 
 O marke in minde the burdens that I beare : 
 See howe I sinke in sorrowes euerye where. 
 Beholde and see what dollors I endure, 
 Giue eare and marke what plaintes I put in 
 
 vi-e. 
 Bende wyUing eare : and pittie therewithal!, 
 My wayling voyce, 
 "NVTiich hath no choyce. 
 But euermere vpon thy name to call. 
 
 If thou good Lorde shouldest take thy rod 
 in hando, 
 If thou regard what sinnes are daylye done, 
 If thou take holde where wee our workes 
 
 begone. 
 If thou decree in Judgement for to stande, 
 And be extreame to see our senses skande, 
 If thou take note of euery thing amysse, 
 And wryte in rowles howe frayle our nature is, 
 O gloryous God, O king, Prince of power, 
 What mortall wight, 
 Maye then haue light, 
 To feele thy fro\vne, if thou haue lyst to 
 
 lowre? 
 
 But thou art good, and hast of mercyo 
 store. 
 Thou not delyghst to see a sinner fall. 
 Thou hearknest first, before we come to call. 
 Thine eares are set wyde open euermore. 
 Before we knocke thou commest to the doore. 
 Thou art more prest to heare a sinner crye. 
 Then he is quicke to climbe to thee on hye. 
 
 Thy mighty name bee praysed then alwaye, 
 
 Let fayth and feare. 
 
 True witnesse beare, 
 
 Howe fast they stand which on thy mercy 
 
 I looke for thee (my louelye Lord) 4her^ore, 
 For thee I wayte, for thee I tarrye styll, 
 Myne eyes doe long to gaze on thee my fyll. 
 For thee I watche, for thee I prye and pore. 
 My Soule for thee attendeth euermore. 
 My Soule doth thyrst to take of thee a taste, 
 My Soule desires with thee for to bee plaste. 
 And to thy worde (which can no man deceyue) 
 Myne onely trust, 
 My loue and lust, 
 In confidence continually e shall cleaue. 
 
 Before the breake or dawning of the daye, 
 Before the lyght bo scene in loftye Skyes, 
 Before the Sunne appeare in pleasaunt wyse, 
 Before the watche (before the watche I saye) 
 Before the warde that waytes therefore 
 
 alwaye : 
 My soide, my sense, my secreete thought, my 
 
 sprite, 
 My wyU, my wishe, my ioye, and my delight : 
 Unto the Lord that sittes in heauen on highe. 
 With hastye wing, 
 From me doeth fling. 
 And stryueth styll, vnto the Lorde to flye. 
 
 O Israeli, O housholde of the Lorde, 
 O Abrahams Brattes, O broode of blessed 
 
 j O chosen sheepe that loue the Lorde in deede : 
 O hungrye heartes, feede styll vpon his 
 
 worde, 
 And put your trust in him with one accorde. 
 For he hath mercye euermore at hande. 
 His fountaines fiowe, his springes do neuer 
 
 stande. 
 And plenteouslye hee loueth to redeeme, 
 Such sinners all, 
 As on him call. 
 And faithfully his mercies most esteeme. 
 
 Hee wyll redeeme our deadly drowping 
 state, 
 He wyll bring home the sheepe that goe 
 
 astraye, 
 He wyU helpe them that hope in him alwaye : 
 He wyll appease our discorde and debate, 
 He wyll soone saue, though we repent vs late. 
 He wj'U be ours if we continewe his. 
 He wyll bring bale to ioye and perfect blissc, 
 He wyll redeeme the flocke of his electe. 
 From all that is, 
 Or was amisse, 
 Since Abrahams heyres dyd first his Lawes 
 
 reiect. 
 
 Etier or neuer. 
 
 George Gascoigne. — About 1575, 
 
Sir Philip Sidney.] 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 107.— SONNETS. 
 
 Because I oft in dark abstracted guise 
 Seem most alone in greatest company, 
 With, dearth of words, or answers quite awry 
 To them that would make speech of speech 
 
 arise, 
 They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, 
 That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie 
 So in my swelling breast, that only I 
 Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 
 Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, 
 Which looks too oft in liis unflattering glass ; 
 But one worse fault Ambition I confess, 
 That makes me oft my best friends overpass, 
 Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest 
 
 place 
 Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. 
 Sir Philvp Siobiey. — Ahout 1582. 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb' st 
 
 the skies, 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 What may it be, that even in heavenly place 
 That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace 
 To me that feel the like thy state descries. 
 Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. 
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of 
 
 wit? 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth 
 
 possess ? 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney. — About 1582. 
 
 Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of 
 
 peace, 
 The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
 The indifferent judge between the high and low. 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the 
 
 Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth 
 throw ; 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease : 
 
 1 win good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
 A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
 And if these things, as being thine by right. 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
 
 Sir PhiUp Sidney. — About 1582. 
 
 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 
 Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. 
 Both by the judgment of the English eyes. 
 And of some sent from that sweet enemy 
 
 France ; 
 Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance ; 
 
 Townfolks my strength j a daintier judge ap- 
 plies 
 His praise to sleight which from good use 
 
 doth rise ; 
 Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
 Others, because of both sides I do take 
 My blood from them who did excel in this. 
 Think nature me a man of arms did make. 
 How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, 
 SteUa look'd on, and from her heavenly face 
 Sent forth the beams which made so fair my 
 race. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney. — About 1582. 
 
 In martial sports I had my cunning tried, 
 And yet to break more staves did me address ; 
 While with the people's shouts, I must confess. 
 Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins 
 
 with pride. 
 When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried 
 In Mars' s livery, prancing in the press, 
 " What now. Sir Fool," said he, "I would no 
 
 less. 
 Look here, I say." I look'd, and Stella spied, 
 Who hard by made a window send forth light. 
 My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine 
 
 eyes ; 
 One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight : 
 Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly 
 
 cries ; 
 My foe came on, and beat the air for me. 
 Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 
 Sir Philip Sidmey. — About 1582. 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
 Edward named Fourth as first in praise I 
 
 name; 
 Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, 
 Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame : 
 Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, 
 
 frame 
 His sire's revenge, join'dwith akingdom'sgain, 
 And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so 
 
 tame, 
 That Balance weigh' d what Sword did late 
 
 obtain : 
 Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so fraid, 
 Though strongly hedg'd of bloody Lion's paws, 
 That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. 
 Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — 
 But ordy for this worthy knight durst prove 
 To lose his crown, rather than fail his love. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney. — About 1582. 
 
 happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear 1 
 
 1 saw thee with full many a, smiling lino 
 Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, 
 WTiile those fair planets on thy streams did 
 
 shine. 
 The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; 
 While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
 Ravish' d, staid not, tUl in her golden hair 
 They did themselves (0 sweetest prison) 
 
 twine : 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 [Robert Southwell. 
 
 And fain those (Eol's youth there would their 
 
 stay- 
 Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly, 
 First did mth puffing kiss those locks display. 
 She, so disheveU'd, blush' d. From windo-w I, 
 With sight thereof, cried out, " fair dis- 
 grace; 
 Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place." 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney. — About 1582. 
 
 loS.— LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds. 
 Yet few know whom they serve ; 
 They reckon least how little hope 
 Their service doth deserve. 
 
 The will she robbeth from the wit, 
 The sense from reason's lore ; 
 She is delightful in the rind. 
 Corrupted in the core. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 May never was the month of love ; 
 For May is full of floAvers ; 
 But rather April, wet by kind ; 
 For love is full of showers. 
 
 With soothing words inthraUed souls 
 She chains in servile bands ! 
 Her eye in silence hath a speech 
 Which eye best understands. 
 
 Her little sweet hath many sours, 
 Short hap, immortal harms ; 
 Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
 Her songs bewitching charms. 
 
 lake winter rose, and summer ice, 
 Her joys are still untimely ; 
 Before her hope, behind remorse, 
 Fair first, in fine unseemly. 
 
 Plough not the seas, sow not the sands. 
 Leave off your idle pain ; 
 Seek other mistress for your minds, 
 Love's service is in vain. 
 
 Robert Soutlvwell. — About 1587. 
 
 109.— LOOK HOME. 
 
 Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights. 
 As beauty doth in self -beholding eye : 
 Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 
 A brief wherein all miracles summed lie ; 
 Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the 
 
 store. 
 Most graceful all, yet thought may grace 
 
 them more. 
 
 The mind a creature is, yet can create. 
 To nature's patterns adding higher skill 
 Of finest works ; wit better could the state, 
 If force of wit had equal power of will. 
 Devise of man in working hath no end ; 
 What thought can think, another thought 
 can mend. 
 
 Man's soul of endless beauties image is. 
 Drawn by the work of endless skill and 
 
 might : 
 This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss. 
 And, to discern this bliss, a native Ught, 
 To frame God's image as his worth required; 
 His might, his skill, his word and-iviH con- 
 spired. 
 
 All that he had, his image should present ; 
 All that it should present, he could afford ; 
 To that he could afford his will was bent ; 
 His will was followed with performing word. 
 Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, 
 He should, he could, he would, he did the best. 
 
 Robert Southivell. — About 1687. 
 
 no.— TIMES. GO BY TURNS. 
 
 The lopped tree in time may grow again. 
 Most naked plants renew both frtdt and 
 
 flower, 
 The sorriest wight may find release of pain. 
 The driest soil suck in some moistening showor ; 
 Time goes by turns, and chances change by 
 
 course. 
 From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 
 
 The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow ; 
 She draws her favours to the lowest ebb ; 
 Her tides have equal times to come and go ; 
 Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest 
 
 web: 
 "No joy so great but runneth to an end, 
 No hap so hard but may in time amend. 
 
 Robert Southwell. — About 1587. 
 
 III.— THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 Before my face the picture hangs, 
 That daily should put me in mind 
 
 Of those cold names and bitter pangs 
 That shortly I am like to find j 
 
 But yet, alas ! full little I 
 
 Do think hereon, that I must die. 
 
 I often look upon a face 
 
 Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin ; 
 I often view the hollow place 
 
 Where eyes and nose had sometime been : 
 I see the bones across that lie. 
 Yet little think that I must die. 
 
 I read the label underneath, 
 
 That telleth me whereto I must ; 
 
 I see the sentence too, that saith, 
 
 " Remember, man, thou art but dust." 
 
 But yet, alas ! how seldom I 
 
 Do think, indeed, that I must die ! 
 
 Continually at my bed's head 
 
 A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell 
 That I ere morning may be dead. 
 
 Though now I feel myself full well ; 
 But yet, alas ! for all this, I 
 Have little mind that I must die ! 
 
 8* 
 
Robert Southwell.] 
 
 SCOEN NOT THE LEAST. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 The gown which I am used to wear, 
 The knife wherewith I cut my meat 
 
 And eke that old and ancient chair, 
 Which is my only usual seat ; 
 
 All these do tell me I must die, 
 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 My ancestors are tum'd to clay, 
 And many of my mates are gone ; 
 
 My youngers daily drop away, 
 And can I think to 'scape alone ? 
 
 No, no ; I know that I must die, 
 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart ; 
 
 If rich and poor his beck obey ; 
 If strong, if wise, if all do smart, 
 
 Then I to 'scape shall have no way : 
 Then grant me grace, O God ! that I 
 My life may mend, since I must die. 
 
 Robert Southwell— About 1587. 
 
 112.— SCOEN NOT THE LEAST. 
 
 "Where words are weak, and foes encount'ring 
 strong. 
 Where mightier do assault than do defend, 
 The feebler part puts up enforced wrong. 
 And silent sees, that speech could not 
 amend : 
 Yet higher powers must think, though they 
 
 repine. 
 When sun is set the little stars will shine. 
 
 While pike doth range, the silly tench doth 
 
 And crouch in privy creeks with smaller 
 fish; 
 Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by. 
 These fleet afloat, while those do fill the 
 dish; 
 There is a time even for the worms to creep, 
 And suck the dew while all their foes do 
 sleep. 
 
 The merlin cannot ever soar on high, 
 
 Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the 
 chase ; 
 
 The tender lark will find a time to fly. 
 And fearful hare to run a quiet race. 
 
 He that high growth on cedars did bestow. 
 
 Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow. 
 
 In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, 
 Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe. 
 The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept, 
 
 Yet he to heaven — to hell did Dives go. 
 We trample grass, and prize the flowers of 
 
 May; 
 Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade 
 away. 
 
 Robert Southwell. — About 1587. 
 
 113- 
 
 -THE PASSIONATE SHEPHEED 
 TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, 
 Woods or steepy mountains yields. 
 
 And we will sit upon the rocks. 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 And I will make thee beds of rosea, 
 And a thousand fragrant posies ; 
 A cap of flowers and a kirtle, 
 Embroider' d all with leaves of myrtle : 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Fair lined slippers for the cold. 
 With buckles of the purest gold : 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
 For thy delight, each May-morning : 
 If these delights thy mind may move 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 ChHstopher Marlow. — About 1590. 
 
 114.— THE NYMPH'S EEPLY. 
 
 If all the world and love were young, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue — a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love stiU breed. 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
 Then these delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh.— About 1610. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] A PASTOEAL OF PHILLIS AND COEIDON. [Nicholas Bketon. 
 
 115.— THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS. 
 
 Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 
 
 Fly, fly to courts, 
 
 Fly to fond worldling's sports ; 
 Wliere strained sardonic smiles are glozing 
 
 stiU, 
 And Grief is forced to laugh against her will ; 
 
 Where mirth's but mummery, 
 
 And sorrows only real be. 
 
 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 
 Sad troop of human misery ! 
 
 Come, serene looks, 
 
 Clear as the crystal brooks, 
 Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see 
 The rich attendance of our poverty. 
 
 Peace and a secure mind, 
 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 Abused mortals, did you know 
 Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
 You'd scorn proud towers, 
 And seek them in these bowers ; 
 Where winds perhaps our woods may some- 
 times shake. 
 But blustering care could never tempest 
 make, 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. 
 Saving of foimtains that glide by us. 
 # * * _ 
 
 Blest silent groves ! O may ye be 
 For ever mirth's best nursery ! 
 May pure contents 
 For ever pitch their tents 
 Upon those downs, these meads, these rocks, 
 
 these mountains. 
 And peace still slumber by these purling foun- 
 tains, 
 Which we may every year 
 Find when we come a-fishing here. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh.— About 1610. 
 
 116.— FAREAVELL TO TOWN. 
 
 * # # 
 
 Thou gallant court, to thee farewell ! 
 For froward fortune me denies 
 
 Now longer near to thee to dwell. 
 I must go Uvo, I wot not where, 
 Nor how to live when I come there. 
 
 And next, adieu you gallant dames, 
 The chief of noble youth's delight ! 
 
 Untoward Fortune now so frames. 
 That I am banish' d from your sight. 
 
 And, in your stead, against my will, 
 
 I must go live with country Jill. 
 
 Now next, my gallant youths, farewell ; 
 
 My lads that oft have cheered my heart 
 My grief of mind no tongue can tell. 
 
 To think that I must from you part. 
 I now must leave you all, alas. 
 And live with some old lobcock ass ! 
 
 And now farewell thou gallant lute. 
 With instruments of music's sounds ! 
 
 Recorder, citern, harp, and fiute. 
 
 And heavenly descants on sweet grounds. 
 
 I now must leave you all, indeed, 
 
 And make some music on a reed ! 
 
 And now, you stately stamping steeds. 
 And gallant geldings fair, adieu ! 
 
 My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds. 
 To think that I must part with you : 
 
 And on a strawen pannel sit. 
 
 And ride some country carting tit ! 
 
 And now farewell both spear and shield, 
 
 Caliver pistol, arquebuss, 
 See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield 
 
 To think that I must leave you thus ; 
 And lay aside my rapier blade. 
 And take in hand a ditching spade ! 
 
 And you farewell, all gallant games, 
 
 Primero, and Inijperial, 
 Wherewith I us'd, with courtly dames. 
 
 To pass away the time withal : 
 I now must learn some country plays 
 For ale and cakes on holidays ! 
 
 And now farewell each dainty dish. 
 With sundry sorts of sugar' d wine ! 
 
 Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish. 
 To please this dainty mouth of mine ! 
 
 I now, alas, must leave all these. 
 
 And make good cheer with bread and cheese 
 
 And now, all orders due, farewell ! 
 
 My table laid when it was noon ; 
 My hea"\^ heart it irks to tell 
 
 My dainty dinners all are done : 
 With leeks and onions, whig and whey, 
 I must content me as I may. 
 
 And farewell all gay garments now, 
 With jewels rich, of rare device ! 
 
 Like Robin Hood, I wot not how, 
 I must go range in woodman's Mase; 
 
 Clad in a coat of green, or grey. 
 
 And glad to get it if I may. 
 
 What shall I say, but bid adieu 
 To every dream of sweet delight. 
 
 In place where pleasure never grew. 
 In dungeon deep of foul despite, 
 
 I must, ah me ! wretch as I may, 
 
 Go sing the song of welaway ! 
 
 Nicholas Breton. — About 1620. 
 
 117.— A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND 
 CORIDON. 
 
 On a hill there grows a flower, 
 Fair befal the dainty sweet ; 
 By that flower there is a bower, 
 Where the heavenly Muses meet. 
 
 In that bower there is a chair, 
 Fringed all about with gold, 
 Where doth sit the fairest fair 
 That ever eye did yet behold. 
 
Nicholas Bketox.] 
 
 A SWEET PASTOEAL. 
 
 [Thtkd Pekiod. — 
 
 It is PMllis fair and bright, 
 She that is the shepherd's joy, 
 She that Venus did despite. 
 And did blind her little boy. 
 This is she, the wise, the rich, 
 That the world desires to see ; 
 This is ipsa quce, the which 
 There is none but only she. 
 Who would not this face admire ? 
 Who would not this saint adore ? 
 Who would not this sight desire. 
 Though he thought to see no more ? 
 
 fair eyes, yet let me see 
 
 One good look, and I am gone : 
 
 Look on me, for I am he. 
 
 Thy poor silly Coridon. 
 
 Thou that art the shepherd's queen, 
 
 Look upon thy silly swain ; 
 
 By thy comfort have been seen 
 
 Dead men brought to life again. 
 
 Nicholas Breton. — About 1620. 
 
 ii8.— A SWEET PASTOEAL. 
 
 Good Muse, rock me asleep 
 With some sweet harmony ; 
 The weary eye is not to keep 
 Thy wary company. 
 Sweet love, begone awhile, 
 Thou know'st my heaviness ; 
 Beauty is born but to beguile 
 My heart of happiness. 
 
 See how my little flock 
 
 That loved to feed on high, 
 
 Do headlong tumble down the rock, 
 
 And in the valley die. 
 
 The bushes and the trees. 
 That were so fresh and green, 
 Do all their dainty colour leese, 
 And not a leaf is seen. 
 
 Sweet Philomel, the bird 
 That hath the heavenly throat. 
 Doth now, alas ! not once afford 
 Eecording of a note. 
 
 The flowers have had a frost. 
 Each herb hath lost her savour, 
 And Phillida the fair hath lost 
 The comfort of her favour. 
 Now all these careful sights 
 So kill me in conceit. 
 That how to hope upon delights, 
 Is but a mere deceit. 
 
 And, therefore, my sweet Muse, 
 Thou know'st what help is best, 
 Do now thy heavenly cunning use, 
 To set my heart at rest. 
 
 And in a dream bewray 
 What fate shall be my friend, 
 Whether my life shall stiU decay, 
 Or when my sorrow end. 
 
 Nicholas Breton. — About 1620. 
 
 119 
 
 ,— THE SOUL'S EEEAND. 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest, 
 
 Upon a thankless errand ! 
 Fear not to touch the best. 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
 Go, since I needs must die. 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the court it glows. 
 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the church it shows 
 
 What's good, and doth no good: 
 If church and court reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell potentates, they live 
 
 Acting by others actions, 
 Not lov'd unless they give. 
 
 Not strong but by their factions. 
 If potentates reply. 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 
 That rule affairs of state. 
 Their purpose is ambition. 
 Their practice only hate. 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that brave it most. 
 
 They beg for more by spending, 
 Who in their greatest cost. 
 
 Seek nothing but commending. 
 And if they make reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell zeal it lacks devotion, 
 
 Tell love it is but lust, 
 TeU time it is but motion, 
 Tell flesh it is but dust ; 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell age it daily waste th, 
 • TeU honour how it alters, 
 TeU beauty how she blasteth, 
 TeU favour how she falters. 
 And as they shaU reply. 
 Give every one the Ue. 
 TeU wit how much it v^angles 
 In tickle points of niceness : 
 Tell wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness. 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give them both the Ue. 
 
 Tell physic of her boldness, 
 TeU skiU it is pretension. 
 Tell charity of coldness, 
 TeU law it is contention. 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them stUl the Ue. 
 
 TeU fortune of her blindness, 
 
 TeU nature of decay, 
 TeU friendship of unkindness, 
 TeU justice of delay. 
 And if they will reply, 
 Then give them aU the lie. 
 
From 1553 to 1649.] 
 
 THE NTMPHS TO THEIE MAY QUEEN. [Thomas Watson. 
 
 Tell arts ttey have no soundness, 
 
 But vary by esteeming ; 
 Tell schools they want profoundness, 
 And stand too much on seeming. 
 If arts and schools reply, 
 Give arts and schools the lie. 
 
 Tell faith it's fled the city. 
 
 Tell how the country erreth, 
 Tell, manhood shakes off pity, 
 Tell, virtue least preferreth. 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 So when thou hast, as I 
 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing : 
 Although to give the lie 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 No stab the soul can kill. 
 
 Joshua Sylvester. — About 1610. 
 
 I 
 
 I20.— TO RELIGION. 
 
 Eeligion, thou life of life. 
 How worldlings, that profane thee rife, 
 Can wrest thee to their appetites ! 
 How princes, who thy power deny, 
 Pretend thee for their tyranny, 
 And people for their false delights ! 
 
 Under thy sacred name, all over, 
 
 The vicious all their vices cover ; 
 
 The insolent their insolence. 
 
 The proud their pride, the false their fraud, 
 
 The thief his theft, her filth the bawd. 
 
 The impudent their impudence. 
 
 Ambition under thee aspires. 
 And Avarice under thee desires ; 
 Sloth under thee her ease assumes, 
 Lux under thee all overflows, 
 "Wrath tmder thee outrageous grows. 
 All evil under thee presumes. 
 
 BeKgion, erst so venerable, 
 "What art thou now but made a fable, 
 A holy mask on Folly's brow. 
 Where under lies Dissimulation, 
 Lined with all abomination. 
 Sacred Religion, where art thou ? 
 
 Not in the church with Simony, 
 
 Not on the bench with Bribery, 
 
 Nor in the court with Machiavel, 
 
 Nor in the city with deceits. 
 
 Nor in the countiy with debates ; 
 
 For what hath Heaven to do with Hell ? 
 
 Joshua Sylvester. — About 1610. 
 
 12] 
 
 —ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 As it fell upon a day. 
 In the merry month of May, 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 Which a grove of myrtles made ; 
 
 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
 
 Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 
 
 Everything did banish moan, 
 
 Save the nightingale alone. 
 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 
 Lean'd her breast up -till a thorn ; 
 
 And there sung the dolefull'stTiitty, 
 
 That to hear it was great pity. 
 
 Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 
 
 Teru, teru, by and by ; 
 
 That, to hear her so complain. 
 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
 
 For her griefs, so lively shown, 
 
 Made me tliink upon mine own. 
 
 Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn' st in vain ; 
 
 None takes pity on thy pain : 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee. 
 
 Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee : 
 
 King Pandion he is dead ; 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; 
 
 All thy fellow-birds do sing, 
 
 Careless of thy sorroAving ! 
 
 Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd. 
 
 Thou and I were both beguil'd. 
 
 Every one that flatters thee 
 
 Is no friend in misery. 
 
 Words are easy, like the wind ; 
 
 Faithful friends are hard to find. 
 
 Every man will be thy friend 
 
 Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : 
 
 But, if store of crowns be scant, 
 
 No man will supply thy want. 
 
 If that one be prodigal. 
 
 Bountiful they will him caU ; 
 
 And with such-like flattering, 
 
 " Pity but he were a king." 
 
 If he be addict to vice. 
 
 Quickly him they will entice ; 
 
 But if fortune once do frown. 
 
 Then farewell his great renoMoi : 
 
 They that fawn'd on him before 
 
 Use his company no more. 
 
 He that is thy friend indeed. 
 
 He will help thee in thy need ; 
 
 If thou sorrow, he will weep. 
 
 If thou wake he cannot sleep : 
 
 Thus, of every grief in heart 
 
 He with thee doth bear a part. 
 
 These are certain signs to know 
 
 Faithful friend from flattering foe. 
 
 Richard Barnjield. — About 1610. 
 
 I22<— THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY 
 QUEEN. 
 
 With fragrant flowers we strew the way, 
 And make this pur chief holiday : 
 For though this cKme was blest of yore, 
 Yet was it never proud before. 
 O beauteous queen of second Troy, 
 Accept of our unfeigned joy. 
 
 Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm. 
 And satyrs dance about the palm ; 
 
Thomas Watson.] 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Now earth with verdure newly dight, 
 Gives perfect signs of her delight : 
 O beauteous queen ! 
 
 Now birds record new harmony, 
 And trees do whistle melody : 
 And everything that nature breeds 
 Doth clad itseK in pleasant weeds. 
 
 Thomas Watson. — About 1590. 
 
 Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport, 
 
 Both shape and life for looking but awry : 
 
 Diana was afraid he would report 
 
 What secrets he had seen in passing by. 
 
 To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, 
 
 By viewing her for whom I daily die ; 
 
 I leese my wonted shape, in that my mind 
 
 Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock 
 
 Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind, 
 
 Does bear a breast more hard than any stock ; 
 
 And former form of limbs is changed quite 
 
 By cares in love, and want of due delight. 
 
 I leave my life, in that each secret thought 
 
 Which I conceive through wanton fond regard, 
 
 Doth make me say that life avaUeth nought, 
 
 Where service cannot have a due reward. 
 
 I dare not name the nymph that works my 
 
 smart. 
 Though love hath graven her name within my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Thomas Watson. — About 1590. 
 
 124. 
 
 -UNA AND THE EEDCEOSS 
 KNIGHT. 
 
 A gentle knight was pricking on the plain, 
 Yclad in mighty arms and silver shield, 
 Wherein old dints of deep wounds did remain, 
 The cruel marks of many a bloody field ; 
 Yet arms till that time did he never wield : 
 His angry steed did chide his foaming bit, 
 As much disdaining to the curb to yield : 
 Full joUy knight he seem'd, and fair did sit, 
 As one for knightly jousts and fierce encoun- 
 ters fit. 
 
 And on his breast a bloody cross he bore, 
 The dear remembrance of his dying Lord, 
 For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he 
 
 wore. 
 And dead (as living) ever him adored : 
 Upon his shield the like was also scored. 
 For sovereign hope, which in his help he had : 
 Eight faithful true he was in deed and word ; 
 But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad : 
 Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 
 
 Upon a great adventure he was bound. 
 That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
 (That greatest glorious queen of fairy lond,) 
 To win him worship, and her grace to have, 
 
 Which of all earthly things he most did crave; 
 And ever as he rode his heart did yearn 
 To prove his puissance in battle brave 
 Upon his foe, and his new force to learn ; 
 Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stem. 
 
 A lovely lady rode him fair beside, 
 Upon a lowly ass more white than snow ; 
 Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide 
 Under a veil that wimpled was full low, 
 And over all a black stole she did throw, 
 As one that inly mourn' d : so was she sad. 
 And heavy sat upon her palfrey slow ; 
 Seemed in heart some hidden care she had. 
 And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she leJ. 
 
 So pure and innocent, as that same lamb. 
 She was in life and every virtuous lore. 
 And by descent from royal lineage came 
 Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore 
 Their sceptres stretcht from east to western 
 
 shore. 
 And all the world in their subjection held ; 
 Till that infernal fiend with foul uproar 
 Fore wasted all their land and them expell'd : 
 Whom to avenge, she had this knight from 
 
 far compell'd. 
 
 Behind her far away a dwarf did lag, 
 That lazy seem'd in being ever last, 
 Or wearied mth beai*ing of her bag 
 Of needments at his back. Thus as they past 
 The day with clouds was sudden overcast. 
 And angry Jove an hideous storm of rain 
 Did pour into his leman's lap so fast, 
 That every wight to shroud it did constrain, 
 And this fair couple eke to shroud themselves 
 were fain. 
 
 Enforced to seek some covert nigh at hand, 
 A shady grove not far away they spied. 
 That promised aid the tempest to withstand ; 
 Whose lofty trees, yclad with summer's pride. 
 Did spread so broad, that heaven's light did 
 
 hide. 
 Nor pierceable with power of any star : 
 And all within were paths and alleys wide, 
 With footing worn, and leading inward far : 
 Fair harbour, that them seems ; so in they 
 
 entered are. 
 And forth they pass, with pleasure forward 
 
 led. 
 Joying to hear the birds' sweet harmony, 
 Which therein shrouded from the tempest 
 
 dread, 
 Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky. 
 Much can they praise the trees so straight 
 
 and high. 
 The sailing Pine, the Cedar proud and tall. 
 The vine-prop Elm, the Poplar never dry. 
 The builder Oak, sole king of forests all. 
 The Aspin good for staves, the Cypress 
 
 funeral. 
 The Laurel, meed of mighty conquerors 
 And poets sage, the Fir that weepeth still. 
 The Willow, worn of forlorn paramours, 
 The Yew obedient to the bender's will, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 UNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION, 
 
 [Edmund Spenser. 
 
 The Birch for shafts, the Sallow for the mill, 
 The Myrrh sweet bleeding in the bitter wound, 
 The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill, 
 The fruitful OHve, and the Plantain round, 
 The carver Holme, the Maple seldom inward 
 sound : 
 
 Led with delight, they thus beguile the way. 
 Until the blustering storm is overblown, 
 When, weening to return, whence they did 
 
 stray, 
 They cannot find that path which first was 
 
 shown. 
 But wander to and fro in ways unknown, 
 Furthest from end then, when they nearest 
 
 ween, 
 That makes them doubt their wits be not their 
 
 own : 
 So many paths, so many turnings seen, 
 That which of them to take, in divers doubt 
 
 they been. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 125.— UNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION. 
 
 Nought is there under Heaven's wide hollo w- 
 
 ness, 
 That moves more dear compassion of mind, 
 Than beauty brought t'unworthy wretched- 
 ness, 
 Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks 
 
 unkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightness 
 
 blind. 
 Op through allegiance and fast fealty, 
 Which I do owe unto all womankind. 
 Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, 
 When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 
 
 And now it is impassioned so deep, 
 For fairest Una's sake, of whom I sing, 
 That my frail eyes these lines with tears do 
 
 steep, 
 To think how she through guileful handelKng, 
 Though true as touch, though daughter of a 
 
 king. 
 Though fair as ever living wight was fair, 
 Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting. 
 Is from her knight divorced in despair, 
 And her due love's derived to that vile witch's 
 
 share. 
 
 Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while 
 Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid. 
 Far from all people's preace, as in exile. 
 In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd. 
 To seek her knight, who, subtily betray' d 
 Through that late vision, which the enchanter 
 
 wrought. 
 Had her abandon' d : she, of nought afraid. 
 Through woods and wasteness wide him daily 
 
 sought ; 
 Yet wished tidings none of him unto her 
 
 brought. 
 
 One day, nigh weary of the irksome way. 
 From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 
 And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
 In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 
 From her fair head her fillet she undight, 
 And laid her stole aside : her angel's face. 
 As the great eye of heaven, shined l^right. 
 And made a sunshine in a shady place ; 
 Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly 
 grace. 
 
 It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, 
 A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 
 Hunting fuU greedy after savage blood ; 
 Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
 With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 
 To have at once devour' d her tender corse ; 
 But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, 
 His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 
 And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious 
 force. 
 
 Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet, 
 And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue, 
 As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
 O how can beauty master the most strong. 
 And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
 Whose yielded pride and proud submission, 
 Stni dreading death, when she had marked 
 
 long. 
 Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion, 
 And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 
 
 " The lion, lord of every beast in field," j 
 
 Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth | 
 
 abate, ! 
 
 And mighty proud to humble weak does yield, I 
 Forgetful of the hungry rage which late i 
 
 Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate : 
 But he, my lion, and my noble lord. 
 How does he find ia cruel heart to hate 
 Her that him loved, and ever most adored. 
 As the God of my life ? why hath he mo 
 
 abhorr'd.P" i 
 
 Eedounding tears did choke th' end of her I 
 
 plaint, I 
 
 Which softly echoed from the neighbour j 
 
 wood ; 
 And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
 The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; ; 
 
 With pity calm'd, down fell his angry mood. j 
 
 At last, in close heart shutting up her pain. 
 Arose the virgin, born of heavenly blood. 
 And to her snowy palfrey got again, 
 To seek her strayed champion, if she might 
 attain. 
 
 The lion would not leave her desolate. 
 But \vith her went along, as a strong guard 
 Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
 Of her sad troubles, and misfortunes hard. 
 Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and 
 
 ward ; 
 And, when she waked, he waited diligent. 
 With humble service to her will prepared : 
 From her fair eyes he took commandement, 
 And ever by her looks conceived her intent. 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
Edmund Spenser.] 
 
 THE SQUIEE AND THE DOVE. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 126.— THE SQUIEE AND THE DOVE. 
 "Well said the wise man, now prov'd true by this, 
 WMch to this gentle squire did happen late ; 
 That the displeasure of the mighty is 
 Than death itself more dread and desperate : 
 For nought the same may calm, nor mitigate, 
 Tin time the tempest do thereof aUay 
 With sufferance soft, which rigour can abate, 
 And have the stern remembrance wip'd away 
 Of bitter thoughts, which deep therein in- 
 fixed lay. 
 
 Like as it fell to this unhappy boy. 
 Whose tender heart the fair Belphcebe had 
 With one stern look so daunted, that no joy 
 In all his life, which afterwards he lad, 
 He ever tasted ; but with penance sad. 
 And pensive sorrow, pin'd and wore away, 
 Nor ever laugh' d nor once show'd countenance 
 
 glad; 
 But always wept and wailed night and day, 
 As blastedblossom, through heat, doth languish 
 
 and decay ; 
 
 Till on a day (as in his wonted wise 
 His dole he made) there chanced a turtle-dove 
 To come, where he his dolours did devise. 
 That likewise late had lost her dearest love ; 
 Which loss her made like passion also prove. 
 Who seeing his sad plight, her tender heart 
 With dear compassion deeply did emmove, 
 That she gan moan his undeserved smart, 
 And with her doleful accent, bear with him a 
 part. 
 
 She, sitting by him, as on ground he lay. 
 Her mournful notes full piteously did frame, 
 And thereof made a lamentable lay. 
 So sensibly compiled, that in the same 
 Him seemed oft he heard his own right name. 
 With that, he forth would pour so plenteous 
 
 And beat his breast unworthy of such blame, 
 And knock his head, and rend his rugged hairs. 
 That could have pierc'd the hearts of tigers 
 and of bears. 
 
 Thus long this gentle bird to him did use, 
 
 Withouten dread of peril to repair 
 
 Unto his wonne ; and with her mournful muse 
 
 Him to recomfort in his greatest care. 
 
 That much did ease his mourning and misf are : 
 
 And every day, for guerdon of her song. 
 
 He part of his small feast to her would share; 
 
 That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong. 
 
 Companion she became, and so continued long. 
 
 Upon a day, as she him sate beside. 
 By chance he certain miniments forth drew, 
 Which yet %vith him as relics did abide 
 Of all the bounty which Belphcebe threw 
 On him, while goodly grace she did him shew : 
 Amongst the rest, a jewel rich he found, 
 That was a ruby of right perfect hue, 
 Shap'd like a heart, yet bleeding of the wound. 
 And with a little golden chain about it bound. 
 
 The same he took, and with a ribbon new 
 (In which his lady's colours were) did bind 
 About the turtle's neck, that with the view 
 Did greatly solace his engrieved mind. 
 All unawares the bird, when she did find 
 HerseK so deck'd, her nimble wings display' d. 
 And flew away, as lightly as the wind : 
 Which sudden accident him much dismay' a, 
 And looking after long, did mark which way 
 she stray' d. 
 
 But, when as long he looked had in vain, 
 Yet saw her forward still to make her flight. 
 His weary eye return' d to him again, 
 Full of discomfort and disquiet plight, 
 That both his jewel he had lost so light, 
 And eke his dear companion of his care. 
 But that sweet bird departing, flew forth right 
 Through the wide region of the wasteful air, 
 Until she came where wonned his Belphcebe 
 fair. 
 
 There found she her (as then it did betide) 
 Sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet. 
 After late weary toil, which she had tried 
 In savage chace, to rest as seem'd her meet. 
 There she alighting, fell before her feet. 
 And gan to her, her mournful plaint to make. 
 As was her wont : thinking to let her weet 
 The great tormenting grief, that for her sake 
 Her gentle squire through her displeasure did 
 partake. 
 
 She, her beholding with attentive eye. 
 At length did mark about her purple breast 
 That precious jewel, which she formerly 
 Had known right well, with colour' d ribbon 
 
 drest ; 
 Therewith she rose in haste, and her addrest 
 With ready hand it to have reft away. 
 But the swift bird obey'd not her behest. 
 But swerv'd aside, and there again did stay ; 
 She foUow'd her, and thought again it to 
 
 And ever when she nigh approach' d, the dove 
 Would flit a little forward, and then stay 
 Till she drew near, and then again remove ; 
 So tempting her still to pursue the prey. 
 And still from her escaping soft away : 
 Till that at length, into that forest wide 
 She drew her far, and led with slow delay. 
 In the end, she her unto that place did guide. 
 Whereas that woful man in languor did abide. 
 
 He her beholding, at her feet down fell, 
 And kiss'd the ground on which her sole did 
 
 tread, 
 And wash'd the same with water, which did 
 
 well 
 From his moist eyes, and like two streams 
 
 proceed ; 
 Yet spake no word, whereby she might aread 
 What mister wight he was, or what he meant; 
 But as one daunted with her presence dread, 
 Only few rueful looks unto her sent. 
 As messengers of h:s true meaning and intent. 
 
From 155S to 1649.] FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE BRIAE. [Edmund Spensir. 
 
 Yet nathemore his meaning she ared, 
 But wondered much at his so uncouth case ; 
 And by his person's secret seemlihed 
 Well ween'd, that he had been some man of 
 
 place, 
 Before misfortune did his hue deface : 
 That being moved vrith ruth she thus bespake. 
 Ah ! woful man, what heaven's hard disgrace, 
 Or wrath of cruel wight on thee ywrake, 
 Or self -disliked life, doth thee thus wretched 
 
 make? 
 
 If heaven, then none may it redress or blame. 
 Since to his power we all are subject born : 
 If wrathful wight, then foul rebuke and shame 
 Be theirs, that have so cruel thee forlorn ; 
 But if through inward grief, or wilful scorn 
 Of life it be, then better do avise. 
 For, he whose days in Avilful woe are worn, 
 The grace of his Creator doth despise, 
 That will not use his gifts for thankless nig- 
 gardise. 
 
 When so he heard her say, eftsoons he brake 
 His sudden silence, which he long had pent, 
 And sighing inly deep, her thus bespake : 
 Then have they all themselves against me bent ; 
 For heaven (first author of my languishment) 
 Envying my too great felicity, 
 Did closely with a cruel one consent, 
 To cloud my days in doleful misery. 
 And make me loath this life, still longing for 
 to die. 
 
 Nor any but yourself, O dearest dread. 
 Hath done this wrong ; to wreak on worthless 
 
 wight 
 Your high displeasure, through misdeeming 
 
 bred : 
 That when your pleasure is to deem aright, 
 Ye may redress, and me restore to light. 
 Which sorry words her mighty heart did mate 
 With mild regard, to see his rueful plight, 
 That her in-burning wrath she gan abate. 
 And him received again to former favour's 
 
 state. 
 
 Edmiund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 127. 
 
 -FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE 
 BEIAE. 
 
 There grew an aged tree on the green, 
 A goodly Oak sometime had it been. 
 With arms full strong and largely display' d, 
 But of their leaves they were disaray'd : 
 The body big and mightily pight, 
 Thoroughly rooted, and of wondrous height ; 
 Whilom had been the king of the field. 
 And mochel mast to the husband did yield, 
 And with his nuts larded many swine. 
 But now the gray moss marred his rine. 
 His bared boughs were beaten with storms. 
 His top was bald, and wasted with worms, 
 His honour decay' d, his branches sere. 
 
 Hard by his side grew a bragging Briere, 
 Which proudly thrust into th' element, 
 And seemed to threat the firmament : 
 It was embellisht with blossoms fair, 
 And thereto aye wonted to repair 
 The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres. 
 To paint their garlands with his co^nwres. 
 And in his small bushes used to shroud, 
 The sweet nightingale singing so loud. 
 Which made this foolish Briere wex so bold, 
 That on a time he cast him to scold, 
 And sneb the good Oak, for he was old. 
 
 Why stands there (quoth he) thou brutish 
 block ? 
 Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock ; 
 Seest how fresh my flowres been spread, 
 Died in lily white and crimson red. 
 With leaves engrained in lusty green 
 Colours meet to cloath a maiden queen ? 
 Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground, 
 And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round : 
 The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth : 
 My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth : 
 Wlierefore soon I rede thee hence remove. 
 Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove. 
 So spake this bold Briere with great disdain, 
 Little him answer' d the Oak again. 
 But yielded, with shame and grief adaw'd, 
 That of a weed he was over-craw' d. 
 
 It chanced after upon a day, 
 The husband-man's self to come that way, 
 Of custom to surview his ground. 
 And his trees of state in compass round ; 
 Him when the spiteful Briere had espyed, 
 Causeless complained, and loudly cryed 
 Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife ; 
 
 O my liege Lord ! the god of my life, 
 Please you ponder your suppliant's plaint. 
 Caused of wrong and cruel constraint. 
 Which I your poor vassal daily endure ; 
 And but your goodness the same recure, 
 And like for desperate dole to die. 
 Through f elonous force of mine enemy. 
 
 Greatly aghast with this piteous plea. 
 Him rested the good man on the lea. 
 And bade the Briere in his plaint proceed. 
 With painted words then gan this proud 
 
 weed 
 (As most usen ambitious folk) 
 His colour' d crime with craft to cloke. 
 
 Ah, my Sovereign ! lord of creatures all. 
 Thou placer of plants both humble and tail, 
 Was not I planted of thine own hand. 
 To be the primrose of all thy land, 
 With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime, 
 And scarlet berries in sommer-time ? 
 How falls it then that this faded Oak, 
 Whose body is sere, whose branches broke, 
 Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire, 
 Unto such tjTanny doth aspire, 
 Hindring with his shade my lovely light, 
 And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight ? 
 So beat his old boughs my tender side, 
 That oft the blood springeth from wounda 
 
 wide. 
 
Edmund Spensek.] 
 
 FEOM THE EPITHALAMION. 
 
 [Thikd Period. 
 
 Untimely my flowers forced to fall, 
 That been the honour of your coronal ; 
 And oft he lets his canker-worms light 
 Upon my branches, to work me more spight ; 
 And of his hoary locks down doth cast, 
 Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defast : 
 For this, and many more such outrage, 
 Craving your godly head to assuage 
 The rancorous rigour of his might ; 
 Nought ask I but only to hold my right, 
 Submitting me to your good sufferance. 
 And praying to be guarded from grievance. 
 
 To this this Oak cast him to reply 
 Well as he couth ; but his enemy 
 Had kindled such coals of displeasure. 
 That the good man nould stay his leisure, 
 But home him hasted with furious heat, 
 Encreasing his wrath with many a threat ; 
 His harmful hatchet he hent in hand, 
 (Alas ! that it so ready should stand !) 
 And to the field alone he speedeth, 
 (Aye little help to harm there needeth) 
 Anger nould let him speak to the tree, 
 Enaunter his rage might cooled be. 
 But to the root bent his sturdy stroke, ' 
 And made many wounds in the waste Oak. 
 The axe's edge did oft turn again, 
 As half unwilling to cut the grain, 
 Seemed the senseless iron did fear. 
 Or to wrong holy eld did forbear ; 
 For it had been an ancient tree, 
 Sacred with many a mystery. 
 And often crost with the priests' crew, 
 And often hallowed with holy- water dew ; 
 But like fancies weren foolery. 
 And broughten this Oak to this misery ; 
 For nought might they quitten him from decay, 
 For fiercely the good man at him did lay. 
 The block oft groaned under his blow. 
 And sighed to see his near overthrow. 
 In fine, the steel had pierced his pith, 
 Then down to the ground he fell forthwith. 
 His wondrous weight made the ground to 
 
 quake, 
 Th' earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to 
 
 shake ; 
 There lieth the Oak pitied of none. 
 
 Now stands the Briere like a lord alone, 
 Puffd up with pride and vain pleasance : 
 But all this glee had no continuance ; 
 For eftsoons winter 'gan to approach, 
 The blustering Boreas did encroach, 
 And beat upon the solitary Briere, 
 For now no succour was seen him near. 
 Now 'gan he repent his pride too late, 
 For naked left and disconsolate, 
 The biting frost nipt his stalk dead, 
 The watry wet weighed down his head, 
 And heap'd snow burdned him so sore, 
 That now upright he can stand no more ; 
 And being down is trod in the dirt 
 Of cattle, and bronzed, and sorely hurt. 
 Such was th' end of this ambitious Briere, 
 For scorning eld, 
 
 Edmimd Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 128.— FEOM THE EPITHALAMION. 
 
 Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time'; 
 The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed. 
 All ready to her silver coach to climb ; 
 And Phoabus 'gins to show his glorious head. 
 Hark ! now the cheerful birds do chant their 
 
 lays. 
 And carol of Love's praise. 
 The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; 
 The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; 
 The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 
 So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
 To this day's merriment. 
 
 Ah ! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long, 
 When meeter were that you should now awake, 
 T' await the coming of your joyous make, 
 And hearken to the birds' love-learned song, 
 The dewy leaves among ! 
 For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 
 That all the woods them answer and their 
 
 echo ring. 
 
 My love is now awake out of her dream, 
 And her fair eyes like stars that dimmed were 
 With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 
 
 beams 
 More bright than Hesperus his head doth roar. 
 Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
 Help quickly her to dight ; 
 But first come, ye fair Hours, which were 
 
 begot. 
 In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night ; 
 Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
 And all, that ever in this world is fair. 
 Do make and still repair ; 
 And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian 
 
 Queen, 
 The which do still adorn her beauties' pride. 
 Help to adorn my beautifullest bride : 
 And, as ye her array, still throw between 
 Some graces to be seen ; 
 And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing. 
 The whiles the woods shall answer, and your 
 
 echo ring. 
 
 Now is my love all ready forth to come : 
 Let all the virgins therefore well await ; 
 And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom. 
 Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight. 
 Set all your things in seemly good array. 
 Fit for so joyful day • 
 The joyful!' st day that ever sun did see. 
 Fair Sun ! show forth thy favourable ray. 
 And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be. 
 For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 
 Her beauty to disgrace. 
 O fairest Phoebus ! father of the Muse ! 
 If ever I did honour thee aright. 
 Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, 
 Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse. 
 But let this day, let this one day be mire ; 
 Let all the rest be thine. 
 Then I thy sovereign praises loud vnll sirg, 
 That all the woods shall answer, and their 
 echo rins". 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE HOUSE OF EICHES. 
 
 [Edmund Spenser. 
 
 Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace, 
 like Phoebe, from her chamber of the east, 
 Arising forth to rirn her mighty race, 
 Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 
 So well it her beseems, that ye would ween 
 Some angel she had been. 
 Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire. 
 Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers 
 
 atween, 
 Do like a golden mantle her attire ; 
 And being crowned with a garland green, 
 Seem like some maiden queen. 
 Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
 So many gazers as on her do stare. 
 Upon the lowly ground afiixed are ; 
 Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
 But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 
 So far from being proud. 
 Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
 
 ring. 
 
 Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 
 So fair a creature in your town before ? 
 So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 
 Adorn'd with beauty's grace, and virtue's 
 
 store ; 
 Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright, 
 Her forehead ivory white, 
 Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath 
 
 rudded, 
 Her lips like cherries charming men to bite. 
 Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded. 
 Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, 
 Upon her so to gaze, 
 ■Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing. 
 To which the woods did answer, and your echo 
 
 ring? 
 
 But if ye saw that which no eyes can see. 
 The inward beauty of her lively sp'rit, 
 Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree, 
 Much more then would ye wonder at that 
 
 sight. 
 And stand astonished like to those which read 
 Medusa's mazeful head. 
 
 There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chas- 
 tity, 
 Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
 Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty ; 
 There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, 
 And giveth laws alone. 
 The which the base affections do obey. 
 And yield their services unto her wUl ; 
 Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
 Thereto approach to tempt her mind to iU. 
 Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, 
 And unrevealed pleasures. 
 Then would ye wonder and her praises sing, 
 That aU the woods would answer, and your 
 echo ring. 
 
 Open the temple gates unto my love. 
 Open them wide that she may enter in. 
 And all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
 And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, 
 
 For to receive this saint with honour due, 
 
 That Cometh in to you. 
 
 With trembling steps, and humble reverence. 
 
 She Cometh in, before the Almighty's view : 
 
 Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience. 
 
 When so ye come into those holy places. 
 
 To humble your proud faces : 
 
 Bring her up to the high altar, that she may 
 The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
 The which do endless matrimony make ; 
 And Jet the roaring organs loudly play 
 The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
 The whiles, with hollow throats, 
 The choristers the joyous anthem sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and their echo 
 ring. 
 
 Behold while she before the altar stands. 
 Hearing the hcfij priest that to her speaks. 
 And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
 How the red roses flush up in her cheeks. 
 And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, 
 Like crimson dyed in grain ; 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 About the sacred altar do remain. 
 Forget their service and about her fly. 
 Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair. 
 The more they on it stare. 
 But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
 Are governed with goodly modesty. 
 That suffers not a look to glance awry. 
 Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
 Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand, 
 The pledge of aU our band ? 
 Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
 ring. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 129.— THE HOUSE OF EICHES. 
 
 That house's form within was rude and strong, 
 Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift. 
 From, whose rough vault the ragged breaches 
 
 hung 
 Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift. 
 And with rich metal loaded every rift. 
 That heavy ruin they did seem to threat ; 
 And over them Arachne high did lift 
 Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, 
 Enwrapped in foul smoke and clouds more 
 
 black than jet. 
 
 Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all of 
 
 gold. 
 But overgrown with dust and old decay. 
 And hid in darkness, that none could behold 
 The hue thereof : for view of cheerful day 
 Did never in that house itself display. 
 But a faint shadow of uncertain light ; 
 Such as a lamp whose life does fade away ; 
 Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy night, 
 Does show to him that walks in fear and sad 
 
 affright. 
 
Edmund Spenser.] 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 In all that room was nothings to be seen 
 
 But huge great iron chests, and coffers strong, 
 
 All barred with double bends, that none could 
 
 ween 
 Them to enforce by violence or wrong ; 
 On every side they placed were along. 
 But all the ground with skulls was scattered 
 And dead men's bones, which round about 
 
 were flung ; 
 Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there were 
 
 shed, 
 And their vile carcases now left unburied. 
 
 JEdmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 130.— THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 And is there care in Heaven ? And is there 
 
 love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
 That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 There is : — else much more wretched were the 
 
 case 
 Of men than beasts : But ! th' exceeding 
 
 grace 
 Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, 
 And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked 
 
 foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
 The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 
 Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
 They for us fight, they watch and duly ward. 
 And their bright squadrons round about us 
 
 plant ; 
 And all for love and nothing for reward : 
 O why should heavenly God to men have such 
 
 regard ? 
 
 Ednrnnd Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 131.— PRINCE ARTHUR'S ADDRESS TO 
 NIGHT. 
 
 " Night ! thou foul mother of annoyance sad, 
 Sister of heavy Death, and nurse of Woe, 
 Which was begot in Heaven, but for thy bad 
 And brutish shape thrust down to HeU below, 
 Where, by the grim flood of Cocytus slow, 
 Thy dwelling is in Erebus' black house, 
 (Black Erebus, thy husband, is the foe 
 Of all the gods,) where thou ungracious 
 Half of thy days doest lead in horror hideous. 
 
 " What had th' Eternal Maker need of thee 
 The world in his continual course to keep, 
 That doest all thiiigs deface, nor lettest see 
 The beauty of his work ? Indeed, in sleep 
 The slothful body, that doth love to steep 
 His lustless limbs, and drown his baser mind, 
 Doth praise thee oft, and oft from Stygian 
 deep 
 
 Calls thee his goddess, in his error blind, 
 And great dame Nature's handmaid cheering 
 every kind. 
 
 " But well I wot that to an heavy heart 
 Thou art the root and nurse of bitter cares, 
 Breeder of new, renewer of old smarts ; 
 Instead of rest thou lendest railing tears ; 
 Instead of sleep thou sendest troublous fears 
 And dreadful visions, in the which alive 
 The dreary image of sad Death appears : 
 So from the weary spirit thou doest drive 
 Desired rest, and men of happiness deprive. 
 
 " Under thy mantle black there hidden lie 
 Light- shunning Theft, and traitorous Intent, 
 Abhorred Bloodshed, and vile Felony, 
 Shameful Deceit, and Danger imminent, 
 Foxd Horror, and eke hellish Dreariment : 
 All these I wot in thy protection be, 
 And light do shun, for fear of being shent ; 
 For light alike is loth'd of them and thee ; 
 And all, that lewdness love, do hate the light 
 to see. 
 
 " For Day discovers all dishonest ways. 
 And sheweth each thing as it is indeed : 
 The praises of high God he fair displays. 
 And his large bounty rightly doth areed : 
 Day's dearest children be the blessed seed 
 Which Darkness shall subdue and Heaven 
 
 win: 
 Truth is his daughter ; he her first did breed, 
 Most sacred virgin, without spot of sin : 
 Our life is day ; but death with darkness 
 
 doth begin." 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 132.— THE GARDEN OF ADONIS. 
 
 There is continual spring, and harvest there 
 
 Continual, both meeting at one time : 
 
 For both the boughs do laughing blossoms 
 
 bear. 
 And with fresh colours deck the wanton 
 
 prime. 
 And eke at once the heavy trees they climb, 
 Which seem to labour under their fruit's load : 
 The while the joyous birds make their 
 
 pastime 
 Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode. 
 And their true loves without suspicion tell 
 
 abroad. 
 
 Right in the middest of that paradise 
 
 There stood a stately mount, on whose round 
 
 top 
 A gloomy grove of myrtle trees did rise, 
 Whose shady boughs sharp steel did never lop, 
 Nor wicked beasts their tender buds did crop, 
 But, like a girlond, compassed the height. 
 And from their fruitful sides sweet gam did 
 
 drop, 
 That all the ground, with precious dew 
 
 bedight. 
 Threw forth most dainty odours and most 
 
 sweet delight. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 [Edmund Spenser. 
 
 And in the thickest covert of that shade 
 There was a pleasant arbonr, not by art 
 But of the trees' own inclination made, 
 Which knitting their rank branches part to 
 
 part, 
 With wanton ivy-twine entrailed athwart. 
 And eglantine and caprifole among, 
 Fashioned above within their inmost part, 
 That neither Phoebus' beams could through 
 
 them throng, 
 Nor Coins' sharp blast could work them any 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Edmuiid Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 There the most dainty paradise on ground 
 
 Itself doth offer to his sober eye, 
 
 In which all pleasures plenteously abound, 
 
 And none does others happiness envy ; 
 
 The painted flowers, the trees upshooting high. 
 
 The dales for shade, the hills for breathing 
 
 space. 
 The trembling groves, the crystal running by ; 
 And that which all fair works doth most ag- 
 
 girace. 
 The art, which all that wrought, appeared in 
 
 no place. 
 
 One would have thought (so cunningly the rude 
 And scorned parts were mingled with the fine) 
 That nature had for wantonness ensued 
 Art, and that art at nature did repine ; 
 So striving each th' other to undermine, 
 Each did the other's work more beautify ; 
 So differing both in wills, agreed in fine : 
 So all agreed through sweet diversity, 
 This garden to adorn with aU variety. 
 
 And in the midst of all a fountain stood 
 Of richest substance that on earth might be, 
 So pure and shiny, that the silver flood 
 Through every channel running one might 
 
 see ; 
 ]\Iost goodly it with curious imagery 
 Was overwrought, and shapes of naked boys, 
 Of which some seem'd with lively jollity 
 To fly about, plajdng their wanton toys. 
 While others did embaye themselves in liquid 
 
 joys. 
 
 And over all, of purest gold, was spread 
 A trail of ivy in his native hue ; 
 For, the rich metal was so coloured. 
 That wight, who did not well ad vis' d it view, 
 Would surely deem it to be ivy true : 
 Low his lascivious arms adown did creep, 
 That themselves dijiping in the silver dew, 
 Their fleecy flowers they fearfully did steep, 
 Which drops of crystal seem'd for wantonness 
 to weep. 
 
 Infinite streams continually did well 
 Out of this fountain, sweet and fair to see. 
 The which into an ample laver fell. 
 And shortly grew to so great quantity, 
 That like a little lake it seem'd to be ; 
 
 Whose depth exceeded not three cubits height. 
 That through the waves one might the bottom 
 
 see. 
 All pav'd beneath with jasper shining bright, 
 That seem'd the fountain in that sea did sail 
 
 upright. 
 
 And all the margin round about 
 With shady laurel trees, thence to defend 
 The sunny beams, which on the billows beat, 
 And those which therein bathed might oflFend. 
 ***** 
 
 Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound, 
 Of all that might delight a dainty ear. 
 Such as at once might not on living ground, 
 Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere : 
 Right hard it was for wight which did it hear. 
 To read what manner music that might be :. 
 For aU that pleasing is to living ear. 
 Was there consorted in one harmony ; 
 Birds, voices, instriunents, winds, waters, all 
 agree.\ 
 
 The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, 
 Their notes unto the voice attemper' d sweet ; 
 Th' angelical soft trembling voices made 
 To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; 
 The silver sounding instruments did meet 
 With the base murmur of the water's fall : 
 The water's fall with difference discreet. 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call : 
 The gentle warbUng wind low answered to aU. 
 
 The while some one did chaunt this lovely lay ; 
 " Ah see, whoso fair; thing thou dost fain to 
 
 see. 
 In springing flower the image of thy day ; 
 Ah see the virgin rose, how sweetly she 
 Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty. 
 That fairer seems the less ye see her may ; 
 Lo, see soon after, how more bold and free 
 Her bared bosom she doth broad display ; 
 Lo, see soon after, how she fades and falls 
 
 away ! 
 
 " So passeth, in the passing of a day, 
 Of mortal life, the leaf, the bud, the flower, 
 Nor more doth flourish after first decay. 
 That erst was sought to deck both bed and 
 
 bower 
 Of many a lady, and many a paramour ; 
 Gather therefore the rose, while yet is prime. 
 For soon comes age, that wiU her pride de- 
 flower : 
 Gather the rose of love, while yet is time. 
 While loving thou mayst loved be with equal 
 crime." 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 134- 
 
 -SONNETS. 
 
 Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ; 
 Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough ; 
 Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ; 
 Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough ; 
 
Samuel Daniel.] 
 
 EAELY LOY£. 
 
 [Thied Period. — 
 
 Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough j 
 Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ; 
 Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour 
 
 enough ; 
 And sweet is moly, but his root is ill ; 
 So, every sweet, with sour is tempered still, 
 That maketh it be coveted the more : 
 For easy things that may be got at will 
 Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
 Why then should I account of little pain, 
 That endless pleasure shall unto me gain ? 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 Since I did leave the presence of my love, 
 Many long weary days I have outworn, 
 And many nights that slowly seem'd to move 
 Their sad protract from evening until morn. 
 For, when as day the heaven doth adorn, 
 I wish that night the noyous day would end ; 
 And when as night hath us of light forlorn, 
 I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
 Thus I the time with expectation spend, 
 And fain my grief with changes to beguile, 
 That further seems his term still to extend. 
 And maketh every minute seem a mile. 
 So sorrow still doth seem too long to last. 
 But joyous hours do fly away too fast. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 Like as the culver, on the bared bough. 
 Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. 
 And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 
 For his return that seems to linger late ; 
 So I alone, now left disconsolate, 
 Mourn to myself the absence of my Love, 
 And, wand'ring here and there, all desolate, 
 Seek with my plaints to match that mournful 
 
 dove ; 
 Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove, 
 Can comfort me but her own joyous sight, 
 Whose sweet aspect both God and man can 
 
 move, 
 In her unspotted pleasuns to delight. 
 Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss. 
 And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss. 
 Edmund Spenser. — About 1590. 
 
 135.— EARLY LOVE. 
 
 Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
 But evermore remember well) when first 
 Our flame began, when scarce we knew what 
 
 was 
 The flame we felt ; when as Ve sat and sigh'd 
 And look'd upon each other, and conceived 
 Not what we ail'd, yet something wo did ail, 
 And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
 And what was our disease we could not tell. 
 Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : 
 
 and thus 
 In that first garden of our simpleness 
 We spent our childhood. But when years 
 
 began 
 
 To reap the fruit of knowledge ; ah, how then 
 Would she with sterner looks, with graver 
 
 brow. 
 Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
 Yet still would give me flowers, still would 
 
 show 
 What she would have me, yet not have me 
 
 know. 
 
 Samuel Daniel. — About 1612. 
 
 136.— THE mTRPDUCTIO:Nr OF FOREIGN 
 VICES DEPRECATED. 
 
 Let their vile cunning, in their limits pent, 
 Remain among themselves that like it most, 
 And let the north, they count of colder blood, 
 Be held more gross, so it remain more good. 
 
 Let them have fairer cities, goodlier soils. 
 And sweeter fields for beauty to the eye, 
 So long as they have these ungodly wiles. 
 Such detestable vile impiety. 
 And let us want their vines, their fruits the 
 
 whiles. 
 So that we want not faith or honesty. 
 We care not for these pleasures ; so we may 
 Have better hearts and stronger hands than 
 
 they. 
 
 Neptune, keep out from thy embraced ifsle 
 This foul contagion of iniquity ! 
 Drown all corruptions, coming to defile 
 Our fair proceedings, ordered formally. 
 Keep us mere English ; let not craft beguile 
 Honour and justice with strajUge subtlety. 
 Let us not think how that our good can 
 
 frame 
 That ruined hath the authors of the same. 
 
 Samuel Daniel. — About 1612. 
 
 137.— RICHARD II., 
 
 The Morning before his Murder in Pomfret 
 Castle. 
 
 Whether the soul receives intelligence. 
 By her near genius, of the body's end, 
 And so imparts a sadness to the sense, 
 Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend ; 
 Or whether nature else hath conference 
 With profound sleep, and so doth warning 
 
 send. 
 By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, 
 And gives the hea\'y careful heart to fear. 
 
 However, so it is, the now sad king, 
 Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, 
 Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering 
 Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground ; 
 Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering ; 
 Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound ; 
 His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick, 
 And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. 
 
From 1558 io 1649.] 
 
 AN EPISTLE. 
 
 [Samuel Daniel. 
 
 The morning of that day which was his last, 
 After a weary rest, rising to pain, 
 Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 
 Upon those bordering hills and open plain, 
 Where other's liberty make him complain 
 The more his own, and grieves his soul the 
 
 more, 
 Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor. 
 
 O happy man, saith he, that lo I see, 
 Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields. 
 If he but knew his good. How blessed he 
 That feels not what affliction greatness yields ! 
 Other than what he is he would not be, 
 iSTor change his state with him that sceptre 
 
 wields. 
 Thine, thine is that true life ; that is to live, 
 To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 
 
 Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, 
 And hear'st of other's harms, but fearest none : 
 And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire. 
 Who f aU, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. 
 Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost enquire 
 Of my restraint, why here I live alone. 
 And pitiest this my miserable fall ; 
 For pity must have part — envy not all. 
 
 Tlirice happy you that look as from the shore. 
 And have no venture in the wreck you see ; 
 No interest, no occasion to deplore 
 Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. 
 How much doth your sweet rest make us the 
 
 more 
 To see our misery, and what we be : 
 Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, 
 Still seeking happy life, makes life a toU. 
 
 Samuel Daniel. — About 1612. 
 
 138.— AN EPISTLE TO THE COUNTESS 
 OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his mind. 
 And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so 
 
 strong, 
 As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
 Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
 Of vanity or malico pierce to wrong 
 His settled peace, or to disturb the same : 
 What a fair scat hath he, from whence he 
 
 may 
 The boundless wastes and weilds of man 
 
 survey ? 
 
 And with how free a:i eye doth he look down 
 Upon these lower regions of turmoil ? 
 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
 On fle^li and blood : where honour, power, 
 
 renown, 
 Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
 Where grea,tness stands upon as feeble feet. 
 As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
 To little minds, Avho do it so esteem. 
 
 He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 
 But only as on stately robberies ; 
 
 Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
 Must be the right : the ill- succeeding mars 
 The fairest and the best fac'd enterprise. 
 Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : 
 Justice, he sees, (as if seduced) still 
 Conspires ■wdth power, whose cause must not 
 be ill. 
 
 He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
 As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
 Who puts it in all colours, all attires, 
 To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
 He sees, that let deceit work what it can. 
 Plot and contrive base ways to high desires ; 
 That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
 All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. 
 
 Nor is ho mov'd with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes : 
 Charg'd with more crying sins than those he 
 
 checks. 
 The storjas of sad confusion, that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times. 
 Appal not him that hath no side at all. 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality. 
 That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
 Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
 Aflfliction upon imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
 And is encompass'd ; whilst as craft deceives, 
 And is deceiv'd : whilst man doth ransack 
 
 man. 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 And th' inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting hopes : he looks thereon, 
 As from the shore of peace, with iinwet eye. 
 And bears no venture in impiety. 
 
 Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath 
 
 prepar'd 
 A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learn' d this book of 
 
 man. 
 Full of the notes of frailty ; and compar'd 
 The best of glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart ; and set your thoughts as 
 
 near 
 His glorious mansion, as your pow'rs can bear. 
 
 Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned 
 
 By that clear judgment, that hath carry'd you 
 
 Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, 
 
 As they can stand against the strongest head 
 
 Passion can make ; inur'd to any hue 
 
 The world can cast ; that cannot cast that 
 
 mind 
 Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 
 Both what the best and worst of earth can be 
 
 9 
 
Samuel Daniel.] 
 
 THE NOBILITY EXHORTED. 
 
 [Thisd Pekiod. — 
 
 Which makes, that whatsoever here befalls, 
 You in the region of yourself remain : 
 Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests. 
 That hath secur'd within the brazen walls 
 Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
 Eises in peace, in innocency rests ; 
 "Wliilst all what Malice from mthout procures, 
 Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts»not yours. 
 
 And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, 
 Than women use to do ; yet you well know. 
 That wrong is better check' d by being con- 
 
 temn'd. 
 Than being pursu'd ; leaving to him t'avenge. 
 To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 
 How worthily your clearness hath condemn' d 
 Base malediction, living in the dark, 
 That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. 
 
 Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 These revolutions of disturbances 
 StUl roll ; where all th' aspects of misery 
 Predominate : whose strong effects a*re such, 
 As he must bear, being pow'rless to redress : 
 And that unless above himself he can - 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 
 
 And how turmoil' d they are that level lie 
 With earth, and cannot lift themselves from 
 
 thence ; 
 That never are at peace with their desires, 
 But work beyond their years ; and ev'n deny 
 Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
 With death. That when ability expires, 
 Desire lives still — So much delight they have, 
 To carry toil and travel to the grave. 
 
 Whose ends you see ; and what can be the 
 
 best 
 They reach unto, when they have east the sum 
 And reck'nings of their glory. And you know, 
 This floating life hath but this port of rest, 
 A heaH 2y'i'epa7'\l, tl tat fears no ill to come. 
 And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
 The best of all whose days consumed are, 
 Either in war, or peace-conceiving war. 
 
 This concord, madam, of a well- tun' d mind 
 Hath been so set by that all- working hand 
 Of Heaven, that though the world hath done 
 
 his worst 
 To put it out by discords most unkind ; 
 Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
 With God and man ; nor ever will be forc'd 
 Erom that most sweet accord ; but still agree. 
 Equal in fortune's inequality. 
 
 And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
 Remains recorded in so many hearts. 
 As time nor malice cannot wrong your right, 
 In th' inheritance of fame you must possess : 
 Yon that have built you by your great deserts 
 (Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
 And glorious dwelling for your honou.r'd name. 
 Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. 
 
 Samuel Daniel.— About 1612. 
 
 139.— THE NOBILITY EXHORTED TO 
 THE PATRONAGE OF LEARNING. 
 
 You mighty lords, that with respected grace 
 Do at the stern of fair example stand, 
 And all the body of this populace 
 Guide with the' turning of your hand ; 
 Keep a right course; bear up from all 
 
 disgrace ; 
 Observe the point of glory to our land : 
 
 Hold up disgraced Knowledge from the 
 
 ground ; 
 Keep Virtue in request : give worth her due. 
 Let not Neglect with barbarous means 
 
 confound 
 So fair a good, to bring in night a-new : 
 Be not, be not accessary found 
 Unto her death, that must give life to you. 
 
 Where will you have your virtuous name safe 
 
 laid ? — 
 In gorgeous tombs, in sacred cells secure ? 
 Do you not see those prostrate heaps betray'd 
 Your fathers' bones, and could not keep them 
 
 sure ? 
 And will you trust deceitful stones fair laid, 
 And think they will be to your honour truer ? 
 
 No, no ; unsparing Time will proudly send 
 A warrant unto Wrath, that with one frown 
 Will all these mockeries of vain-glory rend. 
 And make them (as before) ungraced, 
 
 unknown : 
 Poor idle honours, that can ill defend 
 Your memories, that cannot keep their own ! 
 8amttel Daniel. — About 1612. 
 
 140.— SONNETS. 
 
 I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would 
 
 read 
 Lines of delight, whereon her youth might 
 
 smile ; 
 Flowers ha,ve time before they come to seed, 
 And she is young, and now must sport the 
 
 while. 
 And sport, sweet maid,in season of these years. 
 And learn to gather flowers before they 
 
 wither ; 
 And where the sweetest blossom first appears, 
 Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures 
 
 thither. 
 Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, 
 And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; 
 Pity and smiles do best become the fair ; 
 Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. 
 Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, 
 Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one. 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair ; 
 
 Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes are 
 
 sunny ; 
 Her smiles are lightning, though her pride 
 
 despair ; 
 And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 MOETIMEE, EAEL OF MAECH. 
 
 [Michael Drayton. 
 
 A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, 
 Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and 
 
 love ; 
 The wonder of all eyes that look upon her : 
 Sacred on earth ; design' d a saint above ; 
 Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, 
 Live reconciled friends within her brow ; 
 And had she Pity to conjoin with those, 
 Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
 For had she not been fair, and thus unkind. 
 My muse had slept, and none had known my 
 
 mind. 
 
 Care-charmer sleep, son of the sable Night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
 Eelieve my anguish, and restore the light, 
 With dark forgetting of my care, return. 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my ni-advised youth ; 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
 Without the torments of the night's untruth. 
 Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
 To model forth the passions of to-morrow ; 
 Never let the rising sun prove you liars, 
 To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 Samuel Daniel. — About 1612. 
 
 141. — MOETIMEE, EAEL OF MAECH, 
 AND THE QUEEN, SUEPEISED BY 
 EDWAED III. IN NOTTINGHAM 
 CASTLE. 
 
 Within the castle hath the queen devised 
 A chamber with choice rarities so fraught. 
 As in the same she had imparadised 
 Almost what man by industry hath sought ; 
 Where with the curious pencil was comprised 
 What could with colours by the art be 
 wi'ought, 
 In the most sure place of the castle there, 
 Which she had named the Tower of Mor- 
 timer. 
 
 An orbal form with pillars small composed, 
 Which to the top like parallels do bear. 
 Arching the compass where they were in- 
 closed. 
 Fashioning the fair roof like the hemisphere, 
 In whose partitions by the lines disposed, 
 All the clear northern asterisms were 
 
 In their corporeal shapes Avith stars in- 
 chased. 
 As by th' old poets they in heaven were 
 placed. 
 
 About which lodgings, tow'rds the upper face, 
 Ean a fine bordure circularly led, 
 As equal 'twixt the high'st point and the base, 
 That as a zone the waist ingirdled. 
 That lends the sight a breathing, or a space, 
 'Twixt things near view and those far overhead. 
 Under the which the painter's curious skill 
 In lively forms the goodly room did fill. 
 
 Here Phoebus clipping Hyacinthus stood. 
 Whose life's last drops his snowy breast 
 
 imbrue, 
 The one's tears mixed with the other's blood. 
 That should't be blood or tears no sight could 
 
 view, — - 
 
 So mix'd together in a little flood ; 
 Yet here and there they sev' rally withdrew, 
 The pretty wood-nymphs chafing him with 
 
 balm. 
 To bring the sweet boy from his deadly 
 qualm. 
 
 With the god's lyre, his quiver, and his bow. 
 
 His golden mantle cast upon the ground, 
 
 T' express whose grief Art ev"n her best did 
 
 show. 
 The sledge so shadow' d still seem'd to re- 
 bound. 
 To counterfeit the vigour of the blow, 
 As still to give new anguish to the wound ; 
 The purple flower sprung from the blood 
 
 that run. 
 That op'neth since and closeth with the sun. 
 
 By which the heifer lo, Jove's fair rape, 
 Gazing her new-ta'en figure in a brook. 
 The water shadow' d to observe the shape 
 In the same form that she on it doth look. 
 So cimningly to cloud the wanton 'scape. 
 That gazing eyes the portraiture mistook, 
 j By perspective devised beholding now, 
 1 This way a maiden, that way't seem'd a cow. 
 
 I Swift Mercury, like to a shepherd's boy, 
 I Sporting with Hebe by a fountain brim, 
 I With many a sweet glance, many an am'roua 
 toy, 
 Ho sprinkling drops at her, and she at him ; 
 Wherein the painter so explain' d their joy. 
 As though his skill the perfect life could limn. 
 Upon whose brows the water hung so clear, 
 As through the drops the fair skin might 
 appear. 
 
 And ciffy Cynthus with a thousand birds, 
 Whose freckled plumes adorn his bushy crown, 
 Under whose shadow graze the straggling herds. 
 Out of whose top the fresh springs trembling 
 
 down, 
 Dropping like fine pearl through his shaggy 
 
 beards. 
 With moss and climbing ivy over-grown ; 
 The rock so lively done in every part. 
 As Nature could be patterned by Art. 
 
 The naked nymphs, some up and down de- 
 scending. 
 Small scatt'ring flowers at one another flung, 
 With nimble turns their limber bodies bending, 
 Cropping the blooming branches lately sprung, 
 (Upon the briars their colour' d mantles rend- 
 ing) 
 Which on the rocks grew here and there 
 among ; 
 Some comb their hair, some making gar- 
 ! lands by, 
 
 As with delight might satisfy the eye. 
 ' 9* 
 
Michael Drayton.] 
 
 MORTIMEE, EAEL OF MAECH. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 There comes proud Phaeton tumbling through 
 
 the clouds, 
 Cast by his palfreys that their reins had bro'ke, 
 And setting fire upon the Avelked shrouds, 
 Now through the heaven run madd'ning from 
 
 the yoke, 
 The elements together thrust in crowds. 
 Both land and sea hid in a reeking smoke ; 
 Drawn with such life, as some did much 
 
 desire 
 To warm themselves, some frighted with 
 
 the fire. 
 
 The river Po, that him receiving burn'd, 
 His seven sisters standing in degrees. 
 Trees into women seeming to be turn'd, 
 As the gods turn'd the women into trees, 
 Both which at once so mutually that mourn'd. 
 Drops from their boughs, or tears fell from 
 their eyes ; 
 The fire seem'd to be water, water flame, 
 Such excellence in showing of the same. 
 
 And to this lodging did the light invent, 
 That it should first a lateral course reflect, 
 Through a short room into the window sent. 
 Whence it should come expressively direct. 
 Holding just distance to the lineament, 
 And should the beams proportionably project. 
 And being thereby condensated and grave. 
 To every figure a sure colour gave. 
 
 In part of which, under a golden vine. 
 Whose broad-leaved branches cov'ring over all. 
 Stood a rich bed, spread with this wanton 
 
 twine, 
 Doubling themselves in their lascivious fall, 
 Whose rip'ned clusters seeming to decline. 
 Where, as among the naked Cupids sprawl. 
 Some at the sundry-colour' d birds do shoot, 
 Some swarming up to pluck the purple fruit. 
 
 On which a tissue counterpane was cast, 
 Arachne's web the same did not surpass. 
 Wherein the story of his fortunes past 
 In lively pictures neatly handled was ; 
 How he escaped the Tower, in France how 
 
 With stones embroider' d, of a wondrous mass ; 
 About the border, in a curious fret, 
 Emblems, impresas, hieroglyphics set. 
 
 This flatt'ring sunshine had begot the shower, 
 And the black clouds with such abundance 
 
 fed. 
 That for a wind they waited but the hour, 
 With force to let their fury on his head : 
 Which when it came, it came with such a 
 
 power, 
 As he could hardly have imagined. 
 
 But when men think they most in safety 
 
 stand. 
 Their greatest peril often is at hand. 
 
 For to that largeness they increased were, 
 That Edward felt March heavy on his throne, 
 Whose props no longer both of them couldbear ; 
 Two for one seat, that over-groat were grown, 
 
 Prepost'rously that moved in one sphere, 
 And to the like predominancy prone, 
 
 That the young king down Mortimer must 
 cast. 
 
 If he himself would e'er hope to sit fast. 
 
 Who finding the necessity was such. 
 That urged him still th' assault to undertake, 
 And yet his person it might nearly touch. 
 Should he too soon his sleeping power awake : 
 Th' attempt, wherein the danger was so much, 
 Drove him at length a secret means to make. 
 Whereby he might the enterprise effect. 
 And hurt him most, where he did least 
 suspect. 
 
 Without the castle, in the earth is found 
 A cave, resembling sleepy Morpheus' cell. 
 In strange meanders winding under ground. 
 Where darkness seeks continually to dwell. 
 Which with such fear and hprror doth abound. 
 As though it were an entraiicc into hell ; 
 By architects to serve the castle made. 
 When as the Danes this island did invade. 
 
 Now on along the crankling path doth keep. 
 
 Then by a rock turns up another way, 
 
 Eising tow'rds day, then falling tow'rds the | 
 
 deep. 
 On a smooth level then itself doth lay. 
 Directly then, then obliquely doth creep. 
 Nor in the course keeps any certain stay ; 
 Till in the castle, in an odd by-place. 
 It casts the foul mask from its dusky face. 
 
 By which the king, with a selected crew 
 Of such as he with his intent acquainted. 
 Which he affected to the action knew, 
 And in revenge of Edward had not fainted. 
 That to their utmost would the cause pursue, 
 And with those treasons that had not been 
 tainted, 
 Adventured the labyrinth t' assay. 
 To rouse the beast which kept them all at 
 bay. 
 
 Long after Phoebus took his lab' ring teem. 
 To his pale sister and resign' d his place, 
 To wash his cauples in the open stream. 
 And cool the fervour of his glowing face ; 
 And Phoebe, scanted of her brother's beam, 
 Into the west went after him apace. 
 
 Leaving black darkness to possess the sky, 
 To fit the time of that black tragedy. 
 
 What time by torch-light they attempt the 
 
 cave, 
 Which at their entrance seemed in a fright, 
 With the reflection that their armour gave. 
 As it till then had ne'er seen any light ; 
 Which, striving their pre-eminence to have. 
 Darkness therewith so daringly doth fight. 
 That each confounding other, both appear. 
 As darkness light, and hght but darkness 
 were. 
 
 The craggy cliff's, which cross them as they go, 
 Made as their passage they would have denied. 
 And threat'ned them their journey to foreslow. 
 As angry with the path that was their guide. 
 
From 1558 fo 1649.] 
 
 MORTIMEE, EAEL OF MAECH. 
 
 [Michael Drayton. 
 
 And sadly seem'd their discontent to show 
 To the vile hand that did them first divide ; 
 
 Whose cumbrous falls and risings seem'd to 
 say, 
 
 So ill an action could not brook the day. 
 
 And by the lights as they along were led, 
 Their shadows then them following at their 
 
 back, 
 Were like to mourners carrying forth their 
 
 dead, 
 And as the deed, so were they, ugly, black, 
 Or like to fiends that them had followed, 
 Pricking them on to bloodshed and to wrack ; 
 Whilst the light look'd as it had been 
 
 amazed 
 At their deformed shapes, whereon it gazed. 
 
 The clatt'ring arms their masters seem'd to 
 
 chide. 
 As they would reason wherefore they should 
 
 wound, 
 And struck the cave in passing on each side, 
 As they were angry with the hollow ground, 
 That it an act so pitiless should hide ; 
 Whose stony roof lock'd in their angry sound, 
 And hanging in the creeks, drew back again, 
 As willing them from murder to refrain. 
 
 The night wax'd old (not dreaming of these 
 
 things) 
 And to her chamber is the queen withdrawn, 
 To whom a choice musician plays and sings, 
 Whilst she sat under an estate of lawn. 
 In night-attire more god-like glittering. 
 Than any eye had seen the cheerful dawn. 
 Leaning upon her most-loved Mortimer, 
 Whose voice, more than the music, pleased 
 her ear. 
 
 Where her fair breasts at liberty were let. 
 Whose violet veins in branched riverets flow. 
 And Venus' swans and milky doves were set 
 Upon those swelling mounts of driven snow ; 
 Whereon whilst Love to sport himself doth 
 
 get, 
 He lost his way, nor back again could go. 
 But with those banks of beauty set about. 
 He wander' d still, yet never could get out. 
 
 Her loose hair look'd like gold (0 word too 
 
 base ! 
 Nay, more than sin, but so to name her hair) 
 Declining, as to kiss her fairer face, 
 No word is fair enough for thing so fair, 
 Nor ever was there epithet could grace 
 That, by much praising which we much 
 
 impair ; 
 And where the pen fails, pencils cannot 
 
 show it, 
 Only the soul may be supposed to know it. 
 
 She laid her fingers on his manly cheek, 
 
 The Gods' pxire sceptres and the darts of Love, 
 
 That with their touch might make a tiger 
 
 meet, 
 Or might great Atlas from his seat remove ; 
 
 So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleek, • 
 As she had worn a lily for a glove ; 
 
 As might beget life where was never none, 
 And put a spirit into the hardest stone. 
 
 The fire of precious wood ; the light_perfume. 
 Which left a sweetness on each thing it shone. 
 As everything did to itself assume 
 The scent from them, and made the same their 
 
 own : 
 So that the painted flowers within the room 
 Were sweet, as if they naturally had grown ; 
 
 The light gave colours, which upon them 
 feU, 
 
 And to the colours the perfume gave smell. 
 
 When on those sundry pictures they devise, 
 And from one piece they to another run, 
 Commend that face, that arm, that hand, 
 
 those eyes ; 
 Show how that bird, how well that flower was 
 
 done ; 
 How this part shadow' d, and how that did 
 
 rise, — 
 This top was clouded, how that trail was 
 
 spun, — 
 The landscape, mixture, and delineatings. 
 And in that art a thousand curious things ; 
 
 Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapt in fire. 
 
 The gentle queen did much bewail his fall ; 
 
 But Mortimer commended his desire, 
 
 To lose one poor life, or to govern all : 
 
 " What though (quoth he) he madly did 
 
 aspire. 
 And his great mind made him Droud Fortune's 
 
 thrall ? 
 Yet in despight, when she her worst had 
 
 done, 
 He perish'd in the chariot of the sun." 
 
 " Phoebus (she said) was over-forced by art ; 
 Nor could she find how that embrace could 
 
 be." 
 But Mortimer then took the painter's part : 
 " Why thus, bright empress, thus and thus 
 
 (quoth he ;) 
 That hand doth hold his back, and this'his 
 
 heart ; 
 Thus their arms twine, and thus their lips, 
 you see : 
 Now are you Phoebus, Hyacinthus I ; 
 It were a life, thus every hour to die." 
 
 When, by that time, into the castle-hall 
 Was rudely enter' d that well-armed rout. 
 And they within suspecting nought at all, 
 Had then no guard to watch for them without. 
 See how mischances suddenly do fall. 
 And steal upon us, being farth'st from doubt ! 
 Our life's uncertain, and our death is siu-e, 
 And tow'rds most peril man is most secure. 
 
 Whilst youthful Neville and brave Turrington, 
 To the bright queen that ever waited near. 
 Two with great March much credit that had 
 
 won, 
 That in the lobby with the ladies were, 
 
Michael DEATrou.] THE BALLAD Or AGINCOUET. [Third Period.— 
 
 143.— THE BATJ.AD OF AGINCOUET. 
 
 That with the cries they maka 
 
 The very earth did shake ; 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 
 When we our sails advance, 
 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Nor noAV to prove our chance 
 Longer will tarry ; 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 
 But putting to the main, 
 
 noble Erpingham ! 
 
 At Kause, the mouth of Seine, 
 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 With all his martial train, 
 
 To our hid forces ; 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 When, from a meadow by, 
 
 
 Like a storm suddenly. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 
 The English archery 
 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 
 
 Struck the French horses. 
 
 Marched toward Agincourt 
 
 
 In happy hour ; 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong, 
 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
 
 With those that stopped his way, 
 
 That like to serpents stung. 
 
 Where the French gen'ral lay 
 
 Piercing the weather ; 
 
 With all his power. 
 
 None from his fellow starts. 
 
 Which in his height of pride. 
 King Henry to deride, 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 But playing manly parts. 
 And like true English hearts. 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 To the king sending ; 
 
 Wlien down their bows they threw. 
 
 Which he neglects the while. 
 
 And forth their bilbows drew. 
 
 As from a nation vile, 
 
 And on the French they flew, 
 
 Yet, with an angry smile, 
 
 Not one was tardy : 
 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
 
 And turning to his men. 
 Quoth our brave Henry then : 
 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 
 Down the French peasants went ; 
 Our men were hardy. 
 
 Though they to one be ten^ 
 
 Be not amazed ; 
 
 This while our noble king. 
 
 Yet have we well begun. 
 
 His broadsword brandishing. 
 
 Battles so bravely won 
 
 Down the French host did ding. 
 
 Have ever to the sun. 
 
 As to o'erwhelm it ; 
 
 By fame been raised. 
 
 And many a deep wound rent 
 
 And for myself, quoth he, 
 This my full rest shall be ; 
 
 His arms with blood besprent. 
 And many a cruel dent. 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 England ne'er mourn for me. 
 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 
 Glo'ster, that duke so good. 
 
 Victor I will remain, 
 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 
 Or on this earth lie slain ; 
 
 For famous England stood, 
 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 With his brave brother 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 
 
 Clarence, in steel so bright, 
 
 Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
 
 Though but a maiden knight, 
 
 Ypt 171 thnf. fnTionti •firrlrh 
 
 When most their pride did swell, 
 Under our swords they fell. 
 
 -l-V^U AXX VJLLOtV ± U.1. X\J 1X7^ Xl^illJ 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 No less our skill is 
 
 War-svick in blood did wade ; 
 
 Than when our grandsire great. 
 
 Oxford the foe invade. 
 
 Claiming the regal seat. 
 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 By many a warlike feat 
 
 Still as they ran up. 
 
 Lopped the French lilies. 
 
 Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
 
 The Duke of York so dread 
 
 Beaumont and Willoughby 
 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 
 Bare them right doughtily, 
 
 With the main Henry specl 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's day 
 
 Excester had the rear, 
 
 Fought was this noble fray, 
 
 A braver man not there : 
 
 Which fame did not delay 
 
 U Lord I now hot they were 
 
 To England to carry. 
 
 On the false Frenchmen ! 
 
 0, when shall Englishmen 
 
 They now to fight are gone ; 
 
 With such acts fill a pen, 
 
 Armour on armour shone ; 
 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Drum now to drum did groan, 
 
 Such a King Harry ? 
 
 To hear* was wonder ; 
 
 Michael Drayton.— About 1613. 
 
From 1558 to 1049.] 
 
 DAVID AND GOLIAH. 
 
 [Michael Drayton. 
 
 144.— DAVID AND GOLIAH. 
 
 And now before young David oould come in, 
 The host of Israel somewhat doth begin 
 To rouse itself ; some climb the nearest tree. 
 And some the tops of tents, whence they 
 
 might see 
 How this unarmed youth himself would bear 
 Against the all-armed giant (which they fear) : 
 Some get up to the fronts of easy hills ; 
 That by their motion a vast murmur fills 
 The neighbouring valleys, that the enemy 
 
 thought 
 Something would by the Israelites be wrought 
 They had not heard of, and they longed to see 
 What strange and warlike stratagem 't should 
 
 be. 
 When soon they saw a goodly youth de- 
 scend. 
 Himself alone, none after to attend, 
 That at his need with arms might him supply, 
 As merely careless of his enemy : 
 His head uncovered, and his locks of hair 
 As he came on being played with by the air. 
 Tossed to and fro, did mth such pleasure 
 
 move, 
 As they had been i:)ro vocatives for love : 
 His sleeves stript up above his elbows were, 
 And in his hand a stiff short staff did bear, 
 Wliich by the leather to it, and the string, 
 They easily might discern to be a sling. 
 Suiting to these he wore a shepherd's scrip, 
 Which from his side hung down upon his hip. 
 Those for a champion that did him disdain, 
 Cast with themselves what such a thing 
 
 should mean ; 
 Some seeing him so wonderously fair 
 (As in their eyes he stood beyond compare). 
 Their verdict gave that they had sent him sure 
 As a choice bait their champion to allure ; 
 Others again, of judgment more precise. 
 Said they had sent him for a sacrifice. 
 And though he seemed thus to be very young, 
 Yet was he well proportioned and strong. 
 And with a comely and undaunted grace, 
 Holding a steady and most even pace, 
 This way nor that way, never stood to gaze ; 
 But like a man that death could not amaze, 
 Came close up to Goliah, and so near 
 As he might easily reach him with his spear. 
 Which when Goliah saw, " Why, boy," 
 
 qtioth he, 
 " Thou desperate youth, thou tak'st me sure 
 
 to be 
 Some dog, I think, and under thy command, 
 That thus a,rt come to beat me with a Avand : 
 The kites and ravens are not far away. 
 Nor beasts of ravine, that shall make a prey 
 Of a poor corpse, which they from me shall 
 
 have, 
 And their foul bowels shall be all thy grave." 
 " TJncircumcised slave," quoth David then, 
 " That for thy shape, the monster art of men ; 
 Thou thus in brass comest arm'd into the field. 
 And thy huge spear of brass, of brass thy 
 
 shield : - 
 
 I in the name of Israel's God alone, 
 That more than mighty, that eternal One, 
 Am come to meet thee, who bids not to fear. 
 Nor once respect the arms that thou dost bear. 
 Slave, mark the earth whereon thou now dost 
 
 stand, 
 I'll make thy length to measure so i»ueh land, 
 As thou liest grov'Kng, and within this hour 
 The birds and beasts thy carcass shall devour." 
 
 In meantime Da^dd, looking in his face, 
 Between his temples, saw how large a space 
 He Avas to hit, steps back a yard or two, 
 The giant wond'ring what the youth would do : 
 Whose nimble hand out of his scrip doth 
 
 bring 
 A pebble-stone, and puts it in his sling ; 
 At which the giant openly doth jeer. 
 And as in scorn, stands leaning on his spear, 
 Which gives young David much content to see, 
 And to himself thus secretly saith he : 
 " Stand but one minute still, stand but so fast, 
 And have at all PhiHstia at a cast." 
 Then with such sleight the shot away he sent. 
 That from his sling as 't had been lightning 
 
 went; 
 And him so full upon the forehead smit. 
 Which gare a crack, when his thick scalp it 
 
 hit 
 As 't had been thrown against some rock or 
 
 post. 
 That the shrill clap was heard through either 
 
 host. 
 Staggering awhile upon his spear he leant, 
 Till on a sudden he began to faint ; 
 When down he came, like an old o'ergrown 
 
 oak. 
 His huge root hcAvn up by the labourers' 
 
 stroke, 
 That with his very weight ho shook the 
 
 ground ; 
 His brazen armoiir gave a jarring sound 
 Like a crack'd bell, or vessel chanced to fall 
 From some high place, which did like death 
 
 appal 
 The proud Philistines (hopeless that remain), 
 To see their champion, great Goliah, slain : 
 When such a shout the host of Israel gave. 
 As cleft the clouds ; and like to men that rave 
 (O'ercome with comfort) cry, " The boy, the 
 
 boy! 
 the brave David, Israel's only joy ! 
 God's chosen champion ! most wondrous 
 
 thing ! 
 The great Goliah slain with a poor sling I " 
 Themselves encompass, nor can they contain ; 
 Now are they silent, then they shout again. 
 Of which no notice David seems to take. 
 But towards the body of the dead doth make, 
 With a fair comely gait ; nor doth he run, 
 As though he gloried in what he had done ; 
 But treading on the uncircumeised dead, 
 With his foot strikes the helmet from his 
 
 head ; 
 "Wliich with the sword ta'en from the giant's 
 
 side. 
 He from the body quickly doth divide. 
 
Michael Drayton.] 
 
 TO HIS COY LOVE. 
 
 [Third Period. — ' 
 
 Now tliG Philistines, at this fearful sight, 
 Leaving their arms, betake themselves to 
 
 flight, 
 Quitting their tents, nor dare a minute stay ; 
 Time wants to carry any thing away, 
 Being strongly routed Avith a general fear ; 
 Yet in pursuit Saul's army strikes the rear 
 To Ekron walls, and slew them as they fled, 
 That Sharam's plains lay cover' d with the 
 
 dead ; 
 And having put the Philistines to foil. 
 Back to the tents retire, and take the spoil 
 Of what they left ; and ransacking, they cry, 
 " A David, David, and the victory ! " 
 
 "When straightway Saul his general, Abner, 
 
 sent 
 For valiant David, that incontinent 
 He should repair to court ; at whose command 
 He comes along, and beareth in his hand 
 The giant's head, by the long hair of his 
 
 crown, 
 Wlaich bj^ his active knee hung dangling down. 
 And through the army as he comes along. 
 To gaze upon him the glad soldiers throng : 
 Some do instyle him Israel's only light, ' 
 And other some the valiant Bethlemite. 
 With congees all salute him as he past, 
 And uijon him their gracious glances cast : 
 He was thought base of him that did not 
 
 boast. 
 Nothing but David, David, through the host. 
 The virgins to their timbrels frame their lays 
 Of him ; till Saul grew jealous of his j)raise. 
 
 Michael Drayton. — About 1613. 
 
 145.— TO HIS COY LOVE. 
 
 I pray thee, love, love mo no more. 
 
 Call home the heart you gave me ; 
 I but in vain that saint adore. 
 
 That can, but will not save me : 
 These poor half kisses kill me quite ; 
 
 Was ever man thus served ? 
 Amidst an ocean of delight. 
 
 For pleasure to be starved. 
 
 Show me no more those snowy breasts, 
 
 With azure rivers branched, 
 Where whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, 
 
 Yet is my thirst not staunched. 
 O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell ! 
 
 By me thou art prevented ; 
 'Tis "nothing to be plagued in hell, 
 
 But thus in heaven tormented. 
 
 Clip me no more in those dear arms 
 
 Nor thy life's comfort call me ; 
 O, these are but too powerful charms, 
 
 And do but more enthral me. 
 But see how patient I am gi'own, 
 
 In all this coil about thee ; 
 Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone, 
 
 I cannot live without thee. I 
 
 Miclioel Drayton. — About 1613. i 
 
 146.— BALLAD OF DOWSABEL. 
 
 Far in the country of Arden, 
 
 There won'd a knight, hight Cassamen, 
 
 As bold as' Isenbras : 
 Fell was he and eager bent. 
 In battle and in tournament. 
 
 As was the good Sir Topas. 
 He had, as antique stories tell, 
 A daughter cleped Dowsabel, 
 
 A maiden fair and free. 
 And for she was her father's heir, 
 Full well she Avas ycond the leir 
 
 Of mickle courtesy. 
 The silk -well couth she twist and twine, 
 And make the fine march-pine. 
 
 And with the needle work : 
 And she couth help the priest to say 
 His matins on a holy-day. 
 
 And sing a psalm in kirk. 
 She wore a frock of frolic green. 
 Might well become a maiden queen. 
 
 Which seemly was to see ; 
 A hood to that so neat and fine, 
 In colour like the columbine, 
 
 Iwrought full featously. 
 Her features all as fresh above, 
 As is the grass that grows by Dove, 
 
 And lythe as lass of Kent. 
 Her skin as soft as Lemster wool, 
 As white as snow, on Peakish Hull, 
 
 Or swan that swims in Trent. 
 This maiden in a morn betime, 
 Went forth when May was in the prime, 
 
 To get sweet setywall, 
 The honey-suckle, the harlock, 
 The lily, and the lady-smock, 
 
 To deck her summer hall. 
 Thus as she wander' d here and there. 
 And picked off the bloomy brier, 
 
 She chanced to espy 
 A shepherd sitting on a bank ; 
 Like chanticleer he crowned crank, 
 
 And piped full merrily. 
 He learn'd his sheep, as he him list. 
 When he would whistle in his fist, 
 
 To feed about him round ; 
 Whilst he fiill many a carol sang, 
 Until the fields and meadows rang, 
 
 And all the woods did sound. 
 In favour this same shepherd swain 
 Was like the bedlam Tamerlane, 
 
 Which held proud kings in awe ; 
 But meek as any lamb might be ; 
 And innocent of ill as he 
 
 Whom his lewd brother slaw. 
 The shepherd wore a sheep-gray cloak. 
 Which was of the finest lock, 
 
 That could be cut with sheer. 
 His mittens were of bauzons' skin. 
 His cockers were of cordiwin, 
 
 His hood of miniveer. 
 His awl and lingel in a thong, 
 His far-box on his broad belt hung, 
 
 His breech of Cointree blue. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET. 
 
 [Edward Fairfax. 
 
 Full crisp and curled wern his locks, 
 His brows as white as Albion rocks, 
 
 So like a lover true. 
 And piping still he spent the day, 
 So merry as the popinjay, 
 
 Which liked Dowsabel ; 
 That would she ought, or would she nought, 
 This lad would never from her thought. 
 
 She in love-longing fell. 
 At length she tucked up her frock, 
 White as a lily wae her smock. 
 
 She drew the shepherd nigh : 
 But then the shepherd piped a good, 
 That all his sheep forsook their food, 
 
 To hear this melody. 
 Thy sheep, quoth she, cannot be lean. 
 That have a jolly shepherd swain. 
 
 The which can pipe so well. 
 Tea, but (saith he) their shepherd may, 
 If piping thus he pine a,\vsij, 
 
 In love of Dowsabel. 
 Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep. 
 Quoth she : look well unto thy sheep. 
 
 Lest they should hap to stray. 
 Quoth he, so had I done full well, 
 Had I not seen fair Dowsabel 
 
 Come forth to gather May. 
 With that she 'gan to veil her head, 
 Her cheeks were like the roses red. 
 
 But not a word she said. 
 With that the shepherd 'gan to frown, 
 He threw his pretty pipes adown, 
 
 And on the gi'ound him laid. 
 Saith she, I may not stay till night, 
 And leave my summer hall undight, 
 
 And all for love of thee. 
 My cote, saith he, nor yet my fold. 
 Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold, 
 
 Except thou favour me. 
 Saith she, yet lever I were dead, 
 Than I should lose my mtaidenhead, 
 
 And all for love of men. 
 Saith he, yet are you too unkind, 
 If in your heart you cannot find 
 
 To lo"ve us now and then. 
 And I to thee will be as kind. 
 As Colin was to Rosalind, 
 
 Of courtesy the flower. 
 Then will I be as true, quoth she. 
 As ever maiden yet might be, 
 
 Unto her paramour. 
 With that she bent her snow-white knee, 
 Down by the shepherd kneeled she, 
 
 And him she sweetly kist. 
 W'ith that the shepherd whoop' d for joy ; 
 Quoth he, there's never shepherd's boy 
 
 That ever was so blest. 
 
 Michael Drayton. — About 1613. 
 
 With those the thronged theatres that press, 
 I in the circuit for the laurel strove, 
 "Where the full praise, I freely must confess, 
 In heat of blood, a modest mind might move. 
 With shouts and claps, at everj'- little pause, 
 When the proud round on every side hath 
 
 rung, ~ 
 
 Sadly I sit unmoved with the applause. 
 As though to me it nothing did belong : 
 No public glory vainly I pursue ; 
 The praise I strive, is to eternize you. 
 
 Michael Drayton. — About 1613. 
 
 148.— DESCRIPTION OF ARMIDA AND 
 HER ENCHANTED GIRDLE. 
 
 And with that word she smiled, and ne'erthe- 
 
 les^ 
 Her love-toys still she used, and pleasures 
 
 bold: 
 Her hair (that done) she twisted up intress, 
 And looser locks in silken laces roU'd ; 
 Her curls, garland-wise, she did up dress, 
 Wherein, like rich enamel laid on gold. 
 The twisted flow' rets smiled, and her white 
 
 breast 
 The lilies there that spring with roses drest. 
 
 The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair 
 The eyed feathers of his pompous train ; 
 Nor golden Iris so bends in the au* 
 Her twenty-coloured bow, through clouds of 
 
 rain : 
 Yet all her ornaments, strange, rich, and rare, 
 Her girdle did in price and beauty stain ; 
 Not that, with scorn, which Tuscan Guilla 
 
 lost, 
 Nor Venus' cestus could match this for cost. 
 
 Of mild denays, of tender scorns, of sweet 
 Eepulses, Avar, peace, hope, despair, joy, fear; 
 Of smiles, jests, mirth, woe, grief, and sad 
 
 regret ; 
 Sighs, sorrows, tears, embracements, kisses 
 
 dear, 
 That, mixed first, by weight and measures 
 
 meet; 
 Then, at an easy fire, attempered were ; 
 This wondrous girdle did Armida frame. 
 And, when she would be loved, wore the same. 
 
 Edward Fairfax.— About 1600. 
 
 147.— SONNET. 
 
 la pride of wit, when high desire of fame 
 Gave life and courage to my labouring pen. 
 And first the sound and virtue of my name 
 Won grace and credit in the ears of men ; 
 
 149.— RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET, 
 AND THE ENCHANTED WOOD. 
 
 It v/as the time when 'gainst the breaking day 
 
 I Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined; 
 
 i For in the east appear' d the morning crrey, 
 
 I And yet some lamps m Jove's high palace 
 I shined, 
 
 I VvTien to Mount Olivet he took his way, 
 
 I And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, 
 
Edward Fairfax.] 
 
 RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Night's shadows hence, from thence the 
 
 morning's shine ; 
 This bright, that dark; that earthly, this 
 
 divine : 
 
 Thus to himself he thought : how many bright 
 And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple 
 
 high : 
 Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, 
 Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure 
 
 slcy; 
 So framed ail by their Creator's might, 
 That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall 
 
 die, 
 Till, in a moment, with the last day's 
 
 brand 
 They burn, and with them bum sea, air, and 
 
 land. 
 
 Thus as he mused, to the top he went. 
 
 And there kneel' d down with reverend and 
 
 fear; 
 His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent ; 
 His thoughts above all heavens up-lifted 
 
 were : 
 The sins and errors, which I now repent, 
 Of my imbridlccl youth, O Father dear, 
 Eemembcr not, but lot thy mercy fall, 
 And purge my faults and my offences all. 
 
 Thus prayed he ; with purj^le wings up-flew 
 In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, 
 Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw. 
 His helm, his harness, and the mountain 
 
 green : 
 Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
 The air, that balm and nardus breathed un- 
 seen ; 
 And o'er his head, let down from clearest 
 
 A cloud of pure and precious dew there 
 flies: 
 
 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, 
 To which compared, his clothes pale ashes 
 
 seem. 
 And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled. 
 And thence of purest white bright rays out- 
 stream : 
 Se cheered are the flowers, late withered. 
 With the sweet comfort of the morning beam ; 
 And so, rotui-n'd to youth, a serpent old 
 Adorns herself in new anil native gold. 
 
 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed 
 The prince perceived well and long admired ; 
 Toward the forest march' d he on with speed, 
 Eesolved, as such adventures great required : 
 Thither he came, whence shrinking back for 
 
 dread 
 Of that strange desert's sight, the first re- 
 tired ; 
 But not to him fearful or loathsome made 
 That forest was, but sweet with pleasant 
 shade. 
 
 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before 
 He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleas- 
 ing was ; 
 There roU'd a crystal brook with gentle roar. 
 There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves 
 
 they pass ; 
 There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, 
 There sung the swan, and singing died, alas ! 
 There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he 
 
 heard. 
 And all these sounds *onc sound right well 
 declared. 
 
 A dreadful thunder- clap at last he heard. 
 The aged trees and plants well nigh that rent, 
 Yet heard the nymphs and syrens afterward, 
 Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet 
 
 consent ; 
 Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared 
 For his defence, heedful and slow forth went ; 
 Nor in his way his passage ought withstood, 
 Except a quiet, still, transparent flood. 
 
 On the green banks, which that fair stream 
 
 inbound, 
 Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and 
 
 smell' d, 
 Wliich reaching out his stretched arms around. 
 All the large desert in his bosom held, 
 And through the grove one channel passage 
 
 found ; 
 This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd : 
 Trees clad the streams, streams green those 
 
 trees hjg made, 
 And so exchanged their moisture and their 
 
 shade. 
 
 The knight some Avay sought out the flood to 
 
 pass. 
 And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd; 
 A bridge of gold, an huge and mighty mass. 
 On arches gx-eat of that rich metal rear'd : 
 When through that golden way he enter' d 
 
 was, 
 Down fell the bridge ; swelled the stream, and 
 
 wear'd 
 The work away, nor sign left, where it 
 
 stood. 
 And of a river calm became a flood. 
 
 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so, 
 Like sudden brooks, increased with molten 
 
 snow ; 
 The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro. 
 The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms 
 
 low ; 
 But on he went to search for wonders mo, 
 Through the thick trees, there high and broad 
 
 v/hich grow ; 
 And in that forest huge, and desert wide, 
 The more he sought, more wonders still he 
 
 spied. 
 
 W^here'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful 
 
 ground 
 Renew" d the verdure of her flowery weed ; 
 A fountain here, a well-spring there ho found ; 
 Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread : 
 
From loo8 to 164^9.'], 
 
 RINALDO AT MOUKT OLIVET. 
 
 [Edward Fairfax. 
 
 The aged wood o'er and about liim round 
 Flourish' d with blossoms new, new leaves, new 
 seed ; 
 And on the boughs and branches of those 
 
 treen 
 The bark was soften' d, and renew' d the 
 green. 
 
 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie ; 
 
 The honey stilled from the tender rind : 
 
 Again he heard that wondrous harmony 
 
 Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind; 
 
 The human voices sung a treble high, 
 
 To which respond the birds, the streams, the 
 
 wind ; 
 But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers 
 
 were, 
 Unseen the lutes, harps, viols w^hich they 
 
 bear. 
 
 He look'd, he listen' d, yet his thoughts de- 
 nied 
 To think that true, which he did hear and 
 
 see : 
 A myrtle in ian ample plain he spied. 
 And thither by a beaten path went he ; 
 The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, 
 Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree. 
 And far above all other plants were seen 
 That forest's lady, and that desert's queen. 
 
 Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent, 
 
 And there a marvel great and strange began ; 
 
 An aged oak beside him cleft and rent. 
 
 And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth 
 
 ran. 
 Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, 
 A nymph, for ago able to go to man ; 
 
 An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, 
 Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so 
 dight. 
 
 Such as on stages play, such as we see 
 The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love, 
 "Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be. 
 With buskins laced on their legs above, 
 And silken robes tuck'd short above their 
 
 knee. 
 Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this 
 
 grove ; 
 Save that, instead of shafts and bows of 
 
 tree, 
 •She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she ; 
 
 And wantonly they cast them in a ring. 
 
 And sung and danced to move his weaker 
 
 sense, 
 Einaldo round about environing. 
 As does its centre the circumference ; 
 The tree they compass' d eke, and 'gan to 
 
 sing. 
 That woods and streams admired their excel- 
 lence — 
 Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet 
 
 grove ; 
 Welcome, our lady's hope; welcome, her 
 love ! 
 
 Thou comest to cure our princess, faint and 
 
 sick 
 For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, dis- 
 tress' d ; 
 Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, 
 Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief op- 
 
 press'd ; 
 
 See, with thy coming how the branches quick 
 Revived are, and in new blossoms dress'd ! 
 This was their song ; and after from it went 
 First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle 
 rent. 
 
 If antique times admired Silenus old, 
 Who oft appear' d set on his lazy ass. 
 How would they wonder, if they had behold 
 Such sights as from the myrtle high did pass ! 
 Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, 
 That like in shape, in face, and beauty was 
 To fair Armida ; Rinald thinks he spies 
 Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her 
 eyes. 
 
 On him a sad and smiling look she cast. 
 Which twenty passions strange at once be- 
 wrays. 
 And art thou come, quoth she, return' d at 
 
 last 
 To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy 
 
 ways? 
 Comest thou to comfort me for sorrows past. 
 To ease my widow nights, and careful days ? 
 Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? 
 Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face 
 disarm ? 
 
 Comest thou a friend or foe ? I did not frame 
 That golden bridge to entertain my foe ; 
 Nor open'd flowers and fountains as you 
 
 came, 
 To welcome him with joy, who brings me 
 
 woe. 
 Put off thy helm : rejoice me with the flame 
 Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did 
 grow; 
 Kiss me, embrace me ; if you further ven- 
 ture, 
 Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath to 
 enter. 
 
 Thus as she wooes, she rolls her rueful eyes 
 With piteous look, and changeth oft her chear 
 An hundred sighs from her false heart up-fly 
 She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear 
 The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies ; 
 What stony heart resists a woman's tear ? 
 But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind. 
 Drew forth his sword, and from her careless 
 twined. 
 
 Towards the tree he march' d; she thither 
 
 start. 
 Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and 
 
 cry'd, — 
 Ah ! never do me such a spiteful part. 
 To cut my tree, this forest's joy and jjride ; 
 
Sir J. Habeington.] 
 
 OF TEEASON. 
 
 J^Thikd Period. 
 
 Put up thy sv/ord, else pierce therewith, the See where he comes I — Array'd in glitt'riiig' 
 
 heaxt I white 
 
 Of thy forsaken and despised Armide ; j Appear' d the man, bold, stately, high and 
 
 For throu'^jh this breast, and throup^h this great ; 
 
 heart, unkind, 
 To this fair tree thy sword shall passage 
 find. 
 
 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she 
 
 pray'd, 
 And she her form to other shape did change ; 
 Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are 
 
 laid, 
 Oft in their idle fancies roam and range : 
 Her body swell' d, her face obscure was made ; 
 Vanish' d her garments rich, and vestures 
 
 strange ; 
 A giantess before him high she stands, 
 Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred 
 
 hands. 
 
 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright. 
 She threatened death, she roar'd, she cry'd 
 
 and fought ; 
 Each other nymph, in armoiu* likewise dight, 
 A Cyclops great became ; he fear'd them 
 
 nought. 
 But on the myrtle smote with all his might, 
 Whioh groan' d like living souls to death nigh 
 
 brought ; 
 The sky seom'd Pluto's court, the air seem"d 
 
 heU, 
 Therein such monsters roar, such spirits 
 
 yell: 
 
 Lighten' d the heaven above, the earth below 
 Roared aloud ; that thunder' d, and this 
 
 shook : 
 Bluster' d the tempests strong ; the whirlwinds 
 
 blow ; 
 The bitter storm drove hailstones in his 
 
 look ; 
 But yet his .arm grow neither weak nor slow. 
 Nor of that fury heed or care he took, 
 
 Till low to earth the wounded tree dovm 
 
 bended ; 
 Then fled the spirits all, the charms all 
 
 ended. 
 
 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm 
 
 and still. 
 The wood returned to its wonted state. 
 Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, 
 Of horror full, but horror there innate : 
 Ho further tried, if aught withstood his will 
 To cut those trees, as did the charms of late. 
 
 And finding nought to stop him, smiled and 
 r>iud — 
 
 O siadows vain ! O fools, of shades afraid ! 
 
 From thence home to the camp-ward tum'd 
 
 the knight ; 
 The hermit cry'd, up-starting from his seat. 
 Now of the wood the charms have lost their 
 
 might ; 
 The sprites are conquer' d, ended is the feat ; 
 
 His eagle'.-; silver Avings to shine begun 
 With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden 
 sun. 
 
 The camp received him with a joyful cry, — 
 A ciy, the hills and dales about that fill'd ; 
 Then Godfrey welcomed him with honovirs 
 
 high; 
 His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd : 
 To yonder dreadful grove, quoth he, v/ent I, 
 And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, 
 
 Have driven the sprites away ; thither let 
 be 
 
 Your people sent, the way is safe and fi'oe. 
 
 Edward Fairfax. — About 1600. 
 
 ^ 150.— OF TREASON. 
 Treason doth never prosper ; what' s the reason ? 
 For if it prosper none dare call it treason. 
 
 Sir John Ha,' riiKjton.-^ About 1G07. 
 
 151.— OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Fortune, men say, doth give too much to many, 
 But yet she never gave enough to any. 
 
 Bir John Harrington. — Abo at 1607. 
 
 152. 
 
 -OF WRITERS WHO CARP AT 
 OTHER MEN'S BOOKS. 
 
 Tlie readers and the hearers like my books. 
 But yet some writers cannot them digest ; 
 But what care I ? for when I make a f(;ast 
 I Avould my guests should praise it, not tho 
 
 cooks. 
 
 Sir John Horriinjton. — About 1607. 
 
 153.— OF A PRECISE TAILOR. 
 
 A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing — 
 True, but for lying — honest, but for stealing — 
 Did fall one day extremely sick by chance. 
 And on the sudden was in wondrous trance ; 
 The fiends of hell mustering in fea,rful manner. 
 Of sundry coloiu-'d silks display' d a banner 
 Which he had stolen, and v/ish'd, as they did 
 
 teU, 
 That he might find it all one day in hell. 
 The man, affrighted with this apparition. 
 Upon recovery grew a great precisian : 
 He bought a Bible of the best translation, 
 And in his life he show'd great reformation ; 
 He walked mannerly, he talked meekly, 
 He heard three lectures and two sermons 
 
 weekly ; 
 He vow'd to shun all company unruly, 
 And in his speech he used no oath but bruly j 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 OF CHUECH. 
 
 [F. Grevile, Lord Brooke 
 
 And zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest, 
 His meat for that day on the eve was drest ; 
 And lest the custom which he had to steal 
 Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal, j 
 He gives his joui'neyman a special charge, 
 That if the stuff, allowance being large, 
 He found his fingers were to filch inclined, 
 Bid him to have the banner in his mind. 
 This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter) 
 A captain of a ship came three days after, 
 And brought three yards of velvet and three 
 
 quarters. 
 To make Venetians down below the garters. 
 He, that precisely know what was enough. 
 Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff; g 
 His man, espying it, said in derision. 
 Master, remember how you saw the vision ! 
 Peace, knave ! quoth he, I did not see one rag 
 Of such a colour' d silk in all the flag. 
 
 Sir John Harrington. — About 1607. 
 
 154.— CONSTITUTIONAL LIMITATION 
 OF DESPOTISM. 
 
 Crowns, therefore keep your oaths of corona- 
 tion. 
 Succession frees no tyranny from those ; 
 Faith is the balance of power's reputation ; 
 That circle broken, where can man repose ? 
 Since sceptre pledges, which should be 
 
 sincere. 
 By one false act grow bankrupt every where. 
 Make not men's conscience, wealth, and 
 
 liberty. 
 Servile, mthout book, to unbounded will ; 
 Procrustes like he racks humanity, 
 That in power's own mould casts their good 
 wiU; 
 And slaves men must be by the sway of 
 
 time. 
 When tyranny continues thus sublime. 
 * * # * 
 
 Yet above all these, tyrants must have care 
 To cherish these assemblies of estate 
 Which in great monarchies true glasses are, 
 To show men's grief, excesses to abate, 
 
 Brave moulds for laws, a medium that in 
 one 
 
 Joins -with content a people to the throne. 
 
 Fall-c Grevile, Lord Brooke— About 1620. 
 
 155.— IMAGINATION. 
 
 Knowledge's next organ is imagination ; 
 A glass, wherein the object of our sense 
 Ought to respect true height, or declination, 
 For understanding's clear intelligence : 
 But this power also hath her variation. 
 Fixed in some, in some with difference : 
 In all, so shadowed \vith self-application. 
 
 As makes her pictures still too foul, or fair; 
 
 Not like the life in lineament or air. 
 
 This power, besides, always cannot receive 
 What sense reports, but what th' affections 
 
 » please 
 To admit ; and, as those princes that do leave' 
 Their state in trust to men corrupt with ease. 
 False in their faith, or but to faction friend. 
 The truth of things can scarcely compre- 
 hend; 
 
 So must th' imagination from the sense 
 Be misinformed, while our affections cast 
 False shapes and forms on their intelligence. 
 And to keep out true intromission thence. 
 Abstracts the imagination or distastes, 
 With images pre-occupately plac'd. 
 
 Hence our desires, fears, hopes, love, hate, 
 
 and sorrow. 
 In fancy make us hear, feel, see impressions, 
 Such as out of our sense they do not borrow ; 
 And are the efficient cause, the true progTcs- 
 sion 
 Of sleeping visions, idle phantasms waking. 
 Life, dreams, and knowledge, apparitions 
 making. 
 Fulke Grevile, Lord Brooke. — About 162CI 
 
 156.— OF CHUECH. 
 
 Thus having in few images exprest 
 The effect which each extremity brings forth, 
 Within mans nature, to distui-b mans rest ; 
 What enemies again they be to worth. 
 
 As either gyves, which freedom doe restrain, 
 Oi<'Jubiles which let confusion raign. 
 
 There rests to shew, what these degrees of 
 
 vice 
 Work, when they fixt be to the moulds of 
 
 might ; 
 As what relation to the prejudice. 
 Or help they yeeld of universal right ; 
 Vice getting forces far above her o-v\ti, 
 Wlien it spreads from a person to a tlirone. 
 
 For as in princes natures, if there bo 
 An audit taken, what each kind of passion 
 Works and by what usurp 'd authority. 
 Order and reason's peace they do disfashion ; 
 Within man's little world, it proves the 
 
 same 
 Wliich of pow'rs great world doth confound 
 the frame. 
 
 Whence spread kings self-love into church or 
 
 law, 
 Pulpit and bar streight feel corrupted might. 
 Which bounded mil not be, much less in awe, 
 Of heavenly censure, or of earthly right : 
 Besides creation and each other part 
 Withers, when pow'r turns nature into art 
 
 For as between the object and our senco 
 Look where the mediums do prove dim or 
 
 cleer. 
 Mens minds receive forms of intelligence, 
 Which makes things either fair or foul appear,' 
 So betAveen powers lust, and i^eoples right, 
 The mediums help to cleer or dazel light. 
 
F. Gbevile, Lord Brooke.] 
 
 OF CHUECH. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Therefore to let down these high pillar' d 
 
 thrones 
 To lower orbs where prince and people mixb,'** 
 As church, laAvs, commerce, rights, well tem- 
 per' d zones, 
 Where neither part extremity can fixe, 
 
 Either to bind transcendence by constraint. 
 Or spoil mankind of all rights but com- 
 plaint. 
 
 And where by this well-ballancing of might, 
 Regalities of crowns stand undeclin'd. 
 Whose beings are not to be infinite, 
 And so of greater price then all mankind ; 
 But in desire and function temper' d so 
 As they may current -with their people go. 
 
 When Theopompus, Lacedemons king 
 Had rais'd up a plebean magistrate, 
 (Like Roman tribunes) which the soaring wing 
 Of soveraign excesses might abate ; 
 
 He therein saw, although he bound his 
 child, 
 
 Yet in a less room he did surer build. 
 
 For infinite ambition to extend 
 
 The bounds of pow'r (which finite pow'rs must 
 weld) 
 
 As vain is, as desire to comprehend, 
 
 And plant eternity in nature's field ; 
 Whereby the idle, and the over-doing 
 Alike run on, their own destruction woing. 
 
 Active then yet without excess of spirit, 
 Strong princes must be in their government, 
 Their influence in every thing- of merit, 
 Not with an idle, glorious name content, 
 But quick in nimble use, and change of 
 
 wombs. 
 Which else prove peoples snares and princes 
 tombs. 
 
 Placing the first foundation of their raigns 
 Upon that frame, which all frames else ex- 
 ceeds ; 
 Religion, by whose name the scepter gains 
 More of the world, and greater reverence 
 breeds 
 In forrainer, and home-bred subjects too. 
 Then much expence of blood and vv^oalth can 
 do. 
 
 For with what force Gods true religion 
 spreads. 
 
 Is by her shadow superstition known ; 
 
 When Midas having over Phrygia shed 
 
 Seeds of this ceremony, tiU then unknown, 
 Made Asia safer by that empty word, 
 Then his forefathers had done by the sword. 
 
 And is not Mahomets forg'd Alcoran 
 Both with the heathen in authority : 
 And to the Christians misled miter-throne 
 Become a very rack of tiranny ? 
 
 Their spirits united, eating men like food, 
 And making ill ends with strong armies 
 good. 
 
 Religions fair name by insinuation 
 Secretlj'^ seiseth all pow'rs of the mind, 
 In understanding raiseth admiration. 
 Worship in will, which native sweet links bind 
 The soul of man, and having got possession 
 Give pow'rfull will an ordinate progression. 
 
 Forming in conscience lines of equity, 
 
 To temper laws, and without force infuse 
 
 A home-born practice of civility, 
 
 Current with that which all the world doth 
 use, 
 Whereby divided kingdoms may unite 
 If not in truth, at least in outward rite. 
 
 'Therefore I say pow'r should be provident 
 
 In judging this chief strength of tyranny 
 
 With caution, that the clergy government 
 
 Give not the mitre crown- supremacy ; 
 
 Making the sultan and the caliph one 
 
 To tyrannize both Cair and Babylon. 
 
 The churches proper arms bo tears and prayers, 
 Peters true keys to open earth, and sky, 
 Which if the priest out of his prides despair 
 WiU into Tybris cast, and Pauls sword try ; 
 Gods sacred word he therein doth abandon. 
 And runs with fleshj^ confidence at random. 
 
 Mild people therefore honour you your king, 
 Reverence your priests, but never under one 
 Frail creature both your soul and body bring, 
 But keep the better part to God alone. 
 The soul his image is, and onely he 
 Knows what it is, and what it ought to be. 
 
 Lest else by some idolatrous conceit. 
 You give them, that at sin can cast no stone, 
 INIcans to pluck dovv^n the Godhead by deceit. 
 And upon mans inventions raise a throne : 
 Besides, where sword, and canons do unite, 
 The peoples bondage there proves infinite. 
 
 Princes again wake, and be well advised, 
 How suddenly in man kings pow'r is drown'd, 
 The miter rais'd, the scepter prejudic'd, 
 If you leave all rights superstition bound ; 
 For then as souls more dear, then bodies 
 
 are ; 
 So these church- visions may strain nature 
 far. 
 
 Kings therefore that fear superstitious might. 
 Must cross their courses in their infancy. 
 By which the Druids, with their shadow' d 
 
 Hght, 
 Got g'oods from them that took their words, 
 to be 
 Treble rewarded in the life to come ; 
 And works not paradice the same for Rome ? 
 
 For with such mystical dexterity. 
 Racking the li\ang souls through rage of sin, 
 And dying souls with horrors mystery, 
 Did not the miter from the scepter win 
 
 The third part of the world, till Luther 
 
 came, 
 Who shak't the doctrine of that double 
 frame ? 
 
F)vm 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 OF CHUECH. 
 
 [F. Grevile, Lord Brooke. 
 
 Lie not France, Poland, Italy an4 Spam, 
 Still as the snow doth, when it threatens more. 
 Like engines, fitted to draw back again 
 Those that the true light severed before ? 
 And was not Venice excommunicate, 
 For curbing such false purchases of late ? 
 
 Which endless thirst of sacred avarice, 
 If in the infancy it be not bounded. 
 Will hardly by prosperit}-^ grow wise ; 
 For as this church is on apparance founded 
 
 So besides schools, and cells which vail her 
 shame, 
 
 Hath she not armies to extend her name ? 
 
 Pow'r for a pensil, conscience for a table, 
 To write opinion in of any fashion. 
 With wits distinctions, ever merchantable. 
 Between a princes throne and peoples pas- 
 sion ? 
 Upon which texts she raiseth or puis down 
 All, but those objects, which advance her 
 cro^vn. 
 
 Pow'r therefore, be she needy, or ambitious, 
 Dispos'd to peace, or unto war enclin'd. 
 Whether religious in her life, or vicious, 
 Must not to miters so enthral mankind : 
 As above truth, and force, monks may pre- 
 vail, 
 On their false visions crown-rights to 
 entail. 
 
 Again, let not her clerks by Simons ways, 
 
 Lay wast endowments of devoted spirits ; 
 
 And so pull down, what their forefathers 
 rais'd 
 
 With honour in their actions, if not merit : 
 Least as by pride they once got up too high, 
 Their baseness feel the next extremity. 
 
 For first besides the scandal, and contempt 
 Which those base courses on their doctrine 
 
 cast; 
 The stately monuments are not exempt. 
 Because without means, no time-works can 
 last y 
 And from high pomp a desperate descent 
 Shows both in state and church misgovern- 
 ment. 
 
 Whereof let her take heed, since when estates 
 From such a greatness do begin to fall. 
 Descent is unto them precipitate : 
 For as one gangren'd member ruines all. 
 So what the modesty of one time leaves, 
 The time succeeding certainly bereaves. 
 
 Therefore must thrones (as gods of forms 
 
 exterior) 
 Cast up this earthly mettal in good mould ; 
 And when men to professions prove superior, 
 Eestrain proud thoughts, from doing what 
 they would. 
 Guiding the weak, and strong, to such ex- 
 tension, 
 As may to order sacrifice invention. 
 
 And hereby work that formal unity, 
 Which brooks no new, or irreligious sects, 
 To nurse up faction or impiety, 
 Change ever teaching people to neglect : 
 But raise the painful, learned, and devout 
 To plant obeying conscience thorcm-out. 
 
 Veyling her doctrine with antiquity. 
 
 Whence, and where although contradicting 
 sects . 
 
 Strive to derive, and prove their pedigree, 
 
 As safest humane levels to direct 
 
 Into what mould opinion should be cast. 
 To make her true, at least like truth to last. 
 
 Or if their times will not permit a truce. 
 
 In wrangling questions, which break natures 
 
 peace. 
 And therein offer God and man abuse ; 
 Let pow'r yet vidsely make their practice 
 
 In church or courts, and bind them to the 
 
 schools. 
 As business for idle, witty fools. 
 
 Ordering that people from the pulpit hear 
 Nothing, but that which seems mans life to 
 
 mend; 
 As shadows of eternal hope and fear. 
 Which do contract the ill, and good extend. 
 Not idle theorick, to tickle wit. 
 Empty of goodness, much more nice then 
 fit. 
 
 To which refining end, it may seem just. 
 That in the church the supream magistrates 
 Should ancient be, ere they be put in trust. 
 Since aged wit best tempers, and abates 
 These heady and exorbitant affections, 
 Which are of blind proud youth the imper- 
 fections. 
 
 The Roman laws for magistrates admit 
 None that had not pass'd the meridian line 
 Of youth, and humours incident to it ; 
 And shall it not in functions divine 
 
 Be more absurd, to let that youth appear. 
 And teach what wise men think scarce fit 
 to hear ? 
 
 Besides, chaste life years easilier may observe. 
 Which temper in cathedral dignity, 
 Though wives be lawful, yet doth well deserve. 
 As to their functions leaving them more free : 
 
 Instance their learned works that liv'd 
 alone, 
 
 Where married bishops left us few, or none. 
 
 And if men shall object, that this restraint 
 Of lawful marriage wiU increase the sin. 
 And so the beauty of the church attaint, 
 By bringing scandal through mans frailty in, 
 I say mans fall is sins, not churches shame. 
 Ordain' d by censure to enlarge her fame. 
 
 Censure, the life of discipline, which bears 
 Pow'rs spiritual standard, fit to govern all 
 Opinions, actions, humours, hopes, and fears. 
 Spread knowledge, make obedience general ; 
 
 10 
 
F. Grevile, Lord Brooke.] EEALITY OF A TEUE EELIGIOK [Third Period.— 
 
 Whence man instructed well, and kept in 
 
 awe, 
 If not the inward, yet keeps outward law. 
 
 'vVTiich form is all that tyranny expects, 
 I mean, to win, to change and yet unite ; 
 Where a true king in his estate affects 
 So from within man, to v/ork out the right, 
 As his will need not limit or allay 
 The liberties of God's immortal way. 
 
 Wliere tyrants discipline is never free, 
 But ballanced, proportioned, and bounded 
 So with the temporal ends of tyranny. 
 And ways whereon pow'ra greatnesses axe 
 founded ; 
 As in creation, fame, life, death, or war, 
 Or any other heads that soveraign are. 
 
 Pow'r may not be opposed, or confounded ; 
 But each inferior orb command or serve, 
 With proper latitudes distinctly bounded, 
 To censure all states that presume to swervp, 
 Whereby the common people and the throne 
 May mutually, protected be in one. 
 
 Not rent asunder by sophistication 
 Of one frail sinner, whose supremacy 
 Stands by prophane or under- valuation 
 Of Gods anointed soveraignity ; 
 
 And by dividing subjects from their kings 
 Soars above those thrones, which first gave 
 them wings. 
 
 Affecting such irrevocable might 
 
 With us, as to their mufty, Turks liv'd under, 
 
 Or rather sacriledge more infinite. 
 
 From Jove to ■svrest away the fearful thunder : 
 Salmoneus pride, as if the truth then fell. 
 When he alone rul'd not earth, heav'n and 
 heU. 
 
 Salmoneus who while he his carroach drave 
 Over the brazen bridge of Elis stream. 
 And did with artificial thunder brave 
 Jove, till he pierc't him with a lightning 
 beam ; 
 From which example who will an idol be, 
 Must rest assur'd to feel a deity. 
 
 Thus much to shew the outward churches use, 
 
 In framing up the superstitious sphear, 
 
 Subject alike to order, or abuse. 
 
 Chain' d with immortal seeming hopes and 
 fear ; 
 Which shadow-like their beings yet bereave, 
 By trusting to be, when their bodies leave. 
 
 Where if that outward work which pow'r 
 
 Ijretends, 
 Were life indeed, not frail hypocrisie, 
 Monarchs should need no other laws to friend. 
 Conscience being base of their authority ; 
 By whoso want, frailty flashing out mans 
 
 error 
 Makes thrones enwall themselves with laws 
 of terror. 
 
 Fulke Grevilc, Lord Brooke— About 1620. 
 
 157.— EEALITY OF A. TRUE EELIGION. 
 
 For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy 
 
 No bodies yet are found of constant being ; 
 
 No uniform, no stable mj'^stery, 
 
 No inward nature, but an outward seeming ; 
 No solid truth, no virtue, holiness, 
 But types of these, which time makes more 
 or less. 
 
 And, from these springs, strange inundations 
 
 flow. 
 To drown the sea-marks of humanity. 
 With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe, 
 By sects and schisms profaning Deity : 
 . Besides, with furies, fiends, earth, air, and 
 hell. 
 They fit, and teach confusion to rebel. 
 
 But, as there lives a true God in the heaven. 
 
 So is there true religion here on earth : 
 
 By nature? No, by grace; not got, but 
 
 given; 
 Inspir'd, not taught ; from God a second 
 birth ; 
 God dwelleth near about us, even within. 
 Working the goodness, censuring the sin. 
 
 Such as we are to him, to us is he, 
 Without God there was no man ever good ; 
 Divine the author and the matter be. 
 Where goodness must be wrought in flesh and 
 blood : 
 Eeligion stands not in corrupted things, 
 But virtues that descend have heavenly 
 wings. 
 FiUlce Grevile, Lord Brooke. — About 1620. 
 
 158.— TO HIS MISTEESS, THE QUEEN 
 OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night. 
 
 That poorly satisfy our eye 3 
 More by your number than your light ! 
 
 You common people of the skies ! 
 
 What are you, when the sun shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chanters of the wood. 
 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays. 
 
 Thinking your voices understood 
 
 By your weak accents ! what's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 You violets that first appear. 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known. 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the year, 
 As if the spring were all your own ! 
 What are you, when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen 
 In form and beauty of her mind ; 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a Queen ! 
 Tell me, if she were not design' d 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton.—Abovt 1625. 
 
From 1558 to 1640.] 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 [Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 159- 
 
 -A FAEEWELL TO THE VANITIES 
 OF THE WOELD. 
 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies ! pleasing troubles ; 
 Farewell, yo honour'd rags, ye glorious bub- 
 bles; 
 Fame's but a hollow ecbo, gold pure clay, 
 Honour the darling but of one short day, 
 Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin, 
 State but a golden prison to live in 
 And torture free-born minds; embroider' d 
 
 trains 
 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; 
 And blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 
 Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and 
 
 birth. 
 Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 
 
 I would be great, but that the sun doth still 
 Level his rays against the rising hill ; 
 I would be high, but see the proudest oak 
 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ; 
 I would be rich, but see men too unkind 
 Dig in the bowels of the richest mind ; 
 I would be wise, but that I often see 
 The fox suspected while the ass goes free ; 
 I would be fair, but see the fair and proud 
 Like the bright sun oft setting in a cloud ; 
 I would be poor, but know the humble grass 
 Still trampled on by each unworthy ass ; 
 Eich, hated; wise, suspected; scom'dif poor; 
 Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still en- 
 vied more. 
 I have -svish'd all, but now I wish for neither 
 Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair — poor I'U be 
 rather. 
 
 Would the world now adopt me for her heir, 
 "Would beauty's queen entitle me " the fair," 
 Fame speak me fortune's minion, could I vie 
 Angels with India ; with a speaking eye 
 Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike 
 
 justice dumb 
 As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 
 To stones by epitaphs ; be call'd great master 
 In the loose rhymes of every poetaster ; 
 Could I be more than any man that lives, 
 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives ; 
 Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, 
 Than ever fortune woidd have made them 
 
 mine ; 
 And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
 
 "Welcome, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent 
 
 groves ! 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most 
 
 dearly loves. 
 Now the mng'd people of the sky shall sing 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring ; 
 A prayer-book now shall be my loolcing-glass. 
 In which I -will adore sweet virtiae's face ; 
 Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares, 
 No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced 
 
 fears : 
 
 Then here I'U sit, and sigh my hot love's 
 
 foUy, 
 And learn to affect a holy melancholy ; 
 And if Contentment be a stranger then, 
 I'U ne'er look for it but in heav'n again. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton.— AlmttAQ2b. 
 
 i6o.— THE GOOD MAN. 
 
 How happy is he bom and taught, 
 That serveth not another's wUl ; 
 "Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skiU ! 
 
 "Whose passions not his masters are. 
 Whose soul is stiU prepared for death, 
 Untied unto the worldly care 
 Of pubUc fame, or private breath ; 
 
 "Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
 Or vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 
 
 Who hath his life from rumours freed, 
 "Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 
 
 "Who God doth late and early pray, 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a reUgious book or friend ; 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands. 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to faU ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath aU. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton.— About 1625. 
 
 i6i.— A MEDITATION. 
 
 O thou great Power ! in whom we move, 
 By whom we Hve, to whom we die. 
 
 Behold me through thy beams of love, 
 "Whilst on this couch of tears I lie. 
 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 
 By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 
 
 No haUow'd oUs, no gums I need, 
 No new-bom drams of purging fire ; 
 
 One rosy drop from David's seed 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire i 
 
 O precious ransom ! which once paid, 
 
 That Conswmmatum est was said. 
 
 And said by him, that said no more, 
 But seal'd it with his sacred breath : 
 
 Thou then, that has dispurged our score. 
 And dying wert the death of death, 
 
 Be now, whilst on thy name we caU, 
 
 Our Ufe, our strength, our joy, our all I 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton.- 
 
 -Ahout 1625. 
 10* 
 
Sir Henry Wotton.] 
 
 THE EAEL OF SOMERSET. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 [62.— ON THE SUDDEN EESTEAINT OF 
 
 THE EARL OF SOMERSET, THEN 
 
 FALLING FROM FAVOUR. 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place, 
 Whilst our hopes our wits beguHe, 
 No man marks the narrow space 
 'Twixt a prison and a smile. 
 
 Yet since Fortune's favours fade, 
 You that in her arms do sleep, 
 Learn to swim and not to wade, 
 For the hearts of kings are deep. 
 
 But if greatness be so blind 
 As to trust in towers of air, 
 Let it be with goodness lined, 
 That at least the fall be fair. 
 
 Then though dark and you shall say, 
 "When friends fail and princes frown, 
 Virtue is the roughest way, 
 But proves at night a bed of down. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. — About 1625. 
 
 163.— IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. 
 
 Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 
 
 Fly, fly to courts, 
 
 Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
 Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing 
 
 still. 
 And grief is forced to laugh against her will. 
 
 Where mirth 's but mummery, 
 
 And sorrows only real be. 
 
 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 
 Sad troops of human misery, 
 
 Come, serene looks. 
 
 Clear as the crystal brooks, 
 Or the pure azm-ed hea>ven that smiles to sec 
 The rich attendance on our poverty ; 
 
 Peace and a secure mind. 
 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 Abused mortals ! did you know 
 
 Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, 
 You'd scorn proud towers, 
 And seek them in these bowers. 
 
 Where winds, sometimes, ovx woods perhaps 
 may shake. 
 
 But blustering care could never tempest make ; 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
 Saving of fountains that glide by us. 
 
 Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
 But of our kids that frisk and prance; 
 
 Nor wars are seen. 
 
 Unless upon the green, 
 Two harmless lambs are butting one the other. 
 Which done, both bleating run, each to his 
 mother ; 
 
 And wounds are never found. 
 
 Save what the ploughshare gives the 
 ground. 
 
 Here are no entrapping baits 
 To hasten to too hasty fates ; 
 
 Unless it be 
 
 The fond credulity 
 Of silly fish, which (worldling like) still look 
 Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 
 
 Nor envj^ less among 
 
 The birds, for price of their sweet song. 
 
 Go, let the diving negro seek 
 
 For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 
 
 We all pearls scorn, 
 
 Save what the dewy morn 
 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
 Which careless shepherds beat down as they 
 pass; 
 
 And gold ne'er here appears. 
 
 Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 
 
 Bless'd silent groves, oh, may you be. 
 For ever, mirth's best nursery. 
 May pure contents 
 For ever pitch their tents 
 Upon these doAvns, these meads, these rocks, 
 
 these mountains, 
 And peace still slumber by these purling 
 fountains. 
 
 Which we may every year 
 
 Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. — About 1625. 
 
 164.— S N N E T. 
 
 Let others sing of knights and paladins, 
 In aged accents and untimely words. 
 Paint shadows in imaginary lines. 
 Which well the reach of their high wits re- 
 cords ; 
 But I must sing of thee and those fair eyes, 
 Authentic shall my verse in time to come, 
 Wlien yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, here she 
 
 lies! 
 Whose beauty made him speak what else was 
 
 dumb. 
 These are the arks, the trophies I erect. 
 That fortify thy name against old age. 
 And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
 Against the dark and Time's consuming age ; 
 Though th' error of my youth they shall dis- 
 cover, 
 Sufiice to show I lived, and was thy lover. 
 
 Henri/ Constable. — About 1600. 
 
 165.— M E R C Y. 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strain' d ; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal 
 
 power, 
 Th' attribute to awe and majesty, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] GRIEF THAT CANNOT BE COMFOETED. 
 
 [Shakspekf. 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 
 It is an attribute to God himself ; 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest 
 
 God's 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
 That in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to 
 
 render 
 The deeds of ftiercy. I have spoke thus much, 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea. 
 
 Shaksjperc. — About 1610. 
 
 i66.— N I G H T. 
 
 The moon shines bright : — In such a night as 
 
 this. 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees. 
 And they did make no noise, — in such a night, 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents. 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 In such a night. 
 Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
 And saw the lion's shadow ere himself. 
 And ran dismay' d away. 
 
 In such a night, 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 In such a night, 
 Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old ^son. 
 
 In such a night, 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
 And with an unthrift love did run from 
 
 Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
 In such a night, 
 Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well ; 
 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, 
 And ne'er a true one. 
 
 In such a night, 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
 
 I would out-night you, did no body come : 
 But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 
 
 8halii<2'><^rc.—Ahoid 1610. 
 
 167.— NIGHT AND MUSIC. 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this 
 
 bank ! 
 Here wUl we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the 
 
 night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica. Look how the fiooT of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
 
 There 's not the smallest orb which thou be- 
 hold' st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings. 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot-hea* it. — 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
 With sweetest touches pierce yom* mistress' 
 
 ear. 
 And draw her home with music. 
 
 I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 
 The reason is your spirits are attentive : 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neigh- 
 ing loud. 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound. 
 Or any air of music touch their ears. 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand. 
 Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, 
 By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the 
 
 poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, 
 
 and floods ; 
 Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of 
 
 rage. 
 But music for the time doth change his na- 
 ture ; 
 The man that hath no music in himself. 
 Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,. 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
 And his affectiolis dark as Erebus : 
 Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music. 
 
 Blmlcspere.—Ahout 1610. 
 
 168. 
 
 -GEIEF THAT CANNOT BE 
 COMFORTED. 
 
 I pray thee, cease thy counsel, 
 Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
 As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ; 
 Nor let no comforter delight mine ear. 
 But such a one whose wrongs do suit with 
 
 mine. 
 Bring me a father, that so loved his child, 
 Whose joy of her is overwhelm' d Kke mine, 
 And bid him speak of patience ; 
 Measure his woe the length and breadth of 
 
 mine, 
 And let it answer every strain for strain ; 
 As thus for thus, and such a grief for such. 
 In every lineament, branch, shape, and form : 
 If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard ; 
 And '• sorrow wag " cry ; hem, when he should 
 
 groan ; 
 Patch grief mth proverbs ; make misfortune 
 
 drunk 
 With candle wasters ; bring him yet to me, 
 And I of him will gather patience. 
 But there is no such man : For, brother, men 
 Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
 
SxIAKSPEIlE. 
 
 FLOWEES. 
 
 TThird Period. 
 
 Which they themselves not feel : but, tasting 
 
 it, 
 Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
 Would give precoptial medicine to rage, 
 Fetter strong madness in a silken thread. 
 Charm ache with air, and agony with words ; 
 No, no ; 'tis all men's office to speak patience 
 To those that v^rring under the load of sorrow ; 
 But no man's virtue nor sufficiency, 
 To be so moral, when he shall endure 
 The like himself : therefore give me no counsel : 
 My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 
 
 BJiaksj>ere. — About 1610. 
 
 169.— F'LO WEES. 
 
 Now, my fairest friend, 
 I vrould I had some flowers o' the spring, that 
 
 might 
 Become your time of day; and yours, and 
 
 yours ; 
 That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
 Your maidenheads grooving : — Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st 
 
 fall 
 From Dis's wagon ! daffodils. 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlij)3, and 
 The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds. 
 The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of ; and, my sweet 
 
 friend. 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. 
 
 Shalcspcro. — About 1610. 
 
 170.— EICHAED THE SECOND'S 
 LAMENT. 
 
 Of comfort no man speak : 
 Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 
 Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
 Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 
 Let's choose executors, and talk of wills : 
 And yet not so, — ^for what can we bequeath, 
 Save our depos^^d bodies to the ground ? 
 Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, 
 And nothing can wo call our own, but death, 
 And that small model of the bai-ren earth. 
 Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
 For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, 
 And tell sad stories of the death of kings : — 
 How some have been deposed, some slain in 
 
 war; 
 Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; 
 Some poison' d by their wives, some sleeping 
 
 kiU'd ; 
 All murther'd : — For within the hollow crown, 
 That rounds the mortal temples of a kinr, 
 
 Keeps death his court ; and there the antic 
 
 sits. 
 Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; 
 Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
 To monarchize, be fear'd and kill Avith looks; 
 Infusing him with self and vain conceit, — 
 As if this flesh, which v/alls about our life. 
 Were brass impregnable ; and humour'd thus, 
 Comes at the last, and with a little pin 
 Bores through his castle walls, and — farewell 
 
 king ! 
 Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and 
 
 blood ' 
 
 With solemn reverence ; throw away respect, 
 Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, 
 For you have but mistook me all this while : 
 I live with bread like you, feel want, taste 
 
 grief. 
 Need friends : — Subjected thus, 
 How can you say to me — I am a king ? 
 * * # # 
 
 What must the king do now ? Must he 
 
 submit ? 
 The king shall do it. Must he be deposed ? 
 The king- shall be contented : Must he lose 
 The name of king ? o' Grod's name, let it go : 
 I'll give my jewels, for a set of beads ; 
 My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage ; 
 My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown ; 
 My figured goblets, for a dish of wood ; 
 My sceptre, for a palmer's walking-staff; 
 My subjects, for a pair of carved saints ; 
 And my large kingdom, for a little grave, 
 A little little grave, an obscure grave : — 
 Or I'll be buried in the king's highway, 
 Some way of common trade, where subjects* 
 
 feet 
 May hourly trample on their sovereign's head: 
 For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live ; 
 And, buried once, why not upon my head ? — 
 Aumerle, thou v/eop'st ; My tender-hearted 
 
 cousin ! — 
 We'U make foul weather with despised tears ; 
 Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer 
 
 corn, 
 And make a dearth in this revolting land. 
 Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, 
 And make some pretty match with shedding 
 
 tears ? 
 As thus ; — To drop them still upon one place. 
 Till they have fretted us a pair of graves 
 Within the earth ; and, therein laid, — There lies 
 Two kinsmen, digg'd their graves Avith weep- 
 ing eyes ? 
 Would not this ill do well ?— Well, well, I see 
 I talk but idly, and you mock at me. — 
 Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland, 
 "What says king Bolingbroke ? will his majesty 
 Give Eichard leave to live till Eichard die ? 
 
 Shakspere, — About 1610. 
 
 171.— SOLILOQUY OF EICHAED THE 
 
 SECOND IN PEISON. 
 I have been studying how to compare 
 This prison, where I live, unto the world ; 
 
From 1558 to 1641).] 
 
 HOTSPUE'S DEFENCE. 
 
 [Shakspere. 
 
 An^, for because the world is populous, 
 And here is not a creature but myself, 
 I cannot do it ; — Yet I'll hammer it out. 
 My brain I'll prove the female to my soul ; 
 My soul, the father : and these two beget 
 A generation of still-breeding thoughts, 
 And these same thoughts people this little 
 
 world ; 
 In humours, like the people of this world. 
 For no thought is contented. The better 
 
 sort, — 
 As thoughts of things divine, — are intermix' d 
 With scruples, and do set the faith itself 
 Against the faith : 
 
 As thus, — Come, little ones ; and then again, — 
 It is as hard to come, as for a camel 
 To thread the postern of a needle's eye. 
 Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot 
 Unlikely wonders : how these vain weak nails 
 May tear a passage through the flinty ribs 
 Of this hard world, mj ragged prison walls ; 
 And, for they cannot die in their own pride. 
 Thoughts tending to content, flatter them- 
 selves, — 
 That they are not the first of fortune's slaves, 
 Nor shall not be the last ; like silly beggars. 
 Who, sitting in the stocks refuge their 
 
 shame, — 
 That many have, and others must sit there : 
 And in this thought they find a kind of ease, 
 Bearing their own misfortunes on the back 
 Of such as have before endured the like. 
 Thus play I, in one person, many people, 
 And none contented : Sometimes am I king ; 
 Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar. 
 And so I am : Then crushing penury 
 Persuades me I was better when a king ; 
 Then am I king'd again : and, by-and-by, 
 Think that I am unking' d by Bolingbroke, 
 And straight am nothing : — But, whate'er I 
 
 am. 
 Nor I, nor any man, that but man is, 
 With nothing shall be pleased, tUl he be eased 
 With being nothing. — Music do I hear ? 
 Ha, ha ! keep time. — How sour sweet music is. 
 When time is broke, and no proportion kept ! 
 So is it in the music of men's lives. 
 And here have I the daintiness of ear. 
 To check time broke in a disorder' d string ; 
 But, for the concord of my state and time, 
 Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. 
 I wasted time, and now doth time waste me. 
 For now hath time made me his numb'ring 
 
 clock : 
 My thoughts are minutes ; and, with sighs, 
 
 they jar 
 Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward 
 
 watch, 
 Whereto my finger, like a dial's point. 
 Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. 
 Now, Sir, the sounds, that tell what hour 
 
 it is. 
 Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my 
 
 heart, 
 Which is the bell : So sighs, and tears, and 
 
 groans, 
 
 Show minutes, times, and hours : — but my 
 
 time 
 Euns posting on in Bolingbroke' s proud joy. 
 While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the 
 
 clock. 
 This music mads me, let it sound no more ; 
 For, though it have holpe madinpn-t^o their 
 
 wits. 
 In me, it seems it will make wise men mad. 
 Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me ! 
 For 'tis a sign of love ; and love to Eichard 
 Is a strange brooch in this aU-hating world. 
 
 Shalcspere. — About 1610. 
 
 172.— HOTSPUE'S DEFENCE. 
 
 My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
 But, I remember, when the fight was done, 
 When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 
 Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
 Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly 
 
 dress'd. 
 Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, ne\5 
 
 reap'd, 
 Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
 He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; 
 Who, therewith angry, when it next came 
 
 there, 
 Took it in snuff: and stiU he smiled and 
 
 talk'd 
 And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by. 
 He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly. 
 To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
 Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
 With many holiday and lady terms 
 He question'd me ; among the rest, demanded 
 My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. 
 I then, all smarting, with my wounds being 
 
 cold. 
 To be so pester' d with a popinjay. 
 Out of my grief and my impatience 
 Answer' d neglectingly, I know not what ; 
 He should, or should not ; — for he made me 
 
 mad, 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman 
 Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save 
 
 the mark !) 
 And telling me, the sovereign' st thing on earth 
 Was parmacetti for an inward bruise ; 
 And that it was great pity, so it was. 
 That villainous saltpetre should be digg'd 
 Out of the bowels of the harmless earth. 
 Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 
 So cowardly ; and but for those vile guns 
 He would himseK have been a soldier. 
 This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
 I answer' d indirectly, as I said ; 
 And I beseech you, let not this report 
 Come current for an accusation, 
 I Bct-wixt my love and your high majesty. 
 
 Bhalispere. — About 1610. 
 
Shakspere.] 
 
 EIJMOUE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 173.— RUMOUR. 
 
 Open your ears : For which of you will stop 
 The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks ? 
 I, from the orient to the drooping west, 
 Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold 
 The acts commenced on this ball of earth : 
 Upon my tongues conbinual slanders ride ; 
 The which in every language I pronounce, 
 Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 
 I speak of peace, while covert enmity, 
 Under the smile of safety, wounds the world : 
 And who but Eumour, who but only I, 
 Make fearful musters, and prepared defence. 
 Whilst the big year, swoln with some other 
 
 griefs. 
 Is thought with child by the stem tyrant war, 
 And no such matter ? Eumour is a pipe 
 Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures ; 
 And of so easy and so plain a stop 
 That the blunt monster with uncounted heads. 
 The still-discordant wavering multitude, 
 Can play upon it. But what need I thus 
 My well-known body to anatomize 
 Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? 
 I run before king Harry's victory ; 
 ^Vho, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury, 
 Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his 
 
 troops. 
 Quenching the flame of bold rebellion 
 Even with the rebels' blood. But what mean I 
 To speak so true at first ? my office is 
 To noise abroad, — that Harry Monmouth fell 
 Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword ; 
 And that the king before the Douglas' rage 
 St(K)p'd his anointed head as low as death. 
 This have I rumour' d through the peasant 
 
 towns 
 Between the royal field of Shrewsbury 
 And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, 
 Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland, 
 Lies crafty-sick : the posts come tiring on, 
 And not a man of them brings other news 
 Than they have learn' d of me : From Rumour's 
 
 tongues 
 They bring smooth comforts false, worse than 
 
 true wrongs. 
 
 Shalcspcrc.—Alout 1610. 
 
 174.— S LEER 
 
 How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
 Are at this hour asleep I O sleep, O gentle 
 
 sleep, 
 ^Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
 That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids 
 
 down, 
 And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
 Why rather, sleep, licst thou in smoky cribs, 
 Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
 And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy 
 
 slumber, 
 Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, j 
 Under the canopies of costly state, | 
 
 And luU'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? I 
 
 O thou duU god, why liest thou with the rile, 
 In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly 
 
 couch, 
 A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell ? 
 Wilt thou tipon the high and giddy mast 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his 
 
 brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious sui-ge, 
 And in the visitation of the winds. 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging 
 
 thom 
 With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds. 
 That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 
 Canst thou, partial sleep ! give thy repose 
 To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; 
 And, in the calmest and most stillest night, 
 With all appliances and means to boot. 
 Deny it to a king.? Then, happy low-lie- 
 down ! 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 
 
 8Ml:sx>ere. — About 1610. 
 
 175.— HENRY THE FOURTH'S EXPOS- 
 TULATION WITH HIS SON. 
 
 Thy wish was father, Harry, to that 
 thought : 
 I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 
 Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair. 
 That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine 
 
 honours 
 Before thy hour be ripe ? foolish youth '. 
 Thou seek'st the greatness that Avill over- 
 whelm thee. 
 Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity 
 Is held from falling Avith so weak a wind. 
 That it will quickly drop : my day is dim. 
 Thou hast stol'n that, which, after some few 
 
 hours, 
 Were thine without offence ; and, at my death, 
 Thou ha.st seal'd up my expectation : 
 Thy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not, 
 And thou wilt have me die assured of it. 
 Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy 
 
 thoughts, 
 Which thou hast wetted on thy stony heart, 
 To stab at half an hour of my life. 
 What ! canst thou not forbear me half an 
 
 hour? 
 Then get thee gone ; and dig my grave thy- 
 self; 
 And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear 
 That thou art crown'd, not that I am dead. 
 Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse 
 Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head : 
 Only compound me with forgotten dust ; 
 Give that, which gave thee life, imto the 
 
 Avorms. 
 Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ; 
 For now a time is come to mock at form. 
 Harry the Fifth is crown'd : — Up, vanity ! 
 Down, royal state ! all you sage counsellors 
 
 hence ! 
 And to the English court assemble now. 
 
From 1558 to 1(>49.] 
 
 THE KING'S ANSWEE. 
 
 [Shakspeee. 
 
 From every region, apes of idleness ! 
 
 Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your 
 
 scum : 
 Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, 
 
 dance, 
 Eicvel the night ; rob, murder, and commit 
 The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? 
 Be happy, ho Avill trouble you no more : 
 England shall double gild his treble guilt : 
 England shall give him office, honour, might : 
 For the fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks 
 The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog 
 Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent. 
 
 my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
 When that my care could not withhold thy 
 
 riots. 
 What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 
 O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 
 Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants ! 
 
 # « # # =K: 
 
 O my son ! 
 Heaven put it in thy mind to take it hence. 
 That thou mightst win the more thy father's 
 
 love, 
 Pleading so wisolj' in excuse of it. 
 Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; 
 And hear, I think, the very latest counsel 
 That ever I shall breathe. Heaven knows, 
 
 my son, 
 By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd ways, 
 
 1 met this crown ; and I myself know Avell 
 How troublesome it sat upon my head : 
 To thee it shall descend with better quiet, 
 Better opinion, better confirmation ; 
 
 For all the soil of the achievement goes 
 With me into the earth. It sceni'd in me 
 But as an hoiiour snatch' d with boisterous 
 
 hand ; 
 And I had many living, to upbraid 
 Mj' gain of it by their assistances ; 
 Which daily grew to quarrel, and to blood- 
 shed. 
 Wounding supposed peace : all these bold 
 
 fears. 
 Thou seest, -w-ith peril I have answer'd : 
 For all my reign hath been but as a scene 
 Acting that argument : and now my death 
 Changes the mood : for what in me was pur- 
 chased. 
 Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort ; 
 So thou the garland wcar'st successively. 
 Yet, though thou stand' st more sure than I 
 
 could do, 
 Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are 
 
 green ; 
 And all thy friends, which thou must make 
 
 thy friends, 
 Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en 
 
 out ; 
 By whose fell v»rorking I was first advanced. 
 And by whose power I well might lodge a fear 
 To be again displaced : which to avoid, 
 I cut them off; and had a i^urpose now 
 To lead out many to the Holy Land ; 
 Lest rest, and lying still, might make them look 
 Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, 
 
 Be it thy course, to busy giddy minds 
 
 With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence 
 
 borne out, 
 May waste the memory of the former days. 
 More would I, but my lungs are wasted so, 
 That strength of speech is utterly denied me. 
 How I came by the crown, O Heaxeniorgive! 
 And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! 
 
 S1ia]{spc7'e. — About 1610. 
 
 176.— THE ANSWER OF THE LORD 
 CHIEF JUSTICE TO HENRY V. 
 
 I then did use the person of your father ; 
 The image of his power lay then in me : 
 And in th' administration of his law, 
 Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth. 
 Your highness pleased to forget my place, 
 The majesty and power of law and justice, 
 The image of the king whom I presented, 
 And struck me in my very seat of judgment ; 
 ! Whereon, as an offender to your father, 
 I I gave bold way to my authority, 
 I And did commit you. If the deed were ill, 
 1 Be you contented, wearing now the garland, 
 I To have a son set your decrees at naught ; 
 j To pluck do\vn justice from your awful bench ; 
 j To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword 
 '■ That guards the peace and safety of your per- 
 ; son: 
 
 I Nay, more ; to spurn at your most royal image, 
 I And mock your workings in a second body. 
 I Question your royal thoughts, make the case 
 [ yours ; 
 Be now the father, and propose a son : 
 Hear your own dignity so much profaned. 
 See your most dreadful laws so loosely 
 
 slighted, 
 Behold yourself so by a son disdain'd ; 
 And then imagine me taking your i^art, 
 And, in your power, soft silencing your son : 
 After this cold considerance, sentence me ; 
 And, as you are a king, speak in your state, 
 What I have done, that misbecame my place, 
 My person, or my liege's sovereignty. 
 
 Shal-spere.— About IGIO. 
 
 177.— THE KING'S ANSWER. 
 
 You are right, justice, and you weigh this mcII ; 
 Therefore still bear the balance and the sword : 
 And I do wish your honours may increase, 
 Till you do live to see a son of mine 
 Offend you, and obey you, as I did. 
 So shall I live to speak my father's words : — 
 Happy am I, that have a man so bold. 
 That dares do justice on my proper son : 
 And no less happy, having such a son. 
 That Avould deliver up his greatness so 
 Into the hands of justice. — You did commit 
 
 me : 
 For which, I do commit into your hand 
 The unstain'd swcrd that you have udcd lo 
 
 bear ; 
 
Shakspeee.] 
 
 HENEY THE FIFTH'S ADDEESS. 
 
 [Third Peeiod. — 
 
 With, this remembrance, — That you use the 
 
 same 
 With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit, 
 As you have done 'gainst me. There is my 
 
 hand ; 
 You shall be as a father to my youth : 
 My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine 
 
 ear; 
 And I wUl stoop and humble my intents 
 To your well-practised, wise directions, — 
 And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you; — 
 My father is gone wild into his grave. 
 For in his tomb lie my afiFections ; 
 And with his spirit sadly I survive, 
 To mock the expectation of the world ; 
 To frustrate prophecies ; and to raze out 
 Eotten opinion, who hath writ me down 
 After my seeming. The tide of blood in me 
 Hath proudly flow'd in vanity, till now : 
 Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea ; 
 Where it shall mingle with the state of floods, 
 And flow henceforth in formal majesty. 
 Now call we our high court of parliament : 
 And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, 
 That the great body of our state may gp 
 In equal rank with the best-govern' d nation ; 
 That war, or peace, or both at once, may be 
 As things acquainted and familiar to us ; — 
 In which you, father, shall have foremost 
 
 hand. 
 
 Shalcsperc. — About 1610. 
 
 178.— HENEY THE FIFTH'S ADDEESS 
 TO HIS SOLDIEES BEFOEE HAEFLEUE. 
 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, 
 once more ; 
 Or close the wall up -svith our English dead ! 
 In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, 
 As modest stillness, and humility : 
 But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favour' d rage : 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head. 
 Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm 
 
 it, 
 As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
 O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
 Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril 
 
 wide ; 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
 To his full height !— On, on, you noblest 
 
 English, 
 Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ! 
 Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, 
 Have, in these parts, from morn tiU even 
 
 fought. 
 And sheath' d their swords for lack of argu- 
 ment. 
 Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest. 
 That those whom you call'd fathers, did be- 
 get you ! 
 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 
 And teach them how to war ! — And you, good 
 
 yeomen, 
 Whose limbs were made in England, show us 
 
 here 
 The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 
 That you are worth your breeding : which I 
 
 doiibt not ; 
 For there is none of you so mean and base, 
 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips. 
 Straining upon the start. The game 's afoot ; 
 Follow your spirit : and, upon this charge. 
 Cry — Grod for Harry ! England ! and Saint 
 
 George ! 
 
 Shalcsperc. — Aho^lt 1610. 
 
 179.— HENEY THE FIFTHS ADDEESS 
 AT AGINCOUET. 
 
 No, my fair cousin : 
 If we are mark'd to die, we are enow 
 To do our country loss ; and if to live. 
 The fewer men the greater share of honour. 
 God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man 
 
 more. 
 By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 
 Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 
 It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 
 Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 
 But if it be a sin to covet honour, 
 I am the most offending soul alive. 
 No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from Eng- 
 land : 
 God's peace ! I would not lose so great an 
 
 honour. 
 As one man more, methinks, would share from 
 
 me. 
 For the best hope I have. 0, do not -wash one 
 
 more : 
 Eather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through 
 
 my host. 
 That he which hath no stomach to this fight 
 Let him depart ; his passport shall be made, 
 And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 
 We would not die in that man's company 
 That fears his fellowship to die with us. 
 This day is call'd the feast of Crispian : 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe 
 
 home. 
 Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, 
 And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 
 He that shall see this day, and live old age. 
 Will yearly on the ^dgil feast his neighbours. 
 And say, To-morrow is saint Crispian : 
 Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his 
 
 scars : 
 Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot, 
 But he'll remember, with advantages. 
 What feats he did that day : Then shall our 
 
 names. 
 Familiar in his mouth as household words, — 
 Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, 
 Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, — 
 Be in their floAving cups freshly remember' d : 
 This story shall the good man teach his son ; 
 
From 1558 to 1&49.] 
 
 GLOSTEE'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 [Shakspeee. 
 
 And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er g-o b}^ 
 
 From this day to the ending of the world, 
 
 But we in it shall be remembered : 
 
 We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; 
 
 For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, 
 
 Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vUe, 
 
 This day shall gentle his condition : 
 
 And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, 
 
 Shall think themselves accursed they were not 
 
 here ; 
 And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any 
 
 speaks, 
 That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. 
 
 Shal-S2'>crc— About 1610. 
 
 i8o.— HENEY THE SIXTH'S SOLILOQUY 
 ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 This battle fares like to the morning's war, 
 When dying clouds contend with growing 
 
 light ; 
 What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails. 
 Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 
 Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea. 
 Forced by the tide to combat with the wind ; 
 Now sways it that way, like the self- same sea 
 Forced to retire by fury of the wind : 
 Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the 
 
 wind : 
 Now, one the better ; then, another best ; 
 Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 
 Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered : 
 So is the equal pois^e of this fell war. 
 Here on this molehill will I sit me down. 
 To whom God will, there be the victory ! 
 For Margaret, my queen, and Clifford too, 
 Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both, 
 They prosper best of all when I am thence. 
 'Would I were dead ! if God's good will were 
 
 so ; 
 For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 
 O God ! methinks, it were a happy life. 
 To be no better than a homely swain ; 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 
 To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
 Thereby to see the minutes hoAv they run : 
 How many make the hour full complete, 
 How many hours bring about the day. 
 How many days will finish up the year. 
 How many years a mortal man may live. 
 When this is known, then to divide the times : 
 So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
 So many hours must I take my rest ; 
 So many hours must I contemplate ; 
 So many hours must I sport myself ; 
 So many days my ewes have been with young ; 
 So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
 So ma.ny years ere I shall shear the fleece ; 
 So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and 
 
 years, 
 Pass'd over to the end they were created, 
 Would bring v/hitc hairs unto a quiet grave. 
 Ah, what a life were this ! How sweet ! How 
 
 lovely ! 
 I Gives not the ha-\\^;horn bush a sweeter shade 
 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 
 Than doth a rich embroider' d canopy 
 To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery ? 
 O, yes, it doth ; a thousand fold it doth. 
 And to conclude, — The shepherd's homely 
 
 curds, 
 His cold thin drink out of hisleatiier-bottle, 
 His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, 
 All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 
 Is far beyond a prince's delicates. 
 His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 
 His body couched in a curious bed. 
 When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. 
 
 Shalcspc7'e. — About 1610. 
 
 1 8 1. —GLOSTEE'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty ; 
 Like one that stands upon a promontory. 
 And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 
 Wishing his foot were equal with his eye ; 
 And chides the sea that sunders him from 
 
 thence, 
 Saying — ^he'll lade it dry to have his way : 
 So do I wish the crown, being so far off; 
 And so I chide the means that keep me from 
 
 it; 
 And so I say — I'll cut the causes off. 
 Flattering me with impossibilities. — 
 My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too 
 
 much. 
 Unless my hand and strength could equal 
 
 them. 
 Well, say there is no kingdom then for 
 
 Eichard ; 
 "What other pleasure can the world afford ? 
 I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap. 
 And deck my body in gay ornaments. 
 And witch sweet ladies vath my words and 
 
 looks. 
 O miserable thought ! and more unlikely. 
 Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns ! 
 WI13', love forswore me in my mother's womb: 
 And, for I should not deal in her soft laws. 
 She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe 
 To shrink mine arm up like a wither' d shrub ; 
 To make an envious mountain on my back, 
 Wliere sits deformity to mock my body ; 
 To shape my logs of an unequal size ; 
 To disproportion me in every part. 
 Like to a chaos, or an unhck'd bear-whelp, 
 That carries no impression like the dam. 
 And am I then a man to be beloved ? 
 O, monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought ! 
 Then since this earth affords no joy to me. 
 But to command, to check, to o'erbear such 
 As are of better person than myself, 
 I'll make my heaven to dream upon the 
 
 crown ; 
 And, whiles I live, to account this world but 
 
 heU, 
 Until my mis-shap'd trunk, that bears this head, 
 lie round impaled with a glorious crown. 
 And yet I know not how to get the crown, 
 For many lives stand between me and heme ; 
 
Shakspere.] 
 
 WOLSEY ON HIS FALL. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 And I, — ^like one lost in a thorny wood, 
 That rents the thorns, and is rent with the 
 
 thorns ; 
 Seeking' a way, and straying from the way ; 
 Not kno-\ving how to find the open air, 
 But toiling desperately to find it out, — 
 Torment myself to catch the English crown ; 
 And from that torment I will free myself, 
 Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. 
 Why I can smile, and murther whiles I smile ; 
 And, cry, content, to that which grieves my 
 
 heart ; 
 And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 
 And frame my face to all occasions. 
 I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; 
 I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk ; 
 I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, 
 Deceive more slily than Ulj^sses could. 
 And, like a Sinon, take another Troy : 
 I can add colours to the cameleon ; 
 Change shapes with Proteus, for advantages, 
 And set the murth'rous Machiavel to school. 
 Can I do this, and cannot get a crown ? 
 Tut ! were it farther off I'll pluck it doAvn. 
 
 SlioJcspere.—A'bout 1610. 
 
 182.— WOLSEY ON HIS FALL. 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my great- 
 ness ! 
 This is the state of man : To-day he puts 
 
 forth 
 The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blos- 
 soms, 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon 
 
 him; 
 The third day com.es a frost, a killing frost ; 
 And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full 
 
 surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root. 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
 This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth : my high-blown 
 
 pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left 
 
 me, 
 Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 
 I feel my heart new open'd : O, how wretched 
 Is thfit poor man that hangs on princes' 
 
 favours ! 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire 
 
 to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. 
 More pangs and fears than wars or Avomen 
 
 have ; 
 And v/hen he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. — 
 
 * « * # 
 
 CromweU, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forc'd me 
 Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. 
 
 Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, 
 Cromwell ; 
 
 And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; ' 
 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no men- 
 tion 
 
 Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught 
 thee ; 
 
 Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of 
 glory. 
 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of 
 honour, — 
 
 Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in ; 
 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd 
 it. 
 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 
 
 CromweU, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 
 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then, 
 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? 
 
 Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that 
 hate thee ; 
 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear 
 not : 
 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy coun- 
 try's. 
 
 Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, 
 O Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; 
 
 And, — Prithee, load me in : 
 
 There take an inventory of all I have, 
 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
 
 And my integrity to heaven, is all 
 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, 
 Cromwell, 
 
 Had I but serv'd my God Avith half the zeal 
 
 I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age 
 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 8halcs]pere. — About 1610. 
 
 183.— CRANMEE'S PEOPHECY OF 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 Let me speak, sir. 
 For heaven now bids me; and the words I 
 
 utter 
 Let none think flattery, for they'U find them 
 
 truth. 
 This royal infant, (hoftven still move about 
 
 her !) 
 Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
 Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 
 Which time shall bring to ripeness : She shall 
 
 be 
 (But few now living can behold that good- 
 ness) 
 A pattern to all princes living with her, 
 And all that shall succeed : Saba was never 
 More covetous of "wisdom, and fair virtue, 
 Than this pure soul shall be : all princely 
 
 graces. 
 That mould up such a mighty piece as this is. 
 With all the virtues that attend the good, 
 Shall still bo doubled on her : truth hIuiII nurse 
 
 her, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] MACBETH BEFOEE MURDEEING THE KING. 
 
 [Shakspere. 
 
 1 
 
 Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her : 
 She shall be lov'd, and fear'd : Her own shall 
 
 bless her : 
 Her foes shake like a field of beaten com, 
 And hang their heads with sorrow: Good 
 
 grows with her : 
 In her days, everj^ man shall eat in safety 
 Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing 
 The merry songs of peace to aU his neigh- 
 bours : 
 God shall be truly known; and those about 
 
 her 
 From her shall read the perfect ways of 
 
 honour, 
 And by those claim their greatness, not by 
 
 blood. 
 Nor shall this peace sleep vnth. her : But as 
 
 when 
 The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, 
 Her ashes new create another heir, 
 As great in admiration as herself ; 
 So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 
 (When heaven shall call her from this cloud 
 
 of darkness), 
 Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, 
 Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she 
 
 was. 
 And so stand fix'd : Peace, plenty, love, truth, 
 
 terror. 
 That were the servants to this chosen infant, 
 Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him ; 
 Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine. 
 His honour, and the greatness of his name, 
 Shall be, and make new nations : He shall 
 
 flourish 
 And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him : — Our children's 
 
 children ♦ 
 
 Shall see this, and bless heaven. 
 
 She shall be, to the happiness of England, 
 An aged princess ; many days shall see her. 
 And yet no day without a deed to crown it. 
 Would I had known no more ! but she must 
 
 die. 
 She must, the saints must have her; yet a 
 
 virgin, 
 A most unspotted lily shall she pass 
 To the ground, and all the world shall mourn 
 
 her. 
 
 Shakspere. — Ahout 1610. 
 
 184.— HALILET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 
 
 To be, or not to be, that is the question : 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And by opposing end them ? — To die, — to 
 
 sleep, — 
 No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natural 
 
 shocks K 
 
 That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep ; — 
 
 To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's 
 
 the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may 
 
 come. 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 
 Must give us pause : there's the respect 
 That makes calamitj'- of so long lif^^ _ 
 For who would bear the v.diips and scorns of 
 
 time, 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's con- 
 tumely, 
 The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, 
 The insolence of office, and the sj)urns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin ? who would these fardels 
 
 bear. 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; 
 But that the dread of something after death. 
 The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 
 No traveller returns, j)uzzles the will ; 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
 Than fly to others that we know not of ? 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought 
 And enterprizes of great pith and moment, 
 With this regard, their currents turn away, 
 And lose the name of action. 
 
 ShaJcsjyere. — Ahout 1610. 
 
 185.— MACBETH BEFOEE MUEDEEING 
 THE KING. 
 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me. 
 The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me 
 
 clutch thee : — 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind ; a false creation, 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 
 I see thee yet, in form as jDalpable 
 As this which now I draw. 
 Thou marshall'st me the wa3^ that I was going; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other 
 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 
 Which was not so before. — There's no such 
 
 thing ; 
 It is the bloody business which informs 
 Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one half 
 
 world 
 I'Tature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 The curtain' d sleep ; witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither' d murther. 
 Alarum' d by his sentinel, the wolf. 
 Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy 
 
 pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing sides, towards his 
 
 design. 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set 
 
 earth, 
 
SHAKSrEHE.] 
 
 CASSIU3 TO BRUTUS. 
 
 [Third ?EiiiOD. — 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for 
 
 fear 
 Thy very stones prate of my where-about, 
 And take the present horror from the time, 
 Which now smts with it. — Whiles I threat he 
 
 lives : 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath 
 
 gives. 
 I g'o, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. 
 
 Shakspere. — About 1610. 
 
 i86.— CASSIUS TO BEUTUS. 
 
 I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
 As well as I do know your outward favour. 
 Well, honour is the subject of my story. — 
 I cannot tell what you and other men 
 Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 
 I had as lief not be as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
 I was born free as Cjesar ; so were you r 
 We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 For once, upon a raw and gusty day. 
 The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
 Caesar said to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
 Leap in with me into this angry flood. 
 And swim to yonder point ? " Upon the word, 
 Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
 And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 
 The torrent roar'd ; and we did buffet it 
 With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside 
 And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
 But ere we could arrive the point propos'd, 
 Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 
 I, as ^neas, our great ancestor. 
 Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
 The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of 
 
 Tiber, 
 Did I the tired Csesar : And this man 
 Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 
 If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 
 How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did 
 
 shake : 
 His coward lips did from their colour fly ; 
 And that same eye whose bend doth awe the 
 
 world 
 Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : 
 Ay, and that tongue of Ms that bade the 
 
 Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their 
 
 books, 
 Alas ! it cried, " Give me some drink, Titinius," 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 So get the start of the majestic world, 
 And bear the palm alone. 
 
 # # # # 
 
 Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 
 Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
 
 Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
 To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 
 Men at some time are masters of their fates : 
 The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
 But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
 Brutus and Caesar : What should be in that 
 
 Caesar ? 
 Why should that name be sounded more than 
 
 yours ? 
 Write them together, yours is as fair a name; 
 Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; 
 Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 
 
 them, 
 Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Csesar. 
 Now in the names of all the gods at once, 
 Upon what meat doth this our Casar feed. 
 That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art 
 
 sham'd ! 
 Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods I 
 When went there by an age, sinc^ the great 
 
 flood. 
 But it was famed with more than with one 
 
 man ? 
 When could they say, tni now, that talk'd of 
 
 Rome, 
 That her wide walks encompass' d but one 
 
 man ? 
 Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, 
 When there is in it but one only man. 
 Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say,' 
 There was a Brutus once that woidd have 
 
 brook' d 
 The eternal devU to keep his state in Rome, 
 As easily as a king. 
 
 Slia'kspere. — About 1610. 
 
 i87.:j-^AEK ANTONY'S ORATION ON 
 THE BODY OF C^SAR. 
 
 Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your 
 ears; 
 I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
 The evil that men do lives after them ; 
 The good is oft interr'd with their bones ; 
 So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
 Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : 
 If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 
 And gTievously hath Caesar answer' d it. 
 Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
 (For Brutus is an honourable man ; 
 So are they all, all honourable men;) 
 Come I to speak in Csesar's funeral. 
 He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
 But Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 
 And Brutus is an honom-able man. 
 He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
 Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
 Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
 When that the poor have cried, Cassar hath 
 
 wept : 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 You all did see that on the Lupercal 
 I thrice x)resented him a kingly crown. 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] 
 
 CLEOPATEA. 
 
 [ShAKSI'EKK. 
 
 Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambi- 
 tion ? 
 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 
 
 And, siu*e, he is an honourable man. 
 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
 
 But here I am to speak what I do know. 
 
 You all did love him once, not without cause ; 
 
 What cause withholds you then to mourn for 
 him ? 
 
 O judgToent, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
 
 And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with 
 me ; 
 
 My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
 
 And I must pause till it come back to me. 
 
 * # # # 
 
 But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
 Have stood against the world: now lies he 
 
 there, 
 And none so poor to do him reverence. 
 
 masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 
 
 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong. 
 Who, you aU know, are honourable men : 
 
 I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 
 Than I will wrong such honourable men. 
 But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar, 
 I found it in his closet, 'tis his will : 
 Let but the commons hear this testament, 
 (Which, pardon me, I do not moan to read,) 
 And they would go and kiss dead Cfflsar's 
 
 wounds, 
 And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
 Unto their issue, 
 
 * # * # . 
 
 Have patience, gentle friends, I mwst not 
 read it ; 
 It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. 
 You are not wood, you are not stones, but 
 
 men; 
 And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 
 It will inflame you, it Avill make you mad : 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; 
 For if you should, oh, what would come of it ! 
 
 * * # * 
 
 Will you be patient ? Will you stay a 
 while ? 
 I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it. 
 I fear I wrong the honourable men 
 Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar : I do fear 
 
 it. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 If you have tears, prepare to shed them 
 now. 
 You all do know this mantle : I remember 
 The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ; 
 That day he overcame the Nersdi: — 
 Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger 
 
 through : 
 See, what a rent the envious Casca made : 
 Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; 
 And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
 
 Mark how the blood of Caesar follow' d it ; 
 As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 
 If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : 
 Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cassar loved 
 
 him ! 
 This was the most unkindest cut oftdl-j- 
 For when the noble Ceesar saw him stab. 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms. 
 Quite vanquish' d him : then burst his mighty 
 
 heart ; 
 And, in his mantle mufiling up Ids face, 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar 
 
 feU. 
 Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish' d over us. 
 Oh, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 
 The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 
 Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but 
 
 behold 
 Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you hero. 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with 
 
 traitors. 
 
 # # * # 
 
 Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir 
 you up 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
 They that have done this deed are honour- 
 able J 
 What private griefs they have, alas ! I know 
 
 not. 
 That made them do it ; they are wise and 
 
 honourable, 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
 I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
 I am no orator, as Brutus is : 
 But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man. 
 That love my friend ; and that they know full 
 
 well 
 That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
 For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
 To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 
 I tell you that which you youi'selves do know; 
 Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor 
 
 dumb mouths. 
 And bid them speak for me : But were I 
 
 Brutus, 
 And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
 Would rufiie up your spirits, and put a tongue 
 In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
 The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 
 
 Shalvspere. — About 1610. 
 
 1 88.— CLEOPATEA. 
 
 The barge she sat in, like a bumish'd 
 throne, 
 Burnt on the water ; the poop was beaten 
 
 gold; 
 Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
 The winds were love-sick with them : the 
 
 oars were silver ; 
 
Shakspere.] 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Wliich to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and 
 
 made 
 The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 
 As amorous of their strokes. For her own 
 
 person, 
 It beggar' d all description : she did lie 
 In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), 
 O'erpicturing that Venus, where we see 
 The fancy out- work nature : on each side her 
 Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling 
 
 Cupids, 
 With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did 
 
 seem 
 To glow the delicate cheeks which they did 
 
 cool, 
 And what they undid, did. 
 
 Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
 So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
 And made their bends adomings : at the helm 
 A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
 Swell with the touches of those flower-soft 
 
 hands. 
 That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
 A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
 Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
 Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
 Enthron'd in the market-place, did sit alone. 
 Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
 And made a gap in nature. 
 
 Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, 
 Invited her to supper : she replied. 
 It should be better he became her guest ; 
 Which she entreated : Our courteoiis Antony, 
 Whom ne'er the word of " No " woman heard 
 
 speak, 
 Being barber' d ten times o'er, goes to the 
 
 feast ; 
 And, for his ordinary, pays his heart. 
 For what his eyes eat only. 
 
 S]mks2:)cre. — About 1610. 
 
 189.— LIFE. 
 
 Eeason thus with life : 
 If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath 
 
 thou art, 
 (Servile to all the skiey influences,) 
 That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, 
 Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool; 
 For him thou labour' st by thy flight to shun. 
 And yet runn'st toward him still: Thou art 
 
 not noble ; 
 For all the accommodations that thou bear'st 
 Are nurs'd by baseness : Thou art by no means 
 
 valiant ; 
 For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
 Of a poor worm : Thy best of rest is sleep. 
 And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly 
 
 fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not 
 
 thyself ; 
 
 For thou exist' st on many a thousand grains 
 That issue out of dust : Happy thou art not : 
 For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to 
 
 get; 
 And what thou hast, forgett'st : Thou art not 
 
 certain ; 
 For thy complexion shifts to strange effects. 
 After the moon: If thou art rich, thoa art 
 
 poor ; 
 For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
 Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journej^ 
 And death unloads thee. 
 
 # * * # 
 
 Thou hast nor youth, nor age, 
 But, as it were, an after-dinner' s sleep. 
 Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth 
 Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 
 Of palsied eld ; and when thou art old, and 
 
 rich. 
 Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor 
 
 beauty. 
 To make thy riches pleasant. What 's jet 
 
 in this, 
 That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
 Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we 
 
 fear. 
 That makes these odds all even. 
 
 Shakspere. — About 1610. 
 
 190.— APPEAEANCES. 
 
 The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
 In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt. 
 But, being season' d with a gracious voice^ 
 Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 
 What damned error, but some sober brow 
 Will bless it, and approve it vnih a text, 
 Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 
 There is no vice so simple but assumes 
 Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 
 How many cowards, whose hearts are all as 
 
 false 
 As stayers of sand, wear yet upon their 
 
 chins 
 The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, 
 Vfho, inward search' d, have livers white as 
 
 milk ; 
 And these assume but valour's excrement, 
 To render them redoubted ! Look on beauty, 
 And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the 
 
 weight ; 
 Which therein works a miracle in nature, 
 Malring them lightest that wear most of it : 
 So are those crisped snaky golden locks, 
 Wliich make such wanton gambols with the 
 
 wind. 
 Upon supposed fairness, often known 
 To bo the dowry of a second head, 
 The scull that bred them in the sepulchre. 
 Thus ornament is but the guiled shore 
 To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 
 Veiling an Indian beaxity ; in a word. 
 The seeming truth which cunning times put on 
 To entrap the wisest. 
 
 S]iaksx>cre. — Aho ut 1610. 
 
Jt'rom 1558 to le^.'j 
 
 CEEEMONY. 
 
 [Shakspeee. 
 
 191.— THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile. 
 Hath not old custom made this life more 
 
 sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these 
 
 woods 
 More free from peril than the envious court ? 
 Hero feel we not the penalty of Adam. 
 The seasons' difference, — as, the icy fang, 
 And churlish chiding of the winter's wind. 
 Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 
 Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say 
 This is no flattery, — these are counsellors 
 That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running 
 
 brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 Shal-sx>ere. — About 1610. 
 
 192.— A MEDITATIVE FOOL. 
 
 A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, 
 A motley fool ; a miserable world : 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
 Who laid him down and bask'd him in the 
 
 And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 
 In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
 " Good-morrow, fool," quoth I : " No, sir," 
 
 quoth he, 
 " Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me 
 
 fortune : " 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
 And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
 Says, very wisely, " It is ten o'clock : 
 Thus we may see," quoth he, " how the world 
 
 wags : 
 'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine ; 
 And after one hour more, 't will be eleven ; 
 And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot. 
 And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
 That fools should be so deep-contemplative ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission. 
 An hour by his dial. — noble fool ! 
 A vrorthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. 
 
 Shahspere.— About 1610. 
 
 193.— THE WORLD A STAGE. 
 
 All the world 's a stage. 
 And all the men and women merely players : 
 They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : 
 Then the whining schoolboy, with his sat&bel, 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 
 Unwillingly to school : and then, the lover. 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow : Then, a soLiier; 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the 
 
 pard, 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel. 
 Seeking the bubble reputation — — 
 
 Even in the caimon's mouth : and then, the 
 
 justice ; 
 In fair round belly, with good capon lined. 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut. 
 Full of wise saws and modem instances. 
 And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slipper' d pantaloon ; 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly 
 
 voice, 
 Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all. 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every- 
 thing. 
 
 ShaJcsperc. — About 1610. 
 
 194.— ADVERSITY. 
 
 You were used 
 To say, Extremity was the trier of Spirits ; 
 That common chances common men could 
 
 bear ; 
 That, when the Sea was calm, all boats alike 
 Show'd mastership in floating : Fortune's 
 
 blows, 
 Wlien most struck home, being gentLa 
 
 wounded, crave 
 A noble cunning. 
 
 Shakspere. — About 1610. 
 
 195.— BEAUTY. 
 
 Beauty is but a vain and doubtful Good, 
 
 A shining Gloss, that fadeth suddenly ; 
 
 A Flower that dies, when first it 'gins to ])ud ; 
 
 A brittle Glass, that's broken presently ; 
 
 A doubtful Good, a Gloss, a Glass, a Flower, 
 
 Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour. 
 
 And as Good lost, is seld or never found, 
 As faded Gloss no rubbing will refresh. 
 As Flowers dead, lie wither' d on the ground. 
 As broken Glass no cement can redress, 
 So Beauty blemish' d once, for ever's lost. 
 In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost. 
 ShaJcsjpere. — About 1610l 
 
 196.— CEREMONY. 
 
 hard condition, and twin-born with great- 
 ness, 
 Subject to breath of ev'ry fool, whose sense 
 No more can feel but his own wringing. 
 What infinite heart-ease must Kings neglect. 
 That private Men enjoy ? and what have Kings, 
 
 11 
 
Shakspere.] 
 
 FEIENDS TALLING OFF. 
 
 [Third Period.—. 
 
 Tliat Privates have not too, save Ceremony ? 
 
 Save gen'ral Ceremon}^ ? 
 
 And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony ? 
 
 What kind of God art thou? that suffer' st more 
 
 Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers. 
 
 What are thy rents ? what are thy c6mings-in ? 
 
 O Ceremony, show me but thy worth : 
 
 What is thy toll, O Adoration ? 
 
 Art thou aught else but Place, Degree, and 
 Form, 
 
 Creating awe and fear in other men ? 
 
 Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd, 
 
 Than they in fearing. 
 
 ■\Vhat drink' st thou oft, instead of Homage 
 sweet, 
 
 But poison' d Flatt'ry ? Oh, be sick, great 
 Greatness, 
 
 And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure. 
 
 Think' st thou, the fiery fever will go out 
 
 With Titles blown from Adulation ? 
 
 Will it give place to flexure and low bending ? 
 
 Canst thou, when thou command'st the beg- 
 gar's knee, 
 
 Command the health of it ? no, thou proud 
 dream, 
 
 That play'st so subtly with a King's repose. 
 SlmJcspere. — About 1610. 
 
 197.— FRIENDS FALLING OFF. 
 
 They answer, in a joint and corporate voice, 
 
 That now they are at Fall, want treasure, 
 cannot 
 
 Do what they would ; are sorry — you are 
 honourable, — 
 
 But yet they could have wish'd — they know 
 not — but 
 
 Something hath been amiss — ^a noble nature 
 
 May catch a wrench — would aU were well — 
 'tis pity — 
 
 And so, intending other serious matters. 
 
 After distasteful looks, and these hard frac- 
 tions. 
 
 With certain half -caps, and coldtmoving nods. 
 
 They froze me into silence. 
 
 Shakspere. — About 1610. 
 
 198.— GOLD. 
 
 Why this 
 Will lug your Priests and Servants from your 
 
 sides ; 
 Pluck stout Men's pillows from below their 
 
 heads : 
 This Yellow Slave 
 Will knit and break ^ligions ; bless the ac- 
 
 curs'd ; 
 Make the hoar Leprosy ador'd ; place Thieves, 
 And give them title, knee, and approbation, 
 With Senators on the bench. 
 For this the foolish over-careful fathers 
 Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their 
 
 brains with care. 
 Their bones with industry. 
 
 There is thy Gold ; worse Poison to men's souls, 
 Doing more murders in this loathsome world. 
 Than the^e poor compounds that thou may'st 
 
 not sell : 
 I sell thee Poison, thou hast sold me none. 
 
 O thou sweet King-killer, and dear Divorce 
 'Twixt natural son and sire ! thou bright Defiler 
 Of Hymen's purest bed ! thou valiant Mars ! 
 Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate 
 
 Wooer, 
 Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow 
 That lies on Dian's lap ! thou visible God, 
 That solder' at close impossibilities, 
 And mak'st them kiss ! that speak' st with 
 
 every tongue. 
 To every purpose ! O thou Touch of Hearts I 
 Think, thy slave Man rebels; and by thy 
 
 virtue 
 Set them into confounding odds, that beasts 
 May have the world in empire ! 
 
 Tliat Broker, that still breaks the pate of 
 
 Faith ; 
 That daily Break-vow ; he that wins of all, 
 Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, 
 
 maids ; — 
 Who having no external thing to lose 
 But the word Maid, — cheats the poor maid of 
 
 that. 
 
 Shakspcrc— About 1610. 
 
 199.— INSANITY. 
 There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook. 
 That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy 
 
 stream ; 
 Therewith fantastic Garlands did she make 
 Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long 
 
 purples, 
 That liberal Shepherds give a grosser name, 
 But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call 
 
 them : 
 There on the pendant boughs her coronet 
 
 weeds 
 Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ; 
 When down her weedy trophies and herself, 
 Fell in the weeping Brook. Her clothes 
 
 spread wide ; 
 And, Mermaid-like, a while they bore her np : 
 "Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes ; 
 As one incapable of her own Distress, 
 Or like a creature native and indued 
 Unto that element : but long it could not be, 
 Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
 PiiU'd the poor Wretch from her melodious lay 
 To muddy Death. 
 
 Slwlcspere.— About 1610. 
 
 200.— SELF-INSPECTION. 
 
 Thy Glass will show thee how thybeauties wear, 
 Thy Dial how thy precious minutes waste ; 
 The vacant Leaves thy mind's imprint -will bear. 
 And of this Book this learning may'st thou 
 taste. 
 
From. 1558 to 1649.1 
 
 OEDEB AND OBEDIENCE. 
 
 [Shakbpere. 
 
 The wrinkles which thy Glass will truly show, 
 Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ; 
 Thou by thy Dial's shady stealth may'st know 
 Time's thie\dsh progress to Eternity. 
 Look, what thy memory cannot contain, 
 Commit to these waste Blanks, and thou shalt 
 
 find 
 Those children nurs'd, deliver' d from thy brain, 
 To take a now acquaintance of thy mind. 
 These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, 
 Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy Book. 
 Shal-sperc— About 1610. 
 
 20I.— LOVE. 
 
 Didst thou but know the inly touch of Love, 
 ' Thou would' st as soon go kindle fire with snow, 
 As seek to quench the fire of Love with words. 
 I do not seek to quench your Love's hot fire. 
 But qualify the Fire's extreme rage, 
 Lest it should bum above the bounds of 
 
 reason. 
 The more thou dam'st it up, the more it biarns ; 
 The current that %vith gentle mm*mur glides. 
 Thou know' st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth 
 
 rage ; 
 But, when his fair course is not hindered, 
 He makes sweet Music with the enamel' d 
 
 stones, 
 Giving a gentle Kiss to every sedge 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
 And so by many winding nooks he straj-^s, 
 With willing sport, to the wild Ocean. 
 
 ' The course of true Love never did run smooth ; 
 But, either, it was different in Blood — 
 
 ' Or else misgraffed, in respect of Years — 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of Friends — 
 Or if there were a sympathy in choice. 
 War, Death, or Sickness did lay siege to it ; 
 Making it momentary as a Sound, 
 Swift as a Shadow, short as any Dream, 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied night. 
 That (in a spleen) unfolds both Heaven and 
 
 Earth ; 
 And ere a man hath power to say. Behold ! 
 
 ' The jaws of Darkness do devour it up ; 
 
 : So quick bright things come to confusion. 
 
 Oh, how this spring of Love resembleth 
 The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the Sun, 
 And by and by a Cloud takes all away. 
 
 Love's heralds should be thoughts, 
 ■\^^lich ten times faster glide than the Sun's 
 
 beams 
 Driving back Shadows over low'ring hills : 
 Therefore do nimble-pinion' d Doves draw 
 
 Love, 
 And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid 
 
 wings. 
 
 O most potential Love ! vow, bond, nor space, 
 In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine. 
 For thou art all, and all things else are thine. 
 When thou impressest, what are Precepts 
 
 worth 
 Of stale example ? When thou wilt inflame. 
 How coldly those impediments stand forth 
 Of Wealth, of filial Fear, Law, Kindred, 
 
 Fame? 
 Love's arms are Peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst 
 
 sense, 'gainst shame ; 
 And sweetens, in the sufferuag pangs it bears. 
 The Aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. 
 
 81iaJctfj)crc. — About 1610. 
 
 202.— ENGLAND. 
 
 Tliis royal Throne of Kings, this scepter 'd Isle, 
 This Earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 
 This Fortress, built by Nature for herself, 
 Against infection, and the hand of war ; 
 This Happy breed of men, this little world ; 
 This precious Stone set in the Silver Sea, 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall. 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 Against the envy of less happier lands ; 
 This blessed plot, this Earth, this Eealm, this 
 
 England, 
 Dear for her Reputation through the world. 
 Slial-sjpe re. —About 1610. 
 
 203.— ORDEE AND OBEDIENCE. 
 
 While that the armed Hand doth fight abroad, 
 The advised Head defends itself at home : 
 For Government, though high, and low, and 
 
 lower. 
 Put into parts, doth keep in one consent ; 
 Congruing in a full and natural close, 
 
 Like music 
 
 Therefore doth Heaven divide 
 The state of Man in divers functions. 
 Setting endeavour in continual motion ; 
 To which is fixed, as an aim or butt. 
 Obedience : for so work the Honey-bees ; 
 Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach 
 The act of order to a peopled Kingdom. 
 They have a King, and Officers of sorts : 
 "Wliere some, like Magistrates, correct at home; 
 Others, like Merchants ^ venture trade abroad ; 
 Others, like Soldiers, armed in their stings, 
 Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ; 
 Which pillage they with merry march bring 
 
 home 
 To the tent-royal of their Emperor : 
 Who, busied in his Majesty, surveys 
 The singing Masons btiilding roofs of gold ; 
 The civil Citizens kneading up the honey j 
 The poor mechanic porters crowding in 
 Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ; 
 The sad-eyed Justice, with his surly hum, 
 Delivering o'er to executors pale 
 The lazy ya^vning Drone. I this infer, — 
 That many things, having full reference 
 
 11* 
 
Shakspere.] 
 
 PEOPEE USE OF TALENTS. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 To one consent, may work contrariovTsly : 
 As many Arrows, loosed several ways, 
 Ely to one mark ; 
 
 As many several ways meet in one Town ; 
 As many fresh streams run in one self Sea ; 
 As many lines close in the Dial's centre ; 
 So may a thousand actions, once afoot. 
 End in one purpose, and be all well borne 
 Without defeat. 
 
 Shal^spcn'.— About 1610. 
 
 204.— PEOPEE USE OF TALENTS. 
 
 Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do, 
 Not light them for themselves : for if our 
 
 virtues 
 Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike 
 As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely 
 
 touched, 
 But to fine issues ; nor Nature never lends 
 The smallest scruple of her excellence. 
 But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
 Herself the glory of a creditor, 
 Both thanks and use. 
 
 Shal^spci 
 
 -About 1610. 
 
 205. 
 
 -TAKE THE BEAM OUT OF THINE 
 OWN EYE. 
 
 Go to your bosom : 
 Knock there, and ask your heart, what it doth 
 
 know 
 That's like my brother's fault : if it confess 
 A natural guiltiness, such as is his, 
 Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
 Against my brother's life. 
 
 Shed- spc re. —About 1610. 
 
 206.— THE VOICE OF THE DYING. 
 
 The tongues of dying men 
 Inforce attention, like deep harmony : 
 Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent 
 
 in vain: 
 For they breathe truth, that breathe their 
 
 words in pain. 
 He that no more must say, is listen' d more 
 Than they whom youth and ease have 
 taught to glose ; 
 More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives 
 before : 
 The setting sun, and music in the close. 
 As the last taste of sweets is sweetest last ; 
 Writ in remembrance, more than things long 
 past. 
 
 Slwh^^pcrc— About 1610. 
 
 207.— A GOOD CONSCIENCE. 
 
 What stronger breastplate than a heart un- 
 tainted ? 
 Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just ; 
 And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, 
 Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
 Shakspere. — About 1610. 
 
 208.— GOOD NAME. 
 
 Good name in man and woman, dear my Lord, 
 
 Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 
 
 Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis some- 
 thing, nothing : 
 
 'Twas mine, 'tis his ; and has been slave to 
 thousands ; 
 
 But he that filches from me my good name, 
 
 Eobs me of that which not enriches him, 
 
 And makes me poor indeed. 
 
 Shalcspcrc— About 1610. 
 
 209.— AEIEL'S SONG. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there lurk I ; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
 There I couch when owls do cry ; 
 On the bat's back I do fly. 
 After summer merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the 
 bough. 
 
 S1ia'ksp)erc. — Aboiit IGIG. 
 
 210.— THE FAIEY TO PUCK. 
 
 Over hill, over dale. 
 Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 I do wander every where, 
 Swifter than the moone's sphere. 
 And I serve the Fairy Queen, 
 To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners bo, 
 In their gold coats spots you see, — 
 Those be rubies, fairy favours : 
 In those freckles live their savours. 
 I must go seek some dew-drops here, 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 Sha]csp)crc.— About 1610. 
 
 211.— AMIENS' SONG. 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen. 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp. 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend rememb'red not. 
 
 Shal-spcrc.—About leiO. 
 
 212.— PLIGHTING TEOTH. 
 
 Oh, do not wrong my honest simple truth ! 
 Myself and my affections are as pure 
 As those chaste flames that burn before the 
 shrine 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Of the great Dian : only my intent 
 
 To draw you hither was to plight our troths, 
 
 With interchange of mutual chaste embraces, 
 
 And ceremonious tying of our souls. 
 
 For to that holy wood is consecrate 
 
 A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks 
 
 The nimble-footed fairies dance their* rounds, 
 
 By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes 
 
 Their stolen children, so to make them free 
 
 From dying flesh and dull mortality. 
 
 By this fair fount hath many a shepherd 
 
 sworn. 
 And given away his freedom : many a troth 
 Been plight, which neither Envy nor old Time 
 Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss 
 
 given. 
 By this fresh fountain manj'^ a blushing maid 
 Hath crown' d the head of her long-loved 
 
 shepherd 
 With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung 
 Lays of his love and dear captivity. 
 
 Bcauiuont and Fletcher. — About 1647. 
 
 213.— NATUEE AND LOVE. 
 
 "Whither goest thou ? Here be woods as 
 
 green 
 As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet 
 As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet 
 Face of the curled streams, with flowers as 
 
 many 
 As the young spring gives, and as choice as 
 
 any. 
 Here be all new delights ; cool streams and 
 
 wells; 
 Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines ; caves 
 
 and dells ; 
 Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and 
 
 sing, 
 Or gather rushes to make many a ring 
 For thy long fingers ; tell thee tales of love ; 
 How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 
 First saAv the boy Endymion, from whose ej'^es 
 She took eternal fire that never dies ; 
 How she conveyed him softly in a sleep, 
 His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 
 Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each 
 
 night, 
 Gilding the mountain with her brother's 
 
 light, 
 To kiss her sweetest. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. — About 1647. 
 
 214.— CESAR'S LAMENTATION OVER 
 POMPEY'S HEAD. 
 
 Oh, thou Conqueror, 
 Thou glory of the world once, now the pity ; 
 Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou 
 
 fall thus ? 
 What poor fate followed thee and plucked 
 
 thee on 
 To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian r — 
 The lif » and light of Rome to a blind strangor 
 
 That honourable war ne'er taught a noble- 
 ness. 
 Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man 
 
 was? — 
 That never heard thy name sung but in ban- 
 quets 
 And loose lascivious pleasures r — tcra, boy 
 That had no faith to comprehend thy great- 
 ness, 
 No study of thy life to know thy goodness ? — 
 And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend. 
 Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with 
 
 thee — 
 In soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great 
 
 Pompey, 
 If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee, 
 Thou hast most unnobly robbed me of my 
 
 victory. 
 My love and mercy. 
 
 =:* ***** ^- 
 
 Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyra- 
 mids, 
 Built to outdure the sun, as you suppose, 
 Where yoiu: unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, 
 Are monuments fit for him ? No, brood of 
 
 Nilus, 
 Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven j 
 No pyramids set off his memories, 
 But the eternal substance of his greatness, 
 To which I leave him. 
 
 BcaiUKvut and Fletcher. — About 1647. 
 
 2 1 5 .—MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights 
 
 Wherein yo\i spend your folly I 
 There's nought in this life sweet. 
 If man were wise to see't, 
 
 But only melancholy ! 
 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed 03'es, 
 A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
 A look that's fasten' d to the ground, 
 A tongue chain' d up, without a sound ! 
 
 Fountain heads, and pathless groves. 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls ; 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 
 
 valley : 
 Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melan- 
 choly. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. — About 1647' 
 
 216.— SONG. 
 
 Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air I 
 Even in shadows you are fair. 
 Shut-up beauty is like fire, 
 That breaks out clearer still and higher. 
 
Beaumont and Fletcher.] THE POWEE OF L0\^. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Though your beauty be confin'd, 
 And soft Love a prisoner bound, 
 
 Yet the beaiity of your mind, 
 
 Neither check nor chain hath found. 
 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Ev'n the fetters that you wear ! 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. — Ahoiit 1G47. 
 
 217.— THE POWER OF LOVE. 
 
 Hear ye, ladies that despise 
 
 What the mighty Love has done ; 
 Fear examples and be wise : 
 
 Fair Calisto was a nun : 
 Leda, sailing on the stream, 
 
 To deceive the hopes of man, 
 Love accounting but a dream, 
 
 Doted on a silver swan ; 
 Danae in a brazen tower, 
 Where no love was, lov'd a shower. 
 
 Hear ye, ladies that are coy. 
 
 What the mighty Love can do ; 
 Fear the fierceness of the boy ; 
 
 The chaste moon he makes to woo 
 Vesta, kindling holy fires. 
 
 Circled round about with spies 
 Never dreaming loose desires, 
 
 Doting at the altar dies ; 
 Ilion in a short hour higher, 
 He can build, and once more fire. 
 
 Beaumont and Flctclie,'. — Aho%i,t 1647. 
 
 218.— TO SLEEP. 
 
 Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
 Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
 On this afflicted prince : fall like a cloud 
 In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
 Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet 
 
 [light?], 
 And as a purling stream, thou son of night. 
 Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain 
 Like hollow murmuring wind or gentle rain. 
 Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide, 
 And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 
 
 Beaumo7it and Fletcher. — About 1647. 
 
 219.— FROM ROLLO. 
 
 Take, oh ! take those lips away. 
 
 That so sweetly were forsworn. 
 And those eyes, the break of day. 
 
 Lights that do mislead the morn ; 
 But my kisses bring again. 
 Seals of love, though seal'd in vain. 
 Hide, oh ! hide these hills of snow, 
 
 Which thy frozen bosom bears. 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 
 Are yet of those that April wears ; 
 But first set my i)oor heart free, 
 Bound in those icy chains by thee. 
 
 Beau,mont and Fletcher. — Aho^lt 1647. 
 
 220.— SONG TO PAN. 
 
 All ye woods, and trees, and bow'i'S,, - 
 
 All ye virtues and ye pow'rs 
 
 That inhabit in the lakes. 
 
 In the pleasant springs or brakes, 
 
 Move your feet 
 To oiu* sound, 
 
 Whilst we greet 
 All this ground, 
 With his honour and his name 
 That defends our flocks from blame. 
 
 He is great, and he is just, 
 He is ever good, and must 
 Thus be honour' d. Daffodilies, 
 Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, 
 
 Let us fling. 
 
 Whilst we sing, 
 
 Ever holy. 
 
 Ever holy. 
 Ever honour' d, ever young ! 
 Thus great Pan is ever sung. 
 
 Beaumont and^ Fletcher. — About 1647i 
 
 221.— THE VANITY OF I-IUMAI{ 
 LEARNING. 
 
 Wliy did my parents send me to the school?, 
 That I withknowledge might enrich my mind ? 
 
 Since the desire to know first made men fools. 
 And did corrupt the root of all mankind , 
 
 For when God's hand had written in the hearts 
 Of the first parents, all the rules of good. 
 
 So that their skill infus'd, did pass all arts 
 That ever were, before, or since the flood ; 
 
 And when their reason' s eye was sharp and clear, 
 And (as an eagle can behold the sun) 
 
 Could have approach' d th' eternal light as near,. 
 As th' intellectual angels could have done : 
 
 E'en then to them the spirit of lies suggests. 
 That they were blind, because they saw not 
 ill. 
 
 And breath' d into their incorrupted breasts 
 A curious msh, which did corrupt their will. 
 
 For that same ill they straight desir'd to know ; 
 
 Which ill, being naught but a defect of good. 
 In all God's works the devil could not show, 
 
 While man their lord in his perfection stood. 
 
 So that themselves were first to do the ill, 
 Ere they thereof the knowledge coidd attain. 
 
 Like him that knew not poison's power to kill, 
 Until (by tasting it) himself was slain. 
 
 E'en so by tasting of that fruit forbid, 
 
 Where they sought knowledge they did error 
 find, 
 
 111 they desir'd to know, and ill they did ; 
 And to give passion eyes, made reason blind. 
 
 For then their minds did first in passion see 
 Those wretched shapes of misery and woe. 
 
 Of nakedness, of shame, of poverty. 
 
 Which then their own experience made them 
 know. 
 
From 1558 to 164Q.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN LEARNING. [Sir John Dayies. 
 
 But then grew reason dark, that she no more 
 Could the fair forms of good and truth 
 discern ; 
 
 Bats they became, that eagles were before ; 
 And this they got by their desire to learn. 
 
 But we, their wretched offspring, what do we ? 
 
 Do not we still taste of the fruit forbid ? 
 Whilst with fond fruitless curiosity, 
 
 In books profane we seek for knowledge hid. 
 
 What is this knowledge? but the sky-stol'n fire. 
 For which the thief still chain' d in ice doth 
 sit? 
 And which the poor rude satyr did admire, 
 And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips 
 with it. 
 
 What is it ? but the cloud of empty rain, 
 ^Vhioh when Jove's guest embrac'd, he 
 monsters got ? 
 Or the false pails, which oft being fiU'd with 
 pain, 
 Eeceiv'd the water, but retain'd it not ? 
 
 In fine, what is it ? but the fiery coach 
 
 Which the youth sought, and sought his 
 death withal ? 
 Or the boy' swings, which when he did approach 
 The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him 
 fall ? 
 
 And yet, alas ! when all our lamps are bum'd, 
 Our bodies wasted, and our spirits spent ; 
 
 When we have all the learned volumes turn'd 
 Which yield men's wits both help and orna- 
 ment : 
 
 Wliat can we know ? or what can we discern ? 
 
 WTien error choaks the windows of the mind ; 
 The divers forms of things, how can we learn. 
 
 That have been ever from our birth-day blind? 
 
 When reason's lamp, which (like the sun in sky) 
 Throughout man's little world her beams did 
 spread. 
 
 Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie 
 Under the ashes, half extinct, and dead : 
 
 Hov/- can we hope, that through eye and ear, 
 
 This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place. 
 Can recollect these bea,ms of knowledge clear, 
 
 Which were infus'd in the first minds by 
 grace? 
 So might the heir, whoso father hath in play 
 
 Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent. 
 By painful earning of one groat a day, 
 
 Hope to restore the patrimony spent. 
 
 The wits that div'd most deep, and soar'd 
 most high. 
 Seeking man's pow'rs, have found his weak- 
 ness such : 
 Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth fly, 
 We learn so little and forget so much." 
 
 For this the wisest of all moral men 
 
 Said, he knew nought, but that he nought 
 did know,^ 
 
 Andthe great mocking-master mock'dnot then. 
 When he said. Truth was buried deep belov/. 
 
 For how may we to other things attain, 
 
 When none of us his own soul understands ? 
 
 For which the Devil mocks our curious brain, 
 When, Know thyself, liis oracle commands. 
 
 For why should we the busy soul believe. 
 When boldly she concludes of that and this, 
 
 When of herself she can no judgment give, 
 Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what 
 she is ? 
 
 AU things without, which round about we sec, 
 We seek to know, and how therewith to do : 
 
 But that whereby we reason, live, and be. 
 Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. 
 
 We seek to know the moving of each sphere, 
 And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods 
 of Nile; 
 
 But of that clock within our breasts we bear. 
 The subtle motions we forget the while. 
 
 We that acquaint ourselves with ev'ry zone. 
 And pass both tropics, and behold each pole. 
 
 When we come home, are to ourselves un- 
 known. 
 And unacquainted still with our own soul. 
 
 We study speech, but others we persuade ; 
 
 We leech-craft learn, but others euro with it ; 
 We interpret laws, which other men have made. 
 
 But read not those which in o\xv heaxts are 
 writ. 
 
 Is it because the mind is like the eye. 
 
 Through which it gathers knowledge by 
 
 Whose ra.ys reflect not, but spread outwardly ; 
 Not seeing itself when other things it sees ? 
 
 No, doubtless ; for the mind can backward cast 
 Upon herself, her understanding's light, 
 
 But she is so corrupt, and so defac'd, 
 As her own image doth herself afi'right. 
 
 As is the fable of the lady fair. 
 
 Which for her lust was turn'd into a cow, 
 When thirsty to a stream she did repair. 
 
 And saw herself transform'd she wist not 
 how : 
 
 At first she startles, then she stands amazed ; 
 
 At last with terror she from thence doth fly, 
 
 And loathes the wat'ry glass wherein she 
 
 And shuns it still, though she for thirst 
 doth die : 
 
 E'en so man's soul which did God's imago 
 bear. 
 And was at first fair, good, and spotless 
 pure, 
 Since with her sins her beauties blotted were. 
 Doth of aU sights her own sight least en- 
 dure : 
 
 For e'en at first reflection she espies 
 
 Such strange chimeras, and such monsters 
 there, 
 Such toys, such antics, and such vanities, 
 As she retires, and shrinks for shame and 
 fear 
 
Sir John Davies.] THE SOUL MOEE THAN THE SENSE. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 And as the man loves least at home to be, 
 That hath a sluttish house haunted with 
 sprites ; 
 So she impatient her own faults to see, 
 
 Turns from herself, and in strange things 
 delights. 
 For this few know themselves : for merchants 
 broke 
 View their estate with discontent and pain, 
 And seas are troubled, when they do revoke 
 Their flowing waves into themselves again. 
 
 And while the face of outward things we find, 
 
 Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet. 
 These things transport, and carry out the 
 
 mind. 
 That with herself the mind can never meet. 
 
 Yet if Affliction once her wars begin. 
 
 And threat the feebler sense with sword and 
 fire. 
 
 The mind contracts herself, and shrinketh in. 
 And to herself she gladly doth retire : 
 
 As spiders touch' d, seek their web's inmost 
 part ; 
 
 As bees in storms back to their hives return; 
 As blood in danger gathers to the heart ; 
 
 As men seek towns, when foes the country 
 burn. 
 If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks, 
 
 (Making us pry into ourselves so near) 
 T-each us to know ourselves beyond all books, 
 
 Or all the learned schools that ever were. 
 
 This mistress lately pluck' d me by the ear, 
 And many a golden lesson hath mo taught ; 
 
 Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear ; 
 Reform'd my will, and i-ectify'd my thought. 
 
 So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air : 
 So working seas settle and purge the wine : 
 
 So lopp'd and pruned trees do flourish fair : 
 So doth the fire the drossy gold refine. 
 
 Neither Minerva, nor the learned Muse, 
 Nor rules of art, nor precepts of the wise, 
 
 Could in my brain those beams of skill infuse, 
 As but the glance of this dame's angry e3'es. 
 
 She within lists my ranging mind hath brought. 
 That now beyond myself I will not go ; 
 
 Myself am centre of my circling thought. 
 Only myself I study, learn, and know. 
 
 I know my body's of so frail a kind. 
 
 As force without, fevers within can kill : 
 
 I know the heavenly nature of my mind. 
 But 'tis corrupted both in wit and ^vill : 
 
 I know my soul hath power to know all things, 
 
 Yet is she blind and ignorant in all : 
 I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, 
 
 Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. 
 I know my life's a pain, and but a span ; 
 
 I know my sense is mock'd in ev'ry thing : 
 And to conclude, I know myself a man, 
 
 Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing. 
 Sir John Davies. — About 1000. 
 
 222.— THAT THE SOUL IS MOEE THAN 
 A PEEFECTION, OE EEFLECTION OF 
 THE SENSE. 
 
 Are they not senseless, then, that think the soul 
 Nought but a fine perfection of the sense, 
 
 Or of the forms which fancy doth enroll ; 
 A quick resulting, and a consequence ? 
 
 What is it, then, that doth the sense accuse, 
 Both of false judgment, and fond appetites ? 
 
 What makes us do what sense doth most refuse, 
 ■^Vhich oft in torment of the sense delights ? 
 
 Sense thinks the planets' spheres not much 
 
 asunder : 
 
 What tells us, then, the distance is so far ? 
 
 Sense thinks the lightning born before the 
 
 thunder : 
 
 What tells us, then, they both together are ? 
 
 When men seem crows far off upon a tow'r. 
 Sense saith, they're crows : what makes us 
 
 think them men ? 
 When we in agues think all sweet things sour, 
 What makes us know our tongue's false 
 
 judgment then ? 
 
 What pow'r was that, whereby Medea saw, 
 And well appro v'd, and prais'd the better 
 course ; 
 When her rebellious sense did so withdraw 
 Her feeble pow'rs, that she pursu'd the 
 worse ? 
 
 Did sense persuade Ul3'sses not to hear 
 
 The mermaid's songs which so his men did 
 please. 
 
 That they were all persuaded, through the ear, 
 To quit the ship and leap into the seas ? 
 
 Could any pow'r of sense the Eoman move. 
 To burn his own right hand with courago 
 stout ? 
 Could sense make Marius sit unbound, and 
 prove 
 The cruel lancing of the knotty gout ? 
 
 Doubtless, in man there is a nature found, 
 Besides the senses, and above them far ; 
 
 " Though most men being in sensual pleasures 
 drown' d, 
 It seems their souls but in their senses are." 
 
 If we had nought but sense, then only they 
 Should have sound minds, which have their 
 senses sound : 
 
 But wisdom grows, when senses do decay ; 
 And folly most in quickest sense is found. 
 
 If we had nought but sense, each living wight, 
 Which we call brute, would be more sharp 
 than we ; 
 
 As having sense's apprehensive might 
 In a more clear and excellent degree. 
 
 But they do want that quick discoursing pow'r, 
 Which doth in us the erring sense correct : 
 
 Therefore the bee did suck the 4)ainted flow'r, 
 And birds, of grapes, the cunning shadow 
 peck'd. 
 
Froiii 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE IMMOETALITY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 [Sib John Davids. 
 
 Sense outsides knows, the soul through all 
 things sees : 
 Sense, circumstance ; she doth the substance 
 view : 
 Sense sees the bark, but she the life of trees ; 
 Sense hears the sounds, but she the concords 
 true. 
 
 But why do I the soul and sense divide, 
 Wlieu sense is but a pow'r, which she ex- 
 tends ; 
 
 "SVlaieh being in divers parts diver sify'd, 
 The divers forms of objects apprehends ? 
 
 This power spreads outward, but the root doth 
 
 grow 
 
 In th' inward soul, which only doth perceive ; 
 
 For th' eyes and ears no more their objects 
 
 know, 
 
 Than glasses know what faces they receive. 
 
 For if we chance to fix our thoughts elsewhere, 
 Tiiough our eyes open be, we cannot see : 
 
 And if one i^owr did not both see and hear, 
 Our sights and sounds would always double 
 be. 
 
 Then is the soul a nature, which contains 
 The pow'r of sense, within a greater pow'r ; 
 
 "Which doth employ and use the sense's i^ains. 
 
 But sits d rules within her private bow'r. 
 
 Sir John Backs. — Ahuid 1600. 
 
 223.— THAT THE SOUL IS MOEE THAN 
 THE TEMPERATURE OF THE 
 HUMOURS OF THE BODY. 
 
 If she doth then the subtle sense excel. 
 
 How gi'oss are they that dro^vn her in the 
 blood ? 
 
 Or in the body's humours temper' d well ; 
 As if in them such high perfection stood ? 
 
 As if most skill in that musician were, 
 
 "Which had the best, and best tun'd instru- 
 ment ? 
 
 As if the pencil neat, and colours clear. 
 Had pow'r to make the painter excellent ? 
 
 "VMiy doth not beauty then refine the wit. 
 
 And good complexion rectify the will ? 
 "Why doth not health luring wisdom still with 
 it? 
 
 "Why doth not sickness make men brutish 
 still? 
 "Who can in memory, or wit, or will, 
 
 Or air, or fire, or earth, or water find ? 
 "What alchymist can draw, with all his skill, 
 
 The quintessence" of these out of the mind ? 
 
 If th' elements which have nor life, nor sense. 
 Can breed in us so great a pow'r as this, 
 
 "Why give they not themselves like excellence, 
 Or other things wherein their mixture is ? 
 
 If she were but the body's quality. 
 
 Then she would be with it sick, maim'd, and 
 blind : 
 
 But we perceive where these privations be. 
 An healthy, perfect, and sharp-sighted mind. 
 
 If she the body's nature did partake. 
 
 Her strength would Avith the body's strength 
 decay : 
 
 But when the body's strongest sinews slake, 
 Then is the soul most active, quick, and guj. 
 
 If she were but the body's accident. 
 And her sole being did in it subsist, ~ 
 
 As white in snow, she might herself absent. 
 And in the body's substance not be miss'd. 
 
 But it on her, not she on it depends ; 
 
 For she the body doth sustain and cherish ; 
 Such secret pow'rs of life to it she lends. 
 
 That when they fail, then doth the body 
 perish. 
 
 Since then the soul v/orks by herself alone. 
 Springs not from sense, nor humours well 
 agreeing, 
 Her nature is peculiar, and her own ; 
 She is a substance, and a perfect being. 
 
 Sir John Davies.—Alout 1600. 
 
 224. 
 
 -IN WHAT MANNER THE SOUL 
 IS UNITED TO THE BODY. 
 
 But how shall Ave this union well express ? 
 
 Nought ties the soul, her subtlety is such ; 
 She moves the body, which she doth possess ; 
 
 Yet no part toucheth, but by virtue's touch. 
 
 Then dwells she not therein, as in a tent ; 
 
 Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit ; 
 Nor as the spider in his Aveb is pent ; 
 
 Nor as the wax retains the i^rint in it ; 
 
 Nor as a vessel Avater doth contain ; 
 
 Nor as as one liquor in another shed ; 
 Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain ; 
 
 Nor as a voice throughout the air is spread : 
 
 But as the fair and cheerful morning light 
 Doth here and there her silver beams impart, 
 
 And in an instant doth herself unite 
 
 To the transparent air, in all and ev'ry part : 
 
 Still resting Avhole, Avhen blows the air divide; 
 
 Abiding pure, Avhen th' air is most cor- 
 rupted ; 
 Throughout the air, her beams dispersing Avidc ; 
 
 And AV'hen the air is toss'd, not interrupted. 
 
 So doth the piercing soul the body fill. 
 Being all in all, and all in part diffus'd ; 
 
 Indi\-isible, incorruptible still ; 
 
 Not forc'd, encounter' d, troubled, cr coii- 
 fus'd. 
 
 And as the sun above the light doth bring, 
 Though wo behold it in the air below ; 
 
 So from th' Eternal Light the soul doth spring. 
 
 Though in the body she her pow'rs do shoAv, 
 
 Sir John Davies. — About IGOO. 
 
 225.— THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Again, hoAV can she but immortal be, 
 
 When Avith the motions of both Avill and Avit, 
 
 She still aspireth to eternity. 
 
 And never rests, till she attain to it ? 
 
Sir John Davies.J 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 [Thihd Period. 
 
 "Water in conduit pipes can rise no higher 
 Than the well-head from whence it first doth 
 spring : 
 
 Then since to eternal God she doth aspii-e, 
 She cannot be but an eternal thing. 
 
 " All nio\'ing things to other things do move, 
 Of the same kind whicii shews their nature 
 such : " 
 So earth falls down, and fire doth mount 
 above, 
 Till both their proper elements do toiich. 
 
 And as the moistui*e, which the thirsty earth- 
 Sucks from the sea, to fill her empty veins. 
 
 From out her womb at last doth take a birth, 
 And runs a lymph along the grassy plains : 
 
 Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land, 
 From whose soft side she first did issue 
 make : 
 
 She tastes all places, turns to every hand, 
 Her flow'ry banks umvilling to forsake : 
 
 Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry, 
 As that her course doth make no final stay, 
 
 Till she herself unto the ocean marry. 
 Within whose wat'ry bosom first she lay. 
 
 E'en so the soul, which in this earthly mould 
 The spirit of God doth secretly infuse. 
 
 Because at first she doth the earth behold. 
 And only this material world she views : 
 
 At first her mother earth she holdeth dear, 
 And doth embrace the world, and worldly 
 things ; 
 She flies close by the ground, and hovers 
 here, 
 And mounts not up with her celestial wings : 
 
 Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
 That with her heav'nly nature doth agree ; 
 
 She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
 She cannot in this world contented be. 
 
 For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth. 
 Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? 
 
 Who ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health ? 
 Or having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind ? 
 
 Then as a bee which among weeds doth fall, 
 Which seem sweet flow'rs, with lustre fresh ' 
 and gay : 
 She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all ; 
 But, pleas'd with none, doth rise and soar 
 away : 
 
 So, when the soul finds hero no true content. 
 And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing 
 take. 
 She doth return from whence she first was 
 sent, 
 And flies to him that first her wings did 
 make. 
 
 Wit, seeking truth, from cause to cause as- 
 cends, 
 
 And never rests, till it the first attain : 
 Will, seeking good, finds many middle ends ; 
 
 But never stays, till it the last do gain. 
 
 Now God the truth, and first of causes ia ; 
 
 God is the last good end, which lasteth still; 
 Being Alpha and Omega nam'd for this ; 
 
 Alpha to wit. Omega to the will. 
 
 Since then her heavenly kind she doth dis- 
 play, 
 
 In that to God she doth directly move ; 
 And on no mortal thing can make her stay, 
 
 She cannot be from hence, but from above. 
 
 And yet this first true cause, and last good 
 end, 
 
 She cannot here so well and truly see ; 
 For this perfection she must yet attend, 
 
 Till to her Maker she espoused be. 
 
 As a king's daughter, being in person sought 
 Of divers princes, who do neighboiu' near, 
 
 On none of them can "fix a constant thought. 
 Though she to all do lend a gentle ear : 
 
 Yet can she love a foreign emperor, 
 
 Whom of great worth and pow'r she hears 
 to be. 
 
 If she be woo'd but by ambassador, 
 Or but his letters, or his pictures see : 
 
 For well she knows, that when she shall bo 
 brought 
 Into the kingdom where her spouse doth 
 reign ; 
 Her eyes shall see what she concciv'd in 
 thought. 
 Himself, his state, his glory, and his train. 
 
 So while the virgin soul on earth doth stay. 
 She woo'd and tempted in ten thousand 
 ways. 
 By these great pow'rs which on the earth boar 
 sway; 
 The wisdom of the world, wealth, pleasure, 
 praise : 
 
 With these sometimes she doth her time 
 beguile. 
 
 These do by fits her fantasy possess ; 
 But she distastes them all within a while. 
 
 And in the sweetest finds a tediousness ; 
 
 But if upon the world's Almighty King 
 
 She once doth fix her humble loving thought, 
 
 Who by his picture drawn in every thing 
 And sacred messages, her love hath sought ; 
 
 Of him she thinks she cannot think too much; 
 
 This honey tasted still, is ever sweet ; 
 The pleasure of her ravish'd thought is such, 
 
 As almost here she with her bliss doth meet. 
 
 But when in heaven she shall his essence see, 
 This is her sovereign good, and perfect bliss ; 
 
 Her longing, wishings, hopes, all finish'd be ; 
 Her joys are fiTll, her motions rest in this : 
 
 There is she cro\vn'd with garlands of content ; 
 
 There doth she manna eat, and nectar drink : 
 
 That presence doth such high delights present. 
 
 As never tongue could sj^eak, nor heart 
 
 could think. 
 
 Sir John Davics.— About 1600. 
 
i 
 
 trom 1568 to 1649.] 
 
 A HYMN TO CHEIST. 
 
 [John Donne. 
 
 226.— AN APPEAL TO THE HEABT. 
 
 ignorant poor man ! wtat dost thou bear 
 Lock'd up within the casket of tliy breast ? 
 
 What jewels, and what riches hast thou there ? 
 What heav'nly treasure in so weak a chest ? 
 
 Look in thy soul, and thou shalt beauties find, 
 Like those which drown' d Narcissus in the 
 flood : 
 
 Honour and pleasure both are in thy mind, 
 And all that in the world is counted good. 
 
 Think of her worth, and think that God did 
 mean, 
 This worthy mind should worthy things 
 embrace : 
 Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts un- 
 clean, 
 Nor her dishonour with thy passion base. 
 
 Kill not her quick' ning pow'r Avith surfeitings : 
 Mar not her sense with sensuality : 
 
 Cast not her wit on idle things : 
 
 Make not her free will slave to vanity. 
 
 And when thou think' st of her eternity. 
 
 Think not that death against her nature is; 
 
 Think it a birth : and when thou go'st to die, 
 Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to bliss. 
 
 And if thou, like a child, didst fear before, 
 Being in the dai-k, where thou didst nothing 
 see; 
 Now I have brought thee torch-light, fear no 
 more ; 
 Now when thou dy'st, thou canst not hood- 
 wink' d be. 
 And thou, my soul, which turn'st with curious 
 eye, 
 To view the beams of thine own form divine, 
 Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly, 
 While thou art clouded with this flesh of 
 mine. 
 
 Take heed of overweening, and compare 
 Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's 
 train : 
 
 Study the best and highest things that are, 
 But of thyself an humble thought retain. 
 
 Cast down thyself, and only strive to raise 
 The glory of thy Maker's sacred name : 
 Use all thy pow'rs that blessed pow'r to praise. 
 Which gives thee pow'r to be, and use the 
 same. 
 
 Sir John Davies.—Abo^it 1600. 
 
 227. 
 
 -ADDEESS TO BISHOP VALEN- 
 TINE, 
 
 On the daij of the warrlmje of the Elector 
 Palatine to the Princess Elizabeth. 
 
 Hail, Bishop Valentine ! whose day this is. 
 
 All the air is thy diocese, 
 
 And all the chirping choristers 
 
 And other birds are thy parishioners : 
 
 Thou marryest, every year, 
 
 The lyric lark and the grave whispering dove ; 
 The sparrow that neglects his life for love, 
 The household bird with his red stomacher ; 
 Thou mak'st the blackbird speed as soon, 
 As doth the goldfinch or the halcyon ; 
 This day more cheerfully than ever shine ; 
 This day which might inflame thyself, old 
 Valentine ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 John Donne. — Ahxd 1630. 
 
 228.— A HYMN TO THE FATHER. 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
 Which was my sin, though it were done 
 before ? 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through Avhich I 
 
 run, 
 And do run still, though still I do deplore ? 
 "When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, 
 For I have more. 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won 
 Others to sin, and made my sins their door? 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
 A year or two, — but wallow' d in a score ? 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, 
 For I have more. 
 
 I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
 
 My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; 
 But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy 
 
 Son 
 Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore ; 
 And having done that Thou hast done, 
 I fear no more ! 
 
 John Donne.— About 1G30. 
 
 229.— A HYMN TO CHEIST, 
 
 At the Autlwr^ s last going into Germany. 
 
 In what torn ship soever I embark. 
 That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark : 
 What sea soever swallow me, that flood 
 Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood. 
 Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise 
 Thy face, yet through that mask I know those 
 
 eyes, 
 Which, though they turn away sometimes, 
 
 They never will despise. 
 
 I sacrifice this island unto thee, 
 
 And all, whom I love here, and who love me ; 
 
 When I have put this flood 'twixt them and 
 
 me. 
 Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins and thee, 
 As the tree's sap doth seek the root below 
 In winter, in my winter now I go, 
 
 Where none but thee, th' eternal I'oot 
 
 Of true love, I may know. 
 
 Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control 
 The amorousness of an harmonious soul : 
 But thou would' st have that love thyself : as 
 
 thou 
 Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now. 
 
John Donne.] 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 Third Period. — 
 
 . Thou lov'st not, till from loving more thou 
 
 free 
 My soul : who ever gives, takes liberty : 
 Oh, if thou car'st not whom I love, 
 
 Alas ! thou lov'st not me. 
 
 Seal then this bill of my divorce to all, 
 On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ; 
 Marry those loves, which in youth scattered be 
 On face, vnt, hopes (false mistresses) to thee. 
 Churches are best for prayer, that have least 
 
 light ; 
 To see God only, I go out of sight : 
 
 And, to 'scape stormy days, I choose 
 An everlasting night. 
 
 John Donne— Ahov.t 1630. 
 
 230.— THE WILL. 
 
 Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe 
 Great Love, some legacies : I here bequeath 
 Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see ; 
 If they be blind, then. Love, I give them thee ; 
 My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine 
 
 ears ; 
 
 To women, or the sea, my tears ; 
 Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, 
 By making me serve her who had tAventy more, 
 That I should give to none but such as had 
 
 too much before. 
 
 My constancy I to the planets give : 
 
 My truth to them who at the court do live ; 
 
 Mine ingenuity and openness 
 
 To Jesuits ; to Buffoons my pensiveness ; 
 
 My silence to any who abroad have been ; 
 
 My money to a Capuchin. 
 Thou, Love, taught' st me, by appointing me 
 To love there, where no love received can be, 
 Only to give to such as have no good capacity. 
 
 My faith I give to Eoman Catholics ; 
 All my good works unto the schismatics 
 Of Amsterdam ; my best civility 
 And courtship to an university ; 
 My modesty I give to soldiers bare ; 
 My patience let gamesters share ; 
 Thou, Love, taught' st me, by making me 
 Love her that holds my love disparity. 
 Only to give to those that count my gifts in- 
 dignity. 
 
 I give my reputation to those 
 
 Which were my friends ; mine industry to 
 
 foes; 
 To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ; 
 My sickness to physicians, or excess ; 
 To Nature all that I in rhyme have lorit ! 
 
 And to my company my wit : 
 Thou, Love, by making me adore 
 Her who begot this love in me before, 
 Taught' st me to make as though I gave, when 
 
 I do but restore. 
 
 To him for whom the passing bell next tolls 
 I give my physic books ; my written rolls 
 Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ; 
 My brazen medals, tmto them which live 
 
 In want of bread ; to them which pass among 
 All foreigners, my English tongue : 
 Thou, Love, by making me love one 
 Who thinks her friendship a fit portion 
 For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus dispro- 
 portion. 
 
 Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo 
 The world by dying, because love dies too. 
 Then all your beauties Avill be no more worth 
 Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it 
 
 forth, 
 And all your graces no more use shall have 
 
 Than a sun-dial in a grave. 
 Thou, Love, taught' st me, by making me 
 Love her who doth neglect both me and thoc. 
 To invent and practise this one way to an- 
 nihilate all three. 
 
 JoJin Donne— About 1630. 
 
 23 1 .—VALEDICTION. 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly aAvay, 
 And Avhisper to their souls to go ; 
 Whilst some of their sad friends do say, 
 The breath goes now — and some say, no ; 
 
 So let us molt, and make no noise. 
 No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 
 'Twere profanation of our joys 
 To tell the laity our love. 
 
 Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, 
 Men reckon what it did, and meant ; 
 But trepidation of the spheres, 
 Though greater far, is innocent. 
 
 Dull, sublunary lover's love 
 (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
 Absence, because it doth remove 
 Those things which alimented it. 
 
 But we're by love so much refined, 
 That ourselves know not what it is ; 
 Inter-assured of the mind, 
 Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 
 
 Our two souls, therefore (which are one) 
 Though I must go, endure not yet 
 A breach, but an expansion, 
 Like gold to airy thinness beat. 
 
 If they be two, they are two bo 
 
 As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
 1 Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show 
 j To move, but doth, if th' other do. 
 
 And though it in the centre sit, 
 Yet when the other far doth roam, 
 It leans, and hearkens after it, 
 And grows erect as that comes homa* 
 
 Such wilt thou be to me, who must 
 Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; 
 Thy firmness makes my circles just. 
 And makes me end where I begun. 
 
 John Donne. — About 1630. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 [John Donne. 
 
 232.— S N G. 
 
 Sweetest Love, I do not go 
 
 For weariness of thee, 
 
 Nor in hope the world can show 
 
 A fitter love for mo. 
 
 But since that I 
 
 Must die at last, 'tis best 
 
 Thus to use myself in jest 
 
 Hy feigned death to die. 
 
 Yesternight the sun went hence, 
 
 And yet is here to-day ; 
 
 He hath no desire nor sense, 
 
 Nor half so short a way ; 
 
 Then fear not me, 
 
 But believe that I shall make 
 
 Hastier journeys, since I take 
 
 More wings and spurs than he. 
 
 John Donne. — About 
 
 233.— THE BREAK OF DAY. 
 
 Stay, O Sweet 1 and do not rise : 
 
 The light that shines comes from thine eyes ; 
 
 The day breaks not — it is my heart, 
 
 Because that you and I must part. 
 
 Stay, or else my joys will die. 
 
 And perish in their infancy. 
 
 'Tis true, it's day — what though it be ? 
 
 O wilt thou therefore rise from me ? 
 
 Why should we rise because 'tis light ? 
 
 Did we lie doA\'n because 'twas night ? 
 
 Love, Avhich in spite of darkness brought us 
 
 hither. 
 Should, in dosi)ito of light, keep us together. 
 
 Light hath no tongue, but is all eye ; 
 
 If it could speak as well as spy, 
 
 This were the worst that it could say. 
 
 That, being well, I fain would stay, 
 
 And that I loved my heart and honour so, 
 
 That I would not from her that had them go. 
 
 MiTst business thee from hence remove ? 
 
 Oh, that's the worst disease of love ! 
 
 The poor, the foul, the false, love can 
 
 Admit, but not the busy man. 
 
 Ho which hath business and makes love, doth 
 
 do 
 Such wrong as when a married man doth woo. 
 
 John Donne. — About 1630. 
 
 234.— THE DEEAM. 
 
 Image of her whom I love more than she 
 Wliose fair impression in my faithful heart 
 Makes me her medal, and makes her love me 
 As kings do coins, to which their stamps im- 
 part 
 The value — go, and take my heart from hence, 
 "Which now is grown too great and good for 
 
 me. 
 Honoiirs oppress weak spirits, and our sense 
 Strong objects dull ; the more, the less wc see. 
 
 WTien you are gone, and reason gone with you, 
 Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all ; 
 She can present joys meaner than you do. 
 Convenient, and more proportional. 
 So if I dream 1 have you, I have you, 
 For all our joys are but fantastical. 
 And so I 'scaiic the pain, for i»airi~is true ; 
 And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock 
 
 out all. 
 After such a fruition I shall wake, 
 And, but the waking, nothing shall repent ; 
 And shall to love more thankful sonnets make. 
 Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were 
 
 spent. 
 But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay ; 
 Alas ! true joys at best are dreams enough. 
 Though you stay here you pass too fast away, 
 For even at first life's tai)er is a snuff. 
 Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown 
 Mad with much heart, than idiot with none. 
 John Donne— About 1630. 
 
 235.— SONNETS. 
 
 A due by many titles, I resign 
 Myself to thee, O God. First I was made 
 By thee and for thee ; and, when I was decay'd. 
 Thy blood bought that, the which before was 
 
 thine ; 
 I am thy son, made with thyself to shine, 
 Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still re- 
 pay' d, 
 Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betray'd 
 Myself, a temj)le of thy spirit divine. 
 Why doth the devil then usurp on me ? 
 Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that's thy 
 
 right ? 
 Except thou rise, and for thine own work 
 
 fight. 
 Oh ! I shall soon despair, when I shall see 
 That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not 
 
 choose me. 
 And Satan hates mo, yet is loth to lose me. 
 
 Oil ! my black soul, now thou art summoned 
 Ey sickness, Death's herald and champion; 
 Thou'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath 
 
 done 
 Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is 
 
 fled; 
 Or like a thief, which till death's doom be 
 
 read, 
 W^isheth himself delivered from prison ; 
 But damn'd and hawl'd to execution, 
 Wisheth that still he might b'imprisoned : 
 Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; 
 But who shall give thee that grace to begin ? 
 Oh, make thyself with holy mourning black, 
 And red with blushing, as thou art -with sin ; 
 Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath 
 
 tliis might, 
 That, being red, it dies red souls to white. 
 
John Donne.] 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Third Pekiod.- 
 
 X. 
 
 Death, be not prond, though -some have 
 
 called thee 
 Mig-hty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
 For those, whom thou think'st thou dost 
 
 overthrow. 
 Die not, poor death ; nor yet canst thou kill 
 
 me. 
 From rest and sleep, which but thy picture 
 
 be, 
 Much pleasure; then from thee much more 
 
 must flow ; 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 Best of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and 
 
 desperate men. 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell. 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as 
 
 well. 
 And better than thy stroke. Why swell' st 
 
 thou then ? 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally ; 
 And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt 
 
 die. 
 
 XI, 
 
 Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my 
 
 side, 
 Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me : 
 For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd ; and only he, 
 Who could do no iniquity, hath dy'd : 
 But by my death cannot be satisfi'd 
 My sins, Avhich pass the Jews' impiety : 
 They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I 
 Crucify him daily, being now glorifi'd. 
 Oh, let me then his strange love still admire : 
 Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment ; 
 And Jacob came, cloth'd in vile harsh attire, 
 But to supplant, and with gainful intent : 
 God cloth'd himself in vile man's flesh, that so 
 He might be weak enough to suffer woe. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Batter my heart, three-person' d God; for 
 you 
 
 As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to 
 mend ; 
 
 That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow m', and 
 bend 
 
 Your force, to break, blow, bum, and make 
 me new. 
 
 I, like an usurp' d town to another due, 
 
 Labour t' admit you, but oh, to no end ; 
 
 Eeason, your viceroy in me, we should de- 
 fend, 
 
 But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue ; 
 
 Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd 
 fain, 
 
 But am betroth' d unto your enemy : 
 
 Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, 
 
 Take me to you, imprison me ; for I, 
 
 Except you enthrall me, never sliall be free ; 
 
 Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mo. 
 
 John Donne. — About 1630. 
 
 236.— ODE. 
 
 Vengeance will sit above our faults ; but till 
 
 She there do sit. 
 We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still 
 We lead her way : and thus, whilst we do ill. 
 
 We suffer it. 
 
 Unhappy he, whom youth makes not beware 
 
 Of doing ill : 
 Enough we labour under age and care ; 
 In number th' errours of the last place are 
 
 The greatest still. 
 
 Yet we, that should the ill, we now begin. 
 
 As soon repent, 
 (Strange thing !) perceive not ; our faults are 
 
 not seen. 
 But past us ; neither felt, but only in 
 
 The punishment. 
 
 But we know ourselves least ; mere outward 
 shows 
 
 Our minds so store. 
 That our soiils, no more than our eyes, dis- 
 close 
 But form and colour. Only he, who knows 
 Himself, knows more. 
 
 John Donne. — About 1630. 
 
 and 
 
 237.— TO THE HOLY TEINITY. 
 I. 
 Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity 
 Of Persons, still one God in unity, 
 The faithful man's believed mystery, 
 
 Help, help to lift 
 Myself up to thee, harrow' d, torn, 
 
 bruised 
 By sin and Satan, and my flesh misused 
 As my heart lies in pieces, all confused, 
 O, take my gift. 
 
 All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice, 
 
 A broken heart thou wert not wont despise ; 
 
 But, 'bove the fat of rams and bulls, to prize — 
 
 An offering meet 
 For thy acceptance. O, behold me right, 
 And take compassion on my grievous plight ! 
 What odour can be than a heart contrite 
 
 To thee more sweet ? 
 
 III. 
 Eternal Father, God, who didst create 
 This all of nothing, gav'st it form and fate, 
 And breath' st into it life and light, and state 
 
 To worship thee ! 
 Eternal God, the Son, who not denied' st 
 To take our nature ; becam'st man, and died'st 
 To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and cried' st — 
 
 " All 's done in me ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding. 
 Father and Son — the Comforter, in breeding 
 Pure thoughts in man ; with fiery zeal them 
 feeding 
 
 For acts of grace ! 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFOED. 
 
 [Ben Jonson. 
 
 Increase those acts, g-lorious Unity 
 Of Persons, still one God in Trinity ; 
 Till I attain the longed-for mystery 
 
 Of seeing your face. 
 
 Beholding One in Three, and Three in One, 
 
 A Trinity to shine in Union ; 
 
 The gladdest light dark man can think upon. 
 
 Oh, grant it me ! 
 Father and Son, and Holy Ghost, you tlu-ee 
 All co-eternal in your Majesty, 
 Distinct in Persons, yet in Unity — 
 
 One God to see. 
 
 My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier ! 
 To hear, to meditate, sweeten my desire 
 With grace, and love, with cherishing entire ; 
 
 O, then how blest ! 
 Among thy saints elected to abide, 
 And with thy angels placed, side by side, 
 But in thy presence truly glorified. 
 
 Shall I there rest. 
 
 Ben Jonson.— About 1630. 
 
 238.— C U P I D. 
 
 Beauties, have you seen iliis toy, 
 Called love, a little boy 
 Almost naked, wanton, blind ; 
 Cruel now, and then as kind ? 
 If he be amongst ye, say ; 
 He is Venus' runaway. 
 
 She that will but now discover 
 Where the winged wag doth hover, 
 Shall to-night receive a kiss, 
 How or where herself would wish ; 
 But who brings him to his mother, 
 Shall have that kiss, and another. 
 
 He hath marks about him plenty ; 
 You shall know him among twenty. 
 All his body is a fire, 
 And his breath a flame entire, 
 That, being shot like lightning in, 
 Wounds the heart but not the skin. 
 
 At his sig*ht the sun hath tum'd, 
 Neptune in the waters bum'd ; 
 Hell hath felt a greater heat ; 
 Jove himself forsook his seat ; 
 From the centre to the slcy 
 Are his trophies reared high. 
 
 Wings he hath, which though ye cUp, 
 He will leap from lip to lip. 
 Over liver, lights, and heart, 
 But not stay in any part ; 
 And if chance his arrow misses, 
 He will shoot himself in kisses. 
 
 He doth bear a golden bow, 
 And a quiver hanging low. 
 
 Full of arrows, that outbrave 
 Dian's shafts ; where, if he have 
 Any head more sharp than other. 
 With that first he strikes his mother. 
 
 Still the fairest are his fuel. 
 
 When his days arc to be cruelj^ 
 
 Lovers' hearts are all his food, 
 And his baths their warmest blood; 
 Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 
 And he hates none like to Eeasou. 
 
 Trust him not ; his words, though sweet, 
 
 Seldom with his heart do meet. 
 
 AU his practice is deceit ; 
 
 Every gift it is a bait ; 
 
 Not a kiss but poison bears ; 
 
 And most treason in his tears. 
 
 Idle minutes are his reign ; 
 
 Then the straggler makes his gain. 
 
 By presenting maids with toys, 
 
 And would have ye think them joys ; 
 
 'Tis the ambition of the elf 
 
 To have all childish as himself. 
 
 If by these yo please to know him. 
 Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
 
 Though ye had a will to hide him. 
 Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him. 
 Since you hear his falser play. 
 And that he's Venus' runaway. 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 239._SONG OF HESPEEUS. 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair. 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
 Seated in thy silver chair, 
 State in wonted manner keep : 
 
 Hesperus entreats thy light. 
 
 Goddess, excellently bright. 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 Dare itself to interpose ; 
 Cynthia's shining orb was made 
 Heaven to clear, when day did close : 
 
 Bless us then with wished sight. 
 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 
 
 And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever : 
 
 Thou that makest a day of night, 
 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 240.— ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BED- 
 FOED. 
 
 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
 I thought to form unto my zealous INIuse, 
 
 What kind of creature I could most de-ire. 
 To honour, serve, and love ; as poets use 
 
Ben Jonson.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Thikd Period. — 
 
 I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise. 
 
 Of greatest blood, and yet more good than 
 great ; 
 I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 
 
 Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. 
 I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet. 
 
 Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
 I meant each softest virtue there should meet. 
 
 Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
 Only a learned, and a manly soul 
 
 I purposed her ; that should, with even 
 powers, 
 The rock, the spindle, and the sheers control 
 
 Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
 Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, 
 My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she ! 
 Ben Jonson.— About 1630. 
 
 241.— S O N G. 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; 
 
 Seem to fly it, it will pursue : 
 So court a mistress, she denies you ; 
 
 Let her alone, she will court you. 
 Say are not women truly, then. 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 At morn and even shades are longest ; 
 
 At noon they are or short, or none : 
 So men at weakest, thej"" are strongest, 
 
 But grant us perfect, they're not known. 
 Say are not women truly, then. 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. I 
 
 242.— SONG TO CELIA. 
 
 Drink to me, only with thine eyes. 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for ^vine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine : 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee, 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It could not wither' d be. 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent'st it back to me : 
 Since when it grows, and smells, I sv/car. 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 243.— A NYMPH'S PASSION. 
 1 iove, and he loves me again, 
 
 Yet dare I not tell who ; 
 Fov if the nymphs should know my swain, 
 I fear they'd love him too ; 
 Yet if he be not known. 
 The pleasure is as good as none, 
 For that's a narrow joy is but our own. 
 
 I'll tell, that if they be not glad, 
 
 They yet may envy me ; 
 But then if I grow jealous mad, 
 And of them pitied be, 
 
 It were a plague 'bove scorn : 
 And yet it cannot be forbom. 
 Unless my heart wovild, as my thought, be 
 torn. 
 
 He is, if they can find him, fair, 
 
 And fresh and fragrant too. 
 As summer's sky, or purged air. 
 And looks as lilies do 
 
 That are this morning blown ; 
 Yet, yet I doubt he is not known, 
 And fear much more, that more of him be 
 shown. 
 
 But he hath eyes so round, and bright. 
 
 As make away my doubt. 
 Where Love may all his torches light, 
 Though hate had put them out : 
 But then t' increase my fears. 
 What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, 
 Will be my rival, though she have but ears. 
 
 I'll tell no more, and yet I love. 
 
 And he loves me ; yet no 
 One unbecoming thought doth move 
 From either heart, I know ; 
 But so exempt from blame. 
 As it would bo to each a fame. 
 If love or fear would let mo tell his name. 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 244.— EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF 
 PEMBEOKE. 
 
 Underneath this sable herse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another. 
 Learn' d and fair, and good as she. 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 245.— A CELEBEATION OF CHAEIS. 
 
 See the chariot at hand htsre of Love, 
 
 Wherein my lady rideth ! 
 Each that draws is a swan or a dove. 
 
 And well the car Love guideth. 
 As she goes all hearts do duty 
 
 Unto her beaaty ; 
 And, enamour'd, do wish, so they might 
 
 But enjoy such a sight. 
 That they still were to run by her side, 
 Through swords, through seas, whither she 
 
 would ride. 
 
 Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth ! 
 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 As Love's star when it riseth ! 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 POETRAIT OF A POOE GALLANT. 
 
 [Bishop Hall. 
 
 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 
 
 Than words that soothe her ! 
 And from her arched brows such a grace 
 
 Sheds itself through the face, 
 As alone there triumphs to the life 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
 strife. 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 Before rude hands have touch' d it ? 
 Have you mark'd but the fall o' the snow 
 
 Before the soil hath smutoh'd it ? 
 Have you felt the wool of beaver ? 
 
 Or swan's do^vn ever? 
 Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 
 
 Or the nard in the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 O so white ! so soft ! O so sweet is 
 she ! 
 
 Ben Jonson. — Ahout 1630. 
 
 246.— A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHEE. 
 
 Hear me, O God ! 
 
 A broken heart 
 
 Is my best part : • 
 
 Use stiU Thy rod, 
 
 That I may prove 
 
 Therein Thy love. 
 
 K Thou hadst not 
 
 Been stern to me, 
 
 Eut left me free, 
 I had forgot 
 
 Myself and thee. 
 
 For, sin's so sweet, 
 
 As minds ill bent 
 
 Earely repent, 
 Until they meet 
 
 Their punishment. 
 
 Who more can crave 
 Than Thou hast done, 
 That gav'st a Son 
 
 To free a slave ? 
 
 First made of nought 
 With all since bought. 
 
 Sin, Death, and Hell, 
 
 His glorious -name 
 
 Quite overcame ; 
 Yet I rebel, 
 
 And slight the same. 
 
 But I'll come in, 
 
 Before my loss 
 
 Me farther toss ; 
 As sure to win 
 
 Under His Cross. 
 
 Ben Jonson, — About 1630. 
 
 I 
 
 247.— ADVICE TO A EECKLESS YOUTH. 
 
 What would I have you do ? I'll tell you, 
 kinsman ; 
 Learn to bo wise, and practise how to thrive, 
 
 That would I have you do ; and not to spend 
 Your coin on every bauble that yoix fancy. 
 Or every foolish brain that humours you. 
 I would not have you to invade each place. 
 Nor thrust yourself on all societies, 
 TiU. men's affections, or your own desert. 
 Should worthily invite you to you?- rank. 
 He that is so respectless in his courses. 
 Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. 
 Nor would I you should melt away yourseK 
 In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect 
 To make a blaze of gentry to the world, 
 A little puff of scorn extinguish it. 
 And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, 
 Whose property is only to offend. 
 I'd ha' you sober, and contain yourself ; 
 Not that your sail be bigger than your boat ; 
 But moderate your expenses now (at first) 
 As you may keep the same proportion still. 
 Nor stand so much on your gentility. 
 Which is an airy, and mere borrow' d thing. 
 From dead men's dust, and bones; and none 
 
 of yours. 
 Except you make, or hold it. 
 
 Ben Jonson. — About 1630. 
 
 248.- 
 
 -THE EEQUIEEMENTS OF A 
 TUTOE. 
 
 A gentle squire would gladly entertain 
 Into his house some trencher chapelain : 
 Some willing man that might instruct his sons, 
 And that would stand to good conditions. 
 First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed, 
 While his young master lieth o'er his head. 
 Second, that he do, on no default. 
 Ever presume to sit above the salt. 
 Third, that he never change his trencher twice. 
 Fourth, that he use all common courtesies ; 
 Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait. 
 Last, that he never his young master beat, 
 But he must ask his mother to define, 
 How many jerks he would his breech should 
 
 line. 
 All these observed, he coxild contented be. 
 To give five marks and winter livery. 
 
 B\ 
 
 Hall, 1600. 
 
 249.— POETEAIT OF A POOE GALLANT. 
 
 Seest thou how gaily my young master goes, 
 
 Vaunting himself upon his rising toes ; 
 
 And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side; 
 
 And picks his glutted teeth since late noon- 
 tide ? 
 
 'Tis Eufiio: Trow'st thou where he dined to- 
 day ? 
 
 In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. 
 
 Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, 
 
 Keeps he for every straggling cavalier ; 
 
 An open house, haunted with great resort ; 
 
 Long service mixt with musical disport. 
 
 Many fair younker with a feather' d crest, 
 
 Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, 
 
 12 
 
Bishop Hall.] 
 
 DISCONTENT OF MEN. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 I To fare so freely with so little cost, 
 
 Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. 
 
 ' Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say 
 
 I He touch' d no meat of all this live-long day. 
 
 j For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, 
 His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollo wness, 
 But could he have (as I did it mistake) 
 So little in his purse, so much upon his back ? 
 So nothing in his maw ? yet seemeth by his 
 
 belt. 
 That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt, 
 Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip ? 
 Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles sUp. 
 Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, 
 All trapped in the new-found bravery. 
 The nuns of new- won Calais his bonnet lent, 
 In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. 
 What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, 
 His grandame could have lent with lesser pain ? 
 Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English 
 
 shore, 
 Tet fain would counted be a conqueror. 
 His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted 
 
 head, 
 One lock amazon-Hke dishevelled, 
 As if he meant to wear a native cord. 
 If chance his fates should him that bane afford. 
 All British bare upon the bristled skin, 
 Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin ; 
 His linen collar labyrinthian set. 
 Whose thousand double turnings never met : 
 His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings. 
 As if he meant to fly with linen wings. 
 But when I look, and cast mine eyes below. 
 What monster meets mine eyes in human show ? 
 So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, 
 Did never sober nature sure conjoin. 
 Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in the new-sown 
 
 field, 
 Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield; 
 Or, if that semblance suit not every deal, 
 Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. 
 
 Bishop Hall, 1600. 
 
 250.— DISCONTENT OF MEN WITH 
 THEIE CONDITION. 
 
 I wot not how the world's degenerate, 
 That men or know or like not their estate : 
 Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morn, 
 Not one but holds his native state forlorn. 
 When comely striplings wish it were their 
 
 chance 
 For Casnis' distaff to exchange their lance, 
 And wear curl'd periwigs, and chalk their face, 
 And still are poring on their pocket-glass. 
 Tired with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet 
 
 strips 
 And busks and verdingales about their hips ; 
 And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace. 
 And make their napkin for their spitting-place. 
 And gripe their waist within a narrow span : 
 Fond Cffinis, that wouldst wish to be a man ! 
 
 Whose mannish housewives like their refuse 
 
 state. 
 And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, 
 Who like a cot-queen freezeth at the rock, 
 Wliiles his breech' d dame doth man the foreign 
 
 stock. 
 Is't not a shame to see each homely groom 
 Sit perched in an idle chariot room, 
 That were not meet some pannel to bestride, 
 Surcingled to a galled hackney's hide ? 
 Each muck- worm will be rich with lawless gain, ' 
 Although he smother up mows of seven years' 
 
 grain. 
 And hang'd himseK when corn grows cheap 
 
 again ; 
 Although he buy whole harvests in the spring, 
 And foist in false strikes to the measuring ; 
 Although his shop be muffled from the light, 
 Like a day dungeon, or Cimmerian night ; 
 Nor full nor fasting can the carle take rest. 
 While his george-nobles rusten in his chest ; 
 He sleeps but once, and dreams of burglary. 
 And wakes, and casts about his frighted eye, 
 And gropes for thieves in every darker shade ; 
 And if a mouse but stir, he calls for aid. 
 The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see. 
 All scarf d with pied colours to the knee. 
 Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate, 
 And now he 'gins to loath his former state ; 
 Now doth he inly scorn his Kendal-green, 
 And his patched cockers now despised been ; 
 Nor list he now go whistling to the car. 
 But sells his team, and fetleth to the war. 
 O war ! to them that never tried thee, sweet ! 
 When his dead mate falls groveling at his feet. 
 And angry bullets whistlen at his ear, 
 And his dim eyes see nought but death and 
 
 drear. 
 O happy ploughman ! were thy weal well 
 
 known ; 
 O happy all estates, except his own ! 
 Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well 
 
 spent. 
 If he can live to see his name in print, 
 Who, when he is once fleshed to the press. 
 And sees his hansell have such fair success. 
 Sung to the wheel, and sung unto the paH, 
 He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sail, 
 Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodged 
 
 rhymes. 
 To have his name talked of in future times. 
 The braia-sick youth, that feeds his tickled 
 
 ear 
 With sweet-sauced lies of some false traveller, 
 Which hath the Spanish Decades read awhile, 
 Or whetstone leasings of old Mandeville, 
 Now with discourses breaks his midnight sleep 
 Of his adventures through the Indian deep, 
 Of all their massy heaps of golden mine. 
 Or of the antique tombs of Palestine, 
 Or of Damascus' magic wall of glass. 
 Of Solomon his sweating piles of brass. 
 Of the bird rue that bears an elephant, 
 Of mermaids that the southern seas do haunt, 
 Of headless men, of savage cannibals. 
 The fashions of their lives and governals ; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 JOURNEY INTO FRANCE. 
 
 TBisHOP Corbet. 
 
 What monstrous cities there erected be, 
 
 Cairo, or the city of the Trinity ; 
 
 Now are they dunghill cocks that have" not 
 
 seen 
 The ))orderijig Alps, or else the neighbour 
 
 Rhine ; w 
 And now he plies tbe news-full Grasshopper, 
 Of voyages and ventures to inquire. 
 His land mortgaged, he sea-beat in the way. 
 Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day ; 
 And now he deems his home-bred fare as leaf 
 As his parch' d biscuit, or his barrell'd beef. 
 'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, 
 O, let me lead an academic life ; 
 To know much, and to think for nothing, know 
 Nothing to have, yet think wo have enow ; 
 In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ; 
 In weal nor want, nor wish for greater store. 
 En\^, ye monarchs, with your proud excess, 
 At our low sail, and our high happiness. 
 
 Bishop Hall, 1600. 
 
 251.— TO HIS SON, VINCENT CORBET. 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell, 
 
 But all shall say I wish thee well : 
 
 I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 
 
 Both bodily and ghostly health ; 
 
 Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee, 
 
 So much of either may undo thee. 
 
 I wish thee learning not for show, 
 
 Enough for to instruct and know ; 
 
 Not such as gentlemen require 
 
 To prate at table or at fire. 
 
 I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 
 
 Thy father's fortunes and his places. 
 
 I msh thee friends, and one at court 
 
 Not to build on, but support ; 
 
 To keep thee not in doing many 
 
 Oppressions, but from suffering any. 
 
 I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 
 
 Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 
 
 And, when thy soul and body part, 
 
 As innocent as now thou art. 
 
 BisJiop Corbet, 1647. 
 
 252.— JOURNEY INTO FRANCE. 
 
 I went from England into France, 
 
 Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, ^ 
 
 Nor yet to ride nor fence ; 
 
 Nor did I go like one of those 
 
 That do return with half a nose, 
 
 They carried from hence. 
 
 But I to Paris rode along, 
 
 Much like John Dory in the song, 
 
 Upon a holy tide ; 
 
 I on an ambling nag did jet 
 
 (I trust he is not paid for yet). 
 
 And spurr'd him on each side. 
 
 And to St. Denis fast we came, 
 To see the sights of Notre Dame 
 (The man that shows them snafl3.es), 
 Where who is apt for to believe. 
 May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, 
 And eke her old pantoffles ; 
 
 Her breast, her milk, her very gown 
 That she did wear in Bethlehem towTi, 
 When in the inn she lay ; 
 Yet all the world knows that's a fable, 
 For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, 
 Upon a lock of hay. 
 
 No carpenter could by his trade 
 
 Gain so much coin as to have made 
 
 A gown of so rich stuff; 
 
 Yet they, poor souls, think for their credit, 
 
 That they believe old Joseph did it, 
 
 'Cause he deserv'd enough. 
 
 There is one of the cross's nails, 
 Which whoso sees his bonnet vails, 
 And, if he wiU, may kneel ; 
 Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so. 
 Yet, feeling it, thus much I know. 
 It is as true as steel. 
 
 There is a lanthorn which the Jews, 
 When Judas led them forth, did use. 
 It weighs my weight down right ; 
 But to believe it, you must think 
 The Jews did put a candle in't. 
 And then 'twas very light. 
 
 There's one saint there hath lost his nose. 
 
 Another 's head, but not his toes, 
 
 His elbow and his thumb ; 
 
 But when that we had seen the rags. 
 
 We went to th' inn and took our nags. 
 
 And so away did come. 
 
 We came to Paris, on the Seine, 
 'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean, 
 'Tis Europe's greatest town; 
 How strong it is I need not tell it, 
 For all the world may easily smell it. 
 That walk it up and down. 
 
 There many strange things are to see. 
 
 The palace and great gallery. 
 
 The Place Royal doth excel. 
 
 The New Bridge, and the statues there, 
 
 At Notre Dame St. Q. Pater, 
 
 The steeple bears the bell. 
 
 For learning the University, 
 And for old clothes the Frippery, 
 The house the queen did build. 
 St. Innocence, whose earth devours 
 Dead corps in four and twenty hours. 
 And there the king was kill'd. 
 
 The Bastile and St. Denis street, 
 The Shafflenist like London Fleet, 
 The Arsenal no toy ; 
 But if you'U see the prettiest thing. 
 Go to the court and see the king, 
 O, 'tis a hopeful boy ! 
 
 12* 
 
Bishop Corbet.] 
 
 FAEEWELL TO THE FAIEIES. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 He is, of all Hs dukes and peers, 
 Beverenc'd for much wit at 's years, 
 Nor must you think it much ; 
 For he with little switch doth play, 
 And make fine dirty pies of clay, 
 O, never king made such ! 
 
 A bird that can but kill a fly, 
 
 Or prate, doth please his majesty, 
 
 'Tis known to every one ; 
 
 The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot. 
 
 And he had twenty cannons for it, 
 
 For his new galleon. 
 
 that I e'er might have the hap 
 To get the bird which in the map 
 Is call'd the Indian ruck ! 
 
 I'd give it him, and hope to be 
 As rich as Guise or Livine, 
 Or else I had ill-luck. 
 
 Birds round about his chamber stand. 
 
 And he them feeds with his own hand, 
 
 'Tis his humility ; 
 
 And if they do want anything, 
 
 They need but whistle for their king,- 
 
 And he comes presently. 
 
 But now, then, for these parts he must 
 
 Be enstUed Lewis the Just, 
 
 Great Henry's lawful heir ; 
 
 When to his stile to add more words. 
 
 They'd better call him King of Birds, 
 
 Than of the great Navarre. 
 
 He hath besides a pretty quirk. 
 Taught him by nature, how to work 
 In iron with much ease ! 
 Sometimes to the forge he goes, 
 There he knocks, and there he blows. 
 And makes both locks and keys ; 
 
 Which puts a doubt in every one, 
 Whether he be Mars or Vulcan's son. 
 Some few bebeve his mother ; 
 But let them all say what they will, 
 
 1 came resolved, and so think still, 
 As much th' one as th' other. 
 
 The people too dislike the youth, 
 Alleging reasons, for, in truth, 
 Mothers should honour' d be ; 
 Yet others say, he loves her rather 
 As well as ere she loved his father, 
 And that's notoriously 
 
 His queen, a pretty little wench. 
 Was bom in Spain, speaks little French, 
 She's ne'er like to be mother ; 
 For her incestuous house could not 
 Have children which were not begot 
 By uncle or by brother. 
 
 Nor why should Lewis, being so just, 
 Content himself to take his lust 
 With his Lucina's mate. 
 And suffer his little pretty queen, 
 From all her race that yet hath been, 
 So to degenerate ? 
 
 'Twere charity for to be known 
 To love others' children as his own. 
 And why ? it is no shame. 
 Unless that he would greater be 
 Than was his father Henery, 
 Who, men thought, did the sa»e. 
 
 Bishop Corbet, 1647. 
 
 253.— FAEEWELL TO THE FAIEIES. 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies. 
 
 Good housewifes now may say. 
 For now foul sluts in dairies 
 
 Do fare as v/ell as they. 
 And though they sweep their hearths no less 
 
 Than maids were wont to do ; 
 Yet who of late, for cleanliness. 
 
 Finds sixpence in her shoe ? 
 
 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, 
 
 The fairies' lost command ; 
 They did but change priests' babies, 
 
 But some have changed your land ; 
 And all your children sprung from thence 
 
 Are now grown Puritans ; 
 Who live as changelings ever since, 
 
 For love of your domains. 
 
 At morning and at evening both, 
 
 You merry were and glad, 
 So little care of sleep or sloth 
 
 These pretty ladies had ; 
 When Tom came home from labour. 
 
 Or Cis to milking rose. 
 Then merrily went their tabor, 
 
 And nimbly went their toes. 
 
 Witness those rings and roundelays 
 
 Of theirs, which yet remain, 
 Were footed in Queen Mary's days 
 
 On many a grassy plain ; 
 But since of late Elizabeth, 
 
 And later, James came in. 
 They never danc'd on any heath 
 
 As when the time hath been. 
 
 By which we note the fairies 
 
 Were of the old profession. 
 Their songs were Ave-Maries, 
 
 Their dances were procession : 
 But now, alas ! they all are dead, 
 
 Or gone beyond the seas ; 
 Or farther for religion fled, 
 *0r else they take their ease. 
 
 A tell-tale in their company 
 
 They never could endure. 
 And whoso kept not secretly 
 
 Their mirth, was punish' d sure ; 
 It was a just and Christian deed. 
 
 To pinch such black and blue : 
 how the commonwealth doth need 
 
 Such justices as you ! 
 
 Bishop Corbet, 1647. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] A COMPLAINT OF A LEARNED DIVINE. 
 
 [Dr. Wilde. 
 
 254.— S N G . 
 
 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, 
 
 Which, like growing fountains, rise, 
 
 To drown their banks : grief's sullen brooks 
 
 Would better flow in furrow' d looks ; 
 
 Thy lovely face was never meant 
 
 To be the shore of discontent. 
 
 Then clear those waterish stars again, 
 
 Which else portend a lasting rain ; 
 
 Lest the clouds which settle there, 
 
 Prolong my winter all the year. 
 
 And thy example others make 
 
 In love with sorrow for thy sake. 
 
 Bishop King. — About 1649. 
 
 255.— SIC VITA. 
 Like to the falling of a star, 
 Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
 Or silver drops of morning dew ; 
 Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
 Or bubbles which on water stood : 
 Ev"n such is man, whose borrow' d light 
 Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. 
 The wind blows out, the bubble dies; 
 The spring entomb 'din autumn lies; 
 The dew dries up, the star is shot ; 
 The flight is past- — and man forgot. 
 
 Bishop King. — About 1649. 
 
 256.— L I F E. 
 
 WTiat is the existence of man's life 
 
 But open war or slumber' d strife ? 
 
 Where sickness to his sense presents 
 
 The combat of the elements, 
 
 And never feels a perfect peace 
 
 Till death's cold hand signs his release. 
 
 It is a storm — v/here the hot blood 
 
 Outvies in rage the boiling flood : 
 
 And each loud passion of the mind 
 
 Is like a furious gust of wind. 
 
 Which beats the bark with many a wave, 
 
 Till he casts anchor in the grave. 
 
 It is a flower — which buds, and grows, 
 And withers as the leaves disclose ; 
 Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 
 Like fits of waking before sleep, 
 Then shrinks into that fatal mould 
 Where its first being was enroll' d. 
 
 It is a dream — whose seeming truth 
 Is moralised in age and youth ; 
 Where all the comforts he can share 
 As wand'ring as his fancies are. 
 Till in a mist of dark decay 
 The dreamer vanish quite away. 
 
 It is a dial — which points out 
 The sunset as it moves about ; 
 And shadows out in lines of night 
 The subtle stages of Time's flight. 
 Till all-obscuring earth hath laid 
 His body in perpetual shade. 
 
 It is a weary interlude — 
 Which doth short joys, long woes, include : 
 The world the stage, the prologue tears ; 
 The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 
 The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
 And leaves no epilogue but Death_[ 
 
 Bishop King. — About 1649. 
 
 257.— A COMPLAINT OF A LEAENED 
 DIVINE IN PURITAN TIMES. 
 
 In a melancholy study. 
 None but myself, 
 
 Methought my Muse grew muddy ; 
 After seven years' reading. 
 And costly breeding, 
 I felt, but could find no pelf. 
 Into learned rags 
 I have rent my plush and satin, 
 And now am fit to beg 
 In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin : 
 Instead of Aristotle, 
 Would I had got a patten. 
 Alas ! poor scholar, whither wilt thou go ; 
 # # # * 
 
 I have bowed, I have bended, 
 And all in hope 
 One day to be befriended ; 
 I have preach' d, I have printed, 
 Whate'er I hinted. 
 To please our English Pope ; 
 I worship' d towards the East 
 But the sun doth now forsake me ; 
 I find that I am falling. 
 The northern winds do shake me. 
 Would I had been upright, 
 For bowing now will break me. 
 Alas! poor, &c. 
 
 At great preferment I aim'd. 
 Witness my silk. 
 But now my hopes are maim'd. 
 I looked lately ^ 
 
 To live most stately. 
 And have a dairy of bell-rope's milk ; 
 But now, alas ! 
 Myself I must flatter. 
 Bigamy of steeples is a laugliing matter 
 Each man must have but one. 
 And curates will grow fatter, 
 Alas! poor, &c. 
 
 Into some country village 
 Now I must go. 
 Where neither tithe nor tillage 
 The greedy patron, 
 And parched matron, 
 Swear to the church they owe : 
 Yet if I can preach. 
 And pray too on a sudden. 
 And confute the Pope 
 At adventure without studying, 
 Then ten pounds a year, 
 Besides a Sunday pudding. 
 Alas ! poor, &c. 
 
Thomas Caeew.] SONG. [Third Period. — 
 
 AU the arts I have skill in, 
 
 259.— S N G . 
 
 Divine and human, 
 
 Yet all's not worth a shilling. 
 
 Would you know what's soft ? I dare 
 
 When the women hear me 
 
 Not bring you to the down or air ; 
 
 They do but jeer me, 
 
 Nor to stars to show what's bright. 
 
 And say I am profane. 
 
 Nor to snow to teach you white. 
 
 Once I remember 
 
 Nor, if you would music hear. 
 
 I preached with a weaver ; 
 
 Call the orbs to take your ear ; 
 
 I quoted Austin, 
 
 Nor to please your sense bring forth 
 
 He quoted Dod and Clever : 
 
 Bruised nard or what's more worth. 
 
 I nothing got, 
 
 Or on food were your thoughts plac'd, 
 
 He got a cloak and beaver. 
 
 Bring you nectar, for a taste : 
 
 Alas! poor, &c. 
 
 Would you have aU these in one, 
 
 Ships, ships, ships I discover. 
 
 Name my mistress, and 'tis done. 
 
 Crossing the main ; 
 
 Thomas Carew.— About 1830. 
 
 Shall I in and go over, 
 
 
 Turn Jew or Atheist, 
 
 
 Turk or Papist, 
 
 260.— S N G . 
 
 To Geneva or Amsterdam ? 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 
 Bishoprics are void 
 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 
 In Scotland, shall I thither ? 
 
 For in your beauties, orient deep, 
 
 Or follow Windebank 
 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
 And Finch, to see if either 
 
 Ask me no more whither do stray 
 
 Do want a priest to shrieve them ? - 
 
 The golden atoms of the day ; 
 
 Oh, no, 'tis blustering weather. 
 
 For in pure love heaven did prepare 
 
 Alas! poor, &c. 
 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it : 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 
 Peace, Goodman fool ! 
 
 The nightingale when May is past ; 
 
 Thou hast a trade will fit it ; 
 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 
 Draw thy indenture, 
 
 She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Be bound at a venture 
 An apprentice to a free- school ; 
 There thou mayst command, 
 By William Lilly's charter ; 
 There thou mayst whip, strip, 
 And hang, and draw and quarter, 
 
 Ask me no more if east or west 
 The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies. 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies ! 
 
 TJiomas Carcw. — About 1630. 
 
 And commit to the red rod 
 Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur. 
 
 
 261.— THE COMPLIMENT. 
 
 Ay, ay, 'tis hither, hither will I go. 
 
 jyr. Wilde.— About 1649. 
 
 I do not love thee for that fair 
 Rich fan of thy most curious hair ; 
 
 
 Though the wires thereof be drawn 
 Finer than the threads of lawn. 
 
 
 258.— S N G. 
 
 And are softer than the leaves | 
 On which the subtle spider weaves. 
 
 Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain, 
 
 I do not love thee for those flowers 
 
 Loving their own wild freedom better ; 
 
 Growing on thy cheeks (love's bowers) ; 
 
 Whilst, proud of my triumphant chain. 
 
 Though such cunning them hath spread. 
 
 I sit and court my beauteous fetter. 
 
 None can paint them white and red : 
 
 Her murdering glances, snaring hairs, 
 
 And her bewitching smiles so please me, 
 As he brings ruin, that repairs 
 
 Love's golden arrows thence are shot, 
 Yet for them I love thee not. 
 I do not love thee for those soft 
 
 The sweet afflictions that disease me. 
 
 Eed coral lips I've kiss'd so oft ; 
 
 
 Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard 
 
 Hide not those panting balls of snow 
 
 To speech, when music stiU is heard ; 
 
 With envious veils from my beholding ; 
 
 Though from those lips a kiss being taken, 
 
 Unlock those lips, their pearly row 
 
 Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. 
 
 In a sweet smile of love unfolding. 
 
 I do not love thee, oh ! my fairest, 
 
 And let those eyes, whose motion wheels 
 
 For that richest, for that rarest 
 
 The restless fate of every lover, 
 
 Silver pillar, which stands under 
 
 Survey the pains my sick heart feels. 
 
 Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ; 
 
 And wounds, themselves have made, dis- 
 
 Tho' that neck be whiter far 
 
 cover. 
 
 Than towers of polish' d ivory are. 
 
 Thomas Carew.—Aboxd 1630. 
 
 Thomas Carew.— About 1630. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 
 
 [Thomas Carkw. 
 
 262.— S O N G . 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain, 
 
 The torrid, or the frozen zone 
 Bring equal ease unto my pain ; 
 
 The temperate affords me none ; 
 Either extreme, of love or hate. 
 Is sweeter than a calm estate. 
 
 Give me a storm ; if it be love, 
 
 Like Danae in a golden shower. 
 I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
 
 Disdain, that torrent will devour 
 My vulture-hopes ; and he's possess'd • 
 Of heaven that's but from hell released : 
 Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
 Give me more love, or more disdain. 
 
 Tlwmas Carew. — About 1630. 
 
 263.— SONG. 
 
 If the quick spirits in your eye 
 Now languish and anon must die ; 
 If ev'ry sweet, and ev'ry grace 
 Must fly from that forsaken face : 
 Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, 
 Ere time such goodly fruit destroys. 
 
 Or, if that golden fleece must grow 
 For ever, free from aged snow ; 
 If those bright suns must know no shade, 
 Nor your fresh beauties ever fade ; 
 Then fear not, Celia, to bestow 
 "WTiat still being gather' d still must grow. 
 Thus, either Time his sickle brings 
 In vain, or else in vain his wings. 
 
 Thomas Careiv.— About 1630. 
 
 264.— DISDAIN EETURNED. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek. 
 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires. 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely checks, or lips or eyes. 
 
 No tears, Celia, now shall win 
 
 My resolved heart to return ; 
 I have search' d thy soul within. 
 
 And find nought but pride and scorn ; 
 I have learn' d thy arts, and now 
 Can disdain as much as thou. 
 Some power, in my revenge, convey 
 That love to her I cast away. 
 
 Thomas Ca/rew. — About 1630. 
 
 265.— ON MR. W. MONTAGUE'S RETURN 
 FROM TRAVEL. 
 
 Lead the black bull to slaughter, with the boar 
 And lamb : then purple with their mingled gore 
 The ocean's curled brow, that so w^may 
 The sea-gods for their careful waftage pay : 
 Send grateful incense up in pious smoke 
 To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke 
 Upon the stubborn winds, that calmly blew 
 To the wish'd shore our long' d- for Montague : 
 Then, whilst the aromatic odours bum 
 In honour of their darling's safe return. 
 The Muse's quire shall thus, with voice and 
 
 hand. 
 Bless the fair gale that drove his ship to land. 
 
 Sweetly-breathing vernal air, 
 
 That witli kind warmth dost repair 
 
 Winter's ruins ; from whose breast 
 
 All the gums and spice of th' East 
 
 Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 
 
 Gilds the mom, and clears the sky ; 
 
 Whose dishevel'd tresses shed 
 
 Pearls upon the violet bed ; 
 
 On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd. 
 
 The halcyon sits and builds her nest ; 
 
 Beauty, youth, and endless spring. 
 
 Dwell upon thy rosy wing ; 
 
 Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
 
 Down whole forests when he blows. 
 
 With a pregnant flow'ry birth 
 
 Canst refresh the teeming earth : 
 
 If he nip the early bud. 
 
 If he blast what's fair or good. 
 
 If he scatter our choice flowers. 
 
 If he shake our hills or bowers, 
 
 If his rude breath threaten us ; 
 
 Thou canst stroke great Eolus, 
 
 And from him the grace obtain 
 
 To bind him in an iron chain. 
 
 TJiomas Carew. — About 1630. 
 
 266.— PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flatt'ring say, 
 Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May, 
 Bright as is the morning star, 
 That you are so ; or, though you are, 
 Be not therefore proud, and deem 
 All men unworthy your esteem ; 
 Nor let brittle beauty make 
 You your wiser thought.s forsake : 
 For that lovely face will fail ; 
 Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail ! 
 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, 
 Than summer's rain or winter's sun; 
 Most fleeting when it is most dear ; 
 'Tis gone while we but say — 'tis here. 
 These curious locks, so aptly twin'd, 
 Whose every hair a soitI doth bind. 
 Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
 White and cold as winter's snow. 
 That eye, which nov/ is Cupid's nest, 
 Will prove his grave. ,?nd all the rest 
 
Thomas Carew.] 
 
 APPROACH OF SPEING. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Will follow ; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
 
 Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ; 
 
 And what will then become of all 
 
 Those whom now you servants call ? 
 
 Like swallows, when your summer's done, 
 
 They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. 
 
 Then wisely choose one to your friend 
 
 Whose love may (when your beauties end) 
 
 Remain still firm ; be provident, 
 
 And think, before the summer's spent, 
 
 Or following' winter ; like the ant, 
 
 In plenty hoard for time of scant. 
 
 For when the storms of Time have moved 
 
 Waves on that cheek which was beloved ; 
 
 When a fair lady's face is pined. 
 
 And yellow spread where red once shin'd ; 
 
 When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave 
 
 her, 
 Love may return, but lovers never : 
 And old folks say there are no pains 
 Like itch of love in aged veins. 
 O love me then, and now begin it, 
 Let us not lose this present minute ; 
 For time and age will work that wrack 
 Which time or age shall ne'er call back. 
 The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
 And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
 The faded rose, each spring, receives, 
 A fresh red tincture on her leaves : 
 But if your beauties once decay, 
 You never know a second May. 
 Oh, then, be wise, and whilst your season 
 Affords you days for sport, do reason ; 
 Spend not in vain your life's short hour, 
 But crop in time your beauties' flovv'er, 
 Which will away, and doth together 
 Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 
 Thomas Carew. — About 1630. 
 
 267.— APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost 
 Her snow-white robes, and now no more the 
 
 frost 
 Candies the grass, or calls an icy cream 
 Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream ; 
 But the warm sun thaws the benumb' d earth. 
 And makes it tender ; gives a sacred birth 
 To the dead swallow ; wakes in hollow tree 
 The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee ; 
 Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring- 
 In triumph to the world the youthful spring. 
 The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array. 
 Welcome the coming of the long'd for May. 
 Now all things smile. 
 
 TJiomas CoA-ew. — About 1630. 
 
 268.— EPITAPH ON THE DUKE OF 
 BUCKINGHAM. 
 Reader, when these dumb stones have told 
 In borrow' d speech what guest they hold, 
 Thou shalt confess the vain pursuit 
 Of human glory yields no fruit 
 
 But an untimely grave. If Fate 
 
 Could constant happiness create, 
 
 Her ministers, fortune and worth. 
 
 Had here that miracle brought forth : 
 
 They fix'd this child of honour where 
 
 No room was left for hope or fear 
 
 Of more or less : so high, so great. 
 
 His growth was, yet so safe his seat : 
 
 Safe in the circle of his friends ; 
 
 Safe in his loyal heart and ends ; 
 
 Safe in his native valiant spirit ; 
 
 By favour safe, and safe by merit ; 
 
 Safe by the stamp of Nature, wliich 
 
 Did strength with shape and grace enrich ; 
 
 Safe in the cheerful courtesies 
 
 Of floAving gestures, speech, and eyes ; 
 
 Safe in his bounties, which were more 
 
 Proportion' d to his mind than store : 
 
 Yet though for virtue he becomes 
 
 Involv'd himself in borrowed sums. 
 
 Safe in his care, he leaves betray' d 
 
 No friend engag'd, no debt unpaid. 
 
 But, though the stars conspire to shower 
 Upon one head th' united power 
 Of all their graces, if their dire 
 Aspects must other breasts inspire 
 With vicious thoughts, a murderer's knife 
 May cut (as here) their darling's life : 
 Who can be happy then, if Nature must, 
 To make one happy man, make all men just ? 
 
 Thomas Carew. — About 1630. 
 
 269.— TO SAXHAM. 
 
 Though frost and snow lock'd from mine eyes 
 
 That beauty, which without door lies, 
 
 The gardens, orchards, walks, that so 
 
 I might not all thy pleasures know ; 
 
 Yet, Saxham, thou, within thy gate. 
 
 Art of thyseK so delicate, 
 
 So full of native sweets, that bless 
 
 Thy roof with inw-ard happiness ; 
 
 As neither from, nor to thy store. 
 
 Winter takes aught, or spring adds more. 
 
 The cold and frozen air had starv'd 
 
 Much poor, if not by thee preserv'd ; 
 
 Whose prayers have made thy table blest 
 
 With plenty, far above the rest. 
 
 The season hardly did afford 
 
 Coarse cates unto thy neighbour's board, 
 
 Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky 
 
 Had only been thy volary ; 
 
 Or else the birds, fearing the snow 
 
 Might to another deluge grow. 
 
 The pheasant, partridge, and the lark. 
 
 Flew to thy house, as to the ark. 
 
 The willing ox of himself came 
 
 Home to the slaughter, with the lamb, 
 
 And every beast did thither bring 
 
 Himself to be an offering. 
 
 The scaly herd more pleasure took, 
 
 Bath'd in thy dish, than in the brook. 
 
 Water, earth, air, did all conspire 
 
 To pay their tributes to thy fire ; 
 
M'rom 1558 to 1649.J 
 
 CHEISTMAS. 
 
 [George "Wither. 
 
 Wliose cherishhifr flames themselves divide 
 
 Through every room, where they deride 
 
 The night and cold abroad ; whilst they, 
 
 Like suns within, keep endless day. 
 
 Those cheerful beams send forth their light, 
 
 To all that wander in the night, 
 
 And seem to bookon from aloof 
 
 The weary pilgrim to thy roof ; 
 
 "Wlicre, if refreshed, he will away, 
 
 He's fairly welcome ; or, if stay, 
 
 Far more, which he shall hearty find, 
 
 Both from the master and the hind. 
 
 The stranger's welcome each man there 
 
 Stamp' d on his cheerful brow doth wear ; 
 
 Nor doth this welcome, or his cheer, 
 
 Grow less, 'cause he stays longer here. 
 
 There's none observes, much less repines, 
 
 How often this man sups or dines. 
 
 Thou hast no porter at the door 
 
 T' examine or keep back the poor ; 
 
 Nor locks nor bolts ; thy gates have been 
 
 Made only to let strangers in ; 
 
 Untaught to shut, they do not fear 
 
 To stand wide open all the year ; 
 
 Careless who enters, for they know 
 
 Thou never didst deserve a foe ; 
 
 And as for thieves, thy bounty's such, 
 
 They cannot steal, thou giv'st so much. 
 
 Thomas Carew. — About 1G30. 
 
 270.— THE PEIMEOSE. 
 
 Ask me why I send you here 
 
 This firstling of the infant year ; 
 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 
 This primrose all bepearl'd with dew ; 
 
 I straight will whisper in your ears, 
 
 The sweets of love are wash'd with tears : 
 
 A&k me why this fiow'r doth show 
 
 So .yellow, green, and sickly too ; 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak, 
 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
 
 I must tell you, these discover 
 
 What doubts and fears are in a lover. 
 
 Thomas Ca/reiv. — About 1630. 
 
 271.— CHEISTMAS. 
 
 So now is come our joyful' st feast ; 
 
 Let every man be jolly ; 
 Each room with ivy leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post mth holly. 
 Though some churls at our mirth repine, 
 Eound your foreheads garlands twine. 
 Drown sorrow in a cup of wine. 
 
 And let us all be merry. 
 
 Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 
 And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
 
 Their ovens they with baked meat choke, 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 
 Without the door let sorrow lie ; 
 
 And if for cold it hap to die. 
 
 We'll bury't in a Christmas pie, 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 Now every lad is wond'rous trim, 
 
 And no man minds his labour ; 
 Our lasses have provided them 
 
 A bagi)ipe and a taboT ; 
 Young men and maids, and girls and boys, 
 Give life to one another's joys ; 
 And you anon shall by their noise 
 
 Perceive that they are merry. 
 Eank misers now do sparing shun ; 
 
 Their hall of music soundcth ; 
 And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, 
 
 So all things there aboundeth. 
 The country folks themselves advance, 
 W^ith crowdy-muttons out of France ; 
 And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance. 
 
 And all the town be merry. 
 Ned Squash hath fetchthis bands from pawn, 
 
 And all his best apparel ; 
 Erisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn 
 
 With dropping of the barrel. 
 And those that hardly all the year 
 Had bread to eat, or rags to wear. 
 Will have both clothes and dainty fare, 
 
 And all the day be merry. 
 
 Now poor men to the justices 
 
 With capons make their errants ; 
 And if they hap to fail of these, 
 
 They plague them with their warrants : 
 But now they feed them with good cheer, 
 And what they want they take in beer. 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 And then they shall be merry. 
 Good farmers in the country nurse 
 
 The poor, that else were undone ; 
 Some landlords spend their money worse. 
 
 On lust and pride at London, 
 There the roysters they do play, 
 Drab and dice their lands away, 
 Which may be ours another day, 
 
 And therefore let's be merry. 
 
 The client now his suit forbears, 
 
 The prisoner's heart is eased ; 
 The debtor drinks away his cares, 
 
 And for the time is pleased. 
 Though others' purses be more fat, 
 Wliy should we pine, or grieve at that ? 
 Hang sorrow ! care will kill a cat, 
 
 And therefore let's be merry. 
 Hark ! now the wags abroad do call, 
 
 Each other forth to rambling ; 
 Anon you'll see them in the haU, 
 
 For nuts and apples scrambling. 
 Hark ! how the roofs -with laughter sound, 
 Anon they'll think the house goes round. 
 For they the cellar's depth have found. 
 
 And there they will be merry. 
 
 T^he wenches with their wassail bowls 
 
 About the streets are singing ; 
 The boys are come to catch the owls. 
 
 The wild mare in is bringing. 
 Our kitchen boy hath broke liis box, 
 And to the dealing of the ox. 
 Our honest neighbotirs come by flocks, 
 
 And here they will be merry. 
 
George Wither.] 
 
 SONKET UPON A STOLEN KISS. 
 
 [Third J^eriod. — 
 
 Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, 
 
 And mate with everybedy ; 
 The honest now may play the knave, 
 
 And wise men play the noddy. 
 Some youths will now a mumming go, 
 Some others play at Eowland-bo, 
 And twenty other game boys mo, 
 
 Because they will be merry. 
 
 Then, wherefore, in these merry days, 
 
 Should we, I pray, be duller ? 
 No, let us sing some roundelays. 
 To make our mirth the fuller : 
 And, while we thus inspired sing. 
 Let all the streets with echoes ring ; 
 Woods and hills, and everything, 
 witness we are merry. 
 
 George Wither. — Ahoiit 1635. 
 
 272.— SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS. 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 
 Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in 
 
 awe ; 
 And free access unto that sweet lip lies. 
 From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. 
 Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 
 From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss ; 
 None sees the theft that would the theft reveal. 
 Nor rob I her of ought what she can miss : 
 Nay should I twenty kisses take away, 
 There would be little sign I would do so ; 
 Why then should I this robbery delay ? 
 Oh ! she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
 Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, 
 And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. 
 George Wither. — About 1635. 
 
 273.— TH:K COMPANIONSHIP OF THE 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 See'st thou not, in clearest days. 
 
 Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays ; 
 
 And the vapours that do breathe 
 
 From the earth's gross womb beneath, 
 
 Seem they not with their black steams 
 
 To pollute the sun's bright beams. 
 
 And yet vanish into air, 
 
 Leaving it, unblemish'd, fair ? 
 
 So, my Wniy, shall it be 
 
 With Detraction's breath and thee : 
 
 It shall never rise so high, 
 
 As to stain thy poesy. 
 
 As that sun doth oft exhale 
 
 Vapours from each rotten valo ; 
 
 Poesy so sometime drains 
 
 Gross conceits from muddy brains ; 
 
 Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 
 
 'Twixt men's judgments and her light : 
 
 But so much her power may do. 
 
 That she can dissolve them too. 
 
 If thy verse do bravely tower, 
 
 As she makes wing she gets power ; 
 
 Yet the higher she doth soar, 
 She's affronted still the more ; 
 Till she to the high'st hath past, 
 Then she rests with fame at last : 
 Let nought therefore thee affright, 
 But make forward in thy flight ; 
 For, if I could match thy rhyme, 
 To the very stars I'd climb ; 
 There begin again, and fly 
 Tni I reach' d eternity. 
 But, alas ! my muse is slow ; 
 For thy page she flags too low : 
 Yea, the more's her hapless fate, 
 Her short wings were clipt of late : 
 And poor I, her fortune rueing. 
 Am myseK put up a-mewing : 
 But if I my cage can rid, 
 I'll fly where I never did : 
 And though for her sake I'm crost. 
 Though my best hopes I have lost, 
 And knew she would make my trouble 
 Ten times more than ten times double : 
 I should love and keep her too. 
 Spite of all the world could do. 
 For, though banish' d from my flocks, 
 And confin'd within these rocks, 
 Here I waste away the light, 
 And consume the sullen night, 
 She doth for my comfort stay, 
 And keeps many cares away. 
 , Though I miss the flowery fields, 
 With those sweets the springtide yields, 
 Though I may not see those groves. 
 Where the shepherds chant their loves, 
 And the lasses more excel 
 Than the sweet- voiced Philomel. 
 Though of aU those pleasures past, 
 Nothing now remains at last, 
 But ErCmembrance, poor relief, 
 That more makes than mends my grief 
 She's my mind's companion still, 
 Maugre Envy's evil will. 
 (Whence she would be driven, too, 
 Were't in mortal's power to do.) 
 She doth tell me where to borrow 
 Comfort in the midst of sorrow : 
 Makes the desolatest place 
 To her presence be a grace ; 
 And the blackest discontents 
 Be her fairest ornaments. 
 In my former days of bliss, 
 Her divine skill taught me this. 
 That from everything I saw, 
 I could some invention draw : 
 And raise pleasure to her height, 
 Through the meanest object's sight. 
 By the murmur of a spring. 
 Or the least bough's rustleing. 
 By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree, 
 She could more infuse in me, 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man. 
 By her help I also now 
 Make this churlish place allow 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] JUST INDIGNATION OF THE OPPEESSED. [George Wither. | 
 
 Some things that may sweeten gladness, 
 
 In the very gaU of sadness. 
 
 The dull loneness, the black shade, 
 
 That these hanging vaults have made ; 
 
 The strange music of the -waves. 
 
 Beating on these hoUow caves ; 
 
 This black den which rocks emboss, 
 
 Overgrown with eldest moss : 
 
 The rude portals that give light 
 
 More to terror than delight : 
 
 This my chamber of neglect, 
 
 Wall'd about with disrespect. 
 
 From all these, and this dull air, 
 
 A fit object for despair, 
 
 She hath taught me by her might 
 
 To draw comfort and delight. 
 
 Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
 
 I will cherish thee for this. 
 
 Poesy, thou sweet' st content 
 
 That e'er heaven to mortals lent : 
 
 Though they as a trifle leave thee, 
 
 Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, 
 
 Though thou be to them a scorn, 
 
 That to nought but earth are bom, 
 
 Let my life no longer be 
 
 Than I am in love with thee, 
 
 Though our wise ones call thee madness, 
 
 Let me never taste of gladness. 
 
 If I love not thy madd'st fits 
 
 Above all their greatest wits. 
 
 And though some, too seeming holy. 
 
 Do account thy raptures folly. 
 
 Thou dost teach me to contemn 
 
 What make knaves and fools of them. 
 
 George Wither. — Ahout 1635. 
 
 274.— A PEISONEE'S LAY. 
 
 First think, my soul, if I have foes 
 That take a pleasure in my care, 
 And to procure these outward woes 
 Have thus enwrapt me unaware. 
 
 Thou should' st by much more careful be. 
 Since greater foes lay wait for thee. 
 
 By my late hopes that now are crost, 
 Consider those that firmer be. 
 And make the freedom I have lost 
 A means that may remember thee. 
 Had Christ not thy Eedeemer been. 
 What horrid state hadst thou been in ! 
 
 Or when through me thou seest a man 
 Condemn' d unto a mortal death. 
 How sad he looks, how pale, how wan. 
 Drawing, with fear, his panting breath ; 
 Think if in that such grief thou see. 
 How sad will " Go, ye cursed," be ! 
 
 These iron chains, these bolts of steel, 
 Which often poor offenders grind ; 
 The wants and cares which they do feel 
 May bring some greater things to mind ; 
 For by their grief thou shalt do well 
 To think upon the pains of hell. 
 
 Again, when he that fear'd to die 
 (Past hope) doth see his pardon brought, 
 Eead but the joy that 's in his eye. 
 And then convey it to thy thought ; 
 Then think between thy heart and thee. 
 How glad will " Come, ye blessed,'! be! 
 
 George Wither. — Ahoiit 1G35. 
 
 275.— FEOM "A DIEGE." 
 
 Farewell, 
 
 Sweet groves to you ! 
 
 You hills that highest dwell, 
 
 And all you humble vales, adieu ! 
 
 You wanton brooks and soHtary rocks. 
 
 My dear companions all, and you my tender 
 
 flocks ! 
 Farewell, my pipe ! and all those pleasing 
 
 songs whose moving strain 
 Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance 
 
 upon the plains. 
 
 You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly 
 
 smart 
 
 Have without pity broke the truest heart. 
 
 Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy. 
 
 That erst did with me dwell, 
 
 And others joy, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 George Wither. — About 1635. 
 
 276.— TO A BEOTHEE POET. 
 
 Go, my Willy, get thee gone, 
 Leave me in exile alone ; 
 Hie thee to that merry throng. 
 And amaze them with thy song. 
 Thou art young, yet such a lay 
 Never graced the month of May, 
 As (if they provoke thy skill) 
 Thou canst fit unto the quill. 
 I, with wonder, heard thee sing 
 At our last year's revelHng : 
 Then I with the rest was free. 
 When unknown I noted thee, 
 And perceived the ruder swains 
 Envy thy far sweeter strains. 
 Yea, I saw the lasses cling 
 Eound about thee in a ring. 
 As if each one jealous were 
 Any but herself should hear. 
 
 George Wither. — Ahout 1635. 
 
 277.— THE JUST INDIGNATION OF THE 
 OPPEESSED. 
 
 Do I not know a great man's power and 
 
 might. 
 In spite of innocence, can smother right, 
 Colour his villainies to get esteem, 
 And make the honest man the villain seem ? 
 I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true. 
 Yet I protest if such a man I knew. 
 
Geokge Wither.] 
 
 A PEESECUTED POET'S ADDEESS. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 That might my country prejudice, or thee, 
 Were he the greatest or the proudest he 
 That breathes this day : if so it might be found 
 That any good to either might redound, 
 I, unappall'd, dare in such a case 
 Eip up his foidest crimes before his face. 
 Though for my labour I were sure to drop 
 Into the mouth of ruin without hope. 
 
 George Wither. — About 1635. 
 
 278. 
 
 -A PEESECUTED POET' J 
 TO HIS KING. 
 
 ADDEESS 
 
 Wliile here my muse in discontent doth sing 
 To thee, her great Apollo, and my king ; 
 Imploring thee, by that high, sacred name, 
 By justice, and those powers that I could 
 
 name : 
 By whatsoe'er may move, entreat I thee, 
 To be what thou art unto all, to me. 
 
 George Wither.— About 1635. 
 
 279.— 1^-IY HEAVENLY FATHEE AND 
 HIS EEEING CHILD. 
 
 Yet I confess, in this my pilgrimage, 
 I, like some infant, am of tender age. 
 For as the child who from his father hath 
 Stray' d in some grove thro' many a crooked 
 
 path, 
 Is sometimes hopeful that he finds the way. 
 And sometimes doubtful ho runs more astray. 
 Sometime with fair and easy paths doth 
 
 meet. 
 Sometime with rougher tracts that stay his 
 
 feet ; 
 Here goes, there runs, and yon amazed stays ; 
 Then cries and straight forgets his care, and 
 
 plays. 
 Then hearing where his loving father calls, 
 Makes haste, but through a zeal ill-guided 
 
 faUs; 
 Or runs some other way, until that he 
 (Whose love is more than his endeavours be) 
 To seek the wanderer, forth himself doth come. 
 And take him in his arms, and bear him home. 
 So in this life, this grove of ignorance. 
 As to my homeward, I myseK advance. 
 Sometimes aright, and sometimes wrong I go. 
 Sometimes my pace is speedy, sometimes slow : 
 One while my ways are pleasant unto me. 
 Another while as full of cares they be. 
 I doubt and hope, and doubt and hope again, 
 And many a change of passion I sustain 
 In this my journey, so that now and then 
 I lost, perhaps, may seem to other men. 
 Yea, to myself awhile, when sins impure 
 Do my Eedcemer's love from me obscure. 
 But whatsoe'er betide, I know full well 
 My Father, who above the clouds doth dwell. 
 An eye upon His wandering child doth cast, 
 And He will fetch me to my home at last. 
 
 George Wither. — About 1635. 
 
 280.— AGAINST HIEED FLATTEEEES. 
 
 I have no muses that will serve the turn 
 
 At every triumph, and rejoice or mourn. 
 
 After a minute's warning, for their hire. 
 
 If with old sherry they themselves inspire. 
 
 I am not of a temper like to those 
 
 That can provide an hour's sad talk in prose 
 
 For any funeral, and then go dine, 
 
 And choke my grief with sugar-plums and wine. 
 
 I cannot at the claret sit and laugh, 
 
 And then, half tipsy, write an epitaph. 
 
 I cannot for reward adorn the hearse 
 
 Of some old rotten miser with my verse ; 
 
 Nor, like the poetasters of the time. 
 
 Go howl a doleful elegy in rhyme. 
 
 For every lord or ladyship that dies, 
 
 And then perplex their heirs to patronize 
 
 That muddy poesy. Oh, how I scorn, 
 
 That raptures which are free and nobly bom 
 
 Should, fidler-like, for. entertainment scrape 
 
 At strangers' windows, and go play the ape 
 
 In counterfeiting passion. 
 
 George Wither. — Ahoict 1635. 
 
 281.— THE 148th psalm PAEAPHEASED. 
 
 Come, O come, with sacred lays, 
 Let us sound th' Almighty's praise. 
 Hither bring in true consent. 
 Heart, and voice, and instrument. 
 Let the orpharion sweet 
 With the harp and \dol meet : 
 To your voices tune the lute ; 
 Let not tongue, nor string be mute ; 
 Nor a creature dumb be found 
 That hath either voice or sound. 
 
 Let such things as do not live, 
 In still music praises give : 
 Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep, 
 On the earth, or in the deep. 
 Loud aloft your voices strain. 
 Beasts and monsters of the main. 
 Birds, your warbling treble sing ; 
 Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
 Sun and moon, exalted <iiigher, 
 And you, stars, augment the quire. 
 
 Come, ye sons of human race, 
 In this chorus take your place. 
 And amid this mortal throng, 
 Be you masters of the song. 
 Angels and celestial powers, 
 Be the noblest tenor yours. 
 Let, in praise of God, the sound 
 Eun a never-ending round ; 
 That our holy hymn may be 
 Everlasting, as is He. 
 
 From the earth's vast hollow womb, 
 Music's deepest base shall come ; 
 Sea and floods, from shore to shore, 
 Shall the counter-tenor roar. 
 To this concert, when we sing. 
 Whistling winds, your descant bring, 
 
From 1558 to 1640.,] PRAYER FOR SEASONABLE WEATHER. [George Wither. 
 
 WMch may bear the sound above, 
 Where the orb of fire doth move ; 
 And so climb from sphere to sphere, 
 Till our song th' Almighty hear. 
 
 So shall He from Heaven's high tower 
 On the earth His blessings shower ; 
 All this huge wide orb we see, 
 Shall one quire, one temple be. 
 There our voices we will rear, 
 Till we fill it everywhere ; 
 And enforce the fiends that dwell 
 In the air, to sink to hell. 
 Then, O come, with sacred lays, 
 Let us sound th' Almighty's praise. 
 
 George Wither.— About 1635. 
 
 And those so thick that Phoebus scarcely sees 
 The earth they grow on once in all the year, 
 Nor what is done among the shadows there. 
 
 George Wither: — About 1635. 
 
 283. 
 
 •THE SEQUESTERED RETIREMENT 
 OF BENTWORTH. 
 
 fi_ 
 
 Two pretty rOls do meet, and, meeting, make 
 
 Within one valley a large silver lake. 
 
 About whose banks the fertile mountains 
 
 stood. 
 In ages pass'd bravely crown'd with wood, 
 Which lending cold sweet shadows gave it 
 
 grace 
 To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place. 
 
 282.— THE FORD OF ARLE. 
 
 North-east, not far from this great pool, there 
 
 lies 
 A tract of beechy mountains that arise, 
 With leisurely ascending, to such height 
 As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight 
 You in the ocean's bosom may espie, 
 Tho' near two hundred furlongs hence it lie. 
 The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb. 
 Is strew'd o'er with marjoram and thyme, 
 "Which grows unset. The hedge-rows do not 
 
 want 
 The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant 
 That freshly scents ; as birch, both green and 
 
 tall, ^ 
 
 Low swallows on whose bloomings bees do 
 
 faU, 
 Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine. 
 Smooth privet, and the sharp sweet eglantine. 
 With many more, whose leaves and blossoms 
 
 fair 
 The earth adorn, and oft perfume the air. 
 
 E'en there, and in the least frequented place 
 
 Of all these mountains, is a little space 
 
 Of pleasant ground, hemm'd in with dropping 
 
 And from her father Neptune's brackish court, 
 Fair Thetis hither often would resort. 
 Attended by the fishes of the sea. 
 Which in those sweeter waters came to play. 
 There would the daughter of the sea-god dive. 
 And thither came the land- nymphs every eve. 
 To wait upon her, bringing for herl^rows 
 Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and beechy 
 boughs ; 
 
 For pleasant was that pool, and near it then 
 Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen. 
 It was not overgrown with boisterous sedge. 
 Nor grew there rudely then along the edge 
 A bending willow, nor a prickly bush. 
 Nor broad-leaf 'd flag, nor reed, nor knotty 
 
 rush. 
 But here, well-order' d was a grove with bowers. 
 There grassy plots set round about with 
 
 flowers : 
 Here, you might thro' the waters see the 
 
 land 
 Appear, strew'd o'er with white, or yellow 
 
 sand. 
 Yea, deeper was it ; and the wind by whiffs 
 Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffs. 
 On which oft pluming sat, unfrighted then. 
 The gaggling wild goose, and the snow white 
 
 swan, 
 With all the flocks of fowls which to this day. 
 Upon those quiet waters breed and play. 
 
 George Wither. — About 1635, 
 
 284.— PRAYER FOR SEASONABLE 
 WEATHER. 
 
 Lord, should the sun, the clouds, the wind. 
 
 The air and seasons be, 
 To us so froward and unkind. 
 
 As we are false to Thee : 
 All fruits would quite away be bum'd. 
 
 Or lie in water drown' d. 
 Or blasted be, or overturn' d. 
 
 Or chilled on the ground. 
 
 But from our duty though we swerve, 
 
 Thou still dost mercy show, 
 And deign Thy creatures to preserve. 
 
 That men might thankful grow. 
 Yet, though from day to day we sin^ 
 
 And Thy displeasure gain, 
 No sooner wo to cry begin. 
 
 But pity we obtain. 
 
 The weather now Thou changed hast. 
 
 That put us late to fear, 
 And when our hopes were almost past, 
 
 Then comfort did appear. 
 The heaven the earth's complaint hath heard, 
 
 They reconciled be ; 
 And Thou such weather hast prepared. 
 
 As we desired of Thee. 
 
 George Wither. — About 1635. 
 
William Browne.] 
 
 JklOENING. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 285.— MOENING. 
 
 By this had chanticleer, the village cock, 
 Bidden the goodwife for her maids to knock ; 
 And the swart ploughman for his breakfast 
 
 stayed, 
 That he might till those lands were fallow laid 
 The hiUs and valleys here and there resound 
 With the re-echoes of the deep-mouth' d hound 
 Each shepherd's daughter with her cleanly pail 
 Was come a- field to milk the morning's meal 
 And ere the sun had climb' d the eastern hills 
 To gild the muttering bourns and pretty rills 
 Before the labouring bee had left the hive, 
 And nimble fishes, which in rivers dive, 
 Began to leap and catch the drowned fly, 
 I rose from rest, not infelicity. 
 
 WillioAn Browne. — About 1620. 
 
 286.— EVENING. 
 
 As in an evening, when the gentle air 
 Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, 
 I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank, to hear 
 My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine 
 
 ear: 
 When he hath play'd (as well he can) some 
 
 strain. 
 That likes me, straight I ask the same again, 
 And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er 
 With some sweet relish was forgot before : 
 I would have been content if he would play. 
 In that one strain, to pass the night away ; 
 But, fearing much to do his patience wrong. 
 Unwillingly have ask'd some other song : 
 So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well 
 A many hours, but as few minutes tell, 
 Yet, lest mine own delight might injure you, 
 (Though loath so soon) I take my song anew. 
 William Browne. — About 1620. 
 
 287.— A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 Now great Hyperion left his golden throne 
 That on the dancing waves in glory shone. 
 For whose declining on the western shore 
 The oriental hills black mantles wore, 
 And thence apace the gentle twilight fled. 
 That had from hideous caverns ushered 
 All-drowsy night ; who, in a car of jet, 
 By steeds of iron-gray (which mainly sweat 
 Moist drops on all the world) drawn through 
 
 the sky. 
 The helps of darkness waited orderly. 
 First, thick clouds rose from all the liquid 
 
 plains : 
 Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose 
 
 veins 
 Were conduit pipes to many a crystal spring : 
 From standing pools and fens were following 
 Unhealthy fogs : each river, every rill 
 Sent up their vapours to attend her will. 
 These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt Earth and 
 
 Heaven, 
 
 And as Night's chariot through the air was 
 
 driven. 
 Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's 
 
 song, 
 And silence girt the woods ; no warbling 
 
 tongue 
 Talk'd to the echo ; satyrs broke their dance, 
 And all the upper world lay in a trance : 
 Only the curled streams soft chidings kept ; 
 And little gales, that from the green leaf 
 
 swept 
 Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings 
 
 stirr'd. 
 As loath to waken any singing bird. 
 
 William Browne, — About 1620. 
 
 288.— NIGHT. 
 
 The sable mantle of the silent night 
 
 Shut from the world the ever-joysome light. 
 
 Care fled away, and softest slumbers please 
 
 To leave the court for lowly cottages. 
 
 Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills, 
 
 And sleightful otters left the purling rills ; 
 
 Books to their nests in high woods now were 
 
 flung. 
 And with their spread wings shield their naked 
 
 young. 
 When thieves from thickets to the cross- ways 
 
 stir, 
 And terror frights the lonely passenger ; 
 When nought was heard but now and then the 
 
 howl 
 Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl. 
 
 William Browne. — About 1620. 
 
 289.— S O N G. 
 
 Gentle nymphs, be not refusing. 
 Love's neglect is time's abusing, 
 
 They and beauty are but lent you ; 
 Take the one, and keep the other : 
 Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, 
 
 Beauty gone, you will repent you. 
 
 'Twill be said, when ye have proved, 
 Never swains more truly loved : 
 
 Oh, then fly all nice behaviour ! 
 Pity fain would (as her duty) 
 Be attending still on Beauty, 
 
 Let her not be out of favour. 
 
 William Broivne. — About 1620. 
 
 290.— S O N G. 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love ? 
 
 Hearken then awhile to me. 
 And if such a woman move 
 
 As I now shall versify ; 
 Be assured, 'tis she, or none, 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 [Francis Quables. 
 
 Nature did her so much right, 
 As she scorns the help of art. 
 
 In as many virtues dight 
 
 As e'er yet embraced a heart. 
 
 So much good so truly tried, 
 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To make known how much she hath ; 
 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 
 Full of pity as may be. 
 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 Eeason masters every sense, 
 
 And her \Trtues grace her birth : 
 
 Lovely as all excellence, 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 
 Only worth could kindle love. 
 
 Such she is : and if you know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung ; 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so. 
 
 That she be but somewhile young ; 
 Be assured, 'tis she, or none, 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 Williann Browne. — Ahout 1620. 
 
 291.— ADDRESS TO HIS NATIVE SOIL. 
 
 Hail thou, my native soil ! thou blessed plot 
 Whoso eqi^al all the world affordeth not ! 
 Show me who can ? so many crystal rills, 
 Such sweet-clothed vaUies, or aspiring hills, 
 Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy 
 
 mines. 
 Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines : 
 And if the earth can show the like again, 
 Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men. 
 Time never can produce men to o'ertake 
 The fames of Grenville, Davis, Gilbert, Drake, 
 Or worthy Hawkins, or pf thousands more. 
 That by their power made the Devonian shore 
 Mock the proud Tagus ; for whose richest spoil 
 The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soil 
 Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost 
 By winning this, though all the rest were lost. 
 
 William Browne. — About 1620. 
 
 292.— WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 And what 's a life ? — a weary pilgrimage, 
 Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
 With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 
 
 And what 's a life ? — the flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 
 
 Read on this dial, how the shades devour 
 My short-Kved winter's day! hour eats up 
 
 hour; 
 Alas ! the total 's but from eight to four. 
 
 Behold these lilies, which thy hands have 
 
 made. 
 Fair copies of my Hfe, and open laid 
 To view, how soon they droop, how soon they 
 
 fade! 
 
 Shade not that dial, night will blind ioo soon ; 
 My non-aged day already points to noon ; 
 How simple is my stdt ! — how small my boon ! 
 
 Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile 
 The time away, or falsely to beguile 
 My thoughts with joy : here's nothing worth a 
 smile. 
 
 Francis Quarles. — Ahout 1640. 
 
 293.— THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 False world, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend 
 
 The least deUght : 
 Thy favours cannot gain a friend, 
 
 They are so slight : 
 Thy morning pleasures make an end 
 
 To please at night : 
 Poor are the wants that thou supply' st, 
 And yet thou vaunt' st, and yet thou vy'st 
 With heaven ; fond earth, thou boasts ; false 
 world, thou ly'st. 
 
 Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 
 
 Of endless treasure ; 
 Thy bounty offers easy sales 
 
 Of lasting pleasure ; 
 Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, 
 
 And swear' st to ease her : 
 There 's none can want where thou supply' st : 
 There 's none can give where thou deny'st. 
 Alas ! fond world, thou boasts j false world, 
 thou ly'st. 
 
 What well-advised ear regards 
 
 What earth can say ? 
 Thy words are gold, but thy rewards 
 
 Are painted clay : 
 Thy cunning can cut pack the cards, 
 
 Thou canst not play : 
 Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st ; 
 If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st : 
 Thou art not what thou seem'st j false world, 
 thou ly'st. 
 
 Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 
 
 Of new-coin' d treasure : 
 A paradise, that has no stint. 
 
 No change, no measure ; 
 A painted cask, but nothing in't. 
 
 Nor wealth, nor pleasure : 
 Vain earth ! that falsely thus comply' st 
 With man ; vain man ! that thou rely'st 
 On earth ; vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, 
 thou ly'st. 
 
 What mean dull souls, in this high measure, 
 
 To haberdash 
 In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure 
 
 Is dross and trash ? 
 The height of whose enchanting pleasure 
 
 Is but a flash ? 
 
FeANCIS QuAEIiES.] 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Are these the goods that thou supply' st 
 Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st ? 
 Can these bring cordial peace? false world, 
 thou ly'st. 
 
 Francis Quarles. — About 1640. 
 
 294.— F A I T H. 
 
 The proudest pitch of that victorious spirit 
 
 Was but to win the world, whereby t' inherit 
 
 The airy purchase of a transitory 
 
 And glozing title of an age's glory 
 
 Would' st thou by conquest win more fame than 
 
 he, 
 Subdue thyseK ! thyself 'a a world to thee. 
 Earth 's but a ball, that heaven hath quilted 
 
 o'er 
 With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floor 
 Of fickle Fortune's false and slippery court, 
 Sent for a toy, to make us children spoit, 
 Man's satiate spirits with fresh delights sup- 
 plying, 
 To still the fondlings of the world from cry- 
 ing; 
 And he, whose merit mounts t-o such a joy, 
 Gains but the honour of a mighty toy. 
 
 But would' st thou conquer, have thy con- 
 quest crown' d 
 By hands of Seraphims, triumph'd with the 
 
 sound 
 Of heaven's loud trampet, warbled by the 
 
 shrin 
 Celestial choir, recorded with a quill 
 Pluck' d from the pinion of an angel's wing, 
 Confirm'd with joy by heaven's eternal King ; 
 Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel. 
 And chase those false affections that rebel. 
 Hath heaven despoU'd what his full hand hath 
 
 given thee ? 
 Nipp'd thy succeeding blossoms ? or bereaven 
 
 thee 
 Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend ? 
 Doth sad Despair deny these griefs an end ? 
 Despair's a whisp'ring rebel, that within thee, 
 Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again' 
 
 thee: 
 Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let 
 
 flee, 
 If thou not conquer him, he '11 conquer thee : 
 Advance thy shield of Patience to thy head. 
 And when Grief strikes, 'twill strike the striker 
 . dead. 
 
 In adverse fortunes, be thou strong and stout. 
 And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out 
 His bow for ever bent ; the disposition , 
 Of noblest spirit doth, by opposition. 
 Exasperate the more : a gloomy night 
 Whets on the morning to return more bright 
 Brave minds, oppress' d, should in despite of 
 
 Fate, 
 Look greatest, like the sun, in lowest state. 
 But, ah ! shaU God thus strive with flesh and 
 
 blood ? 
 Receives he glory from, or reaps he good 
 
 In mortals' ruin, that he leaves man so 
 To be o'erwhelm'd by this unequal foe ? 
 
 May not a potter, that, from out the ground, 
 Hath framed a vessel, search if it be sound ? 
 Or if, by furbishing, he take more pain 
 To make it fairer, shall the pot complain ? 
 Mortal, thou art but clay ; then shall not he, 
 That framed thee for his service, season thee! 
 Man, close thy lips ; be thou no undertaker 
 Of God's designs : dispute not -svdth thy Maker. 
 
 Francis Quarles. — About 1640. 
 
 295.— DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. 
 
 I love (and have some cause to love) the earth; 
 She is my Maker's creature : therefore good : 
 She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
 She is my tender nurse — she gives me food ; 
 
 But what 's a creature, Lord, compared with 
 thee? 
 
 Or what 's my mother, or my nurse to me ? 
 
 I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; 
 i Her shrill-mouth' d quire sustains me with their 
 ! flesh, 
 
 I And with their polyphonian notes delight me : 
 But what 's the air or aU the sweets that she 
 Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 
 
 I love the sea : she is my fellow- creature, 
 My careful purveyor ; she provides me store : 
 She walls me round ; she makes my diet 
 
 gi"^ater ; , 
 
 She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
 But, Lord of oceans, when compared with 
 
 thee, 
 ' What is the ocean, or her wealth to me ? 
 
 To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
 Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
 Mine eye, by contemplation 's great attorney. 
 Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 
 But what is heaven, great God, compared to 
 
 thee ? ' 
 
 Without thy presence heaven 's no heaven 
 to me. 
 
 Without thy presence earth gives no refection ; 
 
 Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ; 
 
 Without thy presence air 's a rank infection ; 
 
 Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure : 
 If not possess'd, if not cnjoy'd in thee, 
 What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to 
 me? 
 
 The highest honours that the world can boast. 
 Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
 The brightest beams of glory are (at most) 
 But dying sparkles of thy living fire : 
 
 The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be 
 But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. 
 
 Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares ; 
 Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet — sadness : 
 Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; 
 Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing 
 madness ; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SOKQ. 
 
 [Francis Quarles. 
 
 Without thoe, Lord, things be not what 
 
 they be, 
 Nor have they being, when compared with 
 
 thee. 
 
 In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? 
 Not having thee, what have my labours got ? 
 Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 
 And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
 I wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be 
 Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of 
 thee. 
 
 Francis Qum'les. — About 1640. 
 
 296.— S O N G. 
 
 Know then, my brethren, heaven is clear. 
 
 And all the clouds are gone ; 
 The righteous now shall flourish, and 
 
 Good days are coming on : 
 Come then, my brethren, and be glad, 
 
 And eke rejoice with me ; 
 Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down, 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 We'll break the windows which the Whore 
 
 Of Babylon hath painted, 
 And when the popish saints are down, 
 
 Then Barrow shall be sainted. 
 There's neither cross nor crucifix 
 
 Shall stand for men to see ; 
 Rome's trash and trumperies shall go down. 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 # # # # 
 We'll down with all the ' Varsities, 
 
 Where learning is profest, 
 Because they practise and maintain 
 
 The language of the beast. 
 We'll drive the doctors out of doors. 
 
 And arts, whate'er they be ; 
 We'll cry both arts and learning down, 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 # * * * 
 K once that Antichristian crew 
 
 Be cmsh'd and overthrown, 
 We'U teach the nobles how to crouch. 
 
 And keep the gentry down. 
 Good manners have an ill report, 
 
 And turn to pride, we see ; 
 We'll therefore cry good manners down. 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 The name of lord shall be abhorr'd. 
 
 For every man's a brother ; 
 No reason why, in church or state, 
 
 One man should rule another. 
 But when the change of government 
 
 Shall set our fingers free, 
 We'U make the wanton sisters stoop 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 Our cobblers shall translate their souls, 
 From caves obscure and shady ; 
 
 We'U make Tom T * * as good as my lord, 
 And Joan as good as my lady. 
 
 We'U crush and fling the marriage ring 
 
 Into the Eioman see ; 
 We'U ask no bands, but e'en clap hands, 
 
 And hey ! then up go we ! 
 
 Francis Quarles. — About 1640. 
 
 297.— SOSPETTO D' HEEODE. LIB. I. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 Below the bottom of the great abyss. 
 There where one centre reconcUes all things ; 
 The world's profound heart pants; there 
 
 placed is 
 Mischief's old master, close about him clings 
 A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss 
 His correspondent cheeks; these loathsome 
 strings 
 Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties, 
 Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies. 
 
 From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing 
 
 air. 
 This mortal enemy to mankind's good. 
 Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care. 
 To become beautiful in human blood. 
 Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair 
 The fields of Palestine with so pure a flood ; 
 There does he fix his eyes, and there detect 
 New matter to make good his great suspect. 
 
 He caUs to mind the old quarrel, and what 
 
 spark 
 Set the contending sons of heaven on fire : 
 Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark 
 SybUs' divining leaves ; he does inquire 
 Into the old prophecies, trembUng to mark 
 How many present prodigies conspire 
 
 To crown their past predictions, both he 
 
 lays 
 Together, in his ponderous mind both 
 
 weighs. 
 
 Heaven's golden- winged herald, late he saw 
 
 To a poor GalUean virgin sent : 
 
 How low the bright youth bow'd, and with 
 what awe 
 
 Immortal flowers to her fair hand present. 
 
 He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the 
 law 
 
 Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent 
 His birth by his devotion, who began 
 Betimes to be a saint, before a man. 
 
 He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour 
 Of the icy north, from frost-bound Atlas' 
 
 hands 
 His adamantine fetters fall ; green vigour 
 Gladding the Scythian rocks, andw Libyan 
 
 sands. 
 He saw a vernal smUe sweetly disfigure 
 Winter's sad face, and through the flowery 
 
 lands 
 Of fair Engaddi's honey- sweating fountains. 
 With manna, mUk, and balm, new broach 
 
 the mountains. - „ 
 
ElCHARD CrASHAW.] 
 
 SOSPETTO D' HEEODE. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 He saw how in that blest day-bearing night, 
 The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away ; 
 How bright a dawn of angels with new Hght, 
 Amazed the midnight world, and made a day 
 Of which the morning knew not ; mad with 
 
 spite. 
 He mark'd how the poor Shepherds ran to pay 
 Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth 
 Was the great business both of heaven and 
 earth. 
 
 He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase, 
 Make proud the ruby portals of the east. 
 He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace. 
 Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast. 
 He saw the falling idols all confess 
 A coming Deity. He saw the nest 
 
 Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth- 
 nurst, 
 
 Touch' d with the world's true antidote to 
 burst. 
 
 He saw Heaven blossom with a new-bom 
 
 ligbt. 
 On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed 
 The golden eyes of night, whose beam made 
 
 bright 
 The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed 
 (Nor ask'd leave of the sun), by day as night. 
 By whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) 
 
 raised 
 Three kings (or what is more) three wise 
 
 men went 
 Westward, to find the world's true orient. 
 
 * * # * 
 
 That the great angel-blinding light should 
 
 shrink 
 His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye. 
 That the unmeasured God so low should sink, 
 As pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie. 
 That from his mother's breast he milk should 
 
 drink. 
 Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family, 
 That a vile manger his low bed should 
 
 prove, 
 Who in a throne of stars thunders above. 
 
 That he whom the sun serves, should faintly 
 
 peep 
 Through clouds of infant flesh : that he the 
 
 old 
 Eternal Word should be a child and weep : 
 That he who made the fire should fear the 
 
 cold: 
 That Heaven's high Majesty his court should 
 
 In a clay cottage, by each blast controU'd : 
 That glory's self should serve our griefs and 
 
 fears, 
 And free eternity submit to years. 
 
 And further, that the law's eternal Giver 
 Should bleed in his own law's obedience ; 
 And to the circumcising knife deliver 
 Himself, the forfeit of his slave's offence. 
 That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed for ever, 
 Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense. 
 
 These are the knotty riddles, whose dark 
 
 doubt 
 Entangles his lost thoughts past getting out : 
 
 While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged 
 
 breast, 
 His gloomy bosom's darke&t character 
 Was in his shady forehead seen express'd. 
 The forehead's shade in grief's expression 
 
 there. 
 Is what in sign of joy among the blest. 
 The face's lightning, or a smUe is here. 
 
 Those stings of care that his strong heart 
 
 opprest, 
 A desperate Oh me ! drew from his deep 
 breast. 
 
 Oh me ! (thus bellow' d he) ; oh me ! what great 
 Portents before mine eyes their powers ad- 
 vance ? 
 And serve my purer sight, only to beat 
 Down my proud thought, and leave it in a 
 
 trance ? 
 Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat ? 
 And the gay stars lead on their golden dance ; 
 Can his attempts above still prosperous be^ 
 Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me ? 
 
 He has my Heaven (what would he more?) 
 
 whose bright 
 And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear. 
 And for the never-fading fields of light. 
 My fair inheritance, he confines me here 
 To this dark house of shades, horror, and 
 
 night, 
 To draw a long-lived death, where all my 
 
 cheer 
 Is the solemnity my sorrow wears. 
 That mankind's torment waits upon my 
 
 tears. 
 
 Dark dusky man, he needs would single forth, 
 To make the partner of his own pure ray : 
 And should we powers of Heaven, spirits of 
 
 worth, 
 Bow our bright heads before a king of clay ? 
 It shall not be, said I ; and clomb the north, 
 Where never wing of angel yet made way. 
 
 What though I miss'd my blow ? yet I 
 struck high, 
 
 And to dare something, is some victory. 
 
 Is he not satisfied ? means he to wrest 
 Hell from me too, and sack my territories ? 
 VUe human nature, means he not t' invest 
 (O my despite !) with his divinest glories ? 
 And rising with rich spoils upon his breast. 
 With his fair triumphs fill all future stories ? 
 
 Must the bright arms of heaven rebuke these 
 eyes? 
 
 Mock me, and dazzle my dark mysteries ? 
 
 Art thou not Lucifer ? he to whom the droves 
 Of stars that gild the mom in charge were 
 
 given? 
 The nimblest of the lightning- winged loves ? 
 The fairest, and the first born smile of 
 
 Heaven ? 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS. 
 
 fRlCHAED CeASHAW. 
 
 Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves, 
 Rev'rently circled by the lesser seven ; 
 
 Such and so rich, the flames that from 
 thine eyes 
 
 Oppress'd the common people of the skies. 
 
 Ah, wretch ! what boots thee to cast back thy 
 
 eyes 
 Where dawning hope no beam of comfort 
 
 shows ? 
 While the reflection of thy forepast joys 
 Renders thee double to thy present woes. 
 Rather make up to thy new miseries, 
 And meet the mischief that upon thee grows. 
 If hell must mourn, heaven sure shall sym- 
 pathise. 
 What force cannot effect, fraud shall de- 
 vise. 
 
 And yet whose force fear I ? have I so lost 
 Myself ? my strength too with my innocence ? 
 Come, try who dares, heaven, earth, whate'er 
 
 dost boast 
 A borrow' d being, make thy bold defence. 
 Come thy Creator too, what though it cost 
 Me yet a second fall ? we'd try our strengths. 
 Heavens saw us struggle once : as brave a 
 
 fight 
 Earth now shall see, and tremble at the 
 sight. 
 
 Richard Crasliaw. — About 1640. 
 
 298.— HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS. 
 
 I sing the Name which none can say. 
 But touch' d with an interior ray ; 
 The name of our new peace ; our good ; 
 Our bliss, and supernatural blood ; 
 The name of all our lives and loves : 
 Hearken and help, ye holy doves ! 
 The high-born brood of day ; you bright 
 Candidates of blissful light. 
 The heirs elect of love ; whose names belong 
 Unto the everlasting life of song ; 
 All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast 
 Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest. 
 Awake, my glory ! soul (if such thou be. 
 And that fair word at all refer to thee), 
 Awake and sing, 
 And be all wing ! 
 Bring hither thy whole self ; and let me see 
 What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee. 
 thou art poor 
 Of noble powers, I see. 
 And full of nothing else but empty me ; 
 Narrow and low, and infinitely less 
 Than this great morning's mighty business. 
 One little world or two, 
 Alas ! will never do ; 
 We must have store ; 
 Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more ; 
 
 Go and request 
 Great Nature for the key of her huge chest 
 Of heav'ns, the seK-involving set of spheres. 
 Which dull mortality more feels than heajs ; 
 Then rouse the nest 
 
 Of nimble art, and traverse round 
 
 The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound : 
 
 And beat a summons in the same 
 All- sovereign name, 
 
 To warn each several kind 
 
 And shape of sweetness — be they such 
 
 As sigh with supple wind ~ ~ 
 Or answer artful touch- — 
 
 That they convene and come away 
 
 To wait at the love-crown'd doors of that 
 illustrious day 
 
 Come, lovely name ! Hfe of our hope ! • 
 
 Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope ! 
 Unlock thy cabinet of day. 
 Dearest sweet, and come away. 
 
 Lo, how the thirsty lands 
 Gasp for thy golden show'rs, with long- 
 stretch' d hands ! 
 
 Lo, how the labouring earth, 
 
 That hopes to be 
 
 AU heaven by thee. 
 
 Leaps at thy birth ! 
 The attending world, to wait thy rise, 
 
 First turn'd to eyes ; 
 And then, not knowing what to do, 
 Turn'd them to tears, and spent them too. 
 Come, royal name ! and pay the expense 
 Of all this precious patience : 
 
 Oh, come away 
 And kill the death of this delay. 
 Oh see, so many worlds of barren years 
 Melted and measur'd out in seas of tears ! 
 Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope 
 (Love's eastern vdndows) all wide ope 
 
 W7th curtains drawn. 
 To catch the daybreak of thy dawn ! 
 Oh, dawn at last, long-look'd for day ! 
 Take thine own wings and come away. 
 Lo, where aloft it comes? ! It comes, among 
 The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng 
 Like diligent bees, and swarm about it. 
 
 Oh, they are wise. 
 And know what sweets are suck'd from but it. 
 
 It is the hive 
 
 By which they thrive. 
 Where aU their hoard of honey lies. 
 Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's 
 Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves. 
 Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day ! 
 Unfold thy fair conceptions ; and display 
 The birth of our bright joys. 
 
 Oh, thou compacted 
 Body of blessings ! spirit of souls extracted ! 
 Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers. 
 Cloud of condensed sweets ! and break upon us 
 
 In balmy showers ! 
 Oh, fill our senses, and take from us 
 All force of so profane a fallacy. 
 To think aught sweet but that which smells 
 
 of thee. 
 Fair flow'ry name ! in none but thee. 
 And thy nectareal fragrancy. 
 
 Hourly there meets 
 An universal synod of aU sweets ; , o# 
 
ElCHABD CrASHAW.J 
 
 SFDDEN CHANGE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 By whom it is defined thus — 
 
 That no perfume 
 
 For ever shall presume 
 To pass for odoriferous, 
 But such alone whose sacred pedigree 
 Can prove itself some kin, sweet name ! to thee. 
 Sweet name ! in thy each syllable, 
 A thousand blest Arabias dwell ; 
 A thousand hills of frankincense ; 
 Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices, 
 And ten thousand paradises, 
 The soul that tastes thee takes from thence. 
 How many unknown worlds there are 
 Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping ! 
 How many thousand mercies there 
 In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping ! 
 Happy he who has the art 
 
 To awake them. 
 
 And to take them 
 Home, and lodge them in his heart. 
 Oh, that it were as it was wont to be. 
 When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee, 
 Fought against frowns with smiles ; gave 
 
 glorious chase" 
 To persecutions ; and against the face 
 Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave 
 And sober pace march on to meet a grave. 
 On their bold breasts about the world they 
 
 bore thee. 
 And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee ; 
 In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee, 
 Where racks and torments striv'd in vain to 
 reach thee. 
 
 Little, alas ! thought they 
 Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends, 
 
 Their fury but made way 
 For thee, and serv'd them in thy glorious ends. 
 What did their weapons, but with wider pores 
 Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers. 
 
 More freely to transpire 
 
 That impatient fire 
 The heart that hides thee hardly covers ? 
 What did their weapons, but set wide the doors 
 For thee ? fair purple doors, of love's devising; 
 The ruby windows which enrich' d the east 
 Of thy so oft-repeated rising. 
 Each wound of theirs was thy new morning. 
 And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest, 
 With blush of thine own blood thy day 
 
 adorning : 
 It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds 
 Of wrath, and made the way through all these 
 
 wounds. 
 Welcome, dear, all-adored name ! 
 
 For sure there is no knee 
 
 That knows not thee ; 
 Or if there be such sons of shame, 
 
 Alas ! what wUl they do, 
 When stubborn rocks shall bow. 
 And lulls hang dovm their heav'n-saluting 
 heads 
 
 To seek for humble beds 
 Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night. 
 Next to their own low nothing they may lie, 
 And couch before the dazzling light of thy 
 dread Majesty. 
 
 They that by love's mild dictate now 
 
 Will not adore thee. 
 Shall then, with just confusion, bow 
 
 And break before thee. 
 
 Richard Crashaw. — About 1640. 
 
 299.— SUDDEN CHANGE. 
 
 I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud 
 
 Of a ruddy rose, that stood, 
 
 Blushing to behold the ray 
 
 Of the new-saluted day ; 
 
 His tender top not fully spread ; 
 
 The sweet dash of a shower new shed, 
 
 Invited him no more to hide 
 
 Within himself the purple pride 
 
 Of his forward flower, when lo. 
 
 While he sweetly 'gan to show 
 
 His swelling glories, Auster spied him ; 
 
 Cruel Auster thither hied him, 
 
 And with the rush of one rude blast 
 
 Sham'd not spitefully to waste 
 
 All his leaves so fresh and sweet. 
 
 And lay them trembling at his feet. 
 
 I've seen the morning's lovely ray 
 
 Hover o'er the new-born day. 
 
 With rosy wings, so richly bright. 
 
 As if he scorn' d to think of night. 
 
 When a ruddy storm, whose scowl 
 
 Made Heaven's radiant face look foul, 
 
 Call'd for an untimely night 
 
 To blot the newly-blossom'd light. 
 
 Bicltayrd CrasJmw. — About 1640. 
 
 300.— MUSIC'S DUEL. 
 
 Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams 
 Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the 
 
 streams 
 Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, 
 Under protection of an oak, there sat 
 A sweet lute's master ; in whose gentle airs 
 He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. 
 Close in the covert of the leaves there stood 
 A nightingale, come from the neighbouring 
 
 wood 
 (The sweet inliabitant of each glad tree. 
 Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she) : 
 There stood she list'ning, and did entertain 
 The music's soft report : and mould the same 
 In her own murmurs ; that whatever mood 
 His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. 
 The man perceiv'd his rival, and her art, 
 Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport. 
 Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to coino 
 Informs it in a sweet praeludium 
 Of closer strains, and e'er the war begin. 
 He lightly skirmishes on every string 
 Charged with a flying touch ; and straightway 
 
 she 
 Carves out her dainty voice as readily. 
 Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones. 
 And reckons up in soft divisions 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 MUSIC'S DUEL. 
 
 [ElCHARD CrASHAW. 
 
 Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know, 
 JBy that shrill taste, she could do something too. 
 
 His nimble hand's instinct then taught each 
 string 
 A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing 
 To their own dance ; now neghgently rash 
 He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash 
 Blends all together ; then distinctly trips 
 From this to that, then quick returning, skips 
 And snatches this again, and pauses there. 
 She measures every measure, everywhere 
 Meets art with art ; sometimes, as if in doubt 
 Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, 
 Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, 
 Through the sleek passage of her open throat, 
 A clear un wrinkled song; then doth she point it 
 With tender accents, and severely joint it 
 By short diminutives, that, being rear'd 
 In controverting warbles, evenly shar'd, 
 With her sweet seK she wrangles ; he amaz'd, 
 That from so small a channel should be rais'd 
 The torrent of a voice, whose melody 
 Could melt into such sweet variety, 
 Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, 
 The tattling strings, each breathing in his part, 
 Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling base 
 In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ; 
 The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and 
 
 chides, 
 Untn his finger (moderator) hides 
 And closes the sweet quan-el, rousing all 
 Hoarse, shrill at once ; as when the trumpets 
 
 caU 
 Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and 
 
 woo 
 Men's nearts into their hands : this lesson too 
 She gives them back : her supple breast thrills 
 
 out 
 Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt 
 Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, 
 And folds in wav'd notes, with a trembling bill. 
 The pliant series of her slippery song ; 
 Then starts she suddenly into a throng 
 Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys 
 
 float, 
 And roll themselves over her lubric throat 
 In panting murmurs, still'd out of her breast; 
 That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar' d nest 
 Of her delicious soul, that there does lie 
 Bathing in streams of liquid melody ; 
 Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripen'd airs 
 A golden-headed harvest fairly rears 
 His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her 
 
 breath 
 Which there reciprocally laboureth. 
 In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire. 
 Sounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ; 
 Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly 
 
 notes 
 Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swiU their 
 
 throats 
 In cream of morning Helicon, and then 
 Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men. 
 To woo them from their beds, still murmuring 
 That men can sleep while they their matins 
 
 sing 
 
 (Most divine service) : whose so early lay 
 Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. 
 There might you hear her kindle her soft voice, 
 In the close murmur of a sparkling noise ; 
 And lay the ground- work of her hopeful song, 
 Still keeping in the forward stream so long, 
 Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get oat) 
 Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about. 
 And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast. 
 Till the fledged notes at length forsake their 
 
 nest. 
 Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, 
 Wing' d with their OAvn wild echoes, prattHngfly. 
 She opes the flood-gate, and lets loose a tide 
 Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth 
 
 ride 
 On the wav'd back of every swelling strain, 
 Eising and falling in a pompous train, 
 And while she thus discharges a shrill peal 
 Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal 
 With the cool epode of a graver note ; 
 Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat 
 Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse 
 
 bird; 
 Her little soul is ravish'd, and so pour'd 
 Into loose ecstacies, that she is plac'd 
 Above herself, music's enthusiast. 
 
 Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain 
 In the musician's face : " yet, once again. 
 Mistress, I come : now reach a strain, my lute. 
 Above her mock, or be for ever mute. 
 Or tune a song of victory to me, 
 Or to thyself sing thine own obsequ5^" 
 So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings. 
 And with a quavering coyness tastes the 
 
 strings : 
 The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted. 
 Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted : 
 Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs 
 Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs 
 Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre. 
 Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self 
 
 look higher ; 
 From this to that, from that to this he flies. 
 Feels music's pulse in all her arteries ; 
 Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, 
 His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, 
 Following those little rills, he sinks into 
 A sea of Helicon ; his hand does go 
 Those parts of sweetness which with nectar 
 
 drop. 
 Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup : 
 The humorous strings expound his learned 
 
 touch 
 By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch, 
 And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle 
 In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single; 
 Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke 
 Gives life to some new grace ; thus doth he 
 
 invoke 
 Sweetness by aU her names : thus, bravely thus 
 (Fraught with a fury so harmonious) 
 The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, 
 Heav'd on the surges of SAvoll'n rhapsodies ; 
 Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air 
 With flash of high-born fancies, here and there 
 
ElCHARD CrASHAW.] 
 
 MAEK XII. 17. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 Dancing in lofty measures, and anon 
 Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, 
 Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wildairs, 
 Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares ; 
 Because those precious mj^steries that dwell 
 In music's ravish' d soul he dare not tell, 
 But whisper to the world : thus do they vary, 
 Each string his note, as if they meant to carry 
 Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his 
 
 ears 
 By a strong ecstacy) through all the spheres 
 Of music's heaven ; and seat it there on high, 
 In th' empyreum of pure harmony. 
 At length (after so long, so loud a strife 
 Of all the strings, still breathing the best life 
 Of blest variety, attending on 
 His fingers' fairest revolution. 
 In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) 
 A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all. 
 
 This done, he lists what she would say to 
 this ; 
 And she, although her breath's late exercise 
 Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat. 
 Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. 
 Alas ! in vain ! for while (sweet soul) she tries 
 To measure all those wide diversities 
 Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one 
 Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone ; 
 She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies : 
 She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize, 
 Falling upon his lute : Oh fit to have 
 (That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave ! 
 
 Richa/rd Crashaw. — About 1640. 
 
 301.— MAEK XII. 17. 
 
 All we have is God's, and yet 
 CaBsar challenges a debt. 
 Nor hath God a thinner share, 
 "Whatever Caasar's payments are. 
 All is God's, and yet 'tis true 
 All we have is Caesar's too ; 
 All is Cajsar's, and, what odds, 
 So long as Cesar's self is God's ? 
 
 Richard Crashavj. — About 1640. 
 
 302.— SUNDAY. 
 
 O day most calm, most bright. 
 The fruit of this the next world's bud, 
 The indorsement of supreme delight, 
 Writ by a Friend, and with his blood ; 
 The couch of time, care's balm and bay ; 
 The week were dark, but for thy light j 
 
 Thy torch doth show the way. 
 
 The other days and thou 
 Make up one man ; whose face thou art, 
 Knocking at heaven with thy brow : 
 The workydays are the back-part ; 
 The burden of the week lies there, 
 Making the whole to stoop and bow, 
 
 Till thy release appear. 
 
 Man had straight forward gone 
 To endless death : bat thou dost pull 
 And turn us round, to look on one. 
 Whom, if we were not very dull. 
 We could not choose but look on still ; 
 Since there is no place so alone, 
 
 The which he doth not fill. 
 
 Sundays the pillars are. 
 On which heaven's palace arched lies : 
 The other days fill up the spare 
 And hollow room with vanities. 
 They are the fruitful beds and borders 
 In God's rich garden : that is bare, 
 
 Which parts their ranks and orders. 
 
 The Sundays of man's life. 
 Threaded together on Time's string. 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the eternal glorious King. 
 On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; 
 Blessings are plentiful and rife — 
 
 More plentiful than hope. 
 
 This day my Saviour rose, 
 And did enclose this light for his ; 
 That, as each beast his manger knows, 
 Man might not of his fodder miss. 
 Christ hath took in this piece of ground, 
 And made a garden there for those 
 
 Who want herbs for their wound. 
 
 The rest of our creation 
 Our great Eedeemer did remove 
 With the same shake, which at his passion 
 Did the earth and all things with it move. 
 As Sampson bore the doors away, 
 Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our 
 salvation. 
 
 And did unhinge that day. 
 
 The brightness of that day 
 We sullied by our foul offence : 
 Wherefore that robe we cast away, 
 Having a new at his expense. 
 Whose drops of blood paid the full price, 
 That was required to make us gay, 
 
 And fit for paradise. 
 
 Thou art a day of mirth : 
 And where the week-days trail on ground, 
 Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : 
 O let me take thee at the bound. 
 Leaping with thee from seven to seven. 
 Till that we both, being toss'd from earth. 
 
 Fly hand in hand to heaven ! 
 
 George Herbert. — About 1630. 
 
 303.— VISTUE. 
 
 Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
 
 The dews shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 
 For thou must die. 
 Sweet rose ! v/hose hue, angry and bravo, 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in its grave ; 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
Front 1558 io 1649.] 
 
 COMPLAININa. 
 
 [G-EORGE Herbert. 
 
 Sweet spring ! full of sweet days and roses ; 
 A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
 Thy music shows ye have your closes ; 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
 Like season' d timber never gives ; 
 But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 George Hcrhert— About 1630. 
 
 304.— THE FLO WEE. 
 
 How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
 Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in 
 spring — 
 To which, besides their own demean, 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure 
 bring. 
 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in May, 
 As if there were no such cold thing. 
 
 Who would have thought my shrivell'd 
 heart 
 Could have recover'd greenness ? It was gone 
 
 Quite under ground ; as flow'rs depart 
 To see their mother-root when they have 
 blown, 
 
 Where they together. 
 All the hard weather. 
 Dead to the world, keep house, unknown. 
 
 These are Thy wonders, Lord of power : 
 Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell 
 
 And up to heaven in an hour : 
 Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
 We say amiss. 
 This or that is, — 
 Thy word is all, if wo could spell. 
 
 that I once past changing were, 
 
 Fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can 
 wither ! 
 Many a spring I shoot up fair. 
 Off 'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning 
 thither ; 
 
 Nor doth my flower 
 Want a spring shower, 
 My sins and I joining together. 
 
 But, while I grow in a straight Line, 
 Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine 
 own. 
 Thy anger comes, and I decline ; 
 What frost to that ? What pole is not the 
 zone 
 
 Where all things bum. 
 When Thou dost turn, 
 And the least frown of Thine is shown. 
 
 And now in age I bud again. 
 After so many deaths I live and write ; 
 
 1 once more smell the dew and rain. 
 And relish versing ; 0, my only Light, 
 
 It cannot be 
 That I am he 
 On whom Thy tempests fell all night ! 
 
 These are Thy wonders. Lord of love. 
 
 To make us see we are but flowers that 
 glide ; 
 Which when we once can find and prove. 
 Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 
 Who would be more, 
 
 Swelling through store, 
 
 Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 
 
 George Eerbert. — About 1630. 
 
 305.— THE ODOUE. 
 
 How sweetly doth My Master sound ! — My 
 Master ! 
 As ambergris leaves a rich scent 
 
 Unto the taster. 
 So do these words a sweet content 
 An Oriental fragrancy — My Master ! 
 
 With these all day I do perfume my mind, 
 My mind even thrust into them both — 
 
 That I might find 
 What cordials make this curious broth, 
 This broth of smells, that feeds and fata my 
 mind. 
 
 My Master, shall I speak ? that to Thee 
 My servant were a little so 
 As flesh may be ! 
 That these two words might creep and 
 grow 
 To some degree of spiciness to Thee ! 
 
 Then should the pomander, which was before 
 A speaking sweet, mend by reflection, 
 
 And tell me more ; 
 For pardon of my imperfection 
 
 Would warm and work it sweeter than before. 
 
 For when My Master, which alone is sweet. 
 And, e'en in my un worthiness pleasing, 
 
 Shall call and meet 
 My servant, as Thee not displeasing. 
 
 That call is but the breathing of the sweet. 
 
 This breathing would with gains, by sweet 'ning 
 me, 
 (As sweet things traffic when they meet) 
 
 Eetum to Thee ; 
 And so this new commerce and sweet 
 Should all my life employ, and busy me. 
 
 George Herbert. — About 1630. 
 
 306.— COMPLAINING. 
 Do not beguile my heart, 
 Because thou art 
 My power and wisdom ! Put me not to 
 shame. 
 
 Because I am 
 Thy clay that weeps. Thy dust that calls ! 
 
 Thou art the Lord of Glory — 
 
 The deed and story 
 Are both Thy due ; but I a sUly fly. 
 
 That live or die, 
 According as the weather falls. 
 
Geobqe Herbert,] 
 
 EASTEE. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Art Thou all justice, Lord ? 
 
 Shows not Thy word 
 More attributes ? Am I all throat or eye, 
 
 To weep or cry ? 
 Have I no parts but those of grief ? 
 
 Let not Thy wrathful power 
 Afflict my hour, 
 My inch of Mfe ; or let Thy gracious power 
 
 Contract my hour, 
 That I may climb and find relief. 
 
 George Herbert. — About 1630. 
 
 307.— EASTEE. 
 
 Eise, Heart ! thy Lord is risen. Sing His 
 praise 
 
 Without delays 
 Who takes thee by the hand, that thou like- 
 
 With Him may'st rise — 
 That, as His death calcined thee to dust, 
 His life may make thee gold, and much more 
 just. 
 
 Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 
 
 With aU thy art I 
 The cross taught all wood to resound His 
 name 
 
 Who bore the same ; 
 His stretched sinews taught all strings what 
 
 key 
 Is best to celebrate this most high day. 
 
 Consort both harp and lute, and twist a song 
 
 Pleasant and long ! 
 Or, since all music is but three parts vied 
 
 And multiplied, 
 
 let thy blessed Spirit bear a part. 
 
 And make up our defects with His sweet art. 
 
 1 got me flowers to strew the way, 
 I got me boughs off many a tree ; 
 But thou wast up by break of day. 
 
 And brought' st thy sweets along with thee. 
 
 The Sun arising in the east. 
 
 Though he give light, and th' east perfume, 
 
 If they should offer to contest 
 
 With thy arising, they presume. 
 
 Can there be any day but this, 
 Though many Suns to shine endeavour ? 
 We count three hundred, but we miss — 
 There is but one, and that one ever. 
 
 George Herbert. — About 1630. 
 
 308.— THE CALL. 
 
 Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life 
 Such a Way as gives us breath ; 
 
 Such a Truth as ends all strife ; 
 Such a Life as killeth death. 
 
 Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength ! 
 
 Such a Light as shows a feast ; 
 Such a Feast as mends in length ; 
 
 Such a Strength as makes His guest. 
 
 Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart ! 
 
 Such a Joy as none can move ; 
 Such a Love as none can part ; 
 
 Such a Heart as joys in love. 
 
 George Herbert. — Aboiit 1630. 
 
 309. — :mais. 
 
 My God, I heard this day 
 That none doth build a stately habitation 
 But he that means to dwell therein. 
 What house more stately hath there been, 
 Or can be, than is man, to whose creation 
 
 All things are in decay ? 
 
 For man is ev'rything. 
 And more : he is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 
 A beast, yet is, or should be, more — 
 Eeason and speech we only bring. 
 Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute — 
 
 They go upon the score. 
 
 Man is aU symmetric — 
 Full of proportions, one limb to another, 
 And aU to all the world besides. 
 Each part may call the farthest brother ; 
 For head with foot hath private amitie, 
 
 And both with moons and tides. 
 
 Nothing hath got so farre 
 But man hath caught and kept it as his prey^ 
 His eyes dismount the highest starre ; 
 He is in little all the sphere. 
 Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
 
 Finde their acquaintance there. 
 
 For us the winds do blow, 
 The earth doth rest, heaven move, and 
 
 fountains flow. 
 Nothing we see but means our good. 
 As our delight, or as our treasure ; 
 The whole is either our cupboard of food 
 Or cabinet of pleasure. 
 
 The starres have us to bed — 
 Night draws the curtain, which the sunne 
 
 withdraws. 
 Musick and light attend our head ; 
 All things unto our flesh are kinde 
 In their descent and being — to our minde 
 In their ascent and cause. 
 
 Each thing is f uU of dutie : 
 Waters united are our navigation — 
 Distinguished, our habitation ; 
 Below, our drink — above, our meat ; 
 Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such 
 beautie ? 
 
 Then how are all things neat ? 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] THE SOECEEEES OF VAIN DELIGHTS. 
 
 [Giles Fletcher. 
 
 More servants wait on man 
 Than he'll take notice of. In ev'ry path 
 He treads down that which doth befriend 
 
 him 
 When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. 
 O mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 
 Another to attend him. 
 
 Since then, my God, Thou hast 
 So brave a palace built, O dwell in it, 
 That it may dwell with Thee at last ! 
 Till then afford us so much wit 
 That, as the world serves us, we may serve 
 Thee, 
 
 And both Thy servants be. 
 
 George Herbert. — About 1630. 
 
 310.— THE EAIKBOW. 
 
 High in the airy element there hung 
 Another cloudy sea, that did disdain, 
 As though his purer waves from heaven 
 
 sprung. 
 To crawl on earth, as doth the sluggish main : 
 But it the earth would water vnth. his rain, 
 That ebb'd and flow'd as wind and season 
 
 would ; 
 And oft the sun would cleave the limber mould 
 To alabaster rocks, that in the liquid roU'd. 
 
 Beneath those sunny banks a darker cloud, 
 Dropping with thicker dew, did melt apace, 
 And bent itseK into a hollow shroud, 
 On which, if Mercy did but cast her face, 
 A thousand colours did the bow enchase, 
 That wonder was to see the silk distain'd 
 "With the resplendence from her beauty gain'd. 
 And Iris paint her locks with beams so lively 
 feign' d. 
 
 About her head a cypress heaven she wore, 
 Spread like a veil, upheld with silver wire, 
 In which the stars so burnt in golden ore. 
 As seem'd the azure web was all on fire : 
 But hastily, to quench their sparkling ire, 
 A flood of milk came rolling up the shore. 
 That on his curded wave swift Argus wore. 
 And the immortal swan, that did her life 
 deplore. 
 
 Yet strange it was so many stars to see. 
 Without a sun to give their tapers light ; 
 Yet strange it was not that it so should bo ; 
 For, where the sun centres himself by right, 
 Her face and locks did flame, that at the sight 
 The heavenly veil, that else should nimbly 
 
 move, 
 Forgot his flight, and all incensed with love. 
 With wonder and amazement, did her beauty 
 
 prove. 
 
 Over her hung a canopy of state. 
 Not of rich tissue nor of spangled gold, 
 But of a substance, though not animate, 
 Yet of a heavenly and spiritual mould. 
 That only eyes of spirits might behold : 
 Such light as from main rocks of diamond, 
 
 Shooting their sparks at Phoebus, would re- 
 bound, 
 
 And little angels, holding hands, danced all 
 around. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. — About 1610. 
 
 311.- 
 
 -THE SOECEEEES OF VAIN 
 DELIGHTS. 
 
 Here did Presumption her pavilion spread 
 Over the temple, the bright stars among, 
 (Ah, that her foot should trample on the head 
 Of that most reverend place !) and a lewd throng 
 Of wanton boys sung her a pleasant song 
 Of love, long life, of mercy, and of grace, 
 And every one her dearly did embrace, 
 
 And she herself enamour' d was of her own face, 
 
 • 
 A painted face, belied with vermeyl store. 
 Which light Euelpis every day did trim. 
 That in one hand a gilded anchor wore, 
 Not fixed on the rock, but on the brim 
 Of the wide air, she let it loosely swim ! 
 Her other hand a sprinkle carried. 
 And ever when her lady wavered. 
 Court holy- water all upon her sprinkled. 
 
 Poor fool! she thought herself in wondrous 
 
 price 
 With God, as if in Paradise she were : 
 But, were she not in a fool's paradise. 
 She might have seen more reason to despair : 
 But him she, like some ghastly fiend, did fear. 
 
 And therefore as that wretch hew'd out his 
 ceU 
 
 Under the bowels, in the heart of HeU ; 
 So she above the Moon, amid the stars would 
 
 dweU. 
 
 Her tent with sunny clouds was ciel'd alcft. 
 And so exceeding shone with a false light. 
 That Heav'n itseK to her it seemed oft, 
 Heav'n without clouds to her deluded sight ; 
 But clouds withouten Heav'n it was aright : 
 And as her house was buUt, so did her brain 
 Build castles in the a^r, with idle pain. 
 But heart she never had in all her body vain. 
 
 Like as a ship, in which no balance lies. 
 Without a pUot on the sleeping waves. 
 Fairly along with wind and water flies. 
 And painted masts with silken sails embraves. 
 That Neptune's self the bragging vessel saves, 
 
 To laugh a while at her so proud array ; 
 
 Her waving streamers loosely she lets play. 
 And flagging colours shine as bright as smiling 
 
 day: 
 
 But all so soon as Heav'n his brows doth bend. 
 She veils her banners, and pulls in her beams, 
 The empty bark the raging billows send 
 Up to th' Olympic waves, and Argus seems 
 Again to ride upon our lower streams : 
 Eight so Presumption did herself behave. 
 Tossed about with every stormy wave, 
 And in white lawn she went, most like an angel 
 brave. 
 
Giles Fletcher.] THE SOECEEEES OF VAIN DELIGHTS. [Third Period. 
 
 Gently our Saviour she began to shriv e, 
 Whether he were the Son of God, or no ; 
 For any other she disdain' d to -wife : 
 And if he were, she bid him fearless throw 
 Himself to ground ; and therewithal did show 
 A flight of little angels, that did wait 
 Upon their glittering Avings, to latch him 
 straight ; 
 And longed on their backs to feel his glorious 
 weight. 
 
 But when she saw her speech prevailed nought, 
 Herself she tumbled headlong to the floor : 
 But him the angels on their feathers caught, 
 And to an airy mountain nimbly bore, 
 ''^Tiose snowy shoulders, like some chalky 
 shore, 
 Eestless Olympus seem'd to rest upon 
 With aU his swimming- globes : so both are 
 gone 
 The Dragon with the Lamb. Ah, unmeet 
 paragon ! 
 
 All suddenly the hill his snow devours. 
 In lieu whereof a goodly garden grew. 
 As if the snow had melted into flow'rs, . 
 Which their sweet breath in subtle vapours 
 
 threw : 
 That all about perfumed spirits flew. 
 
 For whatsoever might aggrate the sense, 
 In all the world, or please the appetence. 
 Here it was poured out in lavish afiluence. 
 
 Not lovely Ida might with this compare, 
 Though many streams his banks besilvered, 
 Though Xanthus with his golden sands he bare : 
 Nor Hybla, though his thyme depastured. 
 As fast again with honey blossomed : 
 No Ehodope, no Tempe's flow'ry plain : 
 Adonis' garden Avas to this but vain, 
 Though Plato on his beds a flood of praise 
 
 did rain. 
 For in all these some one thing most did grow, 
 But in this one grew all things else beside ; 
 For sweet Variety herself did throw 
 To every bank, here all the ground she dide 
 In lily white, there pinks eblazed white. 
 
 And damask all the earth; and here she shed 
 Blue violets, and there came roses red : 
 And every sight the yielding sense as captive 
 led. 
 
 The garden like a lady fair was cut. 
 That lay as if she slumber' d in delight, 
 And to the open skies her eyes did shut ; 
 The azure fields of Heav'n were 'sembled right 
 In a large round, set with the flow'rs of light : 
 • The flow'rs-de-luce, and the round sparks of 
 dew. 
 That hung upon their azure leaves, did show 
 Like twinkling stars, that sparkle in the 
 evening blue. 
 
 Upon a hniy bank her head she cast, 
 On which the bower of Vain-delight was bmlt. 
 White and red roses for her face were plac't. 
 And for her tresses marigolds were spilt : 
 Them broadly she displayed, like flaming gilt, 
 
 Till in the ocean the glad day were drown' d : 
 Then up again her yellow locks she wound, 
 And with green fillets in their pretty cauls 
 them bound. 
 
 What should I here depaint her lily hand. 
 Her veins of violets, her ermine breast. 
 Which there in orient colours living stand : 
 Or how her gown with silken leaves is drest. 
 Or how her watchman, arm'd vdih boughy 
 crest, 
 A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears, 
 Shaking at every wind their leavy spears. 
 While she supinely sleeps ne to be waked fears ? 
 
 Over the hedge depends the graping elm. 
 Whose greener head, empurpuled in wine. 
 Seemed to wonder at his bloody helm. 
 And half suspect the bunches of the vine, 
 Lest they, perhaps, his wit should undermine. 
 For well he knew such fruit he never bore : 
 But her weak arms embraced him the more. 
 And her with ruby grapes laugh' d at her 
 paramour. 
 
 Under the shadow of these drunken elms 
 A fountain rose, where Pangloretta uses 
 (When her some flood of fancy overwhelms, 
 And one of all her faA'Ourites she chooses) 
 To bathe herself, whom she in lust abuses. 
 And from his wanton body sucks his soul. 
 Which, dro■v^^l'd in pleasure in that shallow 
 bowl. 
 And swimming in delight, doth amorously roll. 
 
 The font of silver was, and so his showers 
 In silver fell, only the gilded bowls 
 (Like to a furnace, that the min'ral powers) 
 Seem'd to have mol't it in their shining holes : 
 And on the v/ater, like to burning coals. 
 On liquid silver leaves of roses lay : 
 But when Panglory here did list to play, 
 Eose- water then it ran, and milk it rain'd, 
 they say. 
 
 The roof thick clouds did paint, from which 
 
 three boys 
 Three gaping mermaids with their ewers did 
 
 feed. 
 Whose breasts let fall the streams, with sleepy 
 
 noise. 
 To lions' mouths, from whence it leapt with 
 
 And in the rosy laver seem'd to bleed. 
 The naked boys unto the water's fall. 
 Their stony nightingales had taught to call, 
 
 When Zephyr breath' d into their wat'ry in- 
 terail. 
 
 And all about, embayed in soft sleep, 
 A herd of charmed beasts a-ground were spread. 
 Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep. 
 And them in willing bondage fettered : 
 Once men they liv'd, but now the men were 
 dead. 
 And turn'd to beasts, so fabled Homer old. 
 That Circe with her potion, charm' d in gold, 
 Us'd manly souls in beastly bodies to immould. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] THE SORCERERS OF VAIN DELIGHTS. 
 
 [Giles Fletcher. 
 
 Through this false Eden, to his leman's bow'r, 
 (Whom thousand souls devoutly idolize) 
 Oxir first destroyer led our Saviour ; 
 There in the lower room, in solemn wise, 
 They danc'd a round, and pour'd their sacrifice 
 To plump Lyseus, and among the rest, 
 The jolly priest, in ivy garlands drest. 
 Chanted wild orgials, in honour of the feast. 
 
 Others within their arbours s-vvilling sat, 
 (For all the room about was arboured) 
 With laughing Bacchus, that was grown so fat, 
 That stand he could not, but was carried, 
 And every evening freshly watered. 
 
 To quench his fiery cheeks, and all about 
 Small cocks broke through the wall, and 
 sallied out 
 Flaggons of wine, to set on fire that spuing 
 rout. 
 
 This their inhumed souls esteem' d their 
 
 wealths. 
 To crown the bousing can from day to night, 
 And sick to drink themselves with drinking 
 
 healths, 
 Some vomiting, all drunken with delight. 
 Hence to a loft, carv'd aU in ivory white, 
 
 They came, where whiter ladies naked went, 
 
 Melted in pleasure and soft languishment. 
 And sunk in beds of roses, amorous glances 
 
 sent. 
 
 Fly, fly, thou holy Child, that wanton room, 
 And thou, my chaster Muse, those harlots shun, 
 And with him to a higher story come. 
 Where mounts of gold and floods of silver run, 
 The while the o^vners, with their wealth un- 
 done, 
 .Starve in their store, and in their plenty pine, 
 Tumbling themselves upon their heaps of 
 mine, 
 Glutting their famish' d souls, with the deceit- 
 ful shine. 
 
 Ah ! who was he such precious berils found ? 
 How strongly Nature did her treasures hide, 
 And threw upon them mountains of thick 
 
 ground, 
 To dark their ory lustre ! but quaint Pride 
 Hath taught her sons to wound their mother's 
 side. 
 And gage the depth, to search for flaring 
 
 shells, 
 In whose bright bosom spumy Bacchus 
 swells. 
 That neither Heaven nor Earth henceforth in 
 safety dwells. 
 
 O sacred hunger of the greedy eye, 
 "Whose need hath end, but no end covetise. 
 Empty in fulness, rich in poverty. 
 That ha-vdng all things, nothing can suffice, 
 How thou befanciest the men most wise ! 
 
 The poor man would be rich, the rich man 
 great. 
 
 The great man king, the king in God's o-\vn 
 seat 
 Enthron'd, with mortal arm dares flames, and 
 
 thunder threat. 
 
 Therefore above the rest Ambition sate. 
 His court with glitterant pearl was all in wall' d, 
 And round about the wall, in chairs of state, 
 And most majestic splendour, were install'd 
 A hundred kings, whose temples were impaU'd 
 In golden diadems, set here and there 
 With diamonds, and gemmed everj^ where, 
 And of their golden virges none disceptred 
 were. 
 
 High over all, Panglory's blazing throne, 
 In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought. 
 Like Phoebus' lamp, in midst of Heaven, shone : 
 Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught, 
 Self -arching columns to uphold were taught : 
 In which her image still reflected was 
 By the smooth crystal, that, most like her 
 glass, 
 In beauty and in frailty did all others pass. 
 
 A silver wand the sorceress did sway, 
 And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore ; 
 Only a garland of rose-buds did play 
 About her locks, and in her hand she bore 
 A hollow globe of glass, that long before 
 She full of emptiness had bladdered, 
 And all the world therein depictured ; 
 Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever vanished. 
 
 Such wat'ry orbicles young boys do blow 
 Out from their soapy shells, and much admire 
 The swimming world, which tenderly they row 
 With easy breath till it be waved higher : 
 But if they chance but roughly once aspire, 
 
 The painted bubble instantly doth fall. 
 
 Here when she came, she 'gan for music call, 
 And sung this wooing song, to welcome him 
 
 withal : 
 
 " Love is the blossom where there blows 
 Every thing that lives or grows : 
 Love doth make the Heav'ns to move. 
 And the Sun doth burn in love : 
 Love the strong and weak doth yoke. 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
 Under whose shadows lions wild. 
 Soften' d by love, grow tame and mild : 
 Love no med'cine can appease, 
 He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
 Not all the skill his Avounds can stench, 
 Not all the sea his fire can quench : 
 Love did make the bloody spear 
 Once a leavy coat to wear, 
 WTiile in his leaves there shrouded lay 
 Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play: 
 And of all love's joyful flame, 
 I the bud and blossom am. 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 " See, see the flowers that below. 
 Now as fresh as morning blow, 
 And of all, the virgin rose, 
 That as bright Aurora shows : 
 How they all unleaved die, 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 Like unto a summer- shade. 
 But now born, and now they fade. 
 
Giles Fletcher.] 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Every thing doth pass away, 
 There is danger in delay : 
 Come, come, gather then the rose, 
 Gather it, or it you lose. 
 All the sand of Tagus' shore 
 Into my bosom casts his ore : 
 All the valleys' swimming corn 
 To my house is yearly borne : 
 Every grape of every vine 
 Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine : 
 While ten thousand kings, as proud, 
 To carry up my train have bow'd. 
 And a world of ladies send me 
 In my chambers to attend me. 
 All the stars in Heav'n that shine. 
 And ten thousand more are mine : 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be." 
 
 Thus sought the dire enchantress in his mind 
 Her guileful bait to have embosomed : 
 But he her charms dispersed into wind, 
 And her of insolence admonished. 
 And all her optic glasses shattered. 
 
 So with her sire to Hell she took her flight, 
 (The starting air flew from the damned 
 spright) 
 Where deeply both aggriev'd, plunged them- 
 selves in night. 
 
 But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, 
 A heavenly volley of light angels flew. 
 And from his Father him a banquet brought. 
 Through the fine element ; for well they knew. 
 After his Lenten fast, he hungry grew : 
 And as he fed, the holy quires combine 
 To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine ; 
 All thought to pass, and each was past all 
 thought divine. 
 
 The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joys, 
 Attemper' d to the lays angelical ; 
 And to the birds the winds attune their noise ; 
 And to the winds the waters hoarsely call, 
 And echo back again revoiced all ; 
 
 That the whole valley rung Avith victory. 
 
 But now our Lord to rest doth homewards 
 fly: 
 See how the night comes stealing from the 
 
 mountains high. 
 
 Giles Fletcher.— About 1610. 
 
 312.— A HYMN". 
 
 Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those 
 
 beauteous feet, 
 Which brought from heaven the news and 
 
 Prince of Peace ! 
 Cease not, wet eyes, His mercy to entreat ! 
 To cry for vengeance sin doth never cease. 
 In your deep floods drown all my faults and 
 
 fears ; 
 Nor let his eye see sin but thro' my tears. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. — Ahoxit 1610. 
 
 313.— THE DEMAND OF JUSTICE. 
 
 Upon two stony tables, spread before her,' 
 She lean'd her bosom, more than stony 
 
 hard. 
 There slept th' impartial judge, and strict 
 
 restorer 
 Of wrong, or right, with pain, or with reward. 
 There himg the score of all our debts, the 
 card 
 Where good, and bad, and life, and death, 
 
 were painted : 
 Was never heart of mortal so untainted, 
 But when that scroll was read, with thousand 
 terrors fainted. 
 
 Witness the thunder that Mount Sinai 
 
 heard. 
 When all the hill with fiery clouds did flame. 
 And wand'ring Israel with the sight afear'd. 
 Blinded with seeing, durst not touch the 
 
 same. 
 But like a wood of shaking leaves became. 
 
 On this dread Justice, she, the living law. 
 
 Bowing herself with a majestic awe. 
 All Heav'n, to hear her speech, did into 
 silence draw. 
 
 "Dread Lord of spirits, well thou didst 
 
 devise 
 To fling the world's rude dunghill and the 
 dross 
 ' Of the old chaos, farthest from the skies 
 And thine own seat, that here the child of 
 
 loss. 
 Of aU the lower heav'n the curse and cross. 
 That wretch, beast, captive, monster, 
 
 man, might spend 
 (Proud of the mire in which his soul is 
 pen'd). 
 Clodded ia lumps of clay, his weary life to end. 
 
 " His body, dust : — where grew such cause 
 
 of pride ? 
 His soul, thy image: — what could he envy? 
 Himself, most happy, if he so would bide : 
 Now grown most wretched, — who can 
 
 remedy ? 
 He slew himself, himself the enemy. 
 
 That his own soul would her own murder 
 wreak, 
 
 If I were silent, Heav'n and Earth would 
 
 And if all fail'd, these stones would into 
 clamours break. 
 
 " How many darts made furrows in his side. 
 When she, that out of his own side was 
 
 made, 
 Gave feathers to their flight ? where was 
 
 the pride 
 Of their new knowledge ? whither did it fade. 
 When, running from thy voice into the shade 
 
 He fled thy sight, himseK of light be- 
 reav'd ; 
 
 And for his shield a heavy armour weav'd. 
 With which, vain man, he thought God's eyes 
 
 to have deceiv'd ? 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE DEMAND OF JUSTICE. 
 
 [Giles Fletcher. 
 
 " And well he might delude those eyes that 
 see. 
 
 And judge by colours ; for who ever saw 
 
 A man of leaves, a reasonable tree ? 
 
 But those that from this stock their life 
 did draw, 
 
 Soon made their father godly, and by law 
 Proclaimed trees almighty : gods of wood, 
 Of stocks and stories, with crowns of 
 laurel stood, 
 Templed, and fed by fathers with their child- 
 ren's blood, 
 
 " The sparkling fanes, that bum in beaten 
 
 gold. 
 And, like the stars of Heav'n in midst of 
 
 night, 
 Black Egypt, as her mirrors, doth behold, 
 Are but the dens where idol-snakes delight 
 Again to cover Satan from their sight : 
 
 Yet these are all their gods, to whom 
 they vie 
 
 The crocodile, the cock, the rat, the fly, 
 Fit gods, indeed, for such men to be served by. 
 
 '•The fire, the wind, the sea, the Sun, and 
 
 Moon, 
 The flitting air, and the swift- winged hours. 
 And all the watchmen, that so nimbly run. 
 And sentinel about the walled towers 
 Of the world's city, in their heavenly 
 
 bowers ; 
 
 And, lest their pleasant gods should 
 want delight, 
 
 Neptune spues out the Lady Aphrodite, 
 And but in Heav'n proud Juno's peacocks 
 
 scorn to light. 
 
 " The senseless earth, the serpent, dog, and 
 
 cat ; 
 And, worse than all these, man, and worst 
 
 of men. 
 Usurping Jove, and swelling Bacchus fat, 
 And drunk vrith the vine's purple blood ; 
 
 and then 
 The fiend himself they conjure from his den. 
 
 Because he only yet remain' d to be 
 
 Worse than the worst of men ; tkey flee 
 from thee. 
 And wear his altar- stones out with their 
 
 pliant knee. 
 
 " All that he speaks (and all he speaks are 
 
 lies) 
 Are oracles ; 'tis he (that wounded all) 
 Cures all their wounds ; he (that put out 
 
 their eyes) 
 That gives them light ; he (that death first 
 
 did call 
 Into the world) that with his orisal, 
 
 Inspirits earth : he Heav'n's all-seeing 
 
 6ye, 
 He Earth's great prophet, he, v/hom rest 
 doth fly. 
 That on salt billows doth, as pillows, sleeping 
 lie. 
 
 " But let him in his cabin restless rest, 
 The dungeon of dark flames, and freezing 
 
 fire. 
 Justice in Heav'n against man makes 
 
 request 
 To God, and of his angels doth require 
 Sin's punishment : if what I did^desire, 
 
 Or who, or against whom, or why, or 
 where. 
 
 Of, or before whom ignorant I were. 
 Then should my speech their sands of sins to 
 
 mountains rear. 
 
 " Were not the Heav'ns pure, in whose 
 
 courts I sue. 
 The judge, to whom I sue, just to requite 
 
 him. 
 The cause — for sin, the punishment — most 
 
 due. 
 Justice herself — the plaintiff to endite him, 
 The angels — holy, before whom I cite him, 
 
 He — against whom, wicked, unjust, im- 
 pure ; 
 
 Then might he sinful live, and die secure, 
 Or trial might escape, or trial might endure. 
 
 "The judge might partial be, and over- 
 pray' d ; 
 The place appeal' d from, ia whose courts 
 
 he sues ; 
 The fault excus'd or punishment delay'd ; 
 The parties seK-accus'd, that did accuse ; 
 Angels for pardon might their prayers 
 use : 
 But now no star can shine, no hope be 
 
 got. 
 Most wretched creature, if he knew his 
 lot. 
 And yet more wretched far, because he knows 
 it not ! 
 
 " What should I tell how barren Earth has 
 
 grown. 
 All for to starve her children ? didst not 
 
 thou 
 Water with heav'nly show'rs her womb 
 
 unsown. 
 And drop down clods of flow'rs ? didst not 
 
 thou bow 
 Thine easy ear unto the ploughman's vow ? 
 
 Long might he look, and look, and long in 
 vain. 
 
 Might load his harvest in an empty wain^ 
 And beat the woods, to find the poor oak's 
 
 hungry grain. 
 
 " The swelling sea seethes in his angry 
 waves. 
 
 And smites the earth that dares the traitors 
 nourish ; 
 
 Yet oft his thunder their light cork out- 
 braves, 
 
 Mowing the mountains, on whose temples 
 flourish 
 
 Whole woods of garlands ; and, their pride 
 to cherish, 
 
Giles Fletcher.] 
 
 THE DEMAND OF JUSTICE. 
 
 [Third Peei dd. 
 
 Plough through the sea's green fields, and 
 
 nets display- 
 To catch the flying winds, and steal 
 
 away, 
 Coz'ningthe greedy sea, pris'ning their nimble 
 prey. 
 
 " Would not the air be fill'd with streams 
 
 of death, 
 To poison the quick rivers of their blood, 
 Did not thy winds fan, with their panting 
 
 breath. 
 The flitting region ? would not th' hasty 
 
 flood 
 Empty itself into the sea's wide wood ? 
 Did'st not thou lead it wand' ring from 
 
 his way. 
 To give men drink, and make his waters 
 stray. 
 To fresh the flow'ry meadows, through whose 
 fields they play ? 
 
 " Who makes the sources of the silver foun- 
 tains 
 From the flint's mouth, and rocky valleys 
 
 slide. 
 Thick' ning the airy bowels of the moun- 
 tains ? 
 Who hath the wild herds of the forest ty'd 
 In their cold dens, making them hungry 
 bide, 
 Till man to rest be laid ? can, beastly, he. 
 That should have most sense, only sense- 
 less be. 
 And all things else, beside himself, so aweful 
 see? 
 
 "Were he not wilder than the savage 
 
 beast, 
 Prouder than haughty hills, harder than 
 
 rocks, 
 Colder than fountains from their springs 
 
 releas'd, 
 Lighter than air, blinder than senseless 
 
 stocks. 
 More changing than the river's curling 
 locks ; 
 If reason would not, sense would soon 
 
 reprove him. 
 And unto shame, if not to sorrow move 
 him, 
 To see cold floods, wild beasts, dull stocks, 
 hard stones out-love him. 
 
 *' Under the weight of sin the earth did 
 
 fall, 
 And swallow' d Dathan, and the raging 
 
 wind. 
 And stormy sea, and gaping whale, did call 
 For Jonas : and the air did bullets find. 
 And shot from Heav'n a stony show'r to 
 grind 
 The five proud kings that for their idols 
 
 fought. 
 The Sim itself stood still to fight it out, 
 And fire from Heav'n flew down, when sin to 
 Heav'n did shout. 
 
 " Should any to himself for safety fly, 
 The way to save himself, if any were, 
 Were to fly from himself : should he rely 
 Upon the promise of his wife ? — ^but there 
 What can he see, but that he most may 
 fear, 
 A Siren, sweet to death ? upon his friends ? 
 Who that he needs, or that he hath not 
 lends ? 
 Or wanting aid himself, aid to another sends? 
 
 " His strength ? — ^but dust : his pleasure ? — 
 
 cause of pain : 
 His hope ? — false courtier : youth or beauty ? 
 
 — brittle : 
 Entreaty ? — fond : repentance ? — ^late and 
 
 vain : 
 Just recompence ? — the world were all too 
 
 Httle : 
 Thy love ? — he hath no title to a tittle : 
 
 HeU's force ? — in vain her furies Hell 
 shall gather : 
 
 His servants, kinsmen, or his children 
 rather ? — 
 His child, if good, shall judge ; if bad, shall 
 
 curse his father. 
 
 " His life ? — ^that brings him to his end, 
 
 and leaves him : 
 His end ? — that leaves liim to begin his 
 
 woe : 
 His goods ? — what good in that, that so 
 
 deceives him ? 
 His gods of wood? — their feet, alas! are 
 
 slow- 
 To go to help, that must be help'd to go : 
 
 Honour, great worth ? — ah ! little worth 
 they be 
 
 Unto their owners : wit ? — that makes 
 him see 
 He wanted wit, that thought he had it, want- 
 ing thee. 
 
 " The sea to drink him quick ? — ^that casts 
 
 his dead : 
 Angels to spare ? — they punish : night to 
 
 hide?— 
 The world shall burn in light : the Heav'ns 
 
 to spread 
 Their mngs to save him ? — Heav'n itself 
 
 shall slide. 
 And roll away like melting stars that glide 
 
 Along their oily threads : his mind pur- 
 sues him : 
 
 His house to shroud, or hills to fall, and 
 bruise him ? 
 As Serjeants both attach, and witnesses 
 
 accuse him. 
 
 " What need I urge, what they must needs 
 
 confess, 
 Sentence on them, condemn'd by their own 
 
 lust? 
 I crave no more, and thou can'st give no loss. 
 Than death to dead men, justice to unjust ; 
 Shame to most shameful, and most shame- 
 less dust : 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GEEATNESS. 
 
 [P. Fletcher. 
 
 But if thy mercy needs will spare her 
 
 friends, 
 Let mercy there begin, where justice ends. 
 'Tis cruel mercy, that the wrong from right 
 defends." 
 
 She ended, and the heav'nly hierarchies. 
 Burning in zeal, thickly imbranded were ; 
 Like to an army that alarum cries. 
 And every one shakes his ydreaded spear, 
 And the Almighty's self, as he would tear 
 The Earth, and her firm basis quite in 
 
 sunder, 
 Flam'd all in just revenge, and mighty 
 thunder : 
 Heav'n stole itself from Earth by clouds that 
 moisten' d under. 
 
 Giles Fletcher.— Ahout 1610. 
 
 3i4.~HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S 
 LIFE. 
 
 Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and 
 
 state ! 
 When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns ! 
 His cottage low and safely humble gate 
 Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and 
 
 fawns : 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
 Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep ; 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 No Syrian worms he knows, that with their 
 
 thread 
 Draw out their silken lives : nor silken pride : 
 His lambs' warm fleece weU fits his little need, 
 Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed : 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
 AVhich wait to first salute my lord's uprise ; 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs. 
 And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his 
 
 eyes : 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses ; 
 Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses ; 
 And but in music's sports all difference refuses. 
 
 His certain life, that never can deceive him. 
 Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content : 
 The smooth- leaved beeches in the field receive 
 
 him 
 With coolest shades, tiU noon-tide rage is 
 
 spent ; 
 His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease : 
 Pleas' d and full blest he lives, when he his 
 
 God can please. 
 
 His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
 WTiile by his side his faithful spouse hath 
 
 place ; 
 His little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively picture of his father's face : 
 
 Never his humble house nor state torment 
 
 him : 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent 
 
 him ; 
 And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy 
 
 tomb, content him. 
 
 PMneas Fletcher.— Mout 1633. 
 
 315.— INSTABILITY OF HUMAN 
 
 GEEATNESS. 
 Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, 
 And here long seeks v/hat here is never found ! 
 For aU onx good we hold from Heav'n by 
 
 With many forfeits and conditions bound ; 
 Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due : 
 Though now but writ and seal'd, and giv'n 
 
 anew, 
 Yet daUy we it break, then daily must renew. 
 
 Why should' st thou here look for perpetual 
 
 good. 
 At every loss against Heav'n' s face repining ? 
 Do but behold where glorious cities stood. 
 With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining ; 
 Where now the hart fearless of greyhound 
 
 feeds. 
 And loving pelican in safety breeds ; 
 Where screeching satyrs fiU the people's 
 
 empty steads. 
 
 Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide. 
 
 That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw ? 
 
 Where that great Persian bear, whose swell- 
 ing pride 
 
 The lion's seK tore out with ravenous jaw ? 
 
 Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard. 
 
 Through all the world with nimble pinicHis 
 fared. 
 
 And to his greedy whelps his conquer' d king- 
 doms shared ? 
 
 Hardly the place of such antiquity, 
 Or note of these g^eat monarchies we find : 
 Only a fading verbal memory, 
 An empty name in writ is left behind : 
 But when this second life and glory fades, 
 And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, 
 A second faU succeeds, and double death in- 
 vades. 
 
 That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's 
 
 fen, 
 Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; 
 That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den. 
 And trode down all the rest to dust and clay : 
 His battering horns puU'd out by civil hands, 
 And iron teeth lie scatter' d on the sands ; 
 Back'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads 
 
 yoked stands. 
 
 And that black Vulture, which with deathful 
 
 wing 
 O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal 
 
 sight 
 Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, 
 Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : 
 
p. Fletcher.] 
 
 TO EOSES IK THE BOSOM OF CASTAEA. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Who then shall look for happiness beneath ? 
 "Where each new day proclaims chance, change, 
 
 and death, 
 And life itself' s as flit as is the air we breathe. 
 
 Phineas Fletcher.— About 1633. 
 
 316.— TO EOSES IN THE BOSOM OF 
 CASTAEA. 
 
 Yee blushing virgins happie are 
 In the chaste nunn'ry of her brests, 
 For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire, 
 "Who ere should call them Cupid's nests. 
 
 Transplanted thus how bright yee grow, 
 How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld ? 
 In some close garden, cowslips so 
 Are sweeter than i' the open field. 
 
 In those white cloysters live secure 
 From the rude blasts of wanton breath, 
 Each houre more innocent and pure, 
 Till you shall wither into death. 
 
 Then that which living gave you roome, 
 Your glorious sepulcher shall be : 
 There wants no marble for a tombe, 
 "Whose brest hath marble beene to me. 
 
 WilUam Hahington. — J.bowi.1640. 
 
 317.— TO CASTAEA. 
 
 Softly singing to Herself. 
 
 Sing forth, sweete cherubin (for we have choice 
 Of reasons in thy beauty and thy voyce, 
 To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane) 
 Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine 
 To eccho thy sweet note, our humane eares 
 May then receive the musicke of the spheares. 
 But yet take heede, lest if the swans of Thames, 
 That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames, 
 O' th' sudden heare thy well-divided breath, 
 Should listen, and in silence welcome death : 
 And ravisht nightingales, striving too high 
 To reach thee, in the emulation dye. 
 
 And thus there will be left no bird to sing 
 Farewell to th' waters, welcome to the 
 spring. 
 
 Williamt' Hahington. — About 1640. 
 
 318.— TO CASTAEA, 
 
 Inquiring why I loved her. 
 
 "Why doth the stubbome iron prove 
 So gentle to th' magnetique stone ? 
 How know you that the orbs doe move ; 
 With musicke too ? since heard of none ? 
 And I will answer why I love. 
 'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre 
 "Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine, 
 Shooting their beauties from a farre. 
 To make each gazer's heart like thine ; 
 Our vertues often meteors are. 
 
 'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie, 
 
 "Wlien poets weepe some virgin's death. 
 
 That Cupid wantons in her eye. 
 
 Or perfumes vapour from her breath, 
 
 And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie. 
 
 Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're 
 
 So vaine as in that to delight : 
 
 "Which, ballance it, no weight doth beare, 
 
 Nor yet is object to the sight, 
 
 But onely fils the vulgar eare. 
 
 Nor yet thy fortunes : since I know 
 
 They, in their motion like the sea, 
 
 Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow : 
 
 And so in flattery betray, 
 
 That raising they but overthrow. 
 
 And yet these attributes might prove 
 FueU enough t'onflame desire ; 
 But there was something from above. 
 Shot without reason's guide, this fire : 
 I know, yet know not, why I love. 
 
 William Hahington. — About 1640. 
 
 ;i9.— A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HOPE 
 AND FEAE. 
 
 Checke thy forward thoughts, and know 
 Hymen only joynes their hands ; 
 Who with even paces goe, 
 Shee in gold, he rich in lands. 
 
 But Castara's purer fire, 
 "When it meetes a noble flame ; 
 Shuns the smoke of such desire, 
 loynes with love, and burnes the same. 
 
 Yet obedience must prevaile ; 
 They, who o're her actions sway, 
 Would have her in th' ocean saile, 
 And contemne thy narrow sea. 
 
 Parents' lawes must beare no weight 
 When they happinesse prevent, 
 And our sea is not so streight. 
 But it roome hath for content. 
 
 Thousand hearts as victims stand, 
 At the altar of her eyes ; 
 And will partiall she command, 
 Onely thine for sacrifice ? 
 
 Thousand victims must returne : 
 She the purest will designe : 
 Choose Castara which shall burne, 
 Choose the purest, that is mine. 
 
 William Hahington. — About 1640. 
 
 320.— TO THE SPEING, 
 
 Upon the Uncertainty of Castara's Abode. 
 
 Faire mistresae of the Earth, with garlands 
 
 crown' d, 
 Eise, by a lover's charme, from the partcht 
 
 ground, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 TO MY NOBLEST FEIEND. 
 
 [William Habingtoiv. 
 
 And shew thy flowry wealth : that she, where 
 
 ere 
 Her starres shall guide her, Eieete thy 
 
 beauties there. 
 Should she to the cold northeme climates goe, 
 Force thy affrighted lillies there to grow, 
 Thy roses in those gelid fields t'appeare ; 
 She absent, I have all their winter here. 
 Or if to th' torrid zone her way she bend, 
 Her the coole breathing of Favonius lend. 
 Thither command the birds to bring their 
 
 quires ; 
 That zone is temp'rate, I have all his fires. 
 
 Attend her, courteous Spring, though we 
 should here 
 
 Lose by it aU the treasures of the yeere. 
 
 William Hahington. — About 1G40. 
 
 321.— TO SEYMORS, 
 
 The House in which Castara lived. 
 
 Blest temple, haile, where the chast altar 
 
 stands. 
 Which Nature built, but the exacter hands 
 Of vertue polisht. Though sad Fate deny 
 My prophane f eete accesse, ' my vowes shall 
 
 flye. 
 May those musitians, which divide the ayre 
 With their harmonious breath, their flight 
 
 prepare 
 For this glad place, and all their accents frame. 
 To teach the eccho my Castara' s name. 
 The beautious troopes of Graces, led by Love 
 In chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring 
 
 grove, 
 Where may the spring dwell stni. May 
 
 every tree 
 Turne to a laurell, and propheticke be. 
 
 Which shall in its first oracle divine. 
 
 That courteous Fate decrees Castara mine. 
 
 William Ho.bington. — About 1640. 
 
 322.— DESCRIPTION OF CASTAEA. 
 
 Like the violet, which alone 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade ; 
 
 My Castara lives unknowne. 
 
 To no looser eye betray'd, 
 
 For shee's to her selfe untrue, 
 V/ho delights i' th' publicke view. 
 
 Such is her beauty, as no arts 
 Have enricht with borrowed grace. 
 Her high birth no pride imparts. 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 
 Folly boasts a glorious blood, 
 
 She is noblest being good. 
 
 Cautious she knew never yet 
 
 What a wanton courtship meant ; 
 
 Not speaks loud to boast her wit, s 
 
 In her silence eloquent. 
 
 Of herself survey she takes. 
 
 But 'tweene men no difference maker;:. 
 
 She obeyes with speedy will 
 
 Here grave parents' wise commands. 
 
 And so innocent, that iD, 
 
 She nor acts, nor understands. 
 Women's feet runne still astray, 
 If once to ill they know the way. 
 
 She sailes by that rocke, the court, 
 Where oft honour splits her mast : 
 And retir'dnesse thinks the port, 
 Where her fame may anchor cast. 
 Vertue safely cannot sit. 
 Where vice is enthron'd for wit. 
 She holds that daye's pleasure best, 
 Where sinne waits not on deKght ; 
 Without maske, or ball, or feast, 
 Sweetly spends a winter's night. 
 
 O're that darknesse whence is thrust. 
 Prayer and sleepe oft governs lust. 
 
 She her throne makes reason climbe. 
 
 While wild passions captive lie ; 
 
 And each article of time. 
 
 Her pure thoughts to Heaven flie : 
 All her vowes religious be. 
 And her love she vowes to me. 
 
 William Hahington. — About 1640. 
 
 323.— TO CASTARA. 
 
 The Reward of innocent Love. 
 We saw and woo'd each other's eyes, 
 My soule contracted then with thine, 
 And both burnt in one sacrifice, 
 By which our marriage grew divine. 
 
 Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 
 Prophane the temple of delight. 
 And purchase endless p^ "litence. 
 With the stolne pleasuio of one night. 
 
 Time's ever ours, while we despise 
 The sensuall idol of our clay. 
 For though the Sunne doe set and rise. 
 We joy one everlasting day. 
 
 Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, 
 While each of us shine innocent. 
 The troubled stream is still imxDure, 
 With vertue flies away content. 
 And though opinions often erre, 
 Wee'le court the modest smile of fame. 
 For sinne' s black danger circles her, 
 Who hath infection in her name. 
 
 Thus when to one darke silent roome. 
 Death shall our loving coffins thrust : 
 Fame will build columnes on our tombe, 
 And adde a perfume to our dust. 
 
 William Hahington. — About 1640. 
 
 324.— TO MY NOBLEST FRIEND, 
 I. C, ESQUIRE. 
 
 Sir, 
 I hate the countrie's durt and manners, yet 
 I love the silence ; I embrace the v/it 
 
Wm. Habington.] 
 
 NOMINE LABIA MEA APEEIES. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 And courtship, flowing here in a full tide. 
 But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride. 
 No place each way is happy. Here I hold 
 ! Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold 
 ! (After due oath ministred) the height 
 
 And greatnesse of each star shines in the state, 
 The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence. 
 With others I commune, who tell me whence 
 The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow : 
 Eelate each skirmish, battle, overthrow, 
 Soone as they happen ; and by rote can tell 
 Those Germane townes,even puzzle me to spell. 
 The crosse or prosperous fate of princes, they 
 Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay : 
 And on each action comment, with more skill 
 Than upon Livy did old Matchavill. 
 O busie folly : Why doe I my braine 
 Perplex with the dull poUicies of Spaine, 
 Or quick designes of France ? Why not repaire 
 To the pure innocence o' th' country ayre : 
 And neighbour thee, deare friend ? Who so 
 
 dost give 
 Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live 
 Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might 
 
 not we ' 
 
 Anne against passion with philosophic ; 
 And, by the aide of leisure, so controule 
 What-ere is earth in us, to grow aU soule ? 
 Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when 
 We study mysteries of other men 
 And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade 
 (Thy head upon some flowry piUow laide, 
 Kind Nature's huswifery) contemplate all 
 His stratagems who labours to inthral 
 The world to his great master, and yoide finde 
 Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind. 
 Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too 
 
 deare 
 A price for glory : honour doth appeare 
 To statesmen like a vision in the night, 
 And jugler-like workes o' th' deluded sight. 
 Th' unbusied onely wise : for no respect 
 Indangers them to errour ; they affect 
 Truth in her naked beauty, and behold 
 Man with an equaU eye, nor bright in gold 
 Or tall in title ; so much him they weigh 
 As vertue raiseth him above his clay. 
 Thus let us value things : and since we find 
 Time bends us toward death, let's in our mind 
 Create new youth ; and arm against the ruc'e 
 Assaults of age ; that no dull soHtude 
 O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care 
 0' th' towne make us not thinke, where now 
 
 we are 
 And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot 
 His journey, though his steps we numbred not. 
 William Habington. — About 1640. 
 
 325.— NOMINE LABIA MEA APEEIES. 
 
 Noe monument of me remaine, 
 My mem'orie rust 
 In the same marble with my dust, 
 Ere I the spreading laurell gaine, 
 By writing wanton or prophane. 
 
 Ye glorious wonders of the skies, 
 Shine still, bright starres, 
 Th' Almightie's my stick characters ! 
 He not your beautious lights surprize, 
 T' illuminate a woman's eyes. 
 
 Nor, to perfiime her veines, will I 
 In each one set 
 The purple of the violet : 
 The untoucht flowre maj' grow and dye 
 Safe from my f ancle's injurie. 
 
 Open my lippes, great God ! and then 
 He scare above 
 The humble flight of carnall love. 
 Vpward to thee He force my pen, 
 And trace no path of vulgar men. 
 
 For what can our unbounded soulea 
 Worthy to be 
 Their object finde, excepting thee ? 
 Where can I fixe ? since time controules 
 Our pride, whose motion all things roules. 
 
 Should I my selfe ingratiate 
 T' a prince's smile, 
 How soone may death my hopes beguile ? 
 And should I farme the proudest state, 
 I'me tennant to uncertaine fate. 
 
 If I court gold, -sviU it not rust ? 
 And if my love 
 Toward a female beauty move, 
 How will that surfet of our lust 
 Distast us, when resolv'd to dust ? 
 
 But thou, iEternall banquet ! where 
 
 For ever we 
 • May feede without satietie ! 
 Who harmonic art to the eare, 
 Who art, while all things else appeare ! 
 
 While up to thee I shoote my flame, 
 Thou dost dispence 
 A holy death, that murders sence. 
 And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayma 
 At other triumphes than thy name. 
 
 It crownes me with a victory 
 So heavenly, all 
 That's earth from me away doth fall. 
 And I, from my corruption free. 
 Grow in my vowes even part of thee. 
 
 WilUami Habington. — About 1640. 
 
 326.— PAUCITATEM DIEEUM MEOEUM 
 NUNCIA MIHI. 
 
 TeU me, O great All-knowing God ! 
 
 What period 
 Hast thou unto my dayes assign'd ? 
 Like some old leafelesse tree, shall I 
 Wither away, or violently 
 Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the wind ? 
 
 Heere, where I first drew vitall breath. 
 
 Shall I meete death ? 
 And finde in the same vault a roome 
 Where my fore-fathers' ashes sleepe ? 
 Or shall I dye, where none shall weepe 
 My timelesse fate, and my cold earth intombe ? 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 CUPIO DISSOLVI. 
 
 [William Habington. 
 
 Shall I 'gainst the swift Parthians fight, 
 
 And in their flight 
 Receive my death ? Or shall I see 
 That envied peace, in which we are 
 Triumphant yet, disturb' d by warre, 
 And perish by th' invading enemie ? 
 
 Astrologers, who calculate 
 
 Vncertaine fate, 
 AflBrme my scheme doth not presage 
 Any abridgement of my dayes : 
 And the physitian gravely sayes, 
 I may enjoy a reverent length of age. 
 
 But they are jugglers, and by slight 
 
 Of art the sight 
 Of faith delude : and in their schoole 
 They onely practise how to make 
 A mistery of each mistake. 
 And teach strange words credulity to foole. 
 
 For thou who first didst motion give, 
 
 Whereby things live, 
 And time hath being ! to conceale 
 Future events didst thinke it fit 
 To checke th' ambition of our wit. 
 And keepe in awe the curious search of zoale. 
 
 Therefore, so I prepar'd still be, 
 
 My God, for thee : 
 0' th' sudden on my spirits may 
 Some killing apoplexie seize, 
 Or let me by a dull disease. 
 Or weakened by a feeble age, decay. 
 
 And so I in thy favour dye, 
 
 Ko memorie 
 For me a weU-wrought tombe prepare, 
 For if my soule be 'mong the blest, 
 Though my pooro ashes want a chest, 
 I shall forgive the trespasse of my heire. 
 
 William Habington. — About 1640. 
 
 327.— ET EXALTAVIT HUMILES. 
 
 Hov/ cheerfully th' unpartiall Sunne 
 
 Gilds with his beames 
 
 The narrow streames 
 0' th' brooke which silently doth runne 
 
 Without a name ? 
 
 And yet disdaines to lend his flame 
 To the wide channel! of the Thames ? 
 
 The largest mountaines barren lye. 
 
 And lightning feare, 
 
 Though they appeare 
 To bid defiance to the skie ; 
 
 Which in one houre 
 
 W' have seen the opening earth devoure. 
 When in their height they proudest were. 
 
 But th' humble man heaves up his head 
 
 Like some rich vale 
 
 Whose fruites nere faile 
 With fiowres, with come, and vines ore-spread. 
 
 Nor doth complaine 
 
 Ore-flowed by an ill-season'd raine 
 Or batter' d by a storme of haile. 
 
 Like a tall barke treasure fraught. 
 
 He the seas cleere 
 
 Doth quiet steere : 
 But when they are t' a tempest wrought ; 
 
 More gallantly 
 
 He spreads his saile, and doth more high. 
 By swelling of the waves, appeare. ~ ~ 
 
 For the Almighty joyes to force 
 
 The glorious tide 
 
 Of humane pride 
 To th' lowest ebbe ; that ore his course 
 
 (Which rudely bore 
 
 Downe what oppos'd it heretofore) 
 His feeblest enemie may stride. 
 
 But from his ill-thatcht roofe he brings 
 
 The cottager, 
 
 And doth preferre 
 Him to th' adored state of kings : 
 
 He bids that hand 
 
 Which labour hath made rough and tan'd 
 The all-commanding scepter beare. 
 
 Let then the mighty cease to boast 
 
 Their boundlesse sway • 
 
 Since in their sea 
 Few sayle, but by some storme are lost. 
 
 Let them themselves 
 
 Beware for they are their owne shelves : 
 Man still himselfe hath cast away. 
 
 William Habington. — About 1640'. 
 
 328.— CUPIO DISSOLVL 
 
 The soule which doth with God unite. 
 Those gayities how doth she slight 
 
 Which ore opinion sway ? 
 Like sacred virgin wax, which shines 
 On altars or on martyrs' shrines. 
 
 How doth she burne away ? 
 
 How violent are her throwes till she 
 From envious earth delivered be. 
 
 Which doth her flight restraine ? 
 How doth she doate on whips and raclces, 
 On fires and the so dreaded axe, 
 
 And every murd'ring paine ? 
 
 How soone she leaves the pride of wealth. 
 The flatteries of youth and health, 
 
 And fame's more precious breath; 
 And every gaudy circumstance 
 That doth the pompe of life advance 
 
 At the approach of death ? 
 
 The cunning of astrologers 
 Observes each motion of the starres, 
 
 Placing all knowledge there : 
 And lovers in their mistresse' eyes 
 Contract those wonders of the skies, 
 
 And seeke no higher sphere. 
 
 The wandring pilot sweates to find 
 The causes that produce the wind 
 
 Still gazing on the pole. 
 The politician scornes all art 
 But what (^oth pride and power impart, 
 
 And swells the ambitious soule, 
 
 j4* 
 
Sir John Suckling.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Third Period. 
 
 But lie wliom heavenly fire doth warme, 
 And 'gainst these powerfull follies arme, 
 
 Doth soberly disdaine. 
 All these fond humane misteries, 
 As the deceitfull and unwise 
 
 Distempers of our braine. 
 
 He as a burden beares his clay, 
 Yet vainelj' throwes it not away 
 
 On every idle cause : 
 But with the same untroubled eye 
 Can or resolve to live or dye, 
 
 Eegardlesse of th' applause. 
 
 My God ! If 'tis thy great decree 
 That this must the last moment be 
 
 Wherein I breathe this ayre ; 
 My heart obeyes, joy'd to retreate 
 From the false favours of the great 
 
 And treachery of the faire. 
 
 When thou shalt please this soule t' en- 
 throne 
 
 Above impure corruption ; 
 
 What should I grieve or feare, 
 
 To thinke this breathlesse body must 
 
 Become a loathsome heape of dust, 
 And nere againe appeare. 
 
 For in the fire when ore is tryed, 
 And by that torment purified, 
 
 Doe we deplore the losse ? 
 And when thou shalt my soule refine, 
 That it thereby may purer shine, 
 
 Shall I grieve for the drosse ? 
 
 William Ilahington. — About 1640. 
 
 329.— S N G. 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ! 
 
 Pr'ythee why so pale ? 
 Will, when looking well can't move her, 
 . Looking ill prevail ? 
 
 Pr'ythee why so pale ? 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner ! 
 
 Pr'ythee why so mute ? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her. 
 
 Saying nothing do't ? 
 
 Pr'ythee why so mute ? 
 
 Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, 
 
 This cannot take her ; 
 If of herself she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her : — 
 
 The devil take her ! 
 
 Sir John Suclding. — About 1640. 
 
 330.— A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been. 
 Where I the rarest things have seen : 
 
 O, things without compare ! 
 Such sights again cannot be found 
 In any place on English ground. 
 
 Be it at wake, or fair. 
 
 At Charing- Cross, hard b3'^ the way 
 Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, 
 
 There is a house with stairs : ' 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town, 
 
 Vorty at least, in pairs. 
 
 Amongst the rest, one post'lent fine, 
 (His beard no bigger though than thine,) 
 
 Walk'd on before the rest : 
 Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
 The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him, 
 
 Shou'd he go still so drest. 
 
 At Course-a-park, without all doubt, 
 He should have first been taken out 
 
 By all the maids i' the toAvn : 
 Though lusty Roger there had been. 
 Or little George upon the Green, 
 
 Or Vincent of the Crown. 
 
 But wot you what ? the youth was going 
 To make an end of all his wooing ; 
 
 The parson for him staid •• 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste. 
 He did not so much wish all past 
 
 (Perchance) as did the maid. 
 
 The maid — and thereby hangs a tale — 
 For such a maid no Whitson ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so plump, so soft as she. 
 
 Nor haK so full of juice. 
 
 Her finger was so small, the ring 
 Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,, 
 
 It was too wide a peck : 
 And to say truth (for out it must) 
 It look'd like the great collar (just) 
 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice stole in and out, 
 
 As if they fear'd the light : 
 But oh ! she dances such a way ! 
 No sun upon an Easter day 
 
 Is half so fine a sight. 
 
 He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice. 
 But she wou'd not, she was so nice, 
 
 She wou'd not do't in sight ; 
 And then she look'd as who shou'd say 
 I will do Avhat I list to-daj^ ; 
 
 And you shall do''t at night. 
 
 Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
 No daisy makes comparison, 
 
 (Who sees them is undone) 
 For streaks of red were mingled there, 
 Such as are on a Katherine pear, 
 
 The side that's next the sun. 
 
 Her lips were red, and one was thin, 
 Compared to that was next her chin. 
 
 Some bee had stung it newly. 
 But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze, 
 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
From 1558 to 1640.] DESCEIPTION OF THE PRIESTESS OF DTANA. [J. Chalkhill. 
 
 Her mouth so small, ■vrhen she does speak, 
 Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 
 
 That they might passage get ; 
 But she so handled still the matter, 
 They came as good as ours, or better, 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 If wishing shou'd be any sin, 
 
 The parson himself had guilty been, 
 
 She look'd that day so purely : 
 And did the youth so oft the feat 
 At night, as some did in conceit, 
 
 It would have spoU'd him, surely. 
 
 Passion o' me ! how I run on ! 
 
 There's that that wou'd be thought upon, 
 
 I trow, besides the bride : 
 The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, 
 For it is fit that men should eat ; 
 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 Just in the nick the cook knock' d thrice, 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man \vith dish in hand, 
 March'd boldly up, like our train'd band, 
 
 Presented, and away. 
 
 When all the meat was on the table, 
 What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
 
 To stay to be entreated : 
 And this the very reason was, 
 Before the parson could say grace, 
 
 The company were seated. 
 
 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house. 
 
 The brides came thick and thick ; 
 And when 'twas named another's health, 
 Perhaps he made it hcr's by stealth, 
 
 And who could help it, Dick ? 
 
 O' the sudden up they rise and dance ; 
 Then sit again, and sigh and glance : 
 
 Then dance again and kiss. 
 Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass. 
 Whilst every woman wish'd her place. 
 
 And every man wish'd his. 
 
 By this time all were stolen aside 
 To counsel and undress the bride ; 
 
 But that he must not know : 
 But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind, 
 And did not mean to stay behind 
 
 Above an hour or so. 
 
 When in he came (Dick) there she lay. 
 Like new-fal'n snow melting away, 
 
 'Twas time, I trow, to part. 
 Kisses were now the only stay, 
 Which soon she gave, as who wou'd say. 
 
 Good b'ye, with all my heart. 
 
 But just as heavens wou'd have to cross it, 
 In came the brideraaids with the posset ; 
 
 The bridegroom eat in spite ; 
 For had he left the women to 't 
 It v/ou'd have cost two hours to do 't, 
 
 Which were too much that night. 
 
 At length the candle' s out, and now 
 All that they had not done, they do ! 
 
 What that is, who can tell ? 
 But I believe it was no more 
 Than thou and I have done before 
 
 With Bridget and with NeU ! 
 
 Sir John Suckling. — MiouE 1640. 
 
 331.— CONSTANCY. 
 
 Out upon it, I have lov'd 
 Three whole days together ; 
 
 And am like to love three more, 
 If it prove fair weather. 
 
 Time shall moult away his Vvings, 
 
 Ere he shall discover 
 In the whole ^\A^LQ world again 
 
 Such a constant lover. 
 
 But the spite on't is, no praise 
 
 Is due at all to me ; 
 Love with me had made no stays, 
 
 Had it any been but she. 
 
 Had it any been but she 
 
 And that very face. 
 There had been at least ere this 
 
 A dozen in her place. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. — About 1640. 
 
 332.— SONG. 
 
 I prithee send me back my heart. 
 
 Since I can not have thine ; 
 For if from yours you will not part, 
 
 Why then should' st thou have mine ? 
 
 Yet now I think on't, let it lie. 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou'st a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 
 Oh love ! where is thy sympathy, 
 If thus our breasts thou sever ? 
 
 But love is such a mystery, 
 
 I cannot find it out ; 
 For when I think I'm best resolv'd, 
 
 I then am in most doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 
 
 I will no longer pine ; 
 For I'll believe I have her heart 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. — Aho^ii 164<0. 
 
 333.— DESCEIPTION OF THE PEIESTESS 
 OF DIANA. 
 
 Within a little silent grove hard by, 
 Upon a small ascent, he might espy 
 A stately chapel, richly gilt without, 
 Beset with shady sycamores about ; 
 
John Chalkhill.] 
 
 THE IMAGE OF JEALOUSY. 
 
 [Thikd Period. 
 
 And ever and anon he might well hear 
 
 A sound of music steal in at his ear, 
 
 As the wind gave it being. So sweet an air 
 
 Would strike a siren mute, and ravish her. 
 
 He sees no creature that might cause the 
 
 same, 
 But he was sure that from the grove it came, 
 And to the grove he goes to satisfy 
 The curiosity of ear and eye. 
 Thorough the thick-leaved boughs he makes a 
 
 way, 
 Nor could the scratching brambles make him 
 
 stay, 
 But on he rushes, and climbs up a hill, 
 Thorough a glade. Ho saw and heard his 
 
 mi— 
 
 A hundred virgins there he might espy, 
 
 Prostrate before a marble deity, 
 
 Which, by its portraiture, appear' d to be 
 
 The image of Diana. On their knee 
 
 They tended their devotions Avith sweet airs. 
 
 Offering the incense of their praise and 
 
 prayers, 
 Their garments all alike. * * # 
 
 And cross their snowy silken robes they 
 
 wore 
 An azure scarf, with stars embroider' d o'er; 
 Their hair in curious tresses was knot up, 
 Crown' d with a silver crescent on the top ; 
 A silver bow their left hand held, their right. 
 For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight 
 Of arrows. # # # # # 
 Under their vestments, something short 
 
 before. 
 White buskins, laced with ribbanding, they 
 
 wore ; 
 It was a catching sight to a young eye. 
 That Love had fix'd before. He might espy 
 One whom the rest had, sphere-like, circled 
 
 round. 
 Whose head was with a golden chaplet crown' d: 
 He could not see her face, only his ear 
 Was blest with the sweet words that came 
 
 from her. 
 
 John ChalTiMll. — About 1649. 
 
 After her flew a sigh between two springs 
 Of briny waters. On her dove-like wings 
 She bore a letter seal'd -with a half mooii. 
 And superscribed — this from Suspicion. 
 
 John Chanchill. — About 1649. 
 
 334.— THE IMAGE OF JEALOUSY IN 
 THE CHAPEL OF DIANA. 
 
 * * A curious eye 
 Might see some relics of a piece of art 
 That Psyche made, when Love first fired her 
 
 heart ; 
 It was the story of her thoughts, that she 
 Curiously wrought in lively imagery ; 
 Among the rest she thought of Jealousy, 
 Time left untouch' d to grace antiquity, 
 She was decypher'd by a tim'rous dame. 
 Wrapt in a yellow mantle lined mth flame ; 
 Her looks were pale, contracted with a frown. 
 Her eyes suspicious, wandering up and downj 
 Behmd her Fear attended, big with child. 
 Able to fright Presumption if she smiled ; 
 
 335.— THE WITCH'S CAVE. 
 
 Her ceU was hewn out in the marble rook 
 By more than human art. She need not 
 
 knock — 
 The door stood always open, large and wide, 
 Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, 
 And interwove with ivy's flattering twines. 
 Through which the carbuncle and diamond 
 
 shines ; 
 Not set by art, but there by Nature sown 
 At the world's birth ; so star like bright they 
 
 shone. 
 They served instead of tapers, to give light 
 To the dark entry. * * * # 
 
 * * * * In they went : 
 The ground was strev/n with flowers, whose 
 
 sweet scent, 
 Mixt with the choice perfumes from India 
 
 brought. 
 Intoxicates his brains, and quickly caught 
 His credulous sense. The walls were gilt, and 
 
 set 
 With precious stones, and all the roof was fret 
 With a gold viae, whose straggling branches 
 
 spread 
 O'er all the arch — the swelUng grapes were 
 
 red ; 
 This art had made of rubies, cluster'd so. 
 To the quickest eye they more than seem'd to. 
 
 grow. 
 About the walls lascivious pictures hung. 
 Such as whereof loose Ovid sometimes sung j 
 On either side a crew of dwarfish elves 
 Held waxen tapers taller than themselves, 
 Yet so well shaped unto their little stature. 
 So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature, 
 Their rich attire so differing, yet so well 
 Becoming her that wore it, none could tell 
 Which was the fairest. # * * 
 After a low salute they all 'gan sing, 
 And circle in the stranger in a ring ; 
 Orandra to her charms was stept aside, 
 Leaving her guest half won, and wanton ejed : 
 He had forgot his herb — cunning delight 
 Had so bewitch'd his ears, and blear'd his 
 
 sight. 
 That he was not himself. * * * 
 
 * * * * Unto his riQW 
 She represents a banquet, usher' d in 
 
 By such a shape as she was sure would win 
 His appetite to taste — so like she was 
 To his Clarinda both in shape and face. 
 So voiced, so habited, — of the same gait 
 And comely gesture. # * # 
 
 * # * Hardly did he refrain 
 From sucking in destruction at her lip ; 
 Sin's cup will poison at the smallest sip. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 TO CHLOE. 
 
 [William Caetwright. 
 
 She weeps and woos again with subtleness, 
 And Avith a frown she chides his backward- 
 ness : 
 Have you (said she), sweet prince, so soon 
 
 forgot 
 Your own beloved Clarinda ? Are you not 
 The same you were, that you so slightly set 
 By her that once you made the cabinet 
 Of your choice counsel ? Hath some worthier 
 
 love 
 Stole your affections? What is it should 
 
 move 
 You to dislike so soon ? Must I still taste 
 No other dish but sorrow ? When we last 
 Emptied our souls into each other's breast 
 It was not so. * * * 
 
 * * * With that she wept afresh * * 
 
 * * She seem'd to fall into a swound ; 
 And stooping do^vn to raise her from the 
 
 ground, 
 He puts his herb into his mouth, whose taste 
 Soon changed his mind •• he lifts her — but in 
 
 vain. 
 His hands feU off, and she feU down again : 
 With that she leant him such a frown as 
 
 would 
 Have kUl'd a common lover, and made cold 
 Even lust itself. * * * 
 
 * # # The lights went out, 
 And darkness hung the chamber round about : 
 A yelling, hellish noise was each where heard. 
 
 John Chalhliill.— About 1G49. 
 
 336.— THE VOTAHESS OF DIANA. 
 
 Clarinda came at last 
 
 With all her train, who, as along she pass'd 
 Thorough the inward court, did make a lane. 
 Opening their ranks, and, closing them again 
 As she went forward, with obsequious gesture. 
 Doing their reverence. Her upward vesture 
 Was of blue sUk, glistering with stars of gold, 
 Girt to her waist by serpents, that enfold 
 And ^vrap themselves together, so well wrought 
 And fashion' d to the life, one would have 
 
 thought 
 They had been real. Underneath she wore 
 A coat of silver tinsel, short before. 
 And fring'd about with gold : white buskins 
 
 hide 
 The naked of her leg ; they were loose tied 
 With azure ribands, on whose knots were seen 
 Most costly gems, fit only for a queen. 
 Her hair bound up like to a coronet. 
 With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set ; 
 And on the top a silver crescent plac'd. 
 And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd, 
 
 I As her reflection made them seem more fair ; 
 
 I One would have thought Diana's self were 
 
 I there ; 
 
 For in her hand a silver bow she held. 
 And at her back there hung a quiver fill'd 
 With turtle-feather' d arroAvs. 
 
 John Chalkhill— About 1649. 
 
 337._A VALEDICTION. 
 
 Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers 
 
 Do make or cherish ; 
 Where discontented things in sadness lie, 
 And nature grieves as I ; 
 When I am parted from those eyes- — 
 From which my better day doth rise. 
 Though some propitious power 
 Should plant me in a bower, 
 Where, amongst happy lovers, I might see 
 How showers and sunbeams bring 
 One everlasting spring ; 
 Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth 
 to me. 
 Nature herself to him is lost. 
 Who loseth her he honours most. 
 Then, fairest, to my parting view display 
 
 Your gTaces all in one full day ; 
 Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep, 
 till when 
 I do retium and view again : 
 So by this art, fancy shaU fortune cross. 
 And lovers live by thinking on their loss. 
 
 William Cartwright. — About 1640. 
 
 338.— TO CHLOE, 
 Who wished herself young enough for me. 
 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years 
 
 Woidd backwards run, till they met mine ? 
 
 That perfect likeness, which endears 
 Things unto things, might us combine. 
 
 Our ages so in date agree, 
 
 That twins do differ more than we. 
 
 There are two births ; the one when light 
 First strikes the new awakened sense ; 
 
 The other when two souls unite : 
 
 And we must count our life from thence : 
 
 When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you, 
 
 Then both of us were born anew. 
 
 Love then to us did new souls give. 
 
 And in those souls did plant new pow'rs : 
 
 Since when another life we live, 
 
 The breath we breathe is his, not ours ; 
 
 Love makes those young whom age doth chill, 
 
 And whom he finds young keeps young still. 
 
 Love, like that angel that shall call 
 Our bodies from the silent grave, 
 
 Unto one age doth raise us all ; 
 
 None too much, none too little have ; 
 
 Nay, that the difference may be none. 
 
 He makes two not alike, but one. 
 
 And now since you and I are such. 
 
 Tell me what's yours, and what is mine ? 
 
 Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch. 
 Do, like our souls, in one combine ; 
 
 So, by this, I as well maj^ be 
 
 Too old for you, as you for me. 
 
 William Cartwricjht. — Aboui 1640. 
 
William Cabtwbight.] 
 
 LOVE'S DAETS. 
 
 [Third Period — 
 
 339.— LOVE'S DAETS. 
 
 Where is that learned wretch that knows, 
 What are those darts the veil'd god throws ? 
 
 let him tell me ere I die 
 
 When 'twas he saw or heard them fly ; 
 Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, 
 Wing them for various loves ; 
 And whether gold, or lead. 
 Quicken, or dull the head : 
 
 1 will anoint and keep them warm, 
 And make the weapons heal the harm. 
 
 Fond that I am to ask ! whoe'er 
 Did yet see thought ? or silence hear ? 
 Safe from the search of human eye 
 These arrows (as i^eiv ways are) fly ; 
 
 The flights of angels part 
 
 Not air with so much art ; 
 
 And snows on streams, we may 
 
 Say, louder fall than they. 
 So hopeless I must now endure. 
 And neither know the shaft nor cure. 
 
 A sudden fire of blushes shed 
 To die white paths with hasty red ; 
 A glance's lightning swiftly thrown, 
 Or from a true or seeming frown ; 
 
 A subtle taking smile 
 
 From passion, or from guile ; 
 
 The spirit, life, and grace 
 
 Of motion, limbs, and face : 
 These misconceit entitles darts. 
 And tears the bleedings of our hearts. 
 
 But as the feathers in the wing 
 Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring, 
 And harmless twigs no bloodshed know, 
 Tin art doth fit them for the bow ; 
 
 So lights of flowing graces 
 
 Sparkle in several places, 
 
 Only adorn the parts. 
 
 Till that we make them darts ; 
 Themselves are only twigs and quills : 
 We give them shape, and force for ills. 
 
 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore. 
 We mint, and stamp, and then adore : 
 Like heathen we the image crown, 
 And indiscreetly then fall down : 
 
 Those graces all were meant 
 
 Our joy, not discontent ; 
 
 But with untaught desires 
 
 We turn those lights to fires. 
 Thus Nature's healing herbs we take, 
 And out of cures do poisons make. 
 
 William Ca/rtwright — About 1640. 
 
 340.— THE KISS— A DIALOGUE. 
 
 Among thy fancies.tell me this : 
 Wliat is the thing we call a kiss ? — 
 I shall resolve ye what it is : 
 
 It is a creature born, and bred 
 Between the lips, all cherry red ; 
 By love and warm desires fed ; 
 And makes more soft the bridal bed : 
 
 It is an active flame, that flies 
 
 First to the babies of the eyes. 
 
 And charms them there with luUabies ; 
 
 And stills the bride too when she cries : 
 
 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, 
 It frisks, and flies : now here, now there ; 
 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near ; 
 And here, and there, and everyv/here. 
 
 Has it a speaking virtue ? — Yes. 
 
 How speaks it, say ? — Do yon but this, 
 
 Part your join'd lips, then speaks your 
 
 kiss; 
 And this love's sweetest language is. 
 
 Has it a body ? — Ay, and wings. 
 With thousand rare encolourings ; 
 And as it flies, it gently sings, 
 Love honey yields, but never stings. 
 
 Robert Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 341.— TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 
 
 Why do you fall so fast ? 
 
 Your date is not so past. 
 But you may stay yet here awhile, 
 
 To blush and gently smile. 
 And go at last. 
 
 What ! were ye born to be 
 
 An hour or half's delight, 
 And so to bid good-night ? 
 
 'Tis pity nature .brought ye forth 
 Merely to show your worth. 
 And lose you quite. 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave : 
 
 And after they have shown their pride, 
 Like you a while, they glide 
 Into the grave. 
 
 Bobert Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 342. 
 
 -TO DAFFODILS. 
 
 Fair daff'odils, we weep to see 
 You haste away so soon ; 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 Has not attain' d his noon : 
 Stay, stay. 
 
 Until the hast'ning day 
 Has run 
 
 But to the even-song ; 
 And having pray'd together, we 
 
 Will go with you along ! 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 [Robert Herkick. 
 
 We have short time to stay as you ; 
 We have as short a spring ; 
 As quick a growth to meet decay, 
 As you or anything : 
 We die, 
 As your hours do ; and dry 
 
 Away 
 Like to the summer's rain, 
 Or as the pearls of morning dew 
 Ne'er to be found again. 
 
 Robert Herrick—Ahoxit 1648. 
 
 343--S O N G. 
 
 Gather ye rose-buds, vv^hile ye may, 
 
 Old Time is still a flying ; 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, 
 
 The higher he's a getting, 
 The sooner will his race be run, 
 
 And nearer he's to setting. 
 
 The age is best which is the first, 
 When youth and blood are warmer ; 
 
 But being spent, the worse and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time. 
 And, whilst ye may, go marry ; 
 
 For having lost but once your prime. 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
 Bolcrt Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 344.— TO MEADOWS. 
 
 Ye have been fresh and green, 
 Ye have been fill'd with flowers ; 
 
 And ye the walks have been, 
 
 Where maids have* spent their hours. 
 
 Ye have beheld where they 
 
 With wicker arks did come, 
 To kiss and bear away 
 
 The richer cowslips home. 
 You've heard them sweetly sing, 
 
 And seen them in a round. 
 Each virgin like a Spring 
 
 With honeysuckles crown'd. 
 
 But now we see none here, 
 Whose silvery feet did tread. 
 
 And, with dishevell'd hair, 
 Adorn' d this smoother mead. 
 
 Like unthrifts, having spent 
 YoTir stock, and needy grown, 
 
 Ye' re left here to lament 
 Your poor estates alone. 
 
 Bobert HerricJc. — Ahotit 1648. 
 
 345.— THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 Sweet country life, to such unknown 
 Whose lives are others', not their own ! 
 
 But serving courts and cities, be 
 
 Less happy, less enjoying thee ! 
 
 Thou never plough' st the ocean's foam 
 
 To seek and bring rough j)epper home ; 
 
 Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove. 
 
 To bring from thence the scorched clove : 
 
 Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest? - 
 
 Bring' st home the ingot from the West. 
 
 No : thy ambition's master-piece 
 
 Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; 
 
 Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear 
 
 All scores, and so to end the year ; 
 
 But walk'st about thy own dear bounds,* 
 
 Not envying others' larger grounds : 
 
 For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent 
 
 Of land makes life, but sweet content. 
 
 When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, 
 
 Calls forth the Hly-wristed morn. 
 
 Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, 
 
 Which though well-soil' d, yet thou dost 
 
 know 
 That the best compost for the lands 
 Is the wise master's feet and hands. 
 There at the plough thou find'st thy team. 
 With a hind whistling there to them ; 
 And cheer' st them up by singing how 
 The kingdom's portion is the plough. 
 This done, then to th' enamell'd meads 
 Thou go'st ; and as thy foot there treads, 
 Thou see'st a present godlike power 
 Imprinted in each herb and flower ; 
 And smell' st the breath of great-eyed kine, 
 Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. 
 Here thou behold' st thy large sleek neat, 
 Unto the dewlaps up in meat ; 
 And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer. 
 The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near, 
 To make a pleasing pastime there. 
 These seen, thou go'st to view thy fiocka 
 Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; 
 And find'st their bellies there as fiill 
 Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; 
 And leavest them as they feed and fill ; 
 A shepherd piping on a hill. 
 For sports, for pageantry, and plays. 
 Thou hast thy eves and holidays ; 
 On which the young men and maids meet. 
 To exercise their dancing feet ; 
 Tripping the comely country round. 
 With daffodils and daisies cro^ra'd. 
 Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast ; 
 Thy may-poles too, with garlands graced ; 
 Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, 
 Thy shearing-feast, which never fail ; 
 Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl. 
 That's tost up after fox i' th' hole ; 
 Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings 
 And queens, thy Christmas revellings ; 
 Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit ; 
 And no man pays too dear for it. 
 To these thou hast thy times to go, 
 And trace the hare in the treacherous snow ; 
 Thy ^vittj wiles to draw, and get 
 The lark into the trammel net ; 
 Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade 
 To take the precious pheasant made ; 
 
EoBEEx Heerick.] PEIMEOSES FILLED WITH MOENING DEW. [Tiiikd Pekiod.— 
 
 Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls, then 
 To catch the pilfering birds, not men. 
 
 O happy Hfe, if that their good 
 The husbandmen but understood ! 
 Who all the day themselves do please, 
 And younglings, with such sports as these ; 
 And, lying down, have nought to affright 
 Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. 
 
 Robert Herrick. — Ahout 1648. 
 
 346.— TO PEIMEOSES, FILLED WITH 
 MOENING DEW. 
 
 Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
 Speak grief in you, 
 Who were but bom 
 Just as the modest morn 
 Teem'd her refreshing dew ? 
 Alas ! you have not known that shower 
 That mars a flower. 
 Nor felt the unkind 
 Breath of a blasting wind ; 
 Nor are ye worn with years, 
 
 Or warp'd as we, j 
 
 Who think it strange to see j 
 
 Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
 Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 
 
 Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make 
 known 
 
 The reason why 
 Ye droop and weep ; 
 Is it for want of sleep, 
 Or childish lullaby ? 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 
 The violet ? 
 Or brought a kiss 
 From that sweet heart to this ? 
 No, no ; this sorrow shown 
 
 By your tears shed. 
 Would have this lecture read — 
 " That things of greatest, so of meanest 
 
 worth, 
 Conceived with grief are, and with tears 
 brought forth." 
 
 Robert Herriclc. — About 1648. 
 
 347.— JULIA. 
 
 Some ask'd me where the rubies grew, 
 
 And nothing did I say, 
 But with my finger pointed to 
 
 The lips of Julia. 
 
 Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where, 
 
 Then spake I to my girl, 
 To part her Ups, and show me there 
 
 The quarelets of pearl. 
 
 One ask'd me where the roses grew, 
 
 I bade him not go seek ; 
 But forthwith bade my Julia show 
 
 A bud in either cheek. 
 
 Robert Herriclc. — About 1648. 
 
 348.— CHEEEY EIPE. 
 Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry. 
 Full and fair ones — come and buy ; 
 If so be you ask me where 
 They do grow ? — I answer. There, 
 Where my Jiilia's lips do smile — 
 There's the land, or cherry-isle ; 
 Whose plantations fully show 
 All the year where cherries grow. 
 
 Robert Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 349- 
 
 -A THANKSGIVn^G FOE HIS 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Lord, Thou hast given me a cell, 
 
 "Wherein to dwell ; 
 A little house, whose humble roof 
 
 Is weatherproof ; 
 Under the spars of which I lie 
 
 Both soft and dry. 
 Where Thou, my chamber for to ward. 
 
 Hast set a guard 
 Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
 
 Me while I sleep. 
 Low is my porch, as is my fate, 
 
 Both void of state ; 
 And yet the threshold of my door 
 
 Is worn by the poor, 
 AVho hither come, and freely get 
 
 Good words or meat. 
 Like as my parlour, so my hall, 
 
 And kitchen small ; 
 A little buttery, and therein 
 
 A little bin, 
 Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
 
 Unchipt, unflead. 
 Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 
 
 Make me a fire. 
 Close by whose K^nng coal I sit. 
 
 And glow like it. 
 Lord, I confess, too, when I dine. 
 
 The pulse is Thine, 
 And all those other bits that be 
 
 There placed by Thee. 
 The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
 
 Of water-cress. 
 Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent : 
 
 And my content 
 Makes those, and my beloved beet, 
 
 To be more sweet. 
 'TisThou that crown' st my glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltless mirth ; 
 And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. 
 
 Spiced to the brink. 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That sows my land : 
 All this, and better, dost Thou send 
 
 Me for this end : 
 That I should render for my part 
 
 A thankful heart. 
 Which, fir'd with incense, I resign 
 
 As wholly thine : 
 But the acceptance — that must be, 
 
 O Lord, by Thee. 
 
 Robert Herriclc. — About 1648. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [EiCHARD Lovelace. 
 
 350.— TO FIND GOD. 
 
 Weigli me the fire ; or canst thou find 
 A way to measure out the wind ; 
 Distinguish all those floods that are 
 Mixt in that watery theatre, 
 And taste thou them as saltless there, 
 As in their channel first they were. 
 Tell me the people that do keep 
 Within the kingdoms of the deep ; 
 Or fetch me back that cloud again, 
 Beshiver'd into seeds of rain. 
 Tell me the motes, dusts, sands, and spears 
 Of corn, when summer shakes his ears ; 
 Show me that world of stars, and whence 
 They noiseless spill their influence : 
 This if thou canst, then show me Him 
 That rides the glorious cherubim. 
 
 Robert Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 351.— TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING. 
 
 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn 
 
 Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
 See how Aurora throws her fair 
 Fresh-quilted colours through the air ; 
 Get up, sweet slug a-bed, and see 
 The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
 
 Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the 
 east, 
 
 Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, 
 Nay, not so much as out of bed ; 
 When all the birds have matins said. 
 And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis 
 
 sin, 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
 
 When as a thousand virgins on this day, 
 
 Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 
 
 Eiise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 
 To come forth, like the spring time, fresh and 
 green, 
 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gown or hair ; 
 Fear not, the leaves will strew 
 Gems in abundance upon you ; 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
 Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. 
 Come, and receive them while the light 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 Retires himself, or else stands still 
 Tni you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 
 
 praying ; 
 Few beads are best, when once we go a- 
 Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark 
 How each field turns a street, each street a 
 park 
 
 Made green, and trimm'd "v\^ith trees ; 
 
 see how 
 Devotion gives each house a bough. 
 Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere 
 
 this, 
 An ark, a tabernacle is, 
 
 Made up of white thorn neatly interwove ; 
 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 Can such delights be in the street, 
 And open fields, and we not see't ? 
 Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 
 The proclamation made for Mayj 
 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying. 
 
 But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 
 
 There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May, 
 A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
 Back, and with white thorn laden home. 
 Some have despatch' d their cakes and 
 
 cream 
 Before that we have left to dream ; 
 And some have wept, and woo' d, and plighted 
 
 troth, 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast off 
 sloth : 
 
 Many a green gown has been given ; 
 Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
 Many a glance, too, has been sent 
 From out the eye, love's firmament : 
 Many a jest told of the key's betraying 
 This night, and locks pick'd j yet w'are not a- 
 Maying. 
 
 Come, let us go, while we are in our prime. 
 And take the harmless folly of the time. 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 Our life is short, and our days run 
 As fast away as does the sun ; 
 And as a vapour, or a drop of rain 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found again ; 
 So when or you or I are made 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; 
 All love, all liking, all delight 
 Lies drown'd with us in endless night. 
 Then, while time serves, and wo are but de- 
 caying, 
 Come, my Corinna, come, lets go a-Maying. 
 
 PMbert Herrick. — About 1648. 
 
 352.— SONG. 
 
 Why should you swear I am forsworn, 
 
 Since thine I vow'd to be ? 
 Lady, it is already morn, 
 
 And 'twas last night I swore to thee 
 
 That fond impossibility. 
 
 Have I not lov'd thee much and long, 
 A tedious twelve hours' space ? 
 
 I must all other beauties wi-ong, 
 And rob thee of a new embrace, 
 Could I still dote upon thy face. 
 
 Not but all joy in thy brown hair 
 By others may be found ; 
 
 But I must search the black and fair, 
 Like skilful mineralists that sound 
 For treasure in unplough'd-up gi-ound. 
 
Richard Lovelace.] 
 
 TO LUCASTA. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Then, if when I have lov'd my round, 
 Thou prov'st the pleasant she ; 
 
 With spoils of meaner beauties cro^vn'd, 
 I laden will return to thee, 
 Even sated with variety. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. — About 1649. 
 
 353._TO LUCASTA, 
 Going to the Wars. 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind, 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True : a new mistress now I chase, 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 Yet this inconstancy is such, 
 
 As you too shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 
 Lov'd I not honour more. 
 
 Bicha/rd Lovelace. — About 1649. 
 
 354- 
 
 -TO LTCASTA. 
 From Prison. 
 
 Long in thy shackles, liberty, 
 I ask not from these walls, but thee ; 
 Left for a while another's bride 
 To fancy all the world beside. 
 
 Yet e'er I do begin to love. 
 See ! how I all my objects prove ; 
 Then my free sorJ to that confine, 
 'Twere possible I might call mine. 
 
 First I would be in love with peace, 
 And her rich swelling breasts increase ; 
 But how, alas ! how may that be. 
 Despising earth, she wiU love me ? 
 
 Fain would I be in love with war, 
 As my dear just avenging star ; 
 But war is lov'd so ev'ry where, 
 Ev'n ho disdains a lodging here. 
 
 Thee and thy wounds I would bemoan 
 Fair thorough- shot religion ; 
 But he lives only that kills thee. 
 And whoso binds thy hands is free. 
 
 I would love a parliament 
 
 As a main prop from heav'n sent ; 
 
 But, ah ! who's he that would be wedded, 
 
 To th' fairest body that's beheaded ! 
 
 Next would I court my liberty. 
 
 And then ray birthright, property ; 
 
 But can that be, when it is known 
 
 There's nothing you can call your own ? 
 
 A reformation I would have. 
 As for our griefs a sov' reign salve; 
 That is, a cleansing of each wheel 
 Of state, that yet som<:) rust doth feel 
 
 But not a reformation so. 
 As to reform were to overthrow ; 
 Like watches by unskilful men 
 Disjointed, and set ill again. 
 
 The public faith I would adore, 
 But she is bankrupt of her store ; 
 Nor how to trust her can I see. 
 For she that cozens all, must mo. 
 
 Since then none of those can be 
 Fit objects for my love and me ; 
 What then remains, but th' only spring 
 Of all our loves and joys ? The King. 
 
 He, who being the whole baU. 
 Of day on earth, lends it to all ; 
 When seeking to eclipse his right. 
 Blinded, we stand in our own light. 
 
 And now an universal mist 
 
 Of error is spread o'er each breast, 
 
 With such a fury edged, as is 
 
 Not found in th' inwards of th' abyss. 
 
 Oh, from thy glorious starry wain 
 Dispense on me one sacred beam. 
 To light me where I soon may see 
 How to serve you, and you trust me. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. — About 1649. 
 
 355.— TO ALTHEA. 
 
 From Prison. 
 
 When love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates ; 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair, 
 
 And fetter' d to her eye ; 
 The gods that wanton in the air, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When flowing cups run swiftly round 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses bound, 
 
 Our hearts \vith loyal flames ; 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When (like committed linnets) I 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 When I shall voice aloud, how good 
 
 He is, how great should be ; 
 Enlarged winds that curl the flood 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage ; 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free ; 
 Angels alone that soar above 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. — About 1649. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE MUSE'S LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 [Thomas RANDOiiPH. 
 
 356.— S O N G. 
 
 Amarantha, sweet and fair, 
 Forbear to braid that shining liair ; 
 As my curious hand or eye, 
 Hovering round thee, let it fly : 
 
 Let it fly as unconfined 
 As its ravisher the wind, 
 Who has left his darling east 
 To wanton o'er this spicy nest. 
 
 Every tress must be confess'd 
 But neatly tangled at the best, 
 Like a clew of golden thread 
 Most excellently ravelled : 
 
 Bo not then wind up that light 
 
 In ribands, and o'ercloud the night ; 
 
 Like the sun in his early ray, 
 
 But shake your head and scatter day. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. — Ahoid 1649. 
 
 357.— A LOOSE SAEABAND. 
 
 Ah me, the little tyrant thief, 
 As once my heart was playing, 
 
 He snatch' d it up, and flew away, 
 Laughing at all my praying. 
 
 Proud of his purchase, he surveys. 
 
 And curiously sounds it ; 
 And though he sees it full of wounds. 
 
 Cruel still on he wounds it. 
 
 And now this heart is all his sporfc, 
 Which as a ball he boundeth, 
 
 Erom hand to hand, from breast to lip, 
 And all its rest confoundeth. 
 
 Then as a top he sets it up, 
 
 And pitifully whips it ; 
 Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, 
 
 Then straight again he strips it. 
 
 He cover' d it with false belief. 
 
 Which gloriously show'd it ; 
 And for a morning cushionet 
 
 On's mother ho bestow' d it. 
 
 Each day with her small brazen stings 
 A thousand times she raced it ; 
 
 But then at night, bright with her gems, 
 Once near her breast she placed it. 
 
 Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed, 
 
 She knew that smart and grieved ; 
 At length this poor condemned heart, 
 
 With these rich drugs reprieved. 
 She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear. 
 
 Which my Lucasta dropped ; 
 And in the sleeve silk of her hair 
 
 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped. 
 
 She probed it with her constancy, 
 And found no rancour nigh it ; 
 
 Only the anger of her eye 
 
 Had wroiight some proud flesh nigh it 
 
 Then press'd she hard in every vein, 
 Which from her kisses thrilled, 
 
 And with the balm heal'd all its pa,in 
 That from her hand distilled. 
 
 But yet this heart avoids me still. 
 
 Will not by me be owned ; 
 But, fled to its physician's breast^ 
 
 There proudly sits enthroned. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. — Ahoiit 1649. 
 
 358.— TO A LADY ADMIRING HEESELF 
 IN A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Fair lady, when you see the grace 
 Of beauty in your looking-glass ; 
 A stately forehead, smooth and high, 
 And full of princely majesty ; 
 A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, 
 Wliose lustre dims the Cyprian star ; 
 A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, 
 Wherein both roses kindly meet ; 
 • A cherry lip that would entice 
 Even gods to kiss at any price ; 
 You think no beauty is so rare 
 That with your shadow might compare ; 
 That your reflection is alone 
 The thing that men most dote upon. 
 Madam, alas ! your glass doth lie, 
 And you are much deceived ; for I 
 A beauty know of richer grace ; 
 (Sweet, be not angry) 'tis your face. 
 Hence, then, O learn more mild to be, 
 And leave to lay your blame on me : 
 If me your real substance move, 
 "When you so much your shadow love. 
 Wise nature would not let your eye 
 Look on her own bright majesty ; 
 Which, had you once but gazed upon, 
 You could, escept yourself, love none : 
 What then you cannot love, let me, 
 That face I can, you cannot see. 
 
 Now you have what to love, you'll say. 
 What then is left for me, I pray ? 
 My face, sweet heart, if it j)lease thee ; 
 That which you can, I cannot see : 
 So either love shall gain his due, 
 Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you. 
 
 Thomas Randolj^h. — Ahout 1630. 
 
 359.— FEOM THE MUSE'S LOOKING- 
 GLASS. 
 
 See, brother, how the wicked throng and 
 crowd 
 To works of vanity ! not a nook or comer 
 In all this house of sin, this cave of filthiness, 
 This den of spiritual thieves, but it is stuflfd, 
 Stuff'd, and stuff'd full, as is a cushion, 
 With the lewd reprobate. 
 
 Sister, were there not before inns — 
 Yes, I will say inns (for my zeal bids me 
 Say filthy inns ; enough to harbour such 
 
TH03IAS EANDOLPH.] 
 
 TO MY PICTUEE. 
 
 [Third PESior. — 
 
 As travell'd to destruction the broad way, 
 But they build more and more — more shops 
 of Satan ? 
 
 Iniquity aboundeth, though pure zeal 
 Teach, preach, huff, puff, and snuff at it ; yet 
 
 still, 
 Still it aboundeth ! Had we seen a church, 
 A new-built church, erected north and south, 
 It had been something worth the wondering at. 
 
 Good works are done. 
 
 I say no works are good ; 
 Go )d works are merely popish and apocryphal. 
 
 i3ut the bad abound, surround, yea, and 
 confound us. 
 No marvel now if playhouses increase, 
 For they are all grown so obscene of late. 
 That one begets another. 
 
 Flat fornication ! 
 I wonder anybody takes delight 
 To hear them prattle. 
 
 Nay, and I have heard. 
 That in a — ^tragedy, I think they call it, 
 They make no more of killing one another, 
 Than you sell pins. 
 
 Or you sell feathers, brother ; 
 But are they not hang'd for it ? 
 
 Law grows partial. 
 And finds it but chance-medley : and their 
 
 comedies 
 Will abuse you, or me, or anybody ; 
 We cannot put our monies to increase 
 By lawful usury, nor break in quiet, 
 Nor put off our false wares, nor keep our wives 
 Finer than others, but our ghosts must walk 
 Upon their stages. 
 
 Is not this flat conjuring, 
 To make our ghosts to walk ere we be dead ? 
 
 That's nothing, Mrs. Flowerdew ! they will 
 play 
 The knave, the fool, the devil and all, for 
 
 money. 
 
 Impiety ! O, that men endued with reason 
 Should have no more grace in them ! 
 
 Be there not other 
 Tocations as thriving, and more honest ? 
 Bailiffs, promoters, jailers, and apparitours. 
 Beadles and martials-men, the needful instru- 
 ments 
 Of the republic ; but to make themselves 
 Such monsters ! for they are monsters — th' are 
 
 monsters — 
 Base, sinful, shameless, ugly, vile, deform'd. 
 Pernicious monsters ! 
 
 I have heard our vicar 
 Call play-houses the colleges of transgression, 
 Wherein the seven deadly sins are studied. 
 
 Why then the city will in time be made 
 An university of iniquity. 
 Wo dwell by Black-Friars college, where I 
 
 wonder 
 How that profane nest of pernicious birds 
 Dare roost themselves there in the midst of us. 
 So many good and well-disposed persons. 
 
 impudence ! 
 
 It was a zealous prayer 
 
 1 heard a brother make concerning play-houses. 
 
 For charity, what is't ? 
 That the Globe 
 
 Wherein (quoth he) reigns a Avholo world - of 
 vice, 
 
 Had been consumed; the Phoenix burnt to 
 ashes ; 
 
 The Fortune whipt for a blind whore ; Black- 
 Friars 
 
 He wonders how it 'scaped demolishing 
 
 I' th' time of reformation : lastly, he wish'd 
 
 The Bull might cross the Thames to the Bear- 
 garden, 
 
 And there be soundly baited. 
 A good prayer ! 
 Indeed, it something pricks my conscience, 
 
 I come to sell 'em pins and looking-glasses. 
 I have their custom, too, for all their 
 feathers ; 
 
 'Tis fit that we, which are sincere professors. 
 
 Should gain by infidels. 
 
 Thomas Randolph. — Alout 1630. 
 
 360.— TO MY. PICTUEE. 
 
 When age hath made me what I am not now. 
 And every wrinkle tells me where the plough 
 Of Time hath furrow' d, when an ice shall flow 
 Through every vein, and all my head be snow ; 
 When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, 
 And I, myself, in my own picture seek. 
 Not finding what I am, but what I was ; 
 In doubt which to believe, this or my glass ; 
 Yet though I alter, this remains the same 
 As it was draAvn, retains the primitive frame. 
 And first complexion ; here wiU still be seen, 
 Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin : 
 Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye. 
 The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. 
 Behold what frailty we in man may see. 
 Whose shadow is less given to change than he. 
 Thomas Randolph. — About 1630. 
 
 361.— TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early hours 
 Of winters past, or coming, void of care ; 
 Well pleased with delights which present are. 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 
 
 flowers : 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers. 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
 And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
 A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. 
 What soul can be so sick which by thy songs 
 (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and 
 
 wrongs. 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
 Sweet artless songster ! thou my mind dost 
 
 raise 
 To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 
 William Drummond. — About 1640. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSAMOND. 
 
 [Thomas Mat. 
 
 362.— TO HIS LUTE. 
 
 My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
 With thy green motber in some shady grove, 
 When immelodious winds but made thee move, 
 And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. 
 Since that dear voice which did thy sounds 
 
 approve, 
 Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, 
 Is reft from earth to tun6 the spheres above, 
 What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 
 Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more. 
 But orphan wailings to the fainting ear, 
 Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a 
 
 tear ; 
 For which be silent as in woods before : 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
 Like widow' d turtle still her loss complain. 
 
 William Drummond. — About 1640. 
 
 363.— SPRING. 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly 
 
 train. 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with 
 
 flow'rs, 
 The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain. 
 The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their 
 
 show'rs. 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st — ^but, ah ! my 
 
 pleasant hours. 
 And happy days, with thee come not again ; 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to 
 
 sours. 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 
 Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
 But she whose breath embalm' d thy wholesome 
 
 air 
 Is gone ; nor gold nor gems can her restore. 
 Neglected virtue, seasons go and come. 
 When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb ! 
 
 William Drummond. — About 1640, 
 
 364.— THINK ON THY HOME. 
 
 Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth 
 
 fade, 
 The morning's darlfhg late, the summer's 
 
 queen, 
 Spoil' d of that juice which kept it fresh and 
 
 green. 
 As high as it did raise, bows low the head : 
 Right so the pleasures of my life being dead. 
 Or in their contraries but only seen, 
 With swifter speed declines than erst it spread. 
 And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath 
 
 been. 
 As doth the pUgrim, theref ore^ whom the night 
 By darkness would imprison on his way. 
 Think on thy home (my soul) and think aright, 
 Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; 
 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 William Drummond. — About 1640. 
 
 365.— JOHN THE BAPTIST. 
 
 The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, 
 Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild. 
 Among that savage brood the woods foi-th 
 
 bring, 
 Which he more harmless found 1^a»-nian, and 
 
 mild ; 
 His food was locusts, and what there doth 
 
 spring. 
 With honey that from virgin hives distOl'd, 
 Parch'dbody, hoUow eyes, some uncouth thing. 
 Made him appear, long since from earth exiled, 
 There burst he forth ; all ye whose hopes rely 
 On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn. 
 Repent, repent, and from old errors turn ! 
 Who listen' d to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 
 
 Only the echoes, which he made relent. 
 
 Rung from their flinty caves. Repent, repent ! 
 
 William Drummond. — About 1640. 
 
 366.— THE PRAISE OP A SOLITARY 
 LIFE. 
 
 Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 
 Far from the clamorous world, doth live his 
 
 own. 
 Thou solitary, who is not alone, 
 But doth converse with that eternal love. 
 O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan. 
 Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow' d dove, 
 Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's 
 
 throne. 
 Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 
 O how more sweet is Zephyr' s wholesome breath. 
 And sighs embalm' d which new-born flowers 
 
 unfold, 
 Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 
 How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 
 The world is full of horror, troubles, slights : 
 Woods' harmless shades have only true de- 
 lights. 
 
 William Drummond. — About 1640. 
 
 367.— THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 
 
 Fair Rosamond within her bower of late 
 (While these sad storms had shaken Henry's 
 
 state, 
 And he from England last had absent been) 
 Retired herself ; nor had that star been seen 
 To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace 
 The woods or walks adjoining to the place. 
 
 About those places, while the times were 
 free. 
 Oft with a train of her attendants she 
 For pleasure walk'd ; and like the huntress 
 
 queen. 
 With her light nymphs, was by the people seen. 
 Thither the country lads and swains, that near 
 To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on 
 
 her. 
 
Sir E. F^nshawe.] 
 
 THE SPEING. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Their jolly May-games there would they pre- 
 sent, 
 Their harmless sports and rustic merriment, 
 To give this beauteous paragon delight. 
 Nor that officious service would she slight ; 
 But their rude pastimes gently entertain. 
 
 * # * * 
 Now came that fatal day, ordain' d to see 
 
 The eclipse of beauty, and for ever be 
 Accursed by woeful lovers, — all alone 
 Into her chamber Eosamond was gone ; 
 
 * # # # 
 While thus she sadly mused, a ruthful cry 
 Had pierced her tender ear, and in the sound 
 Was named (she thought) unhappy Eosamond. 
 (The cry was utter' d by her grieved maid, 
 From whom that clew was taken, that betray' d 
 Her lady's life), and while she doubting fear'd. 
 Too soon the fatal certainty appear' d : 
 
 For with her train the wrathful queen was 
 
 there : 
 Oh ! who can tell what cold and killing fear 
 Through every part of Eosamond was struck? 
 The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook. 
 And like an ivory statue did she show - 
 Of life and motion reft. Had she been so 
 Transform' d in deed, how kind the Fates had 
 
 been. 
 How pitiful to her I nay to the queen ! 
 Even she herseK did seem to entertain 
 Some ruth; but straight revenge return' d 
 
 again, 
 And fill'd her furious breast. " Strumpet 
 
 (quoth she), 
 I need not speak at all ; my sight may be 
 Enough expression of my -svrongs, and what 
 The consequence must prove of such a hate. 
 Here, take this poison'd cup " (for in her hand 
 A poison'd cup she had), " and do not stand 
 To parley now : but drink it presently. 
 Or else by tortures be resolved to die ! 
 Thy doom is set." Pale trembHng Eosamond 
 Eeceives the cup, and kneeling on the ground. 
 When dull amazement somewhat had forsook 
 Her breast, thus humbly to the queen she 
 
 spoke : 
 " I dare not hope you should so far relent, 
 Great queen, as to forgive the punishment 
 That to my foul offence is justly due. 
 Nor will I vainly plead excuse, to show 
 By what strong arts I was at first betray' d, 
 Or tell how many subtle snares were laid 
 To catch mine honour. These though ne'er 
 
 so true. 
 Can bring no recompense at all to you. 
 Nor just excuse to my abhorred crime. 
 Instead of sudden death, I crave but time, 
 
 * * * # 
 
 ,' No more (replied the furious queen) ; have 
 
 done ; 
 Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone, 
 And that a sterner death for thee remain." 
 No more did Eosamond entreat in vain ; 
 But, forced to hard necessity to yield, 
 Drank of the fatal potion that she held, 
 
 And with it enter' d the grim tyrant Death : 
 Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath 
 Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly 
 
 throne. 
 And pardon those that her destruction 
 Had doubly wrought. ''Forgive, O Lord 
 
 (said she,), 
 Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. 
 Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry 
 
 queen ! 
 If you had spared my life, I might have been 
 In time to come the example of your glory ; 
 Not of your shame, as now ; for when the 
 
 story 
 Of hapless Eosamond is read, the best 
 And lioHcst people, as they will detest 
 My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor, 
 And call unjust, the rage of Eleanor. 
 And in this act of yours it will be thought 
 King Henry's sorrow, not his love, you 
 
 sought." 
 And now so far the venom's force assail'd 
 Her vital parts, that life with language fail'd. 
 That well-built palace where the Graces made 
 Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids 
 
 play'd 
 And couch' d their shafts, whose structure did 
 
 delight 
 Even nature's self, is now demolish' d quite. 
 Ne'er to be raised again ; the untimely stroke 
 Of death that precious cabinet has broke, 
 That Henry's pleased heart so long had held. 
 With sudden mourning now the house is fill'd; 
 Nor can the queen's attendants, though they 
 
 fear 
 Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbear. 
 By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade ; 
 So crushed falls the lily's tender blade. 
 * * * * 
 
 Thomas May. — About 1G40. 
 
 368.— THE SPEING. 
 
 Those whiter Lilies which the early morn 
 Seems to have newly woven of sleaved silk. 
 
 To which, on banks of wealthy Tagus born. 
 Gold was their cradle, liquid pearl their 
 milk. 
 
 These blushing Eoses, with whose virgin 
 leaves. 
 The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, 
 Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives 
 For his wings purple, for his breath per- 
 fumes. 
 
 Both those and these my Celia's pretty foot 
 Trod up — ^but if she should her face dis- 
 play, 
 And fragrant breast — they'd dry again to the 
 root, 
 As with the blasting of the mid-day's ray; 
 And this soft ^vind, which both perfumes and 
 
 cools, 
 Pass like the unregarded breath of fools. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshawe, — About 1648. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 A EICH FOOL. 
 
 [Sib E. Fanshawe. 
 
 369.— A ROSE. 
 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves 
 The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, 
 Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives 
 For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ! 
 
 Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon : 
 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes 
 
 thee? 
 Thou'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon : 
 And passing proud a little colour makes thee. 
 
 If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, 
 Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy 
 
 bane ; 
 For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves 
 The sentence of thy early death contain. 
 
 Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy 
 
 sweet flower. 
 If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn : 
 And many Herods lie in wait each hour 
 To murder thee as soon as thou art born ; 
 Nay, force thy bud to blow ; their tyrant breath 
 Anticipating life, to hasten death. 
 
 Sir Rlcliard Fanahaivc. — About 1G48. 
 
 70.— THE SAINT'S ENCOUEAGEMENT. 
 
 Fight on, bravo soldiers, for the cause ; 
 
 Fear not the cavaliers ; 
 Their threat'nings are as senseless, as 
 
 Our jealousies and fears. 
 'Tis j^ou must perfect this great work, 
 
 And all malignants slay, 
 Yoii rauttt bring back the king again 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 "iiri for Eeligion that you fight. 
 
 And for the kingdom's good, 
 Ey robbing churches, plundering men, 
 
 And shedding guiltless blood. 
 Down with the orthodoxal train. 
 
 All loyal subjects slay ; 
 When these arc gone, we shall be blest, 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 When Charles we've bankrupt made like us, 
 
 Of crown and power bereft him, 
 And all his loyal subjects slain, 
 
 And none but rebels left him, 
 When we've beggar"! i.ll the land, 
 
 And sent our tnwk.-; away, 
 We'll make him tlion a glorious prince, 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 'Tis to preserve his majesty. 
 
 That we against him fight, 
 Xor are we ever beaten back. 
 
 Because our cause is right : 
 If any make a scruple on't, 
 
 Our declarations say, 
 Who fight for us, fight for the king 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York, 
 
 And divers places more, 
 Wliat victories wo saints obtain' d. 
 
 The like ne'er seen before ! 
 How often we Prince Rupert kill'd, 
 
 And bravely won the day ; 
 The wicked cavaliers did run — — 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 The true religion we maintain, 
 
 The kingdom's peace and plenty ; 
 The privilege of parliament 
 
 Not known to one of twenty ; 
 The ancient fundamental laws ; 
 
 And teach men to obey 
 Their lawful sovereign ; and all those 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 We subjects' liberties preserve. 
 
 By prisonments and plunder. 
 And do enrich ourselves and state 
 
 By keeping the wicked under. 
 We must preserve mechanics now, 
 
 To lecturise and pray ; 
 By them the Gospel is advanced 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 And though the king be much misled 
 
 By that malignant crew ; 
 He'U find us honest, and at last 
 
 Give all of us our due. 
 For we do msely plot, and plot, 
 
 EebeUion to destroy, 
 Ho sees we stand for peace and trath. 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 The public faith shall save our souls, 
 
 And good out-works together ; 
 And ships shall save our lives, that stay 
 
 Only for wind and weather. 
 But when our faith and works fall down. 
 
 And all our hopes decay, 
 Our acts will bear us up to heaven, 
 
 The clean contrary way. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshaive. — Ahcict 1648. 
 
 371.— A EICH FOOL. 
 
 Thee, sonselesa stock, because thou'rt richly 
 
 gilt, 
 The blinded people without cause admire, 
 And superstition impiously hath built 
 Altars to that which should have been the fire. 
 
 "Where shall my tongue consent to worship. 
 
 thee. 
 Since all's not gold that glisters and is fair ; 
 Carving but makes an image of a tree : 
 But gods of images are made by prayer. 
 
 Sabean incense in a fragrant cloud 
 Illustriously suspended o'er thy crown 
 Like a king's canopy, makes thee allow' d 
 For more than man. But let them take thco 
 
 down, • 
 And thy true value be once understood. 
 Thy dull idolaters will find thou'rt wood. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshaive. — About 1648. 
 15 
 
Sir W. Davenant.] 
 
 GOKDIBEET. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 372.— GONDIBEET. 
 
 THE ARGUITENT. 
 
 The king to Gondibert is groAvn so kinde, 
 That he prevents the beauteous Ehodalind 
 In giving of her love ; and Gondibert 
 Laments his breast holds but a single heart ; 
 Which Birtha grieves her beauty did subdue, 
 Since he undoes the world in being true. 
 
 Full grows the presence now, as when all 
 know 
 Some stranger prince must be receiv'd with 
 state ; 
 When courts shew those, who come to see the 
 show; 
 And all gay subjects like domesticks waite. 
 
 Nor Ulfinore nor Goltho absent were ; 
 
 Whose hopes expect what iist'ning Birtha 
 (hid 
 In the adjoyning closet) fears to hoare ; 
 And beggs Idnde Heav'n in pitty. would 
 forbid. 
 
 The king (who never time nor pow'r mis- 
 spent 
 In subjects' bashfulness, whiling great 
 deeds 
 Like coward councels, who too late consent) 
 Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds. 
 
 "If to thy fame," (brave youth) " I could 
 add wings. 
 Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, 
 I would (as an example drawn for kings) 
 Proclaim the cause, why thou art now my 
 choice. 
 
 " But this were to suspect the world asleep, 
 Or all our Lombards with their envy blinde, 
 
 Or that the Huns so much for bondage weep, 
 As their droAvn'd eies cannot thy trophies 
 finde. 
 
 " When this is heard, none dare of vrhat I 
 give 
 Presume their equal merit might have 
 shar'd; 
 And to say more, might make thy foes 
 believe, 
 Thy dang'rous worth is grown above re- 
 ward. 
 
 " Eeward even of a crown, and such a crown, 
 
 As by Heav'n' s model ancient victors wore; 
 
 When they, as by their coyn, by laws were 
 
 known; 
 
 For laws but made more currant victors' 
 
 pow'r. 
 
 " A crown soon taught, by wh^m pow'r first 
 was given ; 
 
 When victors (of dominion cautious made 
 By hearing of that old revolt in Heav'n) 
 
 Kept pow'r too high for subjects to invade. 
 
 " A crovv'n, which ends by armies their de- 
 bate. 
 Who question height of pow'r ; who by the 
 law 
 (TiU plain obedience they make intricate) 
 Would not the people, but their rulers aw. 
 
 " To pow'r adoption makes thy title good ; 
 Preferring worth, as birth gives princes 
 place ; 
 And vertue's claim exceeds the right of 
 blood. 
 As soul's extraction does the bodie's race. 
 
 " Yet for thy blood's long walk through 
 princes' veins. 
 Thou maist with any Lombard measure 
 time; 
 Though he Ms hidden house in Ilium feigns ; 
 And not step short, when Hubert's self 
 would climbe. 
 
 " And Hubert is of highest victors' breed ; 
 
 Whose worth I shall for distant empire 
 choose ; 
 If he will learn, that you by fate procede, 
 
 And what he never had, he cannot lose; 
 
 '' His valour shall the Gothick conquest 
 
 And would to Heaven that all your mighty 
 mindes 
 As soon were pleas'd, as infants are with sleep, 
 And you had musick common as the windes. 
 
 " That all the year your seasons were like 
 spring; 
 
 All joy'd as birds, and all as 'vers kinde ; 
 That ev'ry famous fighter were a king. 
 
 And each like you cordd have a Ehodalind. 
 
 " For she is yours, as your adoption free ; 
 
 And in that gift my remnant life I give ; 
 But 'tis to you, brave youth ! who now are 
 she; 
 
 And she that Heav'n where secondly I live. 
 
 " And richer than that crown (which shall be 
 thine. 
 When life's long progress I am gone with 
 fame) 
 Take all her love ; which scarce forbears to 
 shine 
 And OAvn thee, through her virgin-curtain, 
 shame." 
 
 Thus spake the king ; and Ehodalind appear'd 
 Through publish'd love, with so much bash- 
 fulness. 
 As young kings shew, when by surprise o're- 
 heard 
 Moaning to fav'rite eares a deep distress. 
 
 Tor love is a distress, and would be hid 
 Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bash- 
 ful grow ; 
 And in that shame beholders they forbid ; 
 Since those blush most, who most their 
 blushes show. 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] 
 
 GONDIBERT. 
 
 [SiE, ^Y. Davsnant. 
 
 And Gondibert -with dying- eies did grieve 
 
 At her vail'd love (a wound he cannot heal) 
 As great mindes mourn, who cannot then 
 relieve 
 The vertuous, when through shame they 
 want conceal. 
 
 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay ; 
 Who in fear's frost had like her beauty 
 
 But that attendant hope perswades hor stay 
 A while, to hear her duke ; who thus reply' d. 
 
 " Victorious king ! Abroad your subjects are 
 Like legates safe ; at home like altars free ! 
 
 Even by your fame they conquer as by warre; 
 And by your laws safe from each other be. 
 
 " A king you are o'ro subjects, so as wise 
 And noble husbands seem o're loyal Avives : 
 
 Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, 
 And brag to strangers of their happy lives. 
 
 " To foes a winter storm ; whilst your friends 
 bow. 
 Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's 
 load; 
 To me (next him whom your great self, with low 
 And cheerful duty serves) a giving God. 
 
 " Since this is you, and Ehodalind (the light 
 By which her sex fled vertue finde) is yours ; 
 
 Your diamond, with tests of jealous sight, 
 The stroke, and fire, and oisel's juice en- 
 dures; 
 
 " Since she so precious is, I shall appear 
 All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; 
 
 And never df i-e approach her lustre near ; 
 Who scarco can hold my value in the shade. 
 
 " Forgive me that I am not what I seem, 
 But falsly have dissembled an excess 
 
 Of all such vertues as you most esteem ; 
 But now grow good but as I ills confess. 
 
 " Far in ambition's feaver am I gone ! 
 
 Like raging flame aspiring is my love ; 
 Like flame destructive too, and like the Sun 
 
 Does round the world tow'rds change of 
 objects move. 
 
 " Nor is this now through vertuous shame 
 confess'd ; 
 But Ehodalind does force my conjur'd 
 feare, 
 As men whom evil spirits have possess'd, 
 Tell all when saintly votaries appeare. 
 
 " When she will grace the bridal dignitie, 
 It will be soon to all young monarchs 
 known ; 
 Who then by posting through the world will 
 trie 
 Who first can at her feet present his crown. 
 
 " Then will Verona seem the inn of kings ; 
 
 And Ehodalind shall at her palace gate 
 Smile, when great love these royal sutors 
 brings ; 
 Who for that smile would as for empire 
 waito. 
 
 " Amongst this ruling race she choyce may 
 
 take 
 
 For warmth of valour, coolness of the 
 
 minde, 
 
 Eies that in empire's drowsie calms can wake, 
 
 In storms look out, in darkness dangerj find. 
 
 " A prince who more inlarges pow'r than 
 lands : 
 Whose greatness is not what his map con- 
 tains ; 
 But thinks that his, where he at full com- 
 mands ; 
 Not where his coyn does pass, biit pow'r 
 remains. 
 
 " Who knows that pow'r can never be too high 
 
 When by the good possest ; for 'tis in them 
 
 The swelling Nylc ; from which though people 
 
 They prosjjer most by rising of the stream. 
 
 " Thus (princess) you should choose ; and you 
 ■will nnde ; 
 Even he, since men are wolves, must civi- 
 lize 
 (As Kght does tame some beasts of savage 
 kinde) 
 HimseK yet more, by dwelling in your eies." 
 
 Such was the duke's reply; which did pro- 
 duce 
 Thoughts of a diverse shape through sev'ral 
 eares : 
 His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse ; 
 But Astragon it cures of all his feares. 
 
 Birtha his praise of Ehodalind bewayles ; 
 
 And now her hoiDO a weak physitian seems, 
 For hope, the common comforter, prevailcs 
 
 Like common med'cines, slowly in extreams. 
 
 The king (secure in offer' d empire) takes 
 This forc'd excuse, as troubled bashfulness, 
 
 And a disguise which sodain passion makes, 
 To hide more joy than prudence should 
 express. 
 
 And Ehodalind (who never lov'd before, 
 Nor could suspect his love was giv'n away) 
 
 Thought not the treasure of his breast so 
 poore. 
 But that it might his debts of honour pay. 
 
 To hasten the rewards of his desert. 
 
 The king does to Verona him command ; 
 
 And kindness so impos'd, not all his art 
 Can now instruct his duty to withstand. 
 
 Yet whilst the king does now his time dispose 
 In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, 
 
 He would a parting kindness pay to those 
 Who of their wounds are yet not perfect 
 grown. 
 
 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the king 
 Lord Astragon through aU the house at- 
 tends, 
 Young Orgo does the duke to Birtha bring ; 
 Who thus her sorrows to his bosomo sends. 
 
 15* 
 
Sib W. Davenant.] 
 
 GONDIBERT. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 " Why should my storm your life's calm voy- 
 age vex ? 
 
 Destroying wholly vertue's race in one ; 
 So by the first of my unlucky sex, 
 
 All in a single mine were undone. 
 
 " Make heav'nly Rhodalind your bride 1 
 Whilst I, 
 Your once lov'd maid, excuse you, since I 
 know 
 That vertuous men forsake so willingly 
 
 Long cherish'd life, because to Heav'n they 
 go. 
 
 " Let me her servant be ! A dignity, 
 Which if your pity in my fall procures ; 
 
 I still shall value the advancement high, 
 Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours." 
 
 E're this high sorrow up to dying grew, 
 The duke the casket op'ned, and from 
 thence 
 
 (Form'd like a heart) a cheerf ull emrauld drew ; 
 Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sence. 
 
 The thirti'th carract it had doubled twice ; 
 
 Not tak'n from the Attick silver mine, 
 Nor from the brass, though such (of nobler 
 price) 
 
 Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine : 
 
 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud ; 
 
 Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians 
 climb ; 
 But from the Scjiihian, and without a cloud; 
 
 Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. 
 
 Then thus he spake ! " This (Birtha) from my 
 male 
 
 Progenitors, was to the loyal she 
 On whose kinde heart they did in love prevail, 
 
 The nuptial pledge, and this I p,ive to thee ! 
 
 " Seven centuries have pass'd, since it from 
 bride 
 To bride did first succeed ; and though tis 
 known 
 From ancient lore, that gemms much vertue 
 hide. 
 And that the emrauld is the bridal stone ; 
 
 " Though muchrenown'd because it chastness 
 loves. 
 
 And will when wor:i by the ncjflected wife, 
 Show Avhcn her absent lord disloyal proves, 
 
 By faintness, and a pale decay of life ; 
 
 " Though emraulds serve as spies to jealous 
 brides, 
 Yet each compar'd to this does councel 
 lc*3p; 
 Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood 
 hides, 
 Or seems born blinde, or feigns a dying 
 
 « With this take Orgo, as a better spy ; 
 
 Who may in all yoiu- kinder foares bo sent 
 To watch at court, if I deserve to die 
 
 By making this to fade, and you lament." 
 
 Had now an artfuU pencil Birtha drawn 
 
 (With grief all dark, then straight with joy 
 all light) 
 
 He must have fancy' d first, in early daA\-n, 
 A sudden break of beauty out of night. 
 
 Or first he must have mark'd what paleness, 
 fear, 
 
 Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring ; 
 Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, 
 
 A rosy morn begin a sadden spring. 
 
 Her joys (too vaste to be contain' d in speech) 
 Thus she a little spake ! " Why stoop you 
 dovm, 
 
 My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha' s reach, 
 Since Ehodalind would lift you to a crown ? 
 
 " Or why do I, when I this plight imbrace, 
 Boldly aspire to take what you have given? 
 
 But that your vertue has with angels place, 
 And 'tis a vertue to aspire to Heav'n. 
 
 " And as tow'rds Heav'n all travail on their 
 knees ; 
 So I tow'rds you, though love aspire, will 
 move : 
 And were you crown' d, what could you better 
 please 
 Than aw'd obedience led by bolder love ? 
 
 " If I forget the depth from whence I rise, 
 Far from your bosome banish' d be my heart ; 
 
 Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes ; 
 Or proudly think, my chastity desert. 
 
 " But thus ascending from your humble maid 
 To be your plighted bride, and then your 
 wife. 
 
 Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, 
 TiU. time my duty cancel with my life. 
 
 " And fruitfully if Heav'n ere make me bring 
 
 Your image to the world, you then my jiride 
 
 No more shall blame, than you can tax the 
 
 Spring 
 
 For boasting of those llowres she cannot 
 
 hide. 
 
 " Orgo^ I so receive as I am taught 
 By duty to esteem what ere you love ; 
 
 And hope the joy he in this jewel brought, 
 Will luckyer than his former triumphs 
 prove. 
 
 " For though but twice he has approach' d my 
 sight, 
 He twice made haste to di-own me in my 
 tears : 
 B-at now I am above his planet's spite, 
 And as for sin beg pardon for my fears." 
 
 Thus spake she ; and Avith fix'd continu'd 
 sight, 
 The duke did all her bashful beauties view ; 
 Then they with kisses soal'd their sacred 
 plight ; 
 Like floAvres still sweeter as they thicke 
 5?rew. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 GONDIBEET. 
 
 [Sir W. Davenant. 
 
 Yet must these pleasures feel, though inno- 
 cent, 
 
 The sickness of extreames, and cannot last; 
 Por pow'r (love's shun'cl impediment) has sent 
 
 To tell the duke, his monarch is in hast : 
 
 And calls him to that triumph which he fears 
 So as a saint forgiven (whose breast does all 
 Heav'n'a joys contain) wisely lov'd pomp for- 
 bears ; 
 Lest tempted nature should from blessings 
 fall. 
 
 He often takes his leave, with love's delay ; 
 
 And bids her hope, ho with the king shall 
 finde. 
 By now appearing forward to obay, 
 
 A means to serve him less in Ehodalind. 
 
 She weeping to her closet-window hies ; 
 
 "Where she with tears docs Ehodalind survey; 
 As dying men, who grieve that they have 
 eyes. 
 When they through curtains spy the rising 
 day. 
 
 The king has now his curious sight suffis'd 
 
 With all lost arts, in their revival view'd ; 
 W^hich when restor'd, our pride thinks new 
 devis'd : 
 Fashions of mindes, call'd new when but 
 renew' d ! 
 
 The busie court prepares to move, on whom 
 Their sad offended eyes the country caste ; 
 
 Who never see enough where monarchs come ; 
 And nothing so uncivil seems as haste. 
 
 As men move slow, who knovr they lose their 
 way. 
 Even so the duke tow'rds Ehodalind does 
 move ; 
 Yet he does dutious fears, and wonder pay. 
 Which are the first, and dangerous signes 
 of love. 
 
 All his addresses much by Goltho were 
 
 And Ulfinore observ'd; who distant stand; 
 
 Not daring to approach his presence noer ; 
 But shun his eyes to scape from his com- 
 mand: 
 
 Least to Verona he should both require ; 
 I For by remaining here, both hope to light 
 
 Their Hymen's torches at his parting fire ; 
 And not despaire to kindle them to-night. 
 
 The king his golden chariot now ascends ; 
 
 Wliich neer fair Ehodalind the duke con- 
 ! taines ; 
 
 Though to excuse that grace he lowly bends ; 
 
 But honour so refus'd, more honour gaines. 
 
 And nov*- their chariots (ready to take wing) 
 Are oven by weakest breath, a whisper 
 stay'd : 
 
 And but such whisper as a page does bring 
 To Laura's woman from a household maid. 
 
 But this low voice did raise in Laura's eare 
 An eccho, which from all redoubled soon ; 
 
 Proclaiming such a country beauty here. 
 As makes them look, like ev'ning to her 
 noon. 
 
 And Laura (of her own high beauty j^roud, 
 Yet not to others cruel) softly prays, 
 
 She may appear ! but Gartha, bold, and loud, 
 With eyes impatient as for conquest, stays. 
 
 Though Astragon now owns her, and excus'd 
 Her presence, as a maid but rudely taught, 
 
 Liiirm in health, and not to greatness us'd ; 
 Y"et Gartlia still calls out, to have her 
 brought ! 
 
 But Ehodalind (in whose relenting breast 
 Compassion's self might sit at school and 
 learn) 
 Knew bashful maids with publick view dis- 
 trest ; 
 And in their glass, themselves with fear 
 discern ; 
 
 She stopt this challenge which court-beauty 
 made 
 To country shape; not knowing Nature's 
 hand 
 Had Birtha dve.3.s"d ; nor that herself obay'd 
 In vain, whom conqu'ring Birtha did com- 
 mand. 
 
 The duke (whom vertuous kindness soon sub- 
 dues) 
 Though him liis bonds from Birtha highly 
 please, 
 Yet seems to think, that lucky he, Avho sues 
 To wear this royal mayd's, will walk at ease. 
 
 Of these a brief survey sad Birtha takes ; 
 And Orgo's help directs her eye to all ; 
 Sliows her for whom grave Tybalt nightly 
 wakes ; 
 Then at whose feet wise Hermegild does 
 fan. 
 
 And when calm Oma with the count she saw, 
 Hope (who though weak, a willing painter is, 
 
 And busily does ev'ry pattern draw) 
 By that example could not work amiss. 
 
 For soon she shap'd her lord and her so kinde, 
 So all of love ; till fancy wrought no more 
 
 When she perceiv'd him sit with Ehodalind ; 
 But froward-painter-like the copy tore. 
 
 And now they move; aid she thus rob'd, 
 believes 
 (Since with such haste they bear her wealth 
 away) 
 That they at best, are but judicious thieves, 
 And know the noble valine of their prey. 
 
 And then she thus complain' d ! " Why royal 
 
 maid ! 
 
 Injurious greatness ! did you hither come 
 
 Where pow'r's strong nets of wyrewere never 
 
 laid ? 
 
 But childish love took cradle as at home. 
 
Sir W. Davenant.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 " "Where can wo safe our harmless blessings 
 keep, 
 Since glorio-as courts our solitude invade ? 
 Eells which ring- out, when th' unconcern' d 
 would sleep ; 
 False lights to scare poor birds in country- 
 shade ! 
 
 " Or if our joys their own discov'ry make, 
 Envy (whose tong-ue first kills whom she 
 devours) 
 Calls it our pride ; envy, the poys'nous snake. 
 Whose breath blasts maids, as innocent as 
 flo"^vres ! 
 
 " Forgive me, beautious greatness, if I grow 
 Distemper' d with my fears, and rudely long 
 
 To be secm'c ; or praise your beauty so 
 As to believe, that it may do me wrong ; 
 
 " And you, my iplighted lord, forgive me 
 too, 
 If, since your worth and my defects I find, 
 I fear what you in justice ought to do ; 
 
 And praise your judgment when I doubt 
 you kind." 
 
 Now sudden fear o'er all her beauty wrought 
 The pale appearance of a killing frost ; 
 
 And careful! Orgo, when she started, thought 
 She had her pledge, the precious emrauld, 
 lost. 
 
 But that kinde heart, as constant as her own. 
 She did not miss; 'twas from a sudden 
 sence. 
 Least in her lover's heart some change was 
 grown. 
 And it grew pale with that intelligence. 
 
 Soon from her bosome she this emrauld took : 
 "If now" (said she) "my lord my heart 
 deceaves, 
 This stone will by dead paleness make me 
 look 
 Pale as the snowy skin of lilly lea,ves." 
 
 But such a cheerful green the gemm did fling 
 Where she oppos'd the rayes, as if she had 
 
 Been dy'de in the complexion of the spring. 
 Or were by nimphs of Brittain valleys clad. 
 
 Soon she with earnest passion kist the stone ; 
 
 Which ne'er till then had suffer'd an eclipse ; 
 But then the rayes retird, as if it shone 
 
 In vain, so neer ij^e rubies of her lips. 
 
 Yet thence remov'd, with publick glory shines ! 
 
 She Orgo blest, who had this relique 
 
 brought ; 
 
 And kept it like those reliques lock'd in 
 
 shrines, 
 
 By which the latest miracles were wrought. 
 
 For soon respect was up to rev'rence grown ; 
 - WTiich fear to superstition would sublime. 
 But that her father took fear's ladder do^vn ; 
 Lose steps, by which distress to Heav'n 
 would climbe. 
 
 He knew, v.'hen fear shapes heav'nly pow'r so 
 just, 
 And terrible, (parts of that shape drp.wn 
 true) 
 It vailes Heav'n' s beauty, love ; which when 
 we trust, 
 Our courage honours him to whom we sue ! 
 Sir William Bavenant. — About 1640. 
 
 373--SONCT. 
 
 The lark now leaves his watery nest, 
 And climbing shakes his de^vy ^vings ; 
 
 He takes his window for the east, 
 And to implore your light, he sings, 
 
 Awake, awake, the moon will never rise, 
 
 Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 
 
 The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, 
 The ploughman from the sun his season 
 takes ; 
 But still the lover wonders what they are. 
 
 Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; 
 Awake, awake, break tlu-ough your veils of 
 
 lawn ! 
 Then draw yonr curtains and begin the dawn. 
 ;8'iV William Bavenant. — About 1640. 
 
 374.— TO THE QUEEN". 
 
 Fair as unshaded light, or as the day 
 In its first birth, when all the year was May ; 
 Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new 
 "Unfolded bud, swell' d by the early dew ; 
 Smooth as the face of waters first appear' d. 
 Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard ; 
 Kind as the willing saints, and calmer far 
 Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are. 
 You that are more than our discreeter fear 
 Dares praise, v/ith such full art, what make 
 
 you here ? 
 Here, where the summer is so little seen. 
 That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach 
 
 at green ; 
 You come, as if the silver planet were 
 Misled a while from her much injured sphere ; 
 And, t'ease the travels of her beams to-night. 
 In this small lanthorn would contract her light. 
 8ir William Bavenant. — About 1640. 
 
 375.— THE MOENING STAE. 
 
 StiU Herald of the Morn ! whose ray. 
 
 Being page and usher to the day. 
 
 Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play ; 
 
 Who set't'st a golden signal ere 
 
 The bark retire, the lark appear, 
 
 The early cocks cry comfort, screech-owls fear. 
 
 Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth, 
 
 Then falls asleep, while they are loth 
 
 To part without a more engaging oath ; 
 
 Steal in a message to the eyes 
 
 Of Julia, tell her that she lies 
 
 Too long, — thy lord, the Sun, will quickly rise. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 UPON HIS MISTEESS SAD. 
 
 [James Shirley. 
 
 Yet it is midniglit still with lue, 
 Nay worsG, unless that kinder she 
 Smile day, and in my zenith seated be ! 
 But if she will obliquely run, 
 I needs a calenture must shun, 
 And, like an Ethiopian, hate my sun. 
 
 John Hall— About 1646. 
 
 376.— SONG BY LOVE TO PHYSANDEE 
 AND BELLANIMA. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, happy pair, 
 
 To these abodes, where spicj'- air 
 
 Breathes perfumes, and every sense 
 
 Doth find his object's excellence ; 
 
 Where's no heat, nor cold extreme, 
 
 No winter's icQ, no summer's scorching 
 
 beam ; 
 Where's no sun, yet never nijrht, 
 Day always springing from eternal light. 
 
 All mortal sufferings laid aside, 
 Here in endless bliss abide. 
 
 Welcome to Love, my new-loved heir, 
 
 Elysium's thine, ascend my chair : 
 
 Eor following sensuality 
 
 I thought to disinherit thee ; 
 
 But being now reform' d in life, 
 
 And reunited to thy wife. 
 
 Mine only daughter, fate allows 
 
 That Love with stars should cro-svn your 
 
 brows. 
 Join ye that were his guides to this. 
 Thus I enthrone you both — now kiss ; 
 Whilst you in endless measures move, 
 Led on to endless joys by Love. 
 
 Thomas Nabhes.— About 1637. 
 
 Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed 
 
 his doom ; 
 Not forced him to wander, but confined him 
 
 home. 
 
 John Cleveland. — About 1647. 
 
 378.— ON PHILLIS, WALKENG BEFOEE 
 
 SUNEISE. 
 
 The sluggish morn as yet undress ^, 
 My Phillis brake from out her rest. 
 As if she'd made a match to run 
 With Venus, usher to the sun. 
 The trees (like yeomen of her guard 
 Serving more for pomp than ward, 
 Bank'd on each side with loyal duty). 
 Wave branches to enclose her beauty. 
 The plants, whose luxury was lopp'd, 
 Or age with crutches underpropp'd, 
 Whose wooden carcasses are grown 
 To be but coffins of their own, 
 Revive, and at her general dole, 
 Each receives his ancient soid. 
 
 The winged choristers began 
 To chirp their matins ; and the fan 
 Of wliistling winds, like organs jilay'd 
 Unto their voluntaries, made 
 The waken' d earth in odours rise 
 To be her morning sacrifice ; 
 The flowers, call'd out of their tJWdH, 
 Start and raise up their drowsy heads ; 
 And he that for their colour seeks. 
 May find it vaulting in her cheeks, 
 Where roses mix ; no civil war 
 Between her York and Lancaster. 
 The marigold, whose courtier's face 
 Echoes the sun, and doth unlace 
 Her at his rise, at his full stop 
 Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop. 
 Mistakes her cue, and doth display ; 
 Thus Phillis antedates the day. 
 
 These miracles had cramp'd the sun, 
 Who, thinking that his kingdom's won, 
 Powders with light his frizzled locks, 
 To see what saint his lustre m.ocks. 
 The trembling leaves through which he 
 
 play'd, 
 Dappling the walk with light and shade, 
 (Like lattice windows), give the spy 
 Eoom but to peep with half an eye, 
 Lest her full orb his sight should dim, 
 And bid us all good night in him : 
 Till she would spend a gentle ray. 
 To force us a new-fashion' d day. 
 
 But what new-fashioned palsy's this, 
 Which makes the boughs divest their bliss ? 
 And that they might her footsteps straw, 
 Drop their leaves with shivering awe ; 
 Phillis perceives, and (lest her stay 
 Should wed October unto May, 
 And as her beauty caus'd a spring, 
 Devotion might an avitumn bring). 
 Withdrew her beams, yet made no night, 
 But left the sun her curate light. 
 
 John Cleveland. — About 1647. 
 
 379.— LTPON HIS MISTEESS SAD. 
 
 Melancholy, hence, and get 
 Some piece of earth to be thy seat, 
 Here the air and nimble fire 
 Would shoot up to meet desire : 
 Sullen humour leave her blood, 
 Mix not mth the purer flood, 
 But let pleasures swelling here, 
 Make a spring-tide aU the year. 
 
 Love a thousand sweets distilling. 
 And with pleasure bosoms filling. 
 Charm aU eyes that none may find ua. 
 Bo above, before, behind us ; 
 And while we thy raptures taste. 
 Compel time itself to stay, 
 Or by forelock hold him fast, 
 Lest occasion sKp away. 
 
 James Shirley. — About 1G4G. 
 
James Shirley.] 
 
 ECHO AND NAECISSUS. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 380.— ECHO AND NAECISSUS. 
 
 Fair Echo, rise ! sick-thoughted nymph, awake, 
 Leave thy green couch, and canopy of trees ! 
 
 Long since the choristers of the wood did shake 
 Their wings, and sing to the bright sun's 
 uprise : 
 
 Day hath wept o'er thy couch, and, progressed, 
 
 Blusheth to see fair Echo still in bed. 
 
 If not the birds, who 'bout the coverts fly, 
 And with their warbles charm the neigh- 
 bouring air ; 
 If not the sun, whose new embroidery 
 
 Makes rich the leaves that in thy arbours 
 are, 
 Can make thee rise ; yet, love-sick nymph, 
 
 away, 
 The young Narcissus is abroad to-day. 
 
 Pursue him, timorous maid : he moves apace ; 
 Favonius waits to play with thy loose hair, 
 And help thy flight; see hoAv the drooping 
 grass 
 Courts thy soft tread, thou child of sound 
 and air ; 
 Attempt, and overtake him ; though he be 
 Coj to all other nymphs, he'll stoop to thee. 
 
 If thy face move not, let thy eyes expi'css 
 Some rhetoric of thy tears to make him 
 stay; 
 
 He must be a rock that mil not melt at these, 
 Dropping these native diamonds in his Avay ; 
 
 IVIistaken he may stoop at them, and this, 
 
 Who knows how soon ? may help thee to a Idss. 
 
 If neither love, thy beauty, nor thy tears. 
 Invent some other way to make him know 
 
 He need not hunt, that can liave such a deer : 
 The Queen of Love did once Adonis v/oo, 
 
 But, hard of soul, with no persuasions won, 
 
 He felt the curse of his disdain too soon. 
 
 In vain I counsel her to put on wing ; 
 
 Echo hath left her solitary grove ; 
 And in the vale, the palace of the spring. 
 
 Sits silently attending to her love ; 
 But round about, to catcli his voice with care, 
 In every shade and tree she hid a snare. 
 
 Now do the huntsmen fill the air with noise, 
 And their shrill horns chafe her delighted 
 ear, 
 Which, with loud accents, give the v/oods a 
 voice 
 Proclaiming parley to the /earful deer : 
 She hears the jolly tunes ; but every strain. 
 As high and musical, she retiirns again. 
 
 Eons' d is the game ; pursuit doth put onviings ; 
 The sun doth shine, and gild them out their 
 way; 
 The deer into an o'crgrown thicket springs, 
 Through which he quaintly steals his shine 
 away ; 
 The hunters scatter ; but the boy, o'erthrown 
 In a dark part of the wood, complains alone. 
 
 Him, Echo, led by her affections, found, 
 Joy'd, you may guess, to reach him with her 
 eye ; 
 
 But more, to see him rise without a wound — 
 Who yet obscures herself behind some tree ; 
 
 He, vexed, exclaims, andasking, " Where am I ? " 
 
 The unseen virgin answers, " Here am I ! " 
 
 " Some guide from hence ! Will no man hear ? " 
 he cries : 
 She answers, in her passion, "Ohman,hea:r'. " 
 " I die, I die," say both ; and tlms she tric;5. 
 
 With frequent answers, to entice his car 
 And person to her court, more fit for love ; 
 He tracks the sound, and finds her odorous 
 grove. 
 
 The way he trod was paved with violets. 
 Whose azure leaves do warm their ndcod 
 stalks ; 
 
 In their white double ruffs the daisies jet, 
 And primroses are scattered in the walks, 
 
 IVhose pretty mixture in the ground declares 
 
 Another galaxy emboased with stars. 
 
 Two rows of elms ran with proportioned grace. 
 Like nature's arras, to adorn the sides ; 
 
 The friendly vines their loved barks embrace, 
 While folding-tops the chequered ground- 
 work hides ; 
 
 Here oft the tired sun himself would rest. 
 
 Eliding his glorious circuit to the west. 
 
 From hence delight conveys him unawares 
 Into a spacious green, whose either side 
 
 Ahill did guard, whilst with his trees, like hair^, 
 The clouds were busy binding up his head ; 
 
 The flowers here smile upon him as he treads, 
 
 And, but when he looks up, hang down ihcir 
 heads. 
 
 Not far from hence, near an harmonious brook, 
 Within an arbour of conspiring trees, 
 
 W}iose wilder boughs into the stream did look, 
 A place more suitable to her distress. 
 
 Echo, suspecting that her love was gone, 
 
 Herself had in a careless posture throAvn. 
 
 But Time upon his wings had brought the boy 
 To see this lodging of the airy queen. 
 
 Whom the dejected nymph espies with joy 
 Through a small window of eglantine ; 
 
 And that she might be worthy his embrace, 
 
 Forgets not to new-dress her blubber'd face. 
 
 With confidence she sometimes would go out. 
 And boldly meet Narcissus in the way ; 
 
 But then her fears present her with new doubt. 
 And chide her over-rash resolve away. 
 
 Her heart -with overcharge of love must break ; 
 
 Great Juno will not let poor Echo speak. 
 # # ^ # # 
 
 James Shh'lcy. — Ahoid 164G. 
 
 381.— THE EESOLVE. 
 
 Toll me not of a face that's fair. 
 Nor lip and cheek that's red, 
 
 Nor of the tresses of her hair. 
 Nor curls in order laid ; 
 
•o;;; 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 [Katherine Philips. 
 
 Nor of a rare seraphic voics, 
 
 That like an angel sing-s ; 
 Though if I were to take ray choice, 
 
 1 -woukl have all these thing's. 
 But if that thou wilt have mc love, 
 
 And it must be a she ; 
 The only argument can move 
 
 Is, that she will love me. 
 
 The glories of your ladies be 
 
 But metaphors of things, 
 And but resemble what we seo 
 
 Each common object brings, 
 Eoses out-red their lips and checks^ 
 
 Lilies their whiteness stain : 
 What fool is he that shadows seeks, 
 
 And may the substance gain I 
 Then if thou'lt have me love a 
 
 Let it be one that's kind, 
 Else I'm a servant to the glass 
 
 That's with Canary lined. 
 
 Alexander Bromc. — Ahoitt 1649. 
 
 382.— THE MAD LOVER. 
 
 I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink, — 
 
 This many and many a year ; 
 And those three are plagues enough, one would 
 think, 
 
 For one poor mortal to bear. 
 'Twas drink made me fall into love, 
 
 And love made me run into debt ; 
 And though I have struggled and struggled 
 and strove, 
 
 I cannot get out of them yet. 
 
 There's nothing but money can cure me, 
 And rid me of all my pain ; 
 'Twill pay all my debts. 
 And remove all my lets ! 
 And my mistress that cannot endure mo. 
 
 Will love me, and love me again : 
 Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again. 
 
 Alexander Brome. — Aho-ut 1649. 
 
 3S3.— TO A COY LADY. 
 
 I prithee leave this peevish fashion, 
 Don't desire to be high prized ; 
 
 Love's a princely noble passion, 
 And doth scorn to be despised. 
 
 Though we say you're fair, you know 
 
 We your beauty do bestow. 
 
 For our fancy makes you so. 
 
 Don't be proud 'cause we adore you. 
 We do't only for our pleasure ; 
 
 And those parts in which you glory 
 We l)y fancy weigh and mea.^are. 
 
 When for deities you go. 
 
 For angels or for queens, pray know 
 
 'Tis our own fancy makes you so. 
 
 Don't suppose your Majesty 
 
 By tyranny's best signified, 
 And your angelic Natures be 
 
 Distinguish' d only by your pride. 
 Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, 
 And pride makes angels devils below, 
 And your j)ride may make you^go !_ 
 
 Alexander Bromc. — About 1649. 
 
 384.— THE INQUIRY. 
 
 If we no old historian's name 
 
 Authentic will admit, 
 But think all said of friendship's fame 
 
 But poetry or wit ; 
 Yet what's revered by minds so pure 
 Must be a bright idea sure. 
 
 But as our immortality 
 
 By inward sense we find. 
 Judging that if it could not be, 
 
 It would not be design' d : 
 So here how could such copies fall, 
 If there were no original ? 
 
 But if truth be in ancient song. 
 
 Or story we believe ; 
 If the inspired and greater throng 
 
 Have scorned to deceive ; 
 There have been hearts whoso friendship 
 
 gave 
 Them thoughts at once both soft and 
 
 grave. 
 Among that consecrated crew 
 
 Some more seraphic shade 
 Lend me a favourable clew. 
 
 Now mists my eyes invade. 
 Why, having fiU'd the world with fame, 
 Left you so little of your fianie i:* 
 
 Why is't so difficult to see 
 
 Two bodies and one mind ? 
 And why are those who else agreo 
 
 So difficultly kind h 
 Hath nature such fantastic art. 
 That she can vary every heart i* 
 
 Why are the bands of friendship tied 
 
 With so remiss a knot, 
 Tliat by the most it is defied. 
 
 And by the most forgot ? 
 Why do we step with so light senso 
 From friendship to indiiference ? 
 
 If friendship sympathy impart, 
 
 Wliy this ill-shuffled game, 
 That heart can never meet witli heart, 
 
 Or flame encounter flame ? 
 What does this cruelty create ? 
 Is't the intrigue of love or fate ? 
 
 Had friendship ne'er been known to nicn, 
 
 (The ghost at last confest) 
 The world had then a stranger been 
 
 To all that heaven poasest. 
 ]^ut could it all be hero acquired, 
 Not heaven itself would bo desired, 
 
 Katherine Fldlips. — About 1640. 
 
Katherine Philips.] 
 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 [Thisd Period. — 
 
 3S5.— A FEIE]ND. 
 
 Love, nature's plot, this ^eat creation's soul, 
 
 The being' and the harmony of things, 
 Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, 
 From whence man's happiness and safety- 
 springs : 
 The earliest, whitest, blessed' st times did 
 
 draw 
 From her alone their universal law. 
 
 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, 
 'Tis love refined and purged from all its 
 dross, 
 The next to angel's love, if not the same. 
 
 As strong in passion is, though not so gross : 
 It antedates a glad eternity. 
 And is an heaven in epitome. 
 
 # * * * * 
 Essential honour must be in a friend, 
 
 Not such as every breath fans to and fro ; 
 But born within, is its own judge and end. 
 And dares not sin though sure that none 
 should know. 
 Where friendship 's spoke, honesty 's under- 
 stood ; 
 For none can be a friend that is not good. 
 ***** 
 
 Thick waters show no images of things ; 
 
 Friends are each other's mirrors, and should 
 be 
 Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, 
 
 And free from clouds, design or flattery. 
 For vulgar souls no part of friendsliip share ; 
 Poets and friends are bom to what they are. 
 
 Katherine Pldlips. — About 1649. 
 
 386.— TO HIS HEAET. 
 
 Hence, heart, with her that must depart, 
 
 And hald thee with thy soverain, 
 For I had lever want ane heart. 
 
 Nor have the heart that does me pain ; 
 
 Therefore go with thy luve remain, 
 And let me live thus unmolest ; 
 
 Sec that thou come not back again, 
 But bide with her thou luvis best. 
 
 Sen she that 1 have servit lang. 
 
 Is to depart so suddenly, 
 Address thee now, for thou sail gang 
 
 And beir thy lady company. 
 
 Fra she be gone, heartless am I ; 
 For why ? thou art with her possest. 
 
 Therefore, my heart ! go hence in hy, 
 And bide with her thou luvis best. 
 
 Though this belappit body here 
 
 Be bound to servitude and thrall, 
 My faithful heart is free inteir, 
 
 And mind to serve my lady at all. 
 
 Yv''ald God that I were perigall 
 Under that redolent rose to rest ! 
 
 Yet at the least, my heart, thou sail 
 Abide with her thou luvis best. 
 
 Sen in your garth the lily whyte 
 
 May not remain amang the lave, 
 Adieu the flower of haill delyte ; 
 
 Adieu the succour that may me save ; 
 
 Adieu the fragrant balmie suaif , 
 And lamp of ladies lustiest ! 
 
 My faithful heart she sail it have, 
 To bide with her it luvis best. 
 
 Deplore, ye ladies clear of hue. 
 
 Her absence, sen she must depart, 
 And specially ye luvers true, 
 
 That wounded be with lu^-is dart. 
 
 For ye sail want you of ane heart 
 As weil as I, therefore at last 
 
 Do go with mine, with mind inwart. 
 And bide with her thou luvis best. 
 
 Alexander Scot. — About 1649. 
 
 387.— EONDEL OF LOVE. 
 
 Lo what it is to luve. 
 
 Learn ye that list to pruve. 
 By me, I say, that no waj's may. 
 
 The grund of greif romuvc. 
 But still decay, both nicht and day ; 
 
 Lo what it is to luve ! 
 
 Luve is ane fer^^ent fire, 
 
 Kendillit without desire, 
 Short plesour, lang displesour ; 
 
 Eepentance is the hire ; 
 Ane pure tressour, withoiit messour ; 
 
 Luve is ane fervent fire. 
 
 To luve and to be wise. 
 
 To rege with gude adwise ; 
 Now thus, now than, so goes the game, 
 
 Incertain is the dice ; 
 There is no man, I say, that can 
 
 Both luve and to be wise. 
 
 Flee alwayis from the snare, 
 
 Learn at me to beware ; 
 It is ane pain and dowble train 
 
 Of endless woe and care ; 
 For to refrain that denger plain. 
 
 Flee always from the snare. 
 
 Alexander Scot. — Aboiit 1649. 
 
 388.— THE TOWN LADIES. 
 
 Some wifis of the borowstoun 
 Sae wonder vain are, and wantoun, 
 In v/arld they wait not what to weir : 
 On claithis they ware mony a croun ; 
 And all for newfanglencss of geir. 
 
 And of fine silk their furrit clokis. 
 With hingan sleeves, like geil pokis ; 
 Nae preaching will gar them forbeir 
 To weir all thing that sin provokis ; 
 And all for newfangleness of geir. 
 
 Their wilicoats maun weel be hewit, 
 Broudred richt braid, with pasments sewit. 
 I trow wha wald the matter speir, 
 That their gudemen had cause to mo it, 
 That evir their wifis wore sic geir. 
 
1 
 
 From 1558 to 1649.] NIGHT IS NIGH GONE. [Alex. Motttgomery. 
 
 ■ Their woven hose of silk are shawin, 
 
 I saw the hurcheon and the hare 
 
 
 Barrit aboon mth taisels drawin ; 
 
 In hidlings hirpling here and there. 
 
 
 With gartens of ane new nianoir, 
 
 To make their morning mauge. 
 
 
 To gar their courtliness be knawdn ; 
 
 The con, the cuning, and tho cat, 
 
 
 And all for newfangleness of geir. 
 
 Whose dainty downs vnih dew wore wat. 
 With stiff moustachios s^traI!ge. 
 
 
 Sometime they vail beir up their gown. 
 
 The hart, the hind, the dae, tlie rae, - 
 
 
 To shaw their Avilicoat hingan do^vn ; 
 
 The foumart and false fox ; 
 
 
 And sometime baith they will upbeir, 
 
 The bearded buck clamb up the brae 
 
 
 To shaw their hose of black or brown ; 
 
 With birsy bairs and brocks ; 
 
 
 And aU for newfangleness of geir. 
 
 Some feeding, some dreading 
 
 
 Their collars, carcats, and hause beidis ! 
 With velvet hat heigh on their heidis, 
 Cordit Avith gold like ane younkeir. 
 
 The hunter's subtle snares. 
 With skipping and tripping. 
 They play'd them all in pairs. 
 
 
 Braidit about %vith golden threidis ; 
 
 The air was sober, saft, and sweet, 
 
 
 And all for newfangleness of geir. 
 
 Nae misty vapours, wind, nor weet, 
 But quiet, calm, and clear, 
 
 
 Their shoon of velvet, and their miulis ! 
 
 To foster Flora's fragrant flowers, 
 
 
 In kirk they are not content of stuihs, 
 
 Whereon Apollo's paramours 
 
 
 Tlie sermon Avhen they sit to heir, 
 
 Had trinkled mony a tear ; 
 
 
 But carries cusheons like vain fulis ; 
 
 Tlio which like silver shakers sdiined, 
 
 
 And all for newfangleness of geir. 
 
 Embroidering Beauty's bed, 
 Wherewith their heavy heads declined 
 
 
 And some will spend mair, I hear say, 
 
 In May's colours clad. 
 
 
 In spice and drugis in ane day, 
 
 Some knoping, some dropping 
 
 
 Nor wald their mothers in ane yoir. 
 
 Of balmy liquor sweet, 
 
 
 Whilk will gar mony pack decay, 
 
 Excelling and smelling 
 
 
 When they sae vainly waste their geir. 
 
 Through Phoebus' wholesome heat. 
 
 
 Leave, burgess men, or all bo lost, 
 
 Alexander Montgomerij. — About 1597. 
 
 
 On your vd&s to male sic cost, 
 
 
 
 WhUk may gar all your bairnis bleir. 
 She that may not want wine and roast, 
 
 390.— NIGHT iS NIGH GONE. 
 
 
 Is able for to waste some geu*. 
 
 Hey, now the day's dawning ; 
 
 
 Between them, and nobles of blude, 
 
 The jolly cock's crowing ; 
 Tho Eastern sky's glowing; 
 
 
 Nao difference but ane velvet hude ! 
 
 Stars fade, one by one ; 
 
 
 Their camrock curchies are as deir, 
 
 The thistle-cock's crying 
 
 
 Their other claithis are as gude, 
 
 On lovers long lying, 
 
 
 And they as costly in other geir. 
 
 Cease vowing and sighing ; 
 
 
 Of burgess wifis though I speak plain, 
 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 
 Some landwart ladies are as vain, 
 
 The fields are o'er flowing 
 
 
 As by their claithing may appoir. 
 
 With gowans all glowing. 
 
 
 Wearing gayer nor them may gain, 
 
 And white lilies growing. 
 
 
 On ower vain claithis wasting geir. 
 
 A thousand as one ; 
 
 Tho sweet ring-dove cooing, 
 
 
 Sir Bichanl rLaitland.^Ahout 1580. 
 
 His love-notes renewing. 
 Now moaning, now suing ; 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 
 
 
 389.— THF. CHEEEY AND THE SLAE. 
 
 Tho season excelling. 
 
 In scented flowers smelling, 
 
 
 The cushat crouds, the corbie cries, 
 
 To kind love compelling 
 
 
 The cuckoo couks, the prattling pyes 
 
 To geek there they begin ; 
 The jargon of the jangling jays. 
 
 Our hearts every one ; 
 With sweet ballads moving 
 The maids we are loving, 
 
 
 The craiking craws and keckling kays, 
 
 'Mid musing and roving 
 
 
 . They deave't me with their din. 
 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 
 I 
 
 ■ The painted pawn with Argus eyes 
 
 Of war and fair women 
 
 II 
 
 1 Can on his May-cock call ; 
 
 The young knights are dreaming. 
 
 
 The turtle walls on -wither' d trees, 
 
 With bright breastplates gleaming 
 
 
 And Echo answers all. 
 
 And plumed helmets on ; 
 
 
 Eepeating, with greeting. 
 
 The barbed steed neighs lordly. 
 
 
 How fair Narcissus fell, 
 
 And shakes his mane proudly, 
 
 
 By lying and spying 
 
 For war-trumpets loudly 
 
 
 His shadow in the well. 
 
 Say night is nigh gone. 
 
Alexander Hume.] 
 
 EAELY DAWX. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 I see the Hags flowing-, 
 The -warriors all glowing*, 
 And, snorting and blowing, 
 The steeds rushing on ; 
 The lances are crashing, 
 Out broad blades come flashing, 
 'Mid shouting and dashing — 
 The night is nigh gone. 
 Alexander Montgomery. — About 1597. 
 
 391.— EAELY DAWN. 
 perfect light, which shed aAvay 
 
 The darkness from the light. 
 And set a ruler o'er the day. 
 
 Another o'er the night. 
 
 Thy glory, when the day forth flies, 
 
 More vively does appear, 
 Nor at mid-day unto our eyes 
 
 The shining sun is clear. 
 
 The shadow of the earth anon 
 
 Eemoves and drawis by, 
 Syne in the east, when it is gone. 
 
 Appears a clearer sky. 
 
 Whilk soon perceive the little larks. 
 
 The lapwing and the snipe ; 
 And tune their song like Nature's clerks, 
 
 O'er meadow, mtiir, and stripe. 
 
 Alexander Hume. — Ahout 1599. 
 
 392. 
 
 -THE NOON-TIDE OE A STOIMEE'S 
 DAY. 
 The time so tranquil is and clear, 
 
 That nowhere shall ye find. 
 Save on a high and barren hill, 
 An air of passing wind. 
 
 All trees and simples, great and small, 
 
 That balmy leaf do bear. 
 Than they were painted on a wall. 
 
 No more they move or steir. 
 
 Tlie rivers fresh, the caller streams, 
 
 O'er rocks can swiftly rin, 
 The water clear like crystal beams. 
 
 And makes a pleasant din. 
 
 Alcxand.er Hume. — Ahout 1599. 
 
 393.— EVENING. 
 
 What pleasure, then, to walk and see 
 
 End-lang a river clear. 
 The perfect form of every tree 
 
 Within the deep appear. 
 
 The salmon out of cruives and creels, 
 
 Uphailed into scouts, 
 The bells and circles on the weills 
 
 Through leaping of the trouts. 
 O sure it were a seemly thing, 
 
 While all is still and calm, 
 The praise of God to play and sing. 
 
 With trumpet and with shalm. 
 
 Through all the land great is the gild 
 
 Of rustic folks that cry ; 
 Of bleating sheep fra they be kiU'd, 
 
 Of calves and rowting kye. 
 
 All labourers draw hame at even. 
 
 And can to others say. 
 Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, 
 
 Whilk sent this summer day. 
 
 Alexander Hmne. — About 1599. 
 
 394.— ANE SCHOET POEME OE TYME. 
 
 As I was pausing in a morning aire, 
 
 And could not sleip nor nawyis take mo 
 rest, 
 
 Furth for to walk, the morning was so faire, 
 Athort the fields, it seemed to me the best. 
 The East was cleare, whereby belyve I gest 
 
 That fyrie Titan cumming was in sight, 
 
 Obscuring chaste Diana by his light. 
 
 Who by his rising in the azure skyes. 
 
 Did dewlie helse all thame on earth do 
 dwell. 
 The balmie dew through birning drouth he 
 dryis, 
 Which made the soile to savour sweit and 
 
 smell, 
 By dew that on the night before doAvne fell, 
 Which then Avas soukit up by the Delphioiuis 
 
 hcit 
 Up in the aire : it was so light and weit. 
 
 Wliose hie ascending in his purpour chere 
 Provokit all from Morpheus to flee : 
 
 As beasts to feid, and birds to sing with bcir. 
 Men to their labour, bissie as the bee : 
 Yet idle men devysing did I see, 
 
 How for to drive the tyme that did them irk, 
 
 By sindrie pastymes, quhile that it grow 
 mirk. 
 
 Then woundred I to see them seik a wyle, 
 So willingly the precious tyme to tine : 
 
 And how they did themselfis so farr begyle, 
 To fushe of tyme, which of itself is fyiio. 
 Fra tyme be past to call it backwart syne 
 
 Is bot in vaine : therefore men sould bo warr. 
 
 To sleuth the tyme that flees fra them so farr. 
 
 For what hath man bot tyme into this Ij'fe, 
 Wliich gives him dayis his God aright to 
 know ? 
 Wherefore then sould we be at sic a stryfe, 
 So spedelie oiu- selfis for to withdraw 
 Evin from the tyme, which is on nowayea 
 slaw 
 To flie from us, suppose we fled it noght ? 
 More wyso Ave were, if Ave the tyme had 
 soght. 
 
 But sen that tyme is sic a precious thing, 
 I Avald Ave sould bestoAV it into that 
 
 Which Avere most pleasour to our heavenly 
 King. 
 Floe ydilteth, which is the greatest !afc j 
 Bot, son that death to all is destinat. 
 
From 1558 to 1640.] 
 
 THE WORK-GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 [Nicholas Udall. 
 
 Let us employ that tyme that God hath send 
 
 us, 
 In doing weill, that good men ma,j commend 
 
 Kin-g James VI, — About 1584. 
 
 395.— SOLITARY LIFE. 
 
 Sweet solitary life '. lovely, dumb joy, 
 
 That need'st no warnings how to grow 
 more wise 
 By other men's mishaps, nor the annoy 
 
 Which from sore \vrongs done to one's self 
 doth rise. 
 The morning's second mansion, truth's first 
 friend, 
 Never acquainted with the v/orld's vain 
 broils, 
 When the whole day to our own iise we 
 spend, 
 And our dear time no fierce ambition 
 spoils. 
 Most happy state, that never tak'st revenge 
 
 For injuries received, nor dost fear 
 The court's great earthquake, the grieved 
 truth of change, 
 Nor none of falsehood's savoury lies dost 
 hear; 
 Nor knows hope's svreet disease that charms 
 our sense, 
 Nor its sad cure — dear-bonght experience ! 
 Earl of Ancrum. — About 1624. 
 
 396.— SONNET. 
 
 I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, 
 
 And by those golden locks, whose lock none 
 
 slips. 
 And by the coral of thy rosy lips, 
 And by the naked snows which beauty dyes ; 
 I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, 
 Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought, 
 Thy solid judgment, and thy generous thought. 
 Which in this darken'd age have clearly 
 
 shin'd ; 
 I swear by those, and by my spotless love, 
 And by my secret, yet most fervent fires. 
 That I have never nurst but chaste desires, 
 And such as modesty might \^]1 approve. 
 Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, 
 Shouldst thou not love tliis virtuous mind in 
 
 me? 
 
 Earl oj Stirling.— About 1637. 
 
 397.— MY FANTASY WILL NEVER 
 TURN. 
 
 Spite of his spite, which that in vain, 
 Doth seek to force my fantasy, 
 I am professed for loss or gain, 
 To be thine own assuredly ; 
 
 Wherefore let my father spite and spurn, 
 
 My fantasy Avill never turn ! 
 
 Although my father of busy wit, 
 Doth babble still, I care not though ; 
 I have no fear, nor yet will flit, 
 As doth the water to and fro ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 For I am set, and will not swerv'Or- - 
 Whom spiteful speech removeth nought ; 
 And since that I thy grace deserve, 
 I count it is not dearly bought ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 Who is afraid, let you him fly. 
 For I shall well abide the brunt : 
 Maugre to his lips that listeth to lie, 
 Of busy brains as is the wont ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 "Who listeth thereat to laugh or lour, 
 I am not he that aught doth reach ; 
 There is no pain that hath the power 
 Out of my breast your love to fetch ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 For whereas he moved me to the school, 
 And only to follow my book and learning, 
 He could never make me such a fool, 
 With all his soft words and fair speaking ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 This minion here, this mincing trull. 
 Doth please me more a thousand fold, 
 Than all the earth that is so full 
 Of precious stones, silver, and gold ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 Whatsoever I did it was for her sa,ke. 
 It was for her love and only pleasure ; 
 I count it no labour such labour to take 
 In getting to me so high a treasure; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 This day I intended for to be merry. 
 Although my hard father be far hence, 
 I know no cause for to be heavy, 
 For all this cost and great expense ; 
 Wherefore, &c. 
 
 Thomas Ingeland. — Ahoid 1560. 
 
 398.— THE WORK-GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 TriUa, Trilla, TriUarie. 
 Work, Tibet ; w^ork, Annot ; work, Margerie ; 
 Sevv% Tibet ; knit, Annot ; spin, Margerie ; 
 Let us see v/ho will win the victor3^ 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 TriUa, Trilla, Trillarie. 
 "Wliat, Tibet ! what, Annot ! what, Margerie I 
 Ye sleep, but we do not, that shall we try ; 
 Your fingers be numb, our work will not lie. 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 Trilla, Trilla, Trillarie. 
 Now Tibet, now Annot, now Margerie ; 
 Now whippet apace for the maystrie ; 
 |But it will not be, our mouth is so dry. 
 
Nicholas Udall.] 
 
 THE MINION WIFE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Pipe, merry Annot ; 
 
 Trilla, TriUa, Trillarie. 
 When, Tibet ? when, Annot ? when, Margerie ? 
 I will not, — 1 can not, — no more can I ; 
 Then give we all over, and there let it lie ! 
 
 Nicholas Udall. — About 1566. 
 
 399.— THE MINION WIFE. 
 
 Who so to marry a minion wife, 
 Hath had good chance and hap, 
 
 Must love her and cherish her all his life, 
 And dandle her in his lap. 
 
 If she will fare well, if she will go gay, 
 
 A good husband ever still. 
 Whatever she list to do or to say, ' 
 
 Must let her have her own will. 
 
 About "what affairs so ever he go, 
 He must show her all his mind ; 
 
 None of his counsel she may be kept fro, 
 Else is ho a man unkind. 
 
 Nicliolas Udall. — About 1566. 
 
 400.— IDLENESS. 
 
 What heart can think, or tongue express. 
 The harm that groweth of idleness ? 
 
 This idleness in some of us 
 
 Is seen to seem a thing but slight ; 
 
 But if that sum the sums discuss, 
 The total sum doth show us straight 
 This idleness to weigh such weight 
 
 That it no tongue can well express, 
 
 The harm that groweth of idleness. 
 
 This vice I liken to a weed 
 
 That husbandmen have named tyne. 
 
 The which in corn doth root or breed ; 
 The grain to ground it doth incline 
 It never ripeth, but rotteth in fine ; 
 
 And even a like thing is to guess 
 
 Against all virtue, idleness. 
 
 The proud man may be patient, 
 The ireful may be liberal. 
 
 The gluttonous may be continent. 
 The covetous may give alms all, 
 The lecher may to prayer fall ; 
 
 Each vice bideth some good business. 
 
 Save only idle idleness. 
 
 As some one virtue may by grace 
 
 Suppress of vices many a one. 
 So is one vice once taken place 
 
 Destroyeth all virtues every one ; 
 
 Where this vice cometh all virtues axe 
 gone. 
 In no kind of good business 
 Can company with idleness. 
 An ill wind that bloweth no man good 
 
 The blower of which blast is she ; 
 The lyther lusts bred of her brood 
 
 Can no way breed good property ; 
 
 V/hereforo I say, as we now see 
 
 No heart can think, or tongue express 
 The harm that groweth of idleness ! 
 
 To cleanse the com, as men at need 
 Weed out all weeds, and tyne for chief, 
 
 Let diligence, our weed-hook, weed 
 All vice from us for like relief ; 
 As faith may faithfully show proof 
 
 By faithful fruitful business. 
 
 To weed out fruitless idleness. 
 
 John Heyivood. — About 1576. 
 
 401.— BE MEEEY, FEIENDS ! 
 
 Be merry, friends, take ye no thought, 
 For worldly cares care ye right nought ; 
 For whoso doth, when all is sought, 
 Shall find that thought availeth nought ; 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 All such as have all wealth at will, 
 Their wills at will for to fulfil. 
 From grief, or grudge, or any ill, 
 I need not sing this them until, 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 But unto such as wish and want 
 Of worldly wealth wrought them so scant. 
 That wealth by work they cannot plant, 
 To them I sing at this instant. 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 And such as when the rest seem next, 
 Then they be straight extremely vexed ; 
 And such as be in storms perplexed, 
 To them I sing this short sweet text. 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 To laugh and win each man agrees. 
 But each man cannot laugh and lose. 
 Yet laughing in the last of those 
 Hath been allowed of sage decrees ; 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 Be merry with sorrow wise men have said. 
 Which sajdng, being wisely weighed, 
 It seems a lesson truly laid 
 For those whom sorrows stni invade. 
 Be merry, friends 1 
 
 Make ye not two sorrows of one. 
 For of one grief grafted alone 
 To graft a sorrow thereupon, 
 A sourer crab we can graft none ; 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 Taking our sorrows sorrowfully. 
 Sorrow augmenteth our malady ; 
 Taking our sorrows merrily. 
 Mirth salveth sorrows most soundly ; 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 
 Of griefs to come standing in fray. 
 Provide defence the best we may ; 
 Which done, no more to do or say. 
 Come what come shall, come care away ! 
 Be merry, friends I 
 
From 1558 to 1C49.] 
 
 SONG OF HONEST EECEEATION. 
 
 [John Eedfoed. 
 
 In such things as we cannot flee, 
 But needs they must endured be. 
 Let wise contentment be decree, 
 Make -virtue of necessity ; 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 To lack or lose that we would win, 
 So that our fault be not therein, 
 What woe or want end or begin, 
 Take never sorrow but for sin ! 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 In loss of friends, in lack of health, 
 In loss of goods, in lack of wealth, 
 Where liberty restraint expelleth. 
 Where all these lack, yet as this telleth, 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 Man hardly hath a richer thing 
 Than honest mirth, the which well-spring 
 Watereth the roots of rejoicing, 
 Feeding the flowers o? floui-isliing ; 
 
 Be meriy, friends ! 
 [The loss of wealth is loss of dirt, 
 As sages in all times assert ; 
 The happy man 's without a shirt, 
 And never comes to maim or hurt. 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 All seasons are to him the spring, 
 In flowers bright and flourishing ; 
 With birds upon the tree or wing, 
 Who in their fashion always sing 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 If that thy doublet has a hole in, 
 Why, it cannot keep the less thy soul in, 
 Which rangeth forth beyond controlling 
 Whilst thou hast nought to do but trolling 
 
 Bo merry, friends !] 
 Be merry in God, Saint Paul saith plain. 
 And yet, saith he, be merry again ; 
 Since whose advice is not in vain, 
 The fact thereof to entertain, 
 
 Be merry, friends ! 
 [Let the world slide, let the world go ; 
 A fig for care, and a fig for woe ! 
 If I can't pay, why I can owe. 
 And death makes equal the high and low. 
 
 Be merry, friends !] 
 
 John Heywood. — Ahoiut 157C. 
 
 402.— DEINKING SONG. 
 
 Back and side go bare, go bare. 
 
 Both foot and hand go cold : 
 But belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
 
 Whether it be new or old. 
 
 I cannot eat but little meat, 
 
 My stomach is not good ; 
 But sure I think, that I can drink 
 
 With him that wears a hood. ' 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 I am nothing a cold ; 
 I stuff my sldn so full within 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, &c. 
 
 I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fire ; 
 A little bread shall do me stead, 
 
 Much bread I do not desire. 
 No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow. 
 
 Can hurt me if I wold, 
 I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt,— — 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, &c. 
 
 And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seek ; 
 Full oft drinks she, tiU ye may see 
 
 The tears run down her cheek. 
 Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 
 
 Even as a malt-worm should ; 
 And saith, Sweetheart, I took my part 
 
 Of this joUy good ale and old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, &c. 
 
 Now let them drink till they nod and wink, 
 
 Even as good fellows should do ; 
 They shall not miss to have the bliss 
 
 Good ale doth bring men to : 
 And all poor souls that have scoured bowls. 
 
 Or have them lustily trowled, 
 God save the lives of them and their wives, 
 
 Whether they be young or old. 
 
 Back and side go bare, &c. 
 
 Bishop Still. — About 1575. 
 
 403.— SONG OF HONEST EECEEATION. 
 
 When travels grete in matters thick 
 Have dulled your wits and made them sick, 
 What medicine, then, your wits to quick. 
 If ye wUl know, the best physic, 
 
 Is to give place to Honest Eecreation — 
 Give place, we say now, for thy consolation. 
 
 Where is that Wit that we seek than ? 
 
 Alas ! he lyeth here pale and wan : 
 
 Help him at once now, if we can. 
 
 Wit ! how doest thou ? Look up ! man. 
 O Wit ! give place to Honest Eecreation — 
 Give place, we say now, for thy consolation. 
 
 After place given let ear obey : 
 
 Give an ear, O Wit ! now we thee pray, 
 
 Give ear to what wo sing and say ; 
 
 Give an ear and help will come straightway : 
 
 Give an ear to Honest Eecreation ; 
 
 Give an ear now, for thy consolation. 
 
 After ear given, now give an eye : 
 Behold, thy friends about thee lie, 
 Eecreation I, and Comfort I, 
 Quickness am I, and Strength here bye. 
 
 Give an eye to Honest Eecreation ; 
 
 Give an eye now, for thy consolation. 
 
 After an eye given, an hand give ye : 
 Give an hand, O Wit ! feel that ye see ; 
 Eecreation feel, feel Comfort free. 
 Feel Quickness here, feel Strength to thee. 
 
 Give an hand to Honest Eecreation ; 
 
 Give an hand now, for thy consolation. 
 
John Ltly.] 
 
 CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Upon his feet, would God he were ! 
 
 To raise him now we need not fear ; 
 
 Stay you his hand, while we here bear : 
 
 Now all at once upright him rear. 
 
 O Wit ! give place to Honest Recreation : 
 Give place, we say now, for thy consolation. 
 
 John ReJford. — About 1576. 
 
 404.— CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 
 
 At cards for kisses — Cupid paid ; 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. 
 
 His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 
 
 Loses them, too, then down he throws 
 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 
 Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), 
 
 With these, the crystal of his brow, 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin ; 
 
 All these did my Campaspe win. 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes, — 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 O Love ! hath she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas ! become of me ? 
 
 John Lyhj.— About 1584. 
 
 405.— THE SONGS OF BIRDS. 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
 O 'tis the ravished nightingale. 
 " Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries, 
 And stUl her woes at midnight rise. 
 Brave prick song ! who is"t now we hoar ? 
 None but the lark so shriU and clear ; 
 Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, 
 The mom not waking till she sings. 
 Hark, hark ! with what a pretty throat 
 Poor robin redbreast tunes his note ; 
 Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing, 
 Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! 
 Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! 
 
 John Lyhj.— About 1584. 
 
 406.— COMPLAINT AGAINST LOVE. 
 
 O cruel Love, on thee I lay 
 My curso, which shall strike blind the day ; 
 Never may sleep with velvet hand 
 Charm these eyes with sacred wand ; 
 Thy jailers shall be hopes and fears, 
 Thy prison mates groans, sighs, and tears, 
 Thy play to wear out weary times, 
 Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes. 
 Thy bread be frowns, thy drink be gall, 
 Such as when you Phaon call ; 
 Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care, 
 Hope, like thy fool at thy bed's head. 
 Mock thee till madness strike thee dead, 
 As Phaon thou dost me with thy proud eyes, 
 In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies. 
 John Lyhj. — About 1584. 
 
 407.— APOLLO'S SONG OF DAPHNE. 
 
 My Daphne's hair is twisted gold, 
 Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold ; 
 My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces, 
 My Daphne's beauty stains aU faces ; 
 On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, 
 But Daphne's lip a sweeter berry ; 
 Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt, 
 And then no heavenlier warmth is felt ; 
 My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres. 
 My Daphne's music charms all ears ; 
 Fond am I thus to sing her praise, 
 These glories now are turned to bays. 
 
 John Lyhj.— About 1592. 
 
 408.— SONG TO APOLLO. 
 
 Sing to Apollo, god of Day, 
 
 Wliose golden beams with morning play, 
 
 And make her eyes so brightly shine, 
 
 Aurora's face is called divine. 
 
 Sing to Phoebus and that throne 
 
 Of diamonds which he sits upon. 
 
 lo Paeans let us sing 
 
 To Physic and to Poesy's king. 
 
 Crown all his altars with bright fire, 
 Laurels bind about his lyre ; 
 A Daphnean coronet for his head, 
 The Muses dance about his bed ; 
 When on his ravishing lute he plays, 
 Strew his temple round with bays, 
 lo Pasans let us sing 
 To the glittering Delian king. 
 
 John Lyly.— About 1592. 
 
 • 409.— (ENONE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Melpomene, the muse of tragic songs, 
 With mournful tunes, in stole of dismal hue. 
 Assist a silly nymph to wail her woe. 
 And leave thy lusty company behind. 
 
 Thou luckless wreath ! becomes not me to 
 
 wear 
 The poplar tree for triumph of my love : 
 Then as my joy, my pride of love is left, 
 Be thou unclothed of thy lovely green ; 
 
 And in tliy leaves my fortunes %vritton bo, 
 And then some gentle wind let blow abroad, 
 That all the world may see how false of love 
 False Paris hath to his (Enone been. 
 
 Geonje Pccle. — About 1584. 
 
 410.— THE SONG OF THE ENAMOURED 
 SHEPHERD. 
 
 gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed, 
 
 Thou makest my heart 
 
 A bloody mark 
 With iiiercing shot to bleed. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 JOAB'S ADDBESS TO DAVID. 
 
 [George Peele. 
 
 Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot 
 
 For fear too keen 
 Thy arrows been, 
 And hit the heart where my belovt'd is. 
 
 Too fair that fortune were, nor never I 
 
 Shall be so blest, 
 
 Among the rest. 
 That Love shall seize on her bj^ sj^mpathy. 
 Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot, 
 
 This doth remain 
 
 To ease my pain, 
 I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot. 
 
 George Fcelc. — About 1584. 
 
 I 
 
 411.— THE AGED MAN-AT-AEMS. 
 
 Kis g-olden locks time hath to silver turned ; 
 
 ■ O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! 
 
 His youth 'gainst time and ago hath ever 
 spumed, 
 But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by en- 
 creasing. 
 
 Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading 
 seen ; 
 
 Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 
 
 His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, 
 And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms ; 
 
 A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, 
 And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms : 
 
 But though from court to cottage he depart. 
 
 His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 
 
 And when he saddest sits in homely cell, 
 
 He'll teach his swains this carol for a song: 
 " Bless' d be the hearts that wish my Sove- 
 reign well. 
 Cursed be the souls that think her any 
 wrong." 
 Goddess, allow this aged man his right. 
 To be your beadsman now that was yoiu' 
 knight. 
 
 GeorcjG PqcIc— About 1590. 
 
 412.— ENGLAKD. 
 
 Illu.-^trious England, ancient seat of kings, 
 Whose chivalry hath royalis'd thy fame, 
 That, sounding bravely through terrestrial 
 
 vale. 
 Proclaiming conquests, spoils, and victories, 
 Eings glorious echoes through the farthest 
 
 world ! 
 AVliat warlike nation, train'd in feats of arms. 
 What barbarous people, stubborn or untam'd, 
 What climate under the meridian signs, 
 Or frozen zone under his brumal stage. 
 Erst have not quak'd and trembled at the name 
 Of Britain and her mighty conquerors ? 
 Her neighbour realms, as Scotland, Denmark, 
 
 France, 
 Awed with their deeds, and jealous of her arms. 
 Have begg'd defensive and oJBFensive leagues. 
 
 Thus Europe, rich and mighty in her kings, 
 Hath fear'd brave England, dreadful in her 
 
 kings. 
 And now, to eternise Albion's champions, 
 Equivalent with Trojan's ancient fame, 
 Comes lovely Edward from Jerusalem, 
 Veering before the wind, ploughing the sea ; 
 His stretched sails fill'd with the breath of 
 
 men. 
 That through the world admire his manliness. 
 And lo, at last arrived in Dover road, 
 Longshank, your king, yoiir glory, and our son, 
 With troops of conquering lords and warlike 
 
 knights, 
 Like bloody- crested Mars, o'erlooks his host, 
 Higher than all his army by the head, 
 Marching along as bright as Phoebus' eyes ! 
 And we, his mother, shall behold our son. 
 And England's peers shall see their sovereign. 
 George Peelc. — About 159^. 
 
 413.— JOAB'S DESCEIPTION OF DAVID. 
 
 Beauteous and bright is he among the tribes ; 
 As when the sun, attired in glistering robe. 
 Comes dancing from his oriental gate. 
 And, bridegroom-like, hurls through the 
 
 gloomy air 
 His radiant beams : such doth King David 
 
 show, 
 Crown'd with the honour of his enemies' town. 
 Shining in riches like the firmament, 
 The starry vault that overhangs the earth ; 
 So looketh David, King of Israel. 
 
 George Peele. — About 1595. 
 
 414.— JOAB'S ADDEESS TO DAVID ON 
 DEATH OF ABSALOM. 
 
 What ! irks it David, that he victor breathes, 
 
 That Juda, and the fields of Israel 
 
 Should cleanse their faces from their children's 
 
 blood ? 
 What ! art thou weary of thy royal rule ? 
 Is Israel's throne a serpent in thine eyes. 
 And he that set thee there, so far from thanks, 
 That thou must curse his servant for his sake ? 
 Hast thou not said, that, as the morning light, 
 The cloudless morning, so should be thine 
 
 house. 
 And not as flowers, by the brightest rain, 
 Which grow up quickly, and as quickly fade ? 
 Hasfc thou not said, the wicked are as thorns. 
 That cannot be preserved with the hand ; 
 And tliat the man shall touch them mxist be 
 
 ann'd 
 With coats of iron, and garments made of steel, 
 Or with the shaft of a defenced spear ? 
 And art thou angry he is now cut off. 
 That led the guiltless swarming to their deaths, 
 And was more wicked than an host of men ? 
 Advance thee from thy melancholy den, 
 And deck thy body with thy blissful robes, 
 
 16 
 
Geoege Peele.] 
 
 KING DAVI1>. 
 
 [Third Peiiiod.- 
 
 Or, by the Lord that sways the Heaven, I 
 
 swear, 
 I'll lead thine armies to another king-, 
 Shall cheer them for their princely chivalry ; 
 And not sit daunted, frowning- in the dark, 
 When his fair looks with oil and wine refresh' d, 
 Should ddrt into their bosoms gladsome beams, 
 And fill their stomachs with triumphant feasts ; 
 That, when elsewhere stern War shall sound 
 
 his trump, 
 And call another battle to the field, 
 Fame still may bring thy valiant soldiers home, 
 And for their service happily confess 
 She wanted worthy trumps to sound their 
 
 prowess : 
 Take thou this course and live : refuse and 
 
 die. 
 
 George Pcelc. — Ahout 1595. 
 
 415.— KING DAVID. 
 
 Of Israel's sweetest singer now I sing, 
 His holy style and happy victories ; 
 Whose muse was dipt in that inspiring dew, 
 Archangels 'stilled from the breath of Jove, 
 Decking her temples with the glorious flowers 
 Heaven rain'd on tops of Sion and Mount Sinai. 
 Upon the bosom of his ivory lute 
 The cherubim and angels laid their breasts ; 
 And when his consecrated fingers struck 
 The golden wires of his ravishing harp, 
 He gave alarum to the host of heaven, 
 That, wing'd with lightning, brake the clouds, 
 
 and cast 
 Their crystal armour at his conquering feet. 
 Of this sweet poet, Jove's musician, 
 And of his beauteous son, I press to sing ; 
 Then help, divine Adonai, to conduct 
 Upon the wings of my well-temper'd verse, 
 The hearers' minds above the towers of heaven 
 And guide them so in this thrice haughty flight, 
 Their mounting feathers scorch not with the 
 
 fire 
 That none can temper but thy holy hand : 
 To thee for succour flies my feeble muse, 
 And at thy feet her iron pen doth use, 
 
 George Peelc. — Ahout 1599. 
 
 416.— BETHSABE BATHING. 
 
 Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air, 
 Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair : 
 Shine, sun ; bum, fire ; breathe air, and ease 
 
 me ; 
 Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me, and please 
 
 me ; 
 Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning, 
 Make not my glad cause cause of mourning. 
 Let not my beauty's fire 
 Inflame unstayed desire. 
 Nor pierce any bright eye 
 That wanderoth lightly. 
 
 George Pcele. — About 1599. 
 
 417.— BETHSABE'S ADDRESS TO THE 
 ZEPHYE. 
 
 Come, gentle zephyr, trick'd with those per- 
 fumes 
 That erst in Eden sweeten'd Adam's love, 
 And stroke my bosom with the silken fan : 
 This shade (sun proof) is yet no proof for thee ; 
 Thy body, smoother than this waveless spring. 
 And purer than the substance of the same, 
 Can creep through that his lances cannot 
 
 pierce. 
 Thou and thy sister, soft and sacred air. 
 Goddess of life and governess of health. 
 Keeps every fountain fresh and arbour sweet ; 
 No brazen gate her passage can repulse, 
 Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath. 
 Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome 
 
 robes, 
 And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes. 
 To play the wantons with us through the 
 leaves. 
 
 George Peele. — Ahout 1599. 
 
 418. 
 
 -DAVID ENAMOURED OF BETH- 
 SABE. 
 
 What tunes, what Vv'orde-, what looks, what 
 
 wonders pierce 
 My soul, incensed with a sudden fire ! 
 "\Vhat tree, what shade, what spring, what 
 
 paradise, 
 I Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame ! 
 Fair Eva, placed in perfect happiness, 
 Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens. 
 Struck with the accents of archangels' tunes. 
 Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's 
 
 thoughts 
 Than this fair woman's words and notes to 
 
 mine. 
 May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant 
 
 weight, 
 Be still enameli'd with discolour' d flowers ; 
 That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ; 
 And for the pebble, let the silver streams 
 That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the 
 
 source, 
 Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ; 
 The brim let bo embraced with golden curls 
 Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters 
 
 make 
 For joy to feed the foiint with their recourse ; 
 Let all the grass that beautifies her bower. 
 Bear manna every morn, instead of dew ; 
 Or let the dew be sweeter far than that 
 That hangs like chains of i^earl on Hermon 
 
 hill, 
 Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's 
 
 beard. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 See, Cusay, see the flower of Israel, 
 The fairest daughter that obeys the king, 
 In aU the land the Lord subdued to me, 
 Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE SHEPHEED AND HIS WIPE. 
 
 [Robert Greene 
 
 Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar, 
 Sweeter tha,n flames of fine perfumed myrrh ; 
 And comelier than the silver clouds that dance 
 On zephyr's wings before the King of Heaven. 
 
 # # # «- 
 Bright Bethsabe shall wash in Da^-id's bower 
 In water mix'd -with purest almond flower, 
 And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; 
 Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, 
 Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, 
 To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings, 
 That carries pleasures to the hearts of kings. 
 
 * # * * 
 Now comes my lover tripping like the roe, 
 And brings my longings tangled in her hair ; 
 To 'joy her love I'll build a kingly bower, 
 Seated in hearing of a hundred streams. 
 That, for their homage to her sovereign joys, 
 Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests. 
 In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves 
 About the circles of her curious walks, 
 
 And -with their murmur summon easeful sleep, 
 To lay his golden sceptre on her brows. 
 
 George Fecle. — About 1599. 
 
 419.— BEAUTY SUING FOR LOVE, 
 
 Beauty, alas ! where wast thou bom, 
 Thus to hold thyseK in scorn ? 
 Whenas Beauty kissed to woo thee, 
 Thou by Beauty dost undo me : 
 
 Heigh-ho ! despise me not. 
 
 I and thou in sooth are one, 
 
 Fairer thou, I fairer none ; 
 
 Wanton thou, and ^vilt thou, wanton, 
 
 Yield a cruel heart to plant on ? 
 
 Do me right, and do me reason ; 
 
 Cruelty is cursod treason : 
 
 Heigh-ho ! I love, heigh-ho ! I love, 
 Heigh-ho ! and yet he eyes me not. 
 
 Eohcrt Greene. — About 1590. 
 
 420.— SAMELA. 
 
 Like to Diana in her summer weed. 
 
 Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 
 
 Goes fair Samela ; 
 Wliiter than be the flocks that straggling feed. 
 When washed by Arethusa faint they lie. 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 As fair Aurora in her morning grey. 
 Decked with the ruddy glister of her love. 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
 Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, 
 
 Shines fair Samela ; 
 Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams. 
 Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 
 
 Of fair Samela ; 
 Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth 
 
 gleams. 
 Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony ; 
 
 Thus fair Samela 
 
 Pa>;;=;oth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 
 And Juno in the show of majesty. 
 
 For she's Samela : 
 
 Pallas in "svit, all three, if you will view, 
 For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity 
 
 Yield to Samela. _ 
 
 Eohert Greene. — About 1590. 
 
 421.— CONTENT. 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of con- 
 tent : 
 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown : 
 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slnmber 
 spent : 
 
 The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown. 
 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
 such bliss. 
 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
 
 The homely house that harbours quiet rest. 
 
 The cottage that affords no pride nor care. 
 
 The mean, that 'grees with country music 
 best, 
 
 The sweet consort of mirth's and music's faro. 
 
 Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; 
 
 A mind content botli crown and kingdom is. 
 Robert Greene.— About 1590. 
 
 422.— SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER 
 CHILD. 
 
 Mother's wag, pretty boy, 
 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 
 When thy father first did see 
 
 Such a boy by him and me. 
 
 He was glad, I was woe, 
 
 Fortune changed made him so ; 
 
 When he had left his pretty boy, 
 
 Last his sorrow, first his joy. 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old, there's grief enough for 
 thee. 
 
 The wanton smiled, father wept, 
 
 Mother cried, baby leap'd ; 
 
 More he crow'd, more he cried. 
 
 Nature could not sorrow hide ; 
 
 He must go, he must kiss 
 
 Child and mother, baby bless ; 
 
 For he left his pretty boy, 
 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old, there's grief enough for 
 thee. 
 
 Robert Greene— About 1590. 
 
 423.— THE SHEPHERD AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 It was near a thicky shade. 
 That broad leaves of beech had made, 
 Joining all their tops so nigh. 
 That scarce Phoebus in could pry : 
 
 IG* 
 
RoBSST Greene.] 
 
 A EOUNDELAY. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Where sat the swain and his wife. 
 
 Sporting in that pleasing life, 
 
 That Corydon commcndeth so, 
 
 All other lives to over-go. 
 
 Ho and she did sit and keep 
 
 Flocks of kids and flocks of sheep : 
 
 He iipon his pipe did play, 
 
 She tuned voice mito his la^y. 
 
 And, for you might her housewife know, 
 
 Voice did sing and fingers sew. 
 
 He was young, his coat was green. 
 
 With welts of white seamed between, 
 
 Tiirned over with a flap, 
 
 That breast and bosom in did wrap, 
 
 Skirts side and plighted free, 
 
 Seemly hanging to his knee, 
 
 A whittle with a silver chape ; 
 
 Cloak was russet, and the cape 
 
 Served for a bonnet oft, 
 
 To shroud him from the w-ot aloft : 
 
 A leather scrip of colour red. 
 
 With a button on the head ; 
 
 A bottle full of country whig, 
 
 By the shepherd's side did lig ; 
 
 And in a little bush hard by 
 
 There the shepherd's dog did lie, 
 
 Who, while his master 'gan to sleep, 
 
 Well could watch bo{;h kids and sheep. 
 
 The shepherd was a frolic swain, 
 
 For, though his 'parel was but phiin, 
 
 Yet doon the authors soothly say, 
 
 His colour was both fresh and gay ; 
 
 And in their writs plain discuss, 
 
 Fairer was not Tityrus, 
 
 Nor Menalcas, whom they call 
 
 The alderleefest swain of all 1 
 
 Seeming him was his wife, 
 
 Both in line and in life. 
 
 Fair she was, as fair might be, 
 
 Like the roses on the tree ; 
 
 Buxom, blithe, and young, I ween, 
 
 Beauteous, like a summer's queen ; 
 
 For her cheeks were ruddy hued, 
 
 As if lilies were imbrued 
 
 With drops of blood, to make the white 
 
 Please the eye \vith more delight. 
 
 Love did lie within her eyes. 
 
 In ambush for some wanton prize ; 
 
 A leefer lass than this had been, 
 
 Corydon had never seen. 
 
 Nor was Phyllis, that fair may, 
 
 Half so gaudy or so gay. 
 
 She wore a chaplet on her head ; 
 
 Her cassock was of scarlet red, 
 
 Long and large, as straight as bent ; 
 
 Her middle was both small and gent. 
 
 A neck as white as whale's bone, 
 
 Compast with a lace of stone ; 
 
 Fine she was, and fair she was. 
 
 Brighter than the brightest glass ; 
 
 Such a shepherd's wife as ^e, 
 
 Was not more in Thessaly. 
 
 Jlnhcrt Greene. — Alout 1590. 
 
 424.— A ROUNDELAY. 
 
 Ah ! what is love ! It is a j)retty thing. 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king. 
 
 And sweeter too : 
 For kings have cares that wait upon a cro"WTi, 
 And cares can make the sweetest cares to 
 frown : 
 
 All then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king in his delight, 
 
 And merrier too : 
 For kings bethink them what the state re- 
 quire, 
 Wliere shepherds, careless, carol by the fire : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat, 
 
 And blither too ; 
 For kings have often fears when they sup, 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in their 
 cup : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sAveet desires gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king ui)on his beds of down, 
 
 More sounder too : 
 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to 
 
 spill, 
 Where wearj'' shepherds lie and snort their fill : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd svrain ? 
 
 Thus with his wife he spends the year as 
 
 blithe 
 As doth the king at every tide or syth. 
 
 And blither too : 
 For kings have wars and broils to take in 
 
 hand. 
 When shepherds laugh, and love upon the 
 
 land: 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country love such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Eohert Greene.— Ahout 1590. 
 
 425.— PHILOMELA'S ODE. 
 
 Sitting by a riA'or's side. 
 Where a silent stream did glide, 
 Muse I did of many things 
 That the mind in quiet brings. 
 I 'gan think how some men deem 
 Gold their god : and some esteem 
 Honour is the chief content 
 That to man in life is lent ; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 EOSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 
 
 [iBOMAS liODUE. 
 
 And some others do contend 
 
 Quiet none like to a friend. 
 
 Others hold there is no wealth 
 
 Compared to a perfect health ; 
 
 Some man's mind in quiet stands 
 
 When he 's lord of many lands. 
 
 But I did sig-h, and said all this 
 
 Was but a shade of perfect bliss ; 
 
 And in my thoughts I did approve 
 
 Nought so sweet as is true love. 
 
 Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, 
 
 When mouth kisseth. and heart 'grees, — 
 
 With folded arms and lips meeting, 
 
 Each soul another sweetly greeting ; 
 
 For by the breath the soul fleeteth, 
 
 And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 
 
 If love be so sweet a thing, 
 
 That such happy bliss doth bring, 
 
 Happy is love's sugared thrall ; 
 
 But unhappy maidens all 
 
 Who esteem your virgin blisses 
 
 Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 
 
 No such quiet to the mind 
 
 As true love with kisses kind ; 
 
 But if a kiss prove unchaste, 
 
 Then is true love quite disgraced. 
 
 Though love be sweet, learn this of me. 
 
 No sweet love but honesty. 
 
 Rohcrt Greene— About 1590. ! 
 
 426.— JEALOUSY. 
 
 Wlien gods had framed the sweets of woman's 
 
 face, 
 And lockt men's looks within her golden hair, 
 That Phoebus blush' d to see her matchless 
 
 grace. 
 And heavenly gods on earth did make repair. 
 To quip fair Venus' overweening pride. 
 Love's happy thoughts to jealousy were tied. 
 
 Then grew a wrinkle on fair Venus' brow. 
 The amber sweet of love is turn'd to gall! 
 Gloomy was Heaven ; bright Phoebus did avow 
 He would be coy, and would not love at all : 
 Swearing no greater mischief could be ^vrought, 
 Than love united to a jealous thought. 
 
 Rolert Greene— About 1590. 
 
 427.— DORASTUS ON FAWNIA. 
 
 Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, 
 Or but as mild as she is seeming so, 
 Then were my hopes greater than my despair, 
 Then all the world were Heaven, nothing Avoe. 
 Ah, were her heai*t relenting as her hand. 
 That seems to melt e'en with the mildest touch. 
 Then knew I where to seat me in a land, 
 Under the wide Heavens, but yot not such. 
 So as she shows, she seems the budding rose. 
 Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower ; 
 Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows ; 
 Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd 
 flower ; 
 
 Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn. 
 She would be gather' d, though she grew on 
 
 thorn. 
 Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, 
 For none must be compared to her note ; 
 Ne'er breathed such glee from Philcmela's^bill, 
 Nor from the morning singer's swelling throat. 
 And when she riseth from her blissful bed. 
 She comforts all the world, as doth the sun. 
 Robert Greene.— About 1590. 
 
 428.--BEAUTY. 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere, 
 
 Where all imperial glory shines, 
 Of self-same colour is her hair. 
 
 Whether ur.folded or in twines : 
 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow. 
 Refining heaven b}'^ every wink ; 
 
 The gods do fear, when as they glow. 
 And I do tremble when I think. 
 
 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud. 
 That beautifies Aurora's face ; 
 
 Or like the silver crimson shroud. 
 
 That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace. 
 
 Her lips are like two budded roses, 
 V/hom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh ; 
 
 Within which bounds she balm encloses. 
 Apt to entice a deity. 
 
 Her neck like to a stately tower, 
 
 Where Love himself imprison' d lies. 
 
 To watch for glances, every hour. 
 From her divine and sacred eyeS. 
 
 With orient pearl, Avdth ruby red. 
 
 With marble white, with sapphire l:)lue, 
 
 Her bodj'- everywhere is fed. 
 
 Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view. 
 
 Nature herself her shape admires. 
 The gods are wounded in her sight ; 
 
 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, 
 And at her eyes his brand doth light. 
 
 Tliomas LoJge. — About 1590. 
 
 429.— ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee, 
 Doth suck his sweet ; 
 Now Avith his wings he plays with me. 
 Now with his feet. 
 Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
 His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
 My kisses are his daily feast. 
 And yet he robs me of my rest : 
 Ah, wanton, will ye ? 
 
 And if I sleep, then percheth ho 
 With pretty flight. 
 And makes his pillow of my knee. 
 The live-long night. 
 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
 He music plays if so I sing ; 
 He lends me every lovely thing, 
 Yet cruel he my heai*t doth sting : 
 "Wist, wanton, still ve ? 
 
Thomas Lodge.] 
 
 KOSADEE'S SONETTO. 
 
 [Thisd Period. 
 
 Else I with roses every day 
 Will whip you hence, 
 And bind you, when you long to play, 
 Eor your offence ; 
 I'U shut naine eyes to keep you in, 
 I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
 I'll count your power not worth a pin ; 
 Alas I what hereby shall I win, 
 If he g-ainsay me ? 
 
 What if I beat the wanton boy 
 With many a rod ? ' 
 He will repay me with annoy, 
 Because a god. 
 
 Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
 And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
 Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
 0, Cupid ! so thou pity me, 
 Spare not, but play thee. 
 
 Thomas Lodge. — About 1590. 
 
 430.— ROSADEE'S SONETTO.- 
 
 Turn I my looks unto the skies, 
 
 Love mth his arrows wounds mine eyes; 
 
 If so I look upon the ground, 
 
 Love then in every flower is found ; 
 
 Search I the shade to flee my pain. 
 
 Love meets me in the shades again ; 
 
 Want I to walk in secret grove, 
 
 E'en there I meet with sacred love ; 
 
 If so I bathe me in the spring, 
 
 E'en on the brink I hear him sing ; 
 
 If so I meditate alone. 
 
 He vnll be partner of my moan ; 
 
 If so I mourn, he Aveeps with me 
 
 And where I am there will he be ; 
 
 When as I talk of Eosalind, 
 
 The God from coyness waxeth kind. 
 
 And seems in self-same frame to fly. 
 
 Because he loves as well as I. 
 
 Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue. 
 
 For why, than love I am more true : 
 
 He, if he speed, will quickly fly, 
 
 But in thy love I live and die. 
 
 TJiomas Lodge. — Ahout 1590. 
 
 431.— ANOTHER. 
 
 First shall the heavens want r,tarry light. 
 The seas be robbed of their waves, 
 The day want sun, and sun want bright, 
 The night Avant shade, the dead men graves, 
 The April flowers, and leaves, and tree, 
 Before I false my faith to thee. 
 
 First shall the top of highest hill 
 By humble plains be overpry'd. 
 And poets scorn the Muses' quill, 
 And fish forsake the Avater glide. 
 And Iris lose her colour'd weed. 
 Before I false thee at thy need. 
 
 First direful Hate shall turn to peace, 
 
 And Love relent in deep disdain. 
 
 And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, 
 
 And Envy pity every pain, 
 
 And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow snule, 
 
 Before I talk of any guile. 
 
 First Time shall stay lus stayless race, 
 And Winter bless his broAvs Avith com. 
 And Snow bemoisten July's face, 
 And Winter spring, and Summer mourn, 
 Before my pen, by help of Fame, 
 Cease to recite th sacred name. 
 
 TUonias Lodge— About 1590. 
 
 432.— THE SUMMEE'S QUEEN. 
 
 O, the month of May, the merry month of May, 
 So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so 
 
 green, 
 O, and then did I unto my true love say. 
 Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Svunmer's Queen. 
 
 Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale. 
 The sweetest singer in all the forest's quire, 
 Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true 
 
 love's tale : 
 Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast a-gainst a 
 
 brier. 
 
 But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the 
 
 cuckoo ; 
 See where she sitteth ; come away, my joy : 
 Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo 
 Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy. 
 
 0, the month of May, the merry month of May, 
 So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so 
 
 green; 
 And then did I unto my true love say, 
 SAveet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. 
 
 T. Delclccr and R. Wilson.— About 1594 
 
 433._SA^^ET CONTENT. 
 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 
 Oh, sweet content ! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? 
 
 Oh, punishment ! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
 To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? 
 Oh, sweet content ! Oh, sweet, &c. 
 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 Honest labour bears a lovelj^ face ; 
 Then hey nonej', noney, hey noney, noney. 
 
 Canst drink the Avaters of the crisped spring ? 
 Oh, SAveet content ! 
 Swimmest thou in Avealth, yet sinkest in 
 thine OAvn tears ? 
 
 Oh, punishment ! 
 Then he that patiently Avant's burden bears. 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
 Oh, sAveet content ! <fcc. 
 i. Work apace, apace, &c, 
 
 I Del-lccr, Chettlc, and Bang Man. —About 1599. 
 
iYom 1558 to lW.y.J' 
 
 SPEING. 
 
 [Thomas Nash. 
 
 434.— LULLABY. 
 
 Golden slumbers kiss your 03-es, 
 Smiles awake you when you rise. 
 Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
 And I will sing a lullaby : 
 Kock tbem, rock them, lullaby. 
 
 Care is heavy, therefore sleej) you ; 
 You are care, and care must keei) you. 
 Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
 And I win sing a lullaby : 
 Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 
 Lt'lcker, Chcttle, ,^' Haughton.— About 1599. 
 
 435.— VIETUE AND VICE. 
 
 Vii'tue's branches wither, virtue pines, 
 O pity ! pity ! and alack the time ! 
 Vice doth flourish, vice in glory shines, 
 Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb. 
 
 Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity ! 
 She in every land doth monarchize : 
 Virtue is exiled from every city, 
 Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise. 
 
 O pity, pity ! Virtue weeping dies ! 
 Vice laughs to see her faint, alack the time ! 
 This sinks ; with painted wings the other flies ; 
 Alack, that best should fall, and bad should 
 climb. 
 
 O pity, pity, pity ! mourn, not sing ; 
 Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling ; 
 Vice doth flourish. Vice in glory shines. 
 Virtue's branches wither, Virtue pines. 
 
 Thomas Dekker.— About 1600. 
 
 436.— PATIENCE. 
 
 Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace : 
 Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven : 
 It makes men look like gods. The best of men 
 That e'er wore earth about him was a suftorer, 
 A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit : 
 The first true gentleman that ever breath' d. 
 
 Thomas Dekker.— About 1600. 
 
 .137.— A CONTRAST BETWEEN FEMALE 
 HONOUR AND SHAME. 
 
 Nothing did make mo, when I loved them best, 
 To loathe them more than this : when in the 
 
 streco 
 A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ; 
 She seem'd to all a dove when I pass'd by, 
 And I to all a raven : every eye 
 Thit f ollow'd her, went with a bashful glance : 
 At me each bold and jeering countenance 
 Darted forth scorn : to her, as if she had been 
 Some tower unvanquish'd, would they all vail : 
 'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted every sail ; 
 She, crown' d \r\X\\ reverend praises, pass'd by 
 
 them ; 
 
 I, though with face mask'd, could not 'scape 
 
 the hem ; 
 For, as if heaven had set strange marks on 
 
 such. 
 Because the3' should be pointing-stocks to man, 
 Drest up in civHest shape, a courtesan. 
 Let her walk saint-like, noteless, andrmknown. 
 Yet she's betray' d by some trick of her own. 
 
 Thomas Dekker. —About 1600. 
 
 438.— A DESCRIPTION OF A LADY BY 
 HER LOVER. 
 
 My Inf dice's face, her brow, her eye. 
 
 The dimple on hor cheek : and such sweet skill 
 
 Hath from the cunning workman's pencil 
 
 flown. 
 These lips look fresh and lively as her own : 
 Seeming to move and speak. Alas ! now I see 
 The reason why fond women love to buy 
 Adulterate complexion : here 'tis read ; 
 False colours last after the true be dead. 
 Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, 
 Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, 
 Of all the music set upon her tongue. 
 Of all that was past woman's excellence. 
 In her white bosom ; look, a painted board 
 Circumscribes all ! Earth can no bliss afford ; 
 Nothing of her but this ! This cannot speair; 
 It has no lap for me to rest upon ; 
 No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will 
 
 feed, 
 As in her coffin. Hence, then, idle art, 
 True love's best pictured in a true love's 
 
 heart. 
 Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be 
 
 dead, 
 So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. 
 Thou figure of my friend, lie there ! 
 
 Thomas Dekker.— About 1600. 
 
 439.— SPRING. 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's plea- 
 sant king ; 
 
 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in 
 a ring. 
 
 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
 
 Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 
 The palm and may make country houses gay, 
 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all 
 
 day, 
 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay. 
 Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 
 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our 
 
 feet, 
 Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
 Cookoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
 Spring, the sweet Spring. 
 
 Tliovias Nash. — About 1600. 
 
Thomas Nash.] 
 
 THE DECAY OF SUMMEE. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 440.— THE DECAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts 
 
 therefore, 
 So fair a summer look for never more : 
 All good tilings vanish less than in a day, 
 Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. 
 Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad 
 
 year. 
 The earth is hell when thou leavest to ap- 
 pear. 
 What, shall those flowers that decked thy 
 
 garland erst, 
 Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ? 
 O trees consume your sap in sorrow's source. 
 Streams turn to tears your tributary course. 
 Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad 
 
 year, 
 The earth is hell when thou leavest to ap- 
 pear. 
 
 Thomas Nash.— About 1600. 
 
 441.— THE COMING OF WINTEE. 
 
 Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful trea- 
 sure; 
 
 Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's plea- 
 sure ! 
 
 Short days, sharp days, long nights come on 
 apace : 
 
 Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face ? 
 
 Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, 
 
 And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
 From winter, plague, and pestilence, good 
 Lord deliver us ! 
 
 London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn 1 
 Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were 
 
 bom! 
 The want of term is town and city's harm ; 
 Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. 
 Long banished must we live from our friends : 
 This low-built house will bring us to our ends. 
 
 From winter, plague, und pestilence, good 
 Lord deliver us ! 
 
 Thomas Nash.— About 1600. 
 
 442.— APPROACHING DEATH. 
 
 Adieu ; farewell earth's bliss. 
 This world uncertain is : 
 Fond are life's lustful joys, 
 Death proves them all but toys. 
 None from his darts can fly : 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercj^ on us ! 
 
 Rich men, trust not in wealth ; 
 Gold cannot buy you health ; 
 Physic himself must fade ; 
 All things to end are made ; 
 The plague full swift goes by ; 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Beauty is but a flower, 
 Which wrinkles will devour : 
 Brightness falls from the air ; 
 Queens have died young and fair ; 
 Dust hath closed Helen's eye ; 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Strength stoops unto the grave : 
 Worms feed on Hector brave. 
 Swords may not fight with fate : 
 Earth still holds ope her gate. 
 Come, come, the hells do cry ; 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Wit with his wantonness, 
 Tasteth death's bitterness. 
 Hell's executioner 
 Hath no ears for to hear 
 What vain heart can reply ; 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Haste, therefore, each degree 
 To welcome destiny : 
 Heaven is our heritage. 
 Earth but a player's stage. 
 Mount we unto the sky ; 
 I am sick, I must die. 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Thomas Nash.— About IGOO. 
 
 443.— CONTENTMENT. 
 
 I never loved ambitiously to climb. 
 Or thrust my hand too far into the fire. 
 To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing, 
 But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's back 
 Cannot but be more labour than delight. 
 Such is the state of men in honour placed : 
 They are gold vessels made for servile uses ; 
 High trees that keep the weather from low 
 
 houses. 
 But cannot shield the tempest from themselves. 
 I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales, 
 Neither to be so great as to be envied, 
 Nor yet so poor the world should pity mo. 
 
 Thomas Nash.— About 1600. 
 
 444.— DESPAIR OF A POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 WTiy is't damnation to despair and die. 
 When life is my true happiness' disease ? 
 My soul, my soul, thy safety makes me fly 
 The faulty means that might my pain appease : 
 Divines and dying men may talk of hell, 
 But in my heart her several torments dwell. 
 
 Ah, worthless wit ! to train me to this woe : 
 Deceitful arts ! that nourish discontent : 
 I'll thrive the folly that bewitched me so ! 
 Vain thoughts, adieix ! for now I \vill repent, — 
 And yet my wants persuade me to proceed, 
 For none take pity of a scholar's need. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE PREPAEATION FOR EXECUTION. 
 
 [John Webster. 
 
 Forgive me, God, although I curse my birth, 
 And ban the air wherein I breathe a wretch, 
 Since misery hath daunted all my mirth, 
 And I am quite undone through promise 
 
 breach ; 
 Ah friends! — no friends that then ungentle 
 
 fro^^^l, 
 When changing fortune casts us headlong 
 
 down. 
 Without redress complains my careless verse, 
 And Midas' ears relent not at my moan, 
 In some far land ^vill I my griefs rehearse, 
 Mongst them that wUl be moved when I 
 
 shall groan. 
 England, adieu! the soil that brought me 
 
 fortli, 
 Adieu ! unkind, where skill is nothing worth. 
 Tliomas Nash. — About 1600. 
 
 445.— THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Walking in a shady grove, 
 
 Near silver streams fair gliding, 
 
 Where trees in ranks did grace the banks. 
 
 And nymphs had their abiding ; 
 
 Here as I strayed I saw a maid, 
 
 A beauteous lovely creature, 
 
 With angel's face and goddess grace, 
 
 Of such exceeding feature. 
 
 Her looks did so astonish me, 
 And set my heart a-quaking. 
 Like stag that gazed was I amazed; 
 And in a stranger taking. 
 Yet roused myself to sec this elf. 
 And lo a tree did hide me ; 
 AVliere I unseen beheld this queen 
 Awhile, ere she espied me. 
 
 Her voice was sweet melodionslj^. 
 She sung in perfect measure ; 
 And thus she said with trickling tears ; 
 '■ Alas, my joy, my treasure. 
 I'll be thy wife, or lose my life, 
 "^Chere's no man else shall have me ; 
 If God so, I will say no, 
 Although a thousand crave me. 
 
 " Oh I stay not long, but come, my dear. 
 
 And knit our marriace knot ; 
 
 Each hour a day, each month a year, 
 
 Thou knowest, I think, God wot. 
 
 Delay not then, like worldly maiden. 
 
 Good Avorks till withered age ; 
 
 'Bove other things, the King of kings 
 
 Blessed a lawful marriage. 
 
 " Thou art my choice, I constant am, 
 
 I mean to die unspotted ; 
 
 With thee I'll live, for thee I love, 
 
 And keep my name unblotted. 
 
 A virtuous life in maid and wife. 
 
 The Spirit of God commends it ; 
 
 Accursed he for ever be, 
 
 That seeks with shame to offend it." 
 
 With that she rose like nimble roe. 
 The tender grass scarce bending, 
 And left me then perplexed with fear 
 At this her sonnet's ending. 
 I thought to move this dame of love, 
 
 But she Avas gone already ; ^ 
 
 Wherefore I pray that those that stay 
 May find their loves as steady. 
 
 Dahi'id'jecourt Belclder. — About 1618. 
 
 446.— A DIEGE. 
 
 Call for the Eobin-redbreast and the wren, 
 
 Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
 
 And with leaves and flowers do cover 
 
 The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
 
 Call unto his funeral dole 
 
 The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 
 
 To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 
 
 And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no 
 
 harm ; 
 But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to 
 
 men. 
 For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 
 
 John Webster.— About 1610. 
 
 447.— THE MADMAN'S SONG. 
 
 O, let us howl some heavy note, 
 
 Some deadly dogged howl, 
 Sounding, as from the threat'ning throat 
 
 Of beasts and fatal fowl ! 
 As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears. 
 
 We'll bell, and bawl our parts. 
 Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears, 
 
 And corrosived your hearts. 
 At last, whenas oixr quire wants breath, 
 
 Our bodies being blessed. 
 We'll sing, like swans, will welcome death, 
 
 And die in love and rest. 
 
 John Webstcv.— About 1623. 
 
 448.— THE PREPAEATION FOE EXECU- 
 TION. 
 
 Hark, now everything is still 
 
 The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, 
 
 Call upon our dame aloud, 
 
 And bid her quickly don her shroud ! 
 
 Much you had of land and rent : 
 
 Your length in clay's now competent : 
 
 A long war disturbed your mind ; 
 
 Here your perfect peace is signed. 
 
 Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ? 
 
 Since their conception, their birth weeping, 
 
 Their life a general mist of error, 
 
 Their death a hideous storm of terror. 
 
 StreAv your hair with poAvders SAveet, 
 
 Don clean linen, bathe your feet, 
 
 And (the foul fiend more to check) 
 
 A crucifix let bless your neck : 
 
John Webster.] 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 [Thikd Pekiod. — 
 
 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day ; 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 
 John Webster.— About 1623. 
 
 449.— DEATH. 
 
 What would it pleasure me to have my throat 
 
 cut 
 With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
 With cassia? or to be shot to death with 
 
 pearls ? 
 I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
 For men to take their exits : and 'tis found 
 They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
 You may open them both ways : any way (for 
 
 heav'n sake) 
 So I were out of your whispering : tell my 
 
 brothers 
 That I perceive death (now I'm well awake) 
 Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
 I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; 
 I'd not be tedious to you. 
 Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
 Must pull down heaven upon me. 
 Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd 
 As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
 Must go upon their knees. Come, violent 
 
 death. 
 Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. 
 Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, 
 They then may feed in quiet. 
 
 John Webster. — About 1623. 
 
 450.— THE THEEE STATES OF WOMAN. 
 
 In a maiden-time professed, 
 Then we say that life is blessed ; 
 Tasting once the married life, 
 Then we only praise the Avife ; 
 There's but one state more to try, 
 Wliich makes women laugh or cry — 
 Widow, widoAv : of these three 
 The middle 's best, and that give me. 
 
 Thomas Middlcton. — About 1623. 
 
 451 —WHAT LOVE IS LIKE. 
 
 Love is like a lamb, and love is like a lion ; 
 
 Fly from love, he fights ; fight, then does he 
 fly on; 
 
 Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing ; 
 
 Love is much in Avinning, yet is more in 
 leesing. 
 
 Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying ; 
 
 Love is over true, and yet is ever lying ; 
 
 Love does dote in liking, and is mad in 
 loathing ; 
 
 Love indeed is anything, yet indeed is no- 
 thing. 
 
 Thomas Middlcton.-^ About 1C02. 
 
 452.— HAPPINESS OF MiiEEIED LIFE. 
 
 How near am I now to a happiness 
 That earth exceeds not ! not another like it : 
 The treasures of the deep are not kg precious, 
 As are the conceal' d comforts of a man 
 Lock'd tip in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! 
 The violet bed 's not sweeter. Honest wedlock 
 Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, . 
 On which the spring's chaste flowers take do- 
 light 
 To cast their modest odours ; when base lust, 
 With aU her powders, paintings, and best 
 
 pride, 
 Is but a fair house built by a ditch side. 
 
 Now for a welcome. 
 
 Able to draw men's en\T.es upon man ; 
 A kiss now that will hang upon my lip 
 As sweet as morning dew upon a rose, 
 And full as long ! 
 
 Thomas Middlcton. — About 1G23. 
 
 453.— DEVOTION TO LOVE. 
 
 0, happy persecution, I embrace thee 
 With an unfetter' d soul ; so sweet a thing 
 It is to sigh upon the rack of love, 
 Where each calamity is groaning witness 
 Of the poor martyr's faith. I never heard 
 Of any true affection but 'twas nipt 
 With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, tho 
 
 rose. 
 Love, bred on earth, is often nursed in heU ; 
 By rote it reads woe ere it learn to spell. 
 
 When I call back my vows to Violctta, 
 May I then slip into an obscure grave, 
 Wliose mould, unpress'd with stony monument 
 Dwelling in open air, may drink the tears 
 Of the inconstant clouds to rot me soon ! 
 
 He that truly loves, 
 Burns out the day in idle fantasies ; 
 And when the lamb, bleating, doth bid good 
 
 night 
 Unto the closing day, then tears begin 
 To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice 
 Shrieks like the bellman in the lover's ear. 
 Love's eye the jewel of sleep, oh, seldom wears ! 
 The early lark is waken' d from her bed, 
 Being only by love's pains disquieted ; 
 But, singing in the morning's ear, she weeps. 
 Being deep in love, at lovers' broken sleeps : 
 But say, a golden slumber chance to tie. 
 With silken strings, the cover of love's eye, 
 Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present 
 Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent. 
 Thomas 3Iiddteton.— About 1623. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] BEAUTY BEYOND THE EEACH OF AET. 
 
 [John Ford. 
 
 454.— INDIGNATION AT THE SALE OF 
 A WIFE'S HONOUE. 
 
 Of all deeds yet this strikes the deepest wound 
 Into my apprehension, 
 Eeverend and honourable matrimony, 
 Mother of lawful sweets, unshamed mornings, 
 Both pleasant and legitimately fruitful, without 
 
 thee 
 All the whole world were soiled bastardy ; 
 Thou art the only and the greatest form 
 That put'st a difference betwixt our desires 
 And the disorder' d appetites of beasts. 
 * * * But, if chaste and honest, 
 
 There is another devil that haunts marriage 
 (None fondly loves but knows it), jealousy, 
 That wedlock's yellow sickness. 
 That whispering separation every minute, 
 And thus the curse takes his effect or progress. 
 The most of men, in their first sudden furies, 
 Eail at the narrow bounds of marriage, 
 And call't a prison ; then it is most just 
 That the disease of the prison, jealousy, 
 Should thus affect 'em — but, oh ! here I'm fix'd 
 To make sale of a wife ! monstrous and foul ! 
 An act abhorr'd in nature, cold in soul ! 
 
 TJiomas Middleton. — About 1623. 
 
 455--LAW. 
 
 Thou angel sent amongst us, sober Law, 
 Made with meek eyes, persuading action ; 
 No loud immodest tongue — voiced like a virgin. 
 And as chaste from sale, 
 Save only to be heard, but not to rail — 
 How has abuse deform'd thee to all eyes ! 
 Yet why so rashly for one villain's fault 
 Do I arraign whole man ? Admired Law I 
 Thy upper parts must needs be wholly pure. 
 And incorruptible — th' are grave and wise ; 
 'Tis hwt the dross beneath them, and the 
 
 clouds 
 That get between thy glory and their praise. 
 That make the "visible and foul eclipse ; 
 For those that are near to thee are upright. 
 As noble in their conscience as their birth ; 
 Know that damnation is in every bribe. 
 And rarely put it from them — rate the pre- 
 senters, 
 And scourge 'em with five years' imprison- 
 ment 
 For offering but to tempt 'em : 
 This is true justice, exercised and used ; 
 Woe to the giver, when the bribe 's refused. 
 'Tis not their will to have law worse than 
 
 war. 
 Where still the poorest die first. 
 To send a man without a sheet to his grave, 
 Or bury him in his papers ; 
 'Tis not their mind it should be. nor to have 
 A suit hang longer than a man in chains. 
 Let him be ne'er so fasten' d. 
 
 Tlwmas Middleton.— About 1623. 
 
 456.— THE EEAL AND THE IDEAL. 
 
 Fancies are but streams 
 
 Of vain pleasure ; 
 They, who by their dreams 
 True joys measure, 
 "Feasting starve, laughing wenp,— 
 Playing smart ; whilst in sleep 
 Fools, with shadows smiling, 
 Wake and find 
 Hopes like wind, 
 Idle hopes, beguiling. 
 Thoughts fly away ; Time hath passed them : 
 Wake now, awake ! see and taste them I 
 
 John Ford. — About 1023. 
 
 457.— SUMMEE SPOETS. 
 
 Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, 
 
 Wait on your Summer- queen ; 
 Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, 
 Daffodils strove the g^reen ; 
 Sing, dance, and play, 
 'Tis holiday'' ; 
 The Sun does bravely shine 
 On our ears of com. 
 Eich as a pearl 
 Comes every girl, 
 This is mine, this is mine, this is mine ; 
 Let us die, ere away they be borne. 
 
 Bow to the Sun, to our queen, and that fair 
 one 
 Come to behold our sports ; 
 Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one, 
 As those in a prince's courts. 
 These and we 
 With country glee, 
 Will teach the woods to resound, 
 And the hills with echoes hollow : 
 Skipping lambs 
 Their bleating dams, 
 'Mongst kids shall trip it round ; 
 For joy thus our wenches we follow. 
 
 Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly, 
 
 Hounds make a lusty cry ; 
 Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely, 
 Then let yoiu' brave hawks fly. 
 Horses amain. 
 Over ridge, over plain. 
 The dogs have the stag in chase : 
 'Tis a sport to content a king. 
 So ho ho ! through the skies 
 How the proud bird flies. 
 And, sousing, kills with a grace ! 
 Now the deer falls ; hark ! how the}'- ring ! 
 
 John Ford.— About 1623. 
 
 458. 
 
 -BEAUTY BEYOND THE EEACH 
 OF AET. 
 
 Can you paint a thought ? or number 
 Every fancy in a slumber ? 
 
John Ford.j 
 
 IJRIDAL SONG. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 Can you count soft minutes ro\-ing 
 From a dial's point by moving ? 
 Can you grasp a sigh ? or, lastly, 
 Rob a virgin' s honour chastely r 
 
 No, oh no ! yet you may 
 
 Sooner do botli that and this, 
 This and that, and never miss, 
 Than by any praise display 
 Beauty's beauty ; such a glory, 
 As beyond all fate, all story, 
 
 All arms, all arts. 
 
 All loves, all hearts, 
 Greater than tho?je, or they. 
 Do, shall, and must obey. 
 
 John Ford.— About 1633. 
 
 459.— BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 Comforts lasting, loves encreasing, 
 Like soft hours never ceasing : 
 Plenty's pleasure, peace compljdng, 
 Without jars, or tongues envying ; 
 Hearts by holy union wedded, 
 More than theirs by custom bedded ; 
 Fruitful issues ; life so graced, 
 Not by age to be defaced ; 
 Budding as the year ensu'th. 
 Every spring another youth : 
 All what thought can add beside. 
 Crown this bridegToom and this bride I 
 
 John Ford.— About 1633. 
 
 4CX).— SHEPHERDS AND SHEPHERD- 
 
 ESSES. 
 
 Woodmen, shepherds, come away, 
 This is Pan's great holiday, 
 
 Throw off cares. 
 With your heaven-inspiring airs 
 
 ]Help us to sing, 
 While valleys with your echoes ring. 
 
 N;y'mphs that dwell within these groves 
 Leave your arbours, bring your loves, 
 
 Gather posies, 
 Crown your golden hair with roses ; 
 
 As you pass 
 Foot like fairies on the grass. 
 
 Joy crown our bowers ! Philomel, 
 Leave of Tereus' rape to tell. 
 
 Let trees dance, 
 As they at Thracian lyre did once ; 
 
 Mountains play, 
 Tliis is the shepherd's holiday. 
 
 James Shirley. — About 1624. 
 
 461.— THE COMMON DOOM. 
 
 Victorious men of earth, no more 
 
 Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
 
 Though you bind in every shore, 
 And your triumphs reach as far 
 
 As night or day, 
 Tot you, proud monarchs, must obey. 
 And mingle with forgotten ashes, when - 
 Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 
 
 Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 
 
 Each able to undo mankind, 
 Death's servile emissaries are ; 
 
 Nor to these alone confined. 
 He hath at Avill 
 
 More quaint and subtle ways to kill ; 
 A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
 Shall have the cunning skill to break a 
 
 heart. 
 
 James Shirley. — About 1653. 
 
 462.— THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 There is no armour against fate ; 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
 Sceptre and crown 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
 They tame but one another still : 
 Early or late 
 They stoop to fate, 
 And must give up their murmuring breath, 
 ^Vhen they, pale captives, creep to death. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow. 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon Death's purple altar now 
 
 See where the victor- victim bleeds : 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb. 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
 
 James Slurlcy. — About 1659. 
 
 463.— WELCOME TO THE FOREST'S 
 QUEEN. 
 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, to this shady green. 
 Our long- wished Cynthia, the forest's queen, 
 The trees begin to bud, the glad birds sing 
 In winter, changed by her into the spring. 
 
 We know no night. 
 
 Perpetual light 
 
 Dawns from your eye. 
 
 You being near. 
 
 We cannot fear. 
 
 Though death stood by. 
 
 From you our swords take edge, our heart 
 
 grows bold : 
 From you in fee their lives youi* liegemen 
 
 hold; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 LOVE WITHOUT EETUEN. 
 
 [Thomas Goffe. 
 
 These groves your kingdom, and our laws your 
 
 wiU ; 
 Smile, and we spare ; but if you frown, we kill. 
 Bless then the hour 
 That gives the power 
 In which you may, 
 At bed and board, 
 Embrace your lord 
 Both night and day. 
 Welcome, thrice welcome to this shady green. 
 Our long- wished Cynthia, the forest's queen ! 
 Philip Massingcr. — About 1633. 
 
 464.— THE SWEETS OF BEAUTY. 
 
 The blushing rose and purple flower, 
 Let grow too long are soonest blasted ; 
 
 Dainty fruits, though sAvect, will sour, 
 And rot in ripeness, left untasted. 
 
 Yet here is one more sweet than these : 
 
 The more you taste the more she'll please. 
 
 Beauty that's enclosed with ice, 
 
 Is a shadow chaste as rare ; 
 Then how much those sweets entice, 
 
 That have issue full as fair ! 
 Earth cannot yield, from all her powers, 
 One equal for dame Venus' bowers. 
 
 PJdli^j Massinrjer. — About 1629. 
 
 465.— DEATH. 
 
 "Wliy art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death, 
 
 To stop a wretch's breath, 
 That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart 
 
 A prey unto thy dart ? 
 I am nor young nor fair ; be, therefore, bold : 
 
 Sorrow hath made me old. 
 Deformed, and wrinkled ; aU that I can crave. 
 
 Is quiet in my grave. 
 Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel ; 
 
 But to me thou art cruel. 
 If thou end not my tedious misery ; 
 
 And I soon cease to be. 
 Strike, and strike home, then ! pity unto me, 
 j In one short hoiu-'s delay, is tyranny. 
 
 rhilip Massinger. — Aboiit 1631. 
 
 And still I held converse with Zabareil, 
 
 Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 
 
 Of Antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. 
 
 Still on went I ; first, an sit anima ; 
 
 Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold ; at that 
 
 They're at brain buffets, feU by the ears amain 
 
 Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slei5t. 
 
 Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt, 
 
 Vj< trach(ce, but whether 't had free will 
 
 Or no, hot philosophers 
 
 Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt ; 
 
 I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part, 
 
 But thought, quoted, read, observ'd, and pried, 
 
 Stufft noting-books : and still my spaniel slept. 
 
 At length he wak'd, and yawn'd ; and by yon 
 
 sky, 
 For aught I know, he knew as much as I. 
 
 John Ma.rston.—Aboitt 1030. 
 
 466.— A SCHOLAE AISTD HIS DOG. 
 
 I was a scholar : seven useful springs 
 
 Did I deflower in quotations 
 
 Of cross' d opinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
 
 The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. 
 
 TxAujht, my spaniel, slept, whilst I baus'd 
 
 Icsives, 
 Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
 Of titled words ; and still my spaniel slept, 
 Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh. 
 Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel 
 
 slept. 
 
 467.— THE MADNESS OF OEESTES. 
 
 Weep, weep, you Argonauts, 
 
 Bewail the day 
 
 That first to fatal Troy 
 
 You took your way. 
 
 Weep, Greece, weep, Greece, 
 
 Two kings are dead 
 
 Argos, thou Argos, now a grave 
 
 Where kings are buried ; 
 
 No heir, no heir is left, 
 
 But one that's mad. 
 
 See, Argos, hast not thou 
 
 Cause to be sad ? 
 
 Sleep, sleep, wild brain, 
 
 Eest, rock thy sense. 
 
 Live if thou canst 
 
 To grieve for thy offence. 
 
 Weep, weep, you Argonauts ! 
 
 Thomas Goffc— About 1633. 
 
 468.— LOVE WITHOUT EETUEN. 
 
 Grieve not, fond man, nor let one tear 
 Steal from thine eyes ; she'll hear 
 No more of Cupid's shafts ; they fly 
 For wounding her, so let them die. 
 
 For why shouldst thou nourish such flames as 
 bum 
 
 Thy easy breast, and not have like return ? 
 Love forces love, as flames expire 
 If not increased by gentle fire. 
 
 Let then her frigid coolness move 
 Thee to withdraw thy purer love : 
 And since she is resolved to show 
 She will not love, do thou so too : 
 For why should beauty so charm thine eyes. 
 That if she frown, thou'lt prove her sacrifice? 
 Love forces love, as flames expire 
 If not increased by gentle fire. 
 
 Thomas Goffe. — About 1633. 
 
Thomas Heywood."! 
 
 THE DEATH BELL. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 469.— THE DEATH BELL. 
 
 Come, list and hark, the bell doth toll 
 For some but now departing soul. 
 And was not that some ominous fowl, 
 The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owl ? 
 To these I hear the vrild wolf howl, 
 In this black night that seems to scowl. 
 All these my black-book death enroll, 
 For hark, still, still, the beU doth toll 
 For some but now departing soul. 
 
 Tliomas Hey^vood. — About 1640. 
 
 470.— WHAT IS LOVE. 
 
 Now what is love I wiU thee tell, 
 
 It is the fountain and the well, 
 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell : 
 
 It is perhaps the sansing bell. 
 
 That rings all in to heaven or hell, 
 
 And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell. 
 
 Now what is love I will you show : 
 A thing that creeps and cannot go ; 
 A prize that passeth to and fro ; 
 A thing for me, a thing for mo' : 
 And he that proves shall find it so, 
 And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend, 
 I trow. 
 
 Tliomas Heywood. — Ahov.t 1640. 
 
 471.— GO, PEETTY BIEDS. 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing 
 
 Amidst the shady valleys. 
 And see how Phillis sweetly walks, 
 
 Within her garden alleys ; 
 Go, pretty birds, about her bower ; 
 Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ; 
 Ah, me ! methinks I see her frown ! 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, 
 
 As you by me are bidden, 
 To her is only known my love. 
 
 Which, from the world is hidden. 
 Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; 
 See that your notes strain not too low, 
 For still, methinks, I see her frown, 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tune your voices' harmony, 
 
 And sing, I am her lover ; 
 Strain loud and sweet, that every note 
 
 With sweet content may move her. 
 And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
 Tell her I will not change my choice ; 
 Yet stiU, methinks, I see her frown. 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Oh, fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls 
 
 Into a pretty slumber. 
 Sing round about her rosy bed, 
 
 That waking, she may wonder. 
 
 Say to her, 'tis her lover true 
 Tliat sendetli love to you, to j'^ou ; 
 And when you hear her kind reply, 
 Return with pleasant warblings. 
 
 Thomas Hey wood. —About 1640. 
 
 472.— DIANA'S NYMPHS. 
 
 Hail, beauteous Dian, queen of shades, 
 That dwell' st beneath these shadowy glades, 
 Mistress of all those beauteous maids 
 
 That are by her allowed. 
 Virginity we all profess, 
 Abjure the worldly vain excess. 
 And will to Dian yield no less 
 
 Than wo to her have vowed. 
 The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns, 
 * For thee will trip it o'er the lawns. 
 
 Come, to the forest let us go. 
 And trip it like the barren doe ; 
 The fawns and satyrs still do so. 
 
 And freely thus they may do. 
 The fairies dance and satyrs sing, 
 And on the grass tread many a ring, 
 And to their caves their venison bring ; 
 
 And we will do as they. 
 The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns. 
 For thee will trip it o'er the laAvns. 
 
 Our food is honey from the bees, 
 
 And mellow fruits that drop from trees ; 
 
 In chace we climb the high degrees 
 
 Of every steepy mountain. 
 And when the weary day is past. 
 We at the evening hie us fast. 
 And after this, our field repast, 
 
 We drink the pleasant fountain. 
 The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns, 
 For thee will trip it o'er the lawns. 
 
 Thomas Heywood. — About 1640. 
 
 473.— THE LAEK. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day; 
 
 With night we banish sorrow : 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft, 
 
 To give my love good-morrow : 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow : 
 Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing. 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 Notes from them all I'll borrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast. 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good-morrow. 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, li^met, and cock-sparrow. 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. 
 
 Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow. 
 
 Thomas Heyivood. — About 1635. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 SEAECH AFTER GOD. 
 
 [Thomas Heywood. 
 
 474.— SHEPI-IEED'S SONG. 
 
 "We that have known no greater state 
 Than this we live in, praise our fate ; 
 For courtly silks in cares are spent, 
 When country's russet breeds content. 
 The power of sceptres we admire, 
 But sheep-hooks for our use desire. 
 Simple and low is our condition, 
 For here with us is no ambition : 
 Wo with the sun our flocks unfold, 
 Wliose rising- makes their fleeces gold ; 
 Our music from the birds we borrow, 
 They bidding us, wc them, good morrow. 
 Our habits are but coarse and plain, 
 Yet they defend from wind and rain ; 
 As warm too, in an equal eye, 
 As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye. 
 The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, 
 As many merry hours doth pass, 
 As courtiers with their costly girls, 
 Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls ; 
 And, though but plain, to purpose woo, 
 Nay, often vvith less danger too. 
 Those that delight in dainties' store, 
 One stomach feed at once, no more ; 
 And, when with homely fare we feast, 
 With us it doth as well digest ; 
 And many times we better speed. 
 For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. 
 If we sometimes the willow wear. 
 By subtle swains that dare forswear. 
 We wonder whence it comes, and fear 
 They've been at court and learnt it there. 
 
 Thomas Hcijicood.— About 1635. 
 
 475.— SHIP^VEECK BY DEINK. 
 -This gentleman and I 
 
 Pass'd but just now by your next neighbour's 
 
 house, 
 Wliere, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, 
 An unthrift youth ; his father now at sea : 
 And there this night was held a sumptuous 
 
 feast. 
 In the height of their carousing, all their 
 
 brains 
 Warm'd with the heat of ^vine, discourse was 
 
 offer' d 
 Of ships and storms at sea : when suddenly. 
 Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives 
 The room wherein they quaff' d to be a pinnace 
 Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise 
 To be the miu-muring winds, gusts, mariners : 
 That their unstoadfast footing did proceed 
 From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd, 
 Each one begins to apprehend the danger. 
 And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one. 
 Up to the main-top, and discover. He 
 Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there 
 Eeports a turbulent sea and tempest towards ; 
 And -tt-ills them, if they'll save their ship and 
 
 lives, 
 To cast their lading Qverboard, At thia 
 
 All fall to work, and hoist into the street, 
 As to the sea, what next came to their hand, 
 Stools, tables, tressels, trenches, bedsteads, 
 
 cups. 
 Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow 
 
 whistles ; 
 They take him for the boastwain^- ^me lies 
 
 struggling 
 Upon the floor, as if he swam for life : 
 A third takes the bass-viol for the cock -boat. 
 Sits in the bellow on't, labours, and rows ; 
 ! His oar the stick with which the fiddler 
 
 play'd : 
 A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape 
 (As did Arion) on the dolphin's back. 
 Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multi- 
 tude, 
 Watching without, and gaping for the spoil 
 Cast from the windows, went by th' ears 
 
 about it : 
 The constable is call'd t' atone the broil ; 
 AVlaich done, and hearing such a noise v,dthin 
 Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and 
 
 finds them 
 In this confusion : they adore his staff. 
 And think it Neptune's trident ; and that he 
 Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his 
 
 watch) 
 To calm the tempest, and appease the waves : 
 And at this point we left them. 
 
 Thomas Heyicood. — About 1649. 
 
 476.— SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 I sought thee round about, Thou my God ! 
 
 In Thine abode. 
 I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou He?" 
 
 She ansvv^ered me, 
 " I am not." I inquired of creatures all, 
 
 In general, 
 Contain'd therein. They v/ith one voice pro- 
 claim 
 That none amongst them challenged such a 
 name. 
 
 I asked the seas and all the deeps bclov^. 
 
 My God to know ; 
 I asked the reptiles and whatever is 
 
 In the abyss — 
 Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 
 
 Enquiry ran ; 
 But in those deserts which no line can souu'l, 
 The God I sought for was not to be found. 
 
 I ask'd the air if that were He ! but 
 
 It told me no. 
 I from the towering eagle to the wren 
 
 Demanded then 
 If any feather' d fowl 'mongst them were such 
 
 But they all, much 
 Offended with my question, in full choir, 
 Answer' d, " To find thy God thou must look 
 higher." 
 
George Sandys,] 
 
 A THANKSGIVING. 
 
 [Thikd Period. — 
 
 I ask'd the heavens, sun, moon, and stars ; 
 but they 
 
 Said, " We obey 
 The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or 
 ear 
 
 Could see or hoar 
 "What in the world I might descry or know 
 
 Above, below ; 
 With an unanimous voice, all these things said, 
 '■ We are not God, but we by Him were made." 
 
 I ask'd the world's great universal mass 
 
 If that God was ; 
 Which with a mighty and strong voice replied. 
 
 As stupitied, — 
 " I am not He, O man ! for know that I 
 
 By Him on high 
 Was fashion' d first of nothing : thus instated 
 And sway'd by Him by Avhom I was created." 
 
 I sought the court ; but smooth-tongued flat- 
 tery there 
 
 Deceived each ear ; 
 In the throng' d city there was selling, buying. 
 
 Swearing, and lying ; 
 I' the country, craft in simpleness array' d, 
 
 And then I said — 
 " Vain is my search, although my pains be 
 
 great ; 
 Where my God is there can be no deceit." 
 
 A scrutiny within myself, I, then, 
 
 Even thus began : 
 " O man, what art thou ? " What more could 
 I say 
 
 Than dust and clay — 
 Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, 
 
 That cannot last ; 
 Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn, 
 Form'd from that earth to which I must 
 return? 
 
 I asked myself what this great God might be 
 
 That fashioned me ? 
 I answered : The all-potent, solely immense, 
 
 Surpassing sense ; 
 Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, 
 
 Lord over all ; 
 The only terrible, strong, just, and true, 
 Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 
 
 He is the well of life, for He doth give 
 
 To all that live 
 Both breath and being ; He is the Creator 
 
 Both of the water, 
 Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist 
 
 He hath the list — 
 Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 
 He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 
 names. 
 
 And now, my God, by Thine illuminating grace, 
 
 Thy glorious face 
 (So far forth as it may discovered be), 
 
 Methinks I see ; 
 And tliough invisible and infinite, 
 
 To human sight 
 
 Thou, in Thy mercy, justice, truth appearest, 
 In which, to our weak sense, thou comost 
 nearest. 
 
 O make us apt to seek, and quick to find, 
 
 Thou, God, most kind ! 
 Give us love, hope, and faith, in Thee to trust. 
 
 Thou, God, most just ! 
 Eemit all our offences, we entreat, 
 
 Most good ! most great ! 
 Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest. 
 May, through Thj grace, admit us 'mongst the 
 blest. 
 
 Tlwmas Hei/ivood. — Ahoi.it IGIO. 
 
 477.— A THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Oh ! who hath tasted of Thy clemency 
 
 In greater measure, or more oft than I ? 
 
 My grateful verse Thy goodness shall display, 
 
 Thou who went'st along in all my way — 
 To where the morning, with perfumed wings. 
 From the high mountains of Panchroa springs, 
 To that new-found-out-world, where sober 
 
 night 
 Takes from the antipodes her silent flight ; 
 To those dark seas where horrid winter reigns. 
 And binds the stubborn floods in icy chains ; 
 To Libian wastes, whose thirst no showers 
 
 assuage. 
 And where swoll'n Nilus cools the lion's rage. 
 Thy wonders on the deep have I beheld. 
 Yet all by those on Judah's hills excell'd : 
 There where the Virgin's Son His doctrine 
 
 taught. 
 His miracles and our redemption wrought : 
 Where I, by Thee inspired. His praises simg. 
 And on his sepulchre my offering hung ; 
 Wliich way soe'er I turn my face or feet, 
 
 1 see Thy glory and Thy mercy meet ; 
 
 Met on the Thracian shores, when in the strife 
 Of frantic Simoans Thou preserved' st my life — 
 So when Arabian thieves belaid us round. 
 And when by all abandon'd Thee I foilnd. 
 
 Then brought' st me home in safety, that this 
 
 earth 
 Might bury me, which fed me from my birth. 
 
 George Sandys. — About 1G20- 
 
 478.— PSALM XLII. 
 
 Lord ! as the hart embost with heat 
 Brays after the cool rivulet, 
 
 So sighs my soul for Thee. 
 My soul thirsts for the li\'ing God : 
 WTien shall I enter His abode. 
 
 And there His beauty see ? 
 Tears are my food both night and day ; 
 While Where's thy God ? they daily say ; 
 
 My soul in plaints I shed ; 
 When I remember how in throngs 
 We fill'd Thy house with praise and songs 
 
 How I their dances led. 
 
Fivm 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 PSALM LXVIII. 
 
 [George Sandys. 
 
 My soul, why art tliou s<j deprest ? 
 Why, oh ! thus troubled in my breast, 
 
 With grief so overthrown ? 
 AVith constant hope on God await : 
 I yet His name shall celebrate, 
 
 For mercy timely shown. 
 My fainting heart within me pants ; 
 My God, consider my complaints ; 
 
 My songs shall praise Thee still, 
 Even from the A^ale where Jordan flows, 
 "VMiere Hermon his high forehead shows, 
 
 From Mitzar's humble hill. 
 
 Deeps unto deeps enraged call, 
 When thy dark spouts of waters fall, 
 
 And dreadful tempest raves : 
 For all thy floods upon me burst. 
 And billows after billows thrust 
 
 To swallow in their graves. 
 
 But yet by day the Lord will charge 
 His ready mercy to enlarge 
 
 My soul, surprised with cares ; 
 He gives my songs their argument ; 
 God of my life, I will present 
 
 By night to thee my prayers. 
 
 And say, my God, my rock, oh, why 
 Am I forgot, and mourning die. 
 
 By foes reduced to dust ? 
 Their words, like weapons, pierce my bones. 
 While still they echo to my groans, 
 
 Wliere is the Lord thy trust ? 
 
 My soul, why art thou so deprest ? 
 O why so troubled in my breast ? 
 
 Sunk underneath thy load ! 
 With constant hope on God await ; 
 For I his name shall celebrate. 
 
 My Saviour and my God. 
 
 George Sandys. — About 1636. 
 
 479.— PSALM LXVIII. 
 
 Lot God, the God of battle, rise. 
 
 And scatter his proud enemies : 
 
 O let them flee before his face, 
 
 Like smoke which driving tempests chase ; 
 
 As wax dissolves with scorching fire, 
 
 So perish in his burning ire. 
 
 But let the just with joy abound ; 
 
 In joyful songs his praise resound. 
 
 Who, riding on the rolling spheres. 
 
 The name of great Jehovah bears. 
 
 Before his face your joys express, 
 
 A father to the fatherless ; 
 
 He wipes the tears from widows' eyes. 
 
 The single plants in families ; 
 
 Enlarging those who late were bound, 
 
 WhUe rebels starve on thirsty ground. 
 
 When he our numerous army led. 
 And march'd through deserts full of dread, 
 Heav'n melted, and earth's centre shook, 
 With his majestic presence struck. 
 When Israel's God in clouds came down. 
 High Sinai bow'd his trembling crown ; 
 
 He, in th' approach of meagre dearth, 
 With showers refresh' d the fainting earth. 
 Where his own flocks in safety fed, 
 The needy unto plenty led. 
 By him we conquer. — Virgins sing 
 Our victories, and timbrels ring : — _ 
 He kings with their vast armies foils, 
 While women share their wealthy spoils. 
 
 Wlien he the kings had overthrown, 
 
 Our land like snowy Salmon shone. 
 
 God's mountain Bashan' amount transcends, 
 
 Though he his many heads extends. 
 
 Why boast ye so, ye meaner hills ? 
 
 God with his glory Zion fills, 
 
 This his beloved residence, 
 
 Nor ever will depart from hence. 
 
 His chariots twenty thousand were. 
 
 Which myriads of angels bear, 
 
 He in the midst, as when he crown' d 
 
 High Sinai's sanctified ground. 
 
 Lord, thou hast raised thyself on high, 
 
 And captive led captivity. 
 
 * * i* * 
 
 praised be the God of Gods, 
 "Who -with his daily blessings loads ; 
 The God of our salvation, 
 
 On whom our hopes depend alone ; 
 The controverse of life and death 
 Is arbitrated by his breath. 
 
 Thus spoke Jehovah : Jacob's seed 
 
 1 will from Bashan bring again, 
 And through the bottom of the main. 
 That dogs may lap their enemies blood, 
 And they wade through a crimson flood. 
 We, in thy sanctuary late. 
 
 My God, my King, beheld thy state ; 
 
 The sacred singers march'd before. 
 
 Who instmments of music bore. 
 
 In order follow' d — every maid 
 
 Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd. 
 
 His praise in your assemblies sing, 
 
 You who from Israel's fountain spring, 
 
 Nor little Benjamin alone. 
 
 But Judah, from his mountain throne ; 
 
 The far-removed Zebulon, 
 
 And Napthali, that borders on 
 
 Old Jordan, where his stream dilates, 
 
 Join'd all their powers and potentates. 
 
 For U.S his winged soldiers fought ; 
 
 Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath 
 
 wrought ! 
 He that supports a diadem 
 To thee, divine Jerusalem ! 
 Shall in devotion treasure bring. 
 To build the temple of his King. 
 
 Far off from sun-burnt Meroe, 
 From falling Mlus, from the sea 
 Which beats on the Egyptian shore, 
 Shall princes come, and here adore. 
 Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd. 
 Sing to the Lord, his praise resound ; -in 
 
Geokge Sandys.] 
 
 CHOEUS OF JEWISH WOMEN. 
 
 [Third Period.' 
 
 He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides, 
 
 And on her aged shoulders rides ; 
 
 Whose voice the clouds asunder rends, 
 
 In thunder terrible descends. 
 
 O praise his strength' whose majesty 
 
 In Israel shines — his power on high ! 
 
 He from his sanctuary throws 
 
 A trembling horror on his foes, 
 
 While us his power and strength invest ; 
 
 O Israel, praise the ever-blest I 
 
 Ocorge Sandys. — Ahoiit 1636. 
 
 480.— CHOEUS OF JEWISH WOMEN. 
 
 The rapid motion of the spheres 
 
 Old night from our horizon bears, 
 
 And now declining shades give way 
 
 To the return of cheerful day. 
 
 And Phosphorus, who leads the stars. 
 
 And day's illustrious path prepares, 
 
 Who last of all the host retires. 
 
 Nor yet withdraws those radiant fires ; 
 
 Nor have our trumpets summon' d 
 
 The morning from her dewy bed : 
 
 As yet her roses are unblown, 
 
 Nor by her purple mantel known. 
 
 All night we in the temple keep. 
 
 Not yielding to the charms of sleep ; 
 
 That so we might vriih. zealous prayer 
 
 Our thoughts and cleansed hearts prepare, 
 
 To celebrate the ensuing light. 
 
 This annual feast to memory 
 
 Is sacred, nor with us must die. 
 
 What numbers from the sun's up-rise. 
 
 From Avhere he leaves the morning skies, 
 
 Of our dispersed Abrahamites, 
 
 This Vesper to their homes invites. 
 
 Yet we in yearly triumph still 
 
 A lamb for our deliverance kill. 
 
 Since liberty our confines fled. 
 
 Given with the first unleaven'd bread. 
 
 She never would return ; though bought 
 
 With wounds, and in destruction sought ; 
 
 Some stray to Libya's scorched sands. 
 
 Where horned Hammon's temple stands : 
 
 To Nilus some, where Philip's son, 
 
 Who all the rifled Orient won, 
 
 Built his proud city ; others gone 
 
 To their old prison, Babylon : 
 
 A part to freezing Taurus fled. 
 
 And Tiber now the ocean's head 
 
 Our ruins all the world have filled : 
 
 But you, by use in suffering skill' d, 
 
 Forgetting in remoter climes 
 
 Our vanisht glory, nor those times, 
 
 Those happy times, compare with these, 
 
 Your burdens may support with ease. 
 
 More justly we of fate complain 
 
 Who ser\dtude at home sustain ; 
 
 We to perpetual woes designed, 
 
 In our own coixntry Egypt find. 
 
 Yet this no less our grief provokes, 
 
 Our kindred bear divided yokes ; 
 
 One part by Eoman bondage wrung, 
 
 The other two by brothers sprung 
 
 From savage Idumteans, whom 
 
 Our fathers have so oft o'ercome. 
 
 O Thou, the Hope, the only One 
 
 Of our distress, and ruin'd throne ; 
 
 Of whom with a prophetic tongue. 
 
 To Judah dying Jacob sung : 
 
 The crowned muse on ivory lyre, 
 
 His breast inflamed with holy fire, 
 
 This oft foretold, — that Thou should' st free 
 
 The people consecrate to Thee ; 
 
 That Thou, triumphing, should' st revoke 
 
 Sweet peace, then never to be broke ; 
 
 When freed Judiea should obey 
 
 Our Lord, and all affect His sway. 
 
 O when shall we behold Thy face, 
 
 So often promised to our race ? 
 
 If prophets, who have won belief. 
 
 By our mishaps and flowing grief, 
 
 Of joyful change, as tridy sung ; 
 
 Thy absence should not now be long. 
 
 Thee, by Thy \'irtue, we entreat ; 
 
 The temple's veil, the mercy's seat. 
 
 That name by which our fathers sware, 
 
 Which in our vulgar speech we dare 
 
 Not utter to compassionate 
 
 Thy kindred's tears, and ruined state. 
 
 Hast to our great redemption, hast, 
 
 O thou most Holy ! and at last 
 
 Bless with Thy presence, that wo may 
 
 To Thee our vows devoutly pay. 
 
 George Sandys. — Ahout 1642. 
 
 481.— LOVE. 
 
 'Tis affection but dissembled, 
 Or dissembled liberty. 
 
 To pretend thy passion changed 
 With changes of thy mistress' eye. 
 Following her inconstancy. 
 
 Hopes, which do from favour flourish, 
 May perhaps as soon expire 
 
 As the cause which did them nourish, 
 And disdain' d they may retire ; 
 But love is another fire. 
 
 For if beauty cause thy passion, 
 
 If a fair resistless eye 
 Molt thee -with its soft expression. 
 
 Then thy hopes will never die, 
 
 Nor be cured by cruelty. 
 
 'Tis not scorn that can remove thee, 
 For thou either wilt not see 
 
 Such loved beauty not to love thee, 
 Or will else consent that she 
 Judge not as she ought of thee. 
 
 Thus thou either canst not sever 
 Hope from what appears so fair, 
 
 Or, unhappier, thou canst never 
 Find contentment in despair, 
 Nor make love a trifling care. 
 
Frovi 1558 to 1&19.] 
 
 LOVE'S DAETS. 
 
 [William Cartwkight. 
 
 There are seen but few retiring 
 
 Steps in all the paths of love, 
 Made by such who in aspiring 
 
 Meeting scorn their hopes remove ; 
 
 Yet even these ne'er change their love. 
 
 Sidney Godolphin. — About 1640. 
 
 482.— ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL 
 GRENVILLE. 
 
 Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, 
 To a compliance with the thriving side ; 
 Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, 
 But only to maintain aiHicted right ; 
 Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, 
 Perversely seeking after voice and name ; 
 Is to resplve, fight, die, as martyrs do, 
 And thus did he, soldier and martyr too. 
 # * # % 
 
 When now th' incensed legions proudly came 
 Down like a torrent without bank or dam : 
 When undeserved success urged on their force ; 
 That thimder must come down to stop their 
 
 course, 
 Or Gren\'illo mxist step in; then Grenville 
 
 stood. 
 And with himself opposed, and check' d the 
 
 flood. 
 Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire 
 Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire : 
 His courage work'd Like flames, cast heat 
 
 about, 
 Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave 
 
 out; 
 Not any pike in that renowned stand, 
 But took new force from his inspiring hand : 
 Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, 
 And he lu-god all ; so much example can ; 
 Hurt upon hurt, wound upon woiind did call. 
 He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all : 
 His soul this while retired from cell to cell, 
 At last flew up from all, and then ho fell. 
 But the devoted stand enraged more 
 From that his fate, plied hotter than before, 
 And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, 
 Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the 
 
 field. 
 Thus ho being fallen, his action fought anew : 
 And the dead conquer' d, whiles the living slew. 
 
 This was not nature's courage, not that 
 thing 
 We valour call, which time and reason bring ; 
 But a diviner fury, fierce and high. 
 Valour transported into ecstacy. 
 Which angels, looking on us from above, 
 Use to convey into the souls they love. 
 You now that boast the spirit, and its sway. 
 Show us his second, and we'll give the day : 
 We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly ; 
 Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die : 
 And though you thank God that you lost none 
 
 there, 
 'Cause they were such who lived not when 
 
 the}' were ; 
 
 Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, 
 As his successes do, whom you dare call. 
 As fame unto you doth reports dispense. 
 
 Either a or his excellence) 
 
 Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, 
 Could wish his fate together with his^cause. 
 
 And thou (blest soul) whose clear compactecl 
 fame, 
 As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name. 
 Whose life affords what doth content both 
 
 eyes, 
 Glory for people, substance for the wise, 
 Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat 
 To which the valiant, when they've done, 
 
 retreat : 
 And when thou seest an happy period sent 
 To these distractions, and the storm quite 
 
 spent. 
 Look down and say, I have my share in all. 
 Much good grew from my life, much from my 
 
 fall. 
 
 William CartiurigM. — About 1640. 
 
 483.— LOVE'S DAETS. 
 
 Where is that learned wretch that knows 
 What are those darts the veil'd god throws? 
 
 let him tell me ere I die 
 
 When 'twas he saw or heard them fly ; 
 Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, 
 Wing them for various loves ; 
 And whether gold, or lead, 
 Quicken, or dull the head : 
 
 1 will anoint and keep them warm. 
 And make the weapons heal the harm. 
 
 Fond that I am to ask ! whoe'er 
 Did yet see thought ? or silence hear i' 
 Safe from the search of human eye 
 These arrows (as their ways are) fly : 
 
 The flights of angels part 
 
 Not air with so much art ; 
 
 And snows on streams, we may 
 
 Say, louder fall than they. 
 So hopeless I must now endure, 
 And neither know the shaft nor cure. 
 
 A sudden fire of blushes shed 
 To dye white paths with hasty red ; 
 A glance's lightning swiftly thrown. 
 Or from a true or seeming frown ; 
 
 A subtle taking smile 
 
 From passion, or from guile ; 
 
 The spirit, life, and gi-ace 
 
 Of motion, limbs, and face ; 
 These misconceit entitles darts. 
 And tears the bleedings of our hearts. 
 
 But as the feathers in the wing 
 Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring. 
 And harmless twigs no bloodshed know, 
 Till art doth fit them for the bow ; 
 
 So lights of flowing graces 
 
 Sparkle in several places, 
 
 Only adorn the parts, 
 
 Till that v/o make them darts ; ^7* 
 
WILLIAM WARNER. J 
 
 TALE OF AUGENTILE AND CUBAN. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 Themselves are only tvngs and quills : 
 "We give them shape, and force for ills. 
 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore, 
 We mint, and stamp, and then adore : 
 Like heathen we the image crown, 
 And indiscreetly then fall down: 
 
 Those graces all were meant 
 
 Our joy, not discontent ; 
 
 But with untaught desires 
 
 We turn those lights to fires. 
 Thus Nature's healing herbs we take, 
 And out of cures do poisons make. 
 
 WilUaiu CartwrigUt.— About 1640. 
 
 484.— TALE OF AEGENTILE AND 
 CUBAN. 
 
 The Brutons thus departed hence, seven king- 
 doms here begone. 
 Where diversely in diverse broils the Saxons 
 
 lost and won. 
 King Edell and King Adelbright in- Divia 
 
 jointly reign : 
 In loyal concord during life these kingly friends 
 
 remain. 
 Wlicn Adelbright sho\ild leave his life, to 
 
 Edell thus he says : 
 By those same bonds of happy love, that held 
 
 us friends always, 
 By oar byparted crown, of which the moiety 
 
 is mine, 
 By God, to whom my soul must pass, and so 
 
 in time may thine, 
 I pray thee, nay, conjure thee, too, to nourish 
 
 as thine own 
 Thy niece, my daughter Argentile, till she to 
 
 age be grown. 
 And then, as thou receivest, resign to her my 
 
 throne. 
 A promise had for this bequest, the testator 
 
 he dies, 
 But all that Edell undertook he afterward de- 
 nies. 
 
 And ^till against the king's restraint did 
 
 secretly inveigh. 
 At length the high controller. Love, ^vliom 
 
 none may disobey, 
 Irabased him from lordliness unto a kitchen 
 
 drudge. 
 That so, at least, of life or death she might 
 
 become his judge. 
 Access so had to see, and speak, he did his 
 
 love bewray. 
 And tells his birth : her answer was, she 
 
 husbandless would stay. 
 Meanwhile, the king did beat his brains, his 
 
 booty to achieve, 
 Not caring what became of her, so he by her 
 
 might thrive : 
 At last his resolution was, some peasant 
 
 should her wive. 
 And, which was working to his wish, he did 
 
 observe with joy 
 How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, scapt 
 
 many an amorous toy. 
 The king, perceiving such his vein, promotes 
 
 his vassal still. 
 Lest that the baseness of the man, should let, 
 
 perhaps, his will. 
 Assured therefore of his love, but not sus- 
 pecting who 
 The lover was, the king himself in his behalf 
 
 did woo. 
 The lady, resolute from love, unkindly takes 
 
 that he 
 Should bar the noble, and unto so base a match 
 
 agree ; 
 And therefore, shifting out of doors, departed 
 
 thence by stealth. 
 Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in 
 
 wealth. 
 "WTien Curan heard of her escape, the anguish 
 
 in his heart 
 Was more than much, and after her from court 
 
 he did depart : 
 Forgetful of hini.self, his birth, his country, 
 
 friends, and all. 
 And only minding whom he mist — the 
 
 foundress of his thrall ! 
 
 Yet well he fosters for a time the damsel, that j ]s^or means he after to frequent, or court, or 
 
 stately towns, 
 But solitarily to live amongst the country 
 
 was grown 
 The fairest lady under heaven ; whose beauty 
 
 being known, 
 A many princes seek her love, but none might 
 
 her obtain. 
 For Grippel Edell to himself her kingdom 
 
 sought to gain ; 
 By chance one Curan, son unto a prince in 
 
 Danske, did see 
 The maid, with whom he fell in love, as much 
 
 as one might be. 
 Unhappy youth ! what should he do ? his saint 
 
 was kept in mew. 
 Nor he, nor any noble man admitted to her 
 
 view. 
 One while in melancholy fits he pines himself 
 
 away ; 
 Anon he thought by force of arms to win her 
 if he may, 
 
 grownes. 
 A brace of years he lived thus ; well-pleased 
 
 so to live ; 
 And shepherd-like to feed a flock, himself did 
 
 wholly give. 
 So wasting, love, by work and want, gi-ew 
 
 almost to the wane : 
 But then began a second love, the worser of 
 
 the twain ! 
 A country v/ench, a neatherd's maid, where 
 
 Curan kept his sheep, 
 Did feed her drove ; and now on her was all 
 
 the shepherd's keep. 
 He borrow' d on the working days, his holly 
 
 rufFets oft : 
 And of the bacon's fat, to make his startups 
 
 black and soft : 
 
¥rovi 1558 to 1649.] TALE OF AEGENTILE AND CUEAN. 
 
 [William Warnek. 
 
 And lest his tar-box should offend, lie left it 
 
 at the fold ; 
 Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much 
 
 as it would hold ; 
 A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese 
 
 as white as snow, 
 And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in 
 
 scrip bestow : 
 And whilst his piebald cur did sleep, and 
 
 sheep-hook lay him by. 
 On hollow quills of oaten straw he piped 
 
 melody. 
 But when he spied her, his saint, he ^^dp'd his 
 
 greasy shoes, 
 And clear'd the drivel from his beard, and 
 
 thus the shepherd woos ; 
 ' I have, sweet wench, a piece of cheese, as 
 
 good as tooth may chaw, 
 And bread and wildings, souling well;' and 
 
 thei-ewithal did draw 
 His lardry ; and, in eating, ' See yon crumpled 
 
 ewe,' qvioth he, 
 ' Did twin this fall ; faith thou art too elfish, 
 
 and too coy ; 
 Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock 
 
 o^ioy, 
 I wis I am not ; yet that thou dost hold me in 
 
 disdain 
 Is brim abroad, and made a gibe to all that 
 
 keep this plain. 
 There be as quaint, at least that think them- 
 selves as quaint, that crave 
 The match which thou (I wot not why) may'st, 
 
 but mislik'st to have. 
 How would' st thou match ? (for well I wot thou 
 
 art a female) ; I, 
 I know not her, that \villingly, in maidenhood 
 
 would die. 
 The ploughman's labour hath no end, and he 
 
 a churl Avill prove ; 
 The craftsman hath more work in hand than 
 
 fitteth on to love ; 
 The merchant, trafiicking abroad, suspects his 
 
 wife at home ; 
 A youth will play the wanton, and an old man 
 
 prove a mome ; 
 Then choose a shepherd ; with the sun he doth 
 
 his flock unfold, 
 And all the day on hill or plain he merry chat 
 
 can hold : 
 And with the sun doth fold again : then 
 
 jogging home betime, 
 He turns a crab, or tunes a round, or sings 
 
 some merry rhyme ; 
 Nor lacks he gleeful tales to tell, whilst that 
 
 the bowl doth trot : 
 And sittoth singing care away, till he to, bed 
 
 hath got. 
 There sleeps he soundly all the night, forgetting 
 
 morrow cares, 
 Nor fears he blasting of his corn, or uttring 
 
 of his wares, 
 Or storms by sea, or stirs on land, or crack of 
 
 credit lost. 
 Nor spending franklier than his flock shall still 
 
 defray the cost. 
 
 Well wot I sooth they say, that say, more 
 
 quiet nights and days 
 The shepherd sleeps and wakes than he whoso 
 
 cattle he doth graze. 
 Believe me, lass, a king is but a man, and so 
 
 am I ; _ 
 
 Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs 
 
 hit the high. 
 As late it did a king and his, not dying far 
 
 from hence. 
 Who left a daughter (save thyself) for fair, a 
 
 matchless wrench.' 
 Here did he pause, as if his tongue had made 
 
 his heart offence. 
 The neatress, longing for the rest, did Qg^ him 
 
 on to tell 
 How fair she was, and who she was. ' She 
 
 bore,' quoth he, ' the bell 
 For beauty : though I clo^vnish am I know 
 
 what beauty is. 
 Or did I not, yet seeing thee, I senseless were 
 
 to miss. 
 Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's 
 
 somewhat less, 
 I And every star consorting to a pure complexion 
 ! guess. 
 
 j Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, 
 
 and her wit 
 i To m.arvel at, not meddle with, as matchless, 
 
 I omit. 
 A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead 
 
 smooth and high. 
 An even nose, on either side stood out a 
 
 grayish eye : 
 Two rosy cheeks, round ruddy lips, with just 
 
 Fct teeth -v^ithin, 
 A mouth in mean, and underneath a round and 
 
 dimpled chin. 
 Her snowy neck, with bluish veins, stood bolt 
 
 upright upon 
 Her portly shoulders ; beating balls, her veined 
 
 breasts, anon, 
 Add more to beauty ; wand-like was her 
 
 middle, fjilling still * * 
 
 And more, her long and limber arms had vrhitc 
 
 and azure wrists, 
 And iilender fingers answer to her smooth and 
 
 lily fists ! 
 A leg in print, and pretty foot ; her tongue of 
 
 speech was spare ; 
 But speaking, Venus secm'd to speak, the ball 
 
 from Ide to bear ! 
 With Pallas, Juno, and with both, licrself 
 
 contends in face ; 
 Wliere equal mixture did not want of mild 
 
 and stately grace : 
 Her smiles were sober, and her looks were 
 
 cheerful unto all. 
 And such as neither wanton seem, nor way- 
 ward ; mell, nor gall. 
 A quiet mind, a patient mood, and not dis- 
 daining smy. 
 Not gibing, gadding, gawdy ; and her faculties 
 
 were many. 
 A nymph, no tongue, no heart, no eye, might 
 
 praise, might wish, might see, 
 
Geoege Chapman.] 
 
 SOKNTET. 
 
 [Thied Peeiod.- 
 
 For life, for love, for form, more good, more 
 
 worth, more fair than she ! 
 Yet such an one, as such was none, save only 
 
 she was such : 
 Of Argentile, to say the most, were to be 
 
 silent much.' 
 ' I knew the lady very well, but worthless of 
 
 such praise,' 
 The neatress said ; ' and muse I do, a shepherd 
 
 thus should blaze 
 The coat of beauty. Credit me, thy latter 
 
 speech bewrays 
 Thy clownish shape, a coined show. But 
 
 wherefore dost thou weep ? ' 
 (The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and 
 
 both did silence keep). 
 ' In troth,' quoth he, ' I am not such as seeming 
 
 I profess ; 
 But then for her, and now for thee, I from 
 
 myself digress. 
 Her loved I, -svretch that I am, a recreant to 
 
 be; 
 I loved her, that hated love ; but now I die for 
 
 thee. 
 At Kirkland is my father's court, and Curan 
 
 is my name ; 
 In Edell's court sometimes in pomp, till love 
 
 controll'd the same : 
 But now ; what now ? dear heart ! how now ? 
 
 what ailest thou to weep ? ' 
 (The damsel wept, and he was woe, and both 
 
 did silence keep). 
 ' I grant,' quoth she, ' it was too much, that 
 
 you did love so much ; 
 But whom your former could not move, your 
 
 second love doth touch. 
 Thy twice beloved Argentile submitteth her to 
 
 thee : 
 And for thy double love presents herself a 
 
 single fee ; 
 In passion, not in person chang'd, and I, my 
 
 lord, am she.' 
 They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for 
 
 a space, 
 Whereas the ecstasy had end, did tenderly 
 
 embrace ! 
 And for their wedding, and their wish, got 
 
 fitting time and place. 
 
 William Warner. — About 1586. 
 
 485.— SONNET. 
 
 Muses, that sing Love's sensual empiric. 
 And lovers kindling your enraged fires 
 At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye. 
 Blown with the empty breath of vain desires ; 
 You, that prefer the painted cabinet 
 Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye. 
 That all your joys in dying figures set, 
 And stain the living substance of your glory ; 
 Abjure those joys, abhor their memory ; 
 And let my love the honour' d subject be 
 
 Of love and honour's complete history ! 
 Yonr eyes were never yet let in too see 
 The majesty and riches of the mind, 
 That dweU in darkness; for your god is blind. 
 
 George Chapman. — About 1595. 
 
 486.— THEEE IS A GAEDEN IN HER 
 
 FACE. 
 
 There is a garden in her face. 
 
 Where roses and white lilies grow ; 
 
 A heavenly paradise is that place. 
 Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
 
 There cherries grow that none may buy, 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Those cherries fairly do inclose 
 
 Of orient pearl a double row. 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
 
 They look like rose-buds fiU'd with snow. 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do ciy. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still : 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 
 Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 
 All that approach with eye or hand 
 
 These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 
 Tni cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Richard Alison. — About 1606. 
 
 487.— ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 When I go musing all alone. 
 Thinking of divers things foreknown. 
 When I build castles in the air. 
 Void of sorrow, void of fear. 
 Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, 
 Methinks the time runs very fleet. 
 
 All my joys to this are folly ; 
 
 Nought so sweet as Melancholy. 
 
 WTien I go walking all alone, 
 Recounting what I have ill-done, 
 My thoughts on me then tyrannize ; 
 Fear and sorrow me surprise ; 
 Whether I tarry still, or go, 
 Methinks the time moves very slow. 
 
 All my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 
 Nought so sad as Melancholy. 
 
 When to myself I act and smile. 
 With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, 
 By a brook side, or wood so green. 
 Unheard, unsought for, or unseen ; 
 A thousand pleasures do me bless. 
 And crown my soul with happiness. 
 
 All my joys besides are folly ; 
 
 None so sweet as Melancholy. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 WOLSEY'S AMBITION. 
 
 [Thomas Storer. 
 
 Wlien I lie, sit, or walk alone, 
 
 I sigh, I grieve, making great moan ; 
 
 In a dark grove, or irksome den, 
 
 With discontents and furies then, 
 
 A thousand miseries at once 
 
 My heavy heart and soul ensconce. 
 
 AH my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 
 None so sour as Melancholy. 
 
 Methinks I hear, methinks I see, 
 Sweet music, wondrous melody ; 
 Towns, palaces, and cities fine, 
 Here now, then the;:e ; the world is mine ; 
 Bare beauties, gallant ladies shine ; 
 Whate'er is lovely is divine. 
 
 All other joys to this are folly ; 
 
 None so sweet as Melancholy. 
 
 Methinks I hear, methinks I see, 
 Ghosts, goblins, fiends : my phantasie 
 Presents a thousand ugly shapes — 
 Headless bears, black men, and apes ; 
 Doleful outcries and fearful sights 
 My sad and dismal soul affrights. 
 
 All my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 
 None so damned as Melancholy. 
 
 Eohert Burton.—Ahout 1621. 
 
 488.— SONG. 
 
 Else, lady ! mistress, rise ! 
 
 The night hath tedious been, 
 No sleep hath fallen into my eyes, 
 
 Nor slumbers made me sin : 
 Is not she a saint then, say, 
 Thought of whom keeps sin away ? 
 
 Eise, madam ! rise, and give me light, 
 Whom darkness stiU will cover, 
 
 And ignorance, darker than night. 
 Till thou smile on thy lover : 
 
 All want day till thy beauty rise, 
 
 For the gray morn breaks from tliine eyes. 
 
 Nathaniel Field. — About 1618. 
 
 489.— SONNETS. 
 
 Some men delight huge buildings to behold, 
 Some theatres, mountains, floods, and famous 
 
 springs, 
 Some monuments of monarchs, and such things 
 As in the books of fame have been enroll' d, 
 Those stately towns that to the stars were 
 
 raised ; 
 Some would thoii- ruins see (their beauty's 
 
 gone), 
 
 Of which the world's three parts each boasts 
 
 of one : 
 Though none of those, I love a sight as rare, 
 Even her that o'er my life as queen doth sit ; 
 Juno in majesty, Pallas in wit. 
 As Phoebe chaste, than Venus fa^-more fair ; 
 And though her looks even threaten death to 
 
 me. 
 Their threat'nings are so sweet I cannot flee. 
 
 I chanced, my dear, to come upon a day 
 Whilst thou wast but arising from thy bed. 
 And the warm snows, with comely garments 
 
 cled, 
 More rich than glorious, and more fine than 
 
 gay. 
 
 Then, blushing to be seen in such a case, 
 O how thy cui-led locks mine ej'^es did please ; 
 And well become those waves thy beauty's seas. 
 Which by thy hairs were framed upon thy face ; 
 Such was Diana once, when being spied 
 By rash Actreon, she was much commoved : 
 Yet, more discreet than th' angry goddess 
 
 proved, 
 Thou knew'st I came through error, not of 
 
 pride, 
 And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet 
 
 sight 
 Were too great scourges for a fault so liglit. 
 
 Awake, my muse, and leave to dream of loves. 
 Shake off soft fancy's chains — I must be free; 
 I'll perch no more upon the myrtle tree. 
 Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred 
 
 doves ; 
 But with Jove's stately bird I'll leave my nest, 
 And try my sight against Apollo's rays. 
 Then, if that ought my vent'rous course 
 
 dismays, 
 Upon th' olive's boughs I'll light and rest; 
 I'll tune my accents to a trumpet now, 
 And seek the laurel in another field. 
 Thus I that once (as Beauty's moans did yield) 
 Did divers garments on my thoughts bestow. 
 Like Icarus, I fear, unwisely bold, 
 Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold. 
 
 William Alexander, Earl of Sterlinc. — 
 About 1630. 
 
 490.— WOLSEY'S AMBITION. 
 # * # * 
 
 Y^et, as through Tagus' fair transparent 
 
 streams. 
 The wand' ring merchant sees the wealthy gold, 
 Or like in Cynthia's half -obscured beams, 
 Through misty clouds and vapours manifold ; 
 So through a mirror of my hoped-for gain, 
 I saw the treasure which I should obtain. 
 
 Thomas Storer. — Aho^it 1595. 
 
Thomas Stober.] 
 
 WOLSEY'S VISION. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 49i._WOLSEY'S VISION. 
 
 From that rich valley, where the angels laid 
 
 him, 
 His iinkno^via sepulchre in Moab's land, 
 Moses, that Israel led, and they obey'd him. 
 In glorious view before my face did stand, 
 Bearing the folded tables in his hand, 
 Wherein the doom of life, and death's despair, 
 By God's own finger was engraven there. 
 
 Then passing forth, a joyful troop ensued 
 Of worthy judges and triumphant kings. 
 
 In chariot framed of celestial mould. 
 
 And simple pureness of the purest sky, 
 
 A more than heavenly nymph I did behold, 
 
 Who glancing on me with her gracious eye, 
 
 So gave me leave her beauty to esjiy ; 
 
 For sure no sense such sight can comprehend, 
 
 Except her beams their fair reflection lend. 
 
 Her beauty with Eternity began. 
 
 And only unto God was ever seen ; 
 
 When Eden was possess' d with sinful man. 
 
 She came to him and gladly would have been 
 
 The long succeeding world's eternal Queen ; 
 
 But they refused her. Oh, heinous deed ! 
 
 And from that garden banish' d was their seed. 
 
 Since when, at sundry times in sundry ways, 
 Atheism and blended ignorance conspire, 
 How to obscure those holy burning rays. 
 And quench that zeal of heart — inflaming fire 
 That makes our souls to heavenly things 
 
 aspire ; 
 But all in vain, for, maugre all their might, 
 She never lost one sparkle of her light. 
 
 Thomas Store;'. — About 1595. 
 
 So in the May-tide of his summer age 
 Valour enmoved the mind of vcnt'rous Drake 
 To lay his life with mnds and waves in gage, 
 And bold and hard adventures t' undertake, 
 Leaving his country for his country's sake ; 
 Loathing the life that cowardice doth stain, 
 Preferring death, if death might honour 
 gain. 
 # * * * 
 
 Charles Fitzgofrey.—Ahout 1596. 
 
 492.— SIE FEANCIS DEAKE. 
 
 Look how the industrious bee in fragrant May, 
 When Flora gilds the earth with golden flowers, 
 Inveloped in her sweet perfumed array. 
 Doth leave his honey-limed delicious bower rJ, 
 More richly wrought than prince's stately 
 towers, 
 Waving his silken wings amid the air. 
 And to the verdant gardens makes repair. 
 
 First falls he on a branch of sugar' d thyme, 
 Then from the marygold he sucks the sweet, 
 And then the mint, and then the rose doth 
 
 climb, 
 Then on the budding rosemary doth light, 
 Till with sweet treasure having charged his 
 feet, 
 Late in the evening home he turns again. 
 Thus profit is the guerdon of his pain. 
 
 493.— TO POSTEEITY. 
 
 Daughter of Time, sincere Posterity, 
 Always new-born, yet no man knows thy birth, 
 The arbitress of pure sincerity, 
 Yet changeable (Like Proteus) on the earth. 
 Sometime in plenty, sometime join'd with 
 dearth : 
 Always to come, yet always present here. 
 Whom all run after, none come after near. 
 
 Unpartial judge of all, save present state, 
 Truth's idioma of the things are past, 
 But still pursuing present things with hate. 
 And more injurious at the first than last, 
 Preserving others, while thine own do waste : 
 True treasurer of all antiquity. 
 Whom all desire, yet never one could see. 
 
 Charles Fitzrjeffrey.— About 1600. 
 
 494.— FANCY AND DESIEE. 
 
 When wert thou bom. Desire ? In pride and 
 
 pomp of May. 
 By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot ? By 
 
 fond conceit men say. 
 Tell me who was thy nurse ? Fresh Youth, in 
 
 sugar' d joy. 
 I What was thy meat and daily food ? Sad sighs 
 
 with great annoy. 
 
 What hadst thou then to drink ? Unsavoury 
 
 lovers' tears. 
 What cradle wert thou rock'd in? In hope 
 
 devoid of fears. 
 WTiat luU'd thee, then, asleep ? Sweet sleep, 
 
 which likes me best. 
 Tell me where is thy dwelling-place ? In gentle 
 
 hearts I rest. 
 
 What thing doth please thee most ? To ga^.e 
 
 on beauty still. 
 What dost thou think to be thy foe ? Disdain 
 
 of my good will. 
 Doth company displease? Yes, surely, many 
 
 one. 
 Where doth Desire delight to live ? He loves 
 
 to live alone. 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.J 
 
 ROBEET, DUKE OF NORMANDY. 
 
 [RlCHAKD NiCCOLS. 
 
 Doth either Time or Age bring him into 
 
 decay ? 
 No, no, Desire both lives and dies a thousand 
 
 times a day. 
 Then, fond Desire, farewell ! thou art no mate 
 
 for me : 
 I should, methinks, be loth to dwell with such 
 
 a one as thee. 
 
 Edward, Earl of Oxford.— About 1600. 
 
 495.— THE WIFE. 
 * # # « 
 
 Then may I trust her body with her mind, 
 And, thereupon secure, need never know 
 The pangs of jealousy : and love doth find 
 More pain to doubt her false than find her so ; 
 For patience is, of evils that are knoAvn, 
 The certain remedy ; but doubt hath none. 
 
 And be that thought once stirr'd, 'twill never 
 
 die, 
 Nor will the grief more mild by custom prove, 
 Nor yet amendment can it satisfy ; 
 The anguish more or less is as our love ; 
 This misery doth from jealousy ensue, 
 That we may prove her false, but cannot true. 
 
 ^ * # * 
 
 Give me, next good, an understanding wife, 
 V>y nature wise, not learned by much art ; 
 
 I Some knowledge on her part will, all her life, 
 
 I More scope of conversation impart ; 
 
 ! Besides her inborn \'irtue fortify ; 
 
 1 They, are most firmly good that best know why. 
 
 i A passive understanding to conceive, 
 
 j And judgment to discern, I wish to find ; 
 
 ; Beyond that all as hazardous I leave ; 
 
 Learning and pregnant wit, in womankind, 
 What it finds malleable (it) makes frail, 
 And doth not add more ballast, but more sail. 
 
 Books are a part of man's prerogative ; 
 In formal ink they thoughts and voices hold, 
 That we to them our solitude may give. 
 And make time present travel that of old ; 
 Our life fame pieceth longer at the end, 
 And books it farther backward do extend. 
 
 So fair at least let me imagine her ; 
 That thought to me is truth. Opinion 
 Cannot in matters of opinion err ; 
 And as my fancy her conceives to be, 
 Ev'n such my senses both do feel and see. 
 
 * # # * 
 
 Beauty in decent shape and colour lies ; 
 Colours the matter are, and shape the soul ; 
 Tlie sotd — which from no single part doth rise, 
 But from the just proportion of the whole ; — 
 And is a mere spiritual harmony 
 Of every part united in the eye. 
 
 No circumstance doth beauty fortify 
 Like graceful fashion, native comeliness ; 
 * # * * 
 
 But lot that fashion more to modesty 
 Tend than assurance — Modesty doth set 
 The face in her just place, from passion free ; 
 'Tis both the mind's and body's beauty met. 
 
 All these good parts a perfect woman make ; 
 Add love to me, they make a perfect wife ; 
 Without her love, her beauty I should take 
 As that of pictures dead — tliat gives it life ; 
 Till then her beauty, like the sun, doth shine 
 Alike to all ; — that only makes it mine. 
 
 Sir Thomas Overhury. — About 1610. 
 
 496.— ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY, 
 PREVIOUSLY TO HIS EYES BEING 
 PUT OUT. 
 
 As bird in cage debarr'd the use of wings, 
 Her captived life as nature's chief est -wrong, 
 In doleful ditty sadly sits and sings 
 And mourns her thralled liberty so long. 
 Till breath bo spent in many a sitful song : 
 So here captived I many days did spend 
 In sorrow's plaint, till death my days did 
 end. 
 
 Where as prisoner though I did remain ; 
 
 Yet did my brother grant this liberty, 
 
 To quell the common speech, which did 
 
 complain 
 On my distress, and on his tyrann}"-, • 
 That in his parks and forests joining by. 
 When I did plcarso I to and fro might go, 
 Which in the end, was cause of all my woe. 
 
 For on a time, when as Aurora bright 
 Began to scale heaven's steepy battlement. 
 And to the world disclose her cheerful lighfc. 
 As was my wont, I with my keeper went 
 To put away my sorrow's discontent : 
 Thereby to ease me of my captive care, 
 And solace my sad thoughts in th' open air. 
 
 Wand' ring through forest wide, at length wo 
 
 gain 
 A steep cloud-kissing rock, wdiose horned 
 
 crown 
 With proud imperial look beholds the main, 
 "^-Vhero Severn's dangerous waves run rolling 
 ! down, 
 
 j From th' Holmes into the seas, by Cardiff town, 
 i Whose qiiick-devouring sands so dangerous 
 been 
 To those that wander Amphitrite's gTeen : 
 
 As there we stood, the country round we eyed 
 To view the workmanship of nature's hand, 
 There stood a mountain, from whose weeping 
 
 side 
 A brook breaks forth into the low-lying land. 
 Here lies a plain, and there a wood doth stand. 
 Here pastures, meads, corn-fields, a vale do 
 
 crown, 
 A castle here shoots up, and there a town. 
 
John Dowland.] 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Thiiid Period. 
 
 Hero one mtli angle o'er a silver stream 
 With baneful tait the nibbling fish doth feed; 
 There in a plough' d land with his painful team, 
 The ploughman sweats, in hope for labour's 
 
 meed: 
 # * * * 
 
 Here sits a goatherd on a craggy rock, 
 And there in shade a shepherd with his flock. 
 
 The sweet delight of such a rare prospect 
 Might jdeld content uixto a careful eye ; 
 Yet down the rock descending in neglect 
 Of such delight, the sun now mounting high, 
 I sought the shade in vale, which low did lie. 
 Where we reposed us on a green-wood side, 
 A' front the which a silver stream did glide. 
 
 There dwelt sweet Philomel, who never more 
 May bide the abode of man's society. 
 Lest that some sterner Tereus than before, 
 Who cropt the flower of her virginity, 
 'Gainst her should plot some second villany ; 
 
 Whose doeful tunes to mind did cause me 
 call 
 
 The woful story of her former fall. 
 
 The redbreast who in bush fast by did stand 
 As partner of her woes, his part did ply, 
 For that the gifts, with which Autumnus' hand 
 Had graced the earth, by winter's v.Tath should 
 
 die. 
 From whose cold cheeks bleak blasts began to 
 
 "Which made me think upon my summer 
 
 past 
 And winter's woes, which all my life should 
 
 last. 
 
 My keeper, with compassion moved to see 
 How grief's impulsions in my breast did beat, 
 Thus silence broke : " Would God (my Lord)," 
 
 quoth he, 
 " This pleasant land, which nature's hand hath 
 
 set 
 Before your eyes, might cause you to forget 
 Your discontent, the object of the eye 
 Oftimes gives ease to woes which inward lie. 
 
 " Behold upon that mountain's top so steep, 
 Which seems to pierce the clouds and kiss the 
 
 sky. 
 How the grey shepherd drives his flock of sheep 
 Down to the vale, and how on rocks fast by 
 The goats frisk to and fro for jollity ; 
 
 Give ear likewise unto these birds' sweet 
 
 songs. 
 And let them cause you to forget your 
 wrongs." 
 
 To this I made reply : " Fond man," said I, 
 "What under heaven can slack th' increasing 
 
 woe, 
 Which in my grieved heart doth hidden lie ? 
 Of choice delight what object canst thou show. 
 But from the sight of it fresh grief doth 
 
 grow? 
 What thou didst whilome point at to behold, 
 The same the sum of soitow doth enfold. 
 
 " That grey-coat shepherd, whom from far we 
 
 see, 
 I liken unto thee, and those his sheep 
 Unto my wretched self compared may be : 
 And though that careful pastor will not sleep, 
 Vv^hen he from ravenous wolves his flock 
 should keep ; 
 Yet here alas ! in thrall thou keepest me, 
 Untn that wolf, my brother, hungry be. 
 
 " Those shag-hair' d goats upon the craggy hill, 
 Which thou didst show, see how they frisk 
 
 and play. 
 And everywhere do run about at will : 
 Yea, when the lion marks them for his prey, 
 Tliey over liiUs and rocks can fly away : 
 But when that lion fell shall follow me 
 To shed my blood, O whither shall I flee ? 
 
 " Those sweet-voiced birds, whose airs thou 
 
 dost commend. 
 To which the echoing woods return replj^ 
 Though thee they please, yet me they do 
 
 offend : 
 For when I see how they do mount on high 
 Waving their outstretch' d wings at liberty, 
 Then do I think how bird-like in a cage 
 My life I lead, and grief can never suage." 
 
 Richard Niccols. — About 1610. 
 
 497.— SLEEP. 
 
 Weep you no more, sad fountains, 
 
 Wliat need you flow so fast ? 
 Look how the snowy mountains 
 Heaven's sun doth gently waste, 
 But my sun's heavenly eyes 
 View not your weeping, 
 That now lies sleeping 
 Softly, now softly lies 
 Sleeping. 
 
 Sleep is a reconciling — 
 
 A rest that peace begets ; 
 Doth not the sun rise smiling, 
 When fair at even he sets ? 
 Best you then, rest, sad eyes. 
 Melt not in weeping, 
 While she lies sleeping 
 Softly, now softly lies 
 Sleeping. 
 
 John Doivland. — About 1600. 
 
 498.— PSALM XXX. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lord, to Thee, while I am living. 
 
 Will I sing hymns of thanksgiving ; 
 
 For thou hast drawn me from a gulf of woes. 
 
 So that my foes 
 
 Do not deride me. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 PSALM XXllI. 
 
 'bancis Davison. 
 
 When Thine aid, Lord, I implored, 
 Then by Thee was I restored, 
 My mournful heart with joy Thou straight 
 didst fiU, 
 
 So that none iU 
 Doth now betide me. 
 
 III. 
 My soul, grievously distressed, 
 And with death well-nigh oppressed, 
 From death's devouring jaws. Lord, Thou 
 didst save, 
 
 And from the grave 
 My soul deliver. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O, all ye that e'er had savor 
 Of God's everlasting favor, 
 Come ! come and help me grateful praises sing 
 
 To the world's Iving, 
 
 And my life's giver. 
 
 For His anger never lasteth, 
 
 And His favor never wasteth ; 
 Though sadness be thy guest in sullen night, 
 The cheerful light 
 Will cheerful make thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lull'd asleep with charming pleasures, 
 And base, earthly, fading treasures, 
 Eest, peaceful soul, said I, in happy state, 
 No storms of fate 
 Shall ever shake thee ! 
 
 For Jehovah's grace unbounded, 
 Hath my greatness surely founded ; 
 And hath my state as strongly fortified, 
 On every side. 
 As rocky mountains. 
 
 But away His face God turned, 
 I was troubled then and mourned ; 
 Then thus I pour'd forth prayers and doleful 
 
 cries, 
 
 With weepmg eyes. 
 Like watery fountains. 
 
 In my blood there is np profit ; 
 If I die, what good comes of it ? 
 Shall rotten bones or senseless dust express 
 Thy thankfulness, 
 And works of wonder ? 
 
 O then hear me, prayers forthpouring, 
 Drowned in tears, from moist eyes shower- 
 ing; 
 Have mercy, Lord, on mc, my burden ease, 
 If Thee it please, 
 Wliich I groan under ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thus pray'd I, and God, soon after. 
 Changed my mourning into laughter ; 
 Mine ashy sackcloth, mark of mine annoy. 
 To robes of joy 
 Eftsoons He turned. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Therefore, harp and voice, cease never. 
 But sing sacred lays for ever 
 To great Jehovah, mounted on the skies, 
 Who dried mine eyes 
 When as I mourned, 
 Francis Davison. — About IGIO. 
 
 499. 
 
 -PSALM XXIII. 
 I. 
 
 God, 
 
 who the universe doth hold 
 
 In his fold, 
 Is my shepherd, kind and heedful, 
 Is my shepherd, and doth keep 
 
 Me, His sheep. 
 Still supplied with all things needful. 
 
 Ho feeds me in his fields, which been 
 
 Fresh and green. 
 Mottled with Spring's flowery painting, 
 Through which creep, with murmuring 
 crooks, 
 
 Crystal brooks. 
 To refresh my spirit's fainting. 
 
 III. 
 When my soul from Heaven's way 
 
 Went astray, 
 With earth's vanities seduced, 
 For His name's sake, kindly, He 
 
 Wandering me 
 To His holy fold reduced. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yea, though I stray through death's vale. 
 
 Where his pale 
 Shades did on each side enfold me, 
 Dreadless, having Thee for g-uide. 
 
 Should I bide ; 
 For Thy rod and staff uphold me. 
 
 Thou my hoard with messes large 
 
 Dost surcharge ; 
 My bowls full of wine Thou pourest 
 And Taefore mine enemies' 
 
 Envious eyes 
 Balm upon my head Thou showerest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Neither dures Thy bounteous grace 
 
 For a space ; 
 But it knows nor bound nor measure : 
 So toy days, to ray life's end, 
 
 I shaU spend 
 In Thy courts with heavenly pleasure. 
 
 FroMcis Davison. — About 1602. 
 
Pkancis Davison.] 
 
 PSALM xin. 
 
 [Third Peeiob. — 
 
 500.— PSALM XIII. 
 I. 
 Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou 
 Quite forget and quite neglect me ? 
 How long, with a frowning brow, 
 Wilt Thou from Thy sight reject me ? 
 
 II. 
 How long shall I seek a way 
 Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed. 
 Where my grieved mind, night and day, 
 Is with thinking tired and vexed ? 
 How long shall my scornful foe, 
 On my fall his greatness placing, 
 Build upon my overthrow, 
 And be graced by my disgracing ? 
 
 Hoar, O Lord and God, my cries ! 
 Mark my foes' unjust abusing, 
 And illuminate mine eyes. 
 Heavenly beams in them infusing ; 
 Lest my wees, too great to bear, 
 And too infinite to number, 
 Rock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear, 
 Into death's eternal slumber. 
 
 Lest my foes their boasting make. 
 Spite of right, on him we trample ; 
 And a pride in mischief take, 
 Hastened by my sad example. 
 
 As for me, 111 ride secure 
 At Thy mercy's sacred anchor ; 
 And, undaunted, ^vill endure 
 Fiercest storms of wrong and rancour. 
 
 These black clouds will overblow. 
 Sunshine shall have his returning ; 
 And my grief-dull'd heart, I knoAV, 
 Into mirth shall change his moiUTiing. 
 Therefore I'll rejoice and sing 
 Hymns to God in sacred measure, 
 Who to happy pass will bring 
 My just hopes at His good pleasure. 
 
 Francis Davison. — About 1610. 
 
 Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 
 Or like a tale that's new begun, 
 Or like the bird that's here to-day, 
 Or like the pearled dev^ of May, 
 Or like an hour, or like a span, 
 Or lilce the singing of a swan — 
 E'en such is man, who lives by breath. 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 The grass withers, the tale is ended, 
 The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. 
 The hour is short, the span is long. 
 The swan's near death — man's life is done ! 
 
 Simon Wastcll.—Aho^lt 1610. 
 
 501. —MAN'S MORTALITY. 
 
 Like as the damask rose you see, 
 Or like the blossom on the tree. 
 Or like the dainty flower in May, 
 Or like the morning of the day, 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade. 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had — 
 E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, 
 Drawn out, and cut, and so is done ! 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies. 
 The goiu'd consumes — and man ho dies I 
 
 502.— SAD]!^ESS. 
 
 The gentle season of the year 
 
 Hath made my blooming branch appear. 
 
 And beautified the land with flowers ; 
 
 The air doth savour with delight, 
 
 Tlie heavens do smile to see the sight. 
 
 And yet mine eyes augment their showers. 
 
 The meads are mantled all with greon. 
 The trembling leaves hath clothed the treen, 
 The birds with feathers new do sing ; 
 But I, j)oor soul, whom wrong doth rack, 
 Attire myself in mourning black. 
 Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring. 
 
 And as you sec the scarlet rose 
 In his sweet prime his buds disclose, 
 Whose hue is with the sun revived : 
 So, in the April of mine age. 
 My lively colours do assuage, 
 Because my sunshine is deprived. 
 
 My heart, that wonted was of yore. 
 
 Light as the winds, abroad to soar 
 
 Amongst the buds, when beauty springs. 
 
 Now only hovers over you, 
 
 As doth the bird that's taken new. 
 
 And mourns when all her neighbours sings. 
 
 Wlion every man is bent to sport 
 
 Then, pensive, I alone resort 
 
 Into some solitary walk, 
 
 As doth the doleful turtle-dove, 
 
 Who, having lost her faithful love, 
 
 Sits mourning on some wither' d stalk. 
 
 There to myself I do roconnt 
 How far my -svoes my joys surmount. 
 How love rcquiteth me with hate, 
 How all my pleasures end in pain. 
 How hate doth say my hope is vain. 
 How fortune frowns upon my state. 
 
 And in this mood, charged with despair. 
 With vapour' d sighs I dim the air. 
 And to the Gods make this request. 
 That by the ending of my life, 
 I may have truce with this strange strife. 
 And bring my soul to better rest. 
 
 Uncertain. — About 1503. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE WOODMAN'S WALK. 
 
 [Uncertain. 
 
 503.— THE SOUL'S EEEAND. 
 
 Oo, Soul, the body's guest, 
 Upon a thankless errand. 
 Fear not to touch the best, 
 The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
 Go, since I needs must die, 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the Court it glows, 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the Church it shows 
 What's good and doth no good : 
 If Church and Court reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell potentates they live, 
 
 Acting by others' actions, 
 
 Not loved, unless they give, 
 
 Not strong but by their factions ; 
 
 If potentates reply, 
 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 That rule affairs of state, 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their practice only hate ; 
 And if they once reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that brave it most, 
 They beg for more by spending, 
 Who in their greatest cost. 
 Seek nothing but commending ; 
 And if they make reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, 
 Tell Love it is but lust, 
 Tell Time it is but motion. 
 Tell Flesh it is but dust ; 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell Age it daily v,^asteth, 
 Tell Honour how it alters, 
 Tell Beauty how she blasteth, 
 Tell Favour hoAV she falters ; 
 And as they shall reply. 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
 In treble points of niceuess, 
 Tell Wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in ovcrwiseness ; 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give, them both the lie. 
 
 Tell Physic of her boldness, 
 Tell Skill it is pretension 
 Tell Charity of coldness, 
 Tell Law it is contention ; 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them still the lie. 
 
 Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell Nature of decay, 
 
 Tell Friendship of unkindness, 
 
 Tell Justice of delay ; 
 
 And if they wiU reply. 
 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell Arts they have no soundness. 
 
 But vary by esteeming, 
 
 Tell Schools they want profoundness, 
 
 And stand too much on seeming ; 
 
 If Arts and Schools reply. 
 
 Give Arts and Schools the lie. 
 
 Tell Faith it's fled the city, - - 
 Tell how the country erreth, 
 Tell manhood shakes cff pity. 
 Tell Virtue least pref erreth ; 
 And if they do reply. 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 And when thou hast, as I 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing. 
 Although to give the lie, 
 Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 No stab the soul can kiU. 
 
 Uncertarii. — About 1593. 
 
 504.— CONTENT. 
 
 There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, 
 No chemic art can counterfeit ; 
 It makes men rich in greatest poverty. 
 Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold. 
 The homely whistle to sweet music's strain; 
 Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent. 
 That much in little — all in nought — Content. 
 Uncertain. — About 1598. 
 
 505.— THE WOODMAN'S Wi'iXK. 
 
 Through a fair forest as I went, 
 
 Upon a summer's day, 
 I mot a woodman, quaint and gent. 
 
 Yet in a strange array. 
 
 I marvell'd much at his disguise, 
 
 Whom I did know so well : 
 But thus, in terms both gi-ave and wise. 
 
 His mind he 'gan to tell ; 
 
 Friend ! muse not at this fond array. 
 
 But list a while to me : 
 For it hath holpe me to survey 
 
 What I shall show to thee. 
 
 Long lived I in this forest fair, 
 
 Till, weary of my weal, 
 Abroad in walks I would repair. 
 
 As now I will reveal. 
 
 My first day's walk was to the court. 
 
 Where beauty fed mine eyes ; 
 Yet found I that the courtly sport 
 
 Did mask in sly disguise : 
 
 For falsehood sat in fairest looks. 
 
 And friend to friend was coy : 
 Court favour fill'd but empty rooks, 
 
 And then I found no joy. 
 
 Desert went naked in the cold. 
 When crouching craft was fed : 
 
 Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, 
 But none that stood in stead. 
 
XIncertain.] 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 [Third Period.' 
 
 Wit was employed for eaeli man's o-sm ; 
 
 Plain meaning came too short ; 
 All these devices, seen and known, 
 
 Made me forsake the cotu't. 
 
 Unto the city next I went, 
 
 In hope of better hap ; 
 ■\Vliere liberally I launcht and spent. 
 
 As set on Fortune's lap. 
 
 The little stock I had in store, 
 Methought would ne'er be done ; 
 
 Friends flock' d about me more and more, 
 As quickly lost as won. 
 
 For, when I spent, then they were kind ; 
 
 Btit when my purse did fail. 
 The foremost man came last behind : 
 
 Thus love with wealth doth quail. 
 
 Once more for footing yet I strove, 
 Although the world did frown : 
 
 But they, before that held me up, 
 Together trod nie down. 
 
 And, lest once more I should arise, 
 They sought my quite decay : 
 
 Then got I into this disguise. 
 And thence I stole away. 
 
 And in my mind (methought) I said, 
 
 Lord bless me from the city : 
 Where simpleness is thus betray'd 
 
 Without remorse or pity. 
 
 Yet would I not give over so. 
 
 But once more try my fate ; 
 And to the country then I go, 
 
 To live in quiet state. 
 
 There did appear no subtle shows, 
 But yea and nay went smoothly : 
 
 But, lord ! how coiintry folks can gloze, 
 When they speak most untruly ! 
 
 More craft was in a buttoned cap, 
 
 And in an old ^vife's rail, 
 Than in my life it was my hap 
 
 To see on down or dale. 
 
 There was, no open forgery 
 
 But underhanded gleaning. 
 Which they call country policy, 
 
 But hath a worser meaning. 
 
 Some good bold face bears out the wrong, 
 
 Because he gains thereby ; 
 The poor man's back is crack'd ere long. 
 
 Yet there he lets him lie. 
 
 And no degree, among them all. 
 But had such close intending, 
 
 That I upon my knees did fall, 
 And pray'd for th-eir amending. 
 
 Back to the woods I got again. 
 
 In mind perplexed sore ; 
 Where I found ease of all my pain. 
 
 And moan to fstray no more. 
 
 Th ere city, court, nor country too, 
 
 Can any way annoy mo ; 
 But as a woodman ought to do, 
 I freely may employ me ; 
 
 There live I quietly alone, 
 
 And none to trip my talk : 
 Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, 
 
 Think on the woodman's walk ! 
 
 UnceHain. — Aboztt 1600. 
 
 506.— CA^nZO^^ET. 
 
 The golden sun that brings the day, 
 And lends men light to see withal, 
 In vain doth cast his beams away, 
 When they are blind on whom they fall ; 
 There is no force in all his light 
 To give the mole a perfect sight. 
 
 But thou, my sun, more brig-ht than he 
 That shines at noon in summer tide. 
 Hast given me light and power to see 
 With perfect skill my sight to giude ; 
 Till now I lived as blind as mole 
 That hides her head in earthly hole. 
 
 I heard the praise of Beauty's grace, 
 Yet deem'd it nought but poet's skill ; 
 I gazed on many a lovely face, 
 Yet found I none to bend my will ; 
 Which made me think that beauty bright 
 Was nothing else but red and white. 
 
 But now thy beams have clear' d my sight, 
 I blush to think I was so blind, 
 Thy flaming eyes afford me light. 
 That beauty's blaze each where I find ; 
 And yet those dames that shine so bright. 
 Are but the shadows of thy light. 
 
 JJnceHain. — Abcnit 1G08. 
 
 507.— THE OXFOED EIDDLE. 
 
 There dwells a people on the earth, 
 That reckons true allegiance treason. 
 That makes sad war a holy mirtli, 
 Calls madness zeal, and nonsense reason ; 
 That finds no freedom but in slavery, 
 That makes lies truth, religion knavery. 
 That rob and cheat with yea and nay : 
 Riddle me, riddle me, who are they ? 
 
 They hate the flesh, yet kiss their dames. 
 That make kings great by curbing crowns, 
 That quench the fire by kindling flames, 
 That settle peace by plund'ring towns. 
 That govern with implicit votes. 
 That 'stablish truth by cutting throats, 
 That kiss their master and }j9tray : 
 Riddle me, riddle mo, who are th'^y ? 
 
From 1558 to 1849.] 
 
 EOBIN GOODFELLOW. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 That make Heaven speak by their com- 
 mission, 
 That stop God's peace, and boast his power, 
 That teach bold blasphemy and sedition, 
 And pray high treason by the hour, 
 That damn all saints but such as they are, 
 That wish all common except prayer, 
 That idolize Pym, Brooks, and Say : 
 Eiddle me, riddle me, who are they ? 
 
 That to enrich the commonwealth, 
 Transport large gold to foreign parts ; 
 That house't in Amsterdam by stealth. 
 Yet lord it here within our gates ; 
 That are staid men, yet only stay 
 For a light night to run away ; 
 
 That borrow to lend, and rob to pay : 
 Eiddle me, riddle me, who are they ? 
 
 Uncertain. — About 1643. 
 
 508.— AMBITIO FEMININI GENEEIS. 
 
 Mistress Matrossa hopes to be a lady, 
 Not as a dignity of late expected ; 
 But from the time almost she was a baby, 
 That hath your richest gentlemen rejected ; 
 But yet not dubb'd at present as she should be, 
 Lives in expectance still — my Lady Would-be. 
 
 Uncertain. — About 1613. 
 
 509.— NEC SUTOE ULTEA. 
 
 A cobbler and a curate once disputed. 
 Before a judge, about the king's injunctipns. 
 Wherein the curate being still confuted. 
 One said 'twere good if they two changed 
 
 functions : 
 Nay, quoth the judge, I thereto would be loth, 
 But, an you like, we'll make them cobblers 
 
 both. 
 
 Uncertain. — About 1613. 
 
 510. 
 
 -EOBIN GOODFELLOW. 
 
 From Oberon, in fairy land, 
 
 The king of ghosts and shadows there, 
 Mad Eobin I, at his command. 
 
 Am sent to view the night-sports here. 
 What revel rout 
 Is kept about. 
 In every corner where I go, 
 I will o'ersee. 
 And merry be. 
 And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 More swift than lightning can I fly 
 
 About this airy welkin soon. 
 And, in a minute's space, descry 
 
 Each thing that's done below the moon. 
 
 There's not a hag 
 
 Or ghost shall wag. 
 Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I goT ~ 
 
 But Eobin I 
 
 Their feasts will spy. 
 And send them home Avith ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Whene'er such wanderers I meet. 
 
 As from their night-sports they trudge 
 home, 
 With counterfeiting voice I greet. 
 And call them on with me to roam : 
 Through woods, through lakes ; 
 Through bogs, through brakes ; 
 Or else, unseen, with them I go. 
 All in the nick, 
 To play some trick, 
 And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Sometimes I meet them like a man. 
 
 Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; 
 And to a horse I turn me can, 
 
 To trip and trot about them round. 
 
 But if to ride 
 
 My back they stride. 
 More swift than wind away I go, 
 
 O'er hedge and lands. 
 
 Through pools and ponds, 
 I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When lads and lasses merry be. 
 
 With possets and with junkets fine ; 
 Unseen of all the company, 
 
 I eat their cakes and sip their wine ! 
 
 And, to make sport, 
 
 I puff and snort : 
 And out the candles I do blow : 
 
 The maids I kiss, 
 
 They shriek— Who's this ? 
 I answer nought but ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Yet now and then, the maids to please, 
 
 At midnight I card up their wool ; 
 And, while they sleep and take their ease. 
 With wheel to threads their flax I puU. 
 
 I grind at mill 
 
 Their malt up still ; 
 I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow ; 
 
 If any wake. 
 
 And would me take, 
 I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When any need to borrow aught, 
 
 We lend them what they do require : 
 And, for the use demand we nought ; 
 Our own is all we do desire. 
 
 If to repay 
 
 They do delay, 
 Abroad amongst them then I go, 
 
 And night by night, 
 
 I them afiright, 
 AVith pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho. ho ! 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 When lazy queans have nought to do, 
 
 But study how to cog- and lie ; 
 
 To make debate and mischief too, 
 
 'Twixt one another secretly : 
 
 I mark their gloze. 
 
 And it disclose 
 To them whom they have wronged so : 
 
 When I have done 
 
 I get me gone, 
 And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When men do traps and engines set 
 
 In loop-holes, where the vermin creep, 
 Who from their folds and houses get 
 
 Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep ; 
 
 I spy the gin. 
 
 And enter in, 
 And seem a vermin taken so ; 
 
 But when they there 
 
 Approach me near, 
 I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 By wells and rills, in meadows green. 
 
 We nightly dance our heyday guise ; 
 And to our fairy king and queen, 
 
 We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. 
 
 When larks 'gin sing, 
 
 Away we fling ; 
 And babes new born steal as we go ; 
 
 And elf in bed 
 
 We leave in stead, 
 And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I 
 Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 
 And for my pranks men call me by 
 The name of Robin Good-fellow. 
 
 Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, 
 
 Who haunt the nights, 
 The hags and goblins do me know ; 
 
 And beldames old 
 
 My feats have told, 
 So vale, vale ; ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1G49. 
 
 511.— THj: OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 
 
 An old song made by an aged old pate, 
 
 Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a 
 
 groat estate, 
 That kept abravo old house at a bountiful rate. 
 And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; 
 
 Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
 
 And the queen's old courtier. 
 
 With an old lady, whose anger one word 
 
 assuages ; 
 They every quarter paid their old servants 
 
 their wages, 
 And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, 
 
 footmen, nor pages, 
 But kept twenty old follows with blue coats 
 
 and badges ; 
 
 Like an old courtier, &o. 
 
 AVith an old study fiU'd full of learned old 
 
 books, 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might 
 
 know him by his looks. 
 With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the 
 
 hooks. 
 And an old kitchen, that maintain" d half a 
 
 dozen old cooks ; 
 
 Like an old courtier, &c. 
 
 With an old hall,- hung about with jiikes, guns, 
 
 and bows, 
 With old swords and bucklers, that had borne 
 
 many shrewd blows, 
 And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's 
 
 trunk hose, 
 And a cuid of old sherry, to comfort his copper 
 
 nose ; 
 
 Like an old courtier, &c. 
 
 With a good old fashion, when Christmas v.'as 
 
 come, 
 To call in all his old neighbours ^^ith bagpipe 
 
 and drum, 
 With good cheer enough to furnish every old 
 
 room. 
 And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and 
 
 man dumb ; 
 
 Like an old courtier, &c. 
 
 With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel 
 
 of hounds, 
 That never hav/k'd, nor hunted, but in his own 
 
 grounds ; 
 Who, like a wise man, kept himself mthin his 
 
 own bounds. 
 And when he died, gave every child a thousand 
 
 good pounds ; 
 
 Like an old coTirtier, &c. 
 
 But to his eldest son his house and lands ho 
 
 assign' d, 
 Charging him in his will to keep the old boun- 
 tiful mind. 
 To be good to his old tenants, and to his 
 j. neighbours be kind ; 
 
 1 But in the ensuing ditty jow shall hear how 
 I he was inclined ; 
 
 Like a young courtier of the king's. 
 And the king's young courtier. 
 
 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come 
 
 to his land, 
 ■Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his 
 
 command, 
 And takes up a tho-asand pounds upon his 
 
 father's land, 
 And gets drunk in a tavern till ho can neither 
 
 go nor stand ; 
 
 Like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 "With a ncAvfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, 
 and spare, 
 
 Who never know what belong'd to good house- 
 keeping or care, 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 TIME'S ALTEEATION. 
 
 [Anonymous, 
 
 Who buys gaudy colour'd fans to play with 
 
 wanton air, 
 And seven or ;ight different dressings of other 
 
 women's hair : 
 
 like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 With a new-fashion' d hall, built where the 
 
 old one stood, 
 Hung round with new pictures that do the 
 
 poor no good, 
 With a fine marble chimney, wherein bums 
 
 neither coal nor wood, 
 And a new smooth shovel board, whereon no 
 
 victuals ne'er stood : 
 
 Like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 With a new study, stuff' d f\ill of pamphlets 
 and plays, 
 
 And a new chaplain, that swears faster than 
 he prays. 
 
 With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in 
 four or five days, 
 
 And a new French cook, to devise fine kick- 
 shaws and toys : 
 
 Like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 With a new fashion, when Christmas is draw- 
 ing on. 
 
 On a new journey to London straight we all 
 must be-gone, 
 
 And leave none to keep house, but our new 
 porter John, 
 
 Who relieves the poor with a thump on the 
 back with a stone ; 
 
 Like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage 
 is complete. 
 
 With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to 
 carry up the meat, 
 
 With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing 
 is very neat. 
 
 Who, when her lady has dined, lets the ser- 
 vants not eat ; 
 
 Like a young courtier, &c. 
 
 With new titles of honour, bought with his 
 
 father's old gold. 
 For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors 
 
 are sold ; 
 And this is the course most of our new gallants 
 
 hold. 
 Which makes that good housekeeping is now 
 grown so cold 
 
 Among the young courtiers of the king, 
 Of the king's young courtiers. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 512.— TIME'S ALTERATION. 
 
 When this old cap was new, 
 
 'Tis since two hundred year ; 
 No malice then we knew 
 
 But all things plenty were : 
 All friendship now decays 
 
 (Believe me this is true) ; 
 Which was not in those days. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 The nobles of our land, 
 
 Were much delighted then, 
 To have at their command 
 
 A crew of lusty men. 
 Which by their coats were known, 
 
 Of tawny, red, or blue, 
 With crests on their sleeves shown, _ 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Now pride hath banish'd all, 
 
 Unto our land's reproach. 
 When he whose means is small, 
 
 Maintains both horse and coach : 
 Instead of a hundred men. 
 
 The coach allows but two ; 
 This was not thought on then. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Good hospitality 
 
 Was cherish' d then of many : 
 Now poor men starve and die. 
 
 And are not help'd by any ^ 
 For charity waxeth cold, * 
 
 And love is found in few ; 
 This v/as not in time of old, 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Where'er you travelled then, 
 
 You might meet on the way 
 Bravo knights and gentlemen. 
 
 Clad in their country grey ; 
 That courteous would appear. 
 
 And kindly welcome you ; 
 No puritans then were. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Our ladies in those days 
 
 In civil habit went ; 
 Broad cloth was then worth praise, 
 
 And gave the best content : 
 French fashions then were scorn' d ; 
 
 Fond fangles then none knew : 
 Then modesty women adorn' d. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 A man might then behold, 
 
 At Christmas in each hall. 
 Good fires to curb the cold, 
 
 And meat for great and small t 
 The neighbours were friendly bidden, 
 
 And all had welcomo true ; 
 The poor from the gates were not chidden. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Black jacks to every man 
 
 Were fill'd with wine and beer ; 
 No pewter pot nor can 
 
 In those days did appear : 
 Good cheer in a nobleman's house 
 
 Was counted a seemly show ; 
 We wanted no brawn nor souse. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 We took not such delight 
 
 In cups of silver fine ; 
 None under the degree of a knight 
 
 In plate drank beer or wine : 18 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 LOYALTY CONFINED. 
 
 [Third Period.— 
 
 Now each mechanical man 
 
 Hath a cupboard of plate for a show ; 
 Which was a rare thing then. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Then bribery was unborn 
 
 No simony men did use ; 
 Christians did usury scorn, 
 
 Devis'd among the Jews. 
 The lawyers to be fee'd 
 
 At that time hartily knew ; 
 For man with man agreed, 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 No captain then caroused, 
 
 Nor spent poor soldier's pay ; 
 They were not so abused 
 
 As they are at this day : 
 Of seven days they make eight. 
 
 To keep from them their due ; 
 Poor soldier's had their right, 
 
 When thi| old cap was new : 
 
 Which made them forward still 
 
 To go, although not prest ; 
 And going with good will, 
 
 Their fortunes were tlio best. 
 Our English then in fight. 
 
 Did foreign foes subdue, 
 And forced them all to fiight. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 God save our gracious king, 
 
 And send him long to live : 
 Lord, mischief on them bring 
 
 That will not their alms give, 
 But seek to rob the poor 
 
 Of that which is their due : 
 This was not in time of yore. 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Anonymo ui^. — Before 1649. 
 
 5I3. 
 
 -LOYALTY CONPmED. 
 
 Beat on, proud billows : Boreas, blow ; 
 
 Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof ; 
 Your incivility doth show 
 
 That innocence is tempest-proof ; 
 Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are 
 
 calm ; 
 Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are 
 balm. 
 
 That which the world miscalls a jail, 
 
 A private closet is to me : 
 Whilst a good conscience is my bail. 
 And innocence my liberty : 
 Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, 
 Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 
 
 I, whilst I wish'd to be retired, 
 
 Into this private room was turned ; 
 As if, their wisdoms had conspired 
 The salamardar should be burned ; 
 Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, 
 I am constrained to suffer what I wish. 
 
 Tlie cynic loves his poverty, 
 
 The i)elican her Avilderness, 
 
 And 'tis the Indian's pride to bo 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus : 
 
 Contentment cannot smart, stoics we see 
 
 Make torments easy to their apathy. 
 
 These manacles upon my arm 
 
 I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; 
 
 And for to keep my ankles warm, 
 
 I have some iron shackles there • 
 
 These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
 
 Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 
 
 I'm in the cabinet lock'd up 
 
 Like some high-prized margarite ; 
 Or like the great Mogul or Pope, 
 Am cloister' d up from public sight : 
 Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 
 And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. 
 
 Here sin for want of food must starve, 
 
 Where tempting objects are not seen ; 
 And these strong walls do only serve 
 To keep vice out, and keep me in : 
 Malice of late's grown charitable sure, 
 I'm not committed, but am kept secure. 
 
 So he that struck at Jason's life, 
 
 Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, 
 By a malicious friendly knife 
 Did only wound him to a cure : 
 Malice, I see, want's wit ; for what is meant 
 Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by th' event. 
 
 '^^^len once my prince affliction hath, 
 
 Prosperity doth treason seem ; 
 And to make smooth so rough a path, 
 I can learn patience from him : 
 Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart — 
 When kings want ease, subjects must bear a 
 part. 
 
 What though I cannot see my king, 
 
 Neither in person, or in coin ; 
 Yet contemplation is a thing 
 
 That renders what I have not, mine : 
 My king from me what adamant can part. 
 Whom I do wear engraven on my heart. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale 
 A prisoner like, coop'd in a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 In that her narrow hermitage ! 
 Even then her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. 
 
 I am that bird whom they combine 
 
 Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
 But though they do my corpse confine. 
 Yet, niaugre hate, my soul is free : 
 And, though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing 
 Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 
 
rrom 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 My soiil is free as ambient air, 
 
 Although my baser part's immew'cl; 
 WhiLst lo;/al thoughts do still repair 
 T' accompany my KoUtude : 
 Although rebellion do my body bind, 
 My king alone can captivate my mind. 
 
 Anouymoitn. — Before 1649. 
 
 514.— ADAM BELL. 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST. 
 
 Merry it was in the green forest 
 
 Among the leves green, 
 Where that men hunt east and west 
 
 With bows and arrows keen ; 
 
 To raise the deer out of their den ; 
 
 Such sights hath oft been seen ; 
 As by three yeomen of the north oountrie, 
 
 By them it is I mean. 
 
 The one of them hight Adam Bell, 
 The other, Clym of the Clough, 
 
 The third was William of Cloudesly, 
 An archer good enough. 
 
 They were outlawed for venison, 
 
 These yeomen everychone ; 
 They swore them brethren upon a day, 
 
 To English-wood for to gone. 
 
 Now Kth and listen, gentlemen, 
 That of mirthes loveth to hear ; 
 
 Two of them were single men. 
 The third had a wedded fere. 
 
 William was the wedded man. 
 Much more then was his care ; 
 
 He said to his brethren upon a day, 
 To Carlisle he would fai-e, 
 
 For to speak with fair Alice his wife, 
 
 And "with his children three. 
 " By my troth," said Adam Bell, 
 
 " Not by the counsel of me : 
 
 *' For if 3^ou go to Carlisle, brother, 
 And from this wild wood wend. 
 
 If that the justice may you take, 
 Your life were at an end." 
 
 *'If that I come not to-morrow, brother, 
 
 By prime to you again. 
 Trust you then that I am taken. 
 
 Or else that I am slain." 
 
 He took his leave of his brethren two, 
 
 And to Carlisle he is gone : 
 There he knocked at his own window 
 
 Shortly and anon. 
 
 " Where be you, fair AHce," he said, 
 " My wife and children three ? 
 
 Lightly let in thine own husband," 
 William of Cloudesly." 
 
 " Alas 1 " then sayde fair Alice, 
 
 And sighed wondrous soro ; 
 " This place has been beset for you 
 
 This half a year and more." 
 
 "Now I am here," said Cloudesly, 
 " I would that in I were ; ~ ~ 
 
 Now fetch us meat and drink enough, 
 And let us make us good cheer." 
 
 She fetched him meat and drink plenty, 
 
 Like a true wedded Avife ; 
 And pleased him with that she had, 
 
 Whom she loved as her life. 
 
 There lay an old wife in that place, 
 
 A little beside the fire, 
 Which William had found of charity 
 
 More than seven year. 
 
 Up she rose, and walked full still, 
 Evil mote she speed therefore ; 
 
 For she had set no foot on ground 
 In seven year before. 
 
 She went unto the justice hall. 
 
 As fast as she could hie : 
 " This night," she said, " is come to town, 
 
 William of Cloudesly." 
 
 Thereof the justice was full fain, 
 
 And so was the sheriff also ; 
 " Thou shalt not travaile liither, dame, for 
 nought. 
 
 Thy meed thou shalt have ere thou go." 
 
 They gave to her a right good go^vn, 
 Of scarlet it was as I heard sayne ; 
 
 She took the gift, and home she went. 
 And couched her down again. 
 
 They raised the to^vn of merry Carlisle 
 
 In all the haste that they can. 
 And came thronging to William's house. 
 
 As fast as they might gone. 
 
 There they beset that good yeoman 
 
 Round about on every side ; 
 William heard great noise of folkg, 
 
 That thitherward fast hied. 
 
 Alice opened a back window, 
 
 And looked all about, 
 She was ware of the justice and sheriff both. 
 
 With a full great rout. 
 
 " Alas ! treason," cried [fair] Alice, 
 
 " Ever woe may thou be ! 
 Go into my chamber, my husband," she said^ 
 
 " Sweet William of Cloudesly." 
 
 He took his sword and his buckler, 
 His bow and his children three, 
 
 And went into his strongest chamber, 
 Wliere he thought surest to be. 
 
 Fair Alice followed him as a lover true, 
 
 With a poleaxe in her hand ; 
 " He shall be dead that here cometh in. 
 
 This door, while I may stand." 
 
 18* 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 [Third Period.- 
 
 Cloudesly bent a right good bow, 
 
 That was of a trusty tree, 
 He smote the justice on the breast, 
 
 That his arrow burst in three. 
 
 "A curse on his heart," said William, 
 
 " This day thy coat did on ! 
 If it had been no better than mine, 
 
 It had gone near thy bone." 
 
 "Yield thee, Cloudesly," said the justice, 
 "And thy bow and thy arrows thee fro." 
 
 "A curse on his heart," said the fair Alice, 
 " That my husband counselleth so." 
 
 " Set fire on the house," said the sheriff; 
 
 " Sith it will no better be, 
 And brenne we therein, William," he said, 
 
 " His wife and his children three." 
 
 They fired the house in many a place, 
 
 The fire flew up on high : 
 " Alas ! " then cried fair Alice, 
 
 " I see we here shall die." 
 
 William opened a back window, 
 
 That was in his chamber high. 
 And there with sheets he did let down 
 
 His wife and his children three. 
 
 " Have here my treasure," sayde William, 
 
 " My wife and children three ; 
 For Christe's love do them no harm, 
 
 But wreak you all on me." 
 
 William shot so wondrous well, 
 
 Till his arrows were all ygo ; 
 And the fire so fast upon him fell. 
 
 That his bowstring brent in two. 
 
 The sparkles brent, and fell him upon, 
 
 Good William of Cloudesly : 
 Then was he a woeful man, and said, 
 
 " This is a coward's death to me. 
 
 " Lever had I," sayde William, 
 
 " With my SAVord in the rout to renne, 
 
 Than here among mine enemies' wood 
 Thus cruelly to bren." 
 
 He took his sword and his buckler, 
 
 And among them all he ran. 
 Where the people were most in prese, 
 
 He smote down many a man. 
 
 There might no man abide his strokes. 
 
 So fiercely on them he ran ; 
 Then they threw windows and doors on him, 
 
 And so took that good yeoman. 
 
 There they bound him both hand and foot, 
 And in a deep dungeon him cast ; 
 
 " Now Cloudesly," said the justice, 
 " Thou shalt be hanged in haste." 
 
 " A pair of new gallows," said the sheriff, 
 
 " Now shall I for thee make ; 
 And the gates of Carlisle shall be shut. 
 
 No man shall come in thereat. 
 
 " Then shall not help Clym of the Clough, 
 
 Nor yet shall Adam Bell, 
 Though they came mth a thousand mo, 
 
 Nor all the devils in hell." 
 
 Early in the morning the justice uprose. 
 
 To the gates first gan he gone, 
 And commanded to be shut full close, 
 
 Lightily everychone. 
 
 Then went he to the market-place. 
 
 As fast as he could hie ; 
 A pair of now gallows there did he sot up 
 
 Beside the pillory. 
 
 A little boy among them asked, 
 
 " "What meaned that gallows-tree ? " 
 
 They said, " To hang a good yeoman, 
 William of Cloudesly." 
 
 That little boy was the town swine-herd, 
 
 And kept fair Alice's SAvine ; 
 Oft he had seen Cloudesly in the wood. 
 
 And given him there to dine. 
 
 He went out at a crevice in the wall. 
 And lightly to the wood did gone ; 
 
 There met he with those wightie yeomen 
 Shortly and anon, 
 
 " Alas ! " then said the little boy, 
 
 " Ye tarry here too long ; 
 Cloudesly is taken, and dampned to death, 
 
 And ready for to hang." 
 
 " Alas ! " then said good Adam Bell, 
 
 " That ever we saw this day 1 
 He had better have tarried here with us, 
 
 So oft as we did him pray. 
 
 " He might have dwelt in green forest. 
 
 Under the shadows green. 
 And have kept both him and us in rest. 
 
 Out of all trouble and teen ! " 
 
 Adam bent a right good bow, 
 A great hart soon he had slain : 
 
 " Take that, child," he said, "to thy dinner, 
 And bring me mine arrow again." 
 
 "Now go we hence," said those wightie 
 yoemen, 
 
 " Tarry we no longer here ; 
 We shall him borrow by God his grace, 
 
 Though we buy it full dear." 
 
 To Carlisle went these bold yeomon. 
 
 All in a morning of May. 
 Here is a fytte of Cloudesly, 
 
 And another is for to say. 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 And when they came to merry Carlisle, 
 
 In a fair morning tide. 
 They found the gates shut them until 
 
 Eound about on every side. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 rANONTMOUS. 
 
 "Alas ! " then said good Adam Bell, 
 " That ever wo were made men ! 
 
 These gates be shut so wondrous well, 
 We may not come therein." 
 
 Then bespake him Clym of the Clough, 
 " With a wile we Avill us in bring ; 
 
 Let us saye we be messengers, 
 
 Straight come now from our king." 
 
 Adam said, " I have a letter written, 
 
 Now let us wisely work. 
 We will say we have the kinges seal ! 
 
 I hold the porter no clerk." 
 
 Then Adam Bell beat on the gates 
 With strokes great and strong ; 
 
 The porter marvelled who was thereat, 
 And to the gates he throng. 
 
 " Who is there now," said the porter, 
 " That maketh all tliis knocking ? " 
 
 "We be two messengers," quoth Clym of 
 the Clough, 
 " Be come right from our king." 
 
 " We have a letter," said Adam Bell, 
 " To the justice we must it bring ; 
 
 Let us in our message to do, 
 
 That we were again to the king." 
 
 " There cometh none in," said the porter, 
 
 " By him that died on a tree. 
 Till a false thief be hanged. 
 
 Called WUliam of Cloudesly." 
 
 Then spake the good yeoman Clym of the 
 Clough, 
 
 And swore by Mary free, 
 " And if that we stand long without. 
 
 Like a thief hanged thou shalt be. 
 
 " Lo ! here we have the kinges seal : 
 What, lurden, art thou wode ? " 
 
 The porter went it had been so. 
 And lightl}' did off his hood. 
 
 " Welcome is my lord's seal," he said ; 
 
 " For that ye shaU come in." 
 He opened the gate full shortly : 
 
 An evil opening for him. 
 
 " Now are we in," said Adam Bell, 
 
 " "Whereof we are full fain ; 
 But Christ he knows, that harrowed hell, 
 
 How we shall come out again." 
 
 '•Had we the keys," said Clym of the Clough, 
 *' Eight well then should we speed ; 
 
 Then might we come out well enough 
 When we see time and need." 
 
 They called the porter to council, 
 
 And wrang his neck in two, 
 And cast him in a deep dungeon. 
 
 And took his keys him fro. 
 
 " Now am I porter," said Adam Bell, 
 " See, brother, the keys are here ; 
 
 The worst porter to merry Carlisle 
 That it had this hundred year. 
 
 bend. 
 
 " And now will we our bo we 
 
 Into the tower will we go, 
 For to deliver our dear brother 
 
 That lieth in care and woe." 
 
 And thereupon they bent their bows, 
 And looked their strings were round, 
 
 The market-place in merry Carlisle 
 They beset that stound. 
 
 And as they looked them beside, 
 
 A pair of new gallows there they see. 
 
 And the justice with a quest of squires, 
 That had judged William hanged to be. 
 
 And Cloudesly lay ready there in a cart, 
 Fast bound both foot and hand ; 
 
 And a strong rope about his neck. 
 All reeidy for to hang. 
 
 The justice called to him a lad, 
 
 Cloudesly' s clothes he should have, 
 
 To take the measure of that yeoman. 
 Thereafter to make his grave. 
 
 "I have seen as great a marvel," said 
 Cloudesly, 
 
 "As between this and prime. 
 He that maketh a grave for me. 
 
 Himself may lie therein." 
 
 " Thou speakest proudly," said the justice, 
 " I will thee hang with my hand ; " 
 
 Full well heard this his brethren two, 
 There still as they did stand. 
 
 Then Cloudesly cast his eyes aside, 
 And saw his two brethren stand 
 
 At a corner of the market-place, 
 
 With their good bows bent in their hand. 
 
 "I see comfort," said Cloudesly, 
 
 " Yet hope I well to fare, 
 If I might have my hands at will 
 
 Eight little would I care." 
 
 Then spake good Adam BeU 
 To Clym of the Clough so free, 
 
 " Brother, see you mark the justice well ; 
 Lo, yonder you may him see *, 
 
 "And at the sheriff shoot I will, 
 
 Strongly with arrow keen ; " 
 A better shot in merry Carlisle 
 
 This seven year was not seen. 
 
 They loosed their arrows both at once. 
 
 Of no man had they dread ; 
 The one hit the justice, the other the sheriff, 
 
 That both their sides gan bleed. 
 
 All men voided, that them stood nigh. 
 When the justice fell to the ground, 
 
 And the sheriff fell nigh him by j 
 Either had his death wound. 
 
 All the citizens fast gan fly, . 
 
 They durst no longer abide : 
 Then lightly they loosed Cloudesly, 
 
 Where he with ropes lay tied. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 [Third Psriod. — 
 
 William start to an officer of the town, 
 His axe from his hand he wronge ; 
 
 On eche side he smote them down. 
 He thought he tarried too long. 
 
 William said to his brethren two, 
 
 " This day let us live and die, 
 If ever you have need, as I have now, 
 
 The same shall you find by me." 
 
 Thev shot so well in that tide, 
 
 Their strings were of silk full sure. 
 
 That they kept the streetes on every side ; 
 That battle did long endure. 
 
 Thoy fought together as brethren true, 
 
 Like hardy men and bold, 
 Many a man to the ground they threw, 
 
 And many a heart made cold. 
 
 But when their arrows were all gone. 
 
 Men pressed to them full fast, 
 Thoy drew their swordes then anon. 
 
 And their bowes from them cast. 
 
 They went lightly on their way, 
 With swordes and bucklers round ; 
 
 By that it was mid of the day. 
 They made many a wound. 
 
 There was an out-horn in Carlisle blown, 
 And the bells backward did ring ; 
 
 Many a woman said, " Alas 1 " 
 And many their hands did wring. 
 
 The mayor of Carlisle forth come was, 
 
 With him a full great rout ; 
 These yeomen dreaded him full sore, 
 
 Por of their lives they stood in great doubt. 
 
 The mayor came armed a full great pace, 
 
 With a poleaxe in his hand ; 
 Many a strong man with him was. 
 
 There in that stowre to stand. 
 
 The mayor smote at Cloudesly with his bill, 
 
 His buckler he bi-ast in two, 
 Full many a yeoman with great evil, 
 
 " Alas ! Treason ! " they cried for woe ; 
 "Keep well the gates fast," they bad, 
 
 " That these traitors there out not go." 
 
 But all for nought was that they Avrought, 
 For so fast they down were laid, 
 
 Till they all three that so mp.nful fought, 
 Were gotten without abraide. 
 
 " Have here your keys," said Adam Bell, 
 
 " Mine office I here forsake. 
 And if you do by my ooimsM, 
 
 A new porter do ye make." 
 
 He threw their keyes at theii- heads, 
 
 And bade them well to thrive. 
 And all that lettoth any good yeoman 
 
 To come and comfort his wife. 
 
 Thus be these good yeomen gone to the wood, 
 
 As lightly as leaf on lynde ; 
 They laugh and bo merry in their mood. 
 
 Their enemies ])o far behind. 
 
 When they came to the English- wood, 
 
 Under the trusty tree. 
 There they found bowes full good, 
 
 And arrows full great plenty. 
 
 " So God me help," said Adam Bell, 
 And Clym of the Clough so free, 
 
 " I would we were in merry Carlisle, 
 Before that fair meyne." 
 
 They set them down, and made good cheer, 
 
 And eat and drank full well. 
 A second fytte of these wightie yeomen ; 
 
 Another I will you well. 
 
 FYTTE THE THIRD. 
 
 As they sat in English-Avood, 
 
 Under the green-wood tree, 
 They thought they heard a woman weep, 
 
 But her they mought not see. 
 
 Sore then sighed the fair Alice : 
 
 " That ever I saw this day ! 
 For now is my dear husband slain ; 
 
 Alas ! and well-a-day ! 
 
 " Might I have spoken Avith his dear brethren 
 
 Or with either of them twain, 
 To let them knovv^ what him befell, 
 
 My heart were put out of pain I " 
 
 Cloudesly walked a little beside. 
 
 And looked under the green- wood lynde. 
 
 He was ware of his wife and children three, 
 Full woe in heart and mind. 
 
 " Welcome wife," then said William, 
 
 " Under this trusty tree : 
 I had wende yesterday, by sweet Saint John, 
 
 Thou shouldest me never have see." 
 
 " Now well is me that ye be here, 
 
 My heart is out of woe." 
 "Dame," he said, "be merry and glad, 
 
 And thank my brethren two." 
 
 " Hereof to speak," said Adam Bell, 
 
 " I- wis it is no ))oot ; 
 '• The meat that you must sup Avithal, 
 
 It runneth yet fast on foot." 
 
 Then went they down into a land. 
 
 These noble archers all three ; 
 Each of them slow a hart of gi'ecce, 
 
 The best that they could see. 
 
 " Have hero the best, Alice, my wife," 
 
 Said William of Cloudesly, 
 " By cause ye so boldly stood by me 
 
 When I was slain full nigh." 
 
 Then went they to supper, 
 
 With such meat as they had : 
 And thanked God of their fortune ; 
 
 They were both merry and glad. 
 
 And when they had supped well. 
 
 Certain withonten lease, 
 Cloudesly said, ' Wo will to onr king, 
 
 To get us a charter of peace. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 [ANONYMOrs. 
 
 * 'Alice shall be at our sojourning. 
 
 In a nunnery here beside ; 
 My two sonnes shaU with her g-o, 
 
 And there they shall abide. 
 
 " Mine eldest son shall go with me. 
 
 For him have I no care ; 
 And he shall bring you word again 
 
 How that we do fare." 
 
 Thus be these yeomen to London gone, 
 
 As fast as they might hie, 
 Till they came to the king's palace, 
 
 AVhere they would needes be. 
 
 And when they came to the Idngo's court. 
 
 Unto the palace gate, 
 Of no man woidd they ask no leave, 
 
 But boldly went in thereat. 
 
 They preced prestly into the hall, 
 
 Of no man had they dread ; 
 The porter came after, and did them call, 
 
 And with them began to chide. 
 
 The usher said, "Yeomen, whut woiUd ye 
 have? 
 
 I pray yon tell to me ; 
 You might thus make officers shent : 
 
 Good sirs, of whence be ye ? " 
 
 " Sir, we be outlaws of the fort'st, 
 
 Certain withouten leace, 
 And hither we be come to our king. 
 
 To get us a charter of peace." 
 
 And when they came before the king. 
 
 As it was the law of the land, 
 They kneeled down without letting. 
 
 And each held up his hand. 
 
 They said, " Lord, we beseech thee here, 
 That ye will grant us grace ; ■ 
 
 For we have slain your fat fallow deer, 
 In many a sundry place." 
 
 " What be your names ? " then said our king, 
 
 "Anon that you tell me : " 
 They said, "Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, 
 
 Ajid William of Cloudesly." 
 
 "Be ye those thieves," then said our king, 
 " That men have told of to me ? 
 
 Here to God I make an avow, 
 Ye shall be hanged all three. 
 
 " Ye shall be dead without mercy, 
 
 As I am king of this land." 
 He commanded his officers everychone 
 
 Fast on them to lay hand. 
 
 There they took these good yeomen, 
 
 And arrested them all three : 
 " So may I thrive," said Adam Bell, 
 
 " This game liketh not me. 
 
 "But, good lord, we beseech you now. 
 
 That you grant us grace. 
 Inasmuch as freely we be to you come. 
 
 As freely we may fro you pass. 
 
 With such weapons as v/e have here, 
 
 Till we be out of your place ; 
 And if we live this hundred year, 
 
 We win ask you no grace." 
 
 " Ye speak proudly," said the king ; 
 
 " Ye shall be hanged all three." ~ 
 " That were great pity," then said the queen, 
 
 " If any gauce might be. 
 
 '• My lord, when I came first into this land, 
 
 To be your wedded wife, 
 The first boon that I would ask. 
 
 Ye would grant it me belyfe : 
 
 " And I asked you never none tiU now : 
 Therefore, good lord, grant it me." 
 
 " Now ask it, madam," said the king, 
 " And granted it shall be." 
 
 " Then, good my lord, I you beseech, 
 
 These yeomen grant ye me." 
 " Madam, ye might have asked a boon. 
 
 That should have been worth all three. 
 
 " Ye might have asked towers and towns. 
 
 Parks and forests plenty." 
 " None so pleasant to my pay," she said ; 
 
 " Nor none so lefe to me." 
 
 " Madam, sith it is your desire. 
 
 Your asking granted shall be ; 
 But I had lever had given you 
 
 Good market toM-nes three." 
 
 The queeno was a glad woman. 
 And said, " Lord, grammercy : 
 
 I dare undertake for them. 
 That true men shall they be. 
 
 "But, good my lord, speak some merry word. 
 
 That comfort they may see." 
 " I grant you grace," then said our king : 
 
 " Wash, fellows, and to meat go ye." 
 
 They had not sitten but a while 
 
 Certain without lesygnc, 
 There came messengers out of the north 
 
 With letters to our king. 
 
 And when they came before the king. 
 They kneeled down on their knee, 
 
 And said, "Lord, j'our officers greet you well. 
 Of Carlisle in the north coimtrie." 
 
 " How fareth my justice ? " said the king, 
 
 " And my sheriff also ? " 
 " Sir, they be slain, without leasing, 
 
 And many an officer mo." 
 
 " Who hath them slayne ? " said the king, 
 
 "Anon that thou tell me." 
 "Adam BeU, and Clym of the Clough, 
 
 And William of Cloudesly." 
 
 "Alas, for ruth ! " then said our king : 
 
 " My heart is wondrous sore ; 
 I had lever than a thotisand pound, 
 
 I had known of this before ; 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 ADAM BELL. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 " For I have granted them grace, 
 
 And that forthinketh me ; 
 But had I known all this before, 
 
 They had been hanged all three." 
 
 The king he opened the letter anon, 
 
 Himself he read it through, 
 And found how these outlaws had slain 
 
 Three hundred men and mo ; 
 
 First the justice and the sheriff, 
 And the mayor of Carlisle town, 
 
 Of all the constables and catchipolls 
 Alive were left not one. 
 
 The bailies and the beadles both, 
 And the sergeaunts of the law, 
 
 And forty fosters of the fe. 
 These outlaws had yslaw ; 
 
 And broke his parks and slain liis deer, 
 
 Of all they chose the best ; 
 So perilous outlaws, as they were, 
 
 Walked not by east nor west. 
 
 When the king this letter had read, - 
 
 In his heart he sighed sore : 
 "Take up the tables anon," he said, 
 
 " For I may eat no more." 
 
 The kinge called his best archers. 
 To the butts with him to go : 
 
 "I will see these fellows shoot," he said, 
 " In the north have wrought this woe.'' 
 
 •The kinge' s horsemen, buske them blyve, 
 And the queen's archers also, 
 
 So did these three wightie yeomen ; 
 With them they thought to go. 
 
 There twice, or thrice they shot about, 
 
 For to assay their hand ; 
 There was no shot these yeomen shot, 
 
 That any prycke might them stand. 
 
 Then spake William of Cloudesly : 
 
 " By him that for me died, 
 I hold him never no good archer, 
 
 That shooteth at butts so wide." 
 
 "At what a butt now would ye shoot, 
 
 I pray thee tell to me ? " 
 "At suche a butt, sir," he said, 
 
 "As men use in my countrie." 
 
 William went into a field. 
 
 And with him his two brethren ; 
 
 There they set up two hazel rods, 
 Twenty score paces between. 
 
 " I hold him an archer," said Cloudesly, 
 " That yonder wand cleaveth in two." 
 
 " There is none suche," said the king, 
 " Nor no man can so do." 
 
 " I shall assay, sir," said Cloudesly, 
 
 " Or that I farther go." 
 Cloudesly with a bearing arrow 
 
 Clave the wand in two. 
 
 '•Thou art the best archer," then said the 
 king, 
 
 " Forsooth that ever I see : " 
 "And yet for your love," said William. 
 
 " I will do more maystery. 
 
 " I have a son is seven year old. 
 
 He is to me full dear : 
 I will him tie to a stake ; 
 
 Ail shall see that be here. 
 
 "And lay an apple upon his head 
 And go six score paces hira fro. 
 
 And I myself with a broad arrow 
 Shall cleave the apple in two." 
 
 " Now haste thee," then said the king, 
 
 " By him that died on a tree, 
 But if thou do not, as thou hast said, 
 
 Hanged shalt thou be. 
 
 "An thou touch his head or gown. 
 
 For sight that men may see. 
 By all the saints that be in heaven, 
 
 I shall hang you all three." 
 
 " That I have promised," said William, 
 
 " That I will never forsake." 
 And there even before the king 
 
 In the earth he drove a stake : 
 
 And bound thereto his eldest son. 
 And bad him stand still thereat ; 
 
 And turned the child's face him fro. 
 Because he should not start. 
 
 An apple upon his head he set. 
 
 And then his bow he bent : 
 Six score paces thej^ were out met, 
 
 And thither Cloudesly went. 
 
 There he drew out a fair broad arrow 
 
 His bow was great and long. 
 He set that arrow in his bow, 
 
 That was both stiff and strong. 
 
 He prayed the people that were there, 
 That they would all still stand, 
 
 For he that shooteth for such a wager, 
 Behoveth a stedfast hand. 
 
 Much people prayed for Cloudesly, 
 
 That his life saved might be. 
 And when he made him ready to shoot, 
 
 There was many a weeping eye. 
 
 But Cloudesly cleft the apple in two. 
 
 That man}- a man might see ; 
 "Over Gods forbode," said the king, 
 
 " That thou should shoot at me. 
 
 " I give thee eighteen pence a day, 
 
 And my bowe shalt thou bear, 
 And over all the north countrie 
 
 I make thee chief rydere." 
 
 "And I give thee seventeen pence a day," 
 said the queen, 
 
 " By God, and by my fay ; 
 Come fetch thy payment when thou wilt. 
 
 No man shall say thee nay. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 A TALE OF -ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " William, I make thee a gentleman 
 
 Of clotliing, and of fee : 
 And thy two brethi*en, yeomen of my 
 chamber, 
 
 For they are so seemly to see. 
 
 " Your son, for he is tender of age, 
 
 Of my wine-cellar he shall be ; 
 And when he cometh to man's estate. 
 
 Better advanced shall he be. 
 
 "And, William, bring me your wife," said 
 the queen, 
 
 " Me longeth her sore to see : 
 She shall bo my chief gentlewoman, 
 
 To govern my nursery." 
 
 The yeomen thanked them all courteously, 
 And said, " To some bishop will we wend, 
 
 Of all the sins that we have done, 
 To be assoiled at his hand." 
 
 So forth be gone these good yeomen. 
 
 As fast as they might hie. 
 And after came and dwelled with the king. 
 
 And died good men all three. 
 
 Thus endeth the lives of these good yeomen, 
 
 God send them eternal bliss ; 
 And all, that with hand-bow shooteth. 
 
 That of heaven may never miss. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 515- 
 
 -THE BIETH OF EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 O Willie's large o' limb and lith, 
 
 And come o' high degree ; 
 And he is gone to Earl Eichard 
 
 To serve for meat and fee. 
 
 Earl Eichard had but ae daughter, 
 
 Fair as a lily flower 
 And they made up their love-contract 
 
 Like proj)er paramom*. 
 
 It fell upon a simmer's nicht, 
 
 Whan the leaves were fair and green, 
 That Willie met his gay ladie 
 
 Intil the wood alane. 
 
 *' O narrow is my gown, Willie, 
 
 That wont to he sae -wide, 
 And gane is a' my fair colour, 
 
 That wont to be my pride. 
 
 " But gin my father should get word 
 What's past between us twa. 
 
 Before that he should eat or drink. 
 He'd hang you o'er that wa'. 
 
 *' But 5'e'll come to my bower, Willie, 
 
 At the setting o' the sun ; 
 And kep me in your arms twa. 
 
 And latna me fa' down." 
 
 O whan the sun was near gane down. 
 He's doen him till her bower ; 
 
 And there, by the lee licht o' the moon, 
 Her window she lookit o'er. 
 
 Intill a robe o' red scarlet 
 
 She lap, and caught nae harm ; 
 Willie was large o' lith and limb. 
 
 And keepit her in his arm. 
 
 And they've gane to the gude greenwood, 
 And ere the night was dune, — _ 
 
 She's borne to him a bonny young son, 
 Amang the leaves sae green. 
 
 When night was gane and day was come, 
 
 And the sun began to peep, 
 Up and raise the Earl Eichard 
 
 Out o' his drowsy sleep. 
 
 He's ca'd upon his merry young men, 
 
 By ane, by twa, and bj' three, 
 " O what's come o' my daughter dear, 
 
 That she's na come to me ? 
 
 " I dreamt a dreary dream last night — 
 
 God grant it come to gude ! 
 I dreamt I saw my daughter dear 
 
 Drown in the saut sea flood. 
 
 " My daughter, maybe, is dead or sick ; 
 
 Or gin she be stown awa', 
 I mak' a vow, and I'll keep it true, 
 
 I'll hang ye ane and a' ! " 
 
 Tliey sought her back, they sought her fore, 
 They sought her up and down ; 
 
 They got her in the gude greenwood 
 Nursing her bonny young son. 
 
 He took the bonny boy in his arms, 
 
 And kist him tenderlie ; 
 Says, " Though I would your father hang, 
 
 Your mother's dear to me." 
 
 He kist him o'er and o'er again ; 
 
 " My grandson I thee claim ; 
 And Eobin Hood in gude greenwood, 
 
 'Tis that shall be your name." 
 
 There's mony ane sings o' grass, o' grass. 
 
 And mony ane sings o' com ; 
 And monj^ ane sings o' Eobin Hood, 
 
 Kens little whar' he was born. 
 
 It was na in the ha', the ha', 
 
 Nor in the painted bower ; 
 But it was in the gude greenwood, 
 
 Amang the lily flower. 
 
 Anoni/mous. — Bejore 1649. 
 
 516.— A TALE OF EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 In summer when the shawes be shene, 
 And leaves be large and long, 
 
 It is full merry in the fair forest 
 To hear the fowle's song; 
 
 To see the deer draw to the dale, 
 
 And leave the hilles hee. 
 And shadow them in the leves green, 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 A TALE OF EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 It befel on Whitsuntide, 
 
 Early in a May morning, 
 The sun tip fair did shine, 
 
 And the birdes merry did sing. 
 
 " This is a meriy morning," said Little John, 
 
 " By him that died on tree ; 
 A more merry man than I am one 
 
 Lives not in Christiante. 
 
 " Pluck up thy heart, my dear mayster," 
 
 Little John did say ; 
 " And think it is a full fair time, 
 
 In a morning of May." 
 
 " Yes, one thing grieves me," said Sobin, 
 " And does my heart much woe ; 
 
 That I may not so solemn day 
 To mass nor matins go, . 
 
 " It is a fortnight, and more," said he, 
 
 " Sin I my Saviour see ; 
 To-day I will to Nottingham," said Kobin, 
 
 " With the might of mild Mary." 
 
 Then spoke Moche, the miller's son, 
 
 Ever more well him betide ; 
 " Take twelve of thy wight yeomen, 
 
 Well weaponed by their side. 
 
 *' Such on wolde thyself slon 
 
 That twelve dare not abide." 
 " Of all my merry men," said Eobin, 
 
 " By my faith I will none have. 
 
 " But Little John shall bear my bow. 
 
 Till that me list to draw — 
 * * * * ' 
 
 # * * # 
 
 " Thou shalt boar thine OAvn," said Little 
 John, 
 
 " Mayster, and I will bear mine ; 
 And we will shoot a penny," said Little John, 
 
 " Under the greenwood lyne." 
 
 "I will not shoot a penny," said Hobin Hood, 
 " In faith, Little John, with thee ; 
 
 But ever for one as thou shootst," said Eobin, 
 " In faith I hold thee three." 
 
 Thus shot they forth these yeomen two, 
 
 Bothe at bush and brome, 
 TUl Little John won of his mayster 
 
 Five shillings to hose and shone. 
 
 A ferly strife fell them between, 
 
 As they went by the way ; 
 Little John said he had won five shilling^;. 
 • And Eobin Hood said shortly, " Nay ! " 
 
 With that Eobin Hood lied Little John, 
 
 And smote him with his honde ; 
 Little John Avaxed wroth therevrith, 
 
 And puUed out his bright bronde. 
 
 " Wert thoti not my mayster," said Little 
 John, 
 
 " Thou shouldst bye it full sore ; 
 Get thee a man where thou vdlt, Eobin, 
 
 For thou getst mc no more." 
 
 Then Eobin goes to Nottingham, 
 
 Himself mornynge alone ; 
 And Little John to merry Sherwood, 
 
 The paths he know alkoiio. 
 
 When Eobin came to Nottingham, 
 
 Certainly withouten layne. 
 He prayed to God and mild Mary, 
 
 To bring him out safe again. 
 
 He goes into St. Mary's Church, 
 And kneeled down before the rood ; 
 
 All that ever were the church within 
 Beheld well Eobin Hood. 
 
 Beside hun stood a great hooded monk, 
 
 I pray to God woo he be ; 
 Full soon he knew good Eobin Hood, 
 
 As soon as he him see. 
 
 Out at the door he ran, 
 
 Full soon and anon ; 
 All the gates of Nottingham 
 
 He made to be sparred evory one. 
 
 "Eise up," he said, "thoii proud sheriff, 
 Buske thoe and make theo bovrnc ; 
 
 I have spied the king's felon. 
 For sooth he is in this town. 
 
 " I have spied the false felbn, 
 
 As he stands at his mass ; 
 It is longo of thee," said the monk, 
 
 " An ever he fro us pass. 
 
 " This traitor's name is Eobin Hood, 
 
 Under the green-wood lynde ; 
 Ho robbed me once of an hundred pound, — 
 
 It shall never out of my mind." 
 
 Up then rose this proud sheriif, 
 
 And went towards him there ; 
 Many was the mother i>on 
 
 To the kirk with him did faro. 
 
 In at the doors they throly thrust. 
 
 With staves full good ilkone ; 
 '• Alas ! alas ! " said Eobin Hood, 
 
 " Now miss I Little John." 
 
 But Eobin took out a two-hand s\vord, 
 
 That hanged down by his knee ; 
 Then as the sheriff and his men stood thickest, 
 
 Thitherward would he. 
 
 Thrice thorow at them he ran. 
 
 Then for sooth as I you say. 
 And wounded many a mother son ; 
 
 And twelve ho slcv,- that day. 
 
 His sword upon the sheriff's hoad 
 
 Certainly ho brake in two ; 
 " The smith that thee made," said Eobin, 
 
 " I pray God wj^rke him woo ; 
 
 " Tov now am I weaponless," said Eobin, 
 
 " Alas ! against my will ; 
 But if I may floo thcs^e traitors fro, 
 
 I >7ot they will mo kill." 
 
I'Tom 1558 to 1649. 
 
 A TALE OF EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Robin's men to the churche ran, 
 Throughout them ever ilkone ; 
 
 Some fell in swooning as if they were dead, 
 And lay still as any stone. 
 
 None of them were in their mind. 
 But only Little John. 
 
 '• Let be your ride," said Little John, 
 " For his love that died on tree ; 
 
 Ye that should be doughty men, 
 It is great shame to see. 
 
 " Our mayster has been hard bystode. 
 
 And yet 'scaped away ; 
 Pluck tip your hearts, and leave this moan. 
 
 And hearken what I shall say. 
 
 " He has served our Lady many a day. 
 
 And yet will securely, 
 .Therefore I trust in her specially. 
 
 No wicked death shall he die. 
 
 '• Therefore be glad," said Little John, 
 
 " And let this morning be ; 
 And I shall be the monke's guide. 
 
 With the might of mild Mary. 
 
 *' And I win meet him," said Little John, 
 " We will go but we two " 
 
 * # * * # 
 
 # # * * . 
 
 *' Look that ye keep well the trystil tree, 
 
 Under the levys smale ; 
 And spare none of this venison. 
 
 That go in this vale." 
 
 Forth they went, these yeomen two. 
 
 Little John and Moche infere, 
 And looked on Moch emy's house ; — 
 
 The highway lay full near. 
 
 Little John stood at a window in the morning-. 
 
 And looked forth at a stage ; 
 Ho was 'ware where the monk came riding. 
 
 And Avith him a little page. 
 
 " By my faith," said Little John to Moche, 
 
 " I can tell thee tidings good ; 
 I see where the monk comes riding, 
 
 I know him by his wide hood." 
 
 They went into the way these yeomen both, 
 
 As courteous men and hende ; 
 They spyrred tithyngus to the monk, 
 
 As they had been his friend. 
 
 " From whence come ye ? " said Little John ; 
 
 " Tell us tithyngus I you pray. 
 Of a false outlaw, called Eobin Hood, 
 
 Was taken yesterday. 
 
 " He robbed me and my fellows both 
 
 Of twenty marks in certain ; 
 If that false outlaw be taken, 
 
 For sooth wo would bo fain." 
 
 " So did he me," said the monke, 
 "Of an hundred pound, and more ; 
 
 I laid first hande him upon, 
 Ye may thank me therefore." 
 
 " I pray God thank you," said Little John, 
 
 " And we will when Ave may 7^ — 
 
 We will go with you, with your leave, 
 . And bring j-ou on your Avay. 
 
 " For Eobin Hood has many a wild fellow, 
 
 I tell you in certain ; 
 If they Avist ye rode this Avay, 
 
 In faith ye shoidd be slain." 
 
 As they Avent talking by the Avay, 
 
 The monk and Little John, 
 John took the monk's horse by the head. 
 
 Full soon and anon. 
 
 John took the monk's horse by the head. 
 
 For sooth as I you say ; 
 So did Moche, the little page. 
 
 For he should not stir aAvay. 
 
 By the gullet of the hood, 
 
 John jjulled the monke down ; 
 John Avas nothing of liim aghast. 
 
 He let him fall on his crown. 
 
 Little John was sore aggricA^ed, 
 And drcAv out his SAVord on high ; 
 
 The monke saAV he should be dead. 
 Loud mercy did he cry. 
 
 " He was my mayster," said Little John, 
 " That thou hast broAvzed in bale ; 
 
 Shalt thou ncA'er come at our king, 
 For to toll him tale." 
 
 John smote off the monke's head. 
 
 No longer Avould he dAvell ; 
 So did Moche, the little page. 
 
 For fear lest ho should tell. 
 
 There they biu'ied them both, 
 
 In neither moss nor lynge ; 
 And Little John and Moche infero 
 
 Bare the letters to our kiu"-. 
 
 He kneeled doAvn upon his knee ; 
 " God you save my liege lord, 
 Jesus you save and see. 
 
 " God you save my liege king ! " 
 
 To speak John Avas full bold ; 
 He gaA'e him the letters in lii;; hand. 
 
 The king did it unfold. 
 
 The king read the lettors anon. 
 
 And said, so mot I tlice, 
 '• There was never yeoman in merry England 
 
 I longed so sore to see." 
 
 " Where is the monk that thou should have 
 brought ? " 
 
 Our king gan say ; 
 '• By my troth," said Little John, 
 
 " He died upon the way." 
 
Anonymous. 
 
 A TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Third Pekiod. — 
 
 The king gave Mocha and Little John 
 
 Twenty pound in certain ; 
 And made them yeomen of the crown, 
 
 And bade them go again. 
 
 He gave to John the seal in hand, 
 
 The sheriff for to bear. 
 To bring Eobin him to, 
 
 And no man do him dere. 
 
 John took his leave of ora* king, 
 
 The sooth as I you say ; 
 The next day to Nottingham, 
 
 To take he went the way. 
 
 When John came to Nottingham, 
 The gates were sparred ichone ; 
 
 John called up the porter, 
 He answered soon anon. 
 
 " What is the cause," said Little John, 
 " Thou sparrest the gates so fast P " 
 
 " Because of Robin Hood," said the porter, 
 " In deep prison i:3 cast. 
 
 " John, and Moche, and Will Scathlok, 
 
 For woU as I you say. 
 They slew our men upon our walls, 
 
 And sawtene us every day." 
 
 Little John spyrred after the sheriff 
 
 And soon he him fonde ; 
 He opened the king's privy-seal, 
 
 And gave him in his honde. 
 
 AVhen the sheriff saw the king's seal, 
 
 He did off his hood anon ; 
 " Where is the monke that bore the letters; 
 
 He said to Little John. 
 
 '• He is so fain of him," said Little John, 
 
 " For woU as I you say ; 
 He has made him Abbot of Westminster, 
 
 A lord of that abbey." 
 
 The sheriff he made John good cheer, 
 And gave him wine of the best ; 
 
 At night they went to their bed, 
 And every man to his rest. 
 
 When the sheriff was asleep. 
 
 Drunken of wine and ale. 
 Little John and Moche for sooth. 
 
 Took the way unto the jail. 
 
 Little John called up the jailor. 
 
 And bade him rise anon ; 
 He said Robin Hood had broken prison, 
 
 And out of it was gone. 
 
 The porter rose anon ccrtriin. 
 As soon as he heard John call ; 
 
 Little John was ready with a sword, 
 And bare him to the wall. 
 
 " Now will I be porter," said Little John, 
 " And take the keys in honde ; " 
 
 He took the way to Robin Hood, 
 And soon he him nnbonde. 
 
 He gave him a good sword in his hand, 
 HiG head therewith for to keep ; 
 
 And there where the wall was lowest, 
 Anon down did they leap. 
 
 By that the cock began to crow. 
 
 The day began to spring ; 
 The sheriff found the jailor dead. 
 
 The common bell made he ring. 
 
 He made a cry throxigliout all the town, 
 Wliether he be yeoman or knave. 
 
 That could bring him Robin Hood, 
 His warison he should have. 
 
 " For I dare never," said the sheriff, 
 j " Come before our king ; 
 For if I do I wot certain, 
 For sooth he will me hang." 
 
 The sheriff made to seek Nottingham, 
 
 Both by street and stye ; 
 And Robin was in merry Sherwood, 
 
 As light as leaf on lynde. 
 
 Then bespake good Little John, 
 
 To Robin Hood did he say, 
 " I have done thee a good turn for an evil, 
 
 Requite me when you may. 
 
 " I have done thee a good turn," said Little 
 John, 
 " "^or sooth as I j^ou say ; 
 I have broiight thee under the greemvood 
 
 Farewell, and have good day." 
 
 " Nay, by my troth," said Robin Hood, 
 
 " So shall it never be ; 
 I make thee mayster," said Eobin Hood, 
 
 " Of all my men and me." 
 
 "Nay, by my troth," said Little John. 
 
 " So shall it never be ; 
 But let me be a fellovr," said Little John, 
 
 " No other kepe I'll be." 
 
 Thus John got Robin Hood out of prisone, 
 
 Certain withouten layne ; 
 When his men saw him whole and sound, 
 
 For sooth they were full fain. 
 
 They filled in wine, and made him glad, 
 
 Under the leves small ; 
 And set pasties of venir-on. 
 
 That good was withal. 
 
 Then Avord came unto our king, 
 
 How Robin Hood was gone, 
 And how the sheriff of Nottingham, 
 
 Durst never look him upon. 
 
 Then bespoke our comely king. 
 
 In an aiijrer high, 
 " Little Jolm has beguiled the sheriff, 
 
 In faith so has he me. 
 
 " Little John has beguiled us both, 
 
 And that full well I sec, 
 Or else the sheriff of Nottingham 
 
 High hanged should he be. 
 
From 1558 to liMO. 
 
 EOBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " I made him yeoman of the crown, 
 And gave him fee with my hand ; 
 
 I gave him grithe," said oni* king, 
 '• Throughout all merry England. 
 
 " I gave him grithe," then said our king, 
 
 ' I gay, so mot I thee, 
 For sooth such a yeoman as he is one, 
 
 In all England are not throe. 
 
 " He is true to his maystcr," said our king, 
 
 " I say, by sweet Saint John, 
 He loves better Eobin Hood 
 
 Than he does us yohone. 
 
 " Eobin Hood is ever bound to him, 
 
 Both in street and stall ; 
 Speak no more of this matter," said our king, 
 
 " But John has beguiled us all." 
 
 Thus ends the talking of the monk, 
 
 And Eobin Hood, I Avis ; 
 God, that is ever a crowned king, 
 
 Bring us all to His bliss. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 517.— EOBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A- 
 DALE. 
 
 Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
 All you that love mirth for to hear. 
 
 And I will tell j'ou of a bold outlaw, 
 That lived in Nottinghamshire. 
 
 As Eobin Hood in the forest stood, 
 
 All under the gi'eenwood tree. 
 There he was aware of a brave young man, 
 
 As fine as fine might be. 
 
 The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 
 
 In scarlet fine and gay; 
 And he did frisk it over the plain, 
 
 And chaunted a roundelay. 
 
 As Eobin Hood next morning stood 
 
 Amongst the leaves so gay, 
 There did he espy the same young man 
 
 Come drooping along the way. 
 
 The scarlet he wore the day before 
 
 It was clean cast away ; 
 And at every step he fetched a sigh, 
 
 " Alas I and a wcll-a-day ! " 
 
 Then stepped forth bravo Little John, 
 
 And Midge, tho miller's son ; 
 "Which made the young man bend his bow, 
 
 When as he see them come. 
 
 " Stand off! stand off ! " the young man said, 
 
 " AVhat is your wiU with me ? " 
 " You must come before our master straight. 
 
 Under yon greenwood tree." 
 
 And when he came bold Eobin before, 
 
 Eobin asked him courteously, 
 " O, hast thou any money to spare. 
 
 For mj'' merry men and me ? " 
 
 '• I have no money," the young man said, 
 " But five shillings and a ring ; 
 
 And that I have kept this seven long years. 
 To have at my wedding. 
 
 " Yesterday I should have married a maid. 
 
 But she was from me ta'en, 
 And chosen to bo an old knight's delight. 
 
 Whereby my poor heart is slain." 
 
 thy 
 
 then said Eobin 
 
 "What is 
 Hood, 
 
 " Come toll me, without any fail." 
 " By the faith of my bodj^" then said the 
 young man, 
 " My name it is Allen-a-Dale." 
 
 " What wilt thou give me," said Eobin Hood, 
 
 " In read}'' gold or fee. 
 To help thee to thy true love again, 
 
 And deliver her unto thee ? " 
 
 " I have no money," then quoth tho young 
 man, 
 
 " No ready gold nor fee. 
 But I will swear upon a book 
 
 Thy true servant for to be." 
 
 " How many miles is it to thy true love ? 
 
 Come tell me without guile." 
 "By the faith of my body," then said the 
 young man, 
 
 " It is but five little mile." 
 
 Then Eobin he hasted over the plain, 
 
 He did neither stint nor lin. 
 Until he came unto the church 
 
 Where Allen should keep his weddin'. 
 
 " What hast thou here ? " the bishop then 
 said, 
 
 " I prithee now tell unto me." 
 " I am a bold harper," qixoth Eobin Hood, 
 
 " And the best in the north country." 
 
 " v/elcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, 
 " That music best pleaseth me." 
 
 "You shall have no music," quoth Eobin 
 Hood, 
 " Till tho bride and bridegroom I see." 
 
 With that came in a wealthy knight, 
 
 ■\Yhich was both grave and old ; 
 And after him a finikin lass, 
 
 Did shine like the glistering gold. 
 
 " This is not a fit match," quoth Eobin Hood, 
 " That you do seem to make here ; 
 
 For since we are come into the church. 
 The bride shall chuse her own dear." 
 
Anonymous.] ROBIN HOOD EESCUING THE WIDOW'S SONS. [Third Period. 
 
 Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, 
 
 And blew blasts two and three ; 
 'When four- and- twenty yeomen bpld 
 
 Came leaping over the lea. 
 
 And when they came into the church-yard, 
 
 Marching all in a row, 
 The first man was AUen-a-Dale, 
 
 To give bold Robin his bow. 
 
 " This is thj' true love," Robin he said, 
 
 " Young Allen, as I hear say ; 
 And you shall be married this same time, 
 
 Before we depart awa3^■' 
 
 " That shaU not be," the bishop he cried, 
 
 " For thy word shall not stand ; 
 They shall be three times asked in the church, 
 
 As the law is of our land." 
 
 Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, 
 
 And put it upon Little John ; 
 " By the faith of my body," then Robin said, 
 
 "This cloth doth make thee a man." 
 
 When Little John went into the quire, - 
 
 The people began to laugh ; 
 He asked them seven times into church, 
 
 Lest three times should not be enough. 
 
 "Who gives me this maid?" said Little 
 John, 
 
 Quoth Robin Hood, " That do I ; 
 And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 
 
 Fidl dearly he shall her buy." 
 
 And then having ended this merry wedding. 
 
 The bride looked like a queen ; 
 And so they returned to the merry green- 
 wood. 
 
 Amongst the leaves so green. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 518.— ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE 
 WIDOW'S THREE SONS. 
 
 There are twelve months in all the year, 
 
 As I hear many say, 
 But the merriest month in all the year 
 
 Is the merry month of May. 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 
 With a linlc a down, and a day, 
 And there he met a siUy old weman. 
 
 Was weeping on the way. 
 
 "What news? what news? thou silly old 
 woman, 
 Wlaat news hast thou for me ? " 
 Said she, " There's my three sons in Notting- 
 ham town 
 To-day condemned to die." 
 
 " O, have they parishes burnt ? " he said, 
 
 " Or have they ministers slain ? 
 Or have they robbed any virgin ? 
 
 Or other men's wives have ta'en ? " 
 
 " They have no parishes burnt, good sir, 
 
 Nor yet have niiuisters slain. 
 Nor have they robbed any virgin. 
 
 Nor other men's wives have ta'en." 
 
 " O, what have they done ? " said Robin 
 Hood, 
 
 " I pray thee tell to me." 
 "It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, 
 
 Bearing their long bows with thee." 
 
 " Dost thou not mind, old woman," he said, 
 " How tiiou madest me sup and dine ? 
 
 B}^ the truth of my body,' quoth bold Robin 
 Hood, 
 " You could not tell it in better time." 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone. 
 
 With a linlc a dovjn, and a day, 
 And there he met with a silly old palmer. 
 
 Was walking along the highway. 
 
 " What news ? what news ? thou silly old 
 man. 
 
 What news ? I do thee pray." 
 Said he, " Three squires in Nottingham town 
 
 Are condemn' d to die this day." 
 
 " Come change thy apparel with mc, old man, 
 Come change thj- apparel for mine ; 
 
 Here is ten shillings in good silver, 
 Go drink it in beer or wine." 
 
 " 0, thine apparel is good," he said, 
 
 " And mine is ragged and torn ; 
 Wherever you go. wherever you ride. 
 
 Laugh not an old man to scorn." 
 
 " Come change thy apparel with me, old 
 churl. 
 
 Come change thy apparel with mine ; 
 Here is a piece of good broad gold, 
 
 Go feast thy brethren with wine." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hat. 
 It stood full high on the cro^vn : 
 
 " The first bold bargain that I come at, 
 It shall make thee come down." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's cloak, 
 Was patch' d black, blue, and red ; 
 
 He thought it no shame, all the day long, 
 To wear the bags of bread. 
 
 Then he put on the old man's breeks, 
 
 Was patch' d from leg to side : 
 " By the truth of my body," bold Robin can 
 say, 
 
 " This man loved little pride." 
 
From, 1558 to ie49.1 
 
 EOBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORKE. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Then he put on the old man's hose, 
 Were patch' d from knee to wrist : 
 
 " By the truth of my body," said bold Robin 
 Hood, 
 " I'd laugh if I had any list." 
 
 Then he put on the old man's shoes. 
 Were patch'd both beneath and aboon ; 
 
 Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, 
 "It's good habit that makes a man." 
 
 Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 
 With a link a down and a down, 
 
 And there he met with the proud sheriff. 
 Was walking along the town. 
 
 " Save you, save you, sheriff! " he said ; 
 
 "Now heaven you save and see ! 
 And what will you give to a silly old man 
 
 To-day wiU your hangman be ? " 
 
 " Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said, 
 
 " Some suits I'll give to thee ; 
 Some suits, some suits, and pence thii-teen. 
 
 To-day's a hangman's fee," 
 
 Then Robin ho turns him round about. 
 And jumps from stock to stone : 
 
 "By the truth of my body," the sheriff he 
 said, 
 " That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man." 
 
 " I was ne'er a hangman in all my life, 
 
 Nor yet intends to trade ; 
 " But curst be he," said bold Robin, 
 
 " That first a hangman was made ! 
 
 " I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, 
 
 And a bag for barley and corn ; 
 A bag for bread, and a bag for beef. 
 
 And a bag for my little small horn. 
 
 " I have a horn in my pocket, 
 
 I got it from Robin Hood, 
 And still when I set it to my mouth, 
 
 For thee it blows little good. 
 
 " 0, wind thy horn, thou proud fellbw ! 
 
 Of thee I have no doubt. 
 I wish that thou give such a blast, 
 
 Till both thy eyes fall out." 
 
 The first loud blast that he did blow, 
 
 He blew both loud and slirill ; 
 A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came riding over the hUl. 
 
 The next loud blast that he did give, 
 
 He blew both loud and amain. 
 And quickly >.ixty of Robin Hood's men 
 
 Came shining over the plain. 
 
 " O, who are those ? " the sheriff he said, 
 
 " Come tripping over the lee ? " 
 "They're my attendants," brave Robin did 
 say; 
 
 " They'll pay a visit to thee." 
 
 They took the gallows from the slack. 
 
 They set it in the glen, 
 They hanged the proud sheriff on that, 
 
 Released their o^vn three men. 
 
 Anonynwus. — Before 1649. 
 
 519.— ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF 
 GISBORNE. 
 
 When shaws be sheen, and swards full fair. 
 
 And leaves both large and long. 
 It is merry walking in the fair forest 
 
 To hear the small birds' song. 
 
 The Avoodweel sang, and would not cease, 
 
 Sitting upon the spray, 
 So loud, he wakened Robin Hood, 
 
 In the greenv/ood where ho lay, 
 
 " Now by my faith," said jollj^ Robin, 
 
 " A sweaven I had this night ; 
 I dreamt me of two wight yeomen. 
 
 That fast with me can fight. 
 
 " Methought they did me beat and bind, 
 
 And took my bow me fro' ; 
 If I be Robin alive in this land, 
 
 I'll be wroken on them two." 
 
 " Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, 
 " As the wind that blows o'er a hill ; 
 
 For if it be never so loud this night. 
 To-morrow it may be still." 
 
 "Busk ye, bowne ye, my merry men all, 
 
 And John shall go with me. 
 For I'll go seek yon wight yeomen. 
 
 In the greenwood where they be," 
 
 Then they cast on their gowns of green, 
 
 And took their bows each one, 
 And they away to the green .forest, 
 
 A shooting forth are gone ; 
 
 Until they came to the merry greenwood, 
 
 Where they had gladdust be, 
 There were they aware of a wight yeoman, 
 
 His body leaned to a tree, 
 
 A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, 
 
 Of many a man the bane ; 
 And he was clad in -his capull hide 
 
 Top and tail and mane. 
 
 "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, 
 
 " Under this tree so green. 
 And I will go to yon wight yeoman 
 
 To know what he doth mean," 
 
 " Ah ! John, by me thou settest no store, 
 
 And that I fairly find ; 
 How oft send I my men before, 
 
 And tarry myself behind ? 
 
 " It is no cunning a knave to ken. 
 
 An a man but hear him speak ; 
 An it were not for bursting of my bow, 
 
 John, I thy head would break." 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 EOBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 As often words they brceden bale, 
 So they parted, Eobin and John ; 
 
 And John is gone to Barnesdalo : 
 The gates he knoweth each one. 
 
 But when he came to Barnesdale, 
 
 Great heaviness there he had, 
 For he found two of his own follows 
 
 Were slain both in a glade. 
 
 And Scarlett he was fljdng' a-f oot 
 
 Fast over stock and stone, 
 For the proud sheriff with seven score men 
 
 Fast after him is gone. 
 
 " One shot now I will shoot," quoth John, 
 " (With Christe his might and main ;) 
 
 I'll make yon fellow that flies so fast, 
 To stop he shall be fain." 
 
 Then John bent up his long bcnde-bow, 
 
 And fettled him to shoot : 
 The bow was made of tender bough, 
 
 And fell down to his foot. 
 
 Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood 
 
 That ere thou grew on a tree ; 
 For now this day thou art my bale, 
 
 My boote when thou shouldst be. 
 
 His shoot it was but loosely shot, 
 
 Yet flew not the arrow in vain, 
 For it met one of the sheriff's men, — 
 
 Good William-a-Trent was slain. 
 
 It had been better for William-a-Trent 
 To have been a-bed with sorrow. 
 
 Than to be that day in the greenwood glade 
 To meet with Little John's arroAV. 
 
 But as it is said, when men be met, 
 
 Five can do more than three. 
 The sheriff hath taken Little John, 
 
 And bound him fast to a tree. 
 
 " Thou shalt be drawn by dale and do^vn, 
 
 And hang'd high on a hill." 
 "But thou mayst fail of thy purpose," quoth 
 John, 
 
 "If it be Christe his will." 
 
 Let us leave talking of Little John, 
 
 And think of Eobin Hood, 
 How he is gone to the wight j'-eoman, 
 
 "Where under the leaves he stood. 
 
 "Good morrow, good fellow," said Eobin so 
 fair, 
 " Good morrow, good fellow," quoth he : 
 " Mothinks by this bow thou bear'st in thy 
 hand, 
 A good archer thou shouldst ba." 
 
 " I am wilful of my way," quo' the yeoman, 
 
 "And of my morning tide." 
 " I'll lead thee through the wood," said Eobin; 
 
 " Good fellow, I'll be thy guide." 
 
 " I seek an outlaw," the stranger said, 
 
 " Men call him Eobin Hood ; 
 Eather I'd meet with that proud outlaw 
 
 Than forty pounds so good." 
 
 " Now come with me, thou wighty yeoman. 
 
 And Eobin thou soon shalt see : 
 But first let us some pastime find 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 " First let us some mastery make 
 
 Among the woods so even, 
 We may chance to meet with Eobin Hood 
 
 Here at some unset steven." 
 
 They cut them down two summer shoggs. 
 
 That grew both under a briar, 
 And set them threescore rod, in twain, 
 
 To shoot the pricks y-fere. 
 
 " Lead on, good fellow," quoth Eobin Hood, 
 
 " Lead on, I do bid thee." 
 " Nay, by my faith, good fellow," he said, 
 
 "My leader thou shalt be." 
 
 The first time Eobin shot at the prick. 
 
 He miss'd but an inch it fro' ; 
 The yeoman he was an archer good, 
 
 But he coidd never shoot so. 
 
 The second shoot had the Avighty yeoman. 
 
 Ho shot within tlie garland ; 
 But Eobin he shot far better than he, 
 
 For he clave the good prick-wand. 
 
 '•' A blessing upon thy heart," he said, 
 " Good fellow, thy shooting is good ; 
 
 For an thy heart be as good as thy hand, 
 Thou wert better than Eobin Hood. 
 
 " Now tell me thy name, good fellow," said he, 
 
 " Under the leaves of lyne." 
 " Nay, by my faith," quoth bold Eobin, 
 
 " Until thou hast told me thine." 
 
 " I dwell by dale and down," quoth he, 
 " And Eobin to take I'm sworn ; 
 
 And when I am called by'Sny right name, 
 I am Guy of good Gisborne." 
 
 " My dwelling is in this wood," says Eobin, 
 
 " By thee I set right nought ; 
 I am Eobin Hood of Barnesdale, 
 
 Whom thou so long hast sought." 
 
 He that had neither been kith nor kin, 
 Might have seen a full fair sight, 
 
 To see how together these yeomen went 
 With blades both brown and bright. 
 
 To see how these yeomen together they fought 
 
 Two hours of a summer's day : 
 Yet neither Eobin Hood nor sir Guy 
 
 Them fettled to fly away. 
 
 Eobin was reachles of a root, 
 
 And stumbled at that tide ; 
 And Guy Avas quick and nimble withal, 
 
 And hit him o'er the left side. 
 
From 1558 <ol649.] ROBIN HOOD AND THE CUETAL FEIAR. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " Ah, dear Lad^^" said Robin Hood, "thou. 
 Thou art both mother and may, 
 
 I think it was never man's destiny 
 To die before his da3\" 
 
 Robin thought on our Lady dear, 
 
 And soon leapt up again, 
 And straight he came with a backward stroke, 
 
 And he sir Guy hath slain. 
 
 He took sir Guy's head by the hair, 
 And struck it upon his bow's-end : 
 
 " Thou hast been a traitor all thy life, 
 Which thing must have an end." 
 
 Robin pull'd forth an Irish knife, 
 
 And nick'd sir Guy in the face, 
 That he was never of woman bom, 
 
 Could tell whose head it was. 
 
 Says, " Lie there, lie there now, sir Guy, 
 
 And with me be not wroth ; 
 If thou have had the worst strokes at my 
 hand, 
 
 Thou shalt have the better cloth." 
 
 Robin did off his gown of green, 
 
 And on sir Guy did throw, 
 And he put on that capuU hide, 
 
 That clad him tip to toe. 
 
 " The bow, the arrows, the little horn, 
 
 Now with me I will bear ; 
 For I will away to Barnesdale, 
 
 To see how my men do fare." 
 
 Robin Hood set Guy's horn to his mouth, 
 
 And a loud blast in it did blow, 
 That beheard the sheriff of Nottingham, 
 
 As he leaned under a lowe. 
 
 "Hearken, hearken," said the sheriff, 
 
 " I hear now tidings good, 
 For yonder I hear sir Guy's horn blow. 
 
 And he hath slain Robin Hood. 
 
 " Yonder I hear sir Guy's horn blow, 
 
 It blows so well in tide. 
 And yonder comes that wighty yeoman, 
 
 Clad in his capuU hide. 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, thou good sir 
 Guy, 
 
 Ask what thou wilt of me." 
 "01 will none of thy gold," said Robin, 
 
 " Nor I will none of thy fee. 
 
 " But now I have slain the master, 
 " Let me go strike the knave ; 
 
 For this is all the reward I ask ; 
 Nor no other will I have." 
 
 he says. 
 
 " Thou art a madman," said the sheriff, 
 " Thou shouldst have had a knight's fee 
 
 But seeing thy asking hath been so bad, 
 Well granted it shall be." 
 
 When Little John heard his master speak, 
 Well knew he it was his steven : 
 
 " Now shall I be loosed," quoth Little John, 
 " With Christe his might in heaven." 
 
 Fast Robin he hied him to Little Jolin, _ 
 He thought to loose him belive ; 
 
 The sheriff and all his company 
 Fast after him did drive. 
 
 " Stand back, stand back," said Robin; 
 
 " Why draw you me so near ? 
 It was never the use in our country, 
 
 One's shrift another should hear." 
 
 But Robin pull'd forth an Irish knife. 
 
 And loosed John hand and foot, 
 And gave him sir Guy's bow into his hand, 
 And bade it be his boote. 
 
 Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand. 
 
 His bolts and arrows each one : 
 When the sheriff saw Little John bend his 
 bow, 
 
 He fettled him to be gone. 
 
 Towards his house in Nottingham toAvn, 
 
 He fled full fast away ; 
 And so did all the company : 
 
 Not one behind would stay. 
 
 But he could neither run so fast. 
 
 Nor away so fast could ride. 
 But Little John with an arrow so broad, 
 
 He shot him into the back-side. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 520.— ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTAL 
 FRIAR. 
 
 In the summer time, when leaves grow green, 
 
 And flowers are fresh and gay, 
 Robin Hood and his merry men 
 
 Were all disposed to play. 
 
 Then some would leap, and some woidd run, 
 
 And some would use artillery ; 
 " Which of you can a good bow draw, 
 
 A good archer for to be ? 
 
 " Which of you can kill a buck ; 
 
 Or Avho can kill a doe ? 
 Or who can kill a hart of grease. 
 
 Five hundred foot him fro' ?" 
 
 Will Scarlet he kill'd a buck. 
 
 And Midge he kiU'd a doe ; 
 And Little John kill'd a hart of grease. 
 
 Five hundred foot him fro'. 
 
 " God's blessing on thy heart," said Robin 
 Hood, 
 i " That shot such a shot for me ; 
 I I would ride my horse an hundred miles 
 I To find one to match thee." ^ 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 EOBIN HOOD AND THE CURTAL FEIAE. [Third Period. - 
 
 That caused Will Scarlet to laugh, 
 
 He laugh' d full heartily; 
 " There lives a friar in Fountain's Abbey 
 
 Will beat both him and thee. 
 
 *' The curtal friar in Fountain's Abbey 
 Well can draw a good strong bow ; 
 
 He will beat both you and your yeomen, 
 Set them all on a row." • 
 
 Robin Hood took a solemn oath, 
 
 It was by Mary free, 
 That he would neither eat nor drink. 
 
 Till the friar he did see. 
 
 Robin Hood put on his harness good. 
 
 On his head a cap of steel : 
 Broad sword and buckler by his side, 
 
 And they became him well. 
 
 He took his bow into his hand, 
 
 (It was of a trusty tree) 
 With a sheaf of aiTows by his side 
 
 And to Fountain Dale went he. 
 
 And coming unto fair Fountain Dale, 
 
 No farther would he ride : 
 There was he 'ware of a curtal friar, 
 
 Walking by the water-side. 
 
 The friar had on a harness good, 
 
 On his head a cap of steel ; 
 Broad sword and buckler by his side. 
 
 And they became him well. 
 
 Robin Hood lighted off his horse, 
 
 And tied him to a thorn : 
 " Carry, me over the water, thou curtal friar, 
 
 Or else thy life 's forlorn." 
 
 The friar took Robin Hood on his back, 
 
 Deep water he did bestride, 
 And spake neither good word nor bad 
 
 Till he came to the other side. 
 
 Lightly leap'd Robin off the friar's back. 
 
 The friar said to him again, 
 " Carry me over the water, fine fellow, 
 
 Or it shall breed thee pain." 
 
 Robin Hood took the friar on his back. 
 
 Deep water ho did bestride, 
 And spake neither good nor bad 
 
 Till he came to the other side. 
 
 Lightly leap'd the friar off Robin Hood's 
 back ; 
 
 Robin said to him again, 
 " Carry mo over the water, thou curtal friar. 
 
 Or it shall breed thee pain." 
 
 The friar he took Robin Hood on his back 
 again, 
 
 And stepp'd up to his knee ; 
 Till he came to the middle of the stream 
 
 Neither good nor bad spake he ; 
 
 And coming to the middle of the stream, 
 
 There he throw Robin in ; 
 " And choose thee, choose thee, fine fellov^-, 
 
 Whether thou wilt sink or swim." 
 
 Robin Hood swam to a bush of broom, 
 
 The friar to the Avillow wand ; 
 Bold Robin Hood lie got to the shore, 
 
 And took his bow in his hand. 
 
 One of the best arrows under his belt, 
 
 To the friar he let fly : 
 The curtal friar with hi.s steel buckler 
 
 Did put that arrow by. 
 
 " Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow. 
 
 Shoot as thou hast begun ; 
 If thou shoot here a summer's day, 
 
 Thy mark I ■^^•ill not shun." 
 
 Robin Hood shot so passing well, 
 
 Till his arroAvs all were gone ; 
 Tliey took their swords and steel bucklers, 
 
 They fought wdth might and main. 
 
 From ten o'clock that very day, 
 
 Till four i' the afternoon ; 
 Then Robin Hood came on his knees, 
 
 Of the friar to beg a boon. 
 
 " A boon, a boon, thou curtal friar, 
 
 I beg it on my knee ; 
 Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth. 
 
 And to blow blasts tlirec." 
 
 *' That I Avill do," said the curtal friar, 
 " Of thy blasts I have no doubt ; 
 
 I hope thou wilt blow so passing well, 
 Till both thy eye& drop out." 
 
 Robin Hood sot his horn to his mouth, 
 
 And he blew out blasts three. 
 Half a hundred yeomen, -svith their bows bent, 
 
 Came ranging over the lea. 
 
 " Wliose men are these," said the friar, 
 
 " That come so hastily ? " 
 " These men are mine," said Robin Hood, 
 
 " Friar, what's that to thee ? " 
 
 " A boon, a boon," said the curtal friar, 
 
 " The like I gave to thee ; 
 Give me leave to put my fist to my mouth, 
 
 And Avhute whutes three." 
 
 " That I will do," said Robin Hood, 
 
 " Or else I wore to blame ; 
 Three whutes in a friar's fist 
 
 Would make me glad and fain." 
 
 The friar he set his fist to his mouth. 
 And he whuted him whutes three ; 
 
 Half an hundred good ban dogs 
 Came running over the lea. 
 
 " Here is for every ma,n a dog. 
 
 And I myself for thee ; " 
 " Nay, hj my faith," said Robin Hoo'I, 
 
 " Friar, that may not be." 
 
Frcym 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 HOW EOBIN HOOD LENDS, &c. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Two dogs at once to Robin did go, 
 The one behind, and the other before ; 
 
 Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln green 
 Off from his back they tore. 
 
 And whether his men shot east or west. 
 
 Or they shot north or south, 
 The curtal dogs, so taught they were. 
 
 They caught the arrows in their mouth. 
 
 " Take up thy dogs," said Little John, 
 
 " Friar, at my bidding thee ; 
 *' "Whose man art thou," said the curtal friar, 
 
 " That comes here to prate to me ?" 
 
 " I am Little John, Robin Hood's man. 
 
 Friar, I will not lie ; 
 If thou take not up thy dogs anon, 
 
 I'll take them up and thee." 
 
 Little John had a bow in his hand, 
 
 He shot with might and main; 
 Soon half a score of the friar's dogs 
 
 Lay dead upon the plain. 
 
 " Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtal 
 friar, 
 
 " Thy master and I will agree ; 
 And we ^vill have new orders taken, 
 
 With all haste that may be. 
 
 '• If thou wilt forsake fair Fountain Dale, 
 
 And Fountain Abbey free ; 
 Every Sunday throughout the year 
 
 A noble shall be thy fee. 
 
 " Every Sunday throughout the year, 
 
 Chang' d shall thy garments be, 
 If thou Avilt to fair Nottingham go, 
 
 And there remain mth me." 
 
 The curtal friar had kept Fountain Dale, 
 
 Seven long years and more ; 
 There was neither knight, lord, nor earl. 
 
 Could make him yield before. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 521.— HOW ROBIN HOOD LENDS A 
 POOR KNIGHT FOUR HUNDRED 
 POUNDS. 
 
 Lithe and lysten, gentylmen, 
 
 That be of frebore blode ; 
 I shall you tell of a gude yeman, 
 
 His name was Robyn Hode. 
 
 Robyn was a proude outlawo, 
 
 Whyles he walked on grounde, « 
 
 So curteyse an outlawe as he was one 
 Was never none yfounde. 
 
 Robyn stode in Bamysdale, 
 
 And lened hym to a tree, 
 And by hym stode LyteU Johan, 
 
 A good yeman was he; 
 
 And also dyd good Scathelock, 
 
 And Much the miller's sone ; 
 There was no ynche of his body, 
 
 But it was worthe a grome. 
 
 Then bespake him LyteU Johan _ 
 
 All unto Robyn Hode, 
 " Mayster, yf ye wolde dyne betyme. 
 
 It wolde do you moch good." 
 
 Then bespake good Robyn, 
 
 ■•' To dyne I have no lust, 
 Tyll I have some bolde baron, 
 
 Or some unketh guest, 
 
 " [Or els some byshop or abbot] 
 
 That may paye for the best ; 
 Or some knyght or some squyere 
 
 That dweUeth here by west." 
 
 A good maner than had Robyn, 
 
 In londe where that he were : 
 Every daye or he woulde djoie 
 
 Thre messes wolde he here. 
 
 Robyn loved Our Dere Lady ; 
 
 For doute of dedely synne 
 Wolde he never do company harme 
 
 That ony woman was ynne. 
 
 " Mayster," then sayd Lytell Johan, 
 " And we our borde shall sprede, 
 
 Tell us whither we shall gone, 
 And what lyfe we shall lede ; 
 
 " Where we shall take, where we shall leve, 
 
 Where we shall abide behynde. 
 Where we shall robbe, where we shall reve, 
 
 Where we shaU. bete and bynde." 
 
 " Thereof no fors," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " We shall do well enow ; 
 But loke ye do no housbonde harme 
 
 That tylleth with his plough ; 
 
 " No more ye shall no good yeman, 
 That walketh by grene wode shawe, 
 
 Ne no knyght, ne no squyer, 
 That wolde be a good felawe. 
 
 " These bysshoppes, and these archebys- 
 shoppes, 
 
 Ye shall them bete and bynde ; 
 The hye sheryfe of Notynghame, 
 
 Hym holde in your mynde." 
 
 " This worde shall be holde," said Lj-tyll 
 Johan, 
 
 " And this lesson shall we lere ; 
 It is ferre dayes, god sende us a guest. 
 
 That we were at our dynere." 
 
 '• Take thy good bowe in thy hande," said 
 Robyn, 
 
 *' Let Moohe wende with thee, 
 And so shall Wyllyam Soathelocke, 
 
 And no man abyde with me : 5^9* 
 
Anonymous.] HOW ROBIN" HOOD LENDS, &c. [Third Period.— 
 
 " And walke up to the Sayles, 
 
 They washed togydcr and wyped both. 
 
 And so to Watlynge-strete, 
 
 And set tyll theyr dj-nere ; 
 
 And wayte after some unketh guest, 
 
 Brede and wjme they had ynough, - ^ 
 
 Up-chaunce ye mowe them mete. 
 
 And nombles of the dere ; 
 
 . " Be he erle or ony baron, 
 
 Swannes and fesauntes they had full good. 
 
 Abbot or ony knyght, 
 
 And foules of the rivcre ; 
 
 Brynge hym to lodge to me, 
 
 There fayled never so lytell a byrde, 
 
 Hys dyner shall be dyght" 
 
 That ever was bred on brere. 
 
 They wente unto the Sayles, 
 
 " Do gladly, syr knyght," sayd Eobyn. 
 
 These yemen all thre, 
 
 " Gramercy, syr," sayd he. 
 
 They loked est, they loked west. 
 They myght no man see. 
 
 " Such a dyner had I not 
 Of all these wekes thre : 
 
 But as they loked in Barnysdale, 
 
 " If I come agaync, Eobyn, 
 Here by this countiv, 
 
 By a derne strete 
 
 As good a dyner I shall thee make. 
 
 Then came there a knyght rydynge, 
 
 As thou hast made to me." 
 
 Full sone they gan hj^m mete. 
 
 
 All dreri then was his semblaunte, 
 
 " Gramercy, knyght," sayd Eobyn, 
 " My dyner whan I have. 
 
 And lytell was hys pryde. 
 
 I was never so gredy [I swear to thee], 
 
 Hys one fote in the sterope stode, 
 
 My dyner for to crave. 
 
 That other waved besyde. 
 
 
 " But pay or ye wende," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 Hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two,- 
 
 " Me thynketh it is good ryght ; 
 
 He rode in symple aray : 
 
 It was never the maner, by my troth. 
 
 A soryer man than he was one 
 
 A yeman to pay for a knyght." 
 
 Eode never in somers-day. 
 
 " I have naught in my cofers," sayd the 
 
 LyteU Johan was curteyse. 
 
 knyght. 
 
 And set hym on hys kne : 
 
 " That I may profer for shame." 
 
 " Welcome be ye, gentyll knyght, 
 
 " Lytell Johan, go lokc," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 Welcome are you to me ; 
 
 " No let not for no blame. 
 
 " Welcome be thou to grene wood, 
 
 " Tell me trouth," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 Hende knyght and fre ; 
 
 '•' So god have parte of thee." 
 
 My mayster hath abyden you fastynge, 
 
 " I have no more but ten shillings," sayd the 
 
 Syr, aU these oures thre." 
 
 knyght, 
 
 
 " So god have parte of me." 
 
 " Wlio is your mayster ? " sayd the knyght. 
 Johan sayde, "Robyn Hode." 
 
 " Yf thou have no more," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " I wyll not one peny ; 
 And ji thou have nede.of ony more, 
 
 More shall I len thee. 
 
 " He is a good yeman," sayd the knyght, 
 " Of hym T have herde moch good. 
 
 " I graunte," he sayd, " with you to wende, 
 
 " Go now forth, Lytell Johan, 
 
 My brethren all in-f ere ; 
 
 The trouthe tell thou me : 
 
 ]\Iy purpose was to have deyned to day 
 
 Yf there be no morrf but ten shillings, 
 
 At Blythe or Dankastere." 
 
 Not one peny than I se." 
 
 Forthe than went this gentyll knyght, 
 
 Ljiiell Johan spred downe his mantell 
 
 With a careful! chere. 
 
 Full fayre upon the grounde, 
 
 The teres out of his eyen ran. 
 
 And there he founde in the knyghtes cofer 
 
 And fell downe by his lere. 
 
 But even halfe a pounde. 
 
 They brought hym unto the lodge dore ; 
 
 Lytyll Johan let it lye full styll, 
 
 AVhen Eobyn gan hym se, 
 
 And went to his mayster full lowe. 
 
 Full curteysly dyd of his hode, 
 
 " What tydynge, Johan ? " sayd Eobyn. 
 
 And set hym on his kne. 
 
 " Syr, the knyght is trewc inough." 
 
 " Welcome, syr knyght," then said Eobyn, 
 
 " Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Welcome thou art to me ; 
 
 " The4cnyght shall begjTine ; 
 
 I haue abyde you fastynge, syr, 
 
 Moch wonder thynketh me 
 
 All these houres thre." 
 
 Thy clothynge is so thynne. 
 
 Then answered the gentyll knyght. 
 
 " Tell me one worde," sayd Eobj'n, 
 
 With wordes fayre and fre. 
 
 " And couusell shall it be ; 
 
 *' God thee save, good Eobyn, 
 
 I trowe thou were made a knyght of forse, 
 
 And all thy fayre mejme ! " 
 
 Or eUes of yemanry ; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 HOW EOBIN HOOD LENDS, &c. 
 
 [ANONYMOc-S. 
 
 " Or elles thou hast ben a sory housbaud, 
 And leved in stroke and stryfe ; 
 
 An okerer, or elles a lechoure," sayd Eobyn, 
 " With wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe." 
 
 " I am none of them," sayd the knj'ght, 
 
 ■* By [him] that made me : 
 An hondreth wjoiter here before, 
 
 Mjne aunsetters knyghtes have be. 
 
 ' • But ofte it hath befal, Eobyn, 
 
 A man hath be dysgrate ; 
 But [he] that syteth in heven above 
 
 May amend his state. 
 
 •• Within two or thre yere, Eobyn," he sayd, 
 
 " My neyghbores well it kende, 
 Foure hondreth pounde of good money 
 
 Full wel than myght I spende. 
 
 " Now have I no good," say(i the knyght, 
 " But my chyldren and my wyfe ; 
 
 God hath shapen such an ende, 
 Tyll it may amende my lyfe." 
 
 '• In what maner," sayd EobjTi, 
 
 " Hast thou lore thy riches ? "^ 
 " For my grete foly," he sayd, 
 
 " And for my kindenesse. 
 
 " I had a sone, for soth, Eobyn, 
 
 That sholde have ben my eyre, 
 Wlien he was twenty wj^nter olde. 
 
 In felde wolde juste full feyra ; 
 
 " He slewe a knyght of Lancastshyre, 
 
 And a sqajTc bold ; 
 For to save hym. in his ryght 
 
 My goodes both sette and solde ; 
 
 " My londes beth set to wedde, Eobyn, 
 
 Untyll a certayne dayc, 
 To a ryche abbot here besj-de, 
 
 Of Saynt Mary abbay." 
 
 " What is the somme ? " sayd Eobjm, 
 
 " Trouthe than tell thou me." 
 " Syr," he sayd, " foure hondred pounde, 
 
 The abbot tolde it to mc." 
 
 '• Now, and thou lese thylonde," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " What shall fall of thee ? " 
 " Hastely I wjll mo buske," sayd the knyght, 
 
 " Over the salte see, 
 
 " And se where Cryst was quj'-cko and deed, 
 
 On the mounte of Calvare. 
 Fare well, frende, and have good daye, 
 
 It may noo better be — " 
 
 Teeres fell out of his eyen two. 
 
 He wolde haue gone his way — 
 "Farewell, frendes, and have good day ; 
 
 I no have more to say." 
 
 " Where be thy frendes ? " sayd Eobyn. 
 
 '' Syr, never one wyll me know ; 
 Whyle I was ryche inow at home, 
 
 Grete bost then wolde they blowe, 
 
 " And now they renne awaye fro me, 
 
 As bestes on a rawe ; 
 They take no more heed of me 
 
 Than they me never sawe." 
 
 For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan, 
 Scathelocke and Much in fere. 
 
 "Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Eobyn, 
 " For here is a symple chere. 
 
 " Hast thou ony frendes," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Thy borowes that wjdl be ? " 
 " [None other] but Our Dere Lady : 
 
 She [never hath] fay led nie." 
 
 " Now by my hand," sayd Eobyn, 
 " To serche all Englond thorovre, 
 
 Yet founde I never to my pay, 
 A moch better borowe. 
 
 " Come now forthe, Lj^tell Johan, 
 
 And goo to my tresoure, 
 And brynge me foure hondred ponnde. 
 
 And loke that it well tolde be." 
 
 Forthe then wente Lytell Johan, 
 • And Scathelocke went before. 
 He tolde out foure hondred pounde, 
 By two and twenty score. 
 
 " Is this well tolde ? " said lytell Much. 
 
 Johan sayd, " What greveth thee ? 
 It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght 
 
 That is fall in poverte." 
 
 " Mayster," than sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " His clothynge is full thynne ; 
 Ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray. 
 
 To lappe his body ther in. 
 
 " For ye have scarlet and gi-ene, mayster. 
 
 And many a ryche aray ; 
 There is no marchaunt in mery Englonde 
 
 So ryche, I dare well saye." 
 
 '• Take hym thre yerdes of every coloure. 
 And loke that M'ell mete it be." 
 
 Lytell Johan toke none other mesuro 
 But his bowe tre. 
 
 And of every handfull that he met 
 
 He lept over fotes thre. 
 " What devilkyns draper," sayd litell Much, 
 
 " Thynkyst thou to be ? " 
 
 Scathelocke stoode full stj'll and lough, 
 
 [And swore it was but right] ; 
 Johan may give hym the better mesure, 
 
 It costeth him but lyght. 
 
 " Maj'ster," saj'^d Lytell Johan, 
 
 All unto Eobyn Hode, 
 " Ye must gyve that knyght an hors, 
 
 To lede home al this good." 
 
 " Take hym a gray courser," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " And a sadell newe ; 
 He is our ladyes messengere, 
 
 [I hope] that he be true."- 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE KNIGHT EELEASES HIS LANDS, &c. [Third Pebiod.- 
 
 " And a good palfraye," sayd lyteU Moch, 
 " To mayntayne hym in his ryght." 
 
 "And a payre of botes," sayd Scatheloeke, 
 " For he is a gentyll knyght." 
 
 " What shalt thou gyve hym, Lytel Johan r " 
 sayd Robyn. 
 
 " Syr, a payre of gylte spurres clene, 
 To pray for all this company — 
 
 God brynge hym out of tene ! " 
 
 " Whan shall my daye be," sayd the knyght, 
 
 " Syr, and your wyll be ? " 
 " This daye twelve moneth," sayd EobjTi, 
 
 " Under this grene wode tre." 
 
 "It were grete shame," sayd Eobj^n, 
 
 " A knyght alone to ryde, 
 Without squyer, yeman, or page, 
 
 To walke by hys syde. 
 
 " I shall thee lene Lytell Johan my man, 
 
 For he shall be thy knave ; 
 In a yeman' s steed he may thee stonde, 
 
 Yf thou grete nede have." 
 
 Ananymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 522. — THE KNIGHT EELEASES HIS 
 LANDS, AND SUCCOUES A YEO- 
 
 MAN. 
 
 Nowe is the knyght went on his way : 
 This game he thought f uU good ; 
 
 Whan he loked on Barnysdale, 
 He blyssed Eobyn Hode ; 
 
 And whan he thought on Barnysdale, 
 On Scathelock, Much, and Johan, 
 
 He blyssed them for the best comijany 
 That ever he in come. 
 
 Then spake that gentyll knyght, 
 
 To Lytel Johan gan he saye, 
 " To morowe I must to Yorke tonne, 
 
 To Saynt Maiy abbay ; • 
 
 "And to the abbot of that place 
 Foure hondred pounde I must pay : 
 
 And but I be there upon this nyght 
 My londe is lost for ay." 
 
 The abbot sayd to his covent. 
 
 There he stode on grounde, 
 " This day twelfe moneth came there a 
 knyght 
 
 And borowed foure hondred pounde. 
 
 " [He borowed foure hondred pounde] 
 
 Upon all his londe fre. 
 But he come this ylke day 
 
 Disheryted shall he be." 
 
 " It is full erely," sayd the pryoure, 
 
 " The day is not yet ferre gone ; 
 I had lever to pay an hondred pounde, 
 
 And lay it downe a none. 
 
 " The knyght is ferre beyonde the see, 
 
 In Englonde is his ryght, 
 And suffreth honger and colde 
 
 And many a sory nyght : 
 
 " It were grete pyte," sayd the pryoure, 
 
 " So to have his londe ; 
 And ye be so lyght of your conseyence, 
 
 Ye do to him moch wronge." 
 
 "Thou arte ever in my berde," sayd the 
 abbot, 
 
 " By our saynt Eycharde." 
 With that cam in a fat-heded monke, 
 
 The high cellarer : 
 
 " He is dede or hanged," sayd the monke 
 
 " By him that bought me dere ; 
 And we shall have to spende in this place 
 
 Foure hondred pounde by yere." 
 
 The abbot and the high cellarer, 
 
 Sterte forthe full bolde ; 
 The High Justyce of Englonde 
 
 [With] the abbot there dyd holde. 
 1 
 The High Justj'-ce and many mo 
 
 Had take into their honde 
 Wholly all the knyghtes det. 
 
 To put that knyght to wronge. 
 
 They demed the knyght wonder sore, 
 
 The abbot and hys meyne : 
 " But he come this ylke day 
 
 Disheryted shall he be." 
 
 " He wyll not come yet," sayd the justyce, 
 
 " I dare well undertake." 
 But in sorry tyme for them all. 
 
 The knyght came to the gate. 
 
 Than bespake that gentyll knyght 
 
 Untyll his meyne, 
 " Now put on your simple wedes 
 
 That ye brought fro the see." 
 
 [They put on their simple wedes,] 
 
 And came to the gates anone. 
 The porter was redy hymselfe. 
 
 And welcomed them everychone. 
 
 " Welcome, syr knyght," sayd the porter, 
 
 " My lord to mete is he, 
 And so is many a gentyll man, 
 
 For the love of thee." 
 
 The porter swore a full grete othe, 
 
 [When he his horse did see] : 
 " Here be the best coresed horse 
 
 That ever yet sawe I me. 
 
 " Lede them into the stable," he sayd, 
 
 " That eased myght they be." 
 " They shall not come therin," sayd the 
 knyght 
 
 [" Thy stable liketh not me."] 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] THE KNIGHT EELEASES HIS LANDS, <^:c. [Anonymous. 
 
 Lordes were to mete isette 
 
 " In joustes and in tournement 
 
 Ih that abbotes hall, 
 
 FuU ferre than have I be. 
 
 The knyght went forth and kneled downe, 
 
 And put myselfe as ferre in prees 
 
 And salved them grete and small. 
 
 As ony that ever I se." 
 
 '• Do gladly, syr abbot," sayd the knyght, 
 
 " TNTiat wyll ye gyve more ? " said the justyce. 
 
 " I am come to holde my day." 
 
 " And the knyght shall make a reley^e ; 
 
 The fyrst word the abbot spake, 
 
 And elles dare I safely swere 
 
 " Hast thou brought my pay ? " 
 
 Ye holde never your londe in pees." 
 
 " Not one peny," sayd the knyght, 
 
 " An hondred pounde," sayd the abbot. 
 
 [" Alas ! it might not be."] 
 
 The justyce sayd, " Gyve him two." 
 
 "Thou art a shrewed dettour," sayd the 
 
 " Nay, be heaven," sayd the knyght, 
 
 abbot ; 
 
 " Yet gete ye it not soo : 
 
 " Syr justyce, drynke to me. 
 
 
 
 " Though ye wolde gyve a thousande more, 
 
 " What doost thou here," sayd the abbot, 
 
 Yet were ye never the nere ; 
 
 " But thou haddest brought thy pay ? " 
 
 Shall there never be myn eyre, 
 
 "Fore heaven," than sayd the knyght, 
 
 Abbot, justyse, ne frere." 
 
 " To pray of a lenger daye." 
 
 
 
 He sterte hym to a bordo anone, 
 
 "*rhy daye is broke," sayd the justyce. 
 
 Tyll a table roiinde. 
 
 " Londe getest thou none." 
 
 And there he shoke out of a bagge 
 
 " Now, good syr justyce, be my frende. 
 
 Even foure hondred pounde. 
 
 And fende me of my fone." 
 
 
 1 
 
 "Have here thy golde, syr abbot," sayd the 
 
 "I am holde with the abbot," saj^d the 
 
 Icnyght, 
 
 justyce, 
 
 " Wliich that thou lentest me ; 
 
 " Bothe with cloth and fee." 
 
 Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge, 
 
 " Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende ! " 
 
 Eewarde sholdest thou have be." 
 
 "Nay, fore heaven," sayd he. 
 
 
 
 The abbot sat styll, and ete no more. 
 
 " Now, good syr abbot, be my frende, 
 
 For all his ryall chore. 
 
 For thy curteyse, 
 
 He cast his hede on his sholder, 
 
 i And holde my londes in thy honde 
 
 And fast began to stare. 
 
 Tyll I have made thee gree ; 
 
 
 
 " [Bring] me my golde agayne," sayd the 
 
 " And I wyll be thy true servaunte, 
 
 abbot, 
 
 And trewely servo the. 
 
 " Syr justyce, that I toke thee." 
 
 Tyl ye have foure hondred pouiide 
 
 "Not a peny," sayd the justyce, ^ 
 [" Thou diddest but pay my fee."] 
 
 Of money good and free." 
 
 The abbot sware a full grete othe, 
 
 " Syr abbot, and ye men of lawe. 
 
 [A solemn othe sware he :] 
 
 Now have I holde my daye, 
 
 " Get the londe where thou may, 
 
 Now shall I have my londe agayne. 
 
 For thou getest none of me." 
 
 For aught that you can saye." 
 
 [" Now by our Lady,"] sayd the knyght, 
 
 The knyght stert out of the dore, 
 
 [" Whose aidance have I besought,] 
 
 Awaye was all his care. 
 
 But I have my londe agayne, 
 
 And on he put his good clothynge, 
 
 Full dere it shall be bought." 
 
 The other he lefte there. 
 
 The abbot lothely on hym gan loke, 
 
 He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, 
 
 And vylaynesly hym gan call : 
 
 As men have tolde in tale. 
 
 " Out," he sayd, " thou false knyght. 
 
 His lady met hym at the gate, 
 
 Spede thee out of my hall ! " 
 
 At home in " Wierysdale." 
 
 " Thou lyest," then sayd the gentj'll knyght, 
 
 " Welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady ; 
 
 " Abbot in thy hal ; 
 
 " Syr, lost is all your good 't " 
 
 False knyght was I never. 
 
 " Be mery, dame," sayd the knyght, 
 
 1 By him that made us all." 
 
 " And praye for Eobyn Hode, 
 
 Up then stode that gentyll knyght, 
 
 " That ever his soule be in blysse, 
 
 To the abbot sayd he. 
 
 He holpe me out of my tene ; 
 
 " To suffre a knyght to knele so longe, 
 
 Ne had not be his kyndenesse. 
 
 Thou canst no curteysye ; 
 
 Beggars had we bene. 
 
A.NONYMOUS.] LITTLE JOHN IN THE SERVICE OF, &c. [Third Period.— 
 
 " The abbot and I acordyd bone ; 
 
 Thus longe taryed this gentyll knyght, 
 
 Ho is served of his pay ; 
 
 Tj-U that playe was done, — 
 
 The good yeman lent it me, 
 
 So longe abode Eobyn fastynge, 
 
 As I came by the way." 
 
 Thre houres after the none. 
 
 This knyght than dwelled fayre at home, 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. * 
 
 The soth for to say, 
 Tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde. 
 
 
 
 All rody for to paye. 
 
 
 
 523.— LITTLE JOHN IN THE SEEVICE 
 
 He pirrveyed hym an hondred bowes, 
 
 OF THE SHEEIFF OF NOTTING- 
 
 The strenges [were] welle dyght, 
 
 HAM. 
 
 An hondred shefe of arowes good, 
 
 The hedes burnyshed full bryght. 
 
 Lyth and lysten, gentyll men, 
 
 And every arowe an elle longe, 
 
 All that now be here. 
 
 With pecocke well ydyght, 
 
 Of Lytell Johan, that was the knyghtes man. 
 
 Inocked all with whyte sylver, 
 
 Good myrthe shall ye here. 
 
 It was a semly syght. 
 
 It was upon a mery day, 
 
 He pxxrveyed hym an hondreth men, 
 
 That yonge men wolde go shete, 
 
 Well harneysed in that stede, 
 
 Lytell Johan fet his bowe anone, 
 
 And hymselfe in that same sete, 
 
 And sayd he wolde them mete. 
 
 And clothed in whyte and rede. 
 
 
 
 Thre tymes LyteU Johan shot aboixt. 
 
 He bare a launsgay in his honde, 
 
 And alway cleft the wando, 
 
 And a man leddo his male, 
 
 Tho proude sheryf of Notyngham 
 
 And reden with a lyght songe, 
 
 By the markes gan stando. 
 
 Unto Barnysdale. 
 
 
 
 The sheryf saw how Johan shot, 
 
 As he went at a brydge ther was a wrastelyng, 
 
 And a great oath sware he : 
 
 And there taryed was he, 
 
 " This man is the best archere 
 
 And there was all the best yemen 
 
 That yet sawe I me. 
 
 Of aH the west countreo. 
 
 
 
 " Say me now, wyght yonge man, 
 
 A full fayre game there was upset. 
 
 Thy name now tell to me, 
 
 A whyte bull up ii^j'ght ; 
 
 In what countre were thou born. 
 
 A grete courser with sadle and brydil, 
 
 And where may thy wonnynge be ? ** 
 
 With golde burneyshed full bryght ; 
 
 
 
 '■' In Holdernesse I was bore. 
 
 A pa3Tre of gloves, a rede golde rynge, 
 
 I wys, all of my dame ; 
 
 A pype of wyne, in good fay : 
 
 Men call me Eeynolde Grcnclofe, 
 
 ^ Wliat man bcreth him best, I wys, 
 
 Whan I am at hame." 
 
 The pryce shall bere away. 
 
 
 
 " Say me, Eeynaud Gronelefe, 
 
 There was a yeman in that place, 
 
 Wolte thou dwell witli mo ? 
 
 And best worthy was ho ; 
 
 And every yere I wyll the gyve 
 
 And for he was ferre, [without] frend bestad, 
 
 Twenty marke to thy fee." 
 
 Islayno he sholde have bo. 
 
 
 
 " I have a mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 The knyghb had ruth of this yeman. 
 
 " A curteys knyght is he ; 
 
 In place where that he stode. 
 
 May ye goto love of hym, 
 
 He said that yoman sholde have no harmo. 
 
 The better may it bee." 
 
 For love of Eobyn Hode. 
 
 
 
 The sherj'-fe gate Lytoll Johan 
 
 The knyght presed into the place. 
 
 Twelve monethes of the knyght, 
 
 An hondred folowed hym fro, 
 
 Therfore he gave him ryght anone 
 
 With bowes bent, and arowes sharpe, 
 
 A good hors and a wyght. 
 
 For to shende that companv. 
 
 
 " 
 
 Now is Lytell Johan tho sheryffos man. 
 
 They sholdred all, and made hym rome. 
 
 Heaven gyre us well to spede ; 
 
 To wete Avhat he wolde say, 
 
 But alway thought Lytell Johan 
 
 He toke the yeman by the honde, 
 
 To quyte hym well his mode. 
 
 And gave hym all tho playe ; 
 
 
 
 "Now so heaven me helpe," sayd Lytcl 
 
 Ho gave hym fyvc marke for his wync 
 
 Johan, 
 
 There it laye on the molde, 
 
 " And by mj' trewe lewtr% 
 
 And bad it sholde be sette a-broche, 
 
 I shall bo the worsto servatinte to hym 
 
 Drynko who so wolde. 
 
 That ever yet had he." 
 
From 1558 to IGiO.] LITTLE JOHN IN THE SERVICE OF, <tc. [Anonymous. 
 
 It befell upon a Avednesday, 
 
 The sheryfe on hontynge was gone, 
 And Lytel Johan lay in his bed, 
 
 And was foryete at home. 
 
 "Coowdest thou shote as well in a bowo, 
 To grene wood thou sholdest with mo, 
 
 And two tymes in the yere thy clothynge 
 Ichaunged sholde be ; 
 
 Therfore he was fastynge 
 
 Tyl it was past the none. 
 '• Good syr stuard, I pray thee, 
 
 Geve me to dyne," sayd Lytel Johan. 
 
 " And every yere of Eobyn Hodo 
 Twenty marke to thy fee." 
 
 " Put up thy swerde," sayd the coke, 
 " And felowes wyll we be." 
 
 " It is too long for Grenelefe, 
 Fastynge so long to be ; 
 
 Therfore I pray the, stuarde, 
 My dyner gyve thou me." 
 
 Then he fette to Lytell Johan 
 Tho numbles of a doe, 
 
 Good brede and full good wyne, 
 They ete and dranke thorto. 
 
 " Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," sayd the 
 stuarde, 
 
 " Tyll my lord be come to towne." 
 '• I make myn avowe," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 •' I had lever to cracke thy crovv'ne." 
 
 The butler was ful uncurteys, 
 
 There he stode on flore, 
 Ho sterte to the buttery. 
 
 And shet fast the dore. 
 
 Lytell John.n gave the buteler such a rap, 
 
 His backo yede nygh on tvro ; 
 Tho he lyved an hundreth wynter, 
 
 The wors he sholde go. 
 
 And whan they had dronken well, 
 Ther trouthes togyder they plyght. 
 
 That they wolde be with Eobyn 
 That ylke same day at nyght. 
 
 The dyde them to the tresure-hous. 
 As fast as they myght gone. 
 
 The lockes that were of good stele 
 They brake them everychone ; 
 
 They toke away the sylvor vessell, 
 And all that they myght got, 
 
 Feces, masars, and spones, 
 Wolde they non forgete ; 
 
 Ho spomed the dore with his fote, 
 It went up wel and fyne, 
 
 And there he made a large lyvcray 
 Both of ale and wyno. 
 
 Also they toke the good pence, 
 Thre hondred pounde and three ; 
 
 And dyd them strayt to Eobyn Hode, 
 Under the grene wode tre. 
 
 " Syth ye wyl not dyne," sayd Lytel Johan, 
 
 " I shall gyve you to drynke. 
 And though ye lyve an hondred wynter. 
 
 On LytoU Johan ye shall thynk," 
 
 " God the save, my dere mayster," 
 
 [Little Johan said he,] 
 And than sayd Eobyn to Lytell Johan, 
 
 " Welcome myght thou be ; 
 
 Lytell Johan ete, and Lytell [Johan] dronke, 
 
 The whyle that he wolde. 
 The sheryfe had in his kechyn a coke, 
 
 A stoute man and a bolde. 
 
 " And also be that fayre yeman 
 Thou bryngest there with thee. 
 
 What tydynges fro Notyngham ? 
 Lytell Johan, tell thou me." 
 
 " I make myn avowe," sayd the coke, 
 " Thou arte a shrewde hynde. 
 
 In an housholde to dwel. 
 For to ask thus to dyne." 
 
 " Well thee greteth tho proude sheryfe. 
 And sonde thee here by me 
 
 His coke and his sylvcr vessell, 
 
 And thre hondred poxmde and thre." 
 
 And there he lent Lytel Johan, 
 
 Good strokes thre. 
 " I make myn avowe," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " These strokes lyketh well me. 
 
 " I make myn avow," sayd EobjTi, 
 " However the thing may be. 
 
 It was never by his good wyll, 
 This good is come to me ! " 
 
 '= Thou arte a bolde man and an hardy, 
 
 And so thynketh me ; 
 And or I passe fro this place, 
 
 Asayed better shalt thou be." 
 
 Lytell Johan hym there bethought 
 
 On a shrewed wyle. 
 Fyve myle in tho forest he ran, 
 
 Hym happed at his wyll ; 
 
 Lytell Johan drewe a good swerde, 
 The coke toke another in honde ; 
 
 They thought nothynge for to fie, 
 But styfly for to stonde. 
 
 Than he met the proud sheryf , 
 Huntyngo with hounde and home, 
 
 Lytell Johan coud his curteysye, 
 And kneled hym befomo : 
 
 " I make myn avowe," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 "' And be my trcwo lewte. 
 Thou art one of the best swerdemen 
 
 That ever yet sawe I me. 
 
 " God thee save, my dere mayster. 
 
 Keep thee well," sayd ho. 
 '' Eaynolde Grenelefe," sayd the sheryfe, 
 
 " Where hast thou no wo be ? " 
 
Anonymous.] EOBIN HOOD REIMBURSES HIMSELF, &c. [Third Period.— 
 
 " I hare be in this forest, 
 
 " This is harder order," sayd the sheryf e, 
 
 A fayre syght can I se, 
 
 " Than ony anker or frere ; 
 
 It was one of the fayrest s^-ghtcs 
 
 For al the golde in mery Englondo 
 
 That ever yet sawe I me ; 
 
 I wolde not longe dwell here." 
 
 " Yonder I se a ryght faj-re liart, 
 
 "AU these twelve monethes," sayd Robyn, 
 
 His colonre is [full shene], 
 
 " Thou shalte dwell with me ; 
 
 Seven score of dere upon an herde 
 
 I shall thee teche, proud sherj^fe. 
 
 Be all with hj-m bedene ; 
 
 An outiaAve for to be." 
 
 " His tynde are so sharp, niayst«:r, 
 
 "Or I here another nyglit l.yo," sayd the 
 
 Of sexty and well nio, 
 
 sheryfe, 
 
 Til at I durst not shote for dredo 
 
 " Robj^n, no we I praye thee, 
 
 Lest they wolde me sloo." 
 
 Smj'te of my hede rather to-morne, 
 
 
 And I forgyve it thee. 
 
 " I make myn avowe ! " sayd the shcryf. 
 
 
 " That syg-ht wolde I fayn se." 
 
 " Lcte me go," then sayd the sheryf, 
 
 " Buske you thyderwarde, my dcre mayster, 
 
 " For sajTit Charyte, 
 
 Anone, and v/ende with me." 
 
 And I wyll be thy best frende 
 
 
 That ever yet had thee." 
 
 The sherj-fe rode, and Lytell Johan 
 
 
 Of fote he was full smarte, 
 
 " Thou shalt swere me an othe," sayd Robyn, 
 
 And whan they came afore Robyn : 
 
 " On my bryght bronde, 
 
 " Lo, here is the mayster harte ! " 
 
 Thou shalt never awayte me scathe, 
 
 
 By water ne by londe ; 
 
 Styll stode the proude sheryf , 
 
 
 A sory man was he : 
 
 " And if thou fynde ony of my men, 
 
 " Wo worth the, Raynolde Grenelefe I 
 
 By nyght or by day, 
 
 Thou hast now betrayed me ! " 
 
 Upon thyno othe thou shalt swere, 
 
 
 To helpe them that thou may." 
 
 " I make m3'n avowe," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 
 " Mayster, ye be to blame ; 
 
 Now have the sheryf iswore his othej 
 
 I was mysserved of my dj-nere, 
 
 And home he began to gone. 
 
 ^Vhen I Avas with you at hame." 
 
 He was as full of grene wode 
 
 
 As ever Avas [haw] of stone. 
 
 Soone he was to supper sette. 
 
 
 And served with sylver Avhyte ; 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 And whan the sher^rf se his vessel!, 
 
 
 For sorowe he myght not ete. 
 
 
 
 " Make good chere," sayd Eobyn Hode, 
 " Sheryf e, for charyte, 
 
 524.--ROBIN HOOD REIMBURSES HIM- 
 
 And for the love of Lytell Johan, 
 
 SELF OF HIS LOAN. 
 
 Thy lyfe is graunted to the." 
 
 
 , 
 
 The sheryf dwelled in Notynghame, 
 
 When they had supped well, 
 
 He was fajoie that he was gone, 
 
 The day was all agone, 
 
 And Robyn and his mery men 
 
 Robyn commaunded Lytell Johan 
 
 Went to wode anone. 
 
 To drawe off his hosen and his shone, 
 
 
 
 " Go we to dyner ? " sayd Lytell Johan. 
 
 His kyrtell and his cote a pye. 
 
 Robyn Hode sayd, " Nay ; 
 
 That was furred well fyne. 
 
 For I drede our lady be wroth with me, 
 
 And take him a grcne mantell, 
 
 For she sent me not my pay." 
 
 To lappe his body therin. 
 
 
 Robyn commaunded his wyght yoiig men. 
 
 "Have no dout, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 " Yet is not the sonne at rest ; 
 
 Under the gi'ene wood tre, 
 
 For I dare saye, and saufly swere, 
 
 They shall lay in that same sorte 
 That the sherj'f myght them se. 
 
 The knyght is trewe and trust." 
 
 All nyght laye that proud sheryf, 
 In his breche and in his sherte, 
 
 " Take thy bowe in thy hande," sayd Robyn, 
 " Let Moch wende AA-ith thee. 
 
 No wonder it was, in gi-ene wode, 
 
 And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock, 
 
 Tho his sydes do smerte. 
 
 And no man abyde Avith me. 
 
 "Make glad chere," sayd Robjai Hode, 
 
 " And walke up into the Sayles, 
 
 " Sheryf e, for charyte, 
 
 And to Watlynge-strete, 
 
 For this is our order I wys, 
 
 And wayte after some unketh gest, 
 
 Under the grene wood tre." 
 
 Up-chaunce ye may them mete. 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] EOEIN HOOD EEIMBUESES HIMSELF, 6:e. 
 
 [Anonymous 
 
 " Whether he be messeiigere, 
 
 Or a man that myrthes can, 
 Or yf he be a pore man, 
 
 Of my good he shall have some." 
 
 Forth then stert Lj'tel Johan, 
 
 Half in tray and tene, 
 And gyrde hym with a full good swcrde, 
 
 Under a mantel of grene. 
 
 They went up to the Sayles, 
 
 These yemen all thre ; 
 They loked est, they lols:ed west, 
 
 They mj'ght no man se. 
 
 But as they loked in Barnysdalo, 
 
 By the hye wave, 
 Than were they ware of two blacke monkes, 
 
 Echo on a good palferay. 
 
 Then bespake Lj-tell Johan, 
 
 To Much he gan say, 
 " I dare lay my lyfe to wedde, 
 
 That these monkes have brought our pay. 
 
 '• Make glad chere," saj'd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " An^ freso our bowes of ewe, 
 And loke your hertes be seker and sad, 
 
 Yoiir strynges trusty and ti-ewe. 
 
 " The monke hath fiftj' two men, 
 
 And seven somers full stronge ; 
 There rydeth no bysshop in this londe 
 
 So ryally, I understond. 
 
 "Brethern," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 " Here are no more but wo thre ; 
 
 But we bryngo them to dyner. 
 Our mayster dare we not so. 
 
 " Bende your bowes," sa3^d Lytell Johan, 
 " Make all 3* on prese to stonde ; 
 
 The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth 
 Is closed in my honde. 
 
 " Abyde, chorle monke," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " No ferther that thou gone ; 
 "Yf thou doost, by dero worthy god. 
 
 Thy deth is in my honde. 
 
 "And ovj'U thryfte on thj' hcde," saj'd Lj'tell 
 Johan, 
 
 " Rj'-ght under thy hattes bonde, 
 For thou hast made our mayster wroth, 
 
 He is fastynge so longe." 
 
 " VTho is your mayster ? " sayd the monke. 
 
 Lytell Johan sayd, " Robyn Hode." 
 " He is a stronge thefe," sayd the monke, 
 
 " Of hym herd I never good." 
 
 " Thou lyest," than sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " And that shall rewe thee ; 
 He is a yeman of the forest, 
 
 To dyne he hath bode thee." 
 
 Much was redy with a bolte, 
 
 Eeddily and a-none, 
 He set the monke to fore the brest, 
 
 To the grounde that he can gone. 
 
 Of fyfty two wyght yonge men, 
 
 There abode not one, 
 Saf a lytell page, and a grome 
 
 To lede the somers with Johan. 
 
 They brought the monke to the lodge dore, 
 Whether he were loth or lefe, 
 
 For to speke with Eobyn Hode, 
 Maugre in theyr tethe. 
 
 Robyn dyd adowne his hode, 
 
 The monke whan that he see ; 
 The monke was not so curteyse, 
 
 His hode then let he be. 
 
 " He is a chorle, mayster, I swere," 
 
 Than sayd Lj'tell Johan. 
 "Thereof no force," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " For curteysy can he none. 
 
 " How many men," sayd Rob^Ti, 
 
 " Had this monke, Johan ? " 
 " Fyfty and two whan that we met. 
 
 But many of them be gone." 
 
 " Let blowe a home," saj'd E,ob\'n, 
 " That felaushyp may us knowe." 
 
 Seven score of wyght yemen 
 Came pryckj-nge on a ro\ve, 
 
 And everych of them a good mantoU, 
 
 Of scarlet and of raye. 
 All thej^ came to good Eobyu, 
 
 To wyte what he wolde say. 
 
 They made the monke to wasshe and wype. 
 
 And syt at his denere. 
 Eobyn Hode and Lytel Johan 
 
 They served liJm bothe in fcrc. 
 
 " Do gladly, monke," sayd Eobyn. 
 
 " Gramercy, syr," sayd he. 
 " Where is your abbay, whan ye arc at home, 
 
 And who is your avovre ? " 
 
 " Saynt Mary abbay," sayd the monke, 
 
 " Though I be symple here." 
 " In what offyoe ? " sayd Eobyn. 
 
 " Syr, the hye selerer." 
 
 " Ye be the more welcome," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " So ever mote I the. 
 Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " This monke shall drynke to me. 
 
 "But I have gretc mervayle," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Of all this longe day, 
 I drede our lady be wroth with me, 
 
 She sent me not my pay." 
 
 " Have no doute, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, 
 
 " Ye have no nede I saye. 
 This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, 
 
 For he is of her abbay." 
 
 " She Avas a borowe," sayd Robyn, 
 
 " Betwene a knyght and me, 
 Of a Ij'tell money that I hym lent. 
 
 Under the grene wode tree ; 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 KOBIN HOOD KEIMBUESES HIMSELF, i^o. [Third Pekiod.— 
 
 " And yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, 
 
 I praye the let me se, 
 And I shall helpe thee eftsones, 
 
 Yf thou have nede of me." 
 
 The monke swore a full grete othe, 
 
 With a sory chere : 
 " Of the borowehode thou spekest to me, 
 
 Herde I never ere." 
 
 " I make myn avowe," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Monke, thou arte to blame, 
 For g-od is holde a ryghtwys man, 
 
 And so is his dame, 
 
 " Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge, 
 
 Thou may not say nay, 
 How thou arte her servaunt. 
 
 And servest her every day : 
 
 * ' And thou art made her messengerc. 
 
 My money for to pay, 
 Therfore I con thee more thanko, 
 
 Thou art come at thy day. 
 
 " What is in your cofers ? " sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Trewe then tell thou me." 
 *' Syr," he sayd, " twenty marko, 
 
 Al so mote I the." 
 
 " Yf there be no more," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " I wyll not one peny ; 
 Yf thou hast myster of ony more, 
 
 Syr, more I shall lende to the ; 
 
 " And yf I fynde more," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " I wys thou shalto it forgone ; 
 For of thy spendynge sylver, monk, 
 
 Thereof wyll I ryght none. 
 
 " Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan, 
 
 And the trouth tell thou me ; 
 If there be no more but twenty marke. 
 
 No peny that I se." 
 
 Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe. 
 
 As he had done before, 
 And he tolde out of the monkes male, 
 
 Eyght hundreth pounde and more. 
 
 Lytell Johan let it lye full styll. 
 And went to his mayster in hast : 
 
 "Syr," he sayd, "the monke is trewe ynowe, 
 Our lady hath doubled your cost." 
 
 " I make myn avowe," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " (Monke, what tolde I 'thee ?) 
 Our lady is the trewest woman 
 
 That ever yet founde I mo. 
 
 "By all that's good," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " To seche all Englond thorowe, 
 Yet founde I never to ray pay 
 
 A mocho better borowe. 
 
 " Fyll of the best wyne, do hym drynke," sayd 
 Eobyn ; 
 
 "And grete well thy lady hende, 
 And yf she have node of Eobyn Hode, 
 
 She .shall hym fynde a frende ; 
 
 " And yf she nedeth ony more sylver, 
 
 Come thou agayne to me. 
 And, by this token she hath me sent. 
 
 She shall have such thre." 
 
 The monke was going to London ward. 
 
 There to holde grete mote, 
 The knyght that rode so hye on hors. 
 
 To brynge hym under fote. 
 
 " Whither be ye away ? " sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Syr, to manors in this londe. 
 To reken with our reves. 
 
 That have done moch wronge." 
 
 The monke toke the hors with spurre, 
 
 No longer wolde he abyde. 
 " Aske to drynke," than sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Or that ye forther ryde." 
 
 " Nay, fore heaven," than sayd the monko, 
 
 " Mo rewoth I cam so nere ; 
 For better chepe I myght have dyned 
 
 In Blythe or in Dankestere." 
 
 " Grete well your abbot," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 "And your pry our, I you pray, 
 And byd hym sendo me such a monke 
 
 To dyner every day." 
 
 Now lete we that monke be sijll. 
 
 And speke we of that knyght. 
 Yet ho came to holde his day 
 
 Whyle that it was lyght. 
 
 He dyde him streyt to Barnysdale, 
 
 Under the grene wode tre, 
 And he founde there Eobyn Hode, 
 
 And all his mory meyne. 
 
 The knyght lyght downe of his good palfray, 
 
 Eobyn whan he gan see. 
 So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode, 
 
 And set hym on his knee. 
 
 " God the save, good Eobyn Hode, 
 
 And al this company." 
 " Welcome bo thou, gentyll knyght. 
 
 And ryght welcome to me." 
 
 Than bespake hym Eobjni Hode 
 
 To that knyght so fre : 
 " What nede dryvoth the to grono wodo ? 
 
 I pray the, syr knyght, toll mo. 
 
 " And welcome be thou, gentyl knyght, 
 
 W^hy hast thou bo so longe ? " 
 " For the abbot and the hye .iustyco 
 
 Vrolde have had my londe." 
 
 " Hast thou thy londe agayno ? " sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Treuth than tell thou mo." 
 " Yo, truly," sard the knyght, 
 
 " And that thanko 1 god and the. 
 
 " But take not a grcfe, I havo bo so longe ; 
 
 I came by a wrastelynge, 
 And there I dyd holpo a pore yomnn. 
 
 With wronge was piit behyndc' ' 
 
From- 1558 to 1640. 
 
 EOBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " Nay, that is well,' sayd Eobyn, 
 " Syr knyght, that thanke I the ; 
 
 Vrhat man that helpeth a good yeman, 
 His frende than wyll I be." 
 
 " Have hei'e foure hondred pounde," sajnl the 
 knyght, 
 
 " The whiche ye lent to me ; 
 And here is also an hondred more 
 
 For 3'our curtcysy." 
 
 " Nay, syr knyght," then sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Thou broke it well for ay ; 
 For our lady, by her selerer, 
 
 Hath sent to me my pay ; 
 
 •'And yf I toke it twyse, 
 
 A shame it were to me • 
 But trewely, gentyll knyght, 
 
 Welcom arte thou to me." 
 
 "Whan Eobyn had tolde his tale, 
 
 He leugh and had good chere. 
 " By my trouthe," then sayd the knyght, 
 
 " Your monej' is redy here." 
 
 "Broke it well," sayd Eobyn, 
 
 " Thou gentyll knyght so fre ; 
 And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght, 
 
 Under my try.stcll tree. 
 
 " But what shall these bowes do P " sayd 
 Eobyn, 
 
 " And these aro^ves ifedered fre r " 
 "By my troth," than sayd the knyght, 
 
 " A pore present to thee." 
 
 " Come now forth, Lytell Johan, 
 
 And go to my treasure. 
 And brj^nge me there foure hondred pounde, 
 
 The monke over-tolde it to me. 
 
 " Have here foure hondred pounde, 
 
 Thou gentyll knyght and trewe, 
 And bye hors and harnes good, 
 
 And gylte thy spurres all newe : 
 
 " And yf thou fayle ony spendynge, 
 
 Come to Eobyn Hode, 
 And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle 
 
 The whyles I have any good. 
 
 " And broke well thy four hondred pounde 
 
 Whiche I lent to the. 
 And make thy selfe no more so bare. 
 
 By the counsell of me." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 525- 
 
 -EOBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND 
 BUEIAL. 
 
 When Eobin Hood and Little John 
 
 Down a down, a down, a down, 
 Went o'er yon bank of broom, 
 Said Eobin Hood to Little John, 
 " We have shot for many a pound : 
 Hey down, a down, a down. 
 
 " But I am not able to shoot one shot more, 
 
 My arrows will not flee ; 
 But I have a cousin lives down below. 
 
 Please God, she will bleed me." 
 
 Now Eobin is to fair Kirkley gone. 
 As fast as he can wen ; - - 
 
 But before he came there, as we do hear, 
 He was taken very ill. 
 
 And when that he came to fair Kirkley Hall, 
 
 He knocked all at the ring. 
 But none was so ready as his cousin herself 
 
 For to let bold Eobin in. 
 
 "Will you please to sit down, cousin Eobin," 
 she said, 
 
 " And drink some beer with me ? " 
 " No, I will neither eat nor drink, 
 
 Till I am blooded by thee." 
 
 "Well, I have a room, cousin Eobin," she 
 said, 
 
 " Which you did never see ; 
 And if you please to walk therein. 
 
 You blooded by me shall be." 
 
 She took him by the lily-white hand, 
 
 And led him to a private room ; 
 And there she blooded bold Eobin Hood, 
 
 Whilst one drop of blood would run. 
 
 She blooded him in the vein of the arm, 
 And locked him up in the room : 
 
 There did he bleed all the live-long day. 
 Until the next day at noon. 
 
 I He then bethought him of a casement door, 
 Thinking for to begone ; 
 He was so weak he could not leap. 
 Nor he could not get down. 
 
 He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, 
 Which hung low down to his knee. 
 
 He set his horn unto his mouth, 
 And blew out weak blasts three. 
 
 Then Little John, when hearing him, 
 
 As he sat under the tree, 
 " I fear my master is near dead. 
 
 He blows so wearily." 
 
 Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, 
 
 As fast as he can dree : 
 And when he came to Kirkley Hall, 
 
 He broke locks two or three ; 
 
 Until he came bold Eobin to, 
 
 Then he fell on his knee ; 
 " A boon, a boon," cries Little John, 
 
 " Master, I beg of thee." 
 
 " What is that boon," quoth Eobin Hood, 
 " Little John, thou begst of me ? " 
 
 " It is to burn fair Kirldej' Hall, 
 And all their nunnery." 
 
Anontmous.I 
 
 PATIENT GEISSELL. 
 
 THIRD PeKIOD. 
 
 " Now nay, now nay," quoth Eobin Hood, 
 " That boon I'll not grant thee ; 
 
 I never hurt woman in all my life. 
 Nor man in woman's company. 
 
 " I never hurt fair maid in all my time, 
 
 Nor at my end shall it be ; 
 But give me my bent bow in my hand. 
 
 And a broad arrow I'll let flee ; 
 And where this arrow is taken up, 
 
 There shall my grave digged be. 
 
 " Lay me a green sod under my head. 
 
 And another under my feet ; 
 And lay my bent bow by my side, 
 
 "Which was my music sweet ; 
 And make my grave of gravel and green, 
 
 Which is most right and meet. 
 
 " Let me have length and breadth enoug-h, 
 With a green sod under my head; 
 
 That they may say when I am dead, 
 Here lies bold Eobin Hood." 
 
 These words they readily promised him, 
 
 Which did bold Eobin please ; 
 And there they buried bold Eobin Hood, 
 
 Neax to the fair Kirkleys. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 526.— PATIENT GEISSELL. 
 
 A noble marquess. 
 
 As he did ride a hunting, 
 
 Hard by a forest side, 
 A fair and comely maiden. 
 As she did sit a spinning. 
 
 His gentle eye espied. 
 
 Most fair and lovely, 
 
 And of comely grace was she, 
 
 Although in simple attire : 
 She sung full sweetly. 
 With pleasant voice melodiously, 
 
 Which set the lord's heart on fire. 
 The more he looked, the more he might ; 
 Beauty bred his heart's deKght, 
 And to 'this comely damsel 
 
 Then he went : — 
 " God speed," quoth he, "thou famous flower, 
 Fair mistress of this homely bower, 
 Where love and virtue 
 
 Dwell with sweet coiitent." 
 
 With comely gesture, 
 
 And modest mild behaviour, 
 
 She bid him welcome then ; 
 She entertained him 
 In faithful friendly manner, 
 
 And all his gentlemen. 
 
 The noble marquess 
 
 In 's heart felt svich a flame. 
 
 Which set his senses all at strife : 
 Quoth he, " Fair maiden, 
 Show me soon what is thy name : 
 
 I mean to make thee my wife." 
 " Grissell is mj^ name," quoth she, 
 " Far unfit for your degree, 
 A sDly maiden, 
 
 And of parents poor." 
 "Nay, Grissell, thou art rich," he said, 
 " A virtuous, fair, and comely maid j 
 Grant me thy love, 
 
 And I will ask no more." 
 
 At length she consented, 
 And being both contented. 
 
 They married were with speed ; 
 Her country russet 
 Was changed to silk and velvet. 
 
 As to her state agreed ; 
 And v^^hen that she 
 Was trimly tired in the same. 
 
 Her beauty shone most bright. 
 Far staining every 
 Other fair and princely dame. 
 
 That did appear in sight. 
 Many en-\ded her therefore. 
 Because she was of parents poor. 
 And 'twixt her lord and she. 
 
 Great strife did raise. 
 Some said this, and some said that. 
 And some did call her beggar's brat. 
 And to her lord 
 
 They would her oft dispraise. 
 
 " O ! noble marquess," 
 
 Quoth they, " why dost thou wrong us, 
 
 Thus basely for to wed, 
 That might have gotten 
 An honourable lady 
 
 Into your princely bed ? 
 Who will not now 
 Your noble issue still deride, 
 
 Which shall hereafter be born, ' 
 That are of blood so base. 
 Bom by the mother's side. 
 
 The which will bring them in scorn, 
 Put her, therefore, quite away. 
 And take to you a lady gay. 
 Whereby your lineage 
 
 May reno-^vned be." 
 Thus every day they seemed to prate 
 That maliced Grissell' s good estate; 
 Wlio all this while 
 
 Took it most patiently. 
 
 When that the marquess 
 
 Did see that they were bent thus 
 
 Against his faithful wife, 
 Wliom he most dearly, 
 Tenderly, and entirely, 
 
 Beloved as his life ; 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] PATIENT GRISSELL. ^Anonymous 
 
 Minding in secret 
 
 Then to fair Grissell, 
 
 For to prove lier patient heart, 
 
 With a heavy heart he goes, 
 
 Thereby her foes to disgrace ; 
 
 Where she sat mildly all alone : 
 
 Thinking to show her 
 
 A pleasant gesture, 
 
 A hard discourteous part, 
 
 And a lovely look she shows. 
 
 That men might pity her case. 
 
 As if no grief she had known. 
 
 Great with chihi this lady was, 
 
 Quoth he, " My children now arc^lain ; 
 
 And at last it came to pass, 
 
 What thinks fair Grissell of the same ? 
 
 Two goodly children 
 
 Sweet Grissell, now 
 
 At one birth she had : 
 
 Declare thy mind to me." 
 
 A son and daughter God had sent, 
 
 " Sith you, my lord, are pleased with it. 
 
 Which did their father well content. 
 
 Poor Grissell thinks the action fit : 
 
 And which did make 
 
 Both I and mine 
 
 Their mother's heart fidl glad. 
 
 At your command will be." 
 
 • Great royal feasting, 
 
 V. 
 
 Was at these children's christening, 
 
 " My nobles murmur. 
 
 And princely triumph made ; 
 
 Faii*Grissell, at thy honour, 
 
 Six weeks together, 
 
 And I no joy can have. 
 
 All nobles that came thither, 
 
 Till thou be banished, 
 
 Were entertained and stayed ; 
 
 Both from the court and presence 
 
 And when all these pleasant 
 
 As they unjustly crave. 
 
 Sportings were quite done, 
 
 Thou must be stripped 
 
 The marquess a messenger sent 
 
 Out of thy stately garments all ; 
 
 For his young daughter, 
 
 And as thou cam'st to me, 
 
 And his pretty smiling son ; 
 
 In homely gray. 
 
 Declaring his full intent. 
 
 Instead of bisse and purest pall, 
 
 How that the babes must murdered be ; 
 
 Now all thy clothing must be : 
 
 For so the marquess did decree. 
 
 My lady thou must be no more, 
 
 " Come, let me have 
 
 Nor I thy lord, which grieves me sore. 
 
 The children," then he said. 
 
 The poorest life 
 
 With that fair Grissell wept full sore, 
 
 Must now content thy mind. 
 
 She wnuig her hands, and said no more, 
 
 A gToat to thee I must not give 
 
 " My gracious lord 
 
 Thee to maintain while I do live ; 
 
 Must ha,ve his will obeyed." 
 
 Against my Grissell 
 
 
 Such great foes I find." 
 
 rv. 
 
 When gentle Grissell 
 
 She took the babies, 
 
 Did hear these woeful tidings. 
 
 Even from the nursing ladies, 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 Between her tender arms ; 
 
 Nothing she answered, 
 
 She often wishes 
 
 No words of discontentment 
 
 With many sorrowful kisses, 
 
 Did from her lips arise. 
 
 That she might ease their harms. 
 
 Her velvet gown 
 
 " Farewell, farewell. 
 
 Most patiently she stripped off, 
 
 A thousand times, my children dear. 
 
 Her kirtle of silk with the same : 
 
 N^ever shall I see you again ; 
 
 Her russet gown 
 
 'Ti.s long of me, 
 
 Your sad and woeful mother here. 
 
 Was brought again with many a scoff, 
 
 To bear them herself she did frame. 
 
 For whose sake both must be slain. 
 
 When she was dressed in this array. 
 
 Had I been born of royal race, 
 
 And was ready to part away. 
 
 You might have lived in happy ca^c ; 
 But you must die 
 
 For my unworthiness. 
 
 " God send long life 
 
 Unto my lord," quoth she ; 
 
 " Let no offence be found in this. 
 
 Come, messenger of death," quoth she, 
 
 To give my love a parting kiss." 
 
 '• Take my dearest babea to thee, 
 
 With watery eyes. 
 
 And to their father 
 
 " Farewell, my dear," said he. 
 
 My complaints express." 
 
 VI. 
 
 He took the children, 
 
 From princely palace *• 
 
 And to his noble master. 
 
 Unto her father's cottage 
 
 He bore them thence with si^eed ; 
 
 Poor Grissell tiow is gone. 
 
 Who in secret sent them 
 
 Full sixteen mnters 
 
 Unto a noble lady. 
 
 She lived there contented : 
 
 To be brought up in deed. 
 
 No wrong she thought upon. 
 
Anonymous."] 
 
 THE TWA SISTEES O' BINNORIE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 And at that time through 
 
 All the land the speeches went, 
 
 The marquess should married be 
 Unto a noble lady great, 
 Of high descent ; 
 
 And to the same all parties did agree. 
 The marquess sent for Grissell fair, 
 The bride's bed-chamber to prepare 
 That nothing therein 
 
 Might be found awry. 
 The bride was with her brother come, 
 Which was great joy to all and some ; 
 But Grissell took 
 
 All this most patiently. 
 
 And in the morning, 
 
 When as they should be wedded, 
 
 Her patience there was tried : 
 Grissell was charged * 
 
 Herself in friendly manner 
 
 For to attire the bride. 
 Most willingly 
 She gave consent to do the same ; 
 
 The bride in bravery was dressed, 
 And presently 
 The noble marquess thither came 
 
 With all his lords at his request. 
 " O ! Grissell, I would ask of thee, 
 If to this match thou wilt agree ? 
 Methinks thy looks 
 
 Are waxed wondrous coy." 
 With that they all began to smile, 
 And Grissell she replied the while, 
 " God send lord marquess 
 
 Many years of joy." 
 
 VII. 
 
 The marquess was moved 
 To see his best beloved 
 
 Thus patient in distress ; 
 He stept unto her, 
 And by the hand he took her. 
 
 These words he did express : — 
 " Thou art my bride. 
 And all the bride I mean to have : 
 
 These two thy own children be." 
 The youthful lady 
 On her knees did blessing crave, 
 
 Her brother as well as she. 
 " And you that envied her estate, 
 ^Vliom I have made my loving mate, 
 Now blush for shame. 
 
 And honour virtuous life. 
 The chronicles of lasting fame 
 Shall evermore extol the name 
 Of patient Grissell, 
 
 My most constant wife." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 527.— ♦the TWA SISTERS 0' BINNOEIE. 
 
 There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r ; 
 
 (Binnorie, Binnorie .') 
 A knight cam' there, a noble wooer, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing, 
 
 By the bonny miU-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 The eldest she was vexed sair, 
 
 (Binnorie, Binnorie !) 
 And sair envied her sister fair, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Upon a morning fair and clear, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 She cried upon her sister dear, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 " sister, sister, tak' my hand," 
 
 (Binnorie, Binnorie!) 
 " And let's go down to the river-strand, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie." 
 
 She's ta'en her by the lily hand, 
 
 (Binnorie, Binnorie !) 
 And down they went to the river-strand, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 The youngest stood upon a stane, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 The eldest cam' and pushed her in. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 " O sister, sister, reach your hand I 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 " And ye sail be heir o' half my land " — 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 " O sister, reach me but your glove ! " 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 " And sweet William sail be your love " — 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 Till she cam' to the mouth o' yon mill-dam. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Out then cam' the miller's son 
 
 (Binnorie, Binnorie !) 
 And saw the fair maid soummin' in. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 " father, father, draw your dam ! " 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 " There's either a mermaid or a swan," 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 The miller quickly drew the dam, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 And there he found a drown'd woman. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Round about her middle sma' 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 There went a gouden girdle bra'. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 All amang her yellow hair 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 A string o' pearls was twisted rare, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
From 1558 to 1G49. 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 On her fingers lily-white, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 The jewel-rings were shining bright, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And by there cam' a harper fine, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie I) 
 Harped to nobles when they dine. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And when he looked that lady on, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 He sigh'd and made a heavy moan. 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 And wi' them strung his harp sae rare, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 He went into her father's hall, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 And played his harp before them all, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And sune the harp sang loud and clear 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 " Fareweel, my father and mither dear I " 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And neist when the harp began to sing, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 'Twas " Fareweel, sweetheart ! " said the 
 string, 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 And then as plain as plain could be, 
 
 (Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
 " There sits my sister wha drowned me ! " 
 
 By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 528. — THE HUNTING OF THE 
 CHEVIOT. 
 
 The Percy out of Northumberland, 
 
 And a vow to God made he, 
 That ho would hunt in the mountains 
 
 Of Cheviot within days three, 
 In the maugre of doughty Douglas, 
 
 And all that with him be. « 
 
 The fattest harts in all Cheviot 
 
 He said he would kill and carry away ; 
 
 "By my faith," said the doughty Douglas 
 again, 
 " I will let that hunting if I may." 
 
 Then the Percy out of Bamborough came. 
 And with him a mighty meyne. 
 
 Fifteen hundred archers, of blood and bone, 
 They were chosen out of shires three. 
 
 This began on a Monday at mom. 
 
 In Cheviot the hUls so hie ; 
 The child may rue it that is unborn ; 
 
 It was the more pitie. 
 
 The drivers thorough the woodes went. 
 For to raise the deer ; _ 
 
 Bowmen bicker'd upon the bent ~ 
 
 With their broad arrows clear. 
 
 Then the wild thorough the woodes went, 
 
 On every side shear ; 
 Greyhounds thorough the greves glent 
 
 For to kill their deer. 
 
 They began in Cheviot, the hills above. 
 
 Early on Monanday ; 
 By that it drew to the hour of noon, 
 
 A hundred fat hartes dead there lay. 
 
 They blew a mort upon the bent. 
 They assembled on sides shear ; 
 
 To the quarry then the Percy went. 
 To the brittling of the deer. 
 
 He said, " It was the Douglas's promise 
 
 This day to meet me hero : 
 But I wist he would fail, verament," — 
 
 A great oath the Percy sware. 
 
 At last a squire of Northumberland 
 
 Looked at his hand full nigh ; 
 He was ware of the doughty Douglas 
 coming. 
 
 With him a mighty meyne ; 
 
 Both with spear, bill, and brand ; 
 
 It was a mighty sight to see ; 
 Hardier men, both of heart and hand. 
 
 Were not in Christiantio. 
 
 They were twenty hmidrcd spearmen good, 
 
 Withouten any fail ; 
 They were bom along by the Water of 
 Tweed, 
 
 In the bounds of Tivydale. 
 
 " Leave off brittling the deer," he said, 
 " To your bows look ye take gocd heed ; 
 
 For since ye were of your mothers born 
 Had ye never so mickle need." 
 
 The doughty Douglas on a steed 
 
 He rode all his men beforne ; 
 His armour glittered as a glede ; 
 
 A bolder barne was never bom. 
 
 " Tell me who ye are," he says, 
 
 " Or whose men that ye be ; 
 Who gave you leave to hunt in this chace 
 
 In the spite of me ? " 
 
 The first man that ever him answer made. 
 
 It was the good Lord Percy ; 
 " We will not tell thee who we are. 
 
 Nor whose men that we be ; 
 But wo will hunt here in this cbace. 
 
 In spite of thine and thee. 
 
 20 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. [Third Period.— 
 
 " The fattest harts in all Cheviot 
 
 We have kill'd, and cast to carry away." 
 " By my troth," said the doughty Douglas 
 
 again, 
 " Therefor shall one of us die this day." 
 
 Then said the doughty Douglas 
 
 IJnto the Lord Percy, 
 " To kiU all these guiltless men, 
 
 Alas, it were great pitie ! 
 
 " But, Percy, thou art a lord of land, 
 And I am earl called in my countrie ; 
 
 Let all our men apart from us stand, 
 And do the battle off thee and me." 
 
 *' Now, curse on his crown," said the Lord 
 Percy, 
 
 " Whosoever thereto says nay ! — 
 By my troth, doughty Douglas," he says, 
 
 " Thou never shalt see that day. 
 
 " Neither in England, Scotland, nor France, 
 
 Of woman born there is none, 
 But, an fortune be my chance, 
 
 r dare meet him, one man for one." 
 
 Then spake a squire of Northumberland, 
 Eichard Witherington was his name : 
 
 "It shall never be told in South-England," 
 he says, 
 " To King Harry the Fourth, for shame ! 
 
 " I wot ye bin great lordes two, 
 
 I am a poor squire of land ; 
 I'll ne'er see my captain fight on a field, 
 
 And a looker-on to stand : 
 But while I may my weapon wield 
 
 I will fail not, heart and hand." 
 
 That day, that day, that dreadful day ! — 
 
 The first fytte here I find. 
 An ye will hear more of the Hunting of 
 Cheviot, 
 
 Yet more there is behind. 
 
 THE SECOND FYTTE. 
 
 The Englishmen had their bowes bent. 
 
 Their hearts were good enow ; 
 The first [flight] of arrows that they shot 
 off. 
 
 Seven score spearmen they sloughe. 
 
 Yet bides Earl Douglas upon the bent, 
 
 A captain good enow, 
 And that was soon seen, verament, 
 
 For he wrought [the English wo]. 
 
 The Douglas parted his host in three. 
 Like a chieftain [full] of pride ; 
 
 With sure spears of mighty tree 
 They came in on every side. 
 
 Thorough our English archery, 
 
 And gave many a wound full wide ; 
 
 Many a doughty they gar'd to die, 
 Which gained them no [small] pride. 
 
 The Englishmen let their bowes be, 
 
 And pull'd out brands that were bright ; 
 
 It was a heavy sight to see 
 
 Bright swords on basnets light. 
 
 Thorough rich mail and maniple 
 Stern they struck down straight ; 
 
 Many a freke that was full free, 
 There under-foot did light. 
 
 At last the Douglas and Percy met. 
 Like two captains of might and main ; 
 
 They swapt together till they both swat, 
 With swords of the fine Milan. 
 
 These worthy frekes for to fight 
 
 Thereto they were full fain, 
 Tni the blood out of their basnets eprent 
 
 As ever did hail or rain. 
 
 " Hold thee, Percy! " said the Douglas, 
 " And i' faith I shall thee bring 
 
 Where thou shalt have an earl's wages 
 Of Jamie our Scottish king. 
 
 " Thou shalt have thy ransom free ; 
 
 I hight thee here this thing ; 
 For the manfuUest man yet art thou 
 
 That ever I conquered in fighting." 
 
 " Nay," said the Lord Percy, 
 
 " I told it thee befome. 
 That I would never yielded be 
 
 To no man of a woman born." 
 
 With that came an arrow hastily 
 
 Forth of a mighty wane ; 
 And it hath stricken the Earl Douglas 
 
 In at the breast bane. 
 
 Thorough liver and lungs both 
 
 The sharp arrow is gone, 
 Tliat never after in all his life-days 
 
 He spake more words but one : 
 That was, " Fight ye, my merry men, while 
 ye may ! 
 
 For my life-days be done." 
 
 The Percy leaned on his brand, 
 
 And saw the Douglas die ; 
 He took the dead man by the hand. 
 
 And said, " Wo is me for thee ! 
 
 " To have saved thy life, I would have given 
 
 My landes for years three ; 
 For .a better man, of heart por of hand. 
 
 Was not in the north countrie." 
 
 Of all that saw a Scottish kn%ht, 
 
 Sir Hugh the Montgomerie ; 
 He saw the Douglas to death was dight ; 
 
 He spended a spear, a trusty tree ; 
 
 He rode upon a courser 
 
 Through a hundred archery ; 
 He never stinted, nor never blan, 
 
 Till he came to good Lord Percy. 
 
From. 1558 to 1649.] KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBUBY. [Anonymous. 
 
 He set upon the Lord Percy 
 
 A (lint that was full sore ; 
 With a sure spear of a mighty tree 
 
 Clean thorough his body he bore. 
 
 On the other side that a man might see 
 
 A larpe cloth-j'ard and mair. 
 Two better captains in Christentie 
 
 Were not, than the two slain there. 
 
 An archer of Northumberland 
 Saw slain was the Lord Percy : 
 
 He bare a bend-bow in his hand 
 Was made of trusty tree. 
 
 An arrow, that was a cloth-yard long, 
 
 To the hard steel haled he ; 
 A dint he set, was both sad and sore, 
 
 On Sir Hugh the Montgomerie. 
 
 The dint it was both sad and sore 
 
 Tliat he on Montgomerie set ; 
 The swan-feathers the arrow bore 
 
 With his heart' s-blood they were wet. 
 
 There was never a freke one foot would 
 flee, 
 But still in stour did stand, 
 Heaving on each other, while they might 
 dree, 
 With many a baleful brand. 
 
 This battle began in Cheviot 
 
 An hour before the noon, 
 And still when even-song bell was rung 
 
 The battle was not half done. 
 
 They took [off] on either hand 
 
 By the light of the moon ; 
 Many had no strength for to stand, 
 
 In Cheviot the hills aboon. 
 
 Of fifteen hundred archers of England, 
 Went away but fifty and three ; 
 
 Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland, 
 But even five and fiftie, 
 
 That were not slain in Cheviot ; 
 
 They had no strength to stand on hie. 
 The child may rue that is unborn : 
 
 It was the more pitie. 
 
 There was slain with Lord Percy, 
 
 Sir John of Agerstone ; 
 Sir Roger, the hynde Hartley ; 
 
 Sir William, the bold Heron. 
 
 Sir George, the worthy Lovel, 
 
 A knight of great renown ; 
 Sir Ralph, the rich Rugby ; 
 
 With dints were beaten down. 
 
 For Witherington my heart was wo, 
 
 That ever he slain shotdd be ; 
 For when both his legs were hewn in two, 
 
 Yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. 
 
 There was slain with the doughty Douglas, 
 
 Sir Hugh the Montgomerie ; 
 Sir Davy Liddale, that worthy was, 
 
 His sister's son was he ; 
 
 Sii* Charles a Murray in that place, 
 
 That never a foot would flee ; 
 Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, 
 
 With the Douglas did he dee. 
 
 So on the morrow they made them biers 
 
 Of birch and hazel gray ; 
 Many widows Avith weeping tears 
 
 Came to fetch their makes away. 
 
 Tivydale may carp of care, 
 
 Northumberland make great moan ; 
 For two such captains as there were slain 
 
 On the Marches shall never be none. 
 
 Word is come to Edinborough, 
 
 To Jamie the Scottish King, 
 Doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches, 
 
 Lay slain Cheviot within. 
 
 His handes did he weal and wring : 
 
 " Alas, and wo is me ! 
 Such another captain in Scotland wide 
 
 There is not left," said he. 
 
 Word is come to lovely London, 
 To Harry the Fourth our King, 
 
 Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches, 
 Lay slahi Cheviot within. 
 
 " God have mercy on his soul," said King 
 
 Harry, 
 
 " Good Lord, if Thy will it be ! 
 Tve a hundred captains in England," he 
 said, 
 
 *' As good as ever was he : 
 But, Percy, an I brook my life. 
 
 Thy death well quit shall be."^ 
 
 And now maj^ Heaven amend us all. 
 
 And into bliss us bring ! 
 This was the Hunting of the Cheviot r 
 
 God send us aU good ending ! 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 529-- 
 
 -KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF 
 CANTERBURY. 
 
 An ancient gtory I'll tell you anon, 
 
 Of a notable prince, that was called King 
 
 John ; 
 He ruled over England with main and might, 
 But he did great wrong, and maintain' d little 
 
 right. 
 
 And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry. 
 Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury ; 
 How for his housekeeping and high renown. 
 They rode post to bring him to London town. 
 
 20* 
 
Anonymous.] KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTEEBUEY. [Third Period. 
 
 A himdred men, as the Kinj? heard say, 
 
 The Abbot kept in his house every day ; 
 
 And fifty gold chains, wthout any doubt, 
 
 In velvet coats waited the Abbot about. } 
 
 " How now. Father Abbot ? I hear it of thee, I 
 Thou keepest a far better house than me ; 
 And for thy housekeeping and high renown, 
 I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." 
 
 " My Liege," quoth the Abbot, " I would it 
 
 were known, 
 I am spending nothing but what is my own ; 
 And I trust your Grace will not put me in 
 
 fear. 
 For spending my own true-gotten gear." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is high. 
 And now for the same thou needest must die ; 
 And except thou canst answer me questions 
 
 three. 
 Thy head struck off from thy body shall be. 
 
 "And first," quo' the King, " as I sit here, 
 With my crown of gold on my head so fair, 
 Among all my liegemen of noble birth, — 
 Thou must tell to one penny what I am worth. 
 
 " Secondly, tell me, beyond all doubt, 
 How soon I may ride the whole world about ; 
 And at the third question thou must not shrink. 
 But tell me here truly, what do I think ? " 
 
 " 0, these are deep questions for my shallow 
 
 ■wit, 
 And I cannot answer your Grace as yet : 
 But if you will give me a fortnight's space, 
 111 do my endeavour to answer your Grace." 
 
 " Now a fortnight's space to thee will I give, 
 And that is the longest thou hast to live ; 
 For unless thou answer my questions three, 
 Thy life and thy lands are forfeit to me." 
 
 Away rode the Abbot all sad at this word ; 
 He rode to Cambridge and Oxenf ord ; 
 But never a doctor there was so wise, 
 That could by his learning an answer devise. 
 
 Then home rode the Abbot, with comfort so 
 
 cold, 
 And he met his Shepherd, a-going to fold : 
 "Now, good Lord Abbot, you are welcome 
 
 home; 
 ^Vliat news do you bring us from great King 
 
 John ? " 
 
 " Sad news, sad news. Shepherd, I must give ; 
 That I have but three days more to live. ' 
 
 I must answer the King his questions three. 
 Or my head struck off from my body shall be. 
 
 " The first is to tell him, as he sits there. 
 With his crown of gold on his head so fair 
 Among all his liegemen of noble birth, 
 To within one penny, what he is worth. 
 
 " The second to tell him, beyond all doiibt, 
 How soon he may ride this whola v/orld about ; 
 And at question the third I must not shrink, 
 But tell him there truly, what does he think ? " 
 
 " O cheer up, my Lord ; did you never hear yet 
 That a fool may teach a wise man -wit ? 
 Lend me your serving-men, horse, and apparel. 
 And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel. 
 
 " With your pardon, it oft has been told to 
 
 mo 
 That I'm like your Lordship as ever can be : 
 And if you will but lend me your gown. 
 There is none shall know us at London town." 
 
 "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt 
 
 have, 
 With sumptuous raiment gallant and brave ; 
 With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope. 
 Fit to draw near to our Father the Pope." 
 
 " Now welcome, Sir Abbot," the King he did 
 
 say, 
 " Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; 
 For and if thou canst answer my questions 
 
 three, 
 Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 
 
 '•' And first, as thou seest me sitting here. 
 With my crown of gold on ray head so fair, 
 Among my liegemen of noble birth, — 
 Tell to one penny what I am worth." 
 
 " For thirty pence our Saviour was sold 
 Among the false Jcavs, as I have been told ; 
 And twenty -nine is the worth of thee ; 
 For, I think, thou art one penny worse than 
 he." 
 
 The King he laugh' d, and swore by St, Bittle, 
 " I did not think I was worth so little ! 
 Now secondly tell me, beyond all doubt. 
 How soon I may ride this world about." 
 
 " You must rise with the sun, and ride with the 
 
 same, 
 Until the next morning he riseth again ; 
 And then your Grace need never doubt 
 But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." 
 
 The King he laugh' d, and swore by St. Jone, 
 
 " I did not think I could do it so soon ! 
 
 Now from question the third thou must not 
 
 shrink. 
 But tell me truly, what do I think ? " 
 
 " Yea, that I shall do, and make your Grace 
 
 merry : 
 Yovi think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ; 
 But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may 
 
 see, 
 That am come to beg pardon for him and for 
 
 me." 
 
From 1558 to 1G49.] 
 
 EDOM O' GORDON. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 The King he laug-h'd, and swore by the mass, 
 " 111 make thee Lord Abbot this day in his 
 
 place ! " 
 " Now nay, my Liege, be not in such speed ; 
 For, alas ! I can neither -write nor read." 
 
 " Four nobles a week, then, I'll give to thee, 
 For this merry jest thou hast shown to me ; 
 And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest 
 
 home, 
 Thou hast brought him freq pardon from King 
 
 John." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 530.— EDOM O' GORDON. 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas, 
 
 When the vnnd blew shrill and cauld, 
 Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, 
 
 " We maun draw to a hauld. 
 
 " And whatna hauld sail me draw to. 
 
 My merry men and me ? 
 Wo Avill gae to the house of the Rodes, 
 
 To see that fair ladye." 
 
 The lady stood on her castle wa', 
 Beheld baith dale and down ; 
 
 There she was aware of a host of men 
 Came riding towards the town. 
 
 " see ye not, my merry men a', 
 
 see ye not Avhat I see ? 
 Methinks I see a host of men ; 
 
 1 marvel who they be." 
 
 She ween'd it had been her lovely lord, 
 
 As he cam' riding hame ; 
 It was the traitor, P'dom o' Gordon, 
 
 Wha reck'd nor sin nor shame. 
 
 She had nae sooner buskit hersell, 
 
 And putten on her gown, 
 Till Edom o' Gordon an' his men 
 
 AVere round about the town. 
 
 Thoy had nae sooner supper set, 
 
 Nae sooner said the grace. 
 But Edom o' Gordon an' his men 
 
 Wertt lighted about the place. 
 
 The lady ran u^) to her tower-head. 
 
 As fast as she could hie, 
 To see if by her fair speeches 
 
 She could wi' him agree. 
 
 " Come doun to me, ye lady gay, 
 Come doun, come doun to me ; 
 
 This night sail ye lig within mine arms, 
 To-morrow my bride sail be." 
 
 " I winna come down, ye fause Gordon, 
 
 I winna come down to thee ; 
 I winna forsake my ain dear lord, — 
 
 And he is na far frae me." 
 
 " Gie o-svre your house, ye lady fair, 
 
 Gie o\vre your house to me ; 
 Or I sail burn yoursell therein. 
 
 But and your babies three." 
 
 " I winna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, 
 
 To nae sic traitor as thee ; — 
 
 j And if ye burn my ain dear babes, 
 I My lord sail mak' ye dree. 
 
 j " Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, 
 
 ! And charge ye weel my gun ; 
 
 i For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, 
 
 I My babes, we been xindone ! " 
 
 I 
 
 j She stood upon her castle wa', 
 
 i And let twa bullets flee : 
 
 She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart. 
 And only razed his knee. 
 
 " Set fire to the house ! " quo' fause Gordon, 
 
 Wud wi' dule and ire : 
 *' Fause ladye, ye sail rue that shot 
 
 As ye burn in the fire I " 
 
 " Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 I paid ye weel your fee ; 
 "Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, 
 
 Lets in the reek to me ? 
 
 " And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 I paid ye weel your hire ; 
 Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, 
 
 To me lets in the fire ? " 
 
 " Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, 
 
 Ye paid me weel my fee : 
 But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man, — 
 
 Maun either do or dee." 
 
 O then bespake her little son. 
 
 Sat on the nurse's knee : 
 Says, " O mither dear, gie owre this liouse, 
 
 For the reek it smothers me." 
 
 " I wad gie a' my goud, my bairn, 
 
 Sae wad I a' my fee, 
 For ae blast o' the western wind, 
 
 To blaw the reek frae thee." 
 
 O then bespake her daughter dear, — 
 She was baith jimp and sma' ; 
 
 " O row' me in a pair o' sheets. 
 And tow me o'er the wa' ! " 
 
 Tliey row'd her in a pair o' sheets, 
 
 And tow'd her owre the wa' ; 
 But on the point o' Gordon's spear 
 
 She gat a deadly fa'. 
 
 O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth. 
 
 And cherry were her cheeks, 
 And clear, clear was her yellow hair. 
 
 Whereon the red blood dreeps. 
 
 Then vrV his spear he turn'd her owre ; 
 
 gin her face was wan ! 
 He said, " Ye are the first that e'er 
 
 1 wish'd alive again." 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMEE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 He cam' and lookit aguin at her ; 
 
 gin her skin was white ! 
 
 " I might hae spared that bonnie face 
 To hae been some man's delight." 
 
 •' Busk and bonn, my merry men a'. 
 
 For ill dooms I do guess ; — 
 I cannot look on that bonnie face 
 
 As it lies on the grass." 
 
 " Wha looks to freits, my master dear, 
 
 Its freits will follow them ; 
 Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Oordon 
 
 Was daunted by a dame." 
 
 But when the ladye saw the fire 
 
 Come flaming o'er her head, 
 She wept, and kiss'd her children twain. 
 
 Says, " Bairns, we been but dead." 
 
 The Gordon then his bugle blew, 
 
 And said, " Awa', awa' ! 
 This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame ; 
 
 1 hauld it time to ga'." 
 
 And this way lookit her ain dear lord. 
 
 As he came o\VTe the lea ; 
 He saw his castle a' in a lowe, 
 
 Sae far as he coidd see. 
 
 " Put on, put on, my wighty men. 
 
 As fast as ye can dri'e ! 
 For ho that's hindmost o' the thrang 
 
 Sail ne'er get good o' me." 
 
 Then some they rade, and some they ran, 
 
 Out-owre the grass and bent ; 
 But ore the foremost could win up, 
 
 Baith lady and babes were brent. 
 
 And after the Gordon he is gane, 
 
 Sae fast as he might dri'e ; 
 And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude 
 
 He's wroken his fair ladye, 
 
 Anomjmous. — Before 1640. 
 
 531.— THOMAS THE EHYMEE. 
 
 True Thomas lay on Huntley bank ; 
 
 A ferlie spied he \vi' his ee ; 
 There he saw a lady bright 
 
 Come riding doun by the Eildon Tree. 
 
 Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk. 
 Her mantle o' the velvet fine ; 
 
 At ilka tett o' her horse's mane, 
 Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 
 
 True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap. 
 And louted low doun on his knee ; 
 
 " Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven ! 
 For thy peer on earth could never be.' 
 
 "0 no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
 " That name does not belong to me ; 
 
 I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, 
 That hither have come to visit thee. 
 
 "Harp and earp, Thomas," she said; 
 
 " Harp aaid carp along wi' me ; 
 And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 
 
 Sure of your body I shall be." 
 
 " Betide me weal, betide me woe. 
 That weird shall never daunten me." 
 
 Syne he has kiss'd her on the lips. 
 All underneath the Eildon Tree. 
 
 " Now ye maun go wi' me," she sadd, 
 " Now, Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
 
 And ye maun serve me seven years, 
 
 Through weal or woe as may chance to be." 
 
 She's mounted on her milk-white steed, 
 And she's ta'en Thomas up behind : 
 
 And aye, whene'er her bridle rang. 
 The steed gaed swifter than the wind. 
 
 they rade on, and fai-ther on, 
 
 The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 
 
 Until they reach' d a desert wide. 
 And living land Avas left behind. 
 
 "Now, Thomas, light doun, light doun," 
 she said, 
 
 " And lean your head upon my knee ; 
 Abide ye there a little space, 
 
 And I will show you ferlies three. 
 
 " see ye not yon narrow road. 
 
 So thick beset wi' thorns and briars ? 
 
 That is the Path of Edghteousness, 
 Though after it but few enquires. 
 
 " And see ye not yon braid, braid road, 
 That lies across the lily loven ? 
 
 That is the Path of Wickedness, 
 
 Though some call it the road to Heaven. 
 
 " And see ye not yon bonny road 
 That winds about the ferny brae ? 
 
 That is the road to fair Elfland, 
 
 Where thou and I this night maun gae. 
 
 " But, Thomas, ye sail hand your tongue, 
 
 Whatever je may hear or see ; 
 For speak ye word in Elfin-land, 
 
 Ye'U ne'er win back to your ain countrie." 
 
 O they rade on, and further on. 
 
 And they waded rivers abune the knee ; 
 
 And they saw neither sun nor moon. 
 But they heard the roaring of a sea. 
 
 It was mirk, mirk night, there was nao 
 starlight. 
 They waded throiigh red blude to the 
 knee ; 
 For a' the blude that's shed on the earth 
 Eins through the springs o' that countrie. 
 
 Syne they came to a garden green, 
 
 And she pu'd an apple frae a tree: 
 " Take this for thy Avages, Thomas," she 
 said : 
 "It will give thee the tongue that can 
 never lee." 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] LOED BEICHAN. [Anonymous. 
 
 " My tongue is my ain," then Thomas he 
 
 " Seven king's dochters I've drouned there. 
 
 said; 
 
 I' the water o' Wearie's Well ; 
 
 "A gudely gift ye wad gie to me I 
 
 An' I'll mak' ye the eight o' them, 
 
 I neither dought to buy or sell 
 
 An' ring the common bell." 
 
 At fair or tryst where I might be. 
 
 
 
 " Sin' I am standin' here," she says. 
 
 " I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
 
 " This dowie death to dee ; 
 
 Nor ask of grace from fair ladye ! " — 
 
 One kiss o' your comelie mouth 
 
 "Now hand thy peace, Thomas," she said, 
 
 I'm sure wad comfort me." 
 
 " For as I say, so must it be." 
 
 
 
 He louted him o'er his saddle bow, 
 
 He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
 
 To kiss her cheek an' chin ; 
 
 And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green ; 
 
 She's ta'en him in her arms twa, 
 
 And till seven years were come and gane, 
 
 An' throun him headlong in. 
 
 True Thomas on earth was never seen. 
 
 
 
 "Sin' seven king's daughters ye' ve drouned 
 
 Anonynuyus. — Befmv 1649. 
 
 there. 
 
 
 I' the water o' Wearie's WeU, 
 
 
 I'll mak' ye the bridegroom to them a'. 
 An' ring the bell my sell." 
 
 
 532.— THE WATER 0' WEARIE'S WELL. 
 
 An' aye she warsled, and aye she swam. 
 
 There cam' a bird out o' a bush, 
 
 An' she swam to dry Ian' ; 
 An' thankit God most cheerfullie, 
 
 On water for to dine ; 
 An' siching sair, says the king's dochter, 
 
 For the dangers she o'ercam. 
 
 " wae's this heart o' mine." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 He's ta'en a harp into his hand. 
 He's harpit them a' asleip ; 
 
 
 
 Exsept it was the king's dochter, 
 
 
 "VMia ae wink coudna get. 
 
 533.— LOED BEICHAN. 
 
 He's loupen on his berry-brown steed. 
 
 Lord Beichan was a noble lord. 
 
 Ta'en her behin' himsel ; 
 
 A noble lord of high degree ; 
 
 Then baith rade dotm to that water 
 
 He shipped himself on board a ship, 
 
 That they ca' Weai-ie's Well. 
 
 He longed strange countries for to see. 
 
 " Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair, 
 
 He sailed east, and he sailed west, 
 
 No harm shall thee befall ; 
 
 Until he came to proud Turkey ; 
 
 Oft times hae I watered my steed 
 
 Where he was ta'en by a savage Moor, 
 
 Wi' the water o' Weario's Well." 
 
 Who handled him right cruellie. 
 
 The first step that she steppit in. 
 
 For he viewed the fashions of that land ; 
 
 She steppit to the knee ; 
 
 Their way of worship viewed he ; 
 
 And, sichin' says this ladye fair, 
 
 But to Mahound, or Termagant, 
 
 " This water's nae for me." 
 
 Would Beichan never bend a knee. 
 
 " Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair. 
 
 So on each shoulder they've putten a bore. 
 
 No harm shall thee befall ; 
 
 In each bore they've putten a tye ; 
 
 Oft times hae I watered my steed 
 
 And they have made him trail the wine 
 
 Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well." 
 
 And spices on his fair body. 
 
 The next step that she steppit in, 
 
 They've casten him in a donjon deep. 
 
 She steppit to the middle ; 
 
 Where he could neither hear nor see ; 
 
 0, sichin' says this ladye fair, 
 
 For seven long year they've kept him there, 
 
 " I've wat my gowden girdle." 
 
 Till he for hunger's like to dee. 
 
 " Wade in, wade in, my ladye fair. 
 
 And in his prison a tree there grew, 
 
 No harm shall thee befall ; 
 
 So stout and strong there grew a tree, 
 
 Oft times hae I watered my steed 
 
 And unto it was Beichan chained, 
 
 Wi' the water o' Wearie's WeU." 
 
 Until his life was most weary. 
 
 The next step that she steppit in, 
 
 This Turk he had one only daughter — 
 
 She steppit to the chin ; 
 
 Fairer creature did eyes ne'er see ; 
 
 0, sichin' says this ladye fair. 
 
 And every day, as she took the air. 
 
 " They sud gar twa luves twin." 
 
 Near Beichan's prison passed she. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 LORD BEICHAN. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 And bonny, meek, and mild was she, 
 Tho' she was come of an ill kin ; 
 
 And oft she sighed, she knew not why, 
 For him that lay the donjon in. 
 
 O ! so it fell upon a day. 
 
 She heard young Beichan sadly sing ; 
 And aye and ever in her ears, 
 
 The tones of hapless sorrow ring. 
 
 My hounds they all go masterless ; 
 My hawks they flee from tree to tree ; 
 My younger brother will heir my land ; 
 Fair England again I'll never see." 
 
 And all night long no rest she got. 
 
 Young Beichan' s song for thinking on : 
 
 She's stown the keys from her father's head, 
 And to the prison strong is gone. 
 
 And she has oped the prison doors, 
 
 I wot she opened two or three, 
 Ere she could come young Beichan at, 
 
 He was locked up so curiouslie. 
 
 But when she came young Beichan before, 
 Sore wondered he that maid to see ! 
 
 He took her for some fair captive, — 
 
 " Fair Ladye, I pray of what countrie ? " 
 
 " Have you got houses ? have you got lands ? 
 
 Or does Northumberland 'long to thee r 
 What would ye give to the fair young ladye 
 
 That out of prison would set you free ? " 
 
 " I have got houses, I have got lands, 
 
 And half Northumberland 'longs to mo, — 
 
 I'll give them all to the ladye fair. 
 That out of prison will set me free. 
 
 " Near London town I have a hall, 
 With other castles, two or three ; 
 
 I'll give them all to the ladye fair. 
 That out of prison will set me free.". 
 
 " Give me the troth of your right hand, 
 
 The troth of it give unto me ; 
 That for seven years ye'll no lady wed. 
 
 Unless it be along with me." 
 
 "I'll give thee the troth of my right hand, 
 
 The troth of it I'll freely gie ; 
 That for seven j'cars I'll stay unwed, 
 
 For kindness thou dost shew to me." 
 
 And she has bribed the proud warder. 
 With golden store and white money ; 
 
 She's gotten the keys of the prison strong, 
 And she has set young Beichan free. 
 
 She's gi'en him to eat the good spice cake. 
 She's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine ; 
 
 And every health she drank unto him, — 
 "I wish, Lord Beichan, that you were 
 mine." 
 
 And she's bidden him sometimes think on her. 
 That so kindly freed him out of pine. 
 
 She's broken a ring from her finger, 
 And to Beichan half of it gave she, — 
 
 " Keep it to mind you of that love 
 The lady bore that set you free." 
 
 O ! she took him to her father's harbour. 
 And a ship of fame to him gave she ; 
 
 " Farewell, farewell, to you, Lord Beichan, 
 Shall I e'er again you see ? 
 
 " Set your foot on the good ship board, 
 And haste ye back to your own countrie ; 
 
 And before seven years have an end. 
 Come back again, love, and marry me." 
 
 Now seven long years are gone and past. 
 And sore she longed her love to see ; 
 
 For ever a voice within her breast 
 
 Said, " Beichan has broken his vow to 
 thee! " 
 
 So she's set her foot on the good ship board. 
 And turned her back on her own countrie. 
 
 She sailed east, she sailed west. 
 
 Till to fair England's shore came she ; 
 
 Wliere a bonny shepherd she espied. 
 Feeding his sheep upon the lea. 
 
 " What news, what news, thou bonnie shep- 
 herd? 
 
 What news hast thou to tell me ? " 
 " Such news I hear, ladye," he said, 
 
 " The like was never in this countrie. 
 
 " There is a weddin' in yonder hall. 
 Has lasted thirty days and three ; 
 
 But young Lord Beichan Avon't bed with his 
 bride. 
 For love of one that's a3'oiid the sea." 
 
 She's putten her hand in her pocket, 
 Gi'en him the gold and white money ; 
 
 " Here, tak' ye that, my bonnie bo}^ 
 For the good news thou tell'st to me." 
 
 When she came to Lorct Beichan' s gate. 
 
 She tirled softlj'- at the pin ; 
 And ready was the proud warder 
 
 To open and let this ladye in. 
 
 Wlien she came to Lord Beichan' s castle, 
 
 So boldly she rang the bell ; 
 ' 'Who's there .^ who's there?" cried the proud 
 porter, 
 
 " Who's there ? unto me come tell ? " 
 
 " ! is this Lord Beichan's castle ? 
 
 Or is that noble lord within ? " 
 ' Yea, he is in the hall among them all, 
 And this is the day of his weddin'." 
 
 " And has he Avcd anither love ? — 
 And has he clean forgotten me ? " 
 
 And, sighing, said that ladye gay, 
 " I wish I was in my own countrie." 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 And she has ta'en her gay gold ring, 
 That with her love she brake so free, 
 
 " Gie hiin that, ye proud porter, 
 
 And bid the bridegroom speak to me. 
 
 " Tell him to send me a slice of bread, 
 
 And a cup of blood-red wine, 
 And not to forget the fair j'^oung ladj'e 
 
 That did release him out of pine." 
 
 Away, and away went the proud porter, 
 Away, and away, and away went he. 
 
 Until he came to Lord Beichan's presence, 
 Down he fell on his bended knee. 
 
 " What aileth thee, my proud porter, 
 Thou art so full of courtesie ? " 
 
 " I've been porter at your gates, — 
 It's thirty long years now, and three. 
 
 But there stands a ladye at them now, 
 The like of her I ne'er did see. 
 
 " For on every finger she has a ring. 
 And on her mid-finger she has three ; 
 
 And as much gay gold above her brow 
 As would an earldom buy to me ; 
 
 And as much gay clothing round about her 
 As would buy all Northumberlea." 
 
 It's out then spak' the bride's mother, — 
 Aye, and an angry woman was she, — 
 
 " Ye might have excepted the bonnie bride, 
 And two or three of our companie." 
 
 " ! hold your tongue, 3'^e silly frow, 
 
 Of all your folly let me be ; 
 She's ten times fairer than the bride, 
 
 And all that's in yoiu- companie. 
 
 *' She asks one sheave of my lord's white 
 bread. 
 
 And a cup of his red, red Avine ; 
 And to remember the lady's love 
 
 That kindly freed him out of pine." 
 
 Lord Beichan then in a passion flew, 
 And broke his aword in splinters three ; 
 
 " O, weU a day ! " did Beichan say, 
 " That I so soon have married thee ! 
 
 For it can be none but dear Saphia, 
 
 That's cross'd the deep for love of me ! " 
 
 And quickly hied he down the stair. 
 Of fifteen steps he made but three ; 
 
 He's ta'en his bonnie love in his arms, 
 And kist, and kist her tenderlie. 
 
 " O ! have ye taken another bride ? 
 
 And have ye quite forgotten me ? 
 And have ye quite forgotten one 
 
 That gave you life and libertie ? " 
 
 She looked o'er her left shoulder 
 To hide the tears stood in her ee ; 
 
 " Now fare-thee-well, young Beichan," 
 says, 
 "I'll try to think no more on thee." 
 
 she 
 
 " O ! never, never, my Saphia, 
 
 For surely this can never be ; 
 Nor ever shall I wed but Aer 
 
 That's done and dreed so much for me." 
 
 Then out and spak' the forenoon bride : 
 " My Lord, your love is changed-soon ; 
 
 At morning I am made your bride. 
 
 And another's chose, ere it be noon ! " 
 
 " O ! sorrow not, thou forenoon bride 
 Our hearts could ne'er united be ; 
 
 Ye must return to your own countrie, 
 A double dower I'll send with thee." 
 
 And up and spak' the 3''0ung bride's mother, 
 ^Vho never was heard to speak so free, — 
 
 " And so you treat my only daughter. 
 Because Saphia has crossed the sea." 
 
 " I own I made a bride of your daughter, 
 She's ne'er a whit the worse for me. 
 
 She came to me with her horse and saddle. 
 She may go back in her coach and three." 
 
 He's ta'en Saphia by the white hand. 
 And gently led her up and down ; 
 
 And aye as he kist her rosy lips, 
 
 " Ye're welcome, dear one, to j'-our own." 
 
 He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand. 
 And led her to yon fountain stane ; 
 
 Her name he's changed from Saphia, 
 
 And he's called his bonnie love Lady Jane. 
 
 Lord Beichan prepared another marriage, 
 And sang AWth heart so full of glee, 
 
 " I'll range no more in foreign countries. 
 Now since mj^ love has crossed the sea." 
 
 Anonyuioits. — Before 1649. 
 
 534.— LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 Over the mountains. 
 
 And under the waves, 
 Over the fountains, 
 
 And under the graves, 
 Under floods which are deepest, 
 
 Wliich do Neptune obey, 
 Over rocks which are steepest, 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the glow-worm to lie, 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the receipt of a fly, 
 Where the gnat dares not venture, 
 
 Lest herself fast she lay, 
 But if Love come he will enter, 
 
 And find out the way. 
 
Anonymous.] THE CHILDE OF ELLE. [Tsikd Pesiod.— 
 
 You may esteem liim 
 
 Love hath power over princes, 
 
 A child of his force, 
 
 And greatest emperors, 
 
 Or you may deem him 
 
 In any provinces. 
 
 A coward, which is worse ; 
 
 Such is Love's power. 
 
 But if he whom Love doth honour, 
 
 There is no resisting, 
 
 Be concealed from the day, 
 
 But him to obey ; 
 
 Set a thousand guards upon him. 
 
 In spite of all contesting, 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Some think to lose him, 
 
 If that he were hidden, 
 
 Which is too unkind, 
 
 And all men that are, 
 
 And some do suppose him, 
 
 Were strictly forbidden 
 
 Poor heart, to be blind ; * 
 
 That place to declare ; 
 
 But if he were hidden, 
 
 Winds that have no abidings, 
 
 Do the best you may, 
 
 Pitying their delay, 
 
 Blind Love, if you so call hira, 
 
 Would come and bring Mm tidings. 
 
 WiU find out the way. 
 
 And direct him the way. 
 
 Well may the eag'le 
 
 Stoop down to the fist, 
 Or you may inveigle 
 
 The Phcenix of the east ; 
 With fear the tiger's moved. 
 
 To give over her prey ; 
 
 If the earth should part him, 
 
 He would gallop it o'er; 
 If the seas should o'erthwart him, 
 
 He would swim to the shore. 
 Should his love become a swallow. 
 
 Through the air to stray, 
 Love will lend wings to f ollovr, 
 
 But never stop a lover. 
 
 He will find out the way. 
 
 And wiU find out the way. 
 
 
 There is no striving 
 
 From Dover to Berwick, 
 
 To cross his intent. 
 
 And nations thereabout, 
 
 There is no contriving 
 
 Brave Guy, Earl of Warwick, 
 
 His plots to prevent ; 
 
 That champion so stout, 
 
 But if once the message greet him. 
 
 With his warlike behaviour, 
 
 That his true love doth stay, 
 
 Through the world he did stray. 
 
 If death should come and meet him, 
 
 To win his Phillis' favour, 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 
 
 Anonymons. — Before 1649, 
 
 In order next enters 
 
 
 Bevis so brave, 
 After adventures 
 
 
 
 And policy brave, 
 
 
 To see whom he desired. 
 
 535.— THE CHILDE OF ELLE. 
 
 His Josian so gay. 
 
 J J J 
 
 For whom his heart was fired. 
 
 On yonder hill a castle stands, 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 With walls and towers bedight, 
 
 
 And yonder lives the Childo of Elle, 
 
 
 A young and comely knight. 
 
 SECOiSTD PART, 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 The Childe of Elle to his garden went. 
 
 The Gordian knot. 
 
 And stood at his garden-pale, 
 
 Which true lovers knit. 
 
 When, lo ! he beheld fair Emmeline's pago 
 
 Undo it you cannot, 
 
 Come tripping down the dale. 
 
 Nor yet break it ; 
 Make use of 7/our inventions. 
 
 The Childe of Elle he hied him thence. 
 
 Their fancies to beti-ay. 
 
 I wist he stood not still, 
 
 To frustrate their intentions. 
 
 And soon he met fair Emmoline'a page 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Come climbing up the hill. 
 
 
 " Now Christe thee save, thou little foot-i)age, 
 
 From court to the Gotta<r«, 
 
 Now Christe thee save and see I 
 
 In bower and in hall. 
 
 Oh tell me how does thy lady gay, 
 
 From the king unto the beggar, 
 
 And what may thy tidings be ? " 
 
 Love conquers all. 
 
 
 Though ne'er so stout and lordly. 
 
 " My lady she is all woe-begone, ; 
 
 Strive or do what you may, 
 
 And the tears they fall from her 03^0 ; I 
 
 Yet bo you ne'er so hardy, 
 
 And aye she laments the deadly feud 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Between her house and thine. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE CHILDE OF ELLE. 
 
 [Anontmotts. 
 
 " And here she sends thee a silken scarf 
 
 Bedewed with many a tesir, 
 And bids thee sometimes think on her, 
 
 Who loved thee so dear. 
 
 " And hexe she sends thee a ring of gold, 
 The last boon thou may'st have, 
 
 And bids thee wear it for her sake. 
 When she is laid in grave. 
 
 " For, ah ! her gentle heart is broke. 
 
 And in grave soon must she be. 
 For her father hath chose her a new new love, 
 
 And forbid her to think of theo. 
 
 " Her father hath brought her a carlish knight. 
 
 Sir John of the north countrey. 
 And ^vithin three days she must him wed, 
 
 Or he vows he will her slay." 
 
 " Now hie thee back, thou little foot-page. 
 
 And greet thy lady from me, 
 And tell her that I, her own true love. 
 
 Will die, or set her free. 
 
 " Now hie thee back, thou little foot-page. 
 
 And let thy fair lady know, 
 This night will I be at her bower-window. 
 
 Betide me weal or woe." 
 
 The boy he tripped, the boy he ran, 
 
 He neither stint nor stay'd 
 Untn he came to fair Emmeline's bower. 
 
 When, kneeling down, he said, 
 
 " lady, I've been with thine ovm true love, 
 
 And he greets thee well by me ; 
 This night will he be at thy bower- window. 
 
 And die or set thee free." 
 
 Now day was gone, and night was come, 
 
 And all were fast asleep, 
 All save the lady Emmeline, 
 
 Who sate in her bower to weep. 
 
 And soon she heard her true love's voice 
 
 Low whispering at the wall ; 
 *' Awake, awake, my dear lady, 
 
 'Tis I, thy true love, call. 
 
 " Awake, awake, my lady dear, 
 
 Come, mount this fair pMfrey : 
 This ladder of roj^os will let thee down, 
 
 I'll carry thee hence away." 
 
 " Now nay, now nay, thou gentle knight. 
 
 Now nay, this may not bo ; 
 For aye should I tint my maiden fame. 
 
 If alone I should wend Avith thee." 
 
 *'0 lady, thou with a knight so true 
 
 May'st safely wend alone ; 
 To my lady mother I will thee bring. 
 
 Where marriage shall make us one." 
 
 ' ' My father ho is a baron bold, 
 
 Of lineage proud and high ; 
 And what would ho say if his daughter 
 
 Away with a knight should fly ? 
 
 " Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest. 
 Nor his meat should do him no good, 
 
 THl ho had sLiin thee, Childe of EUe, 
 And seen thy dear heart's blood." 
 
 " O lady, wert thou in thy saddle set. 
 And a little space him fro', -_ _ 
 
 I would not care for thy cruel father. 
 Nor the worst that he could do. 
 
 " O lady, wert thou in thy saddle set. 
 
 And once without this Avail, 
 I would not care for thy cruel father. 
 
 Nor the worst that might befall." 
 
 I Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 
 i And aye her heart was woe : 
 I At length he seized her lily-white hand, 
 j And down the ladder ho drew : 
 
 And thrice he clasp' d her to his breast, 
 I And kiss'd her tenderly : 
 
 The tears that fell from her fair eyes, 
 j Ean like the fountain free. 
 
 j He mounted himself on Ms steed so tall, 
 
 I And her on a fair palfrey; 
 
 I And slung his bugle about his neck, 
 
 ' And roundly they rode away. 
 
 . All this beheard her own damsel. 
 In her bed Avherein she lay ; 
 Quoth she, " My lord shall know of this. 
 So I shall have gold and fee. 
 
 " Awake, awake, thou baron, bold ! 
 
 Awake, my noble dame ! 
 Your daughter is fled with the Childe of Elle, 
 
 To do the deed of shame." 
 
 The baron he woke, the baron he rose. 
 
 And called his merry jnen all : 
 " And come thou foi-th, Sir John tho knight, 
 
 Thy lady is carried to thrall." 
 
 Fair Emmeline scarce had ridden a mile, 
 
 A mile forth of the town. 
 When slie was aware of her father's vacax 
 
 Come galloping over the down : 
 
 And foremost came the carlish knight. 
 Sir John of tho north countrey : 
 
 " Now stop, now stop, thou false traitor,. 
 Nor carry that lady away. 
 
 " For she is come of high lineage. 
 
 And was of a lady bom, 
 And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's son. 
 
 To carry her hence to scorn." 
 
 " Now loud thou liest, Sir John the knight. 
 
 Now thou dost lie of me ; 
 A knight me got, and a lady me bore. 
 
 So never did none by thee. 
 
 " But light now down, my lady fair, 
 Light down, and hold my steed, ' 
 
 While I and this discourteous knight 
 Do try this arduous deod. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 KING EDWARD IV. AND THE TANNER. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 " But light now down, my dear lady, 
 Light down, and hold my horse : 
 
 While I and this discourteous knight 
 Do try our valour's force." 
 
 Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeliae 
 
 And aye her heart was woe. 
 While 'twixt her love and the carlish knight 
 
 Past many a baleful blow. 
 
 The Child of Elle he fought so well, 
 As his weapon he waved amain, 
 
 That soon he had slain the carlish knight, 
 And laid him upon the plain. 
 
 And now the baron and all his men 
 
 Full fast approacliod nigh : 
 Ah ! what may lady Emmeline do ! 
 
 'Twere now no boote to fly. 
 
 Her lover he put his horn to his mouth, 
 
 And blew both loud and f^hrill. 
 And soon he saw his own merry men 
 
 Come riding over the hill. 
 
 " Now hold thy hand, thou bold baron, . 
 
 I pray thee, hold thy hand, 
 Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, 
 
 Fast knit in true love's band. 
 
 " Thj'- daughter I have dearly loved 
 
 Full long and many a day ; 
 But with such love as holy kirk 
 
 Hath freely said we may. 
 
 " O give consent she may be mine, 
 
 And bless a faithful pair : 
 My lands and livings are not small, 
 
 My house and lineage fair : 
 
 " My mother she was an earl's daughter. 
 And a noble knight my sire " — 
 
 The baron he frowned, and turned away 
 With micklo dole and ire. 
 
 Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 
 
 And did all trembling stand : 
 At length she sprang upon her knee, 
 
 And held his lifted hand. 
 
 " Pardon, my lord and father dear, 
 This fair young knight and me : 
 
 Trust me, but for the carlish knight, 
 I never had fled from thee. 
 
 " Oft have you called your Emmeline 
 
 Your darling and your joy ; 
 O let not then your harsh resolves 
 
 Your Emmeline destroy." 
 
 The baron he stroked his dark-brown cheek, 
 
 And turned his head aside 
 To wipe away the starting tear 
 
 He proudly strove to hide. 
 
 In deep revolving thought ho stood, 
 
 And mused a little space : 
 Tlien raised fair Emmeline from the ground, 
 
 With many a fond embrace. 
 
 " Here, take her, Childe of Elle," he said, 
 
 And gave her lily hand ; 
 " Here, take my dear and only child. 
 
 And with her half my land : 
 
 " Thy father once mine honour wronged 
 
 In days of youthful pride ; 
 Do thou the injury repair 
 
 In fondness for thy bride. 
 
 " And as thou love her, and hold her dear, 
 Heaven prosper thee and thine : 
 
 And now my blessing wend wi' thcc, 
 My lovely Emmeline." 
 
 Anonyiaous. — Before 1649. 
 
 ' 536.— KING EDWAED lY. AND THE 
 ■ TANNER OF TAMWORTH. 
 
 1 In summer time, when leaves grow green, 
 j And blossoms bedeck the tree. 
 King Edward would a limiting ride, 
 Some pastime for to see. 
 
 With hawk and hound he made him boA\Tie, 
 
 With horn, and eke Avith bow ; 
 To Drayton Basset he took his Avar, 
 
 AVith all his lords in a row. 
 
 And he had ridden o'er dale and down 
 
 By eight of clock in the day, 
 When he Avas 'ware of a bold tanner, 
 
 Come riding along the Avay. 
 
 A fair russet coat the tanner had on, 
 
 Fast buttoned under his chin ; 
 And under him a good coAv-hide, 
 
 And mare of four shilling. 
 
 " NoAv stand yon still, my good lords all, 
 
 Under the greeiiAVOod spray ; 
 And I will wend to yonder fellow, 
 
 To Aveet Avhat he Avill say. 
 
 "God speed, God speed thee," said our king, 
 "Thou art welcome, sir," said he. 
 
 " The readiest way to Drayton Basset 
 I pray thee to shoAV to me." 
 
 " To Drajiion Basset wouldst thou go, 
 Fro' the place Avhere thou dost stand ? 
 
 The next pair of gallows thou comest unto, 
 Turn in upon thy right hand." 
 
 " That is an unready way," said our king, 
 
 " Thou dost but jest, I see; 
 NoAv shoAv me out the nearest Avay, 
 
 And I praj- thee Avend Avith me." 
 
 " Away AA^th a vengeance ! " quoth tlie tanner 
 
 " I hold thee out of thy Avit : 
 AU day have I ridden on Brock my mare, • 
 
 And I am fasting yet." 
 
From 1558 to 1640.] 
 
 KINO EDWAKD IV. AND THE TANNEE. 
 
 "Anonymous. 
 
 " Go with me down to Drayton Basset, 
 
 No dainties we will spare ; 
 All day shalt thou eat and drink of the best, 
 
 And I will pay thy fare." 
 
 " Gramercy for nothing," the tanner replied, 
 
 " Thou pay est no fare of mine : 
 I trow I've more nobles in my purse. 
 
 Than thou hast pence in thine." 
 
 " God give thee joy of them," said the king, 
 " And send them well to x^riefe." 
 
 The tanner v^^ould fain have been away, 
 For he weened he had been a thief. 
 
 "What art thou," he said, " thou fine fellow, 
 
 Of thee I am in great fear, 
 For the clothes thou wearest upon thy back, 
 
 Might beseem a lord to wear." 
 
 " I never stole them," quoth our king, 
 
 " I tell you, sir, by the rood." 
 " Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth. 
 
 And standest in midst of thy good." 
 
 ""What tidings hear you," said the king, 
 
 As you ride far and near ? " 
 " I hear no tidings, sir, by the mass. 
 
 But that cow-hides are dear." 
 
 ' ' Cow-hides ! cow-hides ! what things are those ? 
 
 I marvel what they be ! " 
 " What art thou a fool ? " the tanner replied ; 
 
 " I carry one under me." 
 
 " What craftsman art thou ? " said the king, 
 
 " I pray thee tell me true." 
 " I am a barker, sir, by my trade ; 
 
 Now tell me what art thou ? " 
 
 " I am a poor courtier, sir," quoth he, 
 " That am forth of sersdce worn ; 
 
 And fain I would thy prentice be. 
 Thy cunning for to learn." 
 
 "Marry heaven forfend," the tanner roplied, 
 
 " That thou my prentice were : 
 Thou wouldst spend more good than I should 
 win 
 
 By forty shilling a year." 
 
 " Yet one thing would I," said our king, 
 
 " If thou wilt not seem strange : 
 Though my horse be better than thy mare. 
 
 Yet with thee I fain would change." 
 
 " Why if with me thou fain wilt change, 
 
 As change full well may we. 
 By the faith of my body, thou proud fellow, 
 
 I will have some boot of thee." 
 
 " That were against reason," said the king, 
 
 " I swear, so mote I thee : 
 My horse is better than thy mare. 
 
 And that thou Avell mayst see." 
 
 " Yea, sir, but Brock is gentle and mild. 
 
 And softly she will fare ; 
 Thy horse is unruly and wild. I wiss ; 
 
 Aye skipping here and there." 
 
 ' ' What boot wilt thou have ? ' ' our king replied, 
 
 " Now tell me in this stound." 
 " No pence, nor halfpence, by my faith, 
 
 But a noble in gold so round." 
 
 " Here's twenty groats of white money, 
 Sith thou -svilt have it of me." — — 
 
 " I would have sworn now," quoth the tanner, 
 " Thou hadst not had one penny. 
 
 " But since we two have made a change, 
 
 A change we must abide, 
 Although thou hast gotten Brock my mare, 
 
 Thou gettest not my cow-hide." 
 
 " I will not have it," said the king, 
 
 " I swear, so mote I thee ; 
 Thy foul cow-hide I would not bear. 
 
 If thou wouldst give it to me." 
 
 The tanner he took his good cow-hide, 
 
 That of the cow was hilt ; 
 And threw it upon the king's saddle, 
 
 That was so fairly gilt. 
 
 " Now help me up, thou fine fellow, 
 'Tis time that I were gone ; 
 j When I come home to Gyllian my wife, 
 j She'll say I am a gentleman." 
 
 ! "When the tanner he was in the king's saddle, 
 ; And his foot in the stirrup was ; 
 
 I He marvelled greatly in his mind, 
 \ Whether it were gold or brass. 
 
 But when his steed saw the cow's tail wag. 
 
 And eke the black cow-horn ; 
 He stamped, and stared, and away he ran, 
 
 As the devil had him borne. 
 
 The tanner he pulled, the tanner he sweat. 
 
 And held by the pummel fast, 
 At length the tanner came tumbling down ; 
 
 His neck he had well-nigh brast. 
 
 " Take thy horse again with a vengeance," ho 
 said, 
 
 " With me he shall not bide." 
 " My horse would have borne thee well enough. 
 
 But he knew not of thy cow-hide. 
 
 " Yet if again thou fain wouldst change. 
 
 As change full well may we, 
 By the faith of my body, thou jolly tanner, 
 
 I will have some boot of thee." 
 
 " What boot wilt thou have," the tanner 
 replied, 
 
 " Now tell me in this stound ? " 
 " No pence nor half -pence, sir, by my faith, 
 
 But I will have twenty pound." 
 
 " Here's twenty gi'oats out of my purse ; 
 
 And twenty I have of thine : 
 And I have one more, which we will spend 
 
 Together at the wine." 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE HEIR OF LINNE. 
 
 "Third Pebiod.— 
 
 The king- set a bncrle horn to his mouth, 
 
 And blew both loud and shrill : 
 And soon came lords, and soon came knights, 
 
 Fast riding over the hill. 
 
 *' Now, out, alas I " the tanner he cried, 
 
 " That ever I saw this day ! 
 Thou art a strong thief, yon come thy fellows 
 
 Will bear my cow-hide away." 
 
 *' They are no thieves," the king replied, 
 
 " I swear, so mote I thee : 
 But they are the lords of the north country, 
 
 Here come to hunt with me." 
 
 And soon before our king they came. 
 
 And knelt down on the ground : 
 Then might the tanner have been away, 
 
 He had lever than twenty pound. 
 
 " A collar, a collar, hei*e -." said the king, 
 
 " A collar," he loud 'gan cry : 
 Then would he lever than twenty pound, 
 
 He had not been so nigh. 
 
 " A collar, a collar," the tanner he said, 
 
 " I trow it will bx-eed sorrow : 
 After a collar cometh a halter, 
 
 I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrow." 
 
 " Be not afraid, tanner," said our king ; 
 
 " I tell thee, so mote I thee, 
 Lo here I make thee the best esquire 
 
 That is in the north country. 
 
 *' For Plumpton-park I will give thee, 
 
 With tenements fair beside : 
 'Tis worth three hundred marks by the year, 
 
 To maintain thy good cow-hide." 
 
 " Gramercy, my liege," the tanner replied, 
 " For the favour thou hast me shown : 
 
 If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, 
 Neat's leather shall clout thy shoen." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 537.— THE HEIE OF LINNE. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Lithe and listen, gentlemen, 
 
 To sing a song I mil begin : 
 It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 
 
 Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. 
 
 His father was a right good lord. 
 His mother a lady of high degree; 
 
 But they, alas ! were dead, him fro'. 
 And he lov'd keeping company. 
 
 To spend the day with merry cheer. 
 To drink and revel every night. 
 
 To card and dice from eve to morn. 
 It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 
 
 To ride, to run, to rant, to roar. 
 To alway spend and never spare, 
 
 I know, an' it were the king himself, 
 Of gold and fee he might be bare. 
 
 So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne 
 Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 
 
 And he maun sell his lands so broad, 
 His house, and lands, and all his rent. 
 
 His father had* a keen steward, 
 
 And John o' the Scales was called he : 
 
 But John is become a gentleman, 
 And John has got both gold and fee. 
 
 Says, *' Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, 
 Let nought disturb th}' meriy cheer ; 
 
 If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 
 Good store of gold I'll give tliee here." 
 
 " My gold is gone, my money is spent ; 
 
 My land now take it unto thee : 
 Give me the gold, good John o' the Scales, 
 
 And thine for aye my land shall be." 
 
 Tlien John he did him to record draw. 
 And John he cast him a gods-pennie ; 
 
 But for evers^ pound that John agreed, 
 The land I wis, was well worth three. 
 
 He told him the gold upon the board, 
 He was right glad his land to win ; 
 
 " The gold is thine, the land is mine. 
 And now I'll be the lord of Linne." 
 
 Thus he hath sold his land so broad, 
 Both hill and holt, and moor and fen. 
 
 All but a i)oor and lonesome lodge. 
 That stood far off in a lonely glen. 
 
 For so be to his father hight, 
 
 " My son, when I am gone," said he, 
 
 " Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, 
 And thou wilt spend thy gold so free : 
 
 " But swear me now upon the cross, 
 
 That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; 
 
 For when all the world doth fi-own on thee. 
 Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." 
 
 The heir of Linne is full of gold : 
 
 "And come with me, my friends," said he, 
 " Let's drink, and rant, and merry make. 
 
 And he that spares, ne"er mote he thee." 
 
 They ranted, drank, and merry made. 
 
 Till all his gold it waxed thin ; 
 And then his friends they slunk away ; 
 
 They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 
 
 He had never a penny left in his purse, 
 
 Never a penny left but three, 
 And one was brass, another was lead, 
 ' And another it was white money. 
 
 " Now well-a-day," said the heir of Linne, 
 " Now well-a-day, and woe is me, 
 
 For when I was the lord of Linne, 
 I never wanted gold nor fee. 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE HEm OF LINNE. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " But many a trusty friend have I, 
 And why should I feel grief or care ? 
 
 I'll borrow of them all by turns, 
 So need I not be never bare." 
 
 But one, I wis, was not at home ; 
 
 Another had paid his gold away ; 
 Another called him thriftless loon, 
 And bade him sharply wend his way. 
 
 " Now well-a-day," said the heir of Linne, 
 " Now well-a-day, and woe is me ; 
 
 For when I had my lands so broad, 
 On mo they liv'd right merrily. 
 
 " To beg my bread from door to door, 
 I wis, it were a burning shame : 
 
 To rob and steal it were a sin : 
 To Avork my limbs I cannot frame. 
 
 " Now I'll away to lonesome lodge, 
 For there my father bade me wend ; 
 
 When all the world should fro^vn on me, 
 I there should find a trusty friend." 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Away then hied the heir of Linne 
 O'er hill and holt, and moor and fen, 
 
 Until he came to lonesome lodge, 
 That stood so low in a lonely glen. 
 
 He looked up, he looked down, 
 In hope some comfort for to win : 
 
 But bare and loathly were the walls. 
 
 " Here's sorry cheer," quo' the heir of 
 Linne. 
 
 The little window dim and dark 
 
 Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew •, 
 
 No shimmering sun here ever shone ; 
 No wholesome breeze here ever blew. 
 
 No chair nor table he mote spy. 
 
 No cheerfid hearth, no welcome bed. 
 
 Nought save a rope with running noose. 
 That dangling hung up o'er his head. 
 
 And over it in broad letters, 
 
 These words were written plain to see : 
 " Ah ! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, 
 
 And brought thyself to penury ? 
 
 "All this my boding mind misgave, 
 I therefore left this trusty friend : 
 
 Let it now shield thy foul (Hsgrace, 
 And all thy shame and sorrows end." 
 
 Sorely shent wi' this rebuke. 
 
 Sore shent was the heir of Linne, 
 
 His heart, I wis, was near to burst 
 With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 
 
 Never a word spake the heir of Linne, 
 Never a word he spake but three : 
 
 " This is a trusty friend indeed. 
 And is right welcome unto me." 
 
 Then round his neck the cord he drew. 
 And sprang aloft with his body: 
 
 When lo ! the ceiling burst in twain, 
 And to the ground came tumbling he. 
 
 Astonished lay the heir of Linne, 
 Nor knew if he were live or dead : 
 
 At length he looked, and saw a bUl, 
 And in it a key of gold so red. 
 
 He took the bill, and looked it on, 
 
 Straight good comfort found he there : 
 
 It told him of a hole in the wall. 
 
 In which theie stood three chests in-fere. 
 
 Two were full of beaten gold. 
 
 The tiiird was full of white money ; 
 
 And over them in broad letters 
 
 These words were written so plain to see : 
 
 " Once more, my son, I set thee clear ; 
 
 Amend thy life and follies past ; 
 For but thou amend thee of thy life. 
 
 That rope must be thy end at last." 
 
 " And let it be," said the heir of Linne ; 
 
 " And let it be, but if I amend : 
 For hero I will make my vow. 
 
 This reade shall guide me to the end." 
 
 Away then went with a merry cheer. 
 Away then went the heir of Linne ; 
 
 I wis, he neither ceas'd nor blanne, 
 
 Till John o' the Scales' house he did win. 
 
 And when he came to John o' the Scales^ 
 Up at the speere then looked he : 
 
 There sat three lords upon a row. 
 Were drinking of the wine so free. 
 
 And John himself sat at the board-head, 
 
 Because now lord of Linne was he. 
 " I pray thee," he said, " good John o' the 
 
 One forty pence for to lend me." 
 
 " Away, away, thou thriftless loon ; 
 
 Away, away, this may not be ; 
 For Christ's curse on my head," he said, 
 
 " If ever I trust thee one pennie." 
 
 Then bespake the heir of Linne, 
 
 To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he 
 " Madame, some alms on me bestow, 
 
 I pray for sweet saint Charity." 
 
 "Away, away, thou thriftless loon, 
 I swear thou gettest no alms of me ; 
 
 For if we should hang any losel here. 
 The first we would begin with thee." 
 
 Then bespake a good fellow. 
 
 Which sat at John o' the Scales his board ; 
 Said, " Turn again, thou heir of Linne ; 
 
 Some time thou wast a well good lord : 
 
 " Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
 And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 
 
 Tlierefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
 And other forty if need be. 
 
AxONYilOUS. 
 
 THE SPANISH LADY S LOVE. 
 
 [Third Period. — 
 
 " And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 
 
 To let him sit in thy company : 
 For well I wot thou hadst his land, 
 
 And a good bargain it was to thee." 
 
 Up then spake him John o' the Scales, 
 All wood he answer' d him again : 
 
 "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, 
 " But I did lose by that bargain. 
 
 " And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 
 Before the^e lords so fair and free, 
 
 Thou shalt have it back again better cheap. 
 By a hundred marks, than I had it of thee. 
 
 " I draw j'^ou to record, lords," he said. 
 With that he cast him a gods-pennie : 
 
 " Now by my fay," said the heir of Linne, 
 " And here, good John, is thy money." 
 
 And he pull'd forth three bags of gold. 
 And laid them down upon the board : 
 
 All woe begone was John o' the Scales, 
 So shent he could say never a word. 
 
 He told him forth the good red gold. 
 He told it forth with mickle din. 
 
 *' The gold is thine, the land is mine, 
 And now again I'm the lord of Linne." 
 
 Says, " Have thou here, thou good fellow, 
 Forty pence thou didst lend me : 
 
 Now I am again the lord of Linne, 
 And forty pounds I will give thee. 
 
 " I'll make thee keeper of my forest. 
 Both of the wild deer and the tame ; 
 
 For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 
 I wis, good fellow, I were to blame." 
 
 " Now well-a-day !" saith Joan o' the Scales : 
 *' Now well-a-day ! and woe is my life ! 
 
 Yesterday I was lady of Linne, 
 
 Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife." 
 
 *' Now fare thee well," said the heir of Linne; 
 
 "Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said 
 he : 
 " Christ's curse light on me, if ever again 
 
 I bring my lands in jeopardy." 
 
 Anonymoios. — Before 1649. 
 
 538— THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 Will you hear a Spanirsh lady, 
 
 How she wooed an English man ? 
 
 Garments gay and rich as may be, 
 Decked with jewels she had on. 
 
 Of a comely countenance and grace was she, 
 
 And by birth and parentage of high degree. 
 
 As his prisoner there he kept her, 
 
 In his hands her life did lie ; 
 Cupid's bands did tie them faster 
 
 By the liking of an eye. 
 In his courteous company was all her joy. 
 To favour him in anything she was not co'y. 
 
 But at last there came commandment 
 
 For to set the ladies free. 
 With their jewels still adorned, 
 
 None to do them injury. 
 Then said this lady mUd, " Full woe is me ; 
 O, let me still sustain this kind captivity ! 
 
 " Gallant captain, show some pity 
 
 To a lady in distress ; 
 Leave me not within this city. 
 
 For to die in heaviness. 
 Thou hast set this present day my body free. 
 But my heart in prison still remains with 
 thee." 
 
 '• How shouldst thou, fair lady, love me, 
 
 Whom thou know'st thy country's foe ? 
 
 Thy fair words make me suspect thee : 
 Serpents lie where flowers grow." 
 
 " All the harm I wish to thee, most courteous 
 knight, 
 
 God grant the same upon my head may fully 
 light ! 
 
 " Blessed be the time and season. 
 
 That you came on Spanish ground ; 
 If our foes you may be termed, 
 
 Gentle foes we have j^ou found : 
 With our city, you have won our hearts each 
 
 one. 
 Then to your country bear away, that is your 
 own." 
 
 " Eest you still, most gallant lady ; 
 
 Eest you still, and weep no more ; 
 Of fair lovers there is plenty, 
 
 Spain doth yield a wondrous store." 
 " Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often 
 
 find, 
 But Englishmen through all the world are 
 counted kind. 
 
 " Leave me not unto a Spaniard, 
 You alone enjoy my heart ; 
 I am lovely, young, and tender, 
 Love is likewise my desert : 
 Still to serve thee day and night my mind is 
 
 pressed, 
 Tho wife of every Englishman is counted 
 blessed." 
 
 " It would be a shame, fair lady, 
 
 For to bear a woman hence ; 
 English soldiers never carry 
 
 Any such without offence." 
 " I'll quickly change myself, if it be so. 
 And like a page I'll follow thee, where'er thou 
 go." 
 
 " I have neither gold nor silver 
 
 To maintain thee in this case. 
 And to travel is great charges. 
 
 As you know in every place." 
 " My chains and jewels every one shall be 
 
 thine own, 
 And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies 
 unknown." 
 
From 1558 to 1649.] 
 
 THE LASS OF LOCHEOYAN. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 " On the sea are many dangers, 
 
 Many storms do there arise, 
 Which will be to ladies dreadful, 
 
 And force tears from watery eyes." 
 *' Well, in troth, I shall endure extremity. 
 For I could find in heart to lose my life for 
 thee." 
 
 " Courteous lady, leave this fancy, 
 
 Here comes all that breeds this strife ; 
 
 I in England have already 
 
 A sweet woman to my ■wife : 
 
 I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, 
 
 Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in 
 Spain." 
 
 " ! how happy is that woman 
 
 That enjoys so true a friend ! 
 Manj-- happy days God send her ! 
 
 Of my suit I make an end : 
 On my knees I pardon crave for my oflfence, 
 Which did from love, and true affection first 
 commence. 
 
 " Commend me to thy lovely lady. 
 Bear to her this chain of gold, 
 And these bracelets for a token ; 
 Grieving that I was so bold : 
 All my jewels in like sort take thou with 
 
 thee. 
 For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for 
 me. 
 
 " I will spend my days in prayer, 
 Love and all her laws defy ; 
 In a nunnery will I shroiid me. 
 
 Far from any company : 
 But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of 
 
 this, 
 To pray for thee and for thy love I Avill not 
 miss. 
 
 " Thus farewell, most gallant captain ! 
 Farewell too my heart's content! 
 Count not Spanish ladies wanton, 
 
 Though to thee my love was bent : 
 Joy and true prosperity go still Avith thee ! " 
 " The like fall ever to thy share, most fair 
 kdy!" 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 539.— THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. 
 
 *' wha will shoe my bonny foot ? 
 
 And wha vnll glove my hand ? 
 And wha will lace my middle jimp 
 
 Wi' a lang, lang linen band ? 
 
 " wha will kame my yellow hair, 
 With a new-made silver kame ? 
 
 And wha will father my young son. 
 Till Lord Gregory come hame ? " 
 
 " Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, 
 Thy mother wdll glove thy hand, 
 
 Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, 
 Till Lord Gregory come to land. 
 
 " Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair 
 With a new-made silver kame, 
 
 And God will be thy bairn's father 
 Till Lord Gregory come hame." 
 
 " But I will get a bonny boat, 
 
 And I will sail the sea ; — — 
 
 And I will gang to Lord Gregory, 
 Since he canna come hame to me." 
 
 Syne she's gar'd buUd a bonny boat. 
 
 To sail the salt, salt sea ; 
 The sails were o' the light green silk, 
 
 The tows o' taffety. 
 
 She hadna sailed but twenty leagues, 
 But twenty leagues and three, 
 
 When she met wV a rank robber, 
 And a' his company. 
 
 " Now whether are ye the queen her sell, 
 
 (For so ye weel might be,) 
 Or are ye the Lass of Lochroyan, 
 
 Seekin' Lord Gregory." 
 
 "01 am neither the queen," she said, 
 
 " Nor sic I seem to be, 
 But I am the Lass of Lochroyan, 
 
 Seekin' Lord Gregory." 
 
 " O see na thou yon bonny bower. 
 
 It's a' covered o'er wi' tin ? 
 When thou hast sailed it round about, 
 
 Lord Gregory is within." 
 
 And when she saw the stately tower 
 
 Shining sae clear and bright, 
 "Wliilk stood aboon the jawing wave, 
 
 Built on a rock of height ; 
 
 Says — " Eow the boat, my mariners, 
 
 And bring me to the land ! 
 For yonder I see my love's castle 
 
 Close by the salt-sea strand." 
 
 She sailed it round, and sailed it round, 
 
 And loud, loud cried she — 
 " Now break, now break, ye fairy charms. 
 
 And set my true love free ! " 
 
 She's ta'en her young son in her arms. 
 
 And to the door she's gane : 
 And long she knocked, and sair she ca'd, 
 
 But answer got she nane. 
 
 " open the door. Lord Gregory ! 
 
 open and lot me in ! 
 For the wind blows through my yellow 
 hair. 
 
 And the rain draps o'er my chin." 
 
 " Awa, awa, ye ill woman ! 
 
 Ye're no come here for good ! 
 Ye're but some witch, or wil warlock, 
 
 Or mermaid o' the flood." 
 
 " I am neither witch, nor wil warlock, 
 
 Nor mermaid o' the sea ; 
 But I am Annie of Lochroyan ; 
 
 O open the door to me ! " 
 
 <2l 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE LASS OF LOCHEOYAN. 
 
 [Third Period. 
 
 " Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan, 
 
 (As I trow thou binna she,) 
 Now tell me some o' the love tokens 
 
 That past between thee and me." 
 
 " dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory, 
 
 As we sat at the wine, 
 We changed the rings frae our fingers. 
 
 And I can show thee thine ? 
 
 " O yours was gude, and gude enough, 
 
 But aye the best was mine ; 
 For yours was o' the gude red gowd, 
 
 But mine o' the diamond fine. 
 
 " And has na thou mind, Lord Gregory, 
 
 As we sat on the hill, 
 Thou twined me o' my maidenheid 
 
 Eight sair against my will ? 
 
 " Now, open the door, Lord Gregory, 
 
 Open the door, I pray I 
 For thy young son is in my arms, 
 
 And will be dead ere day." 
 
 *' If thou be the Lass o' Lochroyan, 
 
 (As I kenna thou be,) 
 Tell me some mair o' the love tokens 
 
 Past between me and thee." 
 
 Fair Annie turned her round about— 
 
 " Weel ! since that it be sae, 
 May never a woman that has borne a son, 
 
 Hae a heart sae fou o' wae ! 
 
 " Take down, take down, that mast o' gowd ! 
 
 Set up a mast o' tree ! 
 It disna become a forsaken lady 
 
 To sail sae royallie." 
 
 "When the cock had crawn, and the day did 
 dawn. 
 
 And the sun began to peep, 
 Then up and raise him Lord Gregory, 
 
 And sair, sair did he weep. 
 
 " Oh I hae dreamed a dream, mother, 
 
 I wish it may prove true ! 
 That the bonny Lass o' Lochroyan 
 
 Was at the gate e'en now. 
 
 "01 hae dreamed a dream, mother, 
 The thought o't gars me greet ! 
 
 That fair Annie o' Lochroyan 
 Lay cauld dead at my feet." 
 
 " Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan 
 
 That ye make a' this din, 
 She stood a' last night at your door, 
 
 But I true she wad na in." 
 
 *' wae betide ye, ill woman ! 
 
 An ill deid may ye die ! 
 That wadna open the door to her, 
 
 Nor yet wad waken me." 
 
 O he's gane down to yon shore side 
 
 As fast as he could fare ; 
 He saw fair Annie in the boat, 
 
 But the wind it tossed her sair. 
 
 "And hey, Annie, and how, Annie, 
 
 O Annie, winna ye bide ! " 
 But aye the mair he cried Annie, 
 
 The braider grew the tide. 
 
 " And hey, Annie, and how, Annie ! 
 
 Dear Annie, speak to me ! " 
 But aye the louder he cried Annie, 
 
 The louder roared the sea. 
 
 The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough. 
 And dashed the boat on shore ; 
 
 Fair Annie floated through the faem. 
 But the babie rose no more. 
 
 Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair, 
 
 And made a heavy moan ; 
 Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, 
 
 Her bonny young son was gone. 
 
 O cherry, cherry was her cheek, 
 
 And go w den was her hair ; 
 But clay-cold were her rosy lips — 
 
 Nae spark o' life was there. 
 
 And first he kissed her cherry cheek, 
 And syne he kissed her chin, 
 
 And syne he kissed her rosy lips- 
 There was nae breath within. 
 
 " wae betide my cruel mother ! 
 
 An ill death may she die ! 
 She turned my true love frae my door, 
 
 Wha came sae far to me. 
 
 " O wae betide my cruel mother ! 
 
 An ill death may she die ! 
 She turned fair Annie frae my door, 
 
 "VX^a died for love o' me." 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
THE FOURTH PERIOD, 
 
 FROM 1649 TO 1689. 
 
 a npHE forty years comprehended in this period," says Chambers, in his admirable 
 X " Cyclopedia of Enghsh Literature," " produced some great names ; but considering 
 the mighty events which then agitated the country, and must have influenced the national 
 feelings — such as the abolition of the ancient monarchy of England, and the establishment of 
 the Commonwealth — there was less change in the taste and literature of the nation than might 
 have been anticipated. Authors were still a select class, and literature, the delight of the 
 learned and ingenious, had not become food for the multitude. The chivalrous and romantic 
 spirit which prevailed in the reign of Elizabeth, had even, before her death, begun to yield to 
 more sober and practical views of human life and society : a spirit of inquiry was fast 
 spreading among the people. The long period of peace under James, and the progress of 
 commerce, gave scope to domestic improvement, and fostered the reasoning faculties and 
 mechanical powers, rather than the imagination. The reign of Charles I., a prince of taste 
 and accomplishments, partially revived the style of the Elizabethan era, but its lustre ex- 
 tended little beyond the court and the nobility. During the civil war and the protectorate, 
 poetry and the drama were buried under the strife and anxiety of contending factions. Crom- 
 well, with a just and generous spirit, boasted that he would make the name of an Englishman 
 as great as ever that of a Roman had been. He realized his wish in the naval victories of 
 Blake, and the unquestioned supremacy of England abroad ; but neither the time nor inclina- 
 tion of the Protector permitted him to be a patron of literature. Charles II, was better fitted 
 for such a task, by natural powers, birth, and education ; but he had imbibed a false and 
 perverted taste, which, added to his indolent and sensual disposition, was as injurious to art 
 and literature as to the public morals. Poetry declined from the date of the Eestoration, and 
 was degraded from a high and noble art to a mere courtly amusement, or pander to immorality. 
 The whole atmosphere of genius was not, however, tainted by this public degeneracy. Science 
 was assiduously cultivated, and to this period belong some of the proudest triumphs of English 
 poetry, learning, and philosophy. Milton produced his long-cherished epic, the greatest poem 
 which our language can boast ; Butler his inimitable burlesque of Hudibras ; and Dryden his 
 matchless satire and versification. In the department of divinity, Jeremy Taylor, Barrow, 
 and Tillotson, laid the sufe foundations of Protestantism, and the best defences of revealed 
 religion. In spectdative philosophy, we have the illustrious name of Locke ; in history and 
 polite literature. Clarendon, Burnet, and Temple. In this period, too, Bunyan composed his 
 inimitable religious allegory, and gave the first conspicuous example of native force of mind 
 and powers of imagination rising successful over all the obstructions caused by a low station 
 in life, and a miserably defective education. The world has never been, for any length of 
 time, without some great men to guide and illuminate the onward course of society ; and, 
 happily, some of them were found at this period to serve as beacons to their contemporaries 
 and to all future ages." 
 
 Professor Spalding, in reference to this i)eriod and a few years afterwards, states 
 that "whether we have regard to the political, the moral, or the literary state of the 
 nation, England resembled a fine antique garden neglected and falling into decay. A 
 few patriarchal trees still rose green and stately; a few chance-sown flowers began to 
 blossom in the shade : but lawn, and parterre, and alley were matted with noisome weeds, 
 and the stagnant waters breathed out pestilential damps. When, after the Eevolution, the 
 attempt was made to re-introduce order and productiveness, many of the wild plants were 
 allowed still to encumber the ground ; and there were compartments which, worn out by the 
 rank vegetation they had borne, became, for a time, altogether barren. In a word, the 
 "Restoration brou<i:lit in evils of all kinds, many of which lingered through the age that 
 succeeded, and others were not eradicated for several generations. ' oi# 
 
THE FOURTH PEEIOD.—FEOM 1649—1689. 
 
 " Of all the social mischiefs of the time, none infected literature so deeply as that deprava- 
 tion of morals into which the court and the aristocracy plunged, and into which so many of the 
 people followed them. The lighter kinds of composition mirrored faithfully the surrounding 
 blackness. The drama sank to a frightful grossness : the tone of thinking was lowered also 
 in other walks of poetry. The coarseness of speech survived the close of the century : the 
 cool, selfish, calculating spirit, which had been the more tolerable form of the degradation, 
 survived, though in a mitigated degree, very much longer. This bad morality was in part 
 attributable to a second characteristic of the time, which produced, likewise, other consequences. 
 The reinstated courtiers imported a mania for foreign models, especially French. The favourite 
 literary works, instead of continuing to obey native and natural impulses, were anxiously 
 moulded on the tastes of Paris. This prevalence of exotic predilections endured for more 
 that a century. Amidst all these and other weaknesses and blots, there was not wanting either 
 strength or brightness. The literary career of Dryden covers the whole of our period, and 
 marks a change which contained improvement in several features. Locke was the leader of 
 philosophical speculation ; and mathematical and physical science, little dependent on the 
 political or moral state of the times, had its active band of distinguished votaries headed by 
 Newton : — 
 
 " ' a mind for ever 
 Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.' 
 
 That philosophy and science did not even then neglect goodness or despise religion, is proved 
 by the names which we have last read ; and in many other quarters there were uttered, though 
 to inattentive ears, stern protests against evil, which have echoed from age to age, till they 
 reached ourselves. Those voices issued from not a few of the high places of the Church ; and 
 others were lifted up, sadly but firmly, in the midst of persecution. The Act of Uniformity, 
 by silencing the Puritan clergy, actually gave to the ablest of them a greater power at the 
 time, and a power which, but for this, would not so probably have bequeathed to us any record. 
 The Nonconformists wrote and printed when they were forbidden to speak. A younger gene- 
 ration was growing up among them ; and some of the elder race still survived — such as the 
 fiery Baxter, the calm Owen, and the prudent Calamy. Greatest of all, and only now reaching 
 the climax of his strength, Milton sat in the narrow chamber of his neglected old age, bating 
 no jot of hope, yielding no point of honesty, abjuring no word or syllable of faith, but consoling 
 himself for the disappointments which had darkened a weary life, by consecrating its waning 
 years, with redoubled ardour of devotion, to religion, to truth, and to the service of a remote 
 posterity.'* 
 
 BIOGHAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 ABEAHAIVI COWLEY. 
 
 In Allan's " Select Works of the British 
 Poets," we have the following : " Abraham 
 Cowley, a poet of considerable distinction, was 
 bom at London, in 1618. His father, who was 
 a grocer by trade, died before his birth ; but 
 his mother, through the interest of her friends, 
 procured his admission into Westminster 
 school, as a king's scholar. He has repre- 
 sented himself so deficient in memory, as to 
 have been unable to retain the common rules 
 of grammar : it is, however, certain that, by 
 some process, he became an elegant and correct 
 classical scholar. He early imbibed a taste for 
 poetry ; and so soon did it germinate in his 
 youthful mind, that, while yet at school, in his 
 fifteenth or sixteenth year, he published a collec- 
 tion of verses, under the appropriate titlje of 
 ' Poetical Blossoms.' 
 
 ." In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity 
 college, Cambridge. In this favourable situa- 
 tion he obtained much praise for his academ- 
 ical exercises ; and he again appeared as an 
 author, in a pastoral comedy, caUed ' Love's 
 Eiddle,' and a Latin comedy, entitled, ' Nau- 
 fragium Joculare ' ; the last of which was 
 acted before the university, by the members 
 of Trinity college. He continued to reside at 
 Cambridge till 1643, and was a Master of 
 Arts when he was ejected from the university 
 by the puritanical visitors. He thence re- 
 moved to Oxford, and fixed himself in St. 
 John's college. It was here that he engaged 
 actively in the royal cause, and was present 
 in several of the king's journeys and expedi- 
 tions, but in what quality does not appear. 
 He ingratiated himself, however, with the 
 principal persons about the court, and was . 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL ^'0■^CES. 
 
 particularly honoured with the friendship of 
 Lord Falkland. 
 
 " When the events of the war obliged the 
 queen-mother to quit the kingdom, Cowley 
 accompanied her to France, and obtained a 
 settlement at Paris, in the family of the Earl 
 or St. Alban's. During an absence of nearly 
 ten years from his native country, he took 
 various journeys into Jersey, Scotland, Hol- 
 land, and Flanders ; and it was principally 
 through his instrumentality that a corre- 
 spondence Avas maintained between the king 
 and his consort. The business of cypher- 
 ing and decyphering their letters was en- 
 trusted to his care, and often occupied 
 his nights, as well as his days. It is no 
 wonder that, after the Restoration, ho long 
 complained of the neglect with which he was 
 treated. In 1656, having no longer any 
 affairs to transact abroad, he returned to 
 England ; still, it is supposed, engaged in the 
 service of his party, as a medium of secret 
 intelligence. Soon after his arrival, he pub- 
 lished an edition of his poems, containing 
 most of those which now appear in his works. 
 In a search for another person, he was appre- 
 hended by the messengers of the ruling powers, 
 and committed to custody ; from which he 
 was liberated, by that generous and learned 
 physician, Dr. Scarborough, who bailed him 
 in the sum of a thousand pounds. This, 
 however, was possibly the sum at which he 
 was rated as a physician, a character he 
 assumed by virtue of a degree which he 
 obtained, by mandamus, from Oxford, in 
 December, 1657, 
 
 "After the death of Cromwell, Cowley re- 
 turned to France, and resumed his station 
 as an agent in the royal cause, the hopes of 
 which now began to revive. The Restoration 
 reinstated him, with other royalists, in his 
 own country ; and ho naturally expected a 
 reward for his long services. He had been 
 promised, both by Charles I. and Charles II., 
 the Mastership of the Savoy, but was unsuccess- 
 ful in both his applications. He had also the 
 misfortune of displeasing his party, by his 
 revived comedy of The Cutter of Coleman- 
 street,' which was construed as a satire on 
 the cavaliers. At length, through the interest 
 of the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of 
 St. Alban's, he obtained a lease of a farm at 
 Chertsey, held under the queen, by which his 
 income was raised to about .£300 per annum. 
 From early youth a country retirement Jiad 
 been a real or imaginary object of his 
 wishes; and, though a late eminent critic 
 and moralist, who had himself no sensibility 
 to rural pleasures, treats this taste with 
 severity and ridicule, there seems little reason 
 to decry a propensity, nourished by the 
 favourite strains of poets, and natural to a 
 mind long tossed by the anxieties of business, 
 and the vicissitudes of an unsettled condition. 
 
 " Cowley took up his abode first at Barn- 
 elms, on the banks of the Thames ; but this 
 
 place not agreeing with his health, he removed 
 to Chertsey. Here his life was soon brought 
 to a close. According to his biographer, 
 Dr. Sprat, the fatal disease was an affection 
 of the lungs, the consequence of staying too 
 late in the fields among his labourers. _ Dr. 
 Warton, however, from the authority of 
 Mr. Spence. gives a different account of the 
 matter. He says, that Cowley, with his 
 friend Sprat, paid a visit on foot to a 
 gentleman in the neighbourhood of Chertsey, 
 which they prolonged, in free conviviality, 
 till midnight ; and that missing their way on 
 their return, they were obliged to pass the 
 night under a hedge, which gave to the poet 
 a severe cold and fever, which terminated in 
 i his death. He died on July 28, 1667, and 
 was interred, with a most honourable attendance 
 of persons of distinction, in Westminster- 
 abbey, near the remains of Chaucer and Spen- 
 ser. King Charles II. pronounced his eulogy, 
 by declaring, ' that Mr. Cowley had not left 
 a better man behind him in England.' 
 
 "At the time of his death, Cowley certainly 
 ranked as the first poet in England; for 
 Milton lay under a cloud, nor was the age 
 qualified to taste him. And although a large 
 portion of Cowley's celebrity has since 
 vanished, there still remains enough to raise 
 him to a considerable rank among the 
 British poets. It may be proper here to 
 add, that as a prose-writer, particularly in 
 the department of essays, there are few 
 who can compare with him in elegant 
 simpUcity," See Baxter's Prefatory Address 
 to his "Poetical Fragments"; Dr. Johnson's 
 " Lives of the English Poets " ; Macaulay's 
 "Miscellanies"; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit."; Dr. Angus's "Handbook of 
 English Lit." ; Chambers's " Cycl. Eng. Lit." 
 
 BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 He was by far the greatest writer of the 
 Anglican Church at this period. Shaw thus 
 speaks the unanimous opinion of all scholars 
 and all Christian men and women. "He 
 was of good but decayed family, his father 
 having .exercised the humble calling of a 
 barber at Cambridge, where his illustrious 
 son was born in 1613. The boy received a 
 sound education at the Grammar- School 
 founded by Perse, then recently opened in 
 that town, and afterwards studied at Caius 
 College, where his talents and learning soon 
 made him conspicuous. He took holy orders 
 at an unusually early age, and is said to have 
 attracted by his youthful eloquence, and by 
 his ' graceful and pleasant air,' the notice of 
 Archbishop Laud, the celebrated Primate and 
 Minister, to whose narrow-minded bigotry and 
 tyrannical indifference to the state of religious 
 opinion among his countrymen so much of the 
 confusion of those days is to be ascribed. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period.— 
 
 Laud, wlio was struck with Taylor's merits at 
 a sermon preached by the latter, made the 
 young priest one of his chaplains, and pro- 
 cured for him a fellowship in All Souls College, 
 Oxford. His career during the Civil War 
 bears some resemblance to that of Fuller, 
 but he stood higher in the favour of the 
 Cavaliers and the Court. He served, as 
 chaplain, in the Eoyalist army, and was taken 
 prisoner in 1644 at the action fought under 
 the walls of Cardigan Castle ; but he confesses 
 that on this occasion, as well as on several 
 others when he fell into the power of the 
 triumphant party of the Parliament, he was 
 treated with generosity and indulgence. Such 
 traits of mutual forbearance, during the heat of 
 civil strife, are honourable to both parties 
 and as refreshing as they are rare. Our 
 great national struggle, however, offered 
 many instances of such noble magnanimity. 
 The King's cause growing desperate, Taylor at 
 last retired from it, and Charles, on taking 
 leave of him, made him a present of his watch. 
 Taylor then placed himself under the protec- 
 tion of his friend Lord Carbery, and resided 
 for some time at the seat of Golden Grove, 
 belonging to that nobleman, in Carmarthen- 
 shire. Taylor was twice married; first to 
 Phoebe Langdale, who died early, and after- 
 wards to Joanna Bridges, a natural daughter 
 of Charles L, with whom he received some 
 fortune. He was unhappy in his children, 
 his two sons having been notorious for their 
 profligacy, and he had the sorrow of surviving 
 them both. During part of the time which 
 he passed in retirement, Taylor kept a 
 school in Wales, and continued to take an 
 active part in the religious controversies of 
 the day. The opinions he expressed were 
 naturally distasteful to the dominant party, 
 and on at least three occasions subjected him 
 to imprisonment and sequestrations at the 
 hands of the Government. In 1658, for 
 example, he was for a short time incarcerated 
 in the Tower, and on his liberation migrated 
 to Ireland, where he performed the pastoral 
 functions at Lisbum. On the Restoration 
 his services and sacrifices were rewarded with 
 the Bishopric of Down and Connor, and 
 during the short time he held that preferment 
 he exhibited the brightest qualities that can 
 adorn the episcopal dignity. He died at 
 Lisburn of a fever, in 1667, and left behind 
 him a high reputation for courtesy, charity, 
 and zeal — aU the virtues of a Christian 
 Bishop. 
 
 "Taylor's works are very numerous and 
 varied in subject : I will content myseK with 
 mentioning the principal, and then endeavour 
 to give a general appreciation of his genius. 
 In the controversial department his best-known 
 work is the treatise ' On the Liberty of Prophe- 
 sying,' which must be understood to refer to 
 the general profession of religious principles 
 and the right of all Christians to toleration in 
 the exercise of their worship. This book is 
 
 the first complete and systematic defence of 
 the great principle of religious toleration ; and 
 in it Taylor shows how contrary it is not only 
 to the spirit of Christianity but even to the 
 true interests of government to interfere with 
 the profession and practice of religious sects. 
 Of course the argument, though of universal 
 application, was intended by Taylor to secure 
 indulgence for what had once been the domin- 
 ant Church of England, but which was now 
 proscribed and persecuted by the rampant 
 violence of the sectarians. An ' Apology for 
 Fixed' and Set Forms of Worship,' was an 
 elaborate defence of the noble ritual of the 
 Anglican Church, Among his works of a 
 disciplinary and practical tendency I may 
 mention his ' Life of Christ, the Great Exem- 
 plar,' in which the details scattered through 
 the Evangelists and the Fathers are co- 
 ordinated in a continuous narrative. But the 
 most popular of Taylor's writings are the two 
 admirable treatises, ' On the Rule and Exercise 
 of Holy Living,' and ' On the Rule and 
 Exercise of Holy Dying,' which mutually 
 correspond to and complete each other, and 
 which form an Institute of Christian life and 
 conduct, adapted to every conceivable circum- 
 stance and relation of human existence. This 
 devotional work has enjoyed in England a 
 popularity somewhat similar to that of the 
 ' Imitation of Jesus Christ,' among Catholics ; 
 a popularity it deserves for a similar eloquence 
 and unction. The least adjoiirable of his 
 numerous writings, and his only one . in 
 which he derogated from Ms usual tone of 
 courtesy and fairness, was his ' Ductor 
 Dubitantium,' a treatise of questions of casu- 
 istry. His ' Sermons ' are very numerous, 
 and are among the most eloquent, learned, 
 and powerful that the whole rang;e of Protes- 
 tant — nay, the whole range of Christian — 
 — ^literature has produced. As in his character, 
 so in his writings, Taylor is the ideal of an 
 Anglican pastor. Our Church itself being 
 middle terra or compromise between the 
 gorgeous formalism of Catholicism and the 
 narrow fanaticism of Calvinistic theology, 
 so our great ecclesiastic writers exhibit the 
 union of consummate learning with practical 
 simplicity and fervour. 
 
 "Taylor's style, though occasionally over- 
 charged with erudition and marked by that 
 abuse of quotation which disfigures a great 
 deal of the prose of that age, is uniformly 
 magnificent. The materials are drawn from 
 the whole range of profane as well as sacred 
 literature, and are fused together into a rich 
 and gorgeous unity by the fire of an amequalled 
 imagination. No prose is more melodious 
 than that of this great writer; his periods, 
 though often immeasurably long, and evolving, 
 in a series of subordinate clauses and illus- 
 trations, a train of images and comparisons, 
 one springing out of another, roll on with a 
 soft yet mighty swell, which has often some- 
 thing of the enchantment of verse. He has 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 been called by the critic Jeffrey, ' the most 
 Shaksperian of ovir great divines'; but it 
 would be more appropriate to compare him 
 with Spenser. He has the same pictorial 
 fancy, the same voluptuous and languishing 
 harmony ; but if he can in any respect be Hkened 
 to Shakspere, it is firstly in the vividness of 
 intellect which leads him to follow, digressively, 
 the numberless secondary ideas that spring 
 up as he writes, and often lead him apparently 
 far away from his point of departure, and, 
 secondly, the preference he shows for drawing 
 his illustrations from the simplest and most 
 familiar objects, from the opening rose, the 
 infant streamlet, 'the little rings and wanton 
 tendrils of the vine,' the morning song of the 
 soaring lark, or the ' fair cheeks and full eyes 
 of childliood.' Like Shakspere, too, he knows 
 how to paint the terrible and the sublime no 
 less than the tender and the affecting ; and 
 his description of the horrors of the Judgment- 
 Day is no less powerful than his exquisite 
 portraiture of married love. Nevertheless, 
 with Spenser's sweetness he has occasionally 
 something of the luscious and enervate languor 
 of Spenser's style. He had studied the 
 Fathers so intensely that ho had become 
 infected with something of that lavish and 
 Oriental imagery which many of those great 
 writers exhibited — many of whom, it should 
 be remembered, were Orientals not only in 
 their style, but in their origin. Taking his 
 personal character and his writings together, 
 Jeremy Taylor may be called the English 
 Fenelon ; but in venturing to make this 
 parallel, we must not forget that each of these 
 excellent ^vriters and admirable men possessed 
 the characteristic features of his respective 
 country; if Fenelon' s productions, like those 
 of Taylor, are distinguished by their sweet- 
 ness, that sweetness is allied in the former to 
 the neat, clear, precise expression which the 
 French literature derives not only from the 
 classical origin of the language, but from the 
 antique writers who have always been set up 
 as models for French imitation ; while Jeremy 
 Taylor, with a sweetness not inferior, owes 
 that quality to the same rich and poetic 
 susceptibility to natural beauty that gives 
 «nch a matchless colouring to the English 
 poetry of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
 centuries." 
 
 HENRY VAUGHAN. 
 
 " Vaughan was bom in Wales, on the banks 
 of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, in 1614. His 
 father was a gentleman, but, we presume, 
 poor, as his son was bred to a profession. 
 Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and 
 then a physician ; and we suppose, had it not 
 been for his advanced life, he would have 
 become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, 
 when old, exceedingly devout. In life, he was 
 
 not fortunate, and we find him, like Chamber- 
 layne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of 
 the poetical tribe. In 1651, he published a 
 volume of verse, in which nascent excellence 
 struggles with dim obscurities, like a young 
 moon with heavy clouds. But his 'Silex 
 Scintillans,' or ' Sacred Poems,' produced in 
 later life, attests at once the depth of his 
 devotion, and the truth and originality of his 
 genius. He died in 1695. 
 
 " Campbell, always prone to be rather severe 
 on pious poets, and whose taste, too, was 
 finical at times, says of Vaughan — *He 
 is one of the harshest even of the inferior 
 order of the school of conceit; but he has 
 some few scattered thoughts that meet the 
 eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers 
 on a barren heath.' Surely this 'is rather 
 'harsh' judgment. At the same time, it is 
 not a little laughable to find that Campbell 
 has himself appropriated one of these ' wild 
 flowers.' In his beautiful 'Ainbow,' he 
 cries — 
 
 ' How came the world's gray fathers 
 forth 
 To mark thy sacred sign ! ' 
 
 Vaughan had said — 
 
 ' How bright wert thou when Shem's 
 
 admiring eye 
 Thy burnished flaming arch did first 
 
 descry ; 
 "When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abraham, 
 
 .Lot, 
 The youthful world's gray fathers in one 
 
 knot, 
 Did with intentive looks watch every 
 
 hour 
 For thy new light, and trembled at each 
 
 shower ! ' 
 
 Indeed, all Campbell's 'Eainbow' is just 
 a reflection of Vaughan' s, and reminds you of 
 those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly 
 bow you sometimes see in the darkened and 
 disarranged skies of spring. To steal from, 
 and then strike down, the victim, is more 
 suitable to robbers than to poets. 
 
 " Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan 
 may be found in the title of his own poems, 
 ' Silex ScintiUans.' He had a good deal of the 
 dulness and hardness of the flint about his 
 mind, but the influence of poverty and 
 suffering, — for true it is that 
 
 ' Wretched men 
 Are cradled into poetry by wrong ; 
 They learn in suffering what they teach 
 in song,' — 
 
 and latterly the power of a genuine, though 
 somewhat narrow piety, struck out glorious 
 scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He 
 ranks with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as 
 one of the best of our early religious poets ; 
 like them in their faults, and superior to all 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period. 
 
 of them in refinement and beauty, if not in 
 strength of genius." — Gilfillan's " Specimens 
 with Memoirs of the Less-known British 
 Poets," vol. ii., pp. 231-2. See E. Aris 
 Willmott's " Lives of the Sacred Poets " ; Dr. 
 Angus's "Handbook of Eng. Lit." 
 
 THOMAS STANLEY. 
 
 Thomas Stanley, born 1625, died 1678, the 
 learned editor of iEschylus, and author of 
 the " History of Philosophy." He made 
 poetical versions of considerable neatness 
 from Anacreon, Bion, and Moschus, and the 
 "Kisses" of Secundus. He also translated 
 from Tristan, Marino, Boscan, and Gongora. 
 Campbell's " Spec. Eng. Poets," p. 267. 
 
 EICHAED BAXTEE. 
 
 Eichard Baxter, born 1615, died 1691. We 
 cannot do better than give the admirable 
 article on this great and good man, written 
 by the Eev. Dr. Angus in the " Handbook of 
 English Literature," 
 
 " Baxter was born in Shropshire, and was 
 educated in the free school of Wroxeter, and 
 afterwards under the care of Mr. Wickstead, 
 of Ludlow. There, a large library was ac- 
 cessible to him — the only advantage he seems 
 to have gained from Mr. Wickstead' s tuition. 
 After receiving ordination from the Bishop of 
 Worcester, he obtained employment as school- 
 master at Dudley, and there he preached his 
 first sermon. He was never at college : like 
 Erasmus and Scaliger, and Andrew Fuller 
 and Carey, he was his own teacher : ' my 
 faults,' said ho to Anthony Wood, who had 
 written to ask whether he was an Oxonian, 
 ' are no disgrace to any university, for I was 
 of none : weakness and pain helped me to 
 study how to die : that set me on studying 
 how to live, and that on studying the doctrine 
 from which I must fetch my motives and 
 comforts : beginning with necessities, I pro- 
 ceeded by degrees, and am now going to see 
 that for which I have lived and studied.' To 
 feeble health and protracted suffering he was 
 indebted for much of his earnestness and 
 wisdom. 
 
 " In 1640 he removed to Kidderminster, 
 where he laboured, with a slight interruption 
 caused by the Civil War, for sixteen years. 
 In that town ho illustrated by his life his 
 own book, ' The Eeformed Pastor,' ' teaching 
 men from house to house,' and warning them 
 day and night with tears : his memory is still 
 fragrant there. 
 
 " At the outset of the Civil War he sided 
 on the whole with the parKament : more 
 
 accurately he may be said to have been the 
 friend of the Constitution, against both the 
 great parties, and, as might have been ex- 
 pected, he was blamed by both. After the 
 battle of Edgehill, during which he was 
 preaching for his friend Samuel Clarke, of 
 Alcester, he accepted the chaplaincy of Colonel 
 Whalley's regiment, and continued to discharge 
 the duties of his office with earnestness and 
 popularity. He soon found it, however, no 
 congenial post : he distrusted Cromwell, and 
 was grieved with the narrow views of some of 
 the leaders. At length his health failed : ' it 
 pleased God to take him from all public em- 
 ployments.' The leisure which his illness 
 secured him he used in collecting and writing 
 down his thoughts of that country upon the 
 borders of which he seemed to stand. How 
 touching is the whole scene ! The wo i en- 
 feebled man gathers up his feet expecting to 
 die; the din of battle is still in his ears, 
 around him is a suffering country and a dis- 
 tracted Church : he turns his thoughts to the 
 better land. The whole picture is a repetition 
 of the Pilgrim's visit to the Delectable Moun- 
 tains, where the eye could trace the outlines 
 of the New Jerusalem, and the ear already 
 caught the music of the harping of the many 
 harpers. The sights he saw and the sounds 
 he heard he has recorded in the ' Saint's 
 Everlasting Eest,' one of the most useful and 
 popular of his works. 
 
 " Soon after this illness he visited London 
 for medical advice, and preached before the 
 Parliament on the day preceding the vote that 
 was to bring back King Charles. At the 
 Eestoration he was offered a bishopric, but 
 felt compelled, on conscientious grounds, to 
 decline it. He preached for some time under 
 the protection of a licence granted by Sheldon, 
 and at length a chapel was built for him in 
 Oxendon Street : there he ministered but 
 once, when the arm of the law closed the 
 place. Under the various Acts of Parliament 
 passed in the reign of Charles II. he was 
 several times imprisoned, his library was 
 sold, and he was driven, a feeble aged man, 
 from place to place, without a home. In 
 1685 he was, on frivolous grounds, condemned 
 by the infamous Jeffreys for sedition, but by 
 the king's favour the fine inflicted by the 
 sentence was remitted. The last years of his 
 life were spent more peacefully : he died 
 in Charter-house Yard, in 1691, reckoning 
 among his personal friends Barrow, Wilkins, 
 and Hale. A few years after his death there 
 was published ' A Narrative of the most Me- 
 morable Passages of his Life and Times,' a 
 highly instructive volume, and a great 
 favourite with Dr. Johnson and with Coleridge, 
 both of whom praise its sincerity and sub- 
 stantial truthfulness. 
 
 " Besides the works already mentioned, 
 Baxter is the author of ' A Call to the Un- 
 converted to Turn and Live,' one of the most 
 impressive volumes ever written : twenty 
 
F.'O'.n 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 thousand copies are said to have been sold 
 in the first year after it was published. 
 
 " Baxter's example is one of the most in- 
 structive in our literature. With him activity 
 was a passion. Sometimes the devoted friend, 
 oftener the victim, of the ruling powers, he 
 was at the same time a voluminous writer 
 and a laborious pastor. Three-and-twenty 
 octavo volumes of practical writings, such, 
 Barrow says, as were ijever mended, forty 
 more of controversy and personal history, 
 attest his diligence in one department ; hun- 
 dreds of visits paid to his parishioners, and 
 prolonged conversations with each of them, 
 attest it in another. He did the work of a 
 city missionary at Kidderminster, and wrote 
 more pages than many students now read. 
 
 '• And all this was done amid great bodily 
 weakness. Ho entered the ministry with 
 what would now be called the symptoms of a 
 confirmed consumption : he seemed ever living 
 upon the brink of the grave. Great energy 
 or noble achievement was hardly to be looked 
 for from such a suiferer : had he spent his 
 time in telling his ailments, had he even re- 
 tired from the field to the hospital, it would 
 be ea^y to find circumstances to excuse, if not 
 to justify, such a course. But instead of 
 yielding to selfish complaint or valetudinarian 
 indolence, he manfully held on his way, a 
 cheerful traveller to the very close. ' In 
 deaths oft ' he was also ' in labours more 
 abundaTit.' There is a shorter road to repose 
 amid bodily afflictions than talking of them, 
 and that road Baxter found. 
 
 " His books have been warmly praised by 
 Flavel and Usher, by Manton and Doddridge, 
 by Addison and Johnson. Wilberforce deemed 
 them ' a treasury of Christian wisdom,' and 
 the man himself among 'the highest orna- 
 ments of the Church of England.' The style 
 is one of the finest specimens of direct mas- 
 culine English, and is a model for all who 
 ^vish to talk to people instead of talking at 
 them or before them : eyery sentence strikes 
 home. His life, written by Orme, has been 
 prefixed to the last collected edition of his 
 practical works, and a genial review of his 
 character and labours may be seen in the 
 ' Essays ' of Sir James Stephen." 
 
 See an article in AUibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit." of very great merit, and which 
 places the subject in every point of view. All 
 we know of Baxter redounds to his praise : a 
 more godly man never lived. 
 
 ^ GEORGE DIGBY. 
 
 George Digby, Earl of Bristol, bom 1612, 
 died 1676. His father was first ambassador to 
 Spain, and our poet was born at Madrid. He 
 seems to have published speeches ; " Elvira," 
 a comedy, and a few other works. Horace 
 
 Walpole says of him that he was " a singular 
 person, whose life was a contradiction." See 
 Walpole' s "Eoyal and Noble Authors"; 
 "Athen. Oxon. " ; "Biog. Brit. " ; Bp. War- 
 burton's " Introduc. to Julian." 
 
 HENEY MORE. 
 
 Henry More, born 1614, died 1687. " Dr. 
 Henry More was the son of a respectable 
 gentleman at Grantham, in Lincolnshire. He 
 spent the better part of a long and intensely 
 studious life at Cambridge, refusing even the 
 mastership of his college, and several offers of 
 preferment in the Church, for the sake of un- 
 broken leisure and retirement. In 1640 he 
 composed his Psychozoia, or Life of the Soul, 
 wliich he afterwards republished with other 
 pieces, in a volume entitled ' Philosophical 
 Poems.' Before the appearance of the former 
 work he had studied the Platonic writers and 
 mystic divines, till his frame had become 
 emaciated, and his faculties had been strained 
 to such enthusiasm, that he began to talk of 
 holding supernatural communications, and 
 imagined that his body exhaled the perfume 
 of violets. With the exception of these 
 innocent reveries, his life and literary cha- 
 racter were highly respectable. He corre- 
 sponded with Des Cartes, was the friend of 
 Cud worth, and as a divine and moralist was 
 not only popular in his own time, but has 
 been mentioned with admiration both by 
 Addison and Blair. In the heat of rebellion 
 he was spared even by the fanatics, who, 
 though he refused to take the covenant, left 
 him to dream with Plato in his academic 
 bower. As a poet he has woven together a 
 singular texture of Gothic fancy and GrecK 
 philosophy, and made the Christiano-Platonic 
 system of metaphysics a ground-work for the 
 fables of the nursery. His versification, 
 though he tells us that he was won to the 
 Muses in his childhood by the melody of 
 Spenser, is but a faint echo of the Spenserian 
 tune. In fancy he is dark and lethargic. 
 Yet his ' Psychozoia ' is not a common-place 
 production : a certain solemnity and earnest- 
 ness in his tone leaves an impression that he 
 ' believed the magic wonders which he sung.' 
 His poetry is not, indeed, like a beautiful 
 landscape on which the eye can repose, but 
 may be compared to some curious grotto, 
 whose gloomy labyrinths we might be curious 
 to explore for the strange and mystic associa- 
 tions they excite." — Campbell's "Specimens," 
 p. 297. 
 
 SIR JOHN DENHAM. 
 
 Sir John Denham, bom 1615, died 1668. 
 " He was the son of the Chief Baron of the 
 Exchequer in Ireland, and a supporter of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Pebiod.- 
 
 Charles I. Thoug-li a poet of the secondary- 
 order, when regarded in connection with 
 Cowley, one work of his, * Cooper's Hill,' 
 will always occupy an important place in any 
 account of the English literature of the 
 seventeenth century. This place it owes not 
 only to its specific rsrits, but also in no mean 
 degree to the circumstance that this poem 
 was the first work in a peculiar department 
 which English writers afterwards cultivated 
 with great success, and which is, I believe, 
 almost exclusively confined to our literature. 
 This department is what may be called local 
 or topographic poetry, and in it the writer 
 chooses some indi\adual scene as the object 
 round which he is to accumulate his descrip- 
 tive or contemplative passages. Denham 
 selected for this, purpose a beautiful spot 
 near Richmond on the Thames, and in the 
 description of the scene itself, as well as in 
 the reflections it suggests, he has risen to a 
 noble elevation. Four lines, indeed, in which 
 he expresses the hope that his own verse may- 
 possess the qualities which he attributes to 
 the Thames, -will be quoted again and again 
 as one of the finest and most felicitous 
 passages of verse' in any language." — Shaw's 
 " Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 184-5. He was re- 
 garded with great esteem by Waller, Prior, 
 Dryden, Watson, and Johnson. 
 
 WILLIAM CHAMBEELAYNE. 
 
 William Chamberlayne, bom 1619, died 
 1689. Ho was a native of Dorsetshire, a 
 soldier, physician, and poet. He x)ublished 
 " Love's Victory," a tragi-comedy, in 1658. 
 A portion of this api^eared on the stage in 
 1678, under the title of " Wits Led by the 
 Nose, or a Poet's Revenge." In 1659 appeared 
 his " Pharonnida," a heroic poem. Campbell 
 writes of this work — 
 
 " His ' Pharonnida,' which Langbaine says 
 has nothing to recommend it, is one of the 
 most interesting stories that was ever told in 
 verse, and contained so much amusing matter 
 as to be made into a prose novel in the reign 
 of Charles II. What Dr. Johnson said 
 unjustly of Milton's Comus, that it was like 
 gold hid under a rock, may unfortunately be 
 applied with too much propriety to ' Pharon- 
 nida.' Never, perhaps, was so much beautiful 
 design in "poetry marred by infelicity of 
 execution: his ruggedness of versification, 
 abrupt transitions, and a style that is at once 
 slovenly and quaint, perpetually interrupt 
 in enjoying the splendid figures and spirited 
 passions of -fchis romantic tablet, and make us 
 catch them only by glimpses. I am well aware 
 that from a story so closely interwoven a few 
 selected passages, while they may be more 
 than sufficient to exemplify the faults, are not 
 
 enough to discover the full worth of Chamber- 
 layne. His sketches, already imperfect, must 
 appear still more so in the shape of frag- 
 ments; we must peruse the narrative itseK 
 to appreciate the rich breadth and variety of 
 its scenes, and we must perhaps accustom 
 our vision to the thick medium of its uncouth 
 style to enjoy the power and pathos of his 
 characters and situations. Under all the 
 defects of the poem, the reader will then 
 indeed feel its unfinished hints affect the heart 
 and dilate the imagination. From the fate 
 of ChamberlajTie a young poet may learn one 
 important lesson, that he who neglects the 
 subsidiary graces of taste has every chance of 
 being neglected by posterity, and that the 
 pride of genius must not prompt him to 
 disdain the study of harmony and of style." 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 " Edmund Waller, born at ColeshiU, Hert- 
 fordshire, in March, 1605, was the son of 
 Robert Waller, Esq., a gentleman of an ahcient 
 family and good fortune, who married a sister 
 of the celebrated John Hampden. The death 
 of his father during his infancy left him heir 
 to an estate of j63,500 a year, at that period 
 an ample fortune. He was educated first at 
 Eton, whence he was removed to King's 
 College, Cambridge. His election to Parlia- 
 ment was as early as between his sixteenth or 
 seventeenth year ; and it was not much later 
 that he made his appearance as a poet : and it 
 is remarkable tha,t a copy of verses which he 
 addressed to Prince Charles, in his eighteenth 
 3'ear, exhibits a style and character of versifi- 
 cation as perfectly formed as those of his 
 maturest productions. He again served in 
 Parliament before he was of age ; and he con- 
 tinued his services to a later i^eriod. Not 
 insensible of the value of wealth, he augmented 
 his paternal fortune by marriage with a rich 
 city heiress. In the long intermissions of 
 Parliament which occurred after 1628, he 
 retired to his mansion of Beaconsfield, where 
 he continued his classical studies, under the 
 direction of his kinsman Morley, afterwards 
 bishop of Winchester; and he obtained ad- 
 mission to a society of able men and poKte 
 scholars, of whom Lord Falkland was the con- 
 necting medium. 
 
 " Waller became a widower at the age of 
 twenty-five ; he did not, however, spend much 
 time in mourning, but declared himself the 
 suitor of Lady Dorothea Sydney, eldest 
 daughter of the Earl of Leicester, whom he 
 has immortalized under the poetical name of 
 Saccharissa, She is described by him as a 
 majestic and scornful beauty ; and he seems 
 to delight more in her contrast, the gentler 
 Amoret, who is supposed to have been a Lady 
 Sophia JMurray. Neither of these ladies, how- 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 ever, was won by his poetic strains ; and, like 
 another man, he consoled himself in a second 
 marriage. 
 
 " "When the king's necessities compelled 
 him, in 1640, once more to apply to the repre<- 
 sentatives of the people, "Waller, who was 
 returned for Agmondesham, decidedly took 
 part with the members who thought that the 
 redress of grievances should precede a vote 
 for supplies ; and he made an energetic speech 
 on the occasion. He continued during three 
 years to vote in general with the Opposition in 
 the Long Parliament, but did not enter into 
 all their measures. In particular, he employed 
 much cool argument against the proposal for 
 the abolition of Episcopacy; and he spoke 
 with freedom and severity against some other 
 plans of the House. In fact, he was at 
 length become a zealous loyalist in his inclina- 
 tions ; and his conduct under the difficulties 
 into which this attachment involved him 
 became a source of his indelible disgrace. A 
 short narrative will suffice for the elucidation 
 of this matter. 
 
 " Waller had a brother-in-law, named Tom- 
 kyns, who was clerk of the queen's council, 
 and possessed great influence in the city 
 among the warm loyalists. On consulting 
 together, they thought it would be possible to 
 raise a powerful party, which might oblige the 
 Parliament to adopt pacific measures, by re- 
 sisting the pajinent of the taxes levied for the 
 support of the war. About this time Sir 
 Nicholas Crispe formed a design of more 
 dangerous import, which was that of exciting 
 the king's friends in the city to an open 
 resistance of the authority of Parliament ; and 
 for that purpose he obtained a commission of 
 array from his majesty. This plan appears to 
 have been originally unconnected with the 
 other ; yet the commission was made known 
 to Waller and Tomkyns, and the whole was 
 compoimded into a horrid and dreadful plot. 
 Waller and TomkjTis were apprehended, when 
 the pusillanimity of the former disclosed the 
 whole secret. ' He was so confounded with 
 fear,' (says Lord Clarendon,) ' that he con- 
 fessed whatever he had heard, said, thought, 
 or seen, all that he knew of himself, and all 
 that he suspected of others, without concealing 
 any person, of what degree or quality soever, 
 •or any discourse which he had ever upon any 
 occasion entertained with them.* The con- 
 clusion of this business was, that Tomkyns, 
 and Chaloner, another conspirator, were 
 hanged, and that Waller was expelled the 
 House, tried, and condemned; but after a 
 year's imprisonment, and a fine of ten thou- 
 sand pounds, was suflFered to go into exile. 
 He chose Rouen for his first place of foreign 
 exile, where he hved with his wife till his 
 removal to Paris. In that capital he main- 
 tained the appearance of a man of fortune, 
 and entertained hospitably, supporting this 
 style of living chiefly by the sale of his wife's 
 jewels. At length, after the lapse of ten 
 
 years, being reduced to what he called his 
 rump jewel, he thought it time to apply for 
 permission to return to his own country. He 
 obtained this licence, and was also restored to 
 his estate, though now diminished to half its 
 former rental. Here he fixed his abode, at a 
 house built by himself, at Beaconsfield; and 
 he renewed his courtly strains by adulation to 
 Cromwell, now Protector, to whom his mother 
 was related. To this usurper the noblest 
 tribute of his mnse was paid. 
 
 "When Charles II. was restored to the 
 crown, and past character was lightly re- 
 garded, the stains of that of Waller were for- 
 gotten, and his wit and poetry procured him 
 notice at court, and admission to the highest 
 circles. He had also sufficient interest to 
 obtain a seat in the House of Commons in all 
 the parliaments of that reign. The king's 
 gracious manners emboldened him to ask for 
 the vacant place of provost of Eton College, 
 which was granted him ; but Lord Clarendon, 
 then Lord Chancellor, refused to set the seal 
 to the grant, alleging that by the statutes 
 laymen were excluded from that provostship. 
 This was thought the reason why Waller 
 joined the Duke of Buckingham in his hostility 
 against Clarendon. 
 
 " On the accession of James XL, Waller, then 
 in his 80th year, was chosen representative 
 for Saltash. Having now considerably passed 
 the usual limit of human life, he turned his 
 thoughts to devotion, and composed some 
 divine poems, the usual task in which men of 
 gaiety terminate their career. He died at 
 Beaconsfield in October, 1687, in the 83rd year 
 of his age. He left several children by his 
 second wife, of whom the inheritor of his 
 estate, Edmund, after representing Agmondes- 
 ham in Parhament, became a convert to 
 Quakerism. 
 
 " Waller was one of the earliest poets who 
 obtained reputation by the sweetness and 
 sonorousness of his strains ; and there are 
 perhaps few masters at the present day who 
 surpass him in this particular." — Aikin'a 
 "Select Works of the British Poets," pp. 142-3. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 " John Milton, a poet of the first rank in 
 eminence, was descended from an ancient 
 famUy, settled at Milton, in Oxfordshire. His 
 father, whose desertion of the Roman Catholic 
 faith was the cause of his disinheritance, 
 settled in London as a scrivener, o.nd marrying 
 a woman of good family, had two sons and a 
 daughter. John, the eldest son, was bom in 
 Bread Street, on December 9, 1608. He 
 received the rudiments of learning from a 
 domestic tutor, Thomas Young, afterwards 
 chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburg, 
 whose merits are gratefully commemorated by 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 his pnpil in a Latin elegy. At a proper age 
 he was sent to St. Paul's School, and there 
 began to distinguish himself by his intense 
 apphcation to study, as well as by his poetical 
 talents. In his sixteenth year he was re- 
 moved to Christ's College, Cambridge, where 
 he was admitted a pensioner, under the tuition 
 of Mr. W. Chappel. 
 
 " Of his course of studies in the university, 
 little is known ; but it appears, from several 
 exercises preserved in his works, that he had 
 acquired extraordinary skill in writing Latin 
 verses, which are of a purer taste than any 
 preceding compositions of the kind by English 
 scholars. He took the degrees both of Bachelor 
 j and Master of Arts ; the latter in 1632, when 
 ' he left Cambridge. He renounced his original 
 intention of entering the Church, for which he 
 has given as a reason, that, ' coming to some 
 maturity of years, he had perceived what 
 tyranny had invaded it ' ; which denotes a man 
 early habituated to think and act for himself. 
 " He now returned to his father, who had 
 retired from business to a residence at Horton, 
 in Buckinghamshire ; and he there passed five 
 years in the study of the best Koman and 
 Grecian authors, and in the composition of 
 some of his finest miscellaneous poems. This 
 was the period of his ' Allegro ' and ' Pense- 
 roso ' ; his ' Comus ' and ' Lycidas.' That his 
 learning and talents had at this time attracted 
 considerable notice, appears from an applica- 
 tion made to him from the Bridgewater 
 family, which produced his admirable masque 
 of ' Comus,' performed in 1634 at Ludlow 
 Castle, before the Earl of Bridgewater, then 
 Lord President of Wales; and also by his 
 ' Arcades,' part of an entertainment presented 
 to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Hare- 
 field, by some of her family. 
 
 "In 1638 he obtained his father's leave to 
 improve himself by foreign travel, and set out 
 for the Continent. Passing through France, 
 he proceeded to Italy, and spent a consider- 
 able time in that seat of the arts and of 
 literature. At Naples he Avas kindly received 
 by Manso, Marquis of Villa, who had long 
 before deserved the gratitude of poets by his 
 patronage of Tasso ; and, in return for a lau- 
 datory distich of Manso, Milton addressed to 
 him a Latin poem of great elegance. He left 
 Italy by the way of Geneva, where he con- 
 tracted an acquaintance with two learned 
 divines, John Diodati and Frederic Spanheim ; 
 and he returned through France, having been 
 absent about a year and three months. 
 
 "On his arrival, Milton found the nation 
 agitated by civil and religious disputes, which 
 threatened a crisis ; and as he had expressed 
 himself impatient to be present on the theatre 
 of contention, it has been thought extraor- 
 dinary that he did not immediately jjlace him- 
 self in some active station. But his turn was 
 not military ; hi.s fortune precluded a seat in 
 Parliament ; the pulpit he had declined ; and 
 for the bar he had made no preparation. His 
 
 taste and habits were altogether literary ; for 
 the present, therefore, he fixed himself in the 
 metropolis, and undertook the education of 
 his sister's two sons, of the name of Phillips. 
 Soon after, he was applied to by several parents 
 to admit their children to the benefit of his 
 tuition. He therefore took a commodious 
 house in Aldersgate Street, and opened an 
 academy. Disapproving the plan of education 
 in the public schools and universities, he de- 
 viated from it as widely as possible. He put 
 into the hands of his scholars, instead of the 
 common classics, such Greek and Latin authors 
 as treated on the arts and sciences, and on 
 philosophy ; thus expecting to instil the know- 
 ledge of things with that of words. We are 
 not informed of the result of his plan ; but it 
 will appear singular that one who had himself 
 drunk so deeply at the Muses' fount should 
 withhold the draught from others. We leara, 
 however, that he performed the task of in- 
 struction with great assiduity. 
 
 "Milton did not long suffer himself to lie 
 under the reproach of having neglected the 
 public cause in his private pursuits ; and, in 
 1641, he pubhshed four treatises relative to 
 church government, in which he gave the pre- 
 ponderance to the presbyterian form above 
 the episcopalian. Eesuming the same con- 
 troversy in the following year, he numbered 
 among his antagonists such men as Bishop 
 Hall and Archbishop Usher. His father, who 
 had been distui-bed by the king's troops, now 
 came to live with him ; and the necessity of a 
 female head of such a house, caused Milton, 
 in 1643, to form a connection with the 
 daughter of Eichard Powell, Esq., a magis- 
 trate of Oxfordshire. This was, in several 
 respects, an unhappy marriage ; for his father- 
 in-law was a zealous royahat, and his wife had 
 accustomed herself to the jovial hospitality of 
 that party. She had not, therefore, passed 
 above a month in her husband's house, when, 
 having procured an invitation from her father, 
 she went to pass the summer in his mansion. 
 Milton's invitations for her return were treated 
 Avith contempt ; upon which, regarding her 
 conduct as a desertion which broke the nuptial 
 contract, he determined to punish it by repu- 
 diation. In 1644 he published a work on 
 ' The Doctrine and DiscipUne of Divorce ' ; 
 and, in the next year, it was followed by 
 ' Tetrachordon, or Expositions upon the four 
 chief Places in Scripture which treat of 
 Marriage.' He further reduced his doctrine 
 into practice, by paying his addresses to a 
 ■ young lady of great accomplishments ; but, as 
 he was paying a visit to a neighbour and kins- 
 man, he was surprised with the sudden entrance 
 of his -wife, who threw herself at his feet, and 
 implored forgiveness. After a short struggle 
 of resentment, he took her to his bosom ; and 
 he sealed the reconciliation by opening his 
 house to her father and brothers, when they 
 had been driven from home by the triumph of 
 the republican arms. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 " In the progress of Milton's prose works, it 
 will be right to mention his ' Areopagitica ; a 
 Speech of Mr. John Milton, for the Liberty of 
 Unlicensed Printing,' — a work published in 
 1644, -svritteu with equal spirit and ability, 
 and which, when reprinted in 1738, was 
 affirmed by the editor to be the best defence 
 that had ever then appeared of that essential 
 article of public liberty. In the following 
 year he took care that his poetical character 
 should not be lost to the world, and published 
 his ' Juvenile Poems,' Latin and English. 
 
 " Milton's principles of the origin and end of 
 government carried him to a full approbation 
 of the trial and execution of the king ; and, 
 in order to conciliate the minds of the people 
 to that act, he published, early in 1649, a 
 work, entitled, ' The Tenure of Kings and 
 Magistrates ; proving that it is la^vf ul, and 
 hath been so held through all ages, for any 
 who have the power, to call to account a 
 tyrant or -wicked king ; and, after due convic- 
 tion, to depose and put him to death, if the 
 ordinary magistrate have neglected or denied 
 to do it.' Certainly, it would not be easy to 
 express, in stronger terms, an author's resolu- 
 tion to leave no doubts concerning his opinion 
 on this important topic. His appointment to 
 the Latin Secretaryship to the Council of 
 I State was, probably, the consequence of liis 
 
 decision. 
 j ' ' The learned Frenchman, Salmasius, or Sau- 
 
 1 maise, having been hired by Charles II., while 
 j in HoUand, to write a work in favour of the 
 royal cause, which he entitled ' Defensio 
 Regia,' Milton was employed to answer it; 
 which he did in 1651, by his celebrated * De- 
 fensio pro Populo Anglicano,' in wliich he 
 exercised all his powers of Latin rhetoric, both 
 to justify the republican party, and to con- 
 found and vilify the famous scholar against 
 whom he took up the pen. By this piece he 
 acquired a high reputation both at home and 
 abroad ; and he received a present of a thou- 
 sand pounds from the English government. 
 His book went through several editions ; while, 
 on the other hand, the work of Salmasius was 
 suppressed by the States of Holland, in whose 
 service he lived as a professor at Leyden. 
 
 " Milton's intense application to study had, 
 for some years preceding, brought on an affec- 
 tion of the eyes which gradually impaired his 
 sight ; and, before he wrote his ' Defensio,' 
 he was warned by his physicians that the 
 effort would probably end in total blindness. 
 This opinion was soon after justified by a 
 gutta serena which seized both his eyes, and 
 subjected the remainder of his life to those 
 privations which he has so feelingly described 
 in some passages of his poems. His intel- 
 lectual powers, however, suffered no eclipse 
 from this loss of his sensitive faculties ; and 
 he pursued without intermission both his 
 official and his controversial occupations, 
 Cromwell, about this time, having assumed 
 the supreme power, with the title of Pro- 
 i 
 
 tector, Milton acted with a subservience 
 towards this usurper which is the part of his 
 conduct that it is the most difficult to justify. 
 It might have been expected, that when the 
 Avisest and most conscientious of the repub- 
 licans had become sensible of his arts, and 
 opposed his ambitious projects, the mind of 
 Milton would neither have been blinded by 
 his hypocrisy, nor overawed by his power. 
 Possibly the real cause of his predilection 
 for Cromwell, was that he saw no refuge 
 from the intolerance of the Presbyterians, 
 but in the moderation of the Protector. And, 
 in fact, the very passage in which he addresses 
 him with the loftiest encomium, contains a 
 free and noble exhortation to him to respect 
 that public liberty, of which he appeared to 
 be the guardian. 
 
 " Cromwell at length died ; and so zealous 
 and sanguine was Milton, to the very last, 
 that one of his latest political productions 
 was, ' A ready and easy Way to establish a 
 free Commonwealth.* It was in vain, how- 
 ever, to contend, by pamphlets, with the 
 national inclination ; and Charles II. returned 
 in triumph. Milton was discharged from his 
 office, and lay for some time concealed in the 
 house of a friend. The House of Commons 
 desired that his Majesty would issue a pro- 
 clamation to call in Milton's ' Defence of the 
 People,* and ' Iconoclastes,' together with a 
 book of Goodwyn's. The books were accord- 
 ingly burnt by the common hangman ; but the 
 authors were returned as having absconded; 
 nor, in the act of indemnity, did the name of 
 Milton appear among those of the excepted 
 persons. 
 
 " He now, in reduced circumstances, and 
 under the discountenance of power, removed 
 to a private habitation near his former resi- 
 dence. He had buried his first wife ; and a 
 second, the daughter of a Captain Woodcock, 
 in Hackney, died in childbed. To solace his 
 forlorn condition, he desired his friend, Dr. 
 Paget, to look out a third wife for him, who 
 recommended a relation of his own, named 
 Elizabeth Minshull, of a good family in 
 Cheshire. His powerful mind, now centered 
 in itself, and undisturbed by contentions and 
 temporary topics, opened to those great ideas 
 which were continually filHng it, and the 
 result v^as, ' Paradise Lost.' Much discussion 
 has taken place concerning the original con- 
 ception of tliis grand performance ; but what- 
 ever hint may have suggested the rude outline, 
 it is certain that all the creative powers of a 
 strong imagination, and all the accumulated 
 stores of a life devoted to learning, were ex- 
 pended in its completion. Though he appears, 
 at an early age, to have thought of some 
 subject in the heroic times of English history, 
 as peculiarly calculated for English verse, yet 
 his religious turn, and assiduous study of the 
 Hebrew Scriptures, produced a final preference 
 of a story derived from the Sacred Writings, 
 and giving scope to the introduction of his 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 theological system. It would be superfluous, 
 at tills time, to weigh the merits of Milton's 
 great work, which stands so much beyond 
 competition; but it may be affirmed, that 
 whatever his other poems can exhibit of beauty 
 in some parts, or of grandeur in others, may 
 all be referred to ' Paradise Lost ' as the most 
 perfect model of both. 
 
 " Milton, not exhausted by this great effort, 
 followed it in 1670 by ' Paradise Eegained,' 
 written upon a suggestion of the Quaker 
 Elwood's, and apparently regarded as the 
 theological completion of the ' Paradise Lost.' 
 Although, in point of invention, its inferiority 
 is plainly apparent, yet modem criticism has 
 pronounced that there are passages in it by no 
 means unworthy of the genius of Milton, 
 allowance being made for the small compass 
 of the subject, and his purpose in writing it. 
 Together with it appeared his tragedy of 
 ' Sampson Agonistes,' composed upon the 
 model of antiquity, and never intended for the 
 stage. 
 
 " With this work his poetical account closes : 
 and a few pieces in prose can scarcely claim 
 particular notice. He sunk tranquilly under 
 an exhaustion of the vital powers in November, 
 1674, when he had nearly completed his 66th 
 year. His remains were carried from his house 
 in Bunhill Fields to the church of St. Giles, 
 Cripplegate, with a numerous and splendid 
 attendance. No monument marked the tomb 
 of this great man, but his memory was ho- 
 noured with a tomb in 1737, in "Westminster 
 Abbey, at the expense of Auditor Benson. The 
 only family whom he left were daughters." — 
 See Aikin's " British Poets" ; " Handbook of 
 Eng. Lit.," by Eev. Dr. Angus; Shaw's " Hist, 
 of Eng. Lit." ; Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 vol. i. ; Scrymgeour's " Poetry and Poets of 
 Britain"; Campbell's "Specs."; Professor 
 Spalding's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; GilfiUan's 
 " EugHsh Poets." 
 
 ANDEEW MARVELL. 
 
 "This noble-minded patriot and poet, the 
 friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a dark and 
 corrupt age, — ' faithful found among the faith- 
 less, faithful only he,' — was bom in Hull in 
 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said 
 there to have nearly fallen a victim to the 
 proselytising Jesuits, who enticed him to 
 London. His father, however, a clergyman in 
 Hull, went in search of and brought him back 
 to his university, where speedily, by extensive 
 culture and the vigorous exercise of his power- 
 ful faculties, he emancipated himself for ever 
 from the dominion, and the danger of the 
 dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We 
 know little more about the early days of our 
 poet. Wiien only twenty, he lost his father 
 
 remarkable circumstances. In 1640 he had 
 embarked on the Humber, in company with 
 
 a youthful pair whom he was to marry at 
 Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather was 
 calm ; but Marvell, seized with a sudden jMre- 
 sentiment of danger, threw- his staff ashore, 
 and cried out, ' Ho for heaven I ' A storm 
 came on, and the whole company perished. 
 In consequence of this sad event, the gentle- 
 man, whose daughter was to have been married, 
 conceiving that the father had sacrificed his 
 life while performing an act of friendship, 
 adopted young Marvell as his son. Owing to- 
 this, he received a better education, and was 
 sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome- 
 he met and formed a friendship with Milton, 
 then engaged on his immortal continental tour. 
 We find Marv^ell next at Constantinople, as 
 Secretary to the English Embassy at that 
 Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, 
 when he was engaged by the Protector to 
 superintend the education of a Mr. Dutton at 
 Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's 
 death Marvell assisted Milton as Latin Secre- 
 tary to the Protector. Our readers are all 
 familiar with the print of Cromwell and Milton 
 seated together at the council-table — ^the one 
 the express image of active power and rugged 
 grandeur, the other of thoughtful majesty and 
 ethereal grace. Marvell might have been 
 added as a third, and become the emblem of 
 strong English sense and incorruptible inte- 
 grity, A letter of Milton's was, not long 
 since, discovered, dated February, 1652, in 
 which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his 
 knowledge of Latin and his experience of 
 teaching, to be his assistant. He was not 
 appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660 he 
 became member for Hull, and was re-elected 
 as long as he lived. He was absent, however, 
 from England for two years, in the beginning 
 of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- 
 wards he sought leave from his constituents 
 to act as Ambassador's Secretary to Lord 
 Carlisle at the Northern Courts ; but from the 
 year 1665 to Ms death, his attention to his 
 parliamentary duties was unremitting. He 
 constantly corresponded with his constituents ; 
 and after the longest sittings he used to write 
 out for their use a minute account of public 
 proceedings ere he went to bed or took any 
 refreshment. He was one of the last members 
 who received pay from the town he repre- 
 sented (2s. a-day was probably the sum) ; and 
 his constituents were wont, besides, to send 
 him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. 
 Marvell spoke little in the House; but his 
 heart and vote were always in the right place. 
 Even Prince Rupert continually consulted him, 
 and was sometimes persuaded by him to sup- 
 port the popular side ; and King Charles, 
 having met him once in private, was so de- 
 lighted with his wit and agreeable manners, 
 that he thought him worth trying to bribe. 
 He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark of 
 his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who 
 was seated in a dingy room up several flights 
 of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, 
 
Froin 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 called Ids servant to witness that he had dined 
 for three successive days on the same shoulder 
 of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to 
 care for or need a bribe. When ihe Treasurer 
 was gone, he had to send to a friend to borrow 
 a guinea. Although a silent senator, Marvell 
 was a copious and popular writer. He attacked 
 Bishop Parker for his slavish principles, in a 
 piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' 
 in which he takes occasion to vindicate and 
 panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His ano- 
 nymous ' Account of the Growth of Arbitrary 
 Power and Popei^^ in England ' excited a sen- 
 sation, and a reward was offered for the ap- 
 prehension of the author and printer. Marvell 
 had many of the elements of a first-rate poli- 
 tical pamphleteer. He had wit of a most 
 pungent kind, great though coarse fertility of 
 fancy, and a spirit of independence that 
 nothing could subdue or damp. He was the 
 undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, 
 Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this 
 kind of authorship reached its perfection, 
 ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical 
 rank. 
 
 " Marvell had been repeatedly threatened 
 with assassination, and hence, when he died 
 suddenly on the 16th of August, 1678, it was 
 surmised that he had been removed by poison. 
 The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to defray 
 his funeral expenses, and for raising a monu- 
 ment to his memory ; but owing to the inter- 
 ference of the Court, through the rector of the 
 parish, this votive tablet was not at the time 
 erected. He was buried in St. Giles-in-the- 
 Fields. 
 
 " ' Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' 
 saith the Hebrew record. And so from the 
 sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such . 
 soft and lovely strains as ' The Emigrants,' 
 'The Nymph complaining for the death of 
 her Fawn,' ' Yoimg Love,' &c. The statue 
 of Memnon became musical at the dawn ; and 
 the stem patriot, whom no bribe could buy 
 and no flattery melt, is found sympathising in 
 song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in 
 the remote Bermudas, and inditing ' Thoughts 
 in a Garden,' from which you might suppose 
 that he had spent his Ufe more with melons 
 than with men, and was better acquainted 
 with the motions of a bee-hive than with the 
 contests of Parliament and the distractions 
 of a most distracted age. It was said (not 
 with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could 
 cut out a Colossus from a rock, but could not 
 carve heads upon cherry-stones — a task which 
 his assistant may be said to have performed 
 in his stead, in his small but delectable copies 
 of verse." — GilfiUan's " Less-known British 
 Poets," vol. ii., p. 174. 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLEE. 
 
 Samuel Butler, born 1612, died 1680. " The 
 partieulars of the life of the author of * Hudi- 
 
 bras ' are scanty and obscure. He was th© 
 son of a farmer in Worcestershire. It is 
 doubtful whether he received a university 
 education ; for, though alleged to have resided 
 some years at Cambridge, he is not known to 
 have matriculated at any college. He ia after- 
 wards found in the family of the Countess of 
 Kent, and enjoying the friendship of the 
 learned Selden. He appears again, probably 
 in the capacity of tutor, in the service of Sir 
 Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's officers, who 
 is considered to be the prototype of Hudibras. 
 The Eestoration brought to his fortunes a 
 gleam of hope. He obtained employment as 
 secretary to the Earl of Carbery. Having lost 
 his wife's fortune through bad securities, he 
 became an author, and published, in 1663, the 
 first part of his Satire. It was received with 
 unbounded popularity, and was made knoAvn 
 at court through the kindness of the Earl of 
 Dorset. The author, however, was unrewarded. 
 The king is said to have given him jB300, but 
 of this there is no proof. In the subsequent 
 years he published the second and third parts 
 of his poem; and died in indigence in 1680. 
 The neglect of the king is the more criminal, 
 since the Satire must be viewed as a valuable 
 piece of good service to the royalist cause. 
 Broad caricature and miraculous force of wit 
 exert their united strength to hold up the 
 Puritan party to contempt and ridicule. The 
 idea of the piece is, of course, borrowed from 
 Cervantes; but there is no resemblance be- 
 tween the two works. ' Hudibras ' isthoroughly 
 English. The whole poem is a continual 
 sparkle of brilliancy, adorned by the resources 
 of immense learning ; language, character, and 
 imagery are moulded at the author's will. No 
 rhyme is so complicated that he wants words 
 to form its counterpart ; no image so remote 
 that his hand cannot compel it into his service. 
 The work is unfinished, and from the range of 
 years over which it was published, the plan is 
 desultory and incompact. The perusal of 
 ' Hudibras ' is diet so solid, that it should be 
 taken by little at a time. It is one of those 
 works whose epigrammatic practical wisdom 
 has woven itseK into the phraseology of the 
 language. The popularity of ' Hudibras ' 
 caused forgeries of the author's style after his 
 death. 'Genuine Remains,' in prose and 
 verse, were pu.blished in 1759, by Mr. Thyer, 
 from manuscripts left in possession of Butler's 
 friend Mr. Longueville." — (Scrymgeour's 
 " Poetry and Poets of Britain," pp. 222, 223.) 
 See Dibdin's "Library Companion"; Pre- 
 face to " Hudibras," by Eev. Dr. Nash ; 
 HaUam's "Introduct. to Lit. History "j Alli- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 CHARLES COTTON. 
 
 Charles Cotton, bom 1630, died 1687, best 
 known as the friend of Izaak Walton, had 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period , 
 
 an estate in Perbyshire upon the river Dove, ! 
 celebrated for its trout. He wrote several hu- j 
 morons poems, and his " Voyage to Ireland," ; 
 Campbell remarks, seems to anticipate the I 
 manner of Anstey in the "Bath Guide." 
 Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit.," p. 187. See Alli- 
 bone's "Crit. Die, Eng. Lit."; Gilfillan's 
 " Less-known British Poets." 
 
 EAEL OF EOSCOMMON. 
 
 Earl of Roscommon, born 1634, died 1685, | 
 the nephew of the famous Strafford, produced i 
 a poetical " Essay on Translated Verse " and | 
 a version of t/ie "Art of Poetry" from ' 
 Herace, which were received by the public •, 
 and the men of letters with an extravagance ; 
 of praise attributable to the respect then i 
 entertained for any intellectual accomplish- ] 
 ment in a nobleman. — Shaw's " Hist. Eng 
 Lit." 
 
 EARL OF ROCHESTER. 
 
 Earl of Rochester, bom 1647, died 1680, so 
 celebrated for his insane debaucheries and the 
 witty eccentricities which made him one of 
 the most prominent figures in the profligate 
 court of Charles II., produced a number of 
 poems, cliiefly songs and fugitive lyrics, which 
 proved how great were the natural talents he 
 had wasted in the most insane extravagance : 
 his deathbed conversion and repentance pro- 
 duced by the arguments of Bishop Burnet, 
 who has left an interesting and edifying 
 account of his penitent's last moments, show 
 that, amid all his vices, Rochester's mind 
 retained the capacity for better things. Many 
 ©f his i^roductions are unfortunately stained 
 with such profanity and indecency, that they 
 deserve the oblivion into which they are now j 
 fallen. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 " John Dryden was bom, probably in 1631, 
 in the parish of Aldwincle-Allsaints, in Nor- 
 thamptonshire. His father possessed a small 
 estate, acted as a justice of the peace during 
 the usurpation, and seems to have been a 
 Presbyterian. John, at a proper age, was 
 sent to Westminster school, of which Busby 
 was then master ; and was thence elected to 
 a scholarship in Trinity CoUege, Cambridge. 
 He took his degrees of bachelor and master of 
 arts in the university; but though he had 
 written two short copies of verses about the 
 time of hia admission, his name does not occur 
 
 among the academical poets of this period. 
 By his father's death, in 1654, he succeeded 
 to the estate, and, removing to the metropolis, 
 he made his entrance into public life, undor 
 the auspices of his kinsman. Sir Gilbert 
 Pickering, one of Cromwell's council and house 
 of lords, and staunch to the principles then 
 predominant. On the death of Cromwell, 
 Dryden wrote some ' Heroic Stanzas,' 
 strongly marked by the loftiness of expression 
 and variety of imagery which characterised 
 his more mature efforts. They were, how- 
 ever, criticised with some severity. 
 
 " At the Restoration, Dryden lost no time in 
 obliterating former stains ; and, as far as it 
 was possible, rendered himself peculiarly dis- 
 tinguished for the base servility of his strains. 
 He greeted the king's return by a poem, 
 entitled ' Astraea Redux,' which was followed 
 by ' A Panegyric on the Coronation : ' nor 
 did Lord Chancellor Clarendon escape his 
 encomiastic lines. His marriage with Lady 
 Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Berk- 
 shire, is supposed to have taken place in 1665. 
 About this time he first appears as a writer 
 for the stage, in which quality he composed 
 several pieces ; and though he did not display 
 himself as a prime favourite of the dramatic 
 muse, his facility of harmonious versification, 
 and his splendour of poetic diction, gained 
 him admirers. In 1667 he published a sin- 
 gular poem, entitled 'Annus Mirabilis,' the 
 subjects of which were, the naval war with 
 the Dutch, and the fire of London. It was 
 written in four-line stanzas, a form which has 
 since gone into disuse in heroic subjects ; but 
 the piece abounded in images of genuine 
 poetry, though intermixed with many extra- 
 vagances. 
 
 " At this period of his life Dryden became 
 professionally a writer for the stage, having 
 entered into a contract with the patentees of 
 the King's Theatre, to supply them with 
 three plays in a year, upon the condition of 
 being allowed the profit of one share and a 
 quarter out of twelve shares and three quar- 
 ters, into which the theatrical stock Avas 
 divided. Of the plays written upon the above 
 contract, a small proportion only have kept 
 their place on the stage or in the closet. On 
 the death of Sir W. Davenant, in 1668, 
 Dryden obtained the post of poet-laureate, to 
 which was added the sinecure place of his- 
 toriographer royal ; the joint salaries of which 
 amounted to .£200. 
 
 " The tragedies composed by Dryden were 
 written in his earlier periods in rhyme, which 
 circumstance probably contributed to the 
 poetical rant by which they were too much 
 characterised. For the correction of this 
 fault, Villiers Duke of Buckingham, in con- 
 junction with other wits, wrote the celebrated 
 burlesque drama, entitled ' The Rehearsal,* 
 of which Dryden, under the name of Bayes, 
 was made the hero ; and, in order to point 
 the ridicule, his dress, phraseology, and mode of 
 
Fi-om 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 recitation, were exactly imitated by the actor. 
 It does not, however, appear that his solid 
 reputation as a poet was injured by this 
 attack. He had the candour to acknowledge 
 that several of the strokes were just, and he 
 wisely refrained from making any direct reply. 
 
 " In 1681, and, as it is asserted, at the 
 king's express desire, he wrote his famous 
 political poem entitled ' Absolom and Achi- 
 tophel ' ; m which the incidents in the life 
 of David were adapted to those of Charles II. 
 in relation to the Duke of Monmouth and the 
 Earl of Shaftesbury. Its poetry and its 
 severity caused it to be read with great 
 eagerness ; and as it raised the author to 
 high favour mth the court party, so it in- 
 volved him in irreconcilable enmity with its 
 opponents. These feelings were rendered 
 more acute by his ' Medal, a Satire on 
 Sedition,' written in the same year, on oc- 
 casion of a medal struck by the Whigs, when a 
 grand jury returned Ignoramus to an indict- 
 ment preferred against Lord Shaftesbury, for 
 high treason. The rancour of this piece is 
 not easily to be paralleled among party poems. 
 In 1682, he pubHshed ' Mac-Flecknoe,' a 
 short piece, throwing ridicule upon his very 
 unequal rival, Shadwell. In the same year, 
 one of his most serious poems, the ' Eeligio 
 Laici,' made its appearance. Its purpose 
 was to give a compendious view of the argu- 
 ments for revealed religion, and to ascertain 
 in what the authority of revelation essentially 
 consists. 
 
 " Soon after this time he ceased to write 
 for the stage. His dramatic vein was probably 
 exhausted, and his circumstances were dis- 
 tressed. To this period Mr. Malone refers a 
 letter written by him to Hyde, Earl of 
 Eochester, in which, with modest dignity, he 
 pleads merit enough not to deserve to starve, 
 and requests some small employment in the 
 customs or excise, or, at least, the payment 
 of half a year's pension for the supply of Ins 
 present necessities. He never obtained any of 
 the requested places, and was doomed to find 
 the booksellers his best patrons. 
 
 ^' Charles II. died in 1685, and was succeeded 
 by his brother James XL, who openly declared 
 his attachment to the religion of Eome. It 
 was not long before Dryden conformed to the 
 same religion. This step has been the cause 
 of much obloquy on one side, and has found 
 much excuse on the other ; but if it be con- 
 sidered, from a view of his past life, that, in 
 changing his religious profession, he could 
 have had little difficulty to encounter, it will 
 appear no breach of candour to suppose that 
 his immediate motive was nothing more than 
 personal interest. The reward he obtained 
 from his compliance was an addition to his 
 pension of .£100 per annum. Some time 
 after he was engaged in a work which was 
 the longest single piece he ever composed. 
 This was hiy elaborate controversial poem of 
 ' The Hind and Panther.' When completed, 
 
 notwithstanding its unpromising subject, and 
 signal absurdity of plan, such was the power 
 of Dryden' s verse, that it was read with 
 avidity, and bore every mark of occupying the 
 public attention. The birth of a prince called 
 forth a congratulatory poem from Dryden, 
 entitled ' Britannia Eediviva,' in which he 
 ventured to use a poet's privilege of prophecy, 
 foretelling a commencing era of prosperity to 
 the nation and the church from this auspi- 
 cious event ; but in vain ! for the Eevolution 
 took place within a few months, and the hopes 
 of the party were blasted for ever. 
 
 " Dryden was a severe sufferer from the 
 change : his posts and pensions were taken 
 away, and the poetical laurel was conferred 
 upon his insignificant rival, Shadwell. He 
 was now, in advanced life, to depend upon 
 his own exertions for a security from absolute 
 indigence. His faculties were equal to the 
 emergency ; and it wiU surprise some theorists 
 to be told, that the ten concluding years of 
 his life, in which he wrote for bread, and 
 composed at a certain rate per line, were 
 those of many of the pieces which have most 
 contributed to immortalise his name. They 
 were those of his translation of Juvenal and 
 Persius ; of that of Virgil entire, a work 
 which enriches the English language, and has 
 greatly promoted the author's fame ; of his 
 celebrated ' Alexander's Feast ' ; and of his 
 Fables, containing some of the richest and 
 most truly poetical pieces which he ever com- 
 posed. Of these, several will appear in the 
 subsequent collection of his works. Nor 
 ought his prose writings to be neglected, 
 which, chiefly consisting of the critical essays 
 prefixed to his poems, are performances of 
 extraordinary vigour and comprehension of 
 mind, and afford, perhaps, the best specimens 
 of genuine English. 
 
 " Dryden died of a spreading inflammation 
 in one of his toes, on the first of May, 1700, 
 and was buried in Westminster Abbey, next 
 to the tomb of Chaucer. No monument 
 marked his grave, till a plain one, with his 
 bust, was erected, at the expense of Sheffield, 
 Duke of Buckingham. He left behind him 
 three sons, all brought up to letters. His 
 own character was cold and reserved, back- 
 ward in personal advances to the great, and 
 rather heavy in conversation. In fact, he 
 was too much engaged in literature to devote 
 much of his time to society. Few writers of 
 his time delighted so much to approach the 
 verge of profaneness ; whence it may be 
 inferred, that though religion was an in- 
 teresting topic of discussion to him, he had 
 very little of its spirit in his heart." — Aikin's 
 " Select Brit. Poets," pp. 148-9. See Camp- 
 bell's " Spec." ; AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit."; Sir Walter Scott; Holland's "In- 
 troduc.toLit. Hist."; Dr. Beattie's "Essays"; 
 Dr. Garth's "Pref. to the Translation of 
 Ovid's Metamorphoses"; Lord Brougham; 
 Pope's Pref. to his Translation of Homer. 
 
 22 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [FouBTH Period. — 
 
 JOHN PHILIPS. 
 
 " Brampton in Oxfordshire was tlie birthplace 
 of this poet. He was born on the 30th of 
 December, 1676. His father, Dr. Stephen 
 Philips, was archdeacon of Salop, as well as 
 minister of Bampton. John, after some pre- 
 liminary training at home, was sent to 
 Winchester, where he distinguished himself 
 by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed 
 two great luxuries, — the reading of Milton, 
 and the having his head combed by some one 
 while he sat still and in rapture for hours 
 together. This pleasure he shared with 
 Vossius, and with humbler persons of our 
 acquaintance ; the combing of whose hair, 
 they tell us, 
 
 ' Dissolves them into ecstasies. 
 And brings ail heaven before their eyes.' 
 
 " In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cam- 
 bridge. His intention was to prosecute the 
 study of medicine, and he took great delight 
 in the cognate pursuits of natural history and 
 botany. His chief friend was Edmund Smith, 
 (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a 
 kind of minor Savage, well known in these 
 times as the author of 'Phaedra and Hip- 
 polytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 
 1703, Philips produced 'The Splendid Shil- 
 ling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have 
 diverted his aspirations from the domains of 
 ^sculapius to those of Apollo. Bolingbroke 
 sought him out, and employed him, after the 
 battle of Blenheim, to sing it in opposition 
 to Addison, the laureate of the Whigs. At 
 the house of the magnificent but unprincipled 
 St John, Philips wrote his ' Blenheim,' which 
 was published in 1705. The year after, his 
 * Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and 
 was received with great applause. Encouraged 
 by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, 
 which all who are aware of the difficulties of 
 the subject, and the limitations of the author's 
 genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. 
 Consumption and asthma removed him pre- 
 maturely on the 15th of February, 1708, ere 
 he had completed his thirty-third year. He 
 was buried in Hereford Cathedral, and Sir 
 Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, 
 erected a monument to his memory in West- 
 minster Abbey. 
 
 " Bulwer somewhere records a story of John 
 Martin in his early days. He was, on one 
 occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had 
 kept it, out of a heap, from a partiality to its 
 appearance. It was very bright. He was 
 compelled, at last, to part with it. He went 
 out to a baker's shop to purchase a loaf with 
 his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf 
 into his hands, when the baker discovered 
 that the shilling was a bad one, and poor 
 Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his 
 dear, bright, bad shilling once more. Length 
 of time and cold criticism in like manner have 
 reduced John Philips to his solitary ' Splendid 
 Shilling.' But, though bright, it is far from 
 
 bad. It is one of the cleverest of parodies, 
 and is perpetrated against one of those colossal 
 works which the smiles of a thousand carica- 
 tures were unable to injure. No great or 
 good poem was ever hurt by its parody : — 
 ' Paradise Lost ' was not by ' The Splendid 
 Shilling ' ; ' The Last Man ' of Campbell 
 was not by ' The Last Man ' of Hood ; nor 
 the ' Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore ' 
 by their witty, well-known caricature ; and 
 if ' The Vision of Judgment ' by Southey 
 was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem 
 with the same title, it was because Southey' s 
 original was neither good nor great. Philips' 
 poem, too, is the first of the kind ; and surely 
 we should be thankful to the author of the 
 earliest effort in a style which has created so 
 much innocent amusement. Dr. Johnson 
 speaks as if the pleasure arising from such 
 productions implied a malignant ' momentary 
 triumph over that grandeur which had 
 hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We 
 think, on the contrary, that it springs from 
 our deep interest in the original production, 
 making us alive to the strange resemblance 
 the caricature bears to it. It is our love that 
 provokes our laughter, and hence the admirers 
 of the parodied poem are more delighted than 
 its enemies. At all events, it is by 'The 
 Splendid Shilling' alone — and that principally 
 from its connection with Milton's great work 
 — that Philips is memorable. His ' Cider ' 
 has soured with age, and the loud echo of his 
 Blenheim battle-piece has long since died 
 away." — Gilfillan's " Less-known Brit. Poets," 
 vol. iii., pp. 11-13. 
 
 SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 
 
 " Sedley was one of those characters who 
 exert a personal fascination over their own 
 age without leaving any works behind them 
 to perpetuate the charm to posterity. He 
 was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, 
 in Kent, and was born in 1639. When the 
 Restoration took place he repaired to London, 
 and plunged into aU the licence of the time, 
 shedding, however, over the putrid pool the 
 sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. Charles 
 was so delighted with him, that he is said to 
 have asked him whether he had not obtained 
 a patent from Nature to be Apollo's vicevoj. 
 He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote 
 poems and plays, and, despite some great 
 blunders, was universally admired and 
 loved. When his comedy of ' BeUamira ' 
 was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, includ- 
 ing the author, were slightly injured. When 
 a parasite told him that the fire of the play 
 had blown up the poet, house, and aU, Sedley 
 replied, ' No ; the play was so heavy that it 
 broke down the house, and buried the poet in 
 his own rubbish,' Latterly he sobered down, 
 entered parliament, attended closely to public 
 business, and became a determined opponent 
 of the arbitrary measures of James II. To 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 this he was stimulated by a personal reason. 
 James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and 
 made her Countess of Dorchester. ' For 
 making my daughter a countess,' the father 
 said, ' I have helped to make his daughter ' 
 (Mary, Princess of Orange,) ' a queen.' 
 Scdley, thus talking, acting, and writing, 
 lived on till he was sixty-two years of age. 
 He died in 1701. 
 
 " He has left nothing that the world can 
 cherish, except some light and graceful songs, 
 sparkling rather with point than with poetry." 
 — Gilfillan's "Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. 
 iii., pp. 1, 2. 
 
 THOMAS FLATMAN. 
 
 Thomas Flatman, bom 1633, died 1672, 
 was a native of Loudon, educated at Oxford, 
 skilled in law, painting, and poetry. In 1674 
 appeared a collection of his poems and songs. 
 He composed Pindaric Odes on the Earl of 
 Ossory, Prince Eupert, and Charles II. For 
 that on the Earl of Ossory, the Duke of 
 Ormond, his father, presented the author with 
 a diamond ring worth .£100. It appears from 
 the following bit of gossip of old Anthony 
 a Wood, who dearly loves a sly joke, that 
 Master Flatman, like many bachelors of 
 modem times, sometimes amused himself with 
 ridiculing the connubial happiness which he 
 afterwards gladly embraced : " This person was 
 in his younger days much against marriage, 
 to the dislike of his father, and made a song 
 describing the cumbrances with it, beginning 
 thus : — 
 
 ' Like a dog with a bottle tyed close to the 
 
 tail. 
 Like a Tory in a bog, or a thief in a jayle,' &c. 
 
 But being afterwards smitten with a fair 
 virgin and more with her fortune, (unkind 
 Anthony !) did espouse her, Nov. 26, 1672, 
 whereupon his ingenious comrades did serenade 
 him that night with the said song." Athen. 
 Oxon. Allibone adds, " This is just such a 
 story as we m.ight expect from such a crusty old 
 bachelor as Anthony a Wood." See Allibone' s 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JOHN QUARLES. 
 
 Of Francis Quarles's numerous family, 
 
 John is alone remembered. He was a member 
 
 i of Exeter College, Oxford ; he bore arms for 
 
 ' the king in the garrison of the city. He 
 
 j seems to have been indebted for his education 
 
 to Archbishop Usher, in whose house he 
 
 resided. Upon the decease of this prelate, 
 
 whom he loved sincerely, he composed an 
 
 Elegy beginning with these beautifixl lines : — 
 
 " Then weep no more : See how his peaceful 
 
 breast, 
 Rock'd by the hand of death, takes quiet rest. 
 Disturb him not ; but let him sweetly take 
 A full repose ! he hath been long awake." 
 
 The feet of Sion's watchman must have been 
 weary, says the sweet-worded R. Aris Will- 
 mott, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He 
 stood by his sovereign till the strength of the 
 royalists was exhausted, when he retired to 
 London in a mean condition, and about 1649 
 bade farewell to England and weni abroad. 
 Upon his return he hved by literature. He 
 died in 1665 of the plague. He wrote much, 
 and by many he was esteemed a good poet, 
 though deficient in the power and originality 
 of his father. But, says Willmott again, if he 
 had less energy he had more grace. See E. 
 A. Willmott's " Lives of the Sacred Poets," 
 vol. i., pp. 240, 241. 
 
 JOHN POMFEET. 
 
 John Pomfret, bom 1667, died 1703, " was 
 a clergyman, and the only work by which he 
 is now remembered is his poem of ' The 
 Choice,' giving a sketch of such a life of rural 
 and literary retirement as has been the hoc 
 erat in votis of so many. The images and 
 ideas are of that nature that will always come 
 home to the heart and fancy of the reader ; 
 and it is to this naturalness and accordance 
 with universal sympathy, rather than to 
 anything very original either in its conception 
 or its execution, that the poem owes the hold 
 it has so long retained upon the attention." 
 —Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 267, 268. 
 
 THOMAS BROWN. 
 
 His birth unknown, but died 1704. 
 "Thomas, usually called Tom Brown, was the 
 son of a farmer at Shipnel, in Sloropshire, was 
 for some time a schoolmaster at Kingston- 
 upon- Thames, but left the ungenial vocation 
 for the Hfe of a wit and author, in London. 
 He was a good linguist, and seems to have 
 rather wasted than wanted talent." — Camp- 
 bell's " Specimens," p. 315. See Allibone' s 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. " ; Dr. Johnson's " Life 
 of Dry den." 
 
 EAEL OF DOESET. 
 
 Ear. of Dorset, bom 1637, died 1706, 
 " wrote little," says Chambers, " but was ca- 
 pable of doing more, and being a liberal patron 
 of poets, was a nobleman highly popular in 
 his day. Coming very young to the pos- 
 session of two plentiful estates, and in an age 
 when pleasure was more in fashion than busi- 
 ness, he applied his talents rather to books 
 and conversation than to pohtics. In the 
 first Dutch war he went a volunteer under the 
 Duke of York, and wrote or finished a song 
 (his best composition, ' one of the prettiest 
 that ever was made,' according to Prior) the 
 
 night before the naval engagement iir which 
 
 92 * 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up, 
 Avith all his crew. He was a lord of the bed- 
 chamber to Charles II., and was chamberlain 
 of the household to WiUiam and Mary. Prior 
 relates, that when Dorset, as lord chamber- 
 lain, was obliged to take the king's pension 
 from Dryden, he allowed him an equivalent 
 out of his own estate. He introduced Butler's 
 ' Hudibras ' to the notice of the court, was 
 consulted by Waller, and almost idolised by 
 Dryden. Hospitable, generous, and refined, 
 we need not wonder at the incense which was 
 heaped upon Dorset by his contemporaries. 
 His works are trifling ; a few satires and songs 
 make up the catalogue. They are elegant, 
 and sometimes forcible ; but when a man like 
 Prior writes of them, ' there is a lustre in his 
 verses like that of the sun in Claude Lorraine's 
 landscapes,' it is impossible not to be struck 
 with that gross adulation of rank and fashion 
 which disgraced the literature of the age." 
 
 JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF 
 BUCKINGHAMSHIEE. 
 
 " He was associated in his latter days with 
 the wits and poets of the reign of Queen 
 Anne, but he properly belongs to the previous 
 age. He went with Prince Eupert against 
 the Dutch, and was afterwards colonel of a 
 regiment of foot. In order to learn the art of 
 war under Marshal Turenne, he made a cam- 
 paign in the French service. The Uterary 
 taste of Sheffield was never neglected amidst 
 the din of arms, and he made himself an ac- 
 complished scholar. He was a member of tlie 
 privy council of James II., but acquiesced in 
 the Eevolution, and was afterwards a member 
 of the cabinet council of WiUiam and Mary, 
 Avith a pension of .£3,000, Sheffield is said 
 to have ' made love ' to Queen Anne when 
 they were both young, and her majesty heaped 
 honours on the favourite immediately on her 
 accession to the throne. He was an opponent 
 of the court of George I., and continued ac- 
 tively engaged in public affairs till his death. 
 Sheffield wrote several poems and copies of 
 verses. Among the former is an ' Essay on 
 Satire,' which Dryden is reported to have 
 revised. His principal work, however, is his 
 ' Essay on Poetry,' which received the praises 
 of Eoscommon, Dryden, and Pope. It is 
 written in the heroic couplet, and seems to 
 have suggested Pope's ' Essay on Criticism.' 
 It is of the style of Denham and Eoscommon, 
 plain, perspicuous, and sensible, but contains 
 as little true poetry, or less, than any of 
 Dryden's prose essays." — Chambers's " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit.," i., 378. 
 
 GEOEGE STEPNEY. 
 George Stepney, bom 1663, died 
 
 1707, 
 
 Halifax, and owed his preferments to that 
 nobleman. It appears, from his verses on the 
 burning of Monmouth's picture, that his 'first 
 attachment was to the Tory interest, but he 
 left them in sufficient time to be rewarded as 
 a partisan by the Whigs, and was nominated 
 to several foreign embassies. In this capacity 
 he went successively to the Imperial Court, to 
 that of Saxony, Poland, and the States 
 General ; and in all his negociations is said to 
 have been successful. Some of his political 
 tracts remain in Lord Somers' collection. As 
 a poet. Dr. Johnson justly characterizes him 
 as equally deficient in the grace of wit and the 
 vigour of nature." — Campbell's " Specimens," 
 317. 
 
 WILLIAM WALSH. 
 
 WiUiam Walsh, born 1663, died 1709. " He 
 was a knight for his native county, Worces- 
 tershire, in several parliaments, and gentleman 
 of the horse to Queen Anne, under the Duke 
 of Somerset. Though a friend to the Eevo- 
 lution, he was kind to Dryden, who praised 
 him, as Pope must have done, merely from the 
 motive of personal gratitude ; for except his 
 encouragement of the early genius of Pope, he 
 seems to have no claim to remembrance.'" 
 — Campbell's "Specimens," p. 320. 
 
 EOBEET GOULD. 
 
 Little is known of this Avriter beyond his 
 having been a domestic of the Earl of Dorset 
 and afterwards a schoolmaster. He wrote 
 two dramas, " The Eival Sisters," and " In- 
 nocence Distressed." 
 
 DE. WALTEE POPE. 
 
 His birth-day is unknown. " He was the 
 junior proctor of Oxford in 1658, when a con- 
 troversy took place respecting the wearing of 
 hoods and caps, which the reigning party 
 considered as the relics of Popery. Our 
 proctor, however, so stoutly opposed the 
 revolutionists on this momentous point, that 
 the venerable caps and hoods continued to be 
 worn till the Eestoration. This affair he used 
 to caU the most glorious action of his life. 
 Dr. Pope was, however, a man of wit and in- 
 formation, and one of the first chosen fellows 
 of the Eoyal Society. He succeeded Sir 
 Christopher Wren as Professor of Astronomy 
 in Gresham College." — CampbeU's " Speci- 
 mens," p. 322. 
 
 was the youthful friend of Montague, Earl of 
 
 Thomas 
 Shaw correctly 
 
 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 Otway, born 1G51, 
 
 states that. 
 
 died 1685. 
 " among the 
 
Fi'om 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 exclusive tragic dramatists of the age 
 of Dryden the first place belongs to 
 Thomas Otway, who died, after a life of 
 wretchedness and irregularity, at the early 
 age of thirty-four. He received a regular 
 education at Winchester School and Oxford, 
 and very early embraced the profession of the 
 actor, for which he had no natural aptitude, 
 but v/liich familiarized him with the tech- 
 nical requirements of theatrical ^vriting. He 
 produced in the earlier part of his career 
 three tragedies, ' Alcibiades,' ' Don Carlos,' 
 and ' Titus and Berenice,' which may be 
 regarded as his first trial-pieces ; and about 
 1677 he served some time in a dragoon re- 
 giment in Flanders, to which he had been 
 appointed by the protection of a patron. 
 Dismissed from his post in consequence of 
 irregularities of conduct, he returned to the 
 stage, and in the j^ears extending from 1680 
 to his death, he wrote four more tragedies, 
 ' Caius Marcius,' the /Orphan,' the 'Sol- 
 dier's Fortune,' and ' Venice Preserved.' 
 All these works, with the exception of the 
 ' Orphan ' and ' Venice Preserved,' are now 
 nearly forgotten ; but the glory of Otway is 
 so firmly established upon these latter, that 
 it will probably endure as long as the language 
 itself. The life of this unfortunate poet was 
 an uninterrupted series of poverty and dis- 
 tress ; and his death has frequently been 
 cited as a striking instance of the miseries 
 of a literary career. It is related that, 
 when almost starving, the poet received a 
 guinea from a charitable friend, on which he 
 rushed off to a baker's shop, bought a roll, 
 and was choked while ravenously sav allowing 
 the first mouthful. It is not quite certain 
 whether this painful anecdote is strictly true, 
 but it is incontestable that Otway' s end, like 
 his life, was miserable. How far his misfor- 
 tunes were unavoidable, and how far attribu- 
 table to the poet's own improvidence, it is 
 now impossible to determine. Otway, like 
 Chatterton, like Gilbert, like Tasso, and like 
 Cervantes, is generally adduced as an example 
 of the miserable end of genius, and of the 
 world's ingratitude to its greatest bene- 
 factors. 
 
 " As a tragic dramatist Otway' s most 
 striking merit is his pathos ; and he pos- 
 sesses in a high degree the power of uniting 
 pathetic emotion with the expression of the 
 darker and more ferocious passions. The 
 distress in his pieces is carried to that intense 
 and almost hysterical pitch which we see 
 so frequently in Ford and Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, and so rarely in Shakspere. The 
 suflferings of Monimia in the ' Orphan ' and 
 the moral agonies inflicted upon Belvidera in 
 ' Venice Preserved,' are carried to the highest 
 pitch, but we see tokens of the essentially 
 second-rate quality of Ot way's genius the 
 moment he attempts to delineate madness. 
 Belvidera' s ravings are the expression of a 
 disordered fancy, and not, like those of Lear 
 
 or of Ophelia, the lurid flashes of reason and 
 consciousness lighting up for an instant the 
 tossings of a mind agitated to its profoundest 
 depths. In 'Venice Preserved' Otway has 
 not attempted to preserve historical accuracy, 
 but he has succeeded in producing a very 
 exciting and animated plot, in which the weak' 
 and uxorious Jaffier is well contrasted with 
 the darker traits of his friend and fellow-con- 
 spirator Pierre, and the inhuman harshness | 
 and cruelty of the Senator Priuli with the I 
 ruffianly thirst for blood and plunder in 
 Eenault. The frequent declamatory scenes, 
 reminding the reader of Dryden, as for 
 instance the quarrels and reconciliation of 
 Pierre and Jaffier, the execution of the two 
 friends, and the despair of Belvidera, are 
 worked up to a high degree of excellence ; 
 and Otway, with the true instinct of dramatic 
 fitness, has introduced, as elements of the 
 deep distress into which he has plunged his 
 principal characters, many of those familiar 
 and domestic details from which the high 
 classical dramatist would have shrunk as too 
 ignoble. Otway in many scenes of this play 
 has introduced what may be almost called 
 comic matter, as in the amorous dotage of the 
 impotent old senator and the courtesan 
 Aquilina; but these, though powerfully and 
 naturally delineated, are of too disgusting 
 and odious a nature to be fit subjects for re- 
 presentation. Otway' s style is vigorous and 
 racy ; the reader will incessantly* be reminded 
 of Dryden, though the author of 'Venice 
 Preserved ' is far superior to his great master 
 in the quality of pathos ; and in reading his 
 best passages we are perpetually struck by a 
 sort of flavour of Ford, Heywood, Beaumont, 
 and other great masters of the Elizabethan 
 era," See Chambers, vol. i., p. 386 ; Camp- 
 bell's " Specimens." 
 
 NATHANIEL LEE. 
 
 " A tragic poet who not only had the honour 
 of assisting Dryden in the composition of 
 several of his pieces, but who, in spite of 
 adverse circumstances, and in particular of 
 several attacks of insanity, one of which 
 necessitated his confinement during four years 
 in Bedlam, possessed and deserved a high 
 reputation for genius. He was educated at 
 Westminster School and Cambridge, and was 
 by profession an actor : he died in extreme 
 poverty in 1692. His original dramatic 
 works consist of eleven tragedies, the most 
 celebrated of which is ' The Eival Queens,' 
 or ' Alexander the Great,' in which the 
 heroic extravagance of the Macedonian con- 
 queror is relieved by amorous complications 
 arising from the attachment of the two 
 strongly-opposed characters of Eoxana and 
 Statira. Among his other works may be 
 enumerated ' Theodosius,' ' Mithridatas,' 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 and the pathetic drama of ' Lucius Junius 
 Brutus,' the interest of which turns on the 
 condemnation of the son by the father. In all 
 these plays we find a sort of Avild and exag'ge- 
 rated tone of imag-ery, sometimes reminding 
 us of Marlow ; but Lee is far superior in ten- 
 derness to the author of Faustus, nay in this 
 respect he surpasses Dryden. In the beau- 
 tiful but feverish bursts of declamatory 
 eloquence which are frequent in Lee's plays, 
 it is possible to trace something of that 
 violence and exaggeration which are perhaps 
 derived from the tremendous malady of which 
 he was so long a victim." — Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit.," pp. 262, 263; See CampbeU's 
 " Specimens." 
 
 JOHN CEOWNE. 
 
 Was patronized by Eochester. He wrote 
 seventeen pieces, two of which, says Cham- 
 bers, " evince considerable talent." 
 
 THOMAS SHADWELL. 
 
 A popular rival and enemy of Dryden, who 
 wrote many plays in which he took for his 
 model Ben Jonson. He possessed consi- 
 derable comic powers. When the revolution 
 was in the ascendant and threw Dryden into 
 the shade, ShadweU received the office of 
 Poet Laureate. See Chambers, " Cycl. Eng. 
 Lit.," vol. i., p. 392. 
 
 SIE GEOEGE ETHEEEGE. 
 Sir George Etherege, born 1636, died 1694, 
 ^vrote a very sprightly comic drama, " Man of 
 Mode, or Sir Fopling Flutter." He was a gay 
 libertine, and whilst leaving a festive party 
 one evening at his house in Eatisbon, where 
 he resided as British plenipotentiary, he fell 
 down the stairs and killed himself. See 
 Chambers, vol. i., pp. 392, 393. * 
 
 WILLIAM WYCHEELEY. 
 
 " The greatest of the comic dramatists was 
 William Wycherley, bom in the year 1640, 
 in Shropshire, where his father possessed a 
 handsome property. Though bred to the law, 
 Wycherley did not practise his profession, but 
 lived gaily ' upon town.' Pope says he had 
 a ' true nobleman look,' and he was one of 
 the favourites of the abandoned Duchess of 
 Clevoland, He wrote various comedies, ' Love 
 in a Wood,' 1672 ; the ' Gentleman Dancing 
 Master,' 1673; the 'Country Wife,' 1675; 
 and the 'Plain Dealer,' 1677. In 1704 he 
 published a volume of miscellaneous poems, 
 of which it has been said, ' the style and ver- 
 sification are beneath criticism; the morals 
 are those of Eochester.* In advanced age, 
 
 Wycherley continued to exhibit the follies and 
 vices of youth. His name, however, stood 
 high as a dramatist, and Pope was pro ad to 
 receive the notice of the author of the 
 ' Country Wife.' Their published corre- 
 spondence is well known, and is interesting 
 from the marked superiority maintained in 
 their intercourse by the boy-poet of sixteen 
 over his mentor of sixty-four. The pupil 
 grew too great for his master, and the unna- 
 tural friendship was dissolved. At the age 
 of seventy-five, Wycherley married a young 
 girl, in order to defeat the expectations of his 
 nephew, and died ten days afterwards, in 
 December, 1715. The subjects of most of 
 Wycherley' s plays were borrowed from the 
 Spanish or French stage. He wrought up his 
 dialogues and scenes with great care, and 
 with considerable liveliness and wit, but 
 without sufficient attention to character or 
 probability. Destitute himself of moral feel- 
 ing or propriety of conduct, his characters are 
 equally objectionable, and his once fashionable 
 plays may be said to be ' quietly inurned ' in 
 their own corruption and profligacy." — Cham- 
 bers, "Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. i., p. 393. 
 
 MES. APHEA BEHN. 
 
 Chambers rightly says in the first volume 
 of his excellent " Cyclopsedia," p. 393, that " a 
 female Wycherley appeared in Mrs. Aphra 
 Behn, celebrated in her day under the name 
 of Astraea. 
 
 " The comedies of Mrs. Behn are grossly 
 indelicate ; and of the whole seventeen which 
 she wrote (besides various novels and poems), 
 not one is now read or remembered. The his- 
 tory of Mrs. Behn is remarkable. She 
 was daughter of the governor of Surinam, 
 where she resided some time, and became 
 acquainted with Prince Oroonoko, on whose 
 story she founded a novel, that supplied 
 Southeme with materials for a tragedy on the 
 unhappy fate of the African prince. She was 
 employed as a political spy by Charles II., 
 and, while residing at Antwerp, she was 
 enabled, by the aid of her lovers and admirers, 
 to give information to the British government 
 as to the intended Dutch attack on Chatham. 
 She died in 1689." Pope, by no means fas- 
 tidious, yet rebukes Mrs. Behn in a well- 
 known couplet : — 
 
 " The stage how loosely does Astrsea tread," 
 &c. 
 
 The " Biog. Dram." says : " It is no wonder 
 that her wit should gain her the esteem of 
 Mr. Dryden, Mr. Southeme, and other men 
 of genius. Cotton sings : 
 
 ' But when you write of love, Astraea, then 
 Love dips his arrows where you wet your pen. 
 Such charming lines did never paper grace ; 
 Soft asyour sex,and smooth as beauty's face.' " 
 
1 
 
 ^ rOFETH 
 
 < 
 
 PEEIOD. 
 
 i' 
 
 From 1649 to 1689. 
 
 
 540.— OF MYSELF. 
 
 Eliza till this hour might reign. 
 
 Had she not evil counsels ta'en. 
 
 
 This only grant me, that my means may lie 
 
 Fundamental laws she broke, 
 
 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
 
 And still new favourites she chose, 
 
 
 Some honour I would have. 
 
 Till up in arms my passions rose, 
 
 
 Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
 
 And cast away her yoke. 
 
 
 Th' unknown are better than ill known : 
 
 
 
 Rumour can ope the grave. 
 
 Mary then, and gentle Anne, 
 
 
 AcqufiiTitance I would have, but when't 
 
 Both to reign at once began; 
 
 
 depends 
 
 Alternately they sway'd. 
 
 
 Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. 
 
 And sometimes Mary was the fair, 
 
 And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, 
 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
 
 And sometimes both I obey'd. 
 
 
 And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. 
 
 
 
 My house a cottage more 
 
 Another Mary then arose, 
 
 
 Than palace ; and should fitting be 
 
 And did rigorous laws impose j 
 
 
 For all my use, no luxu^3^ 
 
 A mighty tyrant she ! 
 
 
 My garden painted o'er 
 
 Long, alas ! should I have been 
 
 
 With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures 
 
 Under that iron-sceptred queen, 
 
 
 yield, 
 
 Had not Rebecca set me free. 
 
 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
 
 When fair Rebecca set me free, 
 
 
 Thus would I double my life's fading space ; 
 
 'Twas then a golden time with me : 
 
 
 For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race. 
 
 But soon those pleasures fied ; 
 
 
 And in this true delight. 
 
 For the gracious princess dy'd, 
 
 
 These unbought sports, this happy state. 
 
 In her youth and beauty's pride, 
 
 
 I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 
 
 And Judith reigned in her stead. 
 
 
 But boldly say each night, 
 To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
 
 One month, three days, and half an hour. 
 
 
 Or in clouds hide them ; I have liyd to-day. 
 
 Judith held the sovereign pOwer : 
 Wondrous beautiful her face ; 
 
 
 Abraham Cowley.— Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 But so wgak and small her wit. 
 That she to govern was unfit, 
 
 And so Susanna took her place. 
 
 
 
 541.— THE CHRONICLE. 
 
 But when Isabella came, 
 
 Arm'd with a resistless flame, 
 
 
 A BALTiAD. 
 
 And th' artillery of her eye ; 
 Whilst she proudly march' d about. 
 
 
 Margarita first possest, 
 
 Greater conquests to find out, 
 
 
 If I remember well, my breast, 
 Margarita first of aU ; 
 
 She beat out Susan by the by. 
 
 
 But when awhile the wanton maid 
 
 But in her place I then obey'd 
 
 
 With my restless heart had play'd, 
 
 Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy-maid. 
 
 
 Martha took the flying ball. 
 
 To whom ensued a vacancy : 
 Thousand worse passions then possest 
 
 
 Martha soon did it resign 
 
 The interregnum of my breast ; 
 
 
 To the beauteous Catharine. 
 
 Bless me from such an anarchy ! 
 
 
 Beauteous Catharine gave place 
 
 
 
 (Though loth and angry she to part 
 
 Gentle Henrietta then, 
 
 
 With the possession of my heart) 
 
 And a third Mary, next began ; 
 
 
 To Eliza's conquering face. 
 
 Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria ; 
 
Abraham Cowley.] 
 
 ANACREONTICS. 
 
 [Fourth jb*ERioD. 
 
 And then a pretty Thomasine, 
 And then another Catharine, 
 And then a long et ccvtera. 
 
 But should I now to you relate 
 
 The strength and riches of their state 
 The powder, patches, and the pins, 
 The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, 
 The lace, the paint, and warlike things, 
 That make up all their magazines ; 
 
 If I should tell the politic arts 
 
 To take and keep men's hearts ; 
 The letters, embassies, and spies, 
 The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, 
 The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
 
 Numberless, nameless, mysteries ! 
 
 And all the little lime-twigs laid. 
 
 By Machiavel the waiting-maid ; 
 I more voluminous should grow 
 (Chiefly if I like them should tell 
 All change of weathers that befell) 
 Than Holinshed or Stow. 
 
 But I \nll briefer Avith them be, 
 
 Since few of them were long with me. 
 An higher and a nobler strain 
 
 Tvly present empress does claim, 
 
 Heleonora, first o' th' name ; 
 
 Whom God grant long to reign ! 
 
 Ahrana7n Coivlcy. — Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 542.— ANACREONTICS, 
 
 OR SOME COPIES OF VERSES, TRANSLATED 
 PARAFHRASTICALLY OUT OF ANACREON. 
 
 DRINKING. 
 
 The thirsty earth soaks up the rain. 
 And drinks, and gapes for drink again, 
 The plants suck-in the earth, and are 
 With constant drinking fresh and fair ; 
 The sea itself (which one would think 
 Should have but little need of drink) 
 Drinks twice ten thousand rivers jip, 
 So fiU'd that they o'erflow the cup. 
 The busy Sun (and one would guess 
 By's drunken fiery face no less) 
 Drinks up the sea, and when he 'as done, 
 The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun : 
 They drink and dance by their own light ; 
 They drink and revel all the night. 
 Nothing in nature 's sober found, 
 But an eternal health goes round. 
 Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, 
 Fill all the glasses there ; for why 
 Should every creature drink but I ; 
 Wliy. man of morals, tell me why ? 
 
 AGE. 
 
 Oft am I by the women told, 
 Poor Anacreon ! thou grow'st old : 
 Look how thy hairs are falling all : 
 Poop Anacreon, how they fall : 
 
 Whether I grow old or no, 
 By th' effects, I do not know ; 
 This, I know, without being told, 
 'Tis time to live, if I grow old ; 
 'Tis time short pleasures now to take, 
 Of little life the best to make, 
 And manage wisely the last stake. 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 A mighty pain to love it is. 
 
 And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ; 
 
 But, of all pains, the greatest pain 
 
 It is to love, but love in vain. 
 
 Virtue now, nor noble blood. 
 
 Nor wit by love is understood ; 
 
 Gold alone does passion move, 
 
 Gold monopolizes love. 
 
 A curse on her, and on the man 
 
 Who this traffic first began ! 
 
 A curse on him who found the ore ! 
 
 A curse on him who digg'd the store ! 
 
 A curse on him who did refine it ! 
 
 A curse on him who first did coin it ! 
 
 A curse, all curses else above, 
 
 On him who us'd it first in love ! 
 
 Gold begets in brethren hate ; 
 
 Gold in families debate ; 
 
 Gold does friendships separate ; 
 
 Gold does civil wars create. 
 
 These the smallest harms of it ! 
 
 Gold, alas ! does love beget. 
 
 THE EPICURE. 
 
 Fill the bowl with rosy wine ! 
 Around our temples roses tAvine ! 
 And let us cheerfully awhile, 
 Like the wine and roses, smile. 
 Crown' d with roses, we contemn 
 Gj'ges' wealthy diadem. 
 To-day is ours, what do we fear ? 
 To-day is ours ; we have it here : 
 Let's treat it kindly, that it may 
 Wish at least, with us to stay. 
 Let's banish business, banish sorrow ; 
 To the gods belongs to-morrow. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Underneath this myrtle shade, 
 
 On flowery beds supinely laid, 
 
 With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing, 
 
 And around it roses growing. 
 
 What should i' do but drink away 
 
 The heat and troubles of the day.-* 
 
 In this more than kingly state 
 
 Love himself shall on me wait. 
 
 Fill to me. Love ; nay fill it up ; 
 
 And mingled cast into the cup 
 
 Wit, and mirth, and noble fires, 
 
 Vigorous health and gay desii-es. 
 
 The wheel of life no less will stay 
 
 In a smooth than rugged way : 
 
 Since it equally dotli floe, 
 
 Let the motion pleasant be. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 AGAINST HOPE. 
 
 [Abraham Cowley. 
 
 Why do we precious ointments show'r ? 
 
 AU thy art could never pay 
 
 Nobler wines why do we pour ? 
 
 What thou hast ta'en from me away. 
 
 Beauteous flowers why do we spread, 
 
 Cruel bird ! thou'st ta'en away 
 
 Upon the monuments of the dead ? 
 
 A dream out of my arms to-day : 
 
 Nothing they but dust can show, 
 
 A dream, that ne'er must equaU'd be 
 
 Or bones that hasten to be so. 
 
 By aU that waking eyes may see. 
 
 Crown me with roses whilst I live, 
 
 Thou, this damage to repair, — — 
 
 Now your wines and ointments give ; 
 
 Nothing half so sweet or fair. 
 
 After death I nothing crave, 
 
 Nothing- half so good, canst bring, 
 
 Let me alive my pleasures have, 
 
 Though men say thou bring' st the Spring. 
 
 All are Stoics in the grave. 
 
 Abraham Coidey.—Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 Happy Insect ! what can be 
 
 In happiness compared to thee ? 
 
 Fed with nourishment divine. 
 
 The dewy Morning's gentle wine ! 
 
 Nature waits upon thee still, 
 
 And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
 
 'Tis fiU'd wherever thou dost tread, 
 
 Nature's self 's thy Ganymede. 
 
 Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; 
 
 Happier than the happiest king ! 
 
 All the fields which thou dost see, 
 
 All the plants, belong to thee ; 
 
 All that summer-hours produce, 
 
 Fertile made with early juice. 
 
 Man for thee does sow and plow ; 
 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 
 
 Thou dost innocently joy ; 
 
 Nor does thy luxury destroy ; 
 
 The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 
 
 More harmonious than he. 
 
 Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 
 
 Prophet of the ripen' d year 1 
 
 Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 
 
 Phoebus is himself thy sire. 
 
 To thee, of all things upon earth. 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
 
 Happy insect, happy thou ! 
 
 Dost neither age nor ^vinter know ; 
 
 But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and 
 
 sung 
 Thy fiU, the flow'ry leaves among, 
 (Voluptuous, and wise withal, 
 Epicurean animal !) 
 Sated with thy summer feast, 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Foolish Prater, what dost thou 
 So early at my window do, 
 With thy tuneless serenade ? 
 WeU 't had been had Tereus made 
 Thee as dumb as Philomel ; 
 There his knife had done but well. 
 In thy undiscovered nest 
 Thou dost all the winter rest. 
 And dreamest o'er thy summer joys. 
 Free from the stormy seasons' noise. 
 Free from th' iU thou'st done to me : 
 Who disturbs or seeks-out thee ? 
 Hadst thou aU the charming notes 
 Of the wood's poetic throats. 
 
 543.— AGAINST HOPE. 
 
 Hope ! whose weak being ruin'd is, 
 Alike, if it succeed, and if it miss ; 
 Whom good or iU does equally confound, 
 And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound : 
 Vain shadow ! which does vanish quite, 
 Both at full noon and perfect night ! 
 The stars have not a possibility 
 
 Of blessing thee ; 
 If things then from their end we happy call, 
 'Tis hope is the most hopeless thing of all. 
 
 Hope ! thou bold taster of delight, 
 
 Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour' st 
 it quite ! 
 
 Thou bring' st us an estate, yet leav'st us 
 poor. 
 
 By clogging it with legacies before ! 
 
 The joys which we entire should wed. 
 Come deflower' d virgins to our bed ; 
 
 Good foi-tunes without gain imported be, 
 
 Such mighty custom 's paid to thee. 
 
 For joy, like wine, kept close does better taste ; 
 
 If it take air before, its spirits waste. 
 
 Hope ! Fortune's cheating lottery ! 
 Where for one prize an hundred blanks there 
 
 be; 
 Fond archer, Hope ! who tak'st thy aim so far, 
 That still or short or wide thine arrows are ! 
 
 Thin, empty cloud, which th' eye deceives 
 
 With shapes that our own fancy gives ! 
 A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears. 
 
 But must drop presently in tears ! 
 When thy false beams o'er Reason's light 
 
 prevail. 
 By ignes fatui for north-stars we sail. 
 
 Brother of Fear, more gayly clad ! 
 The merrier fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad : 
 Sire of Eepentance ! child of fond Desire ! 
 That blow'st the chymics', and the lovers' 
 fire, 
 
 Leading then stiU insensibly on 
 
 By the strange witchcraft of " anon ! " 
 By thee the one does changing Nature, through 
 
 Hor endless labyrinths pursue ; 
 And th' other chases woman, whilst she goes 
 More ways and turns than hunted Nature 
 knows. 
 
 Ahraham Cov:ley. — Born 1618, Bled 1667. 
 
Abeaham CoWLfeY.] 
 
 FOR HOPE. 
 
 [FoTJKTH Period. — 
 
 544.— FOE HOPE. 
 
 Hope ! of all ills that men endure, 
 
 The only cheap and universal cure ! 
 
 Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's 
 
 health ! 
 Thou loser's victory, and thou beg-gar's wealth ! 
 Thou manna, which from Heaven we eat, 
 To every taste a several meat ! 
 Thou strong- retreat ! thou sure-entail'd estate, 
 Which nought has power to alienate ! 
 Thou pleasant, honest flatterer ! for none 
 Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone ! 
 
 Hope ! thou first-fniits of happiness ! 
 Thou gentle dawning of a bright success ! 
 Thou good preparative, without which our joy 
 Does work too strong, and, whilst it cures, 
 destroy ! 
 
 Who out of Fortune's reach dost stand, 
 
 And art a blessing stni m hand ! 
 Wliilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain, 
 
 We certain are to gain, 
 Wliether she her bargain break or else fulfil ; 
 Tliou only good, not worse for ending ill ! 
 
 Brother of Faith ! 't\vixt whom and thee 
 The joys of Heaven and Earth divided be ! 
 Though Faith be heir, and have the fixt estate, 
 Thy portion yet in moveables is great. 
 
 Happiness itseK 's all one 
 
 In thee, or in possession ! 
 Only the future's thine, the present his ! 
 
 Tliine's the more hard and noble bliss : 
 Best apprehender of our joys ! which hast 
 So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast ! 
 
 Hope ! thou sad lover's only friend ! 
 Thou Way, that mayst dispute it with the 
 
 End! 
 For love, I fear, 's a fruit that does dehght 
 The taste itself less than the smell and sight. 
 
 Fruition more deceitful is 
 
 Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ; 
 Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee 
 
 Some other way again to thee ; 
 And that's a pleasant country, without doubt. 
 To which all soon return that travel out. 
 
 Abraham Cowley. — Boroi 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 545- — CLAUDIAN'S OLD MAN OF 
 VERONA. 
 
 BE BENE VERONENSI, QUI SUBUEBIUM 
 NUNQUAM EQRESSUS EST. 
 
 Felix, qui patriis, &c. 
 
 Happy the man, who his whole time doth 
 
 bound 
 Within th' enclosure of his little ground. 
 Happy the man, whom the same humble place 
 (Th' hereditary cottage of his race) 
 From his first rising infancy has known, 
 And by degrees sees gently bending down, 
 
 With natural propension, to that earth 
 Which both preserv'd his life, and gave hiir 
 
 birth. 
 Him no false distant lights, by fortunes set, 
 Could ever into fooHsh wanderings get. 
 He never danger either saw or fear'd ; 
 The dreadful storms at sea he never heard. 
 He never heard the shrill alarms of war, 
 Or the worse noises of the lawyers' bar. 
 No change of consuls marks to him the year, 
 The change of seasons is his calendar. 
 The cold and heat, winter and summer shows ; 
 Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers, ho 
 
 knows 
 He measures time by land-marks, and has 
 
 found 
 For the whole day the dial of his ground. 
 A neighbouring wood, bom with himself, he 
 
 sees. 
 And loves his old contemporary trees. 
 He 'as only heard of near Verona's name, 
 And knows it, Hke the Indies, but by fame. 
 Does with a like concernment notice take 
 Of the Red-sea, and of Benacus' lake. 
 Thus health and strength he to a third age 
 
 enjoys. 
 And sees a long posterity of boys. 
 About the spacious world let others roam. 
 The voyage, life, is longest made at home. 
 
 Abraham Cowley.— Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 546.— THE WISH. 
 
 Well, then ; I now do plainly see 
 
 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree ; 
 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 
 Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 
 Who for it can endure the stings, 
 The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings, 
 
 Of this great hive, the city. 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave, 
 May I a small house and large garden have ! 
 And a few friends, and many books, both true, 
 
 Both wise, and both delightful too ! 
 
 And, since love ne'er will from me flee, 
 A mistress moderately fair 
 And good, as guardian-angels are, 
 
 Only belov'd, and loving me ! 
 
 Oh, fountains ! when in you shall I 
 Myself, eas'd of unpeaceful thoughts, espy ? 
 Oh fields ! oh woods ! when, when shall I bo 
 made 
 
 The happy tenant of your shade ? 
 
 Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood; 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 
 Only in far-fetch' d metaphors appear ; 
 Hero nought but winds can hurtful mui-murs 
 scatter. 
 
 And nought but Echo flatter. 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 FEOM THE PINDAEIC ODES. 
 
 [Abraham Cowley. 
 
 The gods, when they descended hither 
 From Heaven, did ahvays chuse their way ; 
 And therefore we may boldly say, 
 
 That 'tis the way too thither. 
 
 How happy here should I, 
 And one dear she, live, and embracing die ! 
 She, who is all the world, and can exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude. 
 
 I should have then this only fear — 
 Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
 Should hither throng to Hve like me, 
 
 And so make a city here. 
 
 Abraham Coivley.—Bom 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 547.— FEOM THE " HYMN TO LIGHT." 
 
 # # « 
 
 Say, from what golden quivers of the sky 
 Do all thy winged arrows fly ? 
 Swiftness and Power by birth are 
 thine: 
 From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the 
 Word Divine. 
 
 Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud 
 and gay. 
 Dost thy ijright wood of stars survey ; 
 And all the year dost with thee bring 
 Of thousand flowery lights thine own noc- 
 turnal spring. 
 
 Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands 
 above 
 The Sun's gilt tent for ever move. 
 And still, as thou in pomp dost go. 
 The shining pageants of the world attend thy 
 show. 
 
 Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou 
 scorn 
 The humble glow-worms to adorn, 
 And -svith those living spangles gild 
 (0 greatness without pride !) the bushes of 
 the field. 
 
 Night and her ugly subjects thou dost 
 fright, 
 And Sleep, the lazy owl of night ; 
 Asham'd, and fearful to appear. 
 They screen their horrid shapes with the black 
 hemisphere. 
 
 With them there hastes, and wildly takes 
 th' alarm. 
 Of painted dreams a busy swarm : 
 At the first opening of thine eye 
 The various clusters break, the antic atoms 
 
 fly. 
 
 At thy appearance, Grief itself is said 
 
 To shake his wings, and rouse his 
 
 head : 
 And cloudy Care has often took 
 A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy 
 look. 
 
 When, goddess! thou lift' st up thy waken'd 
 head, 
 Out of the morning's pxirple bed, 
 Thy quire of birds about thee play. 
 And all the joyful world salutes the rising 
 day. 
 
 All the world's bravery, that delights our 
 eyes. 
 Is but thy several liveries ; 
 Thou the rich dye on them bestow' st. 
 Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as 
 thou go'st. 
 
 A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; 
 A cro•^^^l of studded gold thou bear'st ; 
 The virgin-lilies, in their wliite, 
 Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked 
 light. 
 
 The violet, Spring's little infant, standa 
 Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands ; 
 On the fair tulip thou dost dote ; 
 Thou cloth' st it in a, gay and party-colour' d 
 coat. 
 
 Through the soft ways of Heaven, and air, 
 and sea. 
 Which open all their pores to thee. 
 Like a clear river thou dost glide. 
 And with thy living stream through the close 
 channels slide. 
 
 But the vast ocean of unbounded day, 
 In.th' empyrasaii Heaven does stay. 
 Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below. 
 From thence took first their rise, thither at 
 last must flow. 
 Abraham Coivley.—Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 548.— FEOM THE PINDAEIC ODES. 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE FITfST-BOKN, IN THE 
 "PLAGUES OF EGYPT." 
 
 It was the time when the still moon 
 Was motinted softly to her noon, 
 And dewy sleep, which from night's secret 
 springs arose. 
 
Abraham Cowley.] 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Gently as Nile the land o'erflows ; 
 When, lo, from the high countries of refined 
 day, 
 The golden heaven without allay, — 
 Whose dross in the creation purged away. 
 
 Made up the sun's adulterate ray, — 
 Michael, the warlike prince, does downward 
 
 fly, 
 
 Swift as the journeys of the sight, 
 Swift as the race of light, 
 And with his winged will cuts through the 
 yielding sky. 
 He passed thro' many a star, and, as he 
 
 passed. 
 Shone (like a star in them) more brightly 
 there 
 Than they did in their sphere. 
 On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped 
 at last, 
 And a mild look of sacred pity cast 
 Down on the sinful land where he was 
 sent 
 To inflict the tardy punishment. 
 "Ah, yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king, 
 repent, 
 While thus unarmed I stand. 
 Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded 
 hand. 
 Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live ; 
 Who Avould, alas, believe, 
 That it for man," said he, 
 " So hard to be forgiven should be. 
 And yet for God so easy to forgive." 
 
 He spoke, and downwards flew. 
 And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he 
 threw, 
 Made of the blackest fleece of night, 
 And close wrought to keep in the powerful 
 
 light ; 
 Yet wrought so fine, it hindered not his 
 
 flight. 
 But thro' the keyholes and the chinks of 
 
 doors. 
 And thro' the narrowest walks of crooked 
 pores, 
 He passed more swift and free 
 Than in wide air the wanton swallows 
 
 flee. 
 He took a pointed Pestilence in his hand ; 
 The spirits of thousand mortal poisons 
 made 
 The strongly tempered blade : 
 The sharpest sword that e'er was laid 
 Up in the magazines of God to scourge a 
 wicked land. 
 Thro' Egypt's wicked land his march he 
 
 took. 
 And as he marched the sacred first-bom 
 strook 
 Of every womb ; none did he spare. 
 None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's 
 t)urple heir. 
 
 The swift approach of endless night 
 Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling 
 eyes. 
 
 They wake the rest with dying cries, 
 
 And darkness doubles the affright. 
 The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they 
 
 hear; 
 And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and 
 
 fear: 
 Louder than all, the shrieking women's 
 
 voice 
 Pierces this chaos of confused noise ; 
 As brighter lightning cuts a way 
 Clear and distinguished thro' the day : 
 With less complaints the Zoan temples 
 sound 
 
 When the adored heifer's drowned. 
 And no true marked successor to be found. 
 While health, and strength, and gladness 
 does possess 
 
 The festal Hebrew cottages ; 
 
 The blest destroyer comes not there. 
 
 To interrupt the sacred cheer 
 That new begins their well reformed year. 
 Upon their doors he read and understood 
 
 God's protection writ in blood. 
 Well was he skilled i' th' character divine ; 
 
 And tho' he passed by it in haste. 
 
 He bowed and worshipped as he pass'd, 
 The mighty mystery thro' its humble sign. 
 
 AhraJiam Cowley.— Born 1618, Bled 1G67. 
 
 549.— THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 In a deep vision's inteUectnal scene. 
 
 Beneath a bower for sorrow made, 
 
 Th' uncomfortable shade 
 
 Of the black yew's unlucky green, 
 
 Mix'd with the mourning willow's careful 
 
 gray. 
 Where rev' rend Cam cuts out his famous way. 
 The melancholy Cowley lay ; 
 And, lo ! a Muse appear' d to his closed sight 
 (The Muses oft in lands of vision play,) 
 Bodied, array'd, and seen by an internal light : 
 A golden harp Avith silver strings she bore, 
 A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore. 
 In which all colours and all figures were 
 That Nature or that Fancy can create. 
 That Art can never imitate, 
 And with loose pride it wanton' d in the air. 
 In such a dress, in such a well-clothed dream, 
 She used of old near fair Ismenus' stream 
 Pindar, her Theban favourite, to meet ; 
 A crown was on her head, and wings were on 
 
 her feet. 
 
 She touch' d him with her harp and raised him 
 
 from the ground ; 
 The shaken strings melodiously resound. 
 
From 1(549 to 1689.] 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 [Abraham: Cowley. 
 
 " Art thoii retum'd at last," said she, 
 
 " To this forsaken place and me ? 
 
 Thou prodigal I who didst so loosely waste 
 
 Of all thy youthful years the good estate ; 
 
 Art thou return' d, here to repent too late ? 
 
 And gather husks of learning up at last, 
 
 Now the rich harvest-time of life is past, 
 
 And winter marches on so fast ? 
 
 But when I meant t' adopt thee for my son, 
 
 And did as learn' d a portion assign 
 
 As ever any of the mighty nine 
 
 Had to their dearest children done ; 
 
 When I resolved t' exalt thy anointed name 
 
 Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame ; 
 
 Thou changeling ! thou, bewitch' d with noise 
 
 and show, 
 Wouldst into courts and cities from me go, 
 Wouldst see the world abroad, and have n 
 
 share 
 In all the follies and the tumults there ; 
 Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a 
 
 state, 
 And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst 
 
 create : 
 Business ! the frivolous pretence, 
 Of human lusts, to shake off imiocence ; 
 Business ! the grave impertinence ; 
 Business ! the thing which I of all things 
 
 hate. 
 Business ! the contradiction of thy fate. 
 
 Go, renegado I cast up thy account, 
 
 And see to what amount 
 
 Thy foolish gains by quitting me : 
 
 The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, 
 
 The fruits of thy unlearn' d apostasy. 
 
 Thou thoughtst, if once the public storm were 
 
 past. 
 All thy remaining life should sunshine be : 
 Behold the public storm is spent at last. 
 The sovereign is toss'd at sea no more, 
 And thou, with all the noble company, 
 Art got at last to shore : 
 But whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see. 
 All march' d up to possess the promised land. 
 Thou still alone, alas ! dost gaping stand. 
 Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand. 
 As a fair morning of the blessed spring, 
 After a tedious stormy night. 
 Such was the glorious entry of our king ; 
 Enriching moisture dropp'd on every thing : 
 Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him 
 
 Hght. 
 But then, alas ! to thee alone 
 One of old Gideon's miracles was shown, 
 For ev'ry tree, and ev'ry hand around, 
 With pearly dew was crown' d. 
 And upon all the quicken' d ground 
 The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lie. 
 And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry. 
 It did aU other threats surpass. 
 When God to his own people said, 
 (The men whom thro' long wanderings he had 
 
 led,) 
 That he would give them even a heaven of 
 
 brass : 
 
 They look'd up to that heaven in vain. 
 
 That bounteous heaven ! which God did not 
 
 restrain 
 Upon the most unjust to shine and rain. 
 
 The Eachel, for which twice seyen_jears and 
 
 more, ~ 
 
 Thou didst with faith and labour serve, 
 And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve, 
 Though she contracted was to thee, 
 Given to another, thou didst see, 
 Given to another, who had store 
 Of fairer and of richer wives before. 
 And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be. 
 Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune 
 
 tiy, 
 Twice seven years more God in his bounty 
 
 may 
 Give thee to fiing away 
 Into the court's deceitful lottery : 
 But think how likely 'tis that thou. 
 With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough, 
 Shouldst in a hard and barren season thrive, 
 Shouldst even able be to live ; 
 Thou ! to whose share so little bread did fall 
 In the miraculous year, when manna rain'd on 
 
 all." 
 
 Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a 
 smile. 
 
 That seem'd at once to pity and revile : 
 I And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head, 
 I The melancholy Cowley said : 
 
 "Ah, wanton foe ! dost thou upbraid 
 ; The ills which thou, thyself hast made ? 
 j When in the cradle innocent I lay, 
 
 Thou, wicked spirit ! stolest me av/ay. 
 
 And my abused soul didst bear 
 
 Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where, 
 
 Thy golden Indies in the air ; 
 
 And ever since I strive in vain 
 
 My ravish' d freedom to regain ; 
 
 StiU I rebel, still thou dost reign ; 
 
 Lo, still in verse, against thee I complain. 
 
 There is a sort of stubborn weeds. 
 
 Which, if the earth but once it ever breeds, 
 
 No wholesome herb can near them thrive. 
 
 No useful plant can keep alive : 
 
 The foolish sports I did on thee bestow 
 
 Make all my art and labour fruitless now : 
 
 Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth 
 ever grow. 
 
 When my new mind had no infusion known. 
 
 Thou gavest so deep a tincture of thine ov/n, 
 
 That ever since I vainly try 
 
 To wash away th' inherent dye : 
 
 Long work, perhaps, may spoil thy colours 
 
 quite. 
 But never will reduce the native white. 
 To all the ports of honour and of gain 
 I often steer my course in vain ; 
 Thy gale comes cross, and drives me baok 
 
 again. 
 Thou slacken' st all my nerves of industry. 
 
ABiiAHAii Cowley. 
 
 FEOM " FEIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.' 
 
 [Fourth Pekiod. — 
 
 By making them so oft to be 
 
 The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy. 
 
 Whoever this world's happiness would see 
 
 Must as entirely cast off thee, 
 
 As they who only heaven desire 
 
 Do from the world retire. 
 
 This was my error, this my gross mistake, 
 
 Myself a demi-votar}^ to make. 
 
 Thus, with Sapphira and her husband's fate, 
 
 (A fault which I, like them, am taught too 
 
 late,) 
 For all that I gave up I nothing gain, 
 And perish for the part which I retain. 
 
 Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse ! 
 The court and better king t' accuse ; 
 The heaven under wliich I live is fair. 
 The fertile soil wiU a full harvest bear : 
 Thine, thine is all the barrenness, if thou 
 Mak'st me sit still and sing when I should 
 
 plough. 
 When I but think how many a tedious year 
 Our patient sovereign did attend 
 His long misfortunes' fatal end ; 
 How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, 
 On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend, 
 I ought to be accurst if I refuse 
 To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse ! 
 Kings have long hands, they say, and though 
 
 I be 
 So distant, they may reach at length to me. 
 However, of all princes thou 
 Should' st not reproach rewards for being small 
 
 or slow ; 
 Thou ! who rewardest but with popular breath. 
 And that, too, after death ! " 
 
 Alraham Coidey.—Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 550. — FEOM "FEIENDSHIP IN 
 ABSENCE." 
 
 A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon 
 
 To mock our separation. 
 
 Alas ! ten thousand will not do ; 
 
 My heai*t wiU thus no longer stay, 
 
 No longer 'twill be kept from you. 
 
 But knocks against the breast to get away. 
 
 And when no art affords me help or ease, 
 I seek with verse my griefs t' appease : 
 Just as a bird that flies about. 
 And beats itself against the cage, 
 Finding at last no passage out. 
 It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage. 
 Ahraha7n Coivley. — Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 551.— THE WAITING-MAID. 
 
 Thy maid ! Ah ! find some nobler theme 
 Whereon thy doubts to place, 
 
 Nor by a low suspect blaspheme 
 The glories of thy face. 
 
 Alas ! she makes thee shine so fair. 
 
 So exquisitely bright. 
 That her dim lamp must disappear 
 
 Before thy potent light. 
 
 Three hours each morn in dressing thee 
 
 Maliciously are spent, 
 And make that beauty tyranny. 
 
 That's else a civil government. 
 
 Th' adorning thee with so much art 
 
 Is but a barb'rous skill ; 
 'Tis-like the pois'ning of a dart. 
 
 Too apt before to kiU. 
 
 The min'st'ring angels none can see; 
 
 'Tis not their beauty or their face, 
 For which by men they worshipp'd be, 
 
 But their high ofSce and their place. 
 Thou art my goddess, my saint she ; 
 
 I pray to her only to pray to thee. 
 
 Abraham Coidey.—Born 1681, Died 1667. 
 
 552.— HONOUE. 
 
 She loves, and she confesses too ; 
 There's then, at last, no more to do : 
 The happy work 's entirely done ; 
 Enter the town which thou hast won ; 
 The fruits of conquest now begin ; 
 16, triumphe ; enter in. 
 
 What's this, ye gods ! what can it be ? 
 
 Eemains there still an enemy ? 
 
 Bold Honour stands up in the gate, 
 
 And would yet capitulate ; 
 
 Have I o'ercome aU real foes. 
 
 And shall this phantom me oppose ? 
 
 Noisy nothing ! stalking shade ! 
 By what witchcraft wert thou made ? 
 Empty cause of soM harms 1 
 But I shall find out counter- charms 
 Thy airy devilship to remove 
 From this circle here of love. 
 
 Sure I shall rid' myself of thee 
 
 By the night's obscurity, 
 
 And obscurer secrecy : 
 
 Unlike to every other sprite, 
 
 Thou attempt' st not men to fright,' 
 
 Nor appear'st but in the light. 
 
 Ahrahar>i Cowley.— Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 553.— OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 
 
 Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 
 
 Where the poetic birds rejoice. 
 
 And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 
 
 Pay with their grateful voice. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 OF HEAVEN. 
 
 [Bishop Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat ! 
 
 Ye country houses and retreat, 
 
 Which all the happy gods so love, 
 
 That for you oft they quit their bright and 
 
 great 
 Metropolis above. 
 
 Here Nature does a house for me erect, 
 Nature ! the fairest architect, 
 Who those fond artists does despise 
 That can the fair and living trees neglect, 
 Yet the dead timber prize. 
 
 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, 
 Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
 With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
 And the more tuneful birds to both replying, 
 Nor be myself, too, mute. 
 
 A silver stream shaU roll his waters near, 
 Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, 
 On whose enamcll'd bank I'U walk. 
 And see how prettily they smile, 
 And hear how prettily they talk. 
 
 Ah ! wretched, and too solitary he, 
 Who loves not his own company ! 
 He'U feel the weight of it many a day, 
 Unless he calls in sin or vanity 
 To help to bear it away. 
 
 Oh, Solitude ! first state of humankind ! 
 Which bless'd remain'd till man did find 
 Even his own helper's company : 
 As soon as two, alas ! together join'd, 
 The serpent made up three. 
 
 Though God himself, through countless ages, 
 
 thee 
 His sole companion chose to be, 
 Thee, sacred Solitude ! alone. 
 Before the branchy head of number's tree 
 Sprang from the trunk of one ; 
 
 Thou (though men think thine an unactive 
 
 part) 
 Dost break and tame th' unruly heart. 
 Which else would know no settled pace, 
 Making it move, well managed by thy art, 
 With swiftness and with grace. 
 
 Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd 
 
 light 
 Dost, like a burning glass, unite, 
 Dost multiply the feeble heat, 
 And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright 
 And noble fires beget. 
 
 Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I 
 
 see 
 The monster London laugh at me ; 
 I should at thee, too, foolish city ! 
 If it were fit to laugh at misery j 
 But thy estate I pity. 
 
 Let but thy wdcked men from out thee go. 
 And all the fools that crowd thee so. 
 Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, 
 A village less than Islington wilt grow, 
 A sohtude almost. 
 
 Abraham Cowley.— Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 554.— EPITAPH ON A LIVING AUTHOR. 
 
 Here, stranger, in this humble nest. 
 Here Cowley sleeps ; here lies. 
 
 Scaped all the toils that life molest, 
 And its superfluous joys. 
 
 Here, in no sordid poverty, 
 
 And no inglorious ease, 
 He braves the world, and can defy 
 
 Its frowns and flatteries. 
 
 The little earth, he asks, survey ; 
 
 Is he not dead indeed ? 
 " Light lie that earth," good stranger, pray, 
 
 " Nor thorn upon it breed ! " 
 
 With flowers, fit emblem of his fame. 
 
 Compass your poet round ; 
 With flowers of every fragrant name. 
 
 Be his warm ashes crown' d ! 
 
 AbroMm Coidey.—Born 1618, Died 1667. 
 
 555.— OF HEAVEN. 
 
 O Beauteous God ! uncireumscribed treasure 
 
 Of an eternal pleasure ! 
 
 Thy throne is seated far 
 
 Above the highest star, 
 
 Where Thou preparest a glorious place, 
 
 Within the brightness of Thy face, 
 
 For every spirit 
 
 To inherit 
 
 That builds his hopes upon Thy merit, 
 
 And loves Thee with a holy charity. 
 
 What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes 
 
 Clear as the morning rise. 
 
 Can speak, or think, or see 
 
 That bright eternity. 
 
 Where the great King's transparent throne 
 
 Is of an entire jasper stone ? 
 
 There the eye 
 
 O' the chrysolite. 
 
 And a sky 
 
 Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase — 
 
 And above all, Thy holy face — 
 
 Makes an eternal charity. 
 
 When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind, that day 
 
 Remember us, we pray — 
 
 That where the beryl lies, 
 
 And the crystal 'bove the skies. 
 
 There Thou mayest appoint us place 
 
 Within the brightness of Thy face — 
 
 And our soul 
 
 In the scroll 
 
Hknky Vauuhan.] 
 
 EARLY RISING AND PRAYEli. 
 
 ^ OUliTH PebIOD.- 
 
 Of life and blissfulness enroll. 
 
 That we may praise Thee to eternity. Aile- 
 
 lujah ! 
 Bishop Jeremy Taylor.— Born 1613, Died 1667. 
 
 556.— EAELY RISING AND PRAYER. 
 
 When first thy eyes unyeil, give thy soul leave 
 To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
 The spirit's duty : true hearts spread and heave 
 Unto their God as flowers do to the sun ; 
 Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou 
 
 Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 
 
 Yet never sleep the sun up, prayer should 
 Dawn -with the day ; there are set awful hours 
 'T^nxt heaven and us ; the manna was not 
 
 good 
 After sun-rising ; far-day sullies flowers ; 
 Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut. 
 And heaven's gate opens when the world's is 
 
 shut. 
 
 "Walk -svith thy fellow-creatures : note the hush 
 And whisperings among them. Not a spring. 
 Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush 
 And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not 
 
 sing? 
 0, leave thy cares and follies ! go this way, 
 And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 
 
 Serve God before the world ; let Him not go 
 Untn thou hast a blessing ; then resign 
 The whole unto Him, and remember who 
 Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine : 
 Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, 
 Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. 
 Mornings are mysteries : the first world's 
 
 youth, 
 Man's resurrection, and the future's bud. 
 Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, 
 
 light, truth, ■ 
 Is styled their star — the stone and hidden food, 
 Three blessings wait upon them, one of which 
 Should move — they make us holy, happy, rich. 
 
 "When the world 's up, and every swarm abroad. 
 Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay ; 
 Despatch necessities ; life hath a load 
 "Which must be carried on, and safely may : 
 Yet keep those cares without thee; let the 
 
 heart 
 Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 
 
 Henry Vav.ghan — Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 557-— THE FEAST. 
 
 come away I 
 
 Make no delay — 
 Come while my heart is clean and steady ! 
 
 "While faith and grace 
 
 Adorn the place, 
 Making dust and ashes ready ! 
 
 No bliss here lent 
 
 Is permanent — 
 Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit , 
 
 Short sips and sights 
 
 Endear delights ; 
 "Who seeks for more he would inherit. 
 
 Come then, true bread, 
 
 Quick'ning the dead, 
 "Whose eater shall not, cannot dj'e I 
 
 Come antedate 
 
 On me that state 
 "Which brings poor dust the victory '. — 
 
 Aye victory ! 
 
 Which from Thine eye 
 Breaks as the day doth from the east. 
 
 When the si)ilt dew, 
 
 Like tears, doth show 
 The sad world wept to bo releast. 
 
 Spring up, mine ! 
 
 And springing shine 
 With some glad message from His heart. 
 
 Who did, when slain, 
 
 These means ordain 
 For me to have in Him a part I — 
 
 Such a sure part 
 
 In His blest heart, 
 The well where living waters spring. 
 
 That, with it fed, 
 
 Poor dust, though dead. 
 Shall rise again, and live, and smg, 
 
 O drink and bread. 
 
 Which strikes death dead, 
 The food of man's immortal being ; 
 
 Under veils here 
 
 Thou art my cheer. 
 Present and sure without my seeing. 
 
 How dost Thou fly, 
 
 And search and pry 
 Through all my parts, and, like a quick 
 
 And knowing lamp. 
 
 Hunt out each damp 
 Whose shadow makes me sad or sick I 
 
 O what high joys ! 
 
 The turtle's voice 
 And songs I hear ! quick'ning showers 
 
 Of my Lord's blood. 
 
 You make rocks bud, 
 And crown dry hills with wells and flowers 
 
 For this true ease, 
 
 This healing peace, 
 For tliis brief taste of living glory, 
 
 My soul and all. 
 
 Kneel down and fall, 
 And sing His sad victorious story ! 
 
 O thorny crown, 
 
 More soft than down! 
 painful cross, my bed of rest ! 
 
 O spear, the key 
 
 Opening the way ! 
 Thy worst state my only best I 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE BEE. 
 
 [Henry Vaughan. 
 
 O all Thy griefs 
 
 Are my reliefs, 
 As all my sins Thy sorrows were ! 
 
 And what can I 
 
 To this reply ? 
 "VVliat, God ! but a silent tear ? 
 
 Some toil and sow 
 
 That wealth may flow, 
 And dress this earth for next year's meat : 
 
 But let me heed 
 
 Why thou didsted, 
 And what in the next world to eat. 
 
 Henry Vaurjlian.— Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 j 558.— THE BEE. 
 
 From fruithful beds and flowery borders, 
 Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders, 
 Where state grasps more than plain truth 
 
 needs, 
 And wholesome herbs are starved by weeds, 
 To the wild woods I will be gone. 
 And the coarse meals of great Saint John. 
 
 When truth and piety are missed, 
 Both in the rulers and the priest ; 
 When pity is not cold, but dead, 
 j And the rich eat the poor like bread ; 
 While factious heads, with open coil 
 And force, first made, then share the spoil : 
 To Horeb then Elias goes, 
 And in the desert grows the rose. 
 Hail, crystal fountains and fresh shades, 
 Where no proud look invades, 
 No busy worldling hunts away 
 The sad retirer all the day ! 
 Hail, happy, harmless solitude ! 
 <)ur sanctuary from the rude 
 And scornful world : the calm recess 
 Of faith, and hope, and holiness ! 
 Here something still like Eden looks — 
 Honey in woods, juleps in brooks ; 
 And flowers whose rich, unrifled sweets 
 With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, 
 When the toils of the day are done. 
 And the tired world sets with the sun. 
 Here flying winds and flowing wells 
 Are the mse, watchful hermit's bells ; 
 Their busy murmurs all the night 
 To praise or prayer do invite ; 
 And Avith an awful sound arrest, 
 And piously employ his breast. 
 
 When in the East the dawn doth blush, 
 Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush ; 
 Herbs straight get up; flowers peep and spread 3 
 Trees whisper praise, and bow the head ; 
 Birds, from the shades of night released. 
 Look round about, then quit the nest, 
 And with united gladness sing 
 The glory of the morning's King. 
 
 The hermit hears, and with meek voice 
 Offers his own up, and their joys ; 
 Then prays that all the world might bo 
 Blest with as sweet an unit3\ 
 
 If sudden storms the day invade, ~ - 
 They flock about him to the shade, 
 ^ Where wisely they expect the end, 
 '' Giving the tempest time to spend ; 
 And hard by shelters on some bough 
 Hilarion's servant, the sage crow. 
 O purer years of light and grace ! 
 Great is the difference, as the space, 
 'Twixt you and us, wht) blindly run 
 After false fires, and leave the sun. 
 Is not fair nature of herself 
 Much richer than dull paint and pelf ? 
 And are not streams at the spring head 
 More sweet than in carved stone or lead ? 
 But fancy and some artist's tools 
 Frame a religion for fools. 
 
 The truth, which once was plainly taught, 
 With thorns and briars now is fraught. 
 Some part is with bold fables spotted. 
 Some by strange comments wildly blotted ; 
 And discord, old corruption's crest. 
 With blood and blame have stained the rest. 
 So snow, which in its first descents 
 A whiteness like pure heaven presents, 
 When touched by man is quickly soiled. 
 And after trodden down and spoiled. 
 
 lead me where I may be free 
 
 In truth and spirit to serve Thee ! 
 Where undisturbed I may converse 
 With Thy great self ; and there rehearse 
 Thy gifts with thanks : and from Thy store, 
 Who art all blessings, beg much more. 
 Give me the wisdom of the bee. 
 And her unwearied industry ! 
 That from the wild gourds of these days, 
 
 1 may extract health, and Thy praise. 
 Who canst turn darkness into light, 
 And in my weakness show Thy might. 
 Suffer me not in any want 
 
 To seek refreshment from a plant 
 Thou didst not set, since all must bo 
 Plucked up whose growth is not from Thee. 
 'Tis not the garden and the bowers, 
 Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers 
 Their wholesomeness ; but Thy good wiU, 
 Which truth and purene.-"'5'- purchase still. 
 
 Then, since corrupt man hath driven hence 
 
 Thy kind and saving influence. 
 
 And balm is no more to be had, 
 
 In aU the coasts of Gliead — 
 
 Go with me to the shade and cell 
 
 Where Thy best servants once did dwell. 
 
 There let me know Thy wiU, and see 
 
 Exiled religion owned by Thee ; 
 
 For Thou canst turn dark grots to haUs. 
 
 And make hills blossom like the vales, „o 
 
Henry Vaughan.J 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 [Fourth Period.— 
 
 Decking their untilled heads with flowers, 
 And fresh delights for all sad hours ; 
 Till from them, like a laden bee, 
 I may fly home, and hive with Thee ! 
 
 Henry Vaugha7i.—Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 559.— PEACE. 
 
 My soul, there is a country 
 
 Afar beyond the stars. 
 Where stands a winged sentry, 
 
 All skilful in the wars. 
 There, above noise and danger. 
 
 Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, 
 And one born in a manger 
 
 Commands the beauteous files. 
 He is thy gracious friend. 
 
 And (O my soul awake !) 
 Did in pure love descend. 
 
 To die here for thy sake. 
 K thou canst get but thither. 
 
 There grows the flower of peace — 
 The rose that cannot wither — 
 
 Thy fortress, and thy ease. 
 Leave, then, thy foolish ranges ; 
 
 For none can thee secure, 
 But One who never changes — 
 
 Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. 
 Henry Vauglian. — Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 560.— THEY AEE ALL GONE. 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light, 
 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove — 
 
 Or those faint beams in which this hiU is 
 drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 Wliose life doth trample on my days — 
 
 My days which are at best but dull and hoary, 
 Mere glimmering and decays. 
 
 O holy hope ! and high humility — 
 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have showed 
 them me, 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death — the jewel of the just — 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
 
 What mysteries do He beyond thy dust, 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged bird's nest 
 may know, 
 
 At first sight, if the bird be flowii ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in now. 
 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 
 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our 
 wonted themes. 
 And into glory laeep. 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb. 
 
 Her captive flames must needs bum there ; 
 
 But when the hand that locked her up gives 
 room, 
 She'U shine through all the sphere. 
 
 Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under Thee ! 
 Eesume thy spirit from this world of thraU 
 
 Into true Hberty. 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fiU 
 My perspective still as they pass ; 
 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 Henry Vaughan. — Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 561.— THE TIMBEE. 
 
 Sure thou didst flourish once, and many 
 springs. 
 Many bright mornings, much dew, many 
 showers, 
 Pass'd o'er thy head ; many light hearts and 
 wings. 
 Which are now dead, lodged in thy living 
 towers. 
 
 And stiU a new succession sings and flies, 
 Fresh groves grow up, and their green 
 branches shoot 
 Towards the old and stiU enduring skies, 
 While the low violet thrives at their root. 
 # * # 
 
 Henry Van glian.— Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 562.— THE EAINBOW. 
 
 Still young and fine, but what is stiU in view 
 We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and 
 
 new. 
 How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring 
 
 eye 
 Thy bumish'd flaming arch did first descry ; 
 When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
 The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot 
 Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
 For thy new light, and trembled at each 
 
 shower ! 
 Wlien thoii dost shine, darkness looks white 
 
 and fair ; 
 Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and 
 
 air; 
 Eain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours 
 Balm on the cleft earth, mUk on grass and 
 
 flowers. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 CELIA SINGING. 
 
 [Thomas Stanley. 
 
 Bright pledge of peace and sunsliine, the sui'e 
 
 tie 
 Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye 
 When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
 Distant and low, I can in thine see Him, 
 Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, 
 And minds the covenant betwixt all and One, 
 # # # 
 
 Henry Vauglian.—Born 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 563. — THE WEEATH. 
 
 (to the redeeiiek.) 
 
 Since I in storms most used to be, 
 
 And seldom yielded flowers, 
 How shall I get a wreath for thee 
 
 From those rude barren hours ? 
 
 The softer dressings of the spring, 
 
 Or summer's later store, 
 I will not for thy temples bring, 
 
 Wliich thorns, not roses, wore : 
 
 But a twined wreath of grief and praise, 
 
 Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again 
 Shining with joy, like dewy days. 
 
 This day I bring for all thy pain. 
 Thy causeless pain ; and as sad death, 
 
 Which sadness breeds in the most vain, 
 O not in vain ! now beg thy breath, 
 Thy quick'ning breath, which gladly bears 
 
 Through saddest clouds to that glad place, 
 Where cloudless quires sing without tears. 
 
 Sing thy just praise, and see thy face. 
 
 Henry YaugTian. — Bom 1621, Died 1695. 
 
 564.— THE EETEEAT. 
 
 Happy those ea.rly days, when I 
 Shined in my angel-infancy. 
 Before I understood this place. 
 Appointed for my second race. 
 Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
 But a white celestial thought, — 
 When yet I had not walked above 
 A mile or two from my first love, 
 And looking back (at that short space) 
 Could see a glimpse of his bright face. 
 "VNTien on some gilded cloud or flower 
 My gazing soul would dwell an hour ; 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 Some shadows of eternity. 
 
 Oh, how I long to travel back. 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 That I might once more reach that plain. 
 Where first I left my glorious train, 
 From whence the enlightened spirit sees 
 That shady City of Palm Trees. 
 
 Henry Vaughan.—Born 1621, Bled 1695. 
 
 565.— THE TOMB. 
 
 When, cruel fair one, I am slain 
 
 By thy disdain, 
 And, as a trophy of thy scorn, 
 
 To some old tomb am borne, _ 
 Thy fetters must their power bequeatE^ 
 To those of Death ; 
 Nor can thy flame immortal bum, 
 Like monumental fires within an urn : 
 Thus freed from thy proud empire, I 
 
 prove 
 There is more liberty in Death than Love 
 
 shall 
 
 And when forsaken lovers come 
 
 To see my tomb, 
 Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, 
 
 And (as a victor) proud. 
 To view the spoils thy beauty made. 
 Press near my shade. 
 
 Lest thy too cruel breath or name 
 Should fan my ashes back into a flame, 
 And thou, devour' d by this revengeful fire, 
 His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. 
 
 But if cold earth, or marble, must 
 
 Conceal my dust. 
 Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I, 
 
 Dumb and forgotten, lie, 
 The pride of all thy victory 
 Will sleep with me ; 
 
 And they who should attest thy glory, 
 Will, or forget, or not believe this story. 
 Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, 
 Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. 
 
 Thomas Stanley.— Born 1625, Died 1678. 
 
 566.— CELIA SINGING. 
 
 Roses in breathing forth their scent, 
 
 Or stars their borrow' d ornament : 
 
 Nymphs in their wat'ry sphere that move, 
 
 Or angels in their orbs above ; 
 
 The winged chariot of the light, 
 
 Or the slow silent wheels of night ; 
 
 The shade which from the swifter sun 
 
 Doth in a swifter motion nm, 
 
 Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, 
 
 Make far less noise than Celia's breath in 
 
 sleep. 
 But if the angel which inspires 
 Tlais subtle flame with active fires, , 
 Should mould this breath to words, and those 
 Into a harmony dispose. 
 The music of this heavenly sphere 
 Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, 
 And into plants and stones infuse 
 A Hfe that cherubim would chuse. 
 And with new powers invert the laws of fate. 
 Kill those that hve, and dead things animate. 
 
 Thomas Stanley.— Born 1625, Died 1678. 
 
 23* 
 
Thomas Stanley.] 
 
 SPEAKING AND KISSING. 
 
 [Fourth Peeiod. — 
 
 567.— SPEAKING AND KISSING. 
 
 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, 
 Into ray soul hke lightning Hies ; 
 
 My life retires while thou dost speak, 
 And thy soft breath its room supplies. 
 
 Lost in this pleasing ecstacy, 
 
 I join my trembling lips to thine, 
 
 And back receive that life from thee 
 Which I so gladly did resign. 
 
 Forbear, Platonic fools ! t' inquire 
 Wliat numbers do the soul compose ; 
 
 No harmony can life inspire, 
 
 But that which from these accents flows. 
 
 Thomas Stanley .—Born 1625, Died 167{ 
 
 568.— LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. 
 
 You earthly souls that court a wanton flame 
 
 Whose pale, weak influence 
 Can rise no higher than the humble name 
 
 And narrow laws of sense. 
 Learn by our friendship to create 
 
 An immaterial fire, 
 Wliosc brightness angels may admire, 
 
 But cannot emulate. 
 Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek. 
 
 Or make the lilies fade, 
 But all the subtle ways that death doth seek 
 Cannot my love invade. 
 
 Thomas Stanley.— Bom 1G25, Dietl 1678. 
 
 509.— NOTE TO MOSCHUS. 
 
 Along the mead Europa walks. 
 To choose the fairest of its gems, 
 
 Which, plucking from their slender stalks, 
 She weaves in fragrant diadems. 
 
 Where'er the beauteous virgin treads. 
 The common people of the field, 
 
 To kiss her feet bowing their heads, 
 Homage as to their goddess yield. 
 
 'Twixt whom ambitious wars arise, 
 ^Vhich to the queen shall first present 
 
 A gift Arabian spice outvies. 
 
 The votive offering of their scent. 
 
 Wlien deatliless Amaranth, this strife. 
 
 Greedy by dying to decide, 
 Begs she. would her green thread of life, 
 
 As love's fair destiny, divide. 
 
 Pliant Acanthus now the vine 
 
 And ivy enviously beholds, 
 Wisliing her odorous arms might t^vine 
 
 About this fair in such strict folds. 
 
 The Violet, by her foot opprest, 
 
 Doth from that touch enamour'd rise, 
 
 But, losing straight what made her blest. 
 Hangs down her head, looks pale, and dies. 
 
 Clitia, to new devotion won, 
 
 Doth now her former faith deny, 
 
 Sees in her face a double sun. 
 And glories in apostacy. 
 
 The Gillyflower, which mocks the skies, 
 (The meadow's painted rainbow) seeks 
 
 A brighter lustre from her eyes. 
 And richer scarlet from her cheeks. 
 
 The jocund Flower-de-luce appears, 
 Because neglected, discontent ; 
 
 The morning furnish' d her vnth tearc ; 
 Her sighs expiring odours vent. 
 
 Narcissus in her eyes, once more. 
 Seems his own beauty to admire ; 
 
 In water not so clear before. 
 As represented now in fire. 
 
 The Crocus, who would gla^dly claim 
 
 A privilege above the rest. 
 Begs mtli his triple tongue of flame. 
 
 To be transplanted to her breast. 
 
 The Hyacinth, in whose pale leaves 
 The hand of Nature writ his fate. 
 
 With a glad smile his sigh deceives 
 In hopes to be more fortunate. 
 
 His head the drowsy Poppy rais'd, 
 Avvak'd by this approaching morn, 
 
 And view'd her purple light amaz'd, 
 Though his, alas ! was but her scorn. 
 
 None of this aromatic crowd, 
 
 But for their kind death humbly caU, 
 
 Courting her hand, like martyjs proud, 
 By so divine a fate to faU. 
 
 The royal maid th' applause disdains 
 Of vulgar flowers, and only chose 
 
 The bashful glory of the plains, 
 
 Sweet daughter of the Spring, the Eose. 
 
 She, like herself, a queen appears, 
 Rais'd on a verdant thorny throne. 
 
 Guarded by amorous winds, and wears 
 A purple robe, a golden cro^^^l. 
 
 Thomas Stanley .—Born 1625, Died 1678. 
 
 570.— THE VALEDICTION. 
 
 Vain world, what is in thee ? 
 What do poor mortals see 
 Wliich should esteemed be 
 
 Worthy their pleasure ? 
 Is it the mother's womb, 
 Or sorrows which soon come, 
 Or a dark grave and tomb ; 
 
 Wliich is their treasure ? 
 How dost thou man deceive 
 
 By thy vain glory ? 
 Why do they still believe 
 
 Thy false history ? 
 
From 1649 to 1G89.] 
 
 THE VALEDICTION. 
 
 [KicHARD Baxter. 
 
 Is it cliildren's book and rod, 
 
 Malignant world, adieu ! 
 
 The labourer's heavy load, 
 
 Wliere no foul vice is new — 
 
 Poverty undertrod. 
 
 Only to Satan true. 
 
 The world desireth ? 
 
 God still offended ; 
 
 Is it distracting cares. 
 
 Though taught and warned by God, 
 
 Or heart-tormenting fears, 
 
 And His chastising rod, 
 
 Or pining grief and tears, 
 
 Keeps still the way that's broad, ~ - 
 
 Which man requireth ? 
 
 Never amended. 
 
 Or is it youthful rage. 
 
 Baptismal vows some make. 
 
 Or childish toying ? 
 
 But ne'er perform them ; 
 
 Or is decrepit age 
 
 If angels from heaven spake. 
 
 Worth man's enjoying ? 
 
 'Twould not reform them. 
 
 Is it deceitful wealth, 
 
 They dig for hell beneath, 
 
 Got by care, fraud, or stealth, 
 
 They labour hard for death, 
 
 Or short, uncertain health. 
 
 Eun themselves out of breath 
 
 Which thus befool men ? 
 
 To overtake it. 
 
 Or do the serpent's lies, 
 
 Hell is not had for nought, 
 
 By the world's flatteries 
 
 Damnation 's dearly bought, 
 
 And tempting vanities. 
 
 And Avith great labour sought — 
 
 Still overrule them ? 
 
 They'll not forsake it. 
 
 Or do they in a dream 
 
 Their soxds are Satan's fee — 
 
 Sleep out their season ? 
 
 He'll not abate it. 
 
 Or borne down by lust's stream. 
 
 Grace is refused that's free — 
 
 Which conquers reason ? 
 
 Mad sinners hate it. 
 
 The silly lambs to-day 
 
 Vile man is so perverse, 
 
 Pleasantly skip and play, 
 
 It's too rough work for verse 
 
 Whom butchers mean to slay, 
 
 His madness to rehearse. 
 
 Perhaps to-morrow ; 
 
 And show his folly ; 
 
 In a more brutish sort 
 
 He'll die at any rates — 
 
 Do careless sinners sport. 
 
 Ho God and conscience hates. 
 
 Or in dead sleep stiU snort, 
 
 Yet sin he consecrates, 
 
 As near to son-ow ; 
 
 And calls it holy. 
 
 Till hfe, not well begun, 
 
 The grace he'U not endure 
 
 Be sadly ended, 
 
 Which would renew him — 
 
 And the web they have spun 
 
 Constant to all, and sure, 
 
 Can ne'er be mended. 
 
 Which will undo him. 
 
 What is the time that's gone, 
 And what is that to come ? 
 Is it not now as none ? 
 
 The present stays not. 
 Time posteth, O how fast ! 
 Unwelcome death makes haste : 
 None can call back what's past — 
 
 Judgment delays not ; 
 Though God bring in the light, 
 
 Sinners awake not ; — 
 Because hell's out of sight, 
 
 They sin forsake not. 
 
 Man walks in a vain show ; 
 They know, yet will not know ; 
 Sit still when they should go — 
 
 But run for shadows, 
 WhUe they might taste and know 
 The living streams that flow. 
 And crop the flowers that gi'ow 
 
 In Christ's sweet meadows. 
 Life's better slept away 
 
 Than as they use it ; 
 In sin and drunken play 
 
 Vain men abuse it. 
 
 His head comes first at birth. 
 And takes root in the earth — 
 As Nature shooteth forth. 
 
 His feet grow highest, 
 To kick at aU above, 
 And spurn at saving love ; 
 His God is in his grove. 
 
 Because it's nighest ; 
 He loves this world of strife, 
 
 Hates that would mend it ; 
 Loves death that's called life, 
 
 I'ears what would end it. 
 
 All that is good he'd crush, 
 Blindly on sin doth rush — 
 A pricking, thorny bush, 
 
 Such Christ was crowned with 
 Their worship's like to this — 
 The reed, the Judas kiss : 
 Such the religion is 
 
 That these abound with ; 
 They mock Christ with the knee 
 
 ^Vhene'er they bow it — 
 As if God did not see 
 
 The heart and know it. 
 
Lord Bkistol.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Fourth Fekiod. — 
 
 Of good they choose the least, 
 Despise that which is best — 
 The joyful, heavenly feast 
 
 Which Clirist would give them ; 
 Heaven hath scarce one cold -wish ; 
 They live unto the flesh ; 
 Like swine they feed on wash — 
 
 Satan doth drive them. 
 Like weeds they grow in mire, 
 
 Which vices nourish — 
 Where, warmed by Sata,n's fire, 
 
 All sins do flourish. 
 
 Is this the world men choose, 
 For which they heaven refuse, 
 And Christ and grace abuse, 
 
 And not receive it ? 
 Shall I not guilty be 
 Of this in some degree. 
 If hence God would me free, 
 
 And I'd not leave it ? 
 My soul, from Sodom fly, 
 
 Lest wrath there find thee ; 
 Thy refuge — rest is nigh — 
 
 Look not behind thee ! 
 
 There's none of this ado. 
 None of the hellish crew ; 
 God's promise is most true — 
 
 Boldly believe it. 
 My friends are gone before. 
 And I am near the shore. 
 My soul stands at the door — 
 
 O Lord, receive it ! 
 It trusts Christ and His merits — 
 
 The dead He raises ; 
 Join it with blessed spirits 
 
 Who sing Thy praises. 
 
 Richard Baxter. — Born 1615, Died 1691. 
 
 571.— SONG. 
 
 See, see ! 
 
 How every tree. 
 
 Every bower, 
 
 Every flower, 
 A new life gives to others' joys ; 
 
 WhHe that I 
 
 Grief-stricken lie. 
 
 Nor can meet 
 
 With any sweet 
 B.ut what faster mine destroys. 
 What are all the senses' pleasures. 
 When the mind has lost all measures P 
 
 Hear, hear ! 
 How sweet and clear 
 The nightingale 
 And water's fall 
 In concert join for others' ear j 
 While to me. 
 For harmony. 
 
 Every air 
 
 Echoes despair. 
 And every drop provokes a tear. 
 What are all the senses' pleasures. 
 When the soul has lost all measures ? 
 
 Lord Bristol— Born 1612, Died 1676. 
 
 572.— THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION. 
 
 Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse, 
 Wlio hath made the universe. 
 He the boundless heavens lias spread, 
 AH the vital orbs has kned ; 
 He that on Olympus high 
 Tends His flock with watchful eye ; 
 And this eye has multiplied 
 Midst each flock for to reside. 
 Thus, as round about they sti-ay, 
 Toucheth each mth outstretched ray : 
 Nimbly they hold on their way. 
 Shaping out their night and day. 
 Never slack they ; none respires, 
 Dancing round their central fires. 
 
 In due order as they move, 
 Echoes sweet be gently drove 
 Through heaven's vast hoUowness, 
 Which unto all comers press — 
 Music, that the heart of Jove 
 Moves to joy and sportful love. 
 Fills the listening sailor's ears. 
 Riding on the wandering spheres. 
 Neither speech nor language is 
 Where their voice is not transmiss. 
 
 God is good, is wise, is strong — 
 Witness all the creature throng — 
 Is confessed by every tongue. 
 All things back from whence they sprung. 
 As the thankful rivers pay 
 Wliat they borrowed of the sea. 
 
 Now, myself I do resign ; 
 Take me whole, I all am Thine. 
 Save me, God ! from self-desire, 
 Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire, 
 Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ; 
 Let not lust my soul bemire. 
 
 Quit from these. Thy praise I'll sing, 
 Loudly sweep the trembhng string. 
 Bear a part, O -wisdom's sons, 
 Freed from vain religions ! 
 Lo ! from far I you salute. 
 Sweetly warbling on my lute- 
 India, Egypt, Araby, 
 Asia, Greece, and Tartary, 
 Carmel-tracts and Lebanon, 
 With the Mountains of the Moon, 
 From whence muddy Nile doth run ; 
 Or, wherever else you won. 
 Breathing in one vital air — 
 One we are though distant far. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE PEE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 [Henry More. 
 
 Else at once — let's sacrifice ! 
 Odours sweet perfume the skies. 
 See how heavenly lightning fires 
 Hearts inflamed with high aspires ; 
 AU the substance of our souls 
 Up in clouds of incense rolls ! 
 Leave we nothing to ourselves 
 Save a voice — what need we else ? 
 Or a hand to wear and tire 
 On the thankfid lute or lyre. 
 
 Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
 Who hath made the universe. 
 
 Henry More.— Born 1614, Died 1687. 
 
 573.— CHAEITY AND HUMILITY. 
 
 Par have I clambered in my mind, 
 But naught so great as love I find ; 
 Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might. 
 Are naught compared to that good spright. 
 Life of delight, and soul of bliss ! 
 Sure source of lasting happiness ! 
 Higher than heaven, lower than heU ! 
 What is thy tent r Where mayst thou dwell? i 
 
 My mansion hight Humility, 
 Heaven's vastest capabihty — 
 The further it doth downward tend, 
 The higher up it doth ascend ; 
 If it go down to utmost naught. 
 It shall return with that it sought. 
 
 Lord, stretch Thy tent in my straight 
 breast — 
 Enlarge it downward, that sure rest 
 May there be pight ; for that pure fire 
 Where^vith thou wontest to inspire 
 AU seK-dead souls. My life is gone — 
 Sad solitude 's my irksome wonne. 
 Cut off from men and all this world. 
 In Lethe's lonesome ditch I'm hurled. 
 Nor might nor sight doth aught me move, 
 Nor do I care to be above. 
 O feeble rays of mental light, 
 That best be seen in this dark night ! 
 What are you ? What is any strength 
 If it be not laid in one length 
 With pride or love ? I naught desire 
 But a new life, or quite t' expire. 
 Could I demolish with mine eye 
 Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in sky, 
 Bring down to earth the pale-faced moon. 
 Or turn black midnight to bright noon — 
 Though aU things were put in my hand — 
 As parched, as dry as the Libyan sand 
 Would be my life, if Charity 
 Were wanting. But humility 
 Is more than my poor soul durst eravej 
 That lies intombed in lowly grave. 
 But if 'twere lawful up to send 
 My voice to heaven, this should it rend : 
 
 Lord, thrust me deeper into dust 
 That Thou mayest raise me with the just ! 
 
 Henry More— Born 1614, Died 1687. 
 
 574.— THE SOUL AND BODY. 
 
 Like to a light fast lock'd in lanthom dark, 
 Whereby by night our wary steps we guide 
 In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, 
 Some weaker rays through the black top do 
 
 glide, _ 
 
 And flusher streams perhaps from iomy 
 
 side. 
 But when we've passed the peril of the way, 
 Arriv'd at home, and laid that case aside, 
 The naked light how clearly doth it ray. 
 And spread its joyful beams as bright as 
 
 summer's day. 
 
 Even so the soul, in this contracted state, 
 Confin'd to these strait instruments of sense, 
 More dull and narrowly doth operate ; 
 At this hole hears, the sight must ray from 
 
 thence, 
 Here tastes, there smeUs : but when she's 
 
 gone from hence, 
 Like naked lamp she is one shining sphere, 
 And round about has perfect cognosccnce 
 Whate'er in her horizon doth appear : 
 She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. 
 
 He^vry More. — Born 1614, Died 1687. 
 
 575.— THE PEE-EXISTENCY OF THE 
 SOUL. 
 
 Eise then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse ; 
 
 Let that high sprite, which did enrich thy 
 
 brains 
 With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts 
 
 infuse, 
 Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. 
 And thou, O Lycian sage ! whose pen contains 
 Treasui'es of heavenly Hght with gentle fire, 
 Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames. 
 That I may also kindle sweet desire 
 In holy minds that unto highest things aspire. 
 
 For I would sing the pre-existency 
 Of human souls, and live once o'er again, 
 By recollection and quick memory. 
 All that is past since first we all began ; 
 But all too shallow be my wits to scan 
 So deep a point, and mind too duU to clear 
 So dark a matter. But thou, more than man, 
 Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotin dear. 
 Tell me what mortals are — teU what of old 
 they were. 
 
 A spark or ray of the divinity, 
 
 Clouded with earthy fogs, yclad in clay, 
 
 A precious drop sunk from eternity, 
 
 Spilt on the ground, or rather slunk away ; 
 
 For then we fell when we 'gan first t' assay, 
 
 By stealth of our ovra. selves, something to 
 
 been 
 Uncentering ourselves from our great stay. 
 
Henky Moee.] 
 
 THE PEE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. [Fourth Perioi^.- 
 
 Which fondly we new liberty did ween, 
 And from that prank right iohy wits ourselves 
 did deem. 
 
 Show fitly how the pre-existent soul 
 
 Enacts and enters bodies here below, 
 
 And then entire unhurt can leave this moul, 
 
 And thence her airy vehicle can draw. 
 
 In which by sense and motion they may know. 
 
 Better than we, what things transacted be 
 
 Upon the earth, and when they list may show 
 
 Themselves to friend or foe, their phantasie 
 
 Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency. 
 
 Wherefore the soul possess'd of matter meet, 
 If she hath power to operate thereon, 
 Can eath transform this vehicle to sight, 
 Dight with due colour figuration, 
 Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon, 
 Spreading herself in the dispersed air. 
 Then, if she please, recall again what's gone : 
 Those th' uncouth mysteries of fancy are — 
 Than thunder far more strong, more qxiick 
 than lightning far. 
 
 Some heaving toward this strange activity 
 We may observe ev'n in this mortal state ; 
 Here health and sickness of the phantasie 
 Often proceed, which working minds create, 
 And pox and pestilence do malleate, 
 Their thoughts stiU beating on those objects ill. 
 Which doth the master' d blood contaminate, 
 And with foul poisonous impressions fill. 
 And last, the precious life v/ith deadly dolour 
 
 km. 
 
 All these declare the force of phantasie. 
 Though working here upon this stubborn clay ; 
 But th' airy vehicle yields more easily. 
 Unto her beck more nimbly doth obey. 
 Which truth the joint confessions bewray 
 Of damned hags and masters of bold sldll, 
 Whose hellish mysteries fuUy to display, 
 The earth would groan, trees sigh, and horror 
 aU o'erspiU. 
 
 But he that out of darkness giveth light, 
 He guide my steps in this so uncouth way ; 
 And iU-done deeds by children of the night 
 Convert to good, while I shall hence assay 
 The noble soul's condition ope to lay. 
 And show her empire on her airy sphere. 
 By what of sprites and spectres stories say ; 
 For sprites and spectres that by night appear 
 Be, or aU with the soul, or of a nature near. 
 
 Up then, i-enowsed wizard, hermit sag©, 
 That twice ten years didst in the desert v/on. 
 With sprites conversing in thy hermitage, 
 Since thou of mortals didst the commerce 
 
 shun ; 
 Well seen in these foul deeds that have fore- 
 done 
 
 Many a bold wit. Up, Marcus, tell again 
 That story to thy Thrax, who has thee won 
 To Christian faith; the guise and haunts 
 
 explain 
 Of all air-trampling ghosts that in the v/orld 
 
 There be six sorts of sprites : Lelurion 
 Is the first kind, the next are named from air ; 
 The first aloft, yet far beneath the moon. 
 The other in this lower region fare ; 
 The third terrestrial, the fourth watery are ; 
 The fifth be subterranean ; the last 
 And worst, light-hating ghosts, more cruel far 
 Than bear or wolf with hunger hard oppress'd. 
 But doltish yet, and dull, like an umvieldy 
 beast. 
 
 Cameleon-like they thus their colour change. 
 And size contract, and then dilate again, 
 Like the soft earth-worm hurt by heedless 
 
 chance. 
 Shrinks in herself to shun or ease her pain. 
 Nor do they only thus themselves constrain 
 Into less bulk, but if with courage bold, 
 And flaming brand, thou strike these shades in 
 
 twain 
 Close quick as cloven air. So sang that wizard 
 
 old. 
 
 And truth he said, whatever he has told, 
 As even this present age may verify, 
 
 j If any lists its stories to unfold, 
 
 I Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi, 
 
 j Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry ; 
 
 I Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones, 
 Of living wool and such like vdtchery ; 
 Or proved by sight or self-confessions. 
 Which things much credence gain to past tra- 
 ditions. 
 
 Wherefore with boldness we will now relate 
 Some few in brief ; as of th' Astorgan lad 
 Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate, 
 With execration bold, the devil bad 
 Take him aUve. Which mood the boy n'ote 
 
 bear. 
 But quits the room — walks out with spirit sad, 
 Into the court, where lo ! by night appear 
 Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black 
 
 grisly hair. 
 
 The walking skeleton in Bolonia, 
 
 Laden with rattUng chains, that show'd his 
 
 grave 
 To the watchful student, who without dismay 
 Bid tell his wants and speak what he would 
 
 have, 
 Thus cleared he the house by courage brave. 
 Nor may I pass the fair Cerdinian maid 
 Whose love a jolly swain did kindly crave. 
 And oft with mutual solace with her staid. 
 Yet he no joUy swain, but a deceitful shade. 
 
Froui 1649 to 1689.J 
 
 COOPER'S HILL. 
 
 [Sir John Denham. 
 
 In arctic climes an isle that Thnle hight, 
 Famous for snowy monts, whose hoary heads 
 Sure sign of cold ; yet from their fiery feet 
 They strike out burning stones with thunders 
 
 dread, 
 And all the land with smoke and ashes spread ; 
 Here wand'ring ghosts themselves have often 
 
 sho'svn, 
 As if it were the region of the dead, 
 And met departed, met with whom they've 
 
 known, 
 In seemly sort shake hands, and ancient 
 
 friendship own. 
 
 A world of wonders hither might be thrown 
 Of sprites and spectres, as that frequent noise 
 Oft heard upon the plain of Marathon, 
 Of neigliing horses and of martial boys ; 
 The Greek the Persian nightly here destroys 
 In hot assault embroil'd in a long war ; 
 Four hundred years did last those dreadful 
 
 toys, 
 As doth by Attic records plain appear. 
 The seeds of hate by death so little slaked are. 
 
 Hcnni More.— Born 1614, Died 1687. 
 
 576.— COOPER'S HILL. 
 
 Sure tliere are poets which did never dream 
 Upon Parnassits, nor did taste the stream 
 Of Helicon : we therefore may suppose 
 Those made not poets, but the poets those, j 
 And as courts make not kings, but kings the j 
 
 court, I 
 
 So Avhere the Muses and their train resort, 
 Parnassus stands ; if I can be to thee 
 A poet, thou Parnassus art to mo. 
 Nor v/onder if (advantaged in my flight, 
 By taking ^ving from thy auspicious height) 
 Through untraced ways and airy paths I fly, 
 More boundless in my fancy than my eye ; 
 My eye, which s^vift as thought contracts the 
 
 space 
 That, lies between, and first salutes the place 
 Crown'd with that sacred pile, so vast, so high, 
 That whether 'tis a i)art of earth or sky 
 Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud 
 Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud ; 
 Paul's the late theme of such a Muse, whose 
 
 flight 
 Has bravely reach' d and scar'd above thy 
 
 height ; 
 Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, 
 
 or fire, 
 Or zeal, more fierce than they, thy fall conspire. 
 Secure, whilst thee the best of poets sings, 
 Preserved from ruin by the best of kings. 
 Under his proud survey the city lies. 
 And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise. 
 Whose state and wealth, the business and the 
 
 crowd. 
 Seems at this distance but a darker cloud, 
 
 And is, to him who rightly things esteems. 
 No other in effect than what it seems ; 
 Where, with like haste, though several ways 
 
 they run. 
 Some to undo, and some to be undone ; 
 While luxury and wealth, like war and peace, 
 Are each the other's ruin and increase ; 
 As rivers lost in seas, some secret vein 
 Thence reconveys, there to be lost again. 
 Oh ! happiness of sweet retired content ! 
 To be at once secure and innocent. 
 Windsor the next (where Mars mth Venus 
 
 dwells, 
 Beauty wth strength) above the valley swells 
 Into mj' eye, and doth itself present 
 With such an easy and unforced ascent, 
 That no stupendous precipice denies 
 Access, no horror turns away our eyes ; 
 But such a rise as doth at once in\ate. 
 A pleasure and a reverence from the sight : 
 Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose face 
 Sat meekness, heighten'd with majestic grace : 
 Such seems thy gentle height, made only proud 
 To be the basis of that pomi>ous load, 
 Than which a nobler weight no mountain 
 
 bears. 
 But Atlas only, which supports the spheres. 
 When Nature's hand this ground did thus 
 
 advance, 
 'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance : 
 Mark'd out for such an use, as if 'twere meant 
 T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent. 
 Nor can we call it choice, v/hen what we choo.^e 
 FoUy or blindness only could refuse. 
 A crown of such majestic towers doth grace 
 The gods' great mother, when her heav'nly 
 
 race 
 Do homage to her ; yet she cannot boast, 
 Among that num'rous and celestial host, 
 More heroes than can Windsor ; nor doth 
 
 Fame's 
 Immortal book record more noble names. 
 Not to look back so far, to whom this isle 
 Owes the first glory of so brave a pile, 
 Whether to Caisar, Albanact, or Brute, 
 The British Arthur, or the Danish C'nute : 
 (Though this of old no less contest did move 
 Than when for Homer's birth seven cities 
 
 strove) 
 (Like him in birth, thou should' st be like in 
 
 fame, 
 As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame) 
 But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd 
 First a brave place and then as brave a mind. 
 Not to recount those sev'ral kings to whom 
 It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb ; 
 But thee, great Edward I and thy greater son, 
 (The lilies which his father wore he won) 
 And thy Bellona, who the consort came 
 Not only to thy bed but to thy fame. 
 She to thy triumph led one captive king. 
 And brought that son which did the second 
 
 bring ; 
 Then didst thou found that Order (whether 
 
 love 
 Or victory thy royal thoughts did move :) 
 
Sir John Denham.] 
 
 COOPEE'S HILL. 
 
 [FouKTH Period. — 
 
 Each was a noble cause, and nothing le?s 
 Than the design has been the great sncce^s, 
 \Vhich foreign kings and emperors esteem 
 The second honour to their diadem. 
 Had thy great destiny but given thee skill 
 To know, as well as pow'r to act her will. 
 That from those kings, who then thy captives 
 
 were. 
 In after-times should spring a royal pair 
 Who should possess all that thy mighty pow'r, 
 Or thy desires more mighty, did devour ; 
 To whom their better fate reserves whate'er 
 The victor hopes for or the vanquish' d fear ; 
 That blood which thou and thy great grandsire 
 
 shed. 
 And all that since these sister nations bled. 
 Had been unspilt, and happy Edward known 
 That all the blood he spilt had been liis own. 
 When he that patron chose in whom are join' d 
 Soldier and martyr, and his arms confined 
 Within the azure circle, he did seem • 
 But to foretel and prophecy of him 
 Who to his realms that azure round hath 
 
 join'd. 
 Which nature for their bound at first design'd ; 
 That bound which to the world's extremest 
 
 ends, 
 Endless itself, its liquid arms extends, 
 Nor doth he need those emblems which we 
 
 paint. 
 But is himself the soldier and the saint. 
 Here should my wonder dwell, and here my 
 
 praise ; 
 But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye 
 
 betrays. 
 Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of late 
 A chapel crown'd, till in the common fate 
 Th' adjoining abbey fell. (May no such 
 
 storm 
 Fall on our times, where ruin must reform !) 
 Tell me, my Muse ! what monstrous dire 
 
 offence. 
 What crime, could any Christian king incense 
 To such a rage ? Was't luxury or lust ? 
 Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just ? 
 Were these their crimes ? they were his own 
 
 much more ; 
 But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor, 
 Wlio having spent the treasures of his crown, 
 Condemns their luxury to feed his own ; 
 And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shame 
 Of sacrilege, must bear devotion's name. 
 No crime so bold but would be understood 
 A real, or at least a seeming good. 
 Wlio fears not to do ill, yet fears the name. 
 And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 
 Thus he the chm-ch at once protects and 
 
 spoils ; 
 But princes' swords are sharper than their 
 
 styles ; 
 And thus to th' ages past he makes amends, 
 Their charity destroys, their faith defends. 
 Tlien did Eeligion in a lazy ceU, 
 In empty airy contemplations dwell. 
 And like the block unmoved lay ; but ours, 
 As much too active, like the stork devours. 
 
 Is there no temp' rate region can be known 
 Betwixt their frigid and our torrid zone ? 
 Could we not wake from that lethargic dream, 
 But to be restless in a worse extreme ? 
 And for that lethargy was there no cure 
 But to be cast into a calenture ? 
 Can knowledge have no bound, but must 
 
 advance 
 So far, to make us wish for ignorance. 
 And rather in the dark to grope our way. 
 Than led by a false guide to en- by day ? 
 Who sees these dismal heaps but would 
 
 demand 
 What barbarous invader sack'd the land ? 
 But when he hears no Goth, no Turk, did 
 
 bring 
 This desolation, but a Christian king ; 
 When nothing but tlie name of zeal appears 
 'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs ; 
 What does he think our sacrilege would spare, 
 When such th' effects of our devotions are ? 
 Parting from thence 'twixt anger, shame, and 
 
 fear, 
 Those for what's past, and this for what's too 
 
 near, 
 My eye descending from the HiU, surveys 
 WTiere Thames among the wanton valleys 
 
 strays. 
 Thames ! the most loved of aUthe Ocean's sons, 
 By his old sire, to his embraces runs, 
 Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea. 
 Like mortal life to meet eternity ; 
 Though with those streams he no resemblance 
 
 hold. 
 Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold : 
 His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore. 
 Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 
 O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing 
 And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring ; 
 Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 
 Like mothers which their infants overlay ; 
 Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave. 
 Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he 
 
 gave. 
 No unexpected inundations spoil 
 The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's 
 
 toil; 
 But godlike his unwearied bounty flows ; 
 First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 
 Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, 
 But free and common as the sea or wind ; 
 When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, 
 Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 
 Visits the world, and in his flying tow'rs 
 Brings home to us, and makes both Indies 
 
 ours; 
 Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it 
 
 wants, 
 Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 
 So that to us no thing, no place, is strange. 
 While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 
 O, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 
 My great example, as it is my theme ! 
 Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not 
 
 dull; 
 Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. 
 
From 1^9 to 1689.] 
 
 COOPEE'S HILL. 
 
 [Sir John Denham. 
 
 Heav'n lier Eridamis do more shall boast, 
 Whose fame in thine, Kko lesser current, 's 
 
 lost ; 
 Thy nobler streams jj^hall visit Jove's abodes, 
 To shine among the stars, and bathe the gods. 
 Here Nature, whether more intent to please 
 Us for herself with strange varieties, 
 (For things of wonder give no less delight 
 To the wise Maker's than beholder's sight ; 
 Though these delights from several causes 
 
 move. 
 For so our children, thus our friends, we love) 
 Wisely she knew the harmony of things, 
 As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. 
 Such was the discord which did first disperse 
 Form, order, beauty, through the universe ; 
 While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists, 
 All that wo have, and that we are, subsists ; 
 While the steep horrid roughness of the wood 
 Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood. 
 Such huge extremes when Nature doth unite, 
 Wonder from thence results, from thence 
 
 delight. 
 The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear. 
 That had the self-enamour'd youth gazed here, 
 So fatally deceived he had not been. 
 While he the bottom, not his face had seen. 
 But his proud head the airy mountain hides 
 Among the clouds ; his shoulders and his sides 
 A shady mantle clothes ; his curled brows 
 Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly 
 
 flows, 
 Wliile winds and storms his lofty forehead 
 
 beat; 
 The common fate of all that's high or great. 
 Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed, 
 Between the mountain and the stream em- 
 braced, 
 ^Vhieh shade and shelter from the HiU derives, 
 While the kind river wealth and beauty gives, 
 And in the mixture of all these appears 
 Variety, which all the rest endears. 
 This scene had some bold Greek or British bard 
 Beheld of old, what stories had we heard 
 Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames, 
 Their feasts, their revels, and their am'rous 
 
 flames ? 
 'Tis still the same, although their airy shape 
 All but a quick poetic sight escape. 
 There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their cotirts, 
 And thither all the homed host resorts 
 To graze the ranker mead ; that noble herd 
 On whose subHme a.nd shady fronts is rear'd 
 Nature's great masterpiece, to show how soon 
 Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 
 Here have I seen the King, when great affairs 
 Gave leave to slacken and unbend his cares, 
 Attended to the chase by all the flow'r 
 Of youth, whose hopes a nobler prey devour ; 
 Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy. 
 And wish a toe that would not only fly. 
 The stag now conscious of his fatal growth. 
 At once indulgent to his fear and sloth. 
 To some dark covert his retreat had made. 
 Where nor man's eye, nor heaven's should 
 invade 
 
 His soft repose ; when th' unexpected sound 
 Of dogs and men his wakeful ear does wound. 
 Eoused with the noise, he scarce beheves his 
 
 ear. 
 Willing to think th' illusions of his fear 
 Had given this false alarm, but straight his 
 
 view - - 
 
 Confirms that more than all he fears is true. 
 Eetray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset, 
 All instruments, all arts of ruin met, 
 He calls to mind his strength, and then his 
 
 speed. 
 His winged heels, and then his armed head ; 
 With these t' avoid, with that his fate to meet; 
 But fear prevails, and bids him trust his feet. 
 So fast he flies, that his re\'iewing eye 
 Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry ; 
 Exulting, till he finds their nobler sense 
 Their disproportion'd speed doth recompenpc ; 
 Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent 
 Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent : 
 Then tries his friends ; among the baser herd, 
 Where he so lately was obey'd and fear'd, 
 His safety seeks ; the herd, unkindly wise. 
 Or chases liim from thence or from him flies. 
 Like a declining statesman, left forlorn 
 To his friends' "pity, and pursuers' scorn, 
 With shame remembers, while himself was one 
 Of the same herd, himseK the same had done. 
 Thence to the coverts and the conscious 
 
 groves. 
 The scenes of his past triumphs and his loves, 
 Sadly surveying where he ranged alone. 
 Prince of the soil, and all the herd his own, 
 And like a bold knight-errant did proclaim 
 Combat to all, and bore away the dame. 
 And taught the woods to echo to the stream 
 His dreadful challenge, and his clashing beam ; 
 Yet faintly now declines the fatal strife. 
 So much his love was dearer than his life. 
 Now ev'ry leaf, and ev'ry moving breath 
 Presents a foe, and ev'iy foe a death. 
 Wearied, forsaken, and pursued, at last 
 All safety in despair of safety placed. 
 Courage he thence resumes, resolved to bear 
 AU their assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear. 
 And now, too late, he wishes for the fight 
 That strength he wasted in ignoble flight ; 
 But when he sees the eager chase renew'd. 
 Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued. 
 He straight revokes his bold resolve, and more 
 Repents his courage than his fear before ; 
 Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are. 
 And doubt a greater mischief than despair. 
 Then to the stream, when neither friends, nor 
 
 force. 
 Nor speed, nor art, avail, he shapes his course ; 
 Thinks not their rage so desp'rate to essay 
 An element more merciless than they. 
 But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood 
 Quench their dire thirst ; alas ! they thirst for 
 
 blood. 
 So t'wards a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply, 
 T\Tiich wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly, 
 Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare 
 Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. 
 
Sir John Denham.] EAEL STRAFFOED'S TRIAL AND DEATH. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 So fares the stag ; among th' enraged hounds 
 Repels their force, and wounds retui-ns for 
 
 wounds : 
 And as a hcx'o, whom his baser foes 
 In troops surround, nowthese assails, nowthose, 
 Though prodigal of life, disdains to die 
 By common hands ; but if he can descry- 
 Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls, 
 And begs his fate, and then contented falls. 
 So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 
 From his unerring hand, then glad to die, 
 Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood, 
 And stains the crystal with a purple flood. 
 This a more innocent and happy chase 
 Than when of old, but in the self-same place, 
 Fair Liberty pursued, and meant a prey 
 To lawless power, here turn'd, and stood at bay; 
 When in that remedy all hope was placed 
 Which was, or should have been at least, the 
 
 last. 
 Here was that Charter seal'd wherein the crown 
 All marks of arbitrary power lays down ; 
 Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear, 
 The happier style of king and subject bear : 
 Happy when both to the same centre move, 
 When kings give liberty and subjects love. 
 Tlierefore not long in force this Charter stood ; 
 Wanting that seal, it must be seal'd in blood. 
 The subjects arm'd, the more their princes 
 
 gave, 
 Th' advantage only took the more to crave ; 
 Till kings, by giving, give themselves away, 
 And ev'n that power that should deny betray. 
 " Who gives constrain'd, but liis own fear 
 
 reviles. 
 Not thank'd, but scorn' d ; nor are they gifts, 
 
 but spoils." 
 Thus kings, by grasping more than they could 
 
 hold, 
 First made their subjects by oppression bold ; 
 And popular sway, by forcing kings to give 
 More than was fit for subjects to receive, 
 Ran to the same extremes ; and one excess 
 Made both, by striving to be greater, less. 
 When a calm river raised with sudden rains, 
 Or snows dissolved, o'erflows th' adjoining 
 
 plains. 
 The husbandmen with high-raised banks secure 
 Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure ; 
 But if with bays and dams they strive to force 
 His channel to a new or narrow course. 
 No longer then within his banks he dwells, 
 First to a torrent, then a deluge, swells ; 
 Stronger and fiercer by restraint, he roars. 
 And knows no bound, but makes his pow'r his 
 
 shores. 
 
 Sir John Denham.— Bor. 1 1615, Died 1668. 
 
 577.— ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S 
 TRIAL AND DEATH. 
 
 Great StraflFord ! worthy of that name, though 
 
 aU 
 Of thee could be forgotten but thy fall. 
 
 Crush' d by imaginary treason's weight. 
 Which too much merit did accumulate. 
 As chemists gold from brass by fire would 
 
 draw. 
 Pretexts are into treason f otged by law. 
 His wisdom such, at once it did appear 
 Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' 
 
 fear. 
 Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, 
 
 although 
 Each had an army, as an equal foe ; 
 Such was his force of eloquence, to make 
 The hearers more concern' d than he that 
 
 spake. 
 Each seem'd to act that part he came to 
 
 see. 
 And none was more a looker-on than he. 
 So did he move our passions, some were 
 
 known 
 To wish, for the defence, the crime their 
 
 own, 
 Now private pity strove with public hate. 
 Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate. 
 Now they could him, if he could them for- 
 
 ^ give; 
 He's not too guilty, but too wise, to live : 
 Less seem those facts which treason's nickname 
 
 bore 
 Than such a fear'd ability for more. 
 They after death their fears of him express, 
 His innocence and their own guilt confess. 
 Their legislative frenzy they repent, 
 Enacting it should make no precedent. 
 This fate he could have 'scaped, but would 
 
 not lose 
 Honour for life, but rather nobly chose 
 Death from their fears than safety from his 
 
 own, 
 Tliat liis last action all the rest might cro)vn. 
 
 Sir John Denham. — Born 1615, Died, 1668. 
 
 578.— SONG TO MORPHEUS. 
 
 Morpheus, the humble god, that dweils 
 In cottages and smoky cells. 
 Hates gilded roofs and beds of down ; 
 And, though he fears no prince's frown, 
 FKes from the circle of a crown. 
 
 Come, I say, thou powerful god. 
 And thy leaden charming rod. 
 Dipt in the Lethean lake. 
 O'er his wakeful temples shake, 
 Lest he should sleep and never wake. 
 
 Nature, alas ! why art thou so 
 Obliged to thy greatest foe ? 
 Sleep, that is thy best repast. 
 Yet of death it bears a taste. 
 And both are the same thing at last. 
 
 Sir John Denham.— Born 1615, Died 1668. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 ARGALIA CONDEMNED. [William Chamberlayne. 
 
 579.— A SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 The morning hath not lost her virgin bkish, 
 Nor step, but mine, soil'd the earth's tinsell'd 
 
 robe. 
 How full of heaven this solitude appears. 
 This healthful comfort of the happy swain ; 
 Wlio from his hard but peaceful bed roused 
 
 up, 
 In 's morning exercise saluted is 
 By a fuU quire of feather'd choristers. 
 Wedding their notes tO the enamour'd air ! 
 Here nature in her unaffected dress 
 Plaited with valleys, and emboss'd with hiUs 
 Enchased with silver streams, and fringed with 
 
 woods. 
 Sits lovely in her native russet. 
 
 WiUia-.n Chamberlayne.— Bom lG19,I>/cta689. 
 
 580.— VIRGIN PURITY. 
 
 The morning pearls, 
 Dropt in the lily's spotless bosom, are 
 Less chastely cool, ere the meridian sim 
 Hath kiss'd them into heat. 
 
 William Chamberlayne.— Bom 1619, DicdlGS9. 
 
 581.— ARGilLIA CONDEMNED ON FALSE 
 EVIDENCE. 
 
 High mounted on an ebon throne on which 
 Th' embeUish'd silver show'd so sadly rich 
 As if its varied form strove to delight 
 Those solemn souls which death-pale fear did 
 
 fright, 
 In Tyrian purple clad, the princess sato, , 
 Between two sterner ministers of fate, 
 Impartial judges, whose distinguish'd tasks 
 Their various habit to the view unmasks. 
 One, in whose looks, as pity strove to draw 
 Compassion in the tablets of the law, 
 Some softness dwelt, in a majestic vest 
 Of state-like red was clothed; the other, 
 
 dress'd 
 In dismal black, whose terrible aspect 
 Declared his office, served but to detect 
 Her slow consent, if, when the first forsook 
 The cause, the law so far as death did look. 
 Silence proclaim'd, a harsh command calls 
 
 forth 
 Th' undaunted prisoner, whose excelling worth 
 In this low ebb of fortune did appear 
 Such as we fancy virtues that come near 
 The excellence of angels — fear had not 
 Rifled one drop of blood, nor rage begot 
 More colom* in his cheeks — Ms soul in state, 
 Throned in the medium, constant virtue sat. 
 
 Yet, though now depress'd 
 Even in opinion, which oft proves the best 
 Support to those whose i)ubhc virtues we 
 Adore before their private guilt we see. 
 His noble soul stiU wings itself above 
 Passion's dark fogs ; and like that prosperous 
 
 dove ~ - 
 
 The world's first pilot, for discovery sent, 
 When all the floods that bound the firmament 
 O'erwhelm'd the earth, conscience' calm joys 
 
 to increase, 
 Returns, freight with the olive branch of peace, 
 Thus fortified from all that tyrant fear 
 
 ] O'erawed the guilty with, he doth appear. 
 * * * Not all 
 
 His virtues now protect him, he must fall 
 A guiltless sacrifice, to expiate 
 
 ! No other crime but their envenom' d hate. 
 
 i An ominous silence — such as oft precedes 
 The fatal sentence — v»^hile the accuser reads 
 His charge, possess'd the pitying coui-t in 
 
 which 
 Presaging calm Pharonnida, too rich 
 In mercy, heaven's supreme prerogative. 
 To stifle tears, did with her passion strive 
 So long, that what at first assaulted in 
 Sorrow's black armour, had so often been 
 For pity cherish'd, that at length her eyes 
 Found there those spirits that did sympathise 
 With those that warm'd her blood, and unseen, 
 
 move 
 That engine of the v/orld, mysterious love. 
 
 I The beauteous princess, whose free soul had 
 been 
 Yet guarded in her virgin ice, and now 
 A stranger is to what she doth allow 
 Such easy entrance. By those rays that fall 
 From cither's eyes, to make reciprocal 
 Their yielding passions, bravo Argaha felt, 
 Even in the grasp of death, his functions 
 
 melt 
 To flames, which on his heart an onset make 
 For sadness, such as weary mortals take 
 Eternal farewells in. Yet in this high 
 Tide of his blood, in a soft calm to die. 
 His yielding spirits now prepare to meet 
 Death, clothed in thoughts white as his winding- 
 sheet. 
 That fatal doom, which unto heaven affords 
 
 : The sole appeal, one of the assisting lords 
 
 I Had now pronounced whose horrid thunder 
 
 ' could 
 
 i Not strike his laureU'd brow ; that voice which 
 
 ' would 
 
 Have petrified a timorous soul, he hears 
 With calm attention. No disorder'd fears 
 Ruffled his fancy, nor domestic war 
 Raged in his breast ; his every look so far 
 From vulgar passions, that, unless amazed 
 At beauty's majesty he sometime gazed 
 Wildly on that as emblems of more great 
 Glories than earth afforded, from the seat 
 Of resolution his fix'd soul had not 
 Been stirr'd to passion, which had now begot 
 
William Chambeblayne.] THE ATTACHMENT DISCOVEEED. [Fourth Pei::ob.- 
 
 Wonder, not fear, within liim. No harsli 
 
 frown 
 Contracts his brow ; nor did his thoughts pnll 
 
 down 
 One fainting spirit, wrapt in smother'd groans. 
 To clog his heart. From her most eminent 
 
 thrones 
 Of sense, the eyes, the lightning of his soul 
 Flew, with such vigour forth, it did control 
 All weaker passions, and at once include 
 With Roman valour Christian fortitude. 
 
 William Chamherlayne. — Born 1619, DietZ 1689. 
 
 582.— THE FATHER OF PHARONNIDA 
 DISCOVERS HER ATTACHMENT TO 
 ARGALIA. 
 
 Silent with passion, which his eyes inflamed, 
 The prince awhile beholds her ere he blamed 
 The frailty of affection ; but at length, 
 Through the quick throng of thoughts, arm'd 
 
 with a strength, 
 Which crush' d the soft paternal smiles of 
 
 love. 
 He thus begins — "And must, O must that 
 
 prove 
 My greatest curse on which my hopes ordain'd 
 To raise my happiness ? Have I refrain'd 
 The pleasures of a nuptial ^ed, to joy 
 Alone in thee, nor trembled to destroy 
 My name, so that advancing thine I might 
 Live to behold my sceptre take its flight 
 To a more spacious empire ? Have I spent 
 My youth till, grown in debt to age, she hath 
 
 sent 
 Diseases to arrest me that impair 
 My strength and hopes e'er to enjoy an heir, 
 Wliich might preserve our name, which only 
 
 now 
 Must in our dusty annals live ; whilst thou 
 Transfer' st the glory of our house on one. 
 Which had not I warm'd into life, had gone, 
 A wretch forgotten of the world, to th' earth 
 From whence he sprung? But tear this 
 
 monstrous birth 
 Of fancy from thy soul, quick as thou'dst fly 
 Descending wrath if visible, or I 
 Shall blast thee with my anger tiU. thy name 
 Rot in my memory ; not as the same 
 That once thou wert behold thee, but as some 
 Dire prodigy, which to foreshow should come 
 All ills which through the progress of my life 
 Did chance were sent. I lost a queen and 
 
 Avife, 
 Tliy vii-tuous mother, who for goodness might 
 Have here supplied, before she took her flight 
 To heaven, my better angel's place ; have 
 
 since 
 Stood storms of strong affliction ; still a prince 
 Over ray passions until now, but this 
 Hath proved me coward. Oh ! thou dost 
 
 amiss 
 
 To grieve me thus, fond girl." — ^With that he 
 
 shook 
 His reverend head ; beholds her with a look 
 Composed of grief and anger, wliich she sees 
 With melting sorrow ; but resolved love frees 
 Her from more yielding pity — 
 
 She f aUs 
 Prostrate at's feet ; to his remembrance calls 
 Her dying mother's will, by whoso pale dust 
 She now conjures him not to be unjust 
 Unto that promise, with which her pure soul 
 Fled satisfied from earth — as to control 
 Her freedom of affection. — 
 
 She then 
 Calls to remembrance who reheved him when 
 Distress' d within Aleythius' walls ; the love 
 His subjects bore Argaha, which miglit i)rove 
 Her choice her happiness ; with all, how great 
 A likelihood, it was but the retreat 
 Of royalty to a more safe disguise 
 Had show'd him to their state's deluded eyes 
 So mean a thing. Love's boundless rhetoric 
 About to dictate more, he, with a quick 
 And furious haste, forsakes the room, his rage 
 Thus boiling o'er — "And must my -svretched 
 
 age 
 Be thus by thee tormented ? but take heed. 
 Correct thy passions, or their cause miist 
 
 bleed. 
 Until he quench the flame — " 
 
 # * Her soul, oppross'd. 
 
 Sinks in a pale swoon, catching at the rest 
 It must not yet enjoy ; swift help lends light, 
 Thougk faint and glimmering, to behold what 
 
 night 
 Of grief o'ershadow'd her. You that have 
 
 been 
 Upon the rack of passion, tortured in 
 The engines of forbidden love, that have 
 Shed fruitless tears, spent hopeless righs, to 
 
 crave 
 A rigid parent's fair aspect, conceive 
 What wild distraction seized her. I must 
 
 leave 
 Her passions' volume only to be read 
 Within the breasts of such whose hearts have 
 
 bled 
 At the like dangeroiTS wounds. 
 
 William Chamherlayne. — Born lG19',DicdlGSd. 
 
 58: 
 
 -ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY 
 THE TURKS. 
 
 * * The Turks had ought 
 
 Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but 
 
 brought 
 Nought back but woands and infamy ; but 
 
 now. 
 Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow 
 Their stubborn resolutions with the strength 
 Of not-to-be-resisted want : the length 
 OF the chronical disease extended had 
 To HomQ few months, since to oppress the sad 
 
From 1649 to 1G89.] 
 
 AEQALIA TAKEN PEISONEE. [William Chamberlayne. 
 
 But constant islanders, the army lay, 
 Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious 
 
 stay 
 From battle rusts the soldier's valour in 
 His tainted cabin, there had often been, 
 With all variety of fortune, fought 
 Brave single combats, whose success had 
 
 brought 
 Honour's un wither' d laurels on the brow 
 Of either party ; but the balance, now 
 Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined 
 Wholly to them. Thrice had liis valour shined 
 In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard 
 The shouts of conquest ; thrice on his lance 
 
 appear' d 
 The heads of noble Ehodians, which had struck 
 A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. AU 
 
 look 
 Who next the lists should enter ; each desires 
 The task were his, but honour now requires 
 A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies 
 The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice ; 
 To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free 
 Consent of all, Argaha comes to be 
 Their happy champion. Truce proclaim'd, 
 
 untU 
 The combat ends, th' expecting people fill 
 The spacious battlements ; the Turks forsake 
 Their tents, of whom the city ladies take 
 A dreadful view, till a more noble sight 
 Diverts their looks ; each part behold their 
 
 knight 
 With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat 
 They toil for victory. The conflict's heat 
 Eaged in their veins, which honour more 
 
 inflamed 
 Than burning calentures could, do ; both 
 
 blamed 
 The feeble influence of their stars, that gave 
 No speedier conquest ; each neglects to save 
 Himself, to seek advantage to offend 
 His eager foe. * * * 
 
 * * * But now so long 
 
 The Turks' proud champion had endured the 
 
 strong 
 Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength 
 Cool'd, on the ground, with his blood — ^he feU 
 
 at length. 
 Beneath his conquering sword. Tlie barbarous 
 
 crew 
 0' the villains that did at a distance view 
 Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, 
 Eunning to succour liim, begin a hot 
 And desperate combat with those knights that 
 
 stand 
 To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand 
 Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he 
 
 spent 
 His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent 
 His scatter' d troops. 
 
 Argalia lies in chains, ordain' d to die 
 
 A sacrifice unto the cruelty 
 
 Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in 
 
 Tlie combat late he slew ; yet had not been 
 
 In tliat so much unhappy, had not he. 
 
 That honour' d then his sword with victory, 
 
 Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright 
 
 But cruel lady, whose refined delight 
 
 Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst 
 
 not 
 
 Euffle with discontent ; wherefore, to cool 
 
 that hot 
 Contention of her blood, which he foresaw 
 That heavy news would from her anger draw. 
 To quench with the brave Christian's death, he 
 
 sent 
 Him living to her, that her anger, spent 
 In flaming torments, might not settle in 
 The dregs of discontent. Staying to win 
 Some Ehodian castles, all the prisoners were 
 Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there 
 To meet their wretched tliraldom. From the 
 
 rest 
 Argalia sever' d, soon hopes to be blest 
 With speedy death, though waited on by all 
 The hell-instructed torments that could fall 
 Within invention's reach ; but he's not yet 
 Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit 
 Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use 
 Of th' Turkish pride, which triumphs in th' 
 
 abuse 
 Of suffering Christians, once, before they take 
 The ornaments of nature off, to make 
 Their prisoners public to the view, that all 
 Might mock their miseries : tliis sight did call 
 Janusa to her palace- window, where. 
 Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear 
 i Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, tUl 
 Her heart infected grew ; their orbs did fiU, 
 As the most pleasing object, with the sight 
 Of him whose sword open'd a way for the 
 
 flight 
 Of her loved brother's soul. At the first view 
 Passion had struck her dumb, but when it 
 
 grew 
 Into desire, she speedily did send 
 To have his name — which kiioAvn, hate did 
 
 defend 
 Her heart ; besieged with love, she sighs, and 
 
 straight 
 Commands him to a dungeon : but love's bait 
 Cannot be so cast up, though to efface 
 His image from her soul she strives. The 
 
 place 
 For execution she commands to be 
 'Gainst the next day prepared ; but rest and 
 
 she 
 Grow enemies about it : if she steal 
 A slumber from her thoughts, that doth reveal 
 Her passions in a dream, sometimes she 
 
 thought 
 She saw her brother's pale grim ghost, that 
 
 brought 
 His grisly wounds to show her, smear'd m 
 
 blood. 
 Standing before her sight ; and by that flood 
 Those red Bti'eams wept, imploring vengeance, 
 
 then, 
 Enraged, she cries, "0, let dim die ! " Bit 
 
 when 
 
William Ohamberlatne.J ARGALIA TAKEN PEISONER. 
 
 [Fourth Pekiod. — 
 
 Her sleep-imprison' d fancy, wandering in 
 The shades of darken'd reason, did begin 
 To draw Argalia's image on her soul. 
 Love's sovereign power did suddenly controul 
 The strength of those abortive embryos, 
 
 sprung 
 From smother'd anger. The glad birds had 
 
 sung 
 A lullaby to night, the lark was fled, 
 .On dropping ^vings, up from his dewy bed. 
 To fan them in the rising sxmbeams, ere 
 Whose early reign Janusa, that could bear 
 No longer lock'd Avithin her breast so great 
 An army of rebellious passions, beat 
 From reason's conquer'd fortress, did unfold 
 Her thoughts to Manto, a stout wench ; whose 
 
 bold 
 Wit, join'd with zeal to serve her, had en- 
 dear' d 
 Her to her best affections. Having clear' d 
 All doubts with hopeful promises, her maid, 
 By whose close wiles this plot must be con- 
 vey 'd, 
 To secret action of her council makes 
 Two eunuch pandars, by whose help she takc.^ 
 Argalia from his keeper's charge, as to 
 Suffer more torments than the rest should do. 
 And lodged him in that castle to affright 
 And soften his great soul with fear. The light, 
 "Which lent its beams into the dismal place 
 In which he lay, without presents the face 
 Of hoiTor smear' d in blood ; a scaffold built 
 To be the stage of murder, blush' d with gxiilt 
 Of Christian blood, by several torments let 
 From th' imprisoning veins. This object set 
 To startle his resolves if good, and make 
 His future joys more welcome, could not shake 
 The heaven-built pillars of his soul, that stood 
 Steady, though in the slippery paths of blood. 
 The gloomy night now sat enthroned in dead 
 And silent shadows, midnight curtains spread 
 The earth in black for what the falling day 
 Had blush'd in fire, whilst the brave pris'ner 
 
 lay, 
 Circled in darkness, yet in those shades spends 
 The hours with angels, whose assistance lends 
 Strength to the wings of faith. 
 
 He beholds 
 A glimmering light, whose near approach 
 
 unfolds 
 The leaves of darkness. While his wonder 
 
 grows 
 Big with amazement, the dim taper shows 
 False Manto enter' d, who, prepared to be 
 A bawd unto her lustful mistress, came. 
 Not with persuasive rhetoric to inflame 
 A heart congeal'd with death's approach. 
 
 Most blest of men ! 
 Compose thy wonder, and let only joy 
 Dwell in thy soul. My coming's to destroy, 
 Not nurse thy trembling fears : be but so v,isc 
 To follow thy swift fate, and thou mayst rise 
 
 Above the reach of danger. In thy arms 
 Circle that power whose radiant brightness 
 
 charms 
 Fiei'ce Ammurat's anger, when his crescents 
 
 shine 
 In a frdl orb of forces ; what was tliine 
 Ere made a prisoner, though the doubtful 
 
 state 
 Of her best Christian monarch, will abate 
 Its splendour, when that daughter of the 
 
 night, 
 Thy feeble star, sliines in a heaven of light. 
 If life or liberty, then, bear a shape 
 Worthy thy courting, swear not to escape 
 By the attempts of strength, and I will free 
 The iron bonds of thy captivity. 
 A solemn oath, by that great povver he served. 
 Took, and believed : his hopes no longer starved 
 In expectation. From that swarthy seat 
 Of sad despair, his narrow jail, replete 
 With lazy damps, she leads him to a room 
 In whose delights joy's summer seem'd to 
 
 bloom, 
 There left him to the brisk society 
 Of costly baths and Corsic wines, whose high 
 And sprightly tempers from cool sherbets 
 
 found 
 A calm ally ; here his harsh thoughts unwound 
 Themselves in pleasure, as not fearing fate 
 So much, but that he dares to recreate 
 His spirit, by unwieldy action tired. 
 With all that lust into no crime had fired. 
 By mutes, those silent ministers of sin. 
 His sullied garments were removed, and in 
 Their place such various habits laid, as pride 
 Wovdd clothe her favourites \rith. * 
 
 Unruffled here by the rash wearer, rests 
 Fair Persian mantles, rich Sclavonian vests. 
 
 Though on this swift variety of fate 
 He looks with wonder, yet his brave soul sate 
 Too safe within her guards of reason to 
 Be shook with passion : that there's some- 
 thing new 
 And strange approaching after such a storm. 
 This gentle calm assures him. * 
 
 His limbs from wounds but late recover'd, 
 
 now 
 Refresh'd with liqtdd odours, did allow 
 Their suppled nerves no softer rest, but in 
 Such robes as wore their ornament within, 
 Veil'd o'er their beauty. * * 
 
 His guilty conduct now had brought him near 
 Janusa' s room, the glaring Kghts appear 
 Thorough the window's crystal walls, the 
 
 strong 
 Perfumes of balmy incense mix'd among 
 The wandering atoms of the air did fly. 
 
 * * The open doors a: low 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] DEATH OF JANITSA AND AMMURAT. [William Chamberlayne. 
 
 A free access into the room, whore come, 
 Such real forms he saw as would strike dumb 
 The Alcoran's tales of Paradise, the fair 
 And sparkling gems i' the gilded roof impair 
 Their taper's fire, yet both themselves confess 
 Weak to those flames Janusa's eyes possess 
 With such a joy as bodies that do long 
 For souls, shall meet them in the doomsday 
 
 throng. 
 She that ruled princes, though not passions, 
 
 sate 
 Waiting her lover, on a throne whose state 
 Epitomized the empire's wealth ; her robe, 
 With costly pride, had robb'd the chequer' d 
 
 globe 
 Of its most fair and orient jewels, to 
 Enhance its value ; captive princes who 
 Had lost their crowns, might there those gems 
 
 have seen. 
 
 Placed in a seat near her bright throne, to 
 
 stir 
 His settled thoughts she thus begins : " From 
 
 her 
 Your sword hath so much injured as to shed 
 Blood so near kin to mine, that it was fed 
 By the same mUky fountains, and within 
 One womb warm'd into life, is such a sin 
 I could not pardon, did not love commit 
 A rape upon my mercy : all the wit 
 Of man in vain inventions had been lost, 
 Ere thou redeem' d ; which now, although it 
 
 cost 
 The price of all my honours, I will do : 
 Be but so full of gratitude as to 
 Eepay my care with love. Why dost thou 
 
 thus 
 Sit dumb to my discourse ? it lies in us 
 To raise or ruin thee, and make my way 
 Thorough their bloods that our embraces 
 
 stay." 
 
 To charm those sullen spirits that within 
 The dark cells of his conscience might have 
 
 been 
 Yet by religion hid — that gift divine, 
 The soul's composure, music, did refine 
 The lazy air, whose polish' d harmony, 
 "SVhilst dancing in redoubled echoes, by 
 A wanton song was answer'd, whose each part 
 Invites the hearing to betray the heart. 
 Having with all these choice flowers strew'd the 
 
 way 
 That leads to lust, to shun the slow decay 
 Of his approach, her sickly passions haste 
 To die in action. " Come," she cries, " we 
 
 waste 
 The precious minutes. Now thou know'st for 
 
 what 
 Thou'rt sent for hither." 
 
 Brave Argalia sits, 
 With virtue cool'd. # * * 
 
 * * «« And must my freedom then 
 
 At such a rate be purchased ? rather, when 
 
 My life expires in torments, let my name 
 Forgotten die, than live in black-mouth'd 
 
 fame, 
 A servant to thy lust. Go, tempt thy ovm 
 Damn'd infidels to sin, that ne'er had known 
 The way to virtue : not this cobweb veil 
 Of beauty, which thou wear'st but as a jail 
 To a soul pule with guilt, can cover o'er 
 Thy mind's deformity. # * * 
 
 Rent from these gilded pleasures, send me to 
 A dungeon' dark as hell, where shadows do 
 Reign in eternal silence ; let these rich • 
 And costly robes, the gaudy trappings which 
 Thou mean'st to clothe my sin in, be exchanged 
 For sordid rags. When thy fierce spleen hath 
 
 ranged 
 Through all invented torments, choose the 
 
 worst 
 To punish my denial ; less accurst 
 I so shall perish, than if by consent 
 I taught thy guilty thoughts how to augment 
 Their sin in action, and, by giving ease 
 To thy blood's fever, took its loath'd disease." 
 
 * * * Her look, 
 
 Cast like a felon's * * * 
 
 Was sad ; with silent grief the room she leaves, 
 
 William Chamhedayne. — Born 1619, Died 1689. 
 
 584.— THE DEATH OF JANUSA AND 
 AMMURAT. 
 
 Placed, by false' Manto, in a closet, which, 
 Silent and sad, had only to enrich 
 Its roof with hght, some few neglected beams 
 Sent from Janusa's room, which serve as streams 
 To watch intelligence ; here he beheld, 
 While she who with his absence had expell'd 
 All thoughtful cares, was with her joy swell'd 
 
 high, 
 As captives are when call'd to liberty. 
 Perfumed and costly, her fair bed' was more 
 Adorn' d than shrines which costly kings adore ; 
 Incense, in smoky curls, climbs to the fair 
 Roof, whilst choice music rarefies the air ; 
 Each element in more perfection here. 
 Than in the first creation did appear. 
 Yet lived in harmony : the wing'd fire lent 
 Perfumes to the air, that to moist cordials pent 
 In crystal vials, strength ; and those impart 
 Their vigour to that ball of earth, the heart. 
 The nice eye here epitomized might see 
 Rich Persia's wealth, and old Rome's luxury. 
 
 But now, like Nature's new-madfe favourite, 
 Who, until all* created for delight 
 Was framed, did ne'er see Paradise, comes in 
 Deceived Argalia, thinking he had been 
 Call'd thither to behold a penitent. 
 
 * # # * 94 
 
William Chamberlayne.] DEATH OF JANUSA AND AMMUEAT. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 * * With such a high 
 
 Heroic scorn as aged saints that die, 
 Heaven's fav'rites, leave the trivial world — he 
 
 slights 
 That gilded pomp ; no splendent beam invites 
 His serious eye to meet their objects in 
 An amorous glance, reserved as he had been 
 Before his grave confessor : he beholds 
 Beauty's bright magic, while its art iinfolds 
 Great love's mysterious riddles, and commands 
 Captive Janusa to infringe the bands 
 Of matrimonial modesty. When all 
 Temptation fails, she leaves her throne to fall, 
 The gcorn of greatness, at his feet : but prayer, 
 Like flattery, expires in useless air, 
 Too weak to batter that firm confidence 
 Their torment's thunder could not shake. 
 
 From hence 
 Despair, love's tyrant, had enforced her to 
 More wild attempts, had not her Ammurat, 
 
 who. 
 Unseen, beheld all this, prevented, by 
 His sight, the death of bleeding modesty. 
 
 Made swift with rage, the ruffled curtain flies 
 His angry touch — he enters — fix'd his eyes, 
 From whence some drops of rage distil, on her 
 Whose heart had lent her face its character. 
 Whilst he stood red with flaming anger, she 
 Looks pale with fear — passion's disparity 
 Dwelt in their troubled breasts ; his wild eyes 
 
 stood 
 Like comets, when attracting storms of blood 
 Shook with portentous sad, the whilst hers 
 
 sate 
 Like the dull earth, when trembling at the 
 
 fate 
 Of those ensniag evils — heavy fitjc'd 
 Within their orbs. PassioBB thus strangely 
 
 mix'd. 
 No various fever e'er creat€>d in 
 The phrenried brain, when sleep's sweet calm 
 
 had been 
 From her soft throne deposed. 
 
 So having paused, his dreadful voice thus broke 
 
 The dismal silence : — 
 
 " Thou curse of my nativity, that more 
 
 Affects me than eternal wrath can do — 
 
 Spirits condemn'd, some fiends, instruct me to 
 
 Heighten revenge to thy desert ; but so 
 
 I should do more than mortals may, and throw 
 
 Thy spotted soul to flames. Yet I will give 
 
 Its passport henee ; for think not to outlive 
 
 This hour, this fatal hour, ordain' d to see 
 
 More than an age before of tragedy." 
 
 * * Fearing tears should win 
 
 The victoiy of ang«r, Ammurat draws 
 His scimitar, which had in Hood v^ant laws 
 For conquer' d provinces, and with a s.vift 
 And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift 
 Her burthen' d soul in a repentant thought 
 
 Tow'rds heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her 
 
 soft 
 And snowy breast : with a loud groan she falls 
 Upon the bloody floor, half breathless, calls 
 For his untimely pity ; but perceiving 
 The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were 
 
 leaving 
 Her heart unguarded, she implores that breath 
 Which yet remain'd, not to bewail her death. 
 But beg his life that caused it — on her knees. 
 Struggling to rise. But now calm'd Ammurat 
 
 Her from disturbing death, in his last great 
 
 work. 
 And thus declares some virtue in a Turk. 
 
 " I have, brave Christian, by perusing thee 
 In this great art of honour, learnt to be, 
 Too late, thy follower : this ring (with that 
 Gives him his signet) shall, when question' d at I 
 The castle guards, thy safety be. And now 
 I see her blood's low water doth allow 
 Me only time to launch my soul's black bark 
 Into death's rubric sea — for to the dark 
 And silent region, though we here were by 
 Passion divorced, fortune ehaU not deny 
 Our souls to sail together. From thy eyes 
 Eemove death's load, and see what sacrifice 
 My love is offering." With that word, a stroke 
 Pierces his breast, whose speedy pains invoke 
 Death's opiates to appease them : he sinks 
 
 down 
 By's dying -svife, who, ere the cold flood drown 
 Life in the deluge of her wounds, once more 
 Betrays her eyes to the Hght ; and though they 
 
 wore 
 The weight of death upon their lids, did keep 
 Them so long open, till the icy sleep 
 Began to seize on him, and then she cries — 
 " O see, just heaven ! see, see my Ammurat dies, 
 To wander with me in the unknown shade 
 Of immortality — But I have made 
 The wounds that murther'd both : his hand 
 
 that gave 
 Mine, did but gently let me blood to save 
 An everlasting fever. Pardon me, 
 My dear, my dying lord. Eternity 
 Shall see my soul white-wash' d in tears ; but 
 
 oh! 
 I now feel time's dear want — they will not flow 
 Fast as my stream of blood. Christian, fare- 
 
 weU! 
 Whene'er thou dost our tragic story tell, 
 Do not extenuate my crimes, but let 
 Them in their own black characters be set. 
 Near Ammurat' s bright virtues, that, read by 
 Th' unpractised lover, which posterity. 
 Whilst wanton winds play with our dust, shall 
 
 rpise 
 On beauties ; that the good may justice praise 
 By his example, and the bad by mine 
 From vice's throne be scared to virtue's 
 
 shrine. 
 
 * * * This, 
 
 She cries, is our last interview " — a kiss 
 
From 1C49 to 1689.] 
 
 A PANEGYRIC. 
 
 [Edmund Waller. 
 
 Then joins their bloodless lips — each close the 
 
 eyes 
 Of the other, whilst the parting spirit flies. 
 
 William Chamhcrlaync.—Boni 1G19, Died 1689. 
 
 585._ON A GIEDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confinci 
 ShaU now my joyful temples bind ; 
 It was my heav'n's extremest sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely deer ; 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
 Did aU within this circle move ! 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and aU that's fair. 
 Oive me but what this ribbon bound, 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 586.— ON LOVE. 
 
 Anger, in hasty words or blows. 
 Itself discharges on our foes ; 
 And sorrow, too, finds some relief 
 In tears, which wait upon our grief : 
 So ev'ry passion, but fond love, 
 Unto its own redress does move ; 
 But that alone the wretch inclines 
 To what prevents his own designs ; 
 Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, 
 Disorder' d, tremble, fawn, and creep; 
 Postures which render him des^jised, 
 "Where he endeavours to be prized, 
 Por women (born to be controU'd) 
 Stoop to the forward and the bold ; 
 Affect the haughty and the proud, 
 The gay, the frolic, and the loud, 
 "Who first the gen'rous steed opprest, 
 Not kneeling did salute the beast ; 
 But with high courage, life, and force, 
 Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse. 
 
 Unwisely we the wiser East 
 Pity, supposing them opprest 
 "With tyrants' force, whose law is wiU, 
 By which they govern, spoil, and kill ; 
 Each nymph, but moderately fair. 
 Commands with no less rigour here. 
 Should som.c brave Turk, that walks amono 
 His twenty lasses, bright and young, 
 Behold as many gallants here, 
 "With modest guise and silent fear, 
 All to one female idol bend, 
 "While her high pride does scarce descend 
 To mark their follies, he would swear 
 That these her guard of eunuchs were, 
 And that a more majestic queen, 
 Or humbler slaves, he had not seen. 
 
 AU this with indignation spoke. 
 In vain I struggled ^vith the yoke 
 Of mighty Love : that con qu' ring look, 
 "When next beheld, Hke lightning strook 
 
 My blasted soul, and made me bow 
 Lower than those I pitied now. 
 
 So the taU stag, upon the brink 
 Of some smooth stream, about to drink, 
 Surveying there his armed head, 
 With shame remembers that he fled 
 The scorned dogs, resolves to tryi _ 
 The combat next ; but if their cry 
 Invades again his trembling ear, 
 He straight resumes his wonted care ; 
 Leaves the untasted spring behind, 
 And, wing'd with fear, outflies the -svind. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 587.— A PANEGYEIC TO THE LOED 
 PROTECTOR. 
 
 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand, 
 You bridle faction, and our hearts command, 
 Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, 
 Make us unite, and make us conquer too : 
 
 Let partial spirits still aloud comj^ain, 
 Think themselves injur' d that they cannot 
 
 reign. 
 And own no liberty, but where they may 
 Without control upon their fellows prey. 
 
 Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face, 
 To chide the \\'inds, and save the Trojan race ; 
 So has your highness, rais'd above the rest, 
 Storms of ambition, tossing us, represt. 
 
 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, 
 Restor'd by you, is made a glorious state , 
 The seat of empire, where the Irish come, 
 And the unwilling Scots, to fetch th^ir doom. 
 
 The sea 's our own : and now all nations greet, 
 With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet : 
 Yom' power extends as far as winds can blow, 
 Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 
 
 Heaven (that hath plac'd this island to give 
 
 law. 
 To balance Europe, and her states to awe) 
 In this conjunction doth on Britain smile. 
 The greatest leader, and the greatest isle ! 
 
 "Wliether this portion of the world were rent, 
 By the rude ocean, from the continent. 
 Or thus created ; it was sure design'd 
 To be the sacred refuge of mankind. 
 
 Hither th' oppress' d shall henceforth resort, 
 Justice to crave, and succour, at your court ; 
 And then your highness, nol for our's alone, 
 But for the world's protector shall be known. 
 
 Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies 
 Through every land, that near the ocean lies ; 
 Sounding your name, and teUing dreadful 
 
 news 
 To all that piracy and rapine use. ,, .^ 
 
Edmund Waller. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC. 
 
 [Fourth Pebiod.- 
 
 With such a chief the meanest nation blest, 
 Might hope to Uft licr head above the rest : 
 Wliat may be thought impossible to do 
 By us, embraced by the sea and you ? 
 
 Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, 
 
 we 
 Whole forests send to reign upon the sea ; 
 And every coast may trouble, or relieve : 
 But none can visit us without your leave. 
 
 Angels and we have this prerogative. 
 That none can at our happy seats arrive : 
 While we descend at pleasure, to invade 
 The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid. 
 
 Our little world, the image of the great, 
 lake that, amidst the boundless ocean set, 
 Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, 
 And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves. 
 
 As Egypt does not on the clouds rely, 
 
 But to the Nile owes more than to the sky ; 
 
 So, what cur Earth, and what our Heaven, 
 
 denies, 
 Our ever-constant friend, the sea, supplies. 
 
 The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know. 
 Free from the scorching sun that makes it 
 
 grow : 
 Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine ; 
 And, without planting, drink of every vine. 
 
 To dig for wealth, we weary not our limbs ; 
 Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. 
 Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow. 
 We plough the deep, and reap what others 
 
 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds, 
 Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds : 
 Eome, though her eagle through the world 
 
 had flown, 
 Could never make this island all her own. 
 
 Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince 
 
 too, 
 France-conquering Henry flourish' d, and now 
 
 you ; . 
 For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state. 
 Till Alexander came to urge their fate. 
 
 When for more worlds the Macedonian cry'd. 
 He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide 
 Another yet : a world resefv'd for you, 
 To make more great than that he did subdue. 
 
 He safely might old troops to battle lead. 
 Against th' unwarlike Persian and the Mede, 
 Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field, 
 More spoils than honour to the victor yield. 
 
 A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold, 
 The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold. 
 Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame, 
 Been from all ages kept for you to tame. 
 
 Whom the old Eoman wall so ill confin'd, 
 With a new chain of garrisons you bind : 
 Here foreign gold no more shall make them 
 
 come ; 
 Our English iron holds them fast at home. 
 
 They, that henceforth must be content to 
 
 know 
 No warmer region than their hills of snow. 
 May blame the sun ; but must extol your grace, 
 Which in our senate hath allow' d them place. 
 
 Prefer'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown, 
 Falling they rise, to be with ns made one : 
 So kind dictators made, when they came 
 
 home. 
 Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Eome. 
 
 Like favour find the Irish, -with like fate 
 Advanced to be a portion of our state ; 
 While by your valour, and your bounteous 
 
 mind. 
 Nations divided by the sea are join'd. 
 
 Holland to gain your friendship, is content 
 To be our out-guard on the continent : 
 She from her fellow-provinces would go, 
 Eathcr than hazard to have you her foe. 
 
 In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse, 
 Preventing posts, the terrour and the news, 
 Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar ; 
 But our conjunction makes them tremble 
 more. 
 
 Your never-failing sword made war to cease, 
 And now you heal us with the acts of peace ; 
 Our minds with bounty and with awe engage. 
 Invite affection, and restrain our rage. 
 
 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, 
 Than in restoring such as are undone : 
 Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear. 
 But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare. 
 
 To pardon, willing, and to punish, loth. 
 
 You strike with one hand, but you heal with 
 
 both; 
 Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve 
 You cannot make the dead again to live. 
 
 When Fate or errour had our age misled. 
 And o'er this nation such confusion spread ; 
 The only cure, which could from Heaven come 
 
 down. 
 Was so much power and piety in one. 
 
 One ! whose extraction from an ancient line 
 Gives hope again, that well-bom men may 
 
 shine ; 
 The meanest in your nature, mild and good : 
 The noblest rest secured in your blood. 
 
 Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace 
 A mind proportion' d to such things as these ; 
 How such a ruling sp'rit you could restrain, 
 And practise first over yourself to reign. 
 
l\o„i 1640 to 1689.] 
 
 AT PENSHUEST. 
 
 [Edmund Waller. 
 
 Your private life did a just pattern give, 
 How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should 
 
 live ; 
 Born to command, your princely virtues slept, 
 Like humble David's, while the flock he kept. 
 
 But when vour troubled country call'd you 
 
 forth, 
 Your flaming courage and your matchless 
 
 worth. 
 Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend, 
 To fierce contention gave a prosperous end. 
 
 Still, as you rise, the state, exalted too, 
 Finds no distemper while 'tischang'd by you ; 
 Chang'd like the world's great scone I when 
 
 without noiiiic, 
 The rising sun night's viilgar lights destroys. 
 
 Ha.d 3'ou, some ages past, this race of glory 
 Run, Avith amazement avo should read j^our 
 
 st®ry : 
 But living virtue, all achievements jiast. 
 Meets envy still, to grapple with at last. 
 
 This Cae.sar found ; and that ungrateful age. 
 With losing him, went back to blood and 
 
 rage; 
 Mistaken Brutus thought to break tlieir yoke, 
 But cut the bond of union with that stroke. 
 
 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars. 
 Gave a dim light to violence and wars ; 
 To such a tempest as noAV threatens all, 
 Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall. 
 
 If Eome's great senate could not wield that 
 
 sword. 
 Which of the conquer' d world had made them 
 
 lord ; 
 "NMiat hope had ours, while yet their poAver 
 
 Avas new. 
 To rule victorious armies, but by you ? 
 
 You 1 that had taught them to subdue their 
 
 foes. 
 Could order teach, and their high spirits 
 
 compose : 
 To every duty could their minds engage. 
 Provoke their courage, and command their 
 
 rage. 
 
 So, Avhen a lion shakes his dreadfiil mane, 
 And angry grows, if he that first took pain 
 To tame his youth, approach the haughty 
 
 beast, 
 He bends to him, but frights away the rest. 
 
 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last 
 Itself into Augustus' arms did cast ; 
 So England now does, Avith like toil opprest, 
 Her Aveary head upon your bosom rest. 
 
 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these, 
 
 Instruct us what belongs unto our peace ! I 
 
 Your battles they hereafter shall indite, ! 
 
 And draw the image of our IMars in fight ; j 
 
 Tell of towns storm' d, of armies over-run. 
 And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won ; 
 How, while you thunder' d, clouds of dust did 
 
 choke 
 Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke. 
 
 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, 
 And every conqueror creates a Muse : 
 Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing : 
 But there, my lord ! we'll bays and olive 
 bring 
 
 To croAvn your head,Avhile you in triumph ride 
 O'er A^anquish'd nations, and the sea beside ; 
 While all your neighbour princes unto you. 
 Like Joseph's sheaves, pay rcA'crence and bow. 
 
 Edmund Waller. —Burn 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 588.— AT PENSHUEST. 
 
 While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer 
 Attend my passion, and forget to fear ; 
 When to the beeches I report my flame, 
 They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. 
 To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers 
 With loud complaints, they ansAver me in 
 
 showers. 
 To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, 
 More deaf than trees, and prouder than the 
 
 heav'n ! 
 LoA'e's foe profess' d I Avhy dost thou falsely 
 
 feign 
 Thyself a Sidney ? from Avhich noble strain 
 He sprung, that could so far exalt the name 
 Of Love, and warm our nation Avith his flame ; 
 That all we can of love or high desire, 
 Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire. 
 Nor caU her mother who so Avell does proA'e 
 One breast may hold both chastity and loA^e. 
 Never can she, that so exceeds the spring 
 In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring 
 One so destructive. To no human stock 
 We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock ; 
 That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side 
 Nature, to recompense the fatal pride 
 Of such stem beauty, placed those healing 
 
 springs 
 Which not more help than that destruction 
 
 brings. 
 Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, 
 I might, like Orpheus, Avith my num'rous moan 
 Melt to compassion ; now my trait' rous song 
 With thee conspires to do the singer wrong ; 
 While thus I suffer not myself to lose 
 The memory of A^hat augments my woes ; 
 But Avith my OAvn breath still foment the fire. 
 Which flames as high as fancy can aspire ! 
 This last complaint the indulgent ears did 
 pierce 
 Of just Apollo, president of verse ; 
 Highly concern' d that the Muse should bring 
 Damage to one whom he had taught to sing : 
 
Edmund Wallee.] 
 
 THE BUD. 
 
 [Fourth Pekiod. 
 
 Thus he advised me : "On yon aged tree 
 Hang np thy kite, and hie thee to the sea, 
 That there with wonders thy diverted mind 
 Some truce, at least, may with this passion 
 
 find." 
 Ah, cruel nymph ! from whom her humble 
 
 swain 
 Flies for relief unto the raging main, 
 And from the winds and tempests does expect 
 A milder fate tlian from her cold neglect ! 
 Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove 
 Blest in her choice ; and vows this endless 
 
 love 
 Springs from no hope of what she can confer, 
 But from those gifts which Hoav'n has heap'd 
 
 on her. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 589.— THE BUD. 
 
 Lately on yonder swelling bush. 
 Big with many a coming rose, 
 This early bud began to blush. 
 And did but half itself disclose ; 
 I pluck' d it though no better grown. 
 And now you see how full 'tis blown. 
 
 Still, as I did the leaves inspire, 
 With such a purple light they shone. 
 As if they had been made of fire. 
 And spreading so would flame anon. 
 All that was meant by air or sun, 
 To the young flow'r my breath has done. 
 
 If our loose breath so much can do, 
 What may the same in forms of love. 
 Of purest love and music too, 
 When Flavia it aspires to move ? 
 When that which lifeless buds persuades 
 To wax more soft, her youth invades ? 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 590.— SAY, LOVELY DEEAM 
 
 Say, lovely dream ! where couldst thou find 
 Shades to counterfeit that face ? 
 
 Colours of this glorious kind 
 
 Come not from any mortal place. 
 
 In heav'n itself thou sure wert dress'd 
 
 With that angel-like disguise ; 
 Thus deluded, am I bleat, 
 
 And see my joy with closed eyes. 
 
 But, ah ! this image is too kind 
 
 To be other than a dream ; 
 Cruel Sacharissa's mind 
 
 Ne'er put on that sweet extreme. 
 
 Fair dream ! if thou intend' st me grace. 
 Change that heavenly face of thine ; 
 
 Paint despised love in thy face. 
 And make it t' appear like mine. 
 
 Pale, wan, and meagre, let it look, 
 
 With a pity-moving shape. 
 Such as wander by the brook 
 
 Of Lethe, or from graves escape. 
 
 Then to that matchless nymph r.ppear, 
 In whose shape thou shinest so ; 
 
 Softly in her sleeping ear 
 
 With humble words express my woe. 
 
 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride. 
 
 Thus surprised, she may faU ; 
 Sleep does disproportion hide. 
 
 And, death resembling, equals aU. 
 
 Edmu7id Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 591.— GO, LOVELY EOSE! 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows. 
 
 When I resemble her to thee. 
 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 TeU her, that's young, 
 
 And shims to have her graces spied. 
 
 That, hadst thou sprung 
 
 In deserts, where no men abide. 
 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth. 
 
 Suffer herself to be desired, 
 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 
 The common fate of all tilings rare 
 
 May read in thee, 
 
 How smaU a part of time they share 
 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 592.— OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 The seas are quiet when the -winds give o'er ; 
 So calm are we when passions are no more. 
 ]p'or then we know how vain it was to boast 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
 Lets in new light through chinks that time 
 has made : 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 OF THE QUEEN". 
 
 [Edmund Waller. 
 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they 
 
 view. 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 Edmv.ml Waller.— Bom 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 593.— TO AMOEET. 
 
 Fair ! that you may truly know, 
 What you unto Thyrsis owe ; 
 I will tell you h6w I do 
 Sacharissa love, and you. 
 
 Joy salutes me, when I set 
 My blest eyes on Amoret : 
 But with wonder I am strook, 
 While I on the other look. 
 
 If sweet Amoret complains, 
 I have sense of all her pains : 
 But for Sacharissa I 
 Do not only grieve, but die. 
 
 All that of myself is mine, 
 Lovely Amoret ! is thine, 
 Sacharissa' 3 captive fain 
 Would untie his iron chain ; 
 And, those scorching beams to shun 
 To thy gentle shadow run. 
 
 K the soul had free election 
 To dispose of her affection ; 
 I would not thus long have borne 
 Haughty Sacharissa' s scorn : 
 But 'tis sure some power above. 
 Which controls our wills in love I 
 
 K not a love, a strong desire 
 To create and spread that fire 
 In my brea.st solicits me. 
 Beauteous Amoret ! for thee. 
 
 'Tis amazement more than love. 
 Which her radiant eyes do move : 
 If less splendour wait on thine, 
 Yet they so benignly shine, 
 I would turn my dazzled sight 
 To behold their milder light. 
 But as hard 'tis to destroy 
 That high flame, as to enjoy : 
 Which how eas'ly I may do, 
 Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know I 
 
 Amoret ! as sweet and good 
 As the most dehcious food. 
 Which, but tasted, does impart 
 Life and gladness to the heart. 
 
 Sacharissa' s beauty 's wine, 
 Which to madness doth incline : 
 Such a liquor, as no brain 
 That is mortal can sustain. 
 
 • Scarce can I to Heaven excuse 
 The devotion, which I use 
 Unto that adored dame : 
 For 'tis not unlike the same, 
 Which I thither ought to send. 
 So that if it could take end, 
 'Twould to Heaven itself be due, 
 To succeed her, and not you : 
 
 Who already hare of me 
 
 All that's not idolatry : 
 
 Wliich, though not so fierce a flame. 
 
 Is longer Hke to be the same. 
 
 Then smile on me, and I will prove 
 Wonder id shorter-lived tlian love. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605,^Di£id 1687. 
 
 594- 
 
 -TO PHYLLIS. 
 
 Phyllis ! why should we delay 
 Pleasures shorter than the day ? 
 Could we (which we never can !) 
 Stretch our lives beyond their span. 
 Beauty like a shadow flies, 
 And our youth before us dies. 
 Or, would youth and beauty stay, 
 Love hath wings, and will away. 
 Love hath swifter wings than Time ; 
 Change in love to Heaven does chmb^ 
 Gods, that never change their state, 
 Vary oft tlieir love and hate. 
 
 PhyUis ! to this truth we owe 
 All the love betwixt us two : 
 Let not you and I inquire, 
 What has been our past desire ; 
 On what shepherd you have smiled, 
 Or what nymphs I have beguiled : 
 Leave it to the planets too. 
 What we shall hereafter do : 
 For the joys we now may prove. 
 Take advice of present love. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 595._OF THE QUEEN. 
 
 The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build 
 Her humble nest, lies silent in the field ; 
 But if (the promise of a cloudless day) 
 Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play, 
 Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of 
 
 voice 
 Or power to climb, she made so low a choice : 
 Singing she mounts ; her airy wings are 
 
 stretch' d 
 Tow'rds heaven, as if from heaven her note 
 
 she fetch' d. 
 
 So we, retiring from the busy throng. 
 Use to restrain th' ambition of our song ; 
 But since the light which now informs our age 
 Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage. 
 Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies> 
 To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes. 
 
 For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen. 
 No sweeter look than this propitious queen. 
 Such guard and comfort the distressed find. 
 From her large power, and from her larger 
 mind. 
 
Edmund Waller.] 
 
 ON MY LADY SYDNEY'S PICTURE. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers, 
 For all the miserable are made hers. 
 So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds, 
 Poor sheep from tempests, and their shep- 
 herds, shields : 
 The ro.Yal bird possesses all the boughs, 
 But shade and shelter to the flock allows. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 596.— ON MY LADY SYDNEY'S PICTUEE. 
 
 Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame ! 
 The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame 
 Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed, 
 Not his high fancy could one pattern, gi'aced 
 With such extremes of excellence, compose 
 Wonders so distant in one face disclose ! 
 Such cheerful modesty, such humble state. 
 Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate 
 As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see 
 Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree. 
 All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found, 
 Amazed we see in this one garland bound*^ 
 Had but this copy (which the artist took 
 From the fair picture of that noble book) 
 Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had 
 
 jarr'd. 
 And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd. 
 Just Nature, first instructed by his thought, 
 In his own house thus practised what he taught. 
 This glorious piece transcends what he could 
 
 think, 
 So much his blood is nobler than his ink ! 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 597- 
 
 -OF MY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING 
 THE LUTE. 
 
 Such moving sounds from such a careless 
 
 touch ! 
 So unconcern'd herself, and we po much ! 
 What art is this, that with so little pains 
 Transports us thu.s, and o'er our spirits reigns ? 
 The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, 
 And tell their joy for ev'ry kiss aloud. 
 Small force there needs to make them tremble 
 
 ^so; 
 Touch' d by that hand, who would not tremble 
 
 too? 
 Here love takes stand, and while she charms 
 
 the car, 
 Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer. 
 Music so softens and disarms the mind. 
 That not an arrow does resistance find. 
 Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, 
 And acts herself the triumph of her eyes ; 
 So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey' d 
 His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 598.— TO A LADY 
 
 SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. 
 
 Chloris, yourself you so excel, 
 
 When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, 
 That, like a spirit, with this speU 
 
 Of my own teaching, I am caught. 
 
 That eagle's fate and mine are one, 
 
 Which, on the shaft that made Ixim die, 
 
 Espy'd a feather of his own. 
 
 Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 
 
 Had Echo with so sweet a grace 
 Narcissus' loud complaints return' d. 
 
 Not for reflection of his face, 
 
 But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. 
 
 Edmund Waller.-Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 599.— LOVE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Treading the path to nobler ends, 
 
 A long farewell to love I gave, 
 Resolved «iy country and my friends 
 
 All that remain' d of me should have. 
 
 And this resolve no mortal dame, 
 
 Nonebutthose eyes could have o'erthrown j 
 
 The nymph I dare not, need not name. 
 So high, so like herself alone. 
 
 Thus the tall oak, which now aspires 
 Above the fear of private fires. 
 
 Grown and design' d for nobler use. 
 
 Not to make warm ; but build the house, 
 
 Though from our meaner flames secure, 
 
 Must that which falls from heaven endure. 
 
 Edmund Waller.-Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 6oo.-~0N LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT. 
 
 Not caring to observe the wind, 
 Or the new sea explore. 
 Snatch' d from myself how far behind 
 Already I behold the .'^hore ! 
 
 May not a thousand dangers sleep 
 In the smooth bosom of this deep ? 
 No : 'tis so reckless and so clear, 
 That the rich bottom does appear 
 Paved all with precious things ; not torn 
 From shipwreck'd vessels, but there bom. 
 
 Sweetness, truth, and every grace, 
 Which time and use are wont to teach, 
 The eye may in a moment reach 
 And read distinctly in her face. 
 
From lb4y to H5ii\}.j 
 
 L'ALLEGEO. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 Some other nymphs with colours faint, 
 And pencil slow, may Cuj^id paint, 
 And a weak heart in time destroy ; 
 She has a stamp, and prints the boy ; 
 Can with a single look inflame 
 The coldest breast, the rudest tame. 
 
 Edmuml Waller.— Born 1G05, Died 1687. 
 
 60 1. —THE SELF-BANISHED. 
 
 It is not that I love you less, 
 
 Than when before your feet I lay ; 
 
 JBut to prevent the sad increase 
 Of hopeless love, I keep away. 
 
 In vain, alas ! for everything 
 
 Which I have known belong to you 
 
 Your form does to my fancy bring. 
 
 And makes my old wounds bleed anew. 
 
 Who in the spring, from the new sim, 
 
 Already has a fever got. 
 Too late begins those shafts to shun, 
 
 Wliich Phcebus through his veins has shot. 
 
 Too late he would the pain assuage. 
 And to thick shadows does retire ; 
 
 About with him he bears the rage. 
 And in his tainted blood the fire. 
 
 But vow'd I have, and never must 
 Your banish' d servant trouble you ; 
 
 For if I break, you may mistrust 
 The vow I made — to love jou too. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Bom 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 602. 
 
 -THE NIGHT-PIECE, OR A PICTUEE 
 DRAWN IN THE DARK. 
 
 Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms, 
 Defends us ill from Mira's charms : 
 Mira can lay her beauty bj', 
 Take no advantage 01 the eye, 
 Quit all that Lely's art can take. 
 And yet a thousand captives make. 
 
 Her speech is graced with sweeter sound 
 Than in another's song is found ; 
 And all her well-placed words are darts. 
 Which need no light to reach our hearts. 
 
 As the bright stars and Milky-way, 
 Show'd by the night, are hid by day ; 
 So we, in that accomplish' d mind, 
 Help'd by the night, new graces find, 
 Which by the splendour of her view, - 
 Dazzled before, we never knew. 
 
 While we converse with her, we mark 
 No want of day, nor think it dark : 
 Her shining image is a light 
 Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night. 
 
 Like jewels to advantage set. 
 Her beauty by the shade does get ; 
 
 There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, 
 AU that our passion might restrain, 
 Is hid, and our indulgent mind 
 Presents the fair idea kind. 
 
 Y'et friended by the night, we dare 
 Only in whispers tell our care : 
 He that on her his bold hand lays, — — 
 With Cupid's pointed arrows plays ; 
 They with a touch (they are so keen ! ) 
 WoUnd us unshot, and she unseen. 
 AU near approaches threaten death ; 
 We may be ship-ivi-eck'd by her breath : 
 Love favour'd once with that sweet gale, 
 Doubles his haste, and fills his sail. 
 Till he arrive where she must prove 
 The haven or the rock of love. 
 
 So we th' Arabian coast do know 
 At distance, when the spices blow 1 
 By the rich odour taught to steer. 
 Though neither day nor stars appear. 
 
 Edmund Waller.— Born 1605, Died 1687. 
 
 603.— L'ALLEGRO. 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest JVIldnight bom. 
 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, 
 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and 
 sights unholy ! 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 
 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 
 wings. 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 
 There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd 
 rocks, 
 As ragged as thy locks, 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
 
 But come, thou goddess fair and free. 
 In Heaven yclop'd Euphrosyne, 
 And by men, heart-easing Mirth ; 
 Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. 
 With two si.ster Graces more. 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
 Or whether (as some sager sing) 
 The frolic vand, that breathes the spring. 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
 As he met her once a-majdng ; 
 There on beds of violets blue, 
 And fresh-blown roses wash'd m dew, 
 FiU'd her Avith thee, a daughter fair, 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonair. . 
 
 Haste thee, Nymph, and bring ydth thee 
 Jest and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
 Nods, and Becks, and AA-reathed Smiles, 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 Come, and trip it, as you go. 
 On the Ught fantastic toe ; 
 And in thy right hand lead vnth. thee 
 The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
 
Milton.] IL PENSEROSO. [Fourth Pekiod.— 
 
 And, if I give thee honour due. 
 
 She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said ; 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
 
 And he, by friar's lantern led, 
 
 To live Avith her, and live -vvith thee, 
 
 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, 
 
 In unreproved pleasures free. 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
 
 To hear the lark begin his flight. 
 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 
 And singing startle the dull Night, 
 
 His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the com, 
 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 
 That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 
 TUl the dappled Dawn doth rise ; 
 
 Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 
 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
 
 And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 
 
 And at my window bid good mon-ow, 
 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 
 
 Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, 
 
 And crop-full out of doors he flings 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
 
 Wlule the cock, with lively din, 
 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
 
 Scatters the rear of Darkness thin. 
 
 By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 
 
 And to the stack, or the barn door, 
 
 Tower' d cities please ua then, 
 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 
 And the busy hum of men, 
 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn ' 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 
 
 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 
 
 From the side of some hoar hill. 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Some time walking, not unseen. 
 
 Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
 
 By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
 
 To win her grace, whom all commend. 
 
 Right against the eastern gate 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 
 Where the great Sun begins his state. 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 
 Robed in flames, and amber light, 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 
 With ma.sk, and antique pageantry ; 
 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 
 Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child. 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes mid. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 
 And ever, against eating cares, 
 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydia,n airs. 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
 
 Married to immortal verse ; 
 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 
 In notes, with many a winding bout 
 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 
 Of linked SAveetness long drawn out, 
 
 Meadows trim ■svith daisies pied. 
 
 With wanton heed and giddy cunning ; 
 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running. 
 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 Bosom' d high in tufted trees. 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
 
 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
 
 From golden slumber on a bed 
 
 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
 
 Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 
 Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met. 
 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 
 His half-regain'd Eurydice. 
 
 Of herbs and other country messes, 
 
 These delights if thou canst give, 
 
 V\/"hich the neat-handed Phyllis dresses ; 
 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 Milton. — Born 1G08, Died 1674. 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead, 
 
 To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 
 
 
 
 Sometimes with secure delight 
 
 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 
 604.— IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 When the merry beUs ring round, 
 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 To many, a youth and many a maid, 
 
 The bro6d of FoUy, without father bred I 
 
 Dancing in the chequer' d shade ; 
 
 How little you bested. 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with aU your toys ! 
 
 On a sun-aVyne holiday, 
 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 
 
 Till the live-long daylight fail : 
 
 And fancies fond with gaudy sliapes possess. 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
 
 As tliick and numberless 
 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sun-beams ; 
 
 How faery Mab the junkets oat ; 
 
 Or likest hovering dreams, 
 
From 1649 to 1689.J 
 
 IL PENSEEOSO. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy, 
 Hail, di'v'inest Melancholy ! 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit ihe sense of human sight. 
 And therefore to our weaker view 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
 Or that stair' d Ethiop queen that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 
 The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended : 
 Yet thou art higher far descended : 
 Thee bright-hair' d Vesta, long of yore, 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign. 
 Such mixture was not held a stain : 
 Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 Plowing with majestic train. 
 And sable stole of Cyprus lawn. 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 With even step, and musing gait ; 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soitl sitting in thine eyes : 
 There, held in holy passion still. 
 Forget tliyself to marble, tiU 
 With a sad leaden downward cast 
 Tliou fix them on the earth as fast : 
 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
 And hears the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing : 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : 
 But first, and chiefest, with theo bring, 
 Him that von soars on golden wing, 
 Guiding the fiery-wheeled thi-one, 
 The cherub Contemplation ; 
 And the mute Silence hist along, 
 'Less Philomel ^vill deign a song. 
 In her sweetest saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
 Gently o'er the accustom' d oak : 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of 
 
 folly. 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, » 
 To behold the wandering Moon, 
 Hiding near her highest noon. 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the Heaven's wide pathless v/'ay; 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
 Stooping through a fieecy cloud. 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off Curfeu sound, 
 
 Over some wide- water 'd shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar : 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 Wnhere glowing embers through the room 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 Ear from all resort of mirth, ~ 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 Or the belman's drowsy charm. 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour. 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
 Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
 With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 
 The immortal mind, that hatb forsook 
 Her mansion in this fieshly nook : 
 And of those demons that are found 
 In fire, air, fiood, or under ground, 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 With planet, or with element. 
 Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
 In scepter' d pall come sweeping hj. 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelopa' line. 
 Or the tale of Troy divine ; 
 Or what (though rare) of later age 
 Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 
 
 But, sad virgin, that thy power 
 Might raise Musasus from his bower ! 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
 Such notes, as, warbled to the string. 
 Brew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
 And made Hell grant what love did seek ! 
 Or call up him that left half -told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
 On which the Tartar king did ride : 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
 Of tumeys, and of trophies hung. 
 Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
 Not trick' d and frounced as she was wont 
 With the Attic boy to hunt, 
 But kercheft in a comely cloud. 
 While rocking winds are piping loud. 
 Or usher' d with a shower still 
 When the gust hath blown his fill. 
 Ending on the rustling leaves. 
 With minute drops from off the eaves. 
 And, when the Sun begins to fling 
 His flaring beams, me, goddess, bi-ing 
 To arched walks of twilight groves. 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
 Of pine, or monumental oak. 
 Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke. 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
 Or fright them from their hallo w'd haunt 
 There in close covert by some brook, 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 
 
Milton.] 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye, 
 
 While the bee with honey' d thigh, 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters murmuring, 
 
 With such consort as they keep. 
 
 Entice the dewy-feather' d Sleep ; 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 
 Wave at his wings in aery stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture display' d, 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid. 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some spirit to mortal good. 
 
 Or the unseen genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale. 
 And love the high-embow^ed roof, 
 With antique pillars massy proof, 
 And storied windows riclily dight. 
 Casting a dim religious light : 
 There let the pealing organ blow. 
 To tiie full- voiced quire belov,% 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine car, 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my Aveary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 The hairj^ gown and mossy cell, 
 Where I may sit and rightlj'" spell 
 Of every star that Heaven doth shew, 
 And every herb that sips the dew ; 
 Till old experience do attam 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 605.— LYCIDAS. 
 
 Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more, 
 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere, 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude : 
 And, with forced fingers rude, 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 
 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 
 Compels me to disturb your season due : 
 For Lj'cidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
 Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the parching Avind, 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well, 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 
 
 spring ; 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
 So may some gentle Muse 
 With lucky words favour my destined urn ; 
 And, as he passes, turn, 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
 
 For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
 Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and 
 
 rill. 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appear' d 
 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,, 
 We drove afield, and both together heard 
 What time the gray-fly winds her sultry hora. 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of 
 
 night, 
 Oft till the star, that rose, at evening bright. 
 Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his 
 
 westering wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
 Temper' d to the oaten flute ; 
 Eough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven 
 
 heel 
 From the glad sound would not be absent 
 
 long; 
 And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 
 But, O the heavy change, now thou art 
 gone. 
 Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
 Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert 
 
 caves 
 With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- 
 
 grown. 
 And all their echoes, mourn : 
 The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose. 
 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that 
 
 graze. 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe 
 
 wear, 
 When first the white-thorn blows ; 
 Stich, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
 Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorse- 
 less deep 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, 
 
 lie. 
 Nor on the sliaggy top of Mona high. 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 
 ,Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 
 Had ye been there — for what could that have 
 
 done ? 
 What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 
 
 bore. 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 
 'Whom universal Nature did lament, 
 ! "\Mien, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
 i His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
 i Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian slioro ? 
 
 Alas ! what boots it Avith incessant care 
 I To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's 
 I trade„ 
 
 I And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
 
 Were it not better done, as others use, 
 j To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
 i Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 
 I Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 
 I raise 
 
 j (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 i To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 
 
From 16^19 to H>.s'j. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred 
 
 shears, 
 And slit3 the thin-spun life. " But not the 
 
 praise," 
 Phoebus replied, and touch' d my trembling 
 
 ears ; 
 " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure 
 
 eyes. 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
 Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." 
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd 
 
 flood. 
 Smooth- sliding Mincius, cro-\vn'd with vocal 
 
 reeds ! 
 That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
 But now my oat proceeds, 
 And listens to the herald of the sea 
 That came in Neptune's plea; 
 He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon 
 
 winds, 
 What hard mirthap hath doom'd this gentle 
 
 swain ? 
 And question' d eveiy gust of rugged Avings 
 That blows from off each beaked promontory : 
 They knew not of his story ; 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon stray' d ; 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Pan ope -with all her sisters play'd. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
 Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd "svith curses 
 
 dark. 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 
 
 slow. 
 His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with 
 
 woe. 
 " Ah I who hath reft " (quoth he) " my dearest 
 
 pledge ? " 
 Last came, and last did go, 
 The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) 
 He shook his miter'd locks, and stem bespake : 
 " How well could I have spared for thee, 
 
 young swain. 
 Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 
 Of other care they little reckoning make. 
 Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast. 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know 
 
 how to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have Icam'd aught else the 
 
 least 
 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
 What recks it them ? What need they ? They 
 
 are sped ; 
 
 And, when they list, their lean and flashy 
 
 songs 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched 
 
 straw. 
 The hungi-y sheep look up, and are not fed. 
 But, swoln with wind and the rank^mist they 
 
 draw, 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : 
 Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing fed : 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 
 
 more." 
 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian 
 
 Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 
 
 brooks. 
 On whose fresh lap the swart- star sparely 
 
 looks ; 
 Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, 
 That *on the green turf suck the honey' d 
 
 showers. 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
 The white pink, and the pansy freak' d with 
 
 jet, 
 The glowing violet, 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- 
 bine. 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
 
 head. 
 And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
 Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shod, 
 And daffadillies fill their cups with tears. 
 To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 
 For, so to interpose a little ease. 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- 
 mise ; 
 Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding 
 
 seas 
 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 
 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
 Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming 
 
 tide, 
 Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
 Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
 Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
 Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
 Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
 Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with 
 
 ruth : 
 And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no. 
 
 more. 
 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead. 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
 So sinks the day-star in.the ocean bed, 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
 And tricks his beams, and -with new- spangled 
 
 ore 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
 
Milton.] 
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 [FouKTH Period. — 
 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted higli, 
 Through the dear might of him that walk'd 
 
 the waves ; 
 Where, other groves and other streams along, 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above, 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 That sing, and, singing in their glory, move, 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
 Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore. 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks 
 
 and rilis, 
 "While the still Morn went out mth sandals 
 
 gray; 
 He touch' d the tender stops of vai-ious quills, 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay ; 
 And now the Sun had stretch' d out all the 
 
 hills. 
 And now was dropt into the western bay : 
 At last he rose, and twitch' d his mantle blue : 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 Milton.— 'Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 606.— HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 It was the winter wild, 
 "\'\1iile the heaven-born cliild 
 
 All meanly ^vrapt in the rude manger lies ; 
 Nature, in awe to him, 
 Had doff'd her gaudy trim, 
 
 With her great Master so to sympathize : 
 It was no season then for her 
 To wanton vnth. the sun, her lusty paramour. 
 
 Only ^^'ith speeches fair 
 She woos the gentle air. 
 
 To hide her guilty front mth innocent snow ; 
 And on her naked shame, 
 Pollute with sinful blame. 
 
 The saintly veil of maiden wlaite to throw ; 
 Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
 Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
 
 But he, her fears to cease. 
 
 Sent down the meek -eyed Peace ; 
 
 She, crown' d with olive green, came softly 
 
 sliding 
 Down through the turning sphere. 
 His ready harbinger, 
 
 With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 
 And, waving -wide her myrtle wand. 
 She strikes a universal peace through sea and 
 
 land. 
 
 No war or battle's sound, 
 Was heard the world around : 
 
 The idle spear and shield were high up 
 hung; 
 
 The hooked chariot stood 
 Un stain' d with hostile blood ; 
 
 The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
 And kings sat still with awful eye. 
 As if thoy surely knew their sov'reign lord was 
 by. 
 
 But peaceful was the night. 
 Wherein the Prince of Light 
 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
 The winds, with wonder whist. 
 Smoothly the waters kiss'd, 
 
 Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
 
 The stars, ^vith deep amaze. 
 Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 
 
 Bending one way their precious influence ; 
 And will not take their flight. 
 For all the morning light, ' 
 
 Or Lucifer that often Avarn'd them tkence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow. 
 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them 
 go. 
 
 And, though the shady gloom 
 Had giA'-en day her room, 
 
 The. sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
 And hid his head for shame, 
 As his inferior flame 
 
 The new enlighten' d world no more should 
 need; 
 He saw a greater sun appear 
 Than his bright throne, or burning axletrce, 
 could bear. 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn, 
 Or ere the point of dawn. 
 
 Sat simplj^ chatting in a rustic row ; 
 Full little thought they then 
 That the mighty Pan 
 
 Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
 keep. 
 
 "When such music sweet 
 
 Their hearts and ears did greet. 
 
 As never was by mortal finger strook, 
 Divinely-warbled voice 
 Answering the stringed noise. 
 
 As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
 The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
 heavenly close. 
 
 Nature, that heard such sound, 
 Beneath the hoUov/ round 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling. 
 Now was almost won. 
 To think her part was done, 
 
 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
 She knew such harmony alone 
 Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 At last surrounds their sight 
 
 A globe of circular light, 
 
 That with long beams the shamefaced night 
 array' d ; 
 
 The helmed cherubim, 
 
 And sworded seraphim, 
 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 
 display' d, 
 
 Harping in loud and solemn quire. 
 
 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new- 
 bom heir. 
 
 Such music, as 'tis said. 
 Before was never made, 
 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung, 
 While the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 
 And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, 
 And cast the dark foundations deep, 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel 
 
 Ring out, ye crj^stal spheres, 
 Once bless our human ears. 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
 And let your silver chime 
 Move in melodious time ; 
 
 And let the base of Heaven's deep organ 
 blow ; 
 And, vdth. your ninefold harmony, 
 Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. 
 
 For, if such holy song 
 En^vrap our fancj- long. 
 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of 
 
 gold; 
 And speckled Vanity 
 Will sicken soon and die, 
 
 And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
 
 mould ; 
 And Hell itself mil pass away, 
 And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 
 
 day. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice then 
 Will down return to men, 
 
 Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 
 Mercy will sit between, 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down 
 steering ; 
 And Heaven, as at some festival. 
 Will open wide the gates of her high palace 
 haU. 
 
 But wisest Fate says no. 
 This must not yet be so, 
 
 The babe yet lies in smiling infancy. 
 That on the bitter cross 
 Must redeem our loss. 
 
 So both himself and us to glorify : 
 Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, 
 The wakeful trump of doom mvist thunder 
 through the deep. 
 
 With such a horrid clang 
 As on Mount Sinai rang. 
 
 While the red fire and smould'ring clouds 
 
 outbrake ; 
 The aged earth aghast. 
 With terror of that blast. 
 
 Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; 
 When, at the world's last session. 
 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread 
 
 his throne. 
 
 And then at last our bliss. 
 Full and perfect is. 
 
 But now begins ; for, from this happy day, 
 The old dragon, under ground, 
 In straiter limits bound. 
 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 
 And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
 Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
 The oracles are dumb ; 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 
 Euns through the arched roof in words 
 
 deceiving, 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 Can no more divine. 
 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphoa 
 
 leaving. 
 No nightly trance, or breathed spell. 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic 
 
 ceU. 
 
 The lonelj'^ mountains o'er. 
 And the resounding shore, 
 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
 From haunted spring and dale. 
 Edged with poplar pale. 
 
 The parting Genius is mth sighing sent ; 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn. 
 The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
 thickets movum. 
 
 In consecrated earth. 
 And on the holy hearth. 
 
 The Lars and Lemurs mourn with midnight 
 plaint ; 
 In urns and altars round, 
 A drear and dying sound 
 
 Aff'rights the Flamens at their service 
 quaint ; 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat. 
 While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted 
 seat. 
 
 Peor and Baalim 
 
 Forsake their temples dim, 
 
 With that twice batter' d god of Palestine ; 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both. 
 
 Now sits not girt "wdth tapers' holy shine ; 
 The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn ; 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
 Thammuz moiu-n. 
 
Milton.] 
 
 PRAISE OF CHASTITY. 
 
 [Fourth Period.— 
 
 And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 
 His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
 In vain with cymbals* ring- 
 They caU the grisly king, 
 
 In dismal dance about the furnace blue : 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 
 In Memphian grove or green, 
 
 Trampling the unshower'd grass with low- 
 
 ings loud : 
 Nor can he bo at rest 
 Within his sacred chest : 
 
 Nought but profoundest heU can be his 
 
 shroud ; 
 In vain Avith timbrell'd anthems dark 
 The sablo-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd 
 
 ark. 
 
 He feels from Judah's land 
 The dreaded infant's hand, 
 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
 Nor all the gods beside 
 Longer dare abide, 
 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snalcy twine : 
 Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 
 Can in his swaddling bands control the damned 
 crew. 
 
 So, when the sun in bed, 
 Curtain' d -with cloudy red, 
 
 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
 The flocking shadows pale, 
 Troop to the infernal jail, 
 
 Each fetter' d ghost slips to his several grave ; 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon- 
 loved maze. 
 
 But see, the Virgin blest 
 Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 
 
 Time is, our tedious song should here have 
 ending : 
 Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
 Hath fix'd her polish' d car, 
 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
 attending ; 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright-harness' d angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 Milton.— Bom 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 607.— PRAISE OF CHASTITY. 
 
 'Tis Chastity, my brother. Chastity ; 
 She that has that is clad in complete steel, 
 And like a quiver' d nymph Avith arrows keen. 
 May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd 
 
 heaths. 
 Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, 
 Where, through the sacred rays of Chastity, 
 No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, 
 
 Will dare to soil her virgin purity : 
 
 Yea, there, where very desolation dwells, 
 
 By grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid 
 
 shades. 
 She may pass on with unblench'd majesty. 
 Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
 Some say no evil thing that walks by night 
 In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen. 
 Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost, 
 That breaks his magic chains at curfew time; 
 No goblin or swart fairy of the mine. 
 Hath hurtful power o'or true virginity. 
 Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
 Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 
 To testify the arms of Chastity ? 
 I Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, 
 ( Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste, 
 1 Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 
 And spotted mountain-pard, but set at nought 
 The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 
 Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen 
 
 o' th' woods. 
 What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 
 That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, 
 Wherewith she freezed her foes to congeal'd 
 
 stone. 
 But rigid looks of chaste austerity. 
 And noble gi-ace that dash'd brute violence 
 With sudden adoration and blank awo ? 
 So dear to heaven is saintly Chastity, 
 That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 A thousand liveried angels lacquey her, 
 { Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt. 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, 
 Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape, 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
 Till all be made immortal. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1603, Died 1674. 
 
 608.— THE LADY'S SONG IN "COMUS." 
 
 Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 
 Within thy aery shell, 
 By slow Meander's margent green, 
 And in the violet-embroider' d vale, 
 
 Wliere the love-lorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ! 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
 O, if thou have 
 Hid them in some flowery cave. 
 
 Tell me but where. 
 Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the 
 
 sphere ! 
 So may'st thou be translated to the skies. 
 And give resounding grace to all Heaven's 
 harmonies. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
From 1649 to 1680.' 
 
 SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 609.— THE SPIEIT'S EPILOGUE IN 
 COMUS. 
 
 To the ocean now I fly, 
 And those happy climes that lie 
 Where day never shuts his eye, 
 Up in the broad fields of the sky : 
 There I suck the liquid air 
 All amidst the gardens fair 
 Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
 That sing about the golden tree : 
 Along the crisped shades and bowers 
 Eevels the spruce and jocund sj)ring; 
 The Graces, and the rosy-bosora'd hours, 
 Thither all their bounties bring ; 
 There eternal summer dwells. 
 And west-winds, with musky wing. 
 About the cedar' d alleys fling 
 Nard and Cassia's balmy smells. 
 Iris there with humid bow 
 Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
 FloAvers of more mingled hue 
 Than her purfled scarf can shew ; 
 And drenches with Elysian dew 
 (List, moi-tals, if your ears be true) 
 Beds of hyacinth and roses, 
 ^Vlaere young Adonis oft reposes, 
 Waxing well of his deep wound 
 In slumber soft, and on the ground 
 Sadly sits the Assyrian queen : 
 But far above in spangled sheen 
 Celestial Cupid, her fam'd son, advanc'd 
 Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranc'd, 
 After her wandering labours long. 
 Till free consent the gods among' 
 Make her his eternal bride. 
 And from her fair unspotted side 
 Two blissful twins are to be bom, 
 Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 
 
 But now my task is smoothly done, 
 I can fly, or I can run. 
 Quickly to the green earth's end. 
 Where the bow'd Avelkin sIoav doth bend; 
 And from thence can soar as soon 
 To the corners of the moon. 
 
 Mortals, that would follow me. 
 Love Virtue ; she alone is free : 
 She can teach ye how to climb ; 
 Higher than the sphery clime ; 
 Or if Virtue feeble were. 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 610. 
 
 ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Now the bright morning Star, day's harbinger. 
 Comes dancing from the east, and leads with 
 
 her 
 The flow'ry May, who from her green lap 
 
 throws 
 The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
 Hail, bounteous May I that dost inspire 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing ! 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song. 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 611.— SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are 
 
 still. 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart 
 dost fill. 
 While the jolly Hours load on propitious May. 
 Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day. 
 First heard before the shallow cuckow's bill. 
 Portend success in love ; O if Jove's will 
 Have Hnk'd that amorous power to thy soft 
 lay, 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 For my relief, yet hadst no reason whj^ : 
 Whether the Muse or Love call thee his 
 mate. 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 612.— SONNET ON AGE OF TWENTY- 
 THEEE. 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
 youth. 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth 
 
 year ! 
 My hasting days fly on with full career. 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom, 
 showeth. 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
 trath. 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near. 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear. 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
 Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 
 To that same lot, however mean or high. 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the mil of 
 Heaven ; 
 Ail is, if I have grace to use it so, 
 As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 613.— SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and 
 
 wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide, 
 Lodged \vith me useless, though my soul more 
 bent 25 
 
iMiLTON.] 
 
 SONNET ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. 
 
 To serve therewith, mj^ Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest He returning chide ; 
 " Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" 
 i fondly ask : but Patience to prevent 
 
 That muriniu;, soon replies, " God doth not 
 need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts : who best 
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; 
 
 His state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
 And pest o'er land and ocean without' rest ; 
 They also serve*who only stand and wait," 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 614.- 
 
 -SONNET ON HIS DECEASED 
 WIFE. 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
 Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, 
 Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband 
 gave 
 Eescued from death by force, though pale and 
 
 faint. 
 Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed 
 taint. 
 Purification in the old Law did save, 
 And such, as yet once more I trust to have 
 FuU sight of her in Heaven without restraint. 
 Came vested all in white, pure as her mind : 
 Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person 
 shined, 
 So clear, as in no face with more delight. 
 But, O ! as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I waked, she fled, and day brought back my 
 night. 
 
 Milton.— Bom 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 615.— SONNET ON THE LATE MASSACEE 
 IN PIEDMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter' d saints, whose 
 bones 
 Lie scatter' d on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of 
 
 old, 
 When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and 
 stones, 
 Forget not ! in thy book record their groans 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 
 
 fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roU'd 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 
 moans 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 To heaven. Their martyr' d blood and ashes 
 
 sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 
 sway 
 The triple tyrant : that from these may grow 
 A hundred fold, who, having learned thy 
 
 way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 616.— SAMSON BEWAILING HIS 
 BLINDNESS AND CAPTIVITY. 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little further on ; 
 For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade ; 
 There I am wont to sit, when any chance 
 Relieves me from my task of servile toil, 
 Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd nic, 
 Where I a prisoner chain' d, scarce freely draw 
 The air imprison' d also, close and damp. 
 Unwholesome draught : but here I feel amends. 
 The breath of heaven fresh blovring, pure and 
 I sweet. 
 
 With day-spring born ; here leave me to 
 
 respire. — 
 This day a solemn feast the people hold 
 To Dagon their sea-idol, and forbid 
 Laborious works ; unwillingly this rest 
 Their superstition yields me; hence with 
 
 leave 
 Eetiring from the popular noise, I seek 
 This unfrequented place to find some ease. 
 Ease to the body some, none to the mind, 
 From restless thoughts, that like a deadly 
 
 swarm 
 Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, 
 But rush upon me thronging, and present 
 Times past, what once I was, and what am 
 
 now. 
 wherefore was my birth from Heaven fore- 
 told 
 Twice by an angel, who at last in sight 
 Of both my parents aU in flames ascended 
 From off the altar, where an offering burn'd, 
 As in a fiery column, charioting 
 His godlike presence, and from some great 
 
 act 
 Or benefit reveal' d to Abraham's race ? 
 Why was my breeding order' d and prescribed 
 As of a person separate to God, 
 Design' d for great exploits ; if I must die 
 Betray'd, captived, and both my ejes put out, 
 Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze ; 
 To grind in brazen fetters under task 
 With this heaven-gifted strength ? O glorious 
 
 strength, 
 Put to the lai)our of a beast, debased 
 Lower than bond slave ! Promise was that I 
 Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver ; 
 Ask for this great deliverer now, and find 
 
 him 
 Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 
 HimseK in bonds, under Philistian yoke. 
 
 # # # # 
 
 ■ O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 
 
 I Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, 
 
 I Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
 
 i Light, the prime work of God, to me is 
 
 i extinct, 
 
 ; And all her various objects of delight 
 
 ' Annull'd, which might in part my grief have 
 
 j Inferior to the vilest now become 
 
 I Of man or worm : the vilest here excel me ; 
 
 ! They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 
 
From 1649 to 1689.1 
 
 INTEODUCTION TO PAEADISE LOST. 
 
 'MlLTOX. 
 
 To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 
 
 Within doors or without, still as a fool, 
 
 In power of others, never in my own ; 
 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than 
 half. 
 
 O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon. 
 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
 
 Without all hope of day ! 
 
 O first-created Beam, and thou great Word, 
 
 " Let there be light, and light was over all ;" 
 
 Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 
 
 The sun to me is dark 
 
 And silent as the moon, 
 
 Wlien she deserts the night, 
 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 
 
 Since light so necessary is to life, 
 
 And almost life itself, if it be true 
 
 That light is in the soul, 
 
 She all in eveiy part ; why was the sight 
 
 To such a tender ball as the eye confined, 
 
 So obvious and so easy to be quench' d ? 
 And not as feeling through all parts diffused, 
 
 That she might look at will through every 
 
 pore ? 
 Then had I not been thus exiled from light, 
 As in the land of darkness yet in light, 
 To live a life half dead, a living death. 
 And buried : but, O yet more miserable ! 
 Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave, 
 Buried, yet not exempt 
 By privilege of death and burial, 
 From worst of other evils, pains, and ^vrongs ; 
 But made hereby obnoxious more 
 To all the miseries of life, 
 Life in captivity 
 Among inhuman foes. ■ 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 617.— TEANSLATION OF HORACE 
 ODES, I. 5. 
 
 What slender youth, bedewed with liquid 
 
 odours, 
 Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, 
 
 Pyrrha ? For whom bind'st thou 
 
 In Avreaths thy golden hair, 
 Plain in thy neatness ? Oh, hoAV oft shall he 
 On faith and changed gods complain, and 
 seas 
 
 Eough with black winds and storms, 
 
 Unwonted, shall admire ! — 
 Who now enjoys thee, — credulous, — all gold. 
 Who, always vacant, always amiable, 
 
 Hopes thee, of flattering gales 
 
 Unmindfid. Hapless they. 
 To whom thou untried seem'st fair ! Me, in 
 
 my vow'd 
 Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung 
 
 My dank and dropping weeds 
 
 To the stern God of sea. 
 
 2Illtom—Born 1608, Dial 1674. 
 
 618.— ATHENS. 
 
 Look once more ere we leave this specular 
 
 mount, 
 Westward, much nearer by south-west behold 
 ^^n.\eTe on the ^gean shore a city stands 
 Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil, 
 Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts 
 And eloquence, native to famous wits 
 Or hospitable, in her sweet recess. 
 City or surburban, studious walks and shades ; 
 See there the oHve grove of Academe, 
 Plato's retirement, where the Attic burd 
 Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer 
 
 long; 
 There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound 
 Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites 
 To studious musing ; there liissus rolls 
 His whispering stream : within the walls then 
 
 view 
 The schools of ancient sages ; his, who bred 
 Great Alexander to subdue the world, 
 Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next : 
 There shalt thou hear and learn the secret 
 
 power 
 Of hai-mony, in tones and numbers hit 
 By voice or hand, and various-measured verse, 
 ^olian charms, and Dorian lyric odes. 
 And his who gave them breath, but higher 
 
 sung, 
 Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd, 
 Wliose poem Phoebus challenged for his own. 
 Thence what the lofty gi-ave tragedians taught 
 In chorus or iambic, teachers best 
 Of moral prudence, with delight received 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they 
 
 treat 
 Of fate, and chance, and change in human 
 
 life; 
 High actions and high passions best describing; 
 Thence to the famous orators repair. 
 Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 
 Wielded at will that fierce democratie, 
 Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece, 
 To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 619.— THE INVOCATION AND INTEO- 
 DUCTION TO PAEADISE LOST. 
 
 Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our 
 
 woe. 
 With loss of Eden, tiU one greater Man 
 Eestore us, and regain the bhssful seat, 
 Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top 
 Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
 That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen 
 
 seed. 
 In the beginning, how the Heavens and Earth 
 Eose out of Chaos : Or, if Sion hill 
 Delight the more, and SHoa's brook that 
 
 flow'd otsj 
 
Milton.] 
 
 SATAN'S ADDEESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 [Fourth Period. 
 
 Fast by the oracle of God ; I thence 
 Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
 That Avith no middle flight intends to soar 
 Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 
 Things unattempted yet in prose or rhj^me. 
 And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and piire, 
 Instruct me, for thou know'st ; thou from the 
 
 first 
 TVast present, and, with mighty wings out- 
 spread. 
 Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss 
 And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark 
 Illumine ; what is low raise and support ; 
 That to the height of this great argument 
 I may assert eternal Providence, 
 And justify the ways of God to men. 
 
 Say first, for Heaven hides nothing from 
 
 thy view, 
 Nor the deep tract of Hell ; say first, what 
 
 cause 
 Mov'd our grand parents, in that happy state, 
 Favour' d of Heaven so highly, to fall off 
 From their Creator, and transgress his will 
 For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? 
 Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt ? 
 The infernal Serpent ; he it was, whose guile, 
 Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceiv'd 
 The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
 Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his 
 
 host 
 Of rebel angels : by whose aid, aspiring 
 To set himself in glory above his peers. 
 He trusted to have equall'd the Most High, 
 If he oppos'd ; and, with ambitious aim 
 Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
 Eais'd impious war in Heaven, and battle 
 
 proud, 
 With vain attempt. Him the Almighty 
 
 power 
 Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethereal 
 
 sky, 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
 
 Milton.^Boni 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 620.— SATAN'S ADDEESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 O thou, that, -with surpassing glory crown'd, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God 
 Of this new world ; at whose sight all the 
 
 stars 
 Hide their diminish' d heads ; to thee I call, 
 But with no friendly voice; and add thy 
 
 name, 
 
 Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams. 
 That bring to my remembrance from what 
 
 state 
 
 1 fell, how glorious once — above thy sphere ; 
 Till pride and worse ambition threw me down. 
 Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless 
 
 king. 
 
 Ah, wherefore ? He deserv'd no such return 
 From me, whom he created what I was 
 In that bright eminence, and with his good 
 Upbraided none, nor was his service hard. 
 What could be less than to afford him praise, 
 The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks ? 
 How due ! — yet all his good prov'd ill in me, 
 And wrought but malice ; lifted up so high, 
 I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step 
 
 higher 
 Would set rile highest, and in a moment quit 
 The debt immense of endless gratitude. 
 So burdensome still paying, still to owe : 
 Forgetful what from him I still received ; 
 And understood not that a grateful mind 
 By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 
 Indebted and discharged : what burden then ? 
 O, had his powerful destiny ordain' d 
 Me some inferior angel, I had stood 
 Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised 
 Ambition ! Yet why not ? — some other power 
 As great might have aspir'd, and me, though 
 
 mean, 
 Drawn to his part ; but other powers as gi*eat 
 Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
 Or from without, to all temptations ai-m'd, 
 Hadst thou the same free will and power to 
 
 stand ? 
 Thou hadst : whom hast thou, then, or what 
 
 to accuse, 
 But heaven's free love dealt equally to all ? 
 Be then his love accurst ; since love or hate, 
 To me alike, it deals eternal woe : 
 Nay, curs' d be thou ; since against his thy 
 
 will 
 Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 
 Me miserable ! — wliich way shall I fly 
 Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
 Which Avay I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; 
 And, in the lowest deep a lower deep 
 Still threatening to devour me opens wide ; 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
 0, then at last relent ; is there no i^lace 
 Left for repentance, none for jiardon left ? 
 None left but by submission ; and that word 
 Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
 Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
 With other promises and other vaunts 
 Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
 The Omnipotent. Ay me ! they little know 
 How dearly I abide that boast so vain ; 
 Under what torments inwardly I groan, 
 While they adore me on the throne of hell. 
 With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 
 The lower still I fall ; only supreme 
 In misery : such joy ambition finds. 
 But say I could repent, and could obtain 
 By act of grace my former state ; how seon 
 Would height recall high thoughts, how soon 
 
 unsay 
 What feign' d submission swore ! Ease would 
 
 recant 
 Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 
 For never can true reconcilement grow 
 Where wounds of deadly hate have nierc'd so 
 
 deep ; 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] ASSEMBLING OF THE FALLEN ANGELS. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 "^Miicli would but lead me to a worse relapse 
 And heavier fall : so should I purehaee dear 
 Short intermission bought with double smart. 
 This knows my Punisher ; therefore as far 
 From granting- he, as I from begging- peace : 
 All hope excluded thus, behold, instead 
 Of us outcast, exil'd, his new delight, 
 Mankind, created, and for him this world. 
 So farewell hope ; and with hope, farewell 
 
 fear ; 
 Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost ; 
 Evil, be thou my good ; by thee at least 
 Divided empire with heaven's king I hold, 
 By thee, and more than half perhaps will 
 
 reign ; 
 As man ere long and this new world shall 
 
 know. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 621. 
 
 -ASSEMBLING OF THE FALLEN 
 
 ANGELS. 
 
 All these and more came flocking ; but v/ith 
 looks 
 Downcast and damp, yet such wherein ap- 
 pear' d 
 Obscure some glimpse of joy, t' have found 
 
 their chief 
 Not in despair, t' have found themselves not 
 
 lost 
 In loss itself : which on his countenance cast 
 Like doubtful hue : but he, his wonted pride 
 Soon recollecting, with high words that bore 
 Semblance of worth, not substance, gently 
 
 raised 
 Their fainting courage, and dispell' d their 
 
 fears. 
 Then straight commands that, at the warlike 
 
 sound 
 Of trumpets loud and clarions, be uprear'd 
 His mighty standard; that proud honour 
 
 claim" d 
 Azazel as his right, a chei-ub tall ; 
 Who forthwith from the glitt'ring staff un- 
 furl' d 
 Th' imperial ensign, which, full -high advanc'd, 
 Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind. 
 With gems and golden lustre rich emblaz'd 
 Seraphic arms and trophies, all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 
 At which the universal host up sent 
 A shout, that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners rise into the air 
 With orient colours waving : with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
 Appear' d, and serried shields in thick array. 
 Of depth immeasurable : anon they move 
 In perfect phalanx to the Doi-ian mood 
 Of flutes and soft recorders ; such as rais'd 
 To height of noblest temper heroes old 
 Arming to battle ; and, instead of rage, 
 
 Deliberate valour breath' d, firm and unmov'd, 
 With dread of death, to flight or foul retreat ; 
 Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage, 
 With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and 
 
 chase 
 Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and-ae^ow, and 
 
 pain. 
 From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
 Breathing united force, with fixed thought 
 Mov'd on in silence to soft pipes, that 
 
 charm' d 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil ; and 
 
 now 
 Advanc'd in view, they stand, a horrid front 
 Of dreadful length, and dazzling arms, in 
 
 guise 
 Of warriors old with order' d spear, and shield, 
 Awaiting what command their mighty chief 
 Had to impose : he through the armed files 
 Darts his experienc'd eye, and soon traverse 
 The whole battalion, views their order due, 
 Their visages and statures as of Gods ; 
 Their number last he sums. And now his 
 
 heart 
 Distends with pride, and hard'ning in his 
 
 strength 
 Glories ; for never since created man 
 Met such embodied force as, nam'd vnth. 
 
 these. 
 Could merit more than that small infantry 
 Warr'd on by cranes ; though all the giant 
 
 brood 
 Of Phlegra with th' heroic race were join'd, 
 That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each 
 
 side 
 Mix'd with auxiliar gods ; and what resounds 
 In fable or romance of Uther's son. 
 Begirt with British and Armoric knights j 
 And all who. since, baj)tis'd or infidel. 
 Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban, 
 Damasco or Morocco, or Trebisond ; 
 Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore, 
 When Charlemain with all his peerage fell 
 By Fontarabia. Thus far these beyond 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd • 
 Their dread commander ; he, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent. 
 Stood hke a tow'r ; his form had not yet lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
 Less than Archangel ruin'd, and th' excess 
 Of glory obscur'd : as when the sun new risen 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
 Above them all th' Archangel : but his face 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrench' d, and 
 
 care 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but imder brows 
 Of dauntless courage and considerate pride. 
 Waiting revenge : cruel his eye, but cast 
 Signs of remorse and passion to behold 
 The feUows of his crime, the followers rather, 
 (Far other once beheld in bli^s) condemn'd 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain j 
 
Milton. 
 
 SATAN MEETS SIN AND DEATH. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 Millions of spirits for his fault amerc'd 
 Of Heav'n, and from eternal splendours flung 
 For hi?; revolt, yet faithful how they stood, 
 Their glory wither'd : as when Heav'n's fire 
 Hath scatli'd the forest oaks, or mountain 
 
 pines, 
 With singed top their stately growth, though 
 
 bare, 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now'pre- 
 
 par'd 
 To speak : whereat their doubled ranks they 
 
 bend 
 From wing to wing, and half enclose him 
 
 round 
 With all his peers : attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he assay' d ; and thrice, in spite of 
 
 scorn. 
 Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth ; at 
 
 last 
 Words, interwove with sighs, found out their 
 
 way. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 622.— SATAN MEETS SIN AND DEATH. 
 
 Meanwhile, the adversary of God and man, 
 Satan, with thoughts inflam'd of highest 
 
 design. 
 Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of 
 
 Hell 
 Explores his solitary flight : sometimes 
 He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the 
 
 left; 
 Now shaves with level ^ving the deep, then 
 
 soars 
 Up to the fiery concave towering high. 
 As, when far off at sea, a fleet descried 
 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
 Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 
 Of Temate and Tidore, whence merchants 
 
 bring 
 Their spicy drugs ; they, on the trading flood, 
 Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape, 
 Ply stemming nighly toward the pole : so 
 
 seem'd. 
 Far off the flying fiend. At last appear 
 Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof, 
 And thrice threefold the gates; three folds 
 
 were brass 
 Three iron, three of adamantine rock 
 Impenetrable, impal'd with circling fire, 
 Yet unconsum'd. Before the gates there sat 
 On either side a formidable shape ; 
 The one seem'd woman to the waist and fair; 
 But ended foul in many a scaly fold 
 Voluminous and vast ; a serpent arm'd 
 With mortal sting : about her middle round 
 A cry of Hell-hounds, never ceasing, bark'd 
 With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and 
 
 rung 
 A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would 
 
 creep, 
 I^ aught disturb' d their noise, into her womb. 
 
 And kennel there ; yet there still bark'd and 
 
 ho"nd['d,' 
 Within unseen. Far less abhorr'd than these 
 Vex'd Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts 
 Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore ; 
 Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, call'd 
 In secret, riding through the air she comes, 
 Lur'd with the smell of infaaat blood, to dance 
 With Lapland witches, while the labouring 
 
 Moon 
 Eclipses at their charms. The other shape. 
 If shape it might be call'd that shape had 
 
 none 
 Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
 Or substance might be caU'd that shadow 
 
 seem'd. 
 For each seem'd either : black it stood as 
 
 night, 
 Fierce as ten furies, terrible as Hell, 
 And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his 
 
 head 
 The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
 Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
 The monster moving onward came as fast 
 With horrid strides ; Hell trembled as he 
 
 strode. 
 The undaunted fiend what this might be 
 
 admir'd, 
 Admir'd, not fear'd ; God and his Son except, 
 Created thing naught valued he, nor slmnn'd ; 
 And with disdainful look thus first began : 
 " Whence and what art thou, execrable 
 
 shape. 
 That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance 
 Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
 To yonder gates ? thi-ough them I mean to 
 
 pass, 
 That be assur'd, without leave ask'd of thee • 
 Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof 
 Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of 
 
 Heaven." 
 To whom the goblin full of wrath replied : 
 " Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he. 
 Who first broke peace in Heaven, and faith, 
 
 till then 
 Unbroken ; and in proud rebellious arms 
 Drew after him the third part of Heaven's 
 
 sons 
 Conjur'd against the Highest ; for which both 
 
 thou 
 And they, outcast from God, are here con- 
 demn' d 
 To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 
 And reckon' st thou thyself with spirits of 
 
 Heaven, 
 Hell-doom' d, and breath' st defiance here and 
 
 scorn, 
 WTiere I reign king, and, to enrage thee more. 
 Thy king and lord ? Back to thy punishment, 
 False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, 
 Lost with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
 Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
 Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt 
 
 before." 
 So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, 
 So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
 
From 1G4B to 1689.] 
 
 ADDEESS TO LIGHT. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 More dreadful and deform. On the other 
 
 side, 
 Incens'd with indignation, Satan stood 
 Unterrified, and like a comet burn'd, 
 That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
 In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
 Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head 
 Levell'd his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
 No second stroke intend ; and such a frown 
 Each cast at the other, as when two black 
 
 clouds. 
 With Heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling 
 
 on 
 Over the Caspian, then stand front to front, 
 "Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
 To join their dark encounter in mid air : 
 So frown'd the mighty combatants, that Hell 
 Grew darker at their frown ; so match' d they 
 
 stood ; 
 For never but once more was either like 
 To meet so great a foe ; and now great deeds 
 Had been achiev'd, whereof all Hell had rung. 
 Had not the snaky sorceress, that sat 
 Fast by Hell-gate, and kept the fatal key, 
 Eis'n, and with hideous outcry rush'd between. 
 
 From her side the fatal key, 
 Sad instrument of aU our woe, she took ; 
 And, towards the gate roUing her bestial train 
 Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-di-ew, 
 Which but herself, not aU the Stygian powers 
 Could once have mov'd ; then in the key-hole 
 
 turns 
 The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar 
 Of massy iron or solid rock vrith ease 
 Unfastens. On a sudden open fly, 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
 The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate 
 Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook 
 Of Erebus. She open'd, but to shut 
 ExceU'd her power ; the gates wide open stood, 
 That with extended wings a banner' d host. 
 Under spread ensigns marching, might pass 
 
 through 
 With horse and chariots rank'd in loose array ; 
 So wide they stood, and like a furnace mouth 
 Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame. 
 Before their eyes in sudden view appear 
 The secrets of the hoary deep ; a dark 
 Illimitable ocean, without bound. 
 Without dimension, where length, breadth, 
 
 and height, 
 And time, and place, are lost; where eldest 
 
 Night 
 And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold 
 Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise 
 Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. 
 For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions 
 
 fierce, 
 Strive hero for mastery, and to battle bring 
 Their embryon atoms ; they around the flag 
 Of each his faction, in their several clans. 
 Light-arm' d or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, 
 
 or sk»VY', 
 Swarm populous, unnumber'd as the sands 
 
 Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil. 
 
 Levied to side with warring winds, and poise 
 
 Their lighter wings. To whom these most 
 
 adhere. 
 He rules a moment : Chaos umpire sits, 
 
 ■ And by decision more embroils the-f ray^ 
 
 j By v»?^hich he reigns : next him high arbiter 
 ' Chance governs all. Into this wild abyss 
 
 ■ The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave, 
 j Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, 
 
 ; But all these in their pregnant causes mix'd 
 : Confus'dly, and which thus must ever fight, 
 ; Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain 
 I His dark materials to create more worlds ; 
 I Into this wild abyss the wary fiend 
 
 Stood on the brink of Hell, and look'd a 
 while, 
 
 Pondering his voyage : for no narrow frith 
 
 He had to cross. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 623.— ADDRESS TO LIGHT. 
 
 Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven, first- 
 born, 
 Or of the Eternal coetemal beam. 
 May I express thee unblam'd? since God is 
 
 light, 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 
 Or hear'st thou rather, pure etherial stream. 
 Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the 
 
 Sun, 
 Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the 
 
 voice 
 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
 The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
 Won from the void and formless infinite. 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
 Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain' 3 
 In that obscure sojourn, while, in my flight. 
 Through utter and through middle darkness 
 
 borne. 
 With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 
 I sung of Chaos and eternal Night ; 
 Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture 
 
 down 
 The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, 
 Though hard and rare ; thee I revisit safe, 
 And feel thy sovran vital lamp : but thou 
 Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
 So thick a drop serene hath quench' d their 
 
 orbs. 
 Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hiU, 
 Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 
 Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. 
 That wash thy hallow' d feet, and warbhng 
 
 flow. 
 Nightly I visit ; nor sometimes forget 
 
Milton.] 
 
 THE ANGELIC WOESHIP. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 Those other two, equall'd with me in fate, 
 So were I equall'd ^vith them in renown, 
 Blind Tharayris, and blind Mseonides, 
 And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : 
 Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers ; as the wakefid bird 
 Sing's darkhng, and in shadiest covert hid, 
 Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
 Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful Avays of men 
 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and ras'd, 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her 
 
 powers 
 Irradiate : there plant eyes, all mist from 
 
 thence 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1G74. 
 
 624— THE ANGELIC WOESHIP. 
 
 No sooner had the Almighty ceas'd, but 
 
 aU 
 The multitude of angels, with a shout 
 Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
 As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven 
 
 rung 
 With jubilee, and loud Hosannas fill'd 
 The eternal regions : lowly reverent 
 Towards either throne they bow, and to the 
 
 ground 
 With solemn adoration down they cast 
 Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold ; 
 Immortal amarant, a flower which once 
 In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
 Began to bloom ; but soon for man's offence 
 To Heav'ri removed where first it grew, there 
 
 grows, 
 And flowers aloft shading the fount of life, 
 And where the river of bliss through midst of 
 
 Heaven 
 BoUs o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream : 
 With these that never fade the spirits elect 
 Bind their resplendent locks inwreath'd with 
 
 beams ; 
 Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the 
 
 bright 
 Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone, 
 Impurpled with celestial roses smil'd. 
 Then, crown'd again, their golden harps they 
 
 took, 
 Harps ever tun'd, that glittiering by their side 
 Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
 Of oharming symphony they introduce 
 
 Their sacred song, and waken raptures high ; 
 No voice exemi^t, no voice but well could join 
 Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 625.— PAEADISE. 
 
 So on he fares, and to the border comes 
 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 
 Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green, 
 
 As with a rural mound, the champaign head 
 
 Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides 
 
 With thicket overgown, grotesque and wild, 
 
 Access denied ; and overhead upgrew 
 
 Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
 
 Cedar and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
 
 A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend, 
 
 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their 
 
 tops 
 The verd'rous wall of Paradise up-sprung : 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 Into his nether empire neighb'ring round. 
 And higher than that wall a circling row 
 Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 Appear'd, with gay enamel'd colours inix'd : 
 Of which the sun more glad imprcss'd his 
 
 beams 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 When God hath shov/er'd the earth : so lovely 
 
 seem'd 
 That landscape ; and of pure, now purer air 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 All sadness but despair ; now gentle gales 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 Native iDerfumes, and whisper whence they 
 
 stole 
 Those balmy spoils : as when to them who 
 
 sail 
 Beyond the Capo of Hope, and now arc past 
 Mozambic, off at sea north-west winds blow 
 Sabean odours from the spicy shore 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 Well pleas' d they slack their course, and 
 
 many a league, 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean 
 
 smiles. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674.- 
 
 626.— ADAM AND EVE. 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honour clad 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all : 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divino 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 EVE'S EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 The image of their glorious Maker shone, 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, 
 (Severe, but in true filial freedom plac'd,) 
 "Whence true authority in men ; though both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd ; 
 For contemplation he and valour form'd ; 
 For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for God only, she for God in him : 
 His fair large front and eye sublime declar'd 
 Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 
 Round from his parted forelock manly hung 
 Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders 
 
 broad ; 
 She, as a veU, down to the slender waist 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
 Dishevell'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd. 
 As the vine curls her tendrils, which impHed 
 Subjection, but requir'd mth gentle sway, 
 And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, 
 Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, 
 And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. 
 Nor those mysterious parts were then con- 
 ceal' d; 
 Then was not guilty shame : dishonest shame 
 Of Nature's works, honour dishonourable, 
 Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind 
 ^Vith shows instead, mere shows of seeming 
 
 pure. 
 And banish'd from man's life his happiest life. 
 Simplicity and spotless innocence ! 
 So pass'd they naked on, nor shunn'd the 
 
 sight 
 Of God or angel ; for they thought no ill : 
 So hand in hand they pass'd, the loveliest pair, 
 That ever since in love's embraces met : 
 Adam the goodliest man of men since born 
 His sous, the fairest of her daughters Eve. 
 Under a tuft of shade that on a green 
 Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain 
 
 side 
 They sat them down : and, after no more toil 
 Of their sweet gardening labour than suffic'd 
 To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease 
 More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite 
 More grateful, to their supper-fruits they 
 
 fell, 
 Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs 
 Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline 
 Onthe soft downy bank damask'd with flowers : 
 The savoury pulp they chew, and in the 
 
 rind, 
 Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming 
 
 stream ; 
 Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles 
 Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems 
 Fair couple, link'd in happy nuptial league, 
 Alone as they. About them frisking' play'd. 
 All beasts of the Earth, since wild, and of all 
 
 chase 
 In wood or wilderness, forest or den ; 
 Sporting the lion ramp'd, and in his paw 
 Dandled the kid ; bears, tigers, ounces, pards, 
 GamboU'd before them ; the unwieldly ele- 
 phant, 
 To make them mirth, us'd all his might, and 
 wreath'd 
 
 His lithe proboscis ; close the serpent sly, 
 Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine 
 His braided train, and of his fatal guile 
 Gave proof unheeded ; others on the grass 
 Couch'd, and noy/ fill'd with pasture gazing 
 
 sat, . _ __ 
 
 Or bedward ruminating ; for the Sun, ~ 
 Declin'd, was hastening now with prone careec 
 To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale 
 Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 627.— EVE'S EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Thus Eve replied : " O thou for whom 
 And from whom I was form'd, flesh of thy 
 
 flesh. 
 And without whom am to no end, my guide 
 And head ! what thou hast said is just and 
 
 right. 
 For we to Him indeed all praises owe, 
 And daily thanks ; I chiefly, who enjoy 
 So far the happier lot, enjoying thee 
 Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou 
 Like consort to thyself canst no where find. 
 That day I oft remember, when from sleep 
 I first awak'd, and found myself repos'd 
 Under a shade on flow'rs, much wond'ring 
 
 where 
 And what I was, whence thither brought, and 
 
 how. 
 Not distant far from thence a murm'ring 
 
 sound 
 Of waters issued from a cave, and spread 
 Into a liquid plain, then stood unmov'd, 
 Pure as the expanse of Heav'n; I thither 
 
 went 
 With unexperienc'd thought, and laid me 
 
 down 
 On the green bank, to look into the clear 
 Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. 
 As I bent down to look, just opposite 
 A shape within the wat'ry gleam appear' d. 
 Bending to look on me : I started back. 
 It started back ; but pleas'd I soon return'd, 
 Pleas'd it return'd as soon Avith answ'ring 
 
 looks 
 Of sympathy and love : there I had fix'd 
 Mine eyes till now, and pin'd with vain desire, 
 Had not a voice thus warn'd me : ' What 
 
 thou seest. 
 What there thou seest, fair creature, is thy- 
 self: 
 Yv^'ith thee it came and goes ; but follow me. 
 And I -will bring thee where no shadow stays 
 Thy coming, and thy soft embraces ; he 
 Whose image thou art ; him thou shalt enjoy, 
 Inseparably thine ; to him shalt bear 
 Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd 
 Mother of human race.' What could I do. 
 But follow straight, invisibly thus led ? 
 
Milton.] 
 
 MORNING IN PAEADISE. 
 
 [Fourth Period, 
 
 Till I espied thee, fair indeed and toll, 
 Under a plantain ; yet methonglit lesa fair, 
 Less winning soft, less amiably mUd, 
 Than that smooth wat'ry image: back I 
 
 turn'd ; 
 Thou following cry'dst aloud, 'Eeturn, fair 
 
 Eve, 
 "Whom fly'st thou ? whom thou fiy'st of him 
 
 thou art, 
 His flesh, his bone : to give thee being I lent, 
 Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 
 Substantial life, to have thee by my side 
 Henceforth an individual solace dear ; 
 Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim 
 My other half.' With that thy gentle hand 
 Seiz'd mine ; I yielded, and from that time 
 
 see 
 How beauty is excell'd by manly grace 
 And wisdom, which alone is truly fair." 
 
 So spake our general mother, and with eyes 
 Of conjugal attraction, unreprov'd, 
 And meek surrender, half embracing, lean'd 
 On our first father ; half her swelling breast 
 Naked met his, tpider the flowing gold 
 Of her loose tresses hid ; he in delight 
 Both of her beauty and submissive charms, 
 Smil'd with superior love, as Jupiter 
 On Juno sjniles, when he impregns the clouds 
 That shed May flow'rs; and press' d her matron 
 
 lip 
 With kisses pure. 
 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 62S.— MORN^NG IN PAEADISE. 
 
 Now mom her rosy stops in th' eastern clime 
 Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, 
 Wlien Adam waked, so custom'd, for his 
 
 sleep 
 Was aery-light from pure digestion bred, 
 And temperate vapours bland, which the only 
 
 sound 
 Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan. 
 Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill matin song 
 Of birds on ev'ry bough ; so much the more 
 His wonder was to find unawaken'd Eve, 
 With tresses discompos'd and glo-vving cheek, 
 As through iinquiet rest : he on his side 
 Leaning half rais'd. with looks of cordial 
 
 love, 
 Hung over her enamour' d, and beheld 
 Beauty, which, whethei waking or asleep. 
 Shot forth peculiar graces ; then vnth voice 
 Mild as when Zephyrus or Flora breathes, 
 Her hand soft touching, whispcr'd thus : 
 
 " Awake, 
 My fairest, my ospous'd, my latest found, 
 Heav'n's last best gift, my ever new delight. 
 Awake: the morning shines, and the fresh 
 
 field 
 Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how 
 
 spring 
 
 Our tender plants, how blows the citron 
 
 grove, 
 ■\Vliat drops the myrrh, and wliat the balmy 
 
 reed. 
 How nature paints her colours, how the bee 
 Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet." 
 
 To the field they haste. 
 But first, from under shady arb'rous roof 
 Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
 Of day-spring, and the sun, who scarce up- 
 risen, 
 With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean 
 
 brim, 
 Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray, 
 Discovering in wide landscape all the east 
 Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains. 
 Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
 In various style ; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced or 
 
 sung 
 Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence 
 Flow'd from their lips, in prose or numerous 
 
 verse. 
 More tunable than needed lute or harp 
 To add more sweetness : and they thus began : 
 " These are thy glorious works, Parent of 
 
 good. 
 Almighty ! thine this universal frame. 
 Thus wond'rous fair ; thyself how wondrous 
 
 then! 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav'ns 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power 
 
 divine. 
 Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 Angels ! for ye behold Him, and with songs, 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 Circle His throne rejoicing ; ye in heav'n. 
 On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
 Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without 
 
 end ! 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown' st the smiling 
 
 morn 
 With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy 
 
 sphere 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou sun ! of this world both eye and soul. 
 Acknowledge Him thy greater ; sound His 
 
 praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou 
 
 climb' st, 
 And when high noon hast gain'd, and when 
 
 thou fall'st. 
 Moon ! that now meet'st the orient sun, now 
 
 fly'st 
 With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that 
 
 flies • 
 And ye five other wand' ring fires ! that move 
 In my3l}ic dance not without song, resound 
 
From, 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 EVENING IN PAEADISE. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 His praise, who out of darkness call'd up 
 
 light. 
 Air, and ye elements ! the eldest birth 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix, 
 And nourish aU things ; let your ceaseless 
 
 change 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 Ye mists and exhalations ! that now rise 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 In honour to the world's great Author rise ; 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd 
 
 sky, 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, 
 Eising or falling, still advance His praise. 
 His praise, ye winds ! that from four quarters 
 
 blow. 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and Avave your tops, ye 
 
 Pines 1 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble as yc flow, 
 Melodious murmiu's, warbling tune His 
 
 praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds 
 That singing up to Heav'n-gate ascend, 
 Bear on your -svings and in your notes His 
 
 praise. 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, 
 Witness if I be silent, mom or even. 
 To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught His 
 
 praise. 
 Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
 To give us only good ; and, if the night 
 Have gather' d aught of evil or conceal' d, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark." 
 So pray'd they innocent, and to their 
 
 thoughts 
 Firm peace recover'd soon and wonted calm. 
 On to their morning's rural work they haste 
 Among sweet dews and flow'rs; where any 
 
 row 
 Of fruit-trees over-woody reach'd too far 
 Their pamper' d boughs, and needed hands to 
 
 check 
 Fruitless embraces : or they led the vine 
 To wed her elm; she, 'spoused, about him 
 
 twines 
 Her marriageable arms, and with her brings 
 Her dow'r, th' adopted clusters, to adorn 
 His barren leaves. 
 
 Milton.— Bom 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 629.— EVENING IN PAEADISE. 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied : for beast and bird. 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their 
 nests, 
 
 Were slunk, all but the v.'akeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
 Silence was pleas'd : now glow'd the firma- 
 ment 
 With living sapphires ; Hesperus that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Eising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light. 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair Consort, 
 
 th' hour 
 Of night, and all things now rctir'd to rest, 
 Mind us of like repose, since God hath set 
 Labour and rest, as day and night, to men 
 Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep 
 Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight, in- 
 clines 
 Our eye-lids : other creatures all day long 
 Eove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest ; 
 Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
 Appointed, which declares his dignity. 
 And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; 
 While other animals unactive range, 
 And of their doings God takes no account. 
 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
 With first approach of light, we must be 
 
 risen, 
 And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
 Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green. 
 Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown. 
 That mock our scant manuring, and require 
 More hands than ours to lop their wanton 
 
 growth : 
 Those blossoms also, and those dropping 
 
 gums, 
 That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth. 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease : 
 Meanwhile, as Nature "svills, night bids us 
 
 rest." 
 To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty 
 
 adorn' d : 
 " My Author and Disposer ; what thou bidst 
 Unargued I obey : so God ordains ; 
 Crod is thy law, thou mine : to know no more 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. 
 With thee conversing I forget all time : 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of mom, her rising sweet. 
 With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the 
 
 sun. 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and 
 
 flower, 
 Glist'ring with dew ; fragrant the fertile 
 
 earth 
 After soft show'rs ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night. 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these the gems of Heav'n, her starry 
 
 train ; 
 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
 With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, 
 
 flower, 
 Glist'ring with dow, nor fragrance after 
 
 showers, 
 
MiLTOX.] 
 
 THE MESSIAH. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Xor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, 
 Or glitt'ring starlight, Avithout thee is sweet. 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for 
 
 whom 
 This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all 
 
 eyes? " 
 To whom our general ancestor replied : 
 " Daughter of God and Man, accomplish' d 
 
 Eve, 
 These have their course to finish round the 
 
 earth 
 By morrow evening, and from land to land 
 In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
 Minist'ring light prepared, they set and rise ; 
 Lest total darkness should by night regain 
 Her old possession, and extinguish life 
 In nature and all things, which these soft 
 
 fires 
 Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat 
 Of various influence, foment and warm, 
 Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
 Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent i*ay. 
 These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 Shine not in vain ; nor think, tho' men were 
 
 none, 
 That Heav'n would want spectators, God want 
 
 praise. 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we 
 
 sleep : 
 All these with ceaseless praise His works be- 
 hold 
 Both daj'^ and night. How often from the 
 
 steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air. 
 Sole or responsive each to other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator ? oft in bands, 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding 
 
 walk, 
 With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our souls to 
 
 Heaven." 
 Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass' d 
 On to their blissful bow'r ; it was a place 
 Chos'n by the sov'reign Planter, when he 
 
 fram'd 
 All things to man's delightful use ; the roof 
 Of thickest covert was inwoven shade 
 Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew 
 Of firm and fragrant leaf ; on either side 
 Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, 
 Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous 
 
 flower. 
 Iris aU. hues, roses, and jessamine, 
 Rear'd high their flourish'd heads between, 
 
 and wrought 
 Mosaic ; underfoot the violet. 
 Crocus, and hyacinth, mth rich inlay 
 Broider'd the ground, more colour' d than with 
 
 stone 
 Of costliest emblem : other creatures here, 
 
 Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter 
 
 none ; 
 Such was their awe of Man. In shadier 
 
 bow'r, 
 More sacred and sequester' d, though but 
 
 feign' d, 
 Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph, 
 ISTor Faunus haunted. Here in close recess. 
 With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling 
 
 herbs. 
 Espoused Eve deck'd first her nuptial bed, 
 And heav'nly choirs the hymen tean sung, 
 What day the genial Angel to our sire 
 Brought her, in naked beauty more adorn' d. 
 More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods 
 Endow'd with all their gifts, and, O too like 
 In sad event, when to the unwiser son 
 Of Japhet, brought by Hermes, she ensnar'd 
 Mankind with her fair looks, to be aveng'd 
 On him who had stole Jove's. authentic fire. 
 Thus, at their shady lodge arriv'd, both 
 
 stood, 
 Both turu'd, and iiudor open sky ador'd 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and 
 
 heaven, 
 "Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent 
 
 globe. 
 And starry pole : " Thou also mad'st the 
 
 night. 
 Maker omnipotent, and thou the day. 
 Which we in our appointed work employ' d 
 Have finish' d happy in our mutual help 
 And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 
 Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place 
 For us too large, where thy abundance Avants 
 Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. 
 But thou hast promis'd from us two a race 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
 And when we seek, as now, thj' gift of sleep." 
 Milton.— Born 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 630.— THE MESSIAH. 
 
 He, o'er his sceptre bowing, rose 
 From the right hand of glory where he sat ; 
 And the third sacred morn began to shine, 
 Dawning through Heaven. Forth rush'd with 
 
 whirlwind sound 
 The chariot of Paternal Deity, 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel 
 
 undraAvn, 
 Itself instinct with spirit, but convoy' d 
 By four cherubic shapes ; four faces each 
 Had wondrous ; as -with stars, their bodies all 
 And wings were set with eyes ; with eyes the 
 
 wheels 
 Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
 Over their heads a crystal firmament. 
 Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 
 Amber, and colours of the showery arch. 
 He, in celestial panoply ail arm'd 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 EXPULSION FEOM PARADISE. 
 
 [Milton. 
 
 Of radiant Urim, work divinely wrought, 
 Ascended ; at his right hand Victory- 
 Sat ep.gle-wing'd, beside hung him his bow 
 And qniver with three-bolted thunder stor'd; 
 And from about him fierce effusion roll'd 
 Of smoke, and bickering flame, and sparkles 
 
 dire : 
 Attended -with ten thousand thousand saints, 
 He onward came ; far off his coming shone : 
 And twenty thousand (I their number heard) 
 Chariots of God, half on each hand, were seen : 
 He on the wings of cherub rode sublime 
 On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd, 
 Illustrious far and wide. 
 
 Milton.— Bom 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 63 1 .—TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Well observe 
 The rule of Not too much; by temperance 
 
 taught, 
 In what thou eat'st and drink' st ; seeking 
 
 from thence 
 Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight ; 
 Till many years over thy head return, 
 So may'st thou live ; till, like ripe fruit, thou 
 
 drop 
 Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease 
 Gather' d, not harshly pluck' d; for death 
 
 mature. 
 This is Old Age ; but then, thou must outlive 
 Thy youth, thy strength, thy beaxity, which 
 
 will change 
 To wither' d, weak, and gi*ay ; thy senses then. 
 Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forego, 
 To what thou hast ; and, for the air of youth, 
 Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood ■s\'ill reign 
 A melancholy damp of cold and dry 
 To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume 
 The bairn of life. 
 
 Jlilton.—Bor.i 1608, Died 1674. 
 
 632.— F^'PULSION FROM PARADISE. 
 
 He ended ; and the Archangel soon drew 
 nigh. 
 Not in his shape celestial, but as man 
 Clad to meet man ; over his lucid arms 
 A military vest of purple flow'd, 
 Livelier than Melibaan, or the grain 
 Of Sarrah, worn by kings and heroes old 
 In time of tnice ; Iris had dipt the woof ; 
 His starry helm unbuckled show'd him prime 
 In manhood where youth ended : by his side. 
 As in a glist'ring zodiac, hung the sword, 
 Satan's dire dread, and in his hand the spear. 
 Adam bow'd low ; he kingly, from his state 
 
 Inclin'd not, but his coming thus declared : — 
 "Adam, Heaven's high behest no preface 
 
 needs : 
 Sufficient that thy pray'rs are heard, and 
 
 death 
 Then due by sentence when thou didst trans- 
 gress, — 
 
 Defeated of his seizure many days, 
 
 Giv'n thee of grace, wherein thou may'st 
 
 repent, 
 And one bad act with many deeds well done 
 May'st cover : well may then thy Lord ap- 
 
 peas'd 
 Redeem thee quite from Death's rapacious 
 
 claim : 
 But longer in this Paradise to dwell 
 Permits not ; to remove thee I am come, 
 And send thee from the garden forth to till 
 The ground whence thou wast taken, fitter 
 
 soil." 
 He added not, for Adam at the news 
 Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow 
 
 .stood, 
 That all his senses bound ; Eve, who unseen, 
 Yd all had heard, with audible lament 
 Discover' d soon the place of her retire. 
 
 " O unexpected stroke ; worse than of 
 
 death ! 
 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus 
 
 leave 
 Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and 
 
 shades, 
 Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to 
 
 spend, 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 That must be mortal to us both. O flowers ! 
 That never will in other climate grow. 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye 
 
 names ! 
 Wlio now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial 
 
 fount ? 
 Thee lastly, nuptial bow'r, by me adorn'd 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet, from 
 
 thee 
 How shall I part, and whither wander down 
 Into a lower world, to this obscure 
 And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air 
 Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits ? " 
 Whom thus the Angel interrupted mild : — 
 " Lament not. Eve, but patiently resign 
 What justly thou hast lost ; nor sot thy 
 
 heart. 
 Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine : 
 Thy going is not lonely ; with thee goes 
 Thy husband ; him to follow thou art bound ; 
 Where he abides, think there thy native 
 
 soil." 
 Adam by this from the cold sudden damp 
 Recovering, and his scatter' d spirits return' d, 
 To Michael thus his humble words ad- 
 dress' d : 
 " Celestial, whether among the thrones, or 
 
 nam'd 
 
Andrew Marvell.] 
 
 THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Of them the highest, for such of shape may 
 
 Prince above princes, gently hast thou told 
 Thy message, which might else in telling 
 
 wound, 
 And in performing end us ; what besides 
 Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair, 
 Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; 
 Departure from that happy place, our sweet 
 Eecess, and only consolation left 
 Familiar to our eyes, all places else 
 Inhospitable appear and desolate, 
 Nor knowing us, nor known : and if by prayer 
 Incessant, I could hope to change the will 
 Of Him who all things can, I would not cease 
 To weary Him with my assiduous cries : 
 But pray'r against His absolute decree 
 No more avails than breath against the wind, 
 Blo\vn stifling back on him that breathes it 
 
 forth: 
 Therefore to His great bidding I submit. 
 This most afflicts me, that, departing hence, 
 As from His face I shall be hid, depriv'd 
 His blessed count'nance; here I could fre- 
 quent 
 With worship place by place where He vouch- 
 
 safed 
 Presence divine, and to my sons relate, 
 " On this mount He appear'd, under this tree 
 Stood visible, among these pines His voice 
 I heard, here withHini at this fountain talk'd :" 
 So many grateful altars I would rear 
 Of grassy turf, and- pile up every stone 
 Of lustre from the brook, in memory, 
 Or monument to ages, and thereon 
 Offer sweet- smelling gums, and fruits, and 
 
 flowers. 
 In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
 His bright appearances, or footstep trace .^ 
 For though I fled Him angry, yet recall' d 
 To life prolong'd and promis'd race, I now 
 Gladly behold though but His utmost skirts 
 Of glory, and far off His steps adore." 
 
 Now too nigh 
 Th' Archangel stood, and from the other lull 
 To their fix'd station, all in bright array. 
 The cherubim descended ; on the ground 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
 Eis'n from a river o'er the marish glides. 
 And gathers ground fast at the lab'rer's heel 
 Homeward returning. High in front ad- 
 
 vanc'd, 
 The brandish' d sword of God before them 
 
 blaz'd 
 Fierce as a comet ; which with torrid heat, 
 And vapours as the Libyan air adust. 
 Began to parch that temp'rate cUme : whereat 
 In either hand the hast'ning Angel caught 
 Our ling'ring parents, and to the eastern gate 
 Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
 To the subjected plain ; then disappear' d. 
 They, looking back, all the eastem side be- 
 held 
 Of Paradise, so late their happy scat, 
 
 Wav'd over by that flaming brand, the gate 
 With dreadful faces throng' d and fijery arms : 
 Some natural tears they dropt ; but wip'd 
 
 them soon. 
 The world was all before them, where to 
 
 choose 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their 
 
 guide. 
 They hand in hand, with wand' ring steps and 
 
 slow. 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 . Milton.— Bom 1608, Died 1G74. 
 
 633.— THOUGHTS IN A GAEDSN. 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crown'd from some single herb, or tree, 
 "Whose shoi-t and narrow- verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 WliUe all the flow'rs, and trees, do close, 
 To weave the garlands of repose. 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacred plants, if here below, 
 Only among the plants "svill gvow. 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 
 So am'rous as this lovely green. 
 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 
 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
 
 Little, alas, thej^ know or heed, 
 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 
 Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 
 
 No name shall but your o^vn be found. 
 
 What wond'rous life in this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head. 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their ^vine. 
 The nectarine, and curious peach. 
 Into my hands themselves do reach. 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnar'd ,with flow'rs, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness. 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find; 
 
 Yet it creates transcending these, 
 
 Far other worlds and other seas ; 
 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
From lii-xj tu 1689,] 
 
 THE NYMPH AKD HER FAWN. 
 
 [Andrew Marvell, 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside, 
 My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
 Then whet^ and claps its silver -wings, 
 And, till prepar'd for longer flight, 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such v,'as the happy garden state. 
 While man there walk'd without a mate : 
 After a place so pure and sweet, 
 What other help could yet be meet ! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises are in one, - 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skilful gard'ner drew 
 Of flowers and herbs this diiil new ! 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
 And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we. 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers ? 
 
 Andreiv Marvdl.—Born 1G20, Vied 1678. 
 
 634.— THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS. 
 
 Wliere the remote Bermudas ride 
 In th' ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat that row'd along, 
 The list'ning winds received their song. 
 . " WTiat shoTild we do but sing His praise 
 That led us through the watery maze 
 Unto an i?le so long unknown. 
 And j&i far kinder than cur own ? 
 WTiere He the huge sea monsters racks, 
 That lift the deep upon their backs ; 
 He lands us on a grassy stage. 
 Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. 
 He gave us this eternal spring 
 Which here enamels everything. 
 And sends the fowls to us in care, 
 On daily visits through the air. 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
 Like golden lamps in a green night, 
 And does in the i^omegranate's close 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
 And throws the melons at our feet. 
 But apples, plants of sucli a price. 
 No tree could ever bear them twice. 
 With cedars, chosen by His hand, 
 From Lebanon He stores the laud ; 
 And makes the hollow seas that roar, 
 Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
 He cast (of which we rather boast) 
 The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound his name. 
 
 Oh let our voice His praise exalt, 
 Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
 Wliich then perhaps rebounding may 
 Echo beyond the Mexic baj'." 
 Thus sang they in the English boat 
 A holy and a cheerful note, 
 And all the way, to guide their chime, 
 With falling oars they kept the time:- 
 
 Andrevj Marvell— Born 1620, Died 1678. 
 
 635.— YOUNG LOVE. 
 
 Come, little infant, love me now, 
 While thine unsuspected years 
 
 Clear thine aged father's brow 
 From cold jealousy and fears. 
 
 Pretty, surely, 'twere to see 
 
 By.young Love old Time beguiled ; 
 
 While our sportings are as free 
 As the nurse's with the child. 
 
 Common beauties stay fifteen ; 
 
 Such as yours should swifter move, 
 Whose fair blossoms are too green 
 
 Yet for lust, but not for love. 
 
 Love as much the snoviy lamb, 
 Or the wanton kid, does prize. 
 
 As the lusty bull or ram, 
 For his morning sacrifice. 
 
 Now then love me : Time may take 
 
 Thee before thy time iway ; 
 Of this need we'll virtue make. 
 
 And learn love before we may. 
 
 So we win of doubtful fate ; 
 
 And if good to us she meant. 
 We that good shall antedate ; 
 
 Or, if ill, that ill prevent. 
 
 Thus do kingdoms, frustrating 
 
 Other titles to their cro\vn, 
 In the cradle crown their king. 
 
 So all foreign claims to drown 
 
 So to make all rivals vain. 
 
 Now I crown thee with my love ; 
 
 Crown me vnth. thy love again, 
 
 And we both shall monarchs prove. 
 Andrew Marvdl.—Born 1620, Died 1678. 
 
 636.- 
 
 -THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOB 
 THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 
 
 Th€! wanton troopers riding by 
 Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
 Ungentle men ! They cannot tlirive 
 Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive. 
 
Samuel Butler.] 
 
 ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF HUDIBEAS. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 Them any harm ; alas ! nor could 
 Thy death to them do any good. 
 I'm sure I never wish'd them ill, 
 Nor do I for all this ; nor will : 
 But, if my simple prayers may yet 
 Prevail with Heaven to forget 
 Thy murder, I will join my tears 
 Eather than fail. But O my fears ! 
 It cannot die so. Heaven's king 
 Keeps register of everything, 
 And nothing may we use in vain ; 
 Ev'n beasts must be vnth justice slain ; 
 Else men are made their deodands. 
 Though they should wash their guilty 
 
 hands 
 In this warm life-blood, which doth part 
 From thine, and wound me to the heart, 
 Yet could they not be clean ; their stain 
 Is dyed in such a purple grain, 
 There is not such another in 
 The world to offer for their sin. 
 
 Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
 I had not found him counterfeit. 
 One morning, I remember well, 
 Tied in this silver chain and bell. 
 Gave it to me : nay, and I know 
 What he said then — I'm sure I do. 
 Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
 Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer." 
 But Sylvio soon had me beguiled : 
 This waxed tame, while he grew wild, 
 And, quite regardless of my smart, 
 Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 
 
 Thenceforth I set myself to play 
 My solitary time away 
 With this ; and very well content 
 Could so mine idle life have spent ; 
 For it was full of sport, and light 
 Of foot and heart, and did invite 
 Me to its game ; it seem'd to bless 
 Itself in me. How could I less 
 Than love it ? Oh, I cannot be 
 Unkind to a beast that loveth me ! 
 
 Had it liv'd long, I do not know 
 Whether it, too, might have done so 
 As Sylvio did ; his gifts might be 
 Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
 For I am sure, for aught that I 
 Could in so short a time espy. 
 Thy love was far more better than 
 The love of false and cruel man. 
 
 With sweetest milk and sugar first 
 
 I it at mine own fingers nurs'd ; 
 
 And as it grew so every day. 
 
 It wax'd more white and sweet than they. 
 
 It haa so sweet a breath ! and oft 
 
 I blush'd to see its foot more soft, 
 
 Aud white, shall I say ? than my hand — 
 
 Than any lady's of the land ! 
 
 It was a wondrous thing how fleet 
 'Twas on those little silver feet. 
 With what a pretty skipping grace 
 It oft would challenge me the race ; 
 And when 't had left me far away, 
 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 
 For it w^as nimbler much than hinds, 
 And trod as if on the four winds. 
 
 I have a garden of my own. 
 
 But so with roses overgrown. 
 
 And lilies, that you would it guess 
 
 To be a little wilderness ; 
 
 And all the spring-time of the year 
 
 It loved only to be there. 
 
 Among the beds of lilies I 
 
 Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 
 
 Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
 
 Find it, although before mine eyes ; 
 
 For in the flaxen lilies shade, 
 
 It like a bank of lilies laid. 
 
 Upon the roses it would feed, 
 
 Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed ; 
 
 And then to me 't would boldly trip. 
 
 And print those roses on my lip. 
 
 But all its chief delight was still 
 
 On roses thus itself to fill : 
 
 And its pure virgin lips to fold 
 
 In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
 
 Had it liv'd long, it would have been 
 
 Lilies without, roses within. 
 
 Andrew Marvell—Boni 1620, IHed 1678. 
 
 637. 
 
 ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF 
 HUDIBEAS. 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
 And men fell out, they knew not why : 
 When hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
 Set folks together by the ears, 
 And made them fight, like mad or drunk, 
 For Dame Eeligion as for punk ; 
 Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
 Though not a man of them knew v/hore- 
 
 f ore : 
 "WTien gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
 With long-ear' d rout, to battle sounded, 
 And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick : 
 Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling. 
 And out he rode a-colonelling. 
 
 A wight he was, whose very sight would 
 Entitle him, mirror of knighthood ; 
 That never bow'd his stubborn knee 
 To anything but chivalry ; 
 Nor put up blow, but that which laid 
 Eight-worshipful on shoulder-blade : 
 Chief of domestic knights and errant, 
 Either for chartel or for warrant : 
 Great on the bench, great on the saddio. 
 That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle : 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 EELIGION OF HUDIBEAS. 
 
 [Samuel Butler. 
 
 Mighty he was at both of these, 
 And styled of war as well as peace 
 (So some rats, of amphibious nature. 
 Are either for the land or water). 
 But here our authors make a doubt, 
 Whether he were more wise or stout ; 
 Some hold the one, and some the other : 
 But howsoe'er they make a pother, 
 The diff 'rence was so small, his brain 
 Outweigh' d his rage but half a grain ; 
 Which made some take him for a tool 
 That knaves do work with, call'd a fool. 
 For 't has been held by many, that 
 As Montaigne, playing with his cat, 
 Complains she thought him but an ass. 
 Much more she would Sir Hudibras 
 (For that 's the name our valiant knight 
 To all his challenges did write). 
 Bixt they're mistaken very much ; 
 'Tis plain enough he was no such : 
 We grant, although he had much wit, 
 He was very shy of using it ; 
 A:; being loath to wear it out, 
 And therefore bore it not about ; 
 Unless on hoHdays, or so, 
 As men their best apparel do ; 
 Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 
 As naturally as pigs squeak ; 
 That Latin was no more difficile. 
 Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : 
 Being rich in both, he never scanted 
 His bounty unto such as wanted ; 
 But much of either would afford 
 To many, that had not one word. 
 
 He was in logic a great critic, 
 Profoundly skill' d in analytic; 
 He could distinguish and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
 On cither which he would dispute, 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 
 He'd undertake to prove by force 
 Of argument a man 's no horse ; 
 He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a lord may be an owl, 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice. 
 And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
 He'd run in debt by dif^putation. 
 And pay with ratiocination : 
 All this by syllogism, true 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 
 For rhetoric, he could not ope 
 His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 
 And when he happen' d to break off 
 I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
 H' had hard words, ready to show why. 
 And teU what rules he did it by : 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke. 
 You'd think he talk'd like other folk ; 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
 But, when he pleased to show 't, his speech 
 In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
 A Babylonish dialeot, 
 Which learned pedants much affect : 
 
 It was a party-colour'd dress 
 
 Of pat^h'd and piebald languages ; 
 
 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
 
 Like fustian heretofore on satin. 
 
 It had an odd promiscuous tone. 
 
 As if he had talk'd three parts in one ; 
 
 Which made some think, when ^e 4id 
 
 gabble, 
 Th' had heard three labourers of Babel ; 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 This he as volubly would vent 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 
 And truly, to support that charge, 
 He had supplies as vast and large : 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 New words, with little or no wit ; 
 Words so debased and hard, no stone 
 Was hard enough to touch them on ; 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em. 
 The ignorant for current took 'em ; 
 That had the orator, who once 
 Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 
 When he harangued, but known his phrase, 
 He would have used no other ways. 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Born 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 638.— RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. 
 
 For his religion, it was fit 
 
 To match his learning and his wit. 
 
 'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 
 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
 
 To be the true church militant ; 
 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 
 Decide all controversies by 
 
 Infallible artillery ; 
 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 
 By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation, 
 
 A godly thorough reformation. 
 
 Which always must be carried on, 
 
 And still be doing, never done ; 
 
 As if religion were intended 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended 
 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 
 In odd perverse antipathies ; 
 
 In falling out ^vith that or this, 
 
 And finding somewhat still amiss ; 
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic. 
 
 Than dog distraught or monkey sick ; 
 
 That with more care keep holiday 
 
 The wrong, than others the right way ; 
 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to, 
 
 By damning those they have no mind to. 
 
 Still so perverse and opposite. 
 
 As if they worshipp'd God for spite ; 
 
 The self-same thing they will abhor 
 
 One way, and long another for ; 
 
 Freewill they one way disavow, 
 
 Another, nothing else allow ; 
 
Samuel Butler.] PEESONAL APPEARANCE OF HUDIBEAS. [Foueth Period.— 
 
 All piety consists therein 
 In them, in other men all sin ; 
 Eather than fail, they will defy 
 That which they love most tenderly ; 
 Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage 
 Their best and dearest friend, plum-por- 
 ridge ; 
 Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 
 And blaspheme custard through the nose. 
 Th' apostles of this fierce religion, 
 Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon, 
 To whom our knight, by fast instinct 
 Of wt and temper, was so link'd. 
 As if hypocrisy and nonsense 
 Had got th' advowson of his conscience. 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Bom 1612. Died 1680. 
 
 639.— PEESONAL APPEAEANCE OP 
 HUDIBEAS. 
 
 His tawny beard was th' equal grace' 
 
 Both of his wisdom and his face ; 
 
 In cut and dye so like a tile, 
 
 A sudden view it would beguile ; 
 
 The upper part thereof was whey. 
 
 The nether, orange, mix'd with gray. 
 
 This hairy meteor did denounce 
 
 The fall of sceptres and of crowns ; 
 
 "With grisly type did represent 
 
 Declining age of government ; 
 
 And tell, with hieroglyphic spade, 
 
 Its own grave and the state's wei-e made. 
 
 Like Samson's heart-breakers, it grew 
 
 In time to make a nation rue ; 
 
 Though it contributed its own fall, 
 
 To wait upon the public downfall ; 
 
 It was monastic, and did grow 
 
 In holy orders by strict vow ; 
 
 Of rule as sullen and severe. 
 
 As that of rigid Cordelier ; 
 
 'Twas bound to suffer persecution, 
 
 And martyrdom with resolution ; 
 
 T' oppose itseK against the hate 
 
 And vengeance of th' incensed state. 
 
 In whose defiance it was worn. 
 
 Still ready to be pull'd and torn ; 
 
 With red-hot irons to be tortured, 
 
 Eeviled, and spit upon, and martyr'd ; 
 
 Maugre all which 'twas to stand fast 
 
 As long as monarchy should last ; 
 
 But when the state should hap to reel, 
 
 'Twas to submit to fatal steel. 
 
 And fall, as it was consecrate, 
 
 A sacrifice to fall of state ; 
 
 Whose thread of life the fatal sisters 
 
 Did twist together with its whiskers. 
 
 And twine so close, that Time should never, 
 
 In life or death, their fortunes sever j 
 
 But with his rusty sickle mow 
 
 Both down together at a blow. 
 
 His doublet was of sturdy buff, 
 And though not sword, yet cudgel proof ; 
 Whereby 'twas fitter for his use. 
 Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise. 
 
 His breeches were of rugged woollen. 
 And had been at the siege of BuUen ; 
 To old king Harry so well known, 
 Some writers held they were his o"\vn ; 
 Though they were lined with many a piece 
 Of ammunition, bread and cheese. 
 And fat black puddings, proper food 
 For warriors that delight in blood ; 
 For, as we said, he always chose 
 To carry victual in his hose, 
 That often tempted rats and mice 
 Th' ammunition to surprise ; 
 And when he put a hand but in 
 The one or t' other magazine, 
 They stoutly on defence on't stood. 
 And from the wounded foe drew blood ; 
 And till they were storm' d and beaten out, 
 Ne'er left the fortified redoubt ; 
 And though knights-errant, as some think. 
 Of old did neither eat nor drink. 
 Because when thorough deserts vast, 
 And regions desolate they pass'd. 
 Where belly-timber above ground. 
 Or under, was not to be found. 
 Unless they grazed, there's not one word 
 Of their provision on record ; 
 Which made some confidently write 
 They had no stomachs but to fight. 
 'Tis false ; for Arthur wore in hall 
 Eound table like a f arthingal ; 
 On which, with shirt pull'd out behind. 
 And eke before, his good knights dined ; 
 Though 'twas no table some suppose. 
 But a huge pair of round trunk hose, 
 In which he carried as much meat 
 As he and all the knights could eat ; 
 YHxen laying by their swords and 
 
 truncheons, 
 They took their breakfasts or their 
 
 luncheons. 
 But let that pass at present, lest 
 We should forget where we digress'd, 
 As learned authors use, to whom 
 We leave it, and to the purpose come. 
 
 His puissant sword unto his side, 
 Near his undaunted heart, was tied, 
 With basket hilt that would hold broth. 
 And serve for fight and dinner both ; 
 In it he melted lead for bullets 
 To shoot at foes, and sometimes puUets, 
 To whom he bore so fell a grutch, 
 He ne'er gave quarter t' any such. 
 The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty. 
 For want of fighting, was gro^vu rusty. 
 And ate into itself, for lack 
 Of somebody to hew and hack : 
 The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt, 
 The rancour of its edge had felt ; 
 For of the lower end two handful 
 It had devour'd, it was so manful. 
 And so much scorn' d to lurk in case. 
 As if it durst not show its face. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 HFDIBRAS AND THE EABBLE , 
 
 [Samuel Butler. 
 
 In many desperate attempts 
 
 Of warrants, exigents, contempts, 
 
 It had appear' d with courage bolder 
 
 Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder : 
 
 Oft had it ta'en possession, 
 
 And prisoners too, or made them run. 
 
 This sword a dagger had his page. 
 That was but little for liis age ; 
 And therefore waited on him so 
 As dwarfs upon knights-errant do : 
 It was a serviceable dudgeon, 
 Either for fighting, or for drudging : 
 When it had stabb'd or broke a head, 
 It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread ; 
 Toast cheese or bacon, though it were 
 To bait a mouse-trap, would not care : 
 'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth 
 Set leeks and onions, and so forth : 
 It had been 'prentice to a brewer, 
 "WTiere this and more it did endure, 
 But left the trade, as many more 
 Have lately done on the same score. 
 
 Samuel Butk 
 
 -Bom 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 640.— HIJDIBRAS COMMENCING BATTLE 
 WITH THE RABBLE. 
 
 This said, with hasty-rage he snatch'd 
 His gunshot, that in holsters watch'd, 
 And bending cock, he levell'd fvdl 
 Against th' outside of Talgol's skulF, 
 Vo^ving that he should ne'er stir further, 
 Nor henceforth cow nor bullock murder : 
 But Pallas came in shape of Rust, 
 And 'twixt the spring and hammer thrust 
 Her gorgon shield, which made the cock 
 Stand stiff, as 'twere transform'd to stock. 
 Meanwhile fierce Talgol, gathering might, 
 With rugged truncheon chai-ged the Knight ; 
 But he with petronel upheaved. 
 Instead of shield, the blow received : 
 The gun recoil' d, as well it might. 
 Not used to such a kind of fight, 
 And slirunk from its great master's gripe, 
 Knock'ddown and stunn'dwithmortal stripe. 
 Then Hudibras, with fmious haste, 
 Drew out his sword ; yet not so fast 
 But Talgol first, with hardy thwack, 
 Twice bruised his head, and twice his back ; 
 But when his nut-brown sword was out, 
 With stomach huge he laid about, 
 Imprinting many a wound upon 
 His mortal foe, the truncheon ; 
 The trusty cudgel did oppose 
 ItseK against dead-doing blows. 
 To guard his leader from fell bane, 
 And then revenged itself again. 
 And though the sword (some understood) 
 In force had much the odds of wood, 
 'Twas nothing so : both sides were balanc"t 
 So equal, none knew which was valiant'st ; 
 For wood, with honour b'ing engaged, 
 
 Is so implacably enraged, 
 
 Though iron hew and mangle sore, 
 
 Wood wounds and bruises honour more. 
 
 And now both knights were out of breath, 
 
 Tired in the hot pursuits of death. 
 
 Whilst all the rest amazed stood still, 
 
 Expecting which should take, or Irillr 
 
 This Hudibras observed ; and fretting. 
 
 Conquest should be so long a-getting. 
 
 He drew up all his force into 
 
 One body, and that into one blow ; 
 
 But Talgol wisely avoided it 
 
 By cunning sleight ; for had it hit 
 
 The upper part of him, the blow 
 
 Had sht as sure as that below. 
 
 Meanwhile the incomparable Colon, 
 
 To aid his friend, began to fall on ; 
 
 Him Ralph encounter'd, and straight grew 
 
 A dismal combat 'twixt them two ; 
 
 Th' one arm'd with metal, th' other with 
 
 wood, 
 
 This fit for bruise, and that for blood, 
 
 With many a stiff thwack, many a bang. 
 
 Hard crabtree and old iron rang. 
 
 While none that saw them could divine 
 
 To which side conquest would incline ; 
 
 Until Magnano, who did envy 
 
 That two should with so many men vie, 
 
 By subtle stratagem of brain 
 
 Perform' d what force could ne'er attain ; 
 
 For he, by foul hap, having found 
 
 Where thistles grew on barren ground, 
 
 In haste he drew his weapon out. 
 
 And having cropt them from the root, 
 
 He clapt them imderneath the tail 
 
 Of steed, with pricks as sharp as nail : 
 
 The angry beast did straight resent 
 
 The vrroTLg done to his fundament, 
 
 Began to kick, and fling, and wince 
 
 As if he'd been beside his sense,' 
 
 Striving to disengage from thistle, 
 
 That gall'd him sorely under his tail ; 
 
 Instead of which, he threw the pack 
 
 Of Squire and baggage from his back : 
 
 And blundering still, with smarting rump, 
 
 He gave the Knight's steed such a thump 
 
 As made him reel. The Knight did stoop, 
 
 And sat on further side aslope ; 
 
 This Talgol viewing, who had now 
 
 By flight escaped the fatal blow, 
 
 He rallied, and again fell to't ; 
 
 For catching foe by nearest foot, 
 
 He lifted with such might and strength. 
 
 As would have hurl'd him thrice his length, 
 
 And dash'd his brains (if any) out ; 
 
 But Mars, that still protects the stout, 
 
 In pudding-time came to his aid. 
 
 And under him the Bear convey'd ; 
 
 The Bear, upon whose soft fur-gown 
 
 The Knight with all his weight fell down. 
 
 The friendly rug preserved the ground. 
 
 And headlong Knight, from bruise or wound ; 
 
 Like featherbed betwixt a wall, 
 
 And heavy brunt of cannon-ball. 
 
 As Sancho on a blanket fell. 
 
 And had no hurt, ours fared as well - -^ 
 
 26* 
 
Samuel Butler.] 
 
 HUDIBEAS AND THE RABBLE. 
 
 [Fourth Period.— 
 
 In body, though his mighty spirit, 
 B'ing heavy, did not so well bear it. 
 The Bear was in a greater fright, 
 Beat down, and worsted by the Knight ; 
 He roar'd, and raged, and flung about, 
 To shake off bondage from his snout : 
 His wrath inflamed, boil'd o'er, and from 
 His jaws of death he threw the foam ; 
 Fury in stranger postures threw him, 
 And more than ever herald drew him, 
 He tore the earth which he had saved 
 From squelch of Knight, and storm' d and 
 
 raved, 
 And vex'd the more, because the harms 
 He felt were 'gainst the law of arms : 
 For men he always took to be 
 His friends, and dogs the enemy ; 
 Who never so much hurt had done him, 
 As his o^vn side did falKng on him : 
 It grieved him to the guts that they 
 For whom he'd fought so many a fray. 
 And served with loss of blood so long, 
 Should oflfer such inhuman wrong ; 
 Wrong of unsoldier-like condition, 
 For which he flung down his commission ; 
 And laid about him till his nose 
 From thrall of ring and cord broke loose. 
 Soon as he felt himself enlarged, 
 Through thickest of his foes he charged. 
 And made Way through th' amazed crew ; 
 Some he o'erran, and some o'erthrcw. 
 But took none : for by hasty flight 
 He strove t' escape pursuit of Knight, 
 From whom he fled with as much haste 
 And dread as he the rabble chased : 
 In haste he fled, and so did they, 
 Each and his fear a sev'ral way. 
 
 Crowdero only kept the field, 
 Not stirring from the place he held, 
 Though beaten down, and wounded sore 
 I' th' Fiddle and a leg that bore 
 One side of him, not that of bone, 
 But much its better, th' wooden one. 
 He spjdng Hudibras lie strew' d 
 Upon the ground, like log of wood. 
 With fright of fall, supposed wound, 
 And loss of urine, in a swound, 
 In haste he snatch' d the wooden limb 
 That, hurt i' th' ancle, lay by him, 
 And fitting it for sudden fight, 
 Straight drew it up, t' attack the Knight ; 
 For getting up on stump and huckle 
 He with the foe began to buckle, 
 Vowing to be revenged for breach 
 Of Crowd and skin, upon the wretch, 
 Sole author of all detriment 
 He and his Fiddle underwent. 
 
 But Ralpho (who had now begun 
 T' adventure resurrection 
 From heavy squelch, and had got up 
 Upon his legs, with sprained crup), 
 Looking about, beheld pernicion 
 Approaching Knight from fell musician ; 
 He snatch' d his whiuyard up, that fled 
 When he was falling off his steed 
 (As rats do from a falling house), 
 
 To hide itself from rage of blows ; 
 And, wing'd with speed and fury, flew 
 To rescue Knight from black and blue 5 
 Which ere he could achieve, his sconce 
 The leg encounter' d twice and once, 
 And now 't was raised to smite agen. 
 When Ralpho thrust himself between : 
 He took the blow upon his arm, 
 To shield the Knight from further harm, 
 And joining wrath with force, bestow'd 
 On th' wooden member such a load, 
 That down it fell, and with it bore 
 Crowdero, whom it propp'd before. 
 To him the Squire right nimbly run, 
 And setting conqu'ring foot upon 
 His trunk, thus spoke -. What desp'rate 
 
 frenzy 
 Made thee, thou whelp of Sin, to fancy 
 Thyself, and all that coward rabble, 
 T' encounter us in battle able ? 
 How durst th', I say, oppose thy Curship 
 'Gainst arms, authority, and worship, 
 And Hudibras or me provoke, 
 Though all thy limbs were heart of oak. 
 And th' other half of thee as good 
 To bear out blows as that of wood ? 
 Could not the whipping-post prevail, 
 With all its rhetoric, nor the jail. 
 To keep from flaying scourge thy skin 
 And ankle free from iron gin ? 
 Which now thou shalt — but first our care 
 Must see how Hudibras docs fare. 
 This said, he gently raised the Knight, 
 And set him on his bum upright. 
 To rouse him from lethargic dump, 
 He tweak'd his nose, with gentle thump 
 Knock'd on his breast, as if 't had been 
 To raise the spirits lodged within ; 
 They, waken' d with the noise, did fly 
 From inward room to window eye. 
 And gently op'ning lid, the casement, 
 Look'd out, but yet with some amazement. 
 This gladded Ralpho much to see. 
 Who thus bespoke the Knight. Quoth ho, 
 Tweaking his nose. You are, great Sir, 
 A self-denying conqueror ; 
 As high, victorious, and groat. 
 As e'er fought for tho churches yet, 
 If you will give yourself but leave 
 To make out what y' already have ; 
 That's victory. The foe, for dread 
 Of your nine-worthiness, is fled. 
 All save Crowdero, for whose sake 
 You did th' espoused cause undertake ; 
 And he lies pris'ner at your feet. 
 To be disposed as you think meet. 
 Either for life, or death, or sale, 
 The gallows, or perpetual jail ; 
 For one wink of your powerful eye 
 Must sentence him to live or die. 
 His fiddle is your proper purchase. 
 Won in the service of the churches ; 
 And by your doom must be allow'd 
 To be, or be no more, a Crowd : 
 For though success did not confer 
 Just title on the conqueror ; 
 
i 
 
 From 1640 to 1689.] HUDIBEAS CONSULTING THE LAWYEE. [Samuel Butler. 
 
 Though dispensations were not strong 
 
 Conclusions, whether right or wrong ; 
 
 Although Outgoings did confirm, 
 
 And Owning were but a mere term ; 
 
 Yet as the wicked have no right 
 
 To th' creature, though usurp'd by might, 
 
 The propertj"^ is in the saint. 
 
 From whom th' injuriously detain 't ! 
 
 Of him they hold their luxuries, 
 
 Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice, 
 
 Their riots, revels, masks, delights. 
 
 Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites; 
 
 All which the saints have title to, 
 
 And ought t' enjoy if they 'ad their due. 
 
 What we take from 'em is no more 
 
 Than what was ours by right before ; 
 
 For we are their true landlords still, 
 
 And they our tenants but at wiU. 
 
 At this the Knight began to rouse, 
 
 And by degrees grow valorous : 
 
 He stared about, and seeing none 
 
 Of aU his foes remain but one. 
 
 He snatch'd his weapon, that lay near him 
 
 And from the ground began to rear him. 
 
 Vowing to make Crowdero pay 
 
 For all the rest that ran away. 
 
 But Ralpho now, in colder blood, 
 
 His fury mildly thus withstood : 
 
 Great Sir, quoth he, your mighty spirit 
 
 Is raised too high , this slave does merit 
 
 To be the hangman's bus'ness, sooner 
 
 Than from your hand to have the honour 
 
 Of his destruction ; I that am 
 
 A nothingness in deed and name, 
 
 Did scorn to hurt his forfeit carcase, 
 
 Or ill entreat his Fiddle or case : 
 
 WiU you, great Sir, that glory blot 
 
 In cold blood, which you gain'd in hot ? j 
 
 Will you employ your conquering sword j 
 
 To break a Fiddle, and your word ? \ 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Born 1612, Died 1680. i 
 
 641.— VICARIOUS JUSTICE. 
 
 Ju&tice gives sentence many times 
 On one man for another's crimes ; 
 Our brethren of New England use 
 Choice malefactors to excuse. 
 And hang the guiltless in their stead. 
 Of whom the churches ,have less need ; 
 As lately 't happened : In a town 
 There lived a cobbler, and but one. 
 That out of doctrine could ciat use, 
 And mend men's lives, as well as shoes. 
 This precious brother ha\ang slain, 
 In times of peace, an Indian, 
 Not out of malice, but mere zeal, 
 (Because he was an Infidel,) 
 The mighty Tottipottymoy 
 Sent to our elders an envoy, 
 Complaining sorely of the breach 
 Of league, held forth by Brother Patch, 
 
 Against the articles in force 
 Between both churches, his and ours. 
 For which he cruA'ed the saints to render 
 Into his hands, or hang th' offender : 
 But they maturely having weigh'd 
 They had no more but him o' th' trad^, 
 (A man that served them in a double 
 Capacity, to teach and cobble,) 
 Resolved to spare him : yet, to do 
 The Indian Hoghan Moghan too 
 Impartial justice, in his stead did 
 Hang an old weaver that was bedrid. 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Born 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 642.— HUDIBRAS CONSULTING THE 
 LAWYER. 
 
 An old dull sot, who toU'd the clock 
 
 For many years at Bridewell-dock, 
 
 At Westminster, and Hicks' s-hall, 
 
 And hicrit'-s docthis play'd in all ; 
 
 Where in all governments and times. 
 
 He'd been both friend and foe to crimes, 
 
 And used to equal ways of gaining. 
 
 By hind'ring justice, or maintaining : 
 
 To many a whore gave privilege, 
 
 And whipp'd, for want of quarterage. 
 
 Cart-loads of bawds to prison sent, 
 
 For being behind a fortnight's rent ; 
 
 And many a trusty pimp and crony 
 
 To Puddle-dock, for want of money ; 
 
 Engaged the constable to seize 
 
 All those that would not break the peace ; 
 
 Nor give him back his own foul words, 
 
 Though sometimes commoners, or lords, 
 
 And kept 'em prisoners of course. 
 
 For being sober at ill hours ; 
 
 That in the morning he might free 
 
 Or bind 'em over for his fee ; 
 
 Made monsters fine, and puppet-plays. 
 
 For leave to practise in their ways ; 
 
 Farm'd out all cheats, and went a share 
 
 With th' headborough and scavenger ; 
 
 And made the dirt i' th' streets compound 
 
 For taking up the public ground ; 
 
 The kennel and the king's highway, 
 
 For being unmolested, pay ; 
 
 Let out the stocks, and whipping-post. 
 
 And cage, to those that gave him most ; 
 
 Imposed a task on bakers' ears. 
 
 And, for false weights, on chandelers ; 
 
 Made victuallers and vintners fine 
 
 For arbitrary ale and wine ; 
 
 But was a kind and constant friend 
 
 To all that regularly offend. 
 
 As residentiary bawds. 
 
 And brokers that receive stol'n goods ; 
 
 That cheat in lawful mysteries. 
 
 And pay church duties and his fees : 
 
 But was implacable and awkward 
 
 To all that interloped and hawker'd. 
 
 To this brave man the knight repairs 
 For counsel in his law-affairs, 
 
Samuel Butler.] HUDIBRAS CONSULTING THE LAWYER. [Fourth Period.- 
 
 And found him mounted in his pew, 
 With books and money placed, for shew, 
 Like nest-eggs to make clients lay, 
 And for his false opinion pay : 
 To whom the Knight, with comely grace. 
 Put off his hat, to put his case ; 
 Which he as proudly entertain' d 
 As th' other courteously strain' d ; 
 And, to assure him 't was not that 
 He look'd for, bid him put on 's hat. 
 
 Quoth he, there is one Sidrophel, 
 Whom I have cudgell'd — Very well. 
 And now he brags to 've beaten me — 
 Better and better still, quoth he. 
 And vows to stick me to a wall, 
 ^Vhere'er he meets me — Best of aU. 
 'Tis true the knave has taken 's oath 
 That I robb'd him — Well done, in troth. 
 When he's confess' d he stole my cloak. 
 And pick'd my fob, and what he took ; 
 Which was the cause that made me bang 
 
 him, 
 And take my goods again — Marry, hang 
 
 him. 
 Now, whether I should beforehand 
 Swear he robb'd me ? — I understand. 
 Or bring my action of conversion 
 And trover for my goods ? — Ah, whoreson ! 
 Or, if 't is better to endite. 
 And bring him to his trial ? — Right. 
 Prevent what he designs to do, 
 And swear for th' state against him ? — True. 
 Or whether he that is defendant 
 In this case has the better end on 't ; 
 Who, putting in a new cross-bill. 
 May traverse th' action ? — Better still. 
 Then there's a lady too — Ay, marry ! 
 That's easily proved accessary ; 
 A widow who by solemn vows 
 Contracted to me, for ray spouse, 
 Combined with him to break her word, 
 And has abetted all — Good Lord ! 
 Suborn'd th' aforesaid Sidrophel 
 To tamper with the dev'l of hell, 
 Who put m' into a horrid fear, 
 Fear of my life — Make that appear. 
 Made an assault with fiends and men 
 Upon my body — Good agen. 
 And kept me in a deadly fright. 
 And false imprisonment, all night. 
 Meanwhile they robb'd me, and my horse. 
 And stole my saddle — Worse and worse. 
 And made me mount upon the bare ridge, 
 T' avoid a wretcheder miscarriage. 
 
 Sir, (quoth the lawyer,) not to flatter ye, 
 You have as good and fair a battery 
 As heart can wish, and need not shame 
 The proudest man alive to claim ; 
 For if they've used you as you say, 
 Marry, quoth I, God give you joy ; 
 I would it were my case, I'd give 
 More than I'll say, or you'll believe : 
 I would so trounce her, and her purse, 
 I'd make her kneel for better or worse : 
 For matrimony, and hanging here, 
 Both go by destiny so clear, 
 
 That you as sure may pick and choose, 
 
 As cross I -win, and pile you lose : 
 
 And if I durst, I would advance 
 
 As much in ready maintenance, 
 
 As upon any case I've known ; 
 
 But we that practise dare not own : 
 
 The law severely contrabands 
 
 Our taking bus'ness oif men's hands 
 
 'Tis common barratry, that bears 
 
 Point-blank an action 'gainst our ears. 
 
 And crops them till there is not leather 
 
 To stick a pin in, left of either ; 
 
 For which some do the summer-sault, 
 
 And o'er the bar, like tumblers, vault : 
 
 But you may swear, at any rate. 
 
 Things not in nature, for the state ; 
 
 For in all courts of justice here 
 
 A witness is not said to swear. 
 
 But make oath ; that is, in plain terms, 
 
 To forge whatever he aflBxms. 
 
 I thank you (quoth the Knight) for 
 that. 
 Because 'tis to my purpose pat — 
 For Justice, though she's painted blind. 
 Is to the weaker side inclined, 
 Like Charity ; else right and wrong 
 Could never hold it out so long. 
 And, like blind Fortune, with a sleight, 
 Conveys men's interest and right 
 From Stiles' s pocket into Nokes's, 
 As easily as Hocus Focus ; 
 Plays fast and loose, makes men obnoxious, 
 And clear again like hiccius doctius. 
 Then, whether you would take her life. 
 Or but recover her for your wife, 
 Or be content with what she has. 
 And let all other matters pass, 
 The bus'ness to the law's alone. 
 The proof is all it looks upon ; 
 And you can want no Avitnesses 
 To swear to anything you please, 
 That hardly get their mere expenses 
 By th' labour of their consciences, 
 Or letting out to hire their ears 
 To affidavit customers. 
 At inconsiderable values, 
 To serve for jurymen, or tallies, 
 Although retain' d in th' hardest matters 
 Of trustees and administrators. 
 
 For that (quoth he) let me alone ; 
 We 've store ot such, and all our own. 
 Bred up and tutor' d by our Teachers, 
 The ablest of conscience-stretchers. 
 
 That's well, (<]^uoth he,) but I should 
 
 By weighing all advantages. 
 
 Your surest way is first to pitch 
 
 On Bongey for a water- witch ; 
 
 And when ye 've hang'd the conjurer, 
 
 Ye 've time enough to deal with her. 
 
 In th' int'rim spare for no trepans 
 
 To draw her neck into the bans ; 
 
 Ply her with love-letters and billets. 
 
 And bait 'em well, for quirks and quillets, 
 
 With trains t' inveigle and surprise 
 
 Her heedless answers and replies ; 
 
From 1649 to 1689.J 
 
 THE ELEPHANT IN THE MOON. 
 
 [Samuel Butler. 
 
 And if she miss the monse-trap lines. 
 
 They '11 serve for other by-designs ; 
 
 And make an artist understand 
 
 To copy out her seal, or hand ; 
 
 Or find void places in the paper 
 
 To steal in something to entrap her ; 
 
 Till with her worldly goods, and body, 
 
 Spite of her heart, she has endow'd ye : 
 
 Eetain all sorts of witnesses. 
 
 That ply i' th' Temple, under trees, 
 
 Or walk the round, with Knights o' th' 
 
 Posts, 
 About the cross-legg'd knights, their hosts; 
 Or wait for customers between 
 The pillar-rows in Lincoln's Inn ; 
 Where vouchers, forgers, common-bail. 
 And affidavit-men, ne'er fail 
 T' expose to sale all sorts of oaths, 
 According to their ears and clothes. 
 Their only necessary tools, 
 Besides the Gospel and their souls : 
 And when ye' re furnish' d with all purveys, 
 I shall be ready at your service. 
 
 I would not give (quoth Hudibras) 
 A straw to understand a case, 
 Without the admirable skill 
 To wind and manage it at will ; 
 To veer, and tack, and steer a cause 
 Against the weathergage of laws. 
 And ring the changes upon cases, 
 As plain as noses upon faces. 
 As you have well instructed me. 
 For which you've eam'd (here 'tis) your 
 
 fee. 
 
 Samuel Bittler.—Born 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 643.— THE ELEPHANT IN THE MOON. 
 
 A learn' d society of late. 
 
 The glory of a foreign state, 
 
 Agreed upon a summer's night, 
 
 To search the moon by her own light ; 
 
 To take an invent'ry of all 
 
 Her real estate, and personal ; 
 
 And make an accurate survey 
 
 Of all her lands, and how they lay, 
 
 As true as that of Ireland, where 
 
 The sly surveyors stole a shire ; 
 
 T' observe her country how 'twas planted. 
 
 With what sh' abounded most, or wanted ; 
 
 And make the prop' rest observations 
 
 For settling of new plantations. 
 
 If the society should incline 
 
 T' attempt so glorious a design. 
 
 This was the purpose of their meeting. 
 For which they chose a time as fitting. 
 When, at the full, her radiant light 
 And influence too were at their height. 
 And now the lofty tube, the scale 
 AVith which they heav'n itself assail, 
 Was mounted full against the moon. 
 And all stood ready to fall on. 
 Impatient who should have the honour 
 To plant an ensig^n first upon her. 
 
 When one, who for his deep belief 
 Was virtuoso then in chief, 
 Approv'd the most profound, and wise, 
 To- solve impossibilities. 
 Advancing gravely, to apply 
 To th' optic glass his judging eye, 
 Cried, Strange ! then reinforc'd his sight 
 Against the moon with all his might, 
 And bent his penetrating brow 
 As if he meant to gaze her through : 
 When all the rest began t' admire, 
 And, like a train, from him took fire, 
 Surpris'd with wonder, beforehand. 
 At what they did not understand, 
 Cried out, impatient to know what 
 The matter was they wonder' d at. 
 Quoth he, Th' inhabitants o' th' moon, 
 Who, when the sun shines hot at noon, 
 Do live in cellars under ground. 
 Of eight miles deep and eighty round 
 (In which at once they fortify 
 Against the sun and th' enemy), 
 Wliich they count towns and cities there, 
 Because their people's civiller 
 Than those rude peasants that are found 
 To live upon the upper ground. 
 Call'd Prevolvans, with whom they are 
 Perpetually in open war ; 
 And now both armies, highly enrag'd. 
 Are in a bloody fight engag'd. 
 And many fall on both sides slain, 
 As by the glass 'tis clear and plain. 
 Look quickly then, that every one 
 May see the fight before 'tis done. 
 
 With that a great philosopher, 
 Admir'd and famous far and near. 
 As one of singular invention. 
 But universal comprehension. 
 Applied one eye and half a nose 
 Unto the optic engine close ; 
 For he had lately undertook 
 To prove and publish in a book. 
 That men whose nat'ral eyes are out, 
 May, by more powerful art, be brought. 
 To see with th' empty holes, as plain 
 As if their e5'-es were in again ! 
 And if they chanc'd to fail of those. 
 To make an optic of a nose, 
 As clearly it may, by those that wear 
 But spectacles, be made appear, 
 By which both senses being united. 
 Does render them much better sighted. 
 This great man, having fix'd both sights 
 To view the formidable fights, 
 Observ'd his best, and then cried out, 
 The battle's desperately fought; 
 The gallant Subvolvani rally, 
 And from their trenches make a sally 
 Upon the stubborn enemy. 
 Who now begin to route and fly. 
 These silly ranting Prevolvans 
 Have ev'ry summer their campaigns, 
 And muster, like the warlike sons 
 Of Rawhead and of Bloodybones, 
 As numerous as Solan geese, 
 I' th' islands of the Orcades, 
 
Samuel Butlek.] THE ELEPHANT IN THE MOON. [Fourth Pekiod.— 
 
 Courageously to make a stand, 
 
 And that those monstrous creatures there, 
 
 And face their neighbours hand to hand, 
 
 Are not such rarities as here. 
 
 Until the long'd-for winter's come, 
 
 Meanwhile the rest had had a sight 
 
 And then return in triumph home, 
 
 Of all particulars o' the fight, 
 
 And spend the rest o' th' year in lies, 
 
 And ev'ry man, with equal care, 
 
 I And vap'ring of their victories ; 
 
 Perus'd of th' elephant his share ; 
 
 1 From th' old Arcadians they're believ'd 
 
 When one, who, for his excellence 
 
 j To be, before the moon, deriv'd. 
 
 In height'ning words and shad'wing sense, 
 
 And when her orb was new created. 
 
 And magnifjdng all he writ. 
 
 To people her were thence translated : 
 
 With curious microscopic wit, 
 
 For as th' Arcadia.us were reputed 
 
 Was magnified himself no less 
 
 Of all the Grecians the most stupid, 
 
 In home and foreign colleges. 
 
 Whom nothing in the world could bring 
 
 Began, transported with the twang 
 
 To civil life, but fiddling. 
 
 Of his own trillo, thus t' harangue : 
 
 They still retain the antique course 
 
 " Most excellent and virtuous friends, 
 
 And custom of their ancestors, 
 
 This great discov'ry makes amends 
 
 And always sing and fiddle to 
 
 For all our unsuccessful pains. 
 
 Things of the greatest weight they do. 
 
 And lost expense of time and brains ; 
 
 While thus the learn'd ma.Ti entertains 
 
 For, by this sole phenomenon. 
 
 Th' assembly with the Prevolvans, 
 
 We've gotten ground upon the moon, 
 
 Another, of as great renown. 
 
 And gain'd a pass, to hold dispute 
 
 And solid judgment, in the moon. 
 
 With all the planets that stand out ; 
 
 That understood her various soils, 
 
 To carry this most virtuous war 
 
 And which produc'd best gennet-moyles, 
 
 Home to the door of every star, 
 
 And in the register of fame 
 
 And plant the artillery of our tubes 
 
 Had enter' d his long-living name, 
 
 Against their proudest magnitudes : 
 
 After he had por'd long and hard 
 
 To stretch our victories beyond 
 
 I' th' engine, gave a start, and star'd — 
 
 Th' extent of planetary ground. 
 
 Quoth he, A stranger sight appears 
 
 And fix our engines, and our ensigns, 
 
 Than e'er was seen in all the spheres ; 
 
 Upon the fix'd stars' vast dimensions 
 
 A wonder more unparallel'd 
 
 (Which Archimede, so long ago. 
 
 Than erer mortal tube beheld ; 
 
 Durst not presume to ^vish to do), 
 
 An elephant from one of those 
 
 And prove if they are other suns, 
 
 Two mighty armies is broke loose. 
 
 As some have held opinions, 
 
 And with the horror of the fight 
 
 Or windows in the empyreum. 
 
 Appears amaz'd, and in a fright : 
 
 From whence those bright efiluvias come 
 
 Look quickly, lest the sight of us 
 
 Like flames of fire (as others guess) 
 
 Should cause the startled beast t' emboss. 
 
 That shine i' th' mouths of furnaces. 
 
 It is a large one, far more great 
 
 Nor is this all we have achiev'd. 
 
 Than e'er was bred in Afric yet. 
 
 But more, henceforth to be believ'd. 
 
 From which we boldly may infer 
 
 And have no more our best designs. 
 
 The moon is much the fruitfuller. 
 
 Because they're ours, believ'd ill signs. 
 
 And since the mighty Pyrrhus brought 
 
 T' out-throw, and stretch, and to enlarge, , 
 
 Those living castles first, 'tis thought, 
 
 Shall now no more be laid t' our charge ; 
 
 Against the Romans in the field, 
 
 Nor shall our ablest virtuosis 
 
 It may an argument be held 
 
 Prove arguments for coffee-houses ; 
 
 (Arcadia being but a piece, 
 
 Nor those devices, that are laid 
 
 As his dominions were, of Greece), 
 
 Too truly on us, nor those made 
 
 To prove what this illustrious person 
 
 Hereafter, gain belief among 
 
 Has made so noble a discourse on, 
 
 Our strictest judges, right or wrong : 
 
 And amply satisfied us all 
 
 Nor shall our past misfortunes more 
 
 Of th' Prevolvans' original. 
 
 Be charg'd upon the ancient score ; 
 
 That elephants are in the moon, 
 
 No more our making old dogs young 
 
 Though we had now discover'd none, 
 
 Make men suspect us still i' th' wrong ; 
 
 Is easily made manifest, 
 
 Nor new invented chariots draw 
 
 Since, from the greatest to the least, 
 
 The boys to course us without law ; 
 
 All other stars and constellations 
 
 Nor putting pigs t' a bitch to nurse. 
 
 Have cattle of all sorts of nations, 
 
 To turn 'em into mongrel curs. 
 
 And heaven, like a Tartar's hoard, 
 
 Make them suspect our skulls are brittle, 
 
 With great and numerous droves is stor'd ; 
 
 And hold too much ^vit, or too little ; 
 
 And if the moon produce by nature 
 
 Nor shall our speculations, whether 
 
 A people of so vast a stature, 
 
 An elder- stick will save the leather 
 
 'Tia consequent she should bring forth 
 
 Of schoolboy's breeches from the rod, 
 
 Far greater beasts, too, than the earth 
 
 Make all we do appear as odd. 
 
 (As by the best accounts appears 
 
 This one discovery's enough 
 
 Of all our great'st discoverers), 
 
 To take all former scandals off : 
 
From 1649 io 1689.] 
 
 THE ELEPHANT IN THE MOON. 
 
 i 
 
 [Samuel Butler. 
 
 But since the world 's incredulous 
 
 Of all our scrutinies, and us, 
 
 And with a prejudice prevents 
 
 Our best and worst experiments 
 
 (As if they were destin'd to miscarry, 
 
 In concert tried, or solitary), 
 
 And since it is uncertain when 
 
 Such wonders will occur again, 
 
 Let us as cautiously contrive 
 
 To draw an exact narrative 
 
 Of what we ev'ry one can swear 
 
 Our eyes themselves have seen appear. 
 
 That, when we publish the account. 
 
 We all may take our oaths upon't." 
 
 This said, they all with one consent 
 Agreed to draw up th' instrument, 
 And,' for the gen'ral satisfaction. 
 To print it in the next transaction ; 
 But whilst the chiefs were drawing up 
 This strange memoir o' th' telescope, 
 One, peeping in the tube by chance. 
 Beheld the elephant advance, 
 And from the Avest side of the moon 
 To th' east was in a moment gone. 
 This being related, gave a stop 
 To what the rest were drawing up ; 
 And ev'ry man, amaz'd anew 
 How it could possibly be true, 
 That any beast should run a race 
 So monstrous, in so short a space, 
 Eesolv'd, howe'er, to make it good, 
 At least as possible as he could. 
 And rather his own eyes condemn, 
 Than question what he 'ad seen with them. 
 
 While all were thus resolv'd, a man 
 Of great renoAvn there, thus began : — 
 " 'Tis .strange, I grant, but who can say 
 What cannot be — what can — and may ? 
 Especially at so hugely vast 
 A distance as this wonder's plac'd. 
 Where the least error of the sight 
 May show things false, but never right ; 
 Nor can we try them, so far off, 
 By any sublunary proof : 
 For who can say that Nature there 
 Has the same laws she goes by here ? 
 Nor is it like she has infus'd. 
 In ev'ry species there produc'd, 
 The same efiforts she does confer 
 Upon the same productions here, 
 Since those with us, of sev'ral nations, 
 Have such prodigious variations, 
 And she affects so much to use 
 Variety in all she does. 
 Hence may b' inferr'd that, though I grant 
 We've seen i' th' moon an elephant, 
 That elephant may differ so 
 From those upon the earth below. 
 Both in his bulk, and force, and speed, 
 As being of a diff'rent breed, 
 That though our own are but slow-pac'd. 
 Theirs there may fly, or run as fast, 
 And yot be elephants no less 
 Than those of Indian pedigrees." 
 
 This said, another of great worth, 
 Fam'd for his learned works put forth, 
 
 Look'd wise, then said : — "All this is true, 
 
 And learnedly observ'd by you ; 
 
 But there 's another reason fpr 't, 
 
 That falls but very little short 
 
 Of mathematic demonstration, 
 
 Upon an accurate calculation ; 
 
 And that is — as the earth and raomi - 
 
 Do both move contrary upon 
 
 Their axes, the rapidity 
 
 Of both their motions cannot be 
 
 But so prodigiously fast, 
 
 That vaster spaces may be past 
 
 In less time than the beast has gone, 
 
 Though he'd no motion of his own. 
 
 Which we can take no measui-o of. 
 
 As you have clear' d by learned proof. 
 
 This granted, we may boldly thence 
 
 Lay claim t' a nobler inference. 
 
 And make this great phenomenon 
 
 (Were there no other) serve alone 
 
 To clear the grand hypothesis 
 
 Of th' motion of the earth from this." 
 
 With this they all were satisfied, 
 As men are wont o' th' bias'd side, 
 Applauded the profound dispute. 
 And grew more gay and resolute, 
 By having overcome all doubt, 
 Than if it never had fall'n out ; 
 And, to complete their narrative, 
 Agreed t' insert this strange retrieve. 
 
 But while they were diverted all 
 With wording the memorial, 
 The footboys, for diversion too, 
 As having nothing else to do, 
 Seeing the telescope at leisure, 
 Tum'd virtuosis for their pleasure : 
 Began to gaze upon the moon, 
 As those they waited on had done, 
 With monkeys' ingenvuty. 
 That love to practise what they see ; 
 When one, whose turn it was to peep, 
 Saw something in the engine creep. 
 And, viewing well, discover'd more 
 Than all the learn' d had done before. 
 Quoth he : — " A little thing is slunk 
 Into the long star-gazing trunk, 
 And now is gotten down so nigh, 
 I have him just against mine eye." 
 
 This being overheard by one 
 Who was not so far overgrown 
 In any virtuous speculation, * 
 To judge with mere imagination. 
 Immediately he made a guess 
 At solving all appearances, 
 A way far more significant 
 Than all their hints of th' elephant, 
 And found, upon a second view. 
 His own hj'pothesis most true ; 
 For he had scarce applied his eye 
 To th' engine, but immediately 
 He found a mouse was gotten in 
 The hollow tube, and, shut betAveen 
 The two glass windows in restraint, 
 Was swell'd into an elephant. 
 And prov'd the virtuous occasion 
 Of all this learned dissertation : 
 
Samuel Butler.] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 And, as a mountain heretofore 
 Was great with child they say, and bore 
 A silly mouse ; this mouse, as strange, 
 Brought forth a mountain in exchange. 
 
 Meanwhile, the rest in consultation 
 Had penn'd the wonderful narration, 
 And set their hands, and seals, and wit, 
 T' attest the truth of what they 'ad writ, 
 When this accurs'd phenomenon 
 Confounded all they 'd said or done : 
 For 'twas no sooner hinted at, 
 But they all were in a tumult straight, 
 More furiously enrag'd by far, 
 Than those that in the moon made war. 
 To find so admirable a hint, 
 "When they had all agreed to have seen't, 
 And were engag'd to make it out, 
 Obstructed with a paltry doubt. 
 
 This being resolv'd, they, one by one, 
 Review'd the tube, the mouse, and moon 
 But still the narrower they pried, 
 The more they were unsatisfied, 
 In no one thing they saw agreeing, 
 As if they 'ad sev'ral faiths of seeing ; 
 Some swore, upon a second Adew, 
 That all they 'ad seen before was true, 
 And that they never would recant 
 One syllable of th' elephant ; 
 Avow'd his snout could be no mouse's, 
 But a true elephant's proboscis. 
 Others began to doubt and waver. 
 Uncertain which o' th' two to favour, 
 And knew not whether to espouse 
 The cause of th' elephant or mouse. 
 Some held no way so orthodox 
 To try it, as the ballot-box. 
 And, like the nation's patriots, 
 To find or make the truth by votes : 
 Others conceiv'd it much more fit 
 T' unmount the tube and open it. 
 And, for their private satisfaction, 
 To re-examine the transaction, 
 And after, explicate the rest 
 As they should find cause for the best. 
 
 To this, as th' only expedient, 
 The whole assembly gave consent ; 
 But ere the tube was half let down. 
 It clear' d tjie first phenomenon ; 
 For, at the end, prodigious swarms 
 Of flies and gnats, like men in arms, 
 Had all pass'd muster, by mischance. 
 Both for the Sub- and Pre vol vans. 
 This being discover' d, put them all 
 Into a fresh and fiercer brawl, 
 Asham'd that men so grave and wise 
 Should be chaldes'd by gnats and flies, 
 And take the feeble insects' swarms 
 For mighty troops of men at arms ; 
 As vain as those who, when the moon 
 Bright in a crystal river shone, 
 Threw casting nets as subtily at her, 
 To catch and pull her out o' the water. 
 But when they had unscrew' d the glass, 
 To find out where the impostor was, 
 
 And saw the mouse that, by mishap, 
 
 Had made the telescope a trap, 
 
 Amaz'd, confounded, and afflicted, 
 
 To be so openly convicted, 
 
 Immediately they get them gone, 
 
 With this discovery alone, 
 
 That those who greedily pursue 
 
 Things wonderful, instead of true. 
 
 That in their speculations choose 
 
 To make discoveries strange news, 
 
 And natural history a gazette 
 
 Of tales stupendous and far-fet ; 
 
 Hold no truth worthy to be known. 
 
 That is not huge and overgrown. 
 
 And explicate appearances. 
 
 Not as they are, but as they please ; 
 
 In vain strive nature to suborn. 
 
 And, for their pains, are paid with scorn. 
 
 Samuel Butler.^Born 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 644.— MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 
 
 The truest characters of ignorance 
 Are vanity, and pride, and arrogance ; 
 As blind men used to bear their noses higher 
 Than those that have their eyes and sight 
 entire. 
 
 All wit and fancy, like a diamond. 
 The more exact and curious 'tis ground. 
 Is foro'd for every carat to abate 
 As much in value as it wants in weight. 
 
 Love is too great a happiness 
 For wretched mortals to possess ; 
 For could it hold inviolate 
 Against those cruelties of fate 
 Which all felicities below 
 By rigid laws are subject to, 
 It would become a bliss too high 
 For perishing mortality ; 
 Translate to earth the joys above. 
 For nothing goes to Heaven but Love. 
 All love at first, like generous ^vine. 
 Ferments and frets until 'tis fine ; 
 For when 'tis settled on the lee, 
 And from the impurer matter free. 
 Becomes the richer still the older. 
 And proves the pleasanter the colder. 
 
 As at the approach .of winter, all 
 
 The leaves of great trees use to fall, 
 
 And leave them naked, to engage 
 
 With storms and tempests when they rage, 
 
 While humbler plants are found to wear 
 
 Their fresh gi-een liveries all the year ; 
 
From 1^49 to 1G89.] 
 
 INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. 
 
 [Charles Cotton. 
 
 So when their glorious season's gone 
 With great men, and hard times come on, 
 The greatest calamities oppress 
 The greatest still, and spare the less. 
 
 In Home no temple was so low 
 As that of Honour, built to show 
 How humble honour ought to be, 
 Though there 'twas all authority. 
 
 All smatterers are more brisk and pert 
 Than those that understand an art ; 
 As little sparkles shine more bright 
 Than glowing coals that give them light. 
 
 Samuel Bidlcr.—Born 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 645.— TO HIS MISTEESS. 
 
 Do not Tinjustly blame 
 
 My guiltless breast, 
 Por venturing to disclose a flame 
 
 It had so long supprest. 
 In its own ashes it design' d 
 
 For ever to have lain ; 
 But that my sighs, like blasts of wind, 
 
 Made it break out again. 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Boryi 1612, Died 1680. 
 
 646.— THE NEW YEAE. 
 
 Hark ! the cock crows, and yon bright star 
 
 Tells us the day himself 's not far ; 
 
 And see, where, breaking from the night, 
 
 He gilds the western hiUs with light. 
 
 With him old Janus doth appear, 
 
 Peeping into the future year, 
 
 With such a look as seems to say 
 
 The prospect is not good that way. 
 
 Thus do we rise ill sights to see," 
 
 And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy ; 
 
 When the prophetic fear of things 
 
 A more tormenting mischief brings. 
 
 More full of soul-tormenting gall 
 
 Than direst miscliiefs can befaU. 
 
 But stay ! but stay ! methinks my sight, 
 
 Better inform' d by clearer Hght, 
 
 Discerns sereneness in that brow. 
 
 That all contracted seem'd but now. 
 
 His reversed face may show distaste. 
 
 And frown upon the ills are past ; 
 
 But that which this way looks is clear, 
 
 And smiles upon the New-bom Year. 
 
 He looks, too, from a place so high, 
 
 The year lies open to his eye ; 
 
 And all the moments open are 
 
 To the exact discoverer. 
 
 Yet more and more he smiles upon 
 
 The happy revolution. 
 
 ■Why should we then suspect or fear 
 
 The influences of a year, 
 
 So smiles upon us the first mom, 
 
 And speaks us good as soon as born_? _ 
 
 Plague on't ! the last was ill enough, 
 
 Tliis cannot but make better proof ; 
 
 Or, at the worst, as we brush' d through 
 
 The last, why so we may this too ; 
 
 And then the next in reason should 
 
 Be super-excellently good : 
 
 For the worst ills, we daily see, 
 
 Have no more perpetuity 
 
 Than the best fortunes that do fall ; 
 
 Which also brings us wherewithal 
 
 Longer their being to support, 
 
 Than those do of the other sort : 
 
 And who has one good year in three. 
 
 And yet repines at destiny. 
 
 Appears ungrateful in the case, 
 
 And merits not the good he has. 
 
 Then let us welcome the new guest 
 
 With lusty brimmers of the best : 
 
 Mirth always should good fortune meet. 
 
 And renders e'en disaster sweet : 
 
 And though the princess turn her back, 
 
 Let us but line ourselves with sack, 
 
 We better shall hj far hold out 
 
 TiU the next year she face about. 
 
 Charles Qotton.—Born 1630, Died 1687. 
 
 647.— INA^ITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. 
 
 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime. 
 Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, 
 
 We pass away the roughest time 
 Has been of many years before ; 
 
 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
 The chillest blasts our peace invade. 
 
 And by great rains our smallest brooks 
 Are almost navigable made ; 
 
 Whilst aU the ills are so improv'd 
 Of this dead quarter of the year. 
 
 That even you, so much belov'd, 
 
 We would not now wish with us here: 
 
 In this estate, I say, it is 
 
 Some comfort to us to suppose, 
 That in a better clime than this. 
 
 You, our dear friend, have more repose ; 
 
 And some dehght to me the while, 
 
 Though nature now does weep in rain. 
 
 To think that I have seen her smile, 
 And haply may I do again. 
 
 If the all-ruling Power please 
 
 We live to seq another May, 
 We'll recompense an age of these 
 
 Foul days in one fine fishing day. 
 
Charles Cotton.] 
 
 THE EETIREMENT. 
 
 Fourth Period. 
 
 We then shall have a day or two, 
 
 Perhaps a week, wherein to try 
 What the best master's hand can do 
 
 With the most deadly killing fly. 
 
 A day with not too bright a beam ; 
 
 A warm, but not a scorching sun ; 
 A southern gale to curl the stream ; 
 
 And, master, half our work is done. 
 
 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 
 
 The scaly people to betray, 
 We'U prove it just, with treacherous bait. 
 
 To make the preying trout our prey ; 
 
 And think ourselves, in such an hour, 
 Happier than those, though not so high. 
 
 Who, like leviathans, devour 
 Of meaner men the smaller fry. 
 
 This, my best friend, at my poor home, 
 Shall be our pastime and our theme ; 
 
 But then — should you not deign to come, 
 You make all this a flattering dream. 
 
 Charles Cotton.— Born 1630, ]>icd 1687. 
 
 648.— THE EETIREMENT. 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, and may 
 We never meet again ; 
 Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, 
 And do more good in one short day 
 Than he who his whole age out-wears 
 
 Upon the most conspicuous theatres, 
 
 AVliere nought but vanity and vice appears. 
 Good God ! how sweet are all things here I 
 How beautiful the fields appear ! 
 
 How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
 Lord ! what good hours do wje keep ! 
 How qiuetly we sleep ! 
 
 What peace, what unanimity ! 
 How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
 
 Is all our business, all our recreation ! 
 
 Oh, how happy here's our leisure ! 
 Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 
 O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 
 O ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 
 How I love, at liberty, 
 By turns to come and visit ye ! 
 
 Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend, 
 That man acquainted with himself dost make, 
 And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 
 With thee I here converse at wiU, 
 And would be glad to do so still. 
 For it is thou alone that koep'st the soul 
 awake. 
 
 HoAv calm and quiet a delight 
 
 Is it, alone, 
 To read, and meditate, and write, 
 
 By none offended, and offending none ! 
 
 To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own 
 ease. 
 And, pleasing a man's self, none other to 
 displease. 
 
 my beloved nymph, fair Dove, 
 Princess of rivers, how I love 
 
 Upon thy flowery banks to lie, 
 And view thy silver stream. 
 When gilded by a summer's beam I 
 And in it all thy wanton fry. 
 
 Playing at liberty ; 
 And with my angle, iipon them 
 The all of treachery 
 
 1 ever learn' d, industriously to try ! 
 
 Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot 
 
 show ; 
 The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po, 
 The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 
 Are puddle water all compared with thine ; 
 And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 
 With thine, much purer to compare ; 
 The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
 Are both too mean. 
 
 Beloved Dove, with thee 
 
 To vie priority ; 
 Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, 
 And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 
 
 my beloved rocks, that rise 
 
 To awe the earth and brave the skies, 
 
 From some aspiring mountain's crown, 
 
 How dearly do I love, 
 Giddy with pleasure, to look down ; 
 And, from the vales, to view the noble heights 
 
 above ! 
 O my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat, 
 And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 
 Wliat safety, privacy, what true delight. 
 In the artificial night, . 
 
 Your gloomy entrails make. 
 
 Have I taken, do I take ! 
 How oft, when grief has made me fly, 
 To hide me from society. 
 E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 
 
 In your recesses' friendly shade, 
 
 All my sorrows open laid. 
 And my most secret woes intrusted to your 
 privacy ! 
 
 Lord ! would men let me alone. 
 What an over-happy one 
 
 ShoiUd I think myself to be ; 
 Might I in this desert place 
 (Which most men in discourse disgrace) 
 
 Live Imt undisturb'd and free ! 
 Here, in this despis'd recess, 
 
 Woidd I, maugre winter's cold. 
 And the summer's worst excess, 
 Try to live out to sixty full years old ; 
 
 And, all the while, 
 
 Without an envious eye 
 
 On any thriving under fortune's smile. 
 Contented live, and then contented die. 
 
 Charles Cotton.— Bom 1630, Bled 1687. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQE. [Charles Cotton. 
 
 649.— A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN 
 BURLESQUE. 
 
 The lives of frail men arc compared by the 
 
 sages 
 Or unto short journies, or pilgrimages, 
 As men to their inns do come sooner or 
 
 later, 
 That is, to their ends (to be plain in my 
 
 matter) ; 
 From whence, when one dead is, it currently 
 
 follows, 
 He has run his race, though his goal be the 
 
 gallows : 
 And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a madding, 
 And makes men and women so eager of 
 
 gadding ; 
 Truth is, in my youth I was one of these 
 
 people 
 Would have gone a great waj' to have seen an 
 
 high steeple, 
 And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders 
 
 o' th' Peak,' 
 "Would have thrown away money, and A-entureJ 
 
 my neck 
 To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, 
 And though there was nothing so pleasant and 
 
 brave : 
 But at forty years old you may (if you please) 
 Tlxink me wiser than run such errands as 
 
 Or had the same humour still ran in my toes, 
 A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have 
 
 chose ; 
 But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was 
 
 neither 
 Improvement nor pleasure for which I wont 
 
 thither ; 
 1 know then you'll presently ask me for what ? 
 Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman 
 
 trot ; 
 And therefore I think I'm not much to be 
 
 blamed 
 If I went to the place whereof Nick was 
 
 ashamed. 
 O Coryate ! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, 
 In such a stupendous labour as this is, 
 Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy 
 
 feet, 
 Though the first be pedantic, the other not 
 
 sweet. 
 Yet both are so restless in peregrination, 
 They'll help both my journey, and eke my 
 
 relation. 
 'Twas now the most beautiful time of the 
 
 year, 
 The days were now long, and the sky was now 
 
 clear, 
 And IMay, that fair lady of splendid renown. 
 Had dress'd herself fine, in her flower' d tabby 
 
 gown. 
 When about some two hours and a half after 
 
 noon, 
 When it grew something late, though I thought 
 
 it too soon. 
 
 With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, 
 I tuned up my pipes to sing " loth to depart ;" 
 The ditty concluded, I call'd for my horse, 
 And A\ith a good pack did the jument en- 
 dorse, 
 TiU he groan' d and he f — d under the burden, 
 Eor sorrow had made me a cumbersome 
 
 lurden : 
 And now farewell Dove, where I've caught 
 
 such brave dishes 
 Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes ; 
 Thy trout and thy grailing may now feed 
 
 securely, 
 I've left none behind me can take 'em so 
 
 surely ; 
 Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, 
 But if I return I expect my arrear. 
 
 By pacing and trotting betimes in tlie 
 
 even, 
 Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the 
 
 Heaven, 
 We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, 
 Where the sign of a king kept a king and his 
 
 queen : 
 But who do you think came to welcome me 
 
 there ? 
 No worse a man, marry, than good master 
 
 mayor, 
 With his staff of command, yet the man was 
 
 not lame, 
 But he needed it more when he went, than lie 
 
 came; 
 After three or four hours of friendly potation 
 We took leave each of other in courtoour* 
 
 fashion, 
 When each one, to keep his brains fast in hiss 
 
 head. 
 Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to 
 
 bed. 
 Next mom, having jiaid for boil'd, roasted, 
 
 and bacon. 
 And of so»\-oreign hostess our leaves kindly 
 
 taken, 
 (For her king (as 'twas rumour'd) by lato 
 
 pouring down. 
 This morning had got a foul flaw in his 
 
 crown,) 
 We mounted again, and full soberly riding, 
 Three miles we had rid ere we met with a 
 
 biding ; 
 But there (having over-night plied the tap 
 
 well) 
 We now must needs water at place call'd 
 
 Holmes Chapel : 
 "A hay'" quoth the foremost, "ho! who 
 
 keeps the house ? " 
 Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a 
 
 louse ; 
 His hair comb'd as sleek as a barber he'd 
 
 been, 
 A cravat with black ribbon tied under his 
 
 chin ; 
 Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan 
 
 to fear 
 That knot would be one day slipp'd under his 
 
 ear. 
 
Charles Cotton.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. [Fourth Period. 
 
 Quoth he (with low conge) " What lack you, 
 
 my lord ? " 
 " The best Hquor," quoth I, " that the house 
 
 will afford." 
 "You shall straight," quoth he; and then 
 
 calls out, " Mary, 
 Come quickly, and biing us a quart of Canary." 
 " Hold, hold, my spruce host ! for 'i th' morn- 
 ing so early 
 I never drink liquor but what's made of 
 
 barley." 
 "Which words were scarce out, but, which 
 
 made me admire, 
 My lordship was presently turn'd into 'squire : 
 "Ale, 'squire, you mean ?" quoth he nimbly 
 
 again, 
 " What, must it be purl'd ?" — " No, I love it 
 
 best plain." 
 " Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, j)ray take my 
 
 advice. 
 Here's the best ale i' th' land, if j'ou'll go to 
 
 the price ; 
 Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple ; 
 But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a 
 
 bottle." 
 " Wliy, faith," quoth I, " friend, if your liquor 
 
 be such. 
 For the best ale in England it is not too 
 
 much: 
 Let's have it, and quickly." — " O sir ! you may 
 
 stay J 
 A pot in your pate is a mile in your way : 
 Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, 
 Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in liis 
 
 life." 
 Sti-aight out comes the mistress in waistcoat 
 
 of silk, 
 As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk. 
 With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, 
 As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg : 
 A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, 
 I could not forbear, but alighted end kiss'd 
 
 her : 
 Then ducking another with most modest mien. 
 The first word she said, was, " Will 't please 
 
 you walk in ?" 
 I thank 'd her ; but told her, I then could not 
 
 stay, 
 For the haste of my bus'ness did call me 
 
 away. 
 She said, she was sony it feU out so odd. 
 But if, when again I should travel that road, 
 I would stay there a night, she assured me the 
 
 nation 
 Should nowhere afford better accommodation : 
 Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the 
 
 cork. 
 And caU'd for a bodkin, though he had a 
 
 fork ; 
 But I Khow'd him a screw, which I told my 
 
 brisk gull 
 A trepan was for bottles had broken their 
 
 scull ; 
 Which, as it was true, he believed -svithout 
 
 doubt. 
 But 'twas I that apply'd it, and pull'd the 
 
 cork out. 
 
 Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being 
 
 done, 
 It roar'd, and it smoked, like a new-fired 
 
 gun ; 
 But the shot miss'd us all, or else we'd been 
 
 routed. 
 Which yet was a wonder, we were so about 
 
 it. 
 Mine host pour'd and fiU'd, till ho could fill 
 
 no fuller : 
 "Look here, sir," quoth he, "both for nap 
 
 and for colour. 
 Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er 
 
 do't; 
 I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich to 
 
 boot." 
 By my troth, he said true, for I speak it mth 
 
 tears, 
 Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty 
 
 good years, 
 And have drank so much liquor as made me 
 
 a debtor. 
 In my days, that I know of, I never drank 
 
 better : 
 We found it so good, and we drank so pro- 
 foundly. 
 That four good round shillings were whipt 
 
 away roundly ; 
 And then I conceived it was time to be 
 
 jogging, 
 For our work had been done, had we stay'd 
 
 t'other noggin. 
 From thence we set forth with more mettle 
 
 and spright. 
 Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were 
 
 light; 
 O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, 
 Till our horses were basted as if they were 
 
 roasted : 
 In truth, Ave pursued might have been by our 
 
 haste, 
 And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop 
 
 so fast, 
 Till about two o'clock after noon, God be 
 
 blest. 
 We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' 
 
 west. 
 And now in high time 'twas to call for some 
 
 meat, 
 Though drinking does well, yet some time we 
 
 must cat ; 
 And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and 
 
 good. 
 Where we all laid about us as if we v/ere 
 
 wood: 
 Go thy ways, mistress Anderton, for a good 
 
 woman, 
 Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turn'd to a 
 
 common ; 
 And whoever of thy entertainment complains, 
 Let him lie with a drab, and be pox'd for his 
 
 pains. 
 And here I must stop the career of my 
 
 Muse, 
 The poor jado is weary, 'las ! how should she 
 
 choose ? 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. [Charles Cotton. 
 
 And if I should farther here spur on my 
 
 course, 
 I should, questionless, tii-e both my wits and 
 
 my horse : 
 To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's 
 
 even. 
 To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of 
 
 Heaven. 
 Thus far we our time spent, as here I have 
 
 penn'd it. 
 And odd kind of life, and 'tis weU if we mend 
 
 it; 
 But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other 
 
 bout, 
 And better or worse be't, for murder will 
 
 out, 
 Our future adventures we'll lay down before 
 
 ye, 
 
 For my Muse is deep sworn to use trath of the 
 story. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains 
 
 taken, 
 A man of himself, one would think, might 
 
 awaken ; 
 But riding, and drinking hard, were two such 
 
 spells, 
 I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells. 
 Which, ringing to matins all over the town. 
 Made me leap out of bed, and put on my 
 
 gown, 
 With intent (so God mend me) I have gone to 
 
 the choir. 
 When straight I perceived myself aU on a fire ; 
 Eor the two fore-named things had so heated 
 
 my blood, 
 That a little phlebotomy would do me good : 
 I sent for chirurgion, who came iu a trice. 
 And swift to shed blood, needed not be called 
 
 twice, 
 But tilted stUetto quite thorough the vein. 
 From whence issued out the ill humours 
 
 amain ; 
 When having twelve ounces, he bound up my 
 
 arm. 
 And I gave him two Georges, which did him 
 
 no harm : 
 But after my bleeding, I soon understood 
 It had cool'd my devotion as weU as my 
 
 blood ; 
 For I had no more mind to look on my psalter. 
 Than (saving your presence) I had to a 
 
 halter ! 
 But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner. 
 Then sat in my chamber till folks came to 
 
 dinner : 
 I dined with good stomach, and very good 
 
 cheer. 
 With a very fine woman, and good ale and 
 
 beer ; 
 When myself having stuff' d than a bagpipe 
 
 more full, 
 I fell to my smoking until I grew dull ; 
 
 And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it 
 
 best, 
 For when beUy full is, bones would be at 
 
 rest : 
 I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, 
 Where, O ! the delicious dream that I had ! 
 TUl the bells, that had been my- morning 
 
 molesters, 
 Now waked me again, cliiming aU in to 
 
 vespers ; 
 With that starting up, for my man I did 
 
 whistle, 
 And comb'd oiit and powder' d my locks that 
 
 were grizzle ; 
 Had my clothes neatly brush' d, and then put 
 
 on my sword ; 
 Resolved now to go and attend on the word. 
 Thus trick'd, and thus trim, to set forth I 
 
 begin, 
 Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly 
 
 within; 
 For why. Heaven knows it, I long time had 
 
 been 
 A most humble obedient servant to sin : 
 And now in devotion was even so proud, 
 I scorned (forsooth) to join pray'r with the 
 
 crowd ; 
 For though courted by all the bells as I went, 
 I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, 
 But to the cathedral still held on my pace, 
 As 'twere, scorning to kneel but in the best 
 
 place. 
 I there made myself sure of good music at 
 
 least, 
 But was something deceived, for 'twas none 
 
 of the best ; 
 But however, I stay'd at the church's com- 
 manding 
 Till we came to the " Peace passes all under- 
 standing," 
 Which no sooner was ended, but whir and 
 
 away, ^ 
 Like boys in a school when they've leave got 
 
 to play, 
 AU save master mayor, who still gravely 
 
 stays 
 Till the rest had left room for his worship 
 
 and 's mace : 
 Then he and his brethren in order appear, 
 I out of my stall, and fell into his rear ; 
 For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no 
 
 doubt, 
 In authority's taU, than the head of a rout. 
 In this rev' rend order we marched from 
 
 pray'r ; 
 The mace before me borne as well as the 
 
 may'r ; 
 Who looking behind him, and seeing most 
 
 plain 
 A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, 
 Made such a low conge, forgetting his place, 
 I was never so honour' d before in my days : 
 But then off went my scalp-case, and down 
 
 went my fist. 
 Till the pavement, too hard, l^y my knuckles 
 
 was kiss'd ; 
 
Charles Cotton.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. [Fourth Pbbiod.— 
 
 — . — ____ 
 
 By which, though thick-skull'd, he must under- 
 stand this, 
 That I was a most humble servant of his ; 
 Which also so wonderful kindly he took, 
 (As I well perceived both b' his gesture and 
 
 look,) 
 That to have me dogg'd home he straightway 
 
 appointed, 
 Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. 
 I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on 
 
 crupper, 
 But his man was there too, to invite me to 
 
 supper : 
 I start up, and after most respective fashion 
 Gave his worship much thanks for his kind in- 
 vitation ; 
 But begg'd his excuse, for my stomach was 
 
 small. 
 And I never did eat any supper at aU ; 
 But that after supper I would kiss his hands. 
 And would come to receive his worship's 
 
 commands, 
 Sure no one "will say, but a patron of slander. 
 That this was not pretty well for a Moor- 
 lander : 
 And since on such reasons to sup I refused, 
 I nothing did doubt to be holden excused ; 
 But my quaint repartee had his worship 
 
 possess' d 
 With so wonderful good a conceit of the 
 
 "rest. 
 That with more impatience he hop'd in his 
 
 breeches 
 To see the fine fellow that made such fine 
 
 speeches : 
 " Go, sirrah !" quoth he, " get you to him 
 
 again. 
 And will and require, in his Majesty's name, 
 That he come ; and tell him, obey he were 
 
 best, or 
 I'll teach him to know that he's now in West 
 
 Chester." 
 The man, upon this, comes me running again. 
 But yet minced his message, and was not so 
 
 plain ; 
 Saying to me only, " Good sir, I am sorry 
 To tell you my master has sent again for 
 
 you; 
 And has such a longing to have you his guest. 
 That I, with these ears, heard him swear and 
 
 protest. 
 He would neither say grace, nor sit down on 
 
 his bum. 
 Nor open his napkin, until you do come." 
 With that I perceived no excuse would avail. 
 And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, 
 I !iaid I was ready master may'r to obey. 
 And therefore desired him to lead me the 
 
 way. 
 We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her 
 
 car, 
 (For it but the next door was, forsooth) we 
 
 were there ; 
 Wliero lights being brought me, I mounted 
 
 the stairs. 
 The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's : 
 
 But every thing else must be highly com- 
 mended. 
 I there found his worship most nobly at- 
 tended. 
 Besides such a supper as well did convince, 
 A may'r in his province to be a great prince ; 
 As he sat in his chair he did not much vary 
 In state nor in face from our eighth English 
 
 Harry; 
 But whether his face was swell' d up with fat. 
 Or puff'd up with glory, I cannot tell that. 
 Being enter' d the chamber half length of a 
 
 pike, 
 And cutting of faces exceedingly like 
 One of those little gentlemen brought from 
 
 the Indies, 
 And screwing myself into conges and cringes, 
 By then I was halfway advanced in the 
 
 room, 
 His worship most rev'rendly rose from his 
 
 bum, 
 And with the more honour to grace and to 
 
 greet me, 
 Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet 
 
 me ; 
 Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester. 
 He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. 
 I thank' d him in language the best I was 
 
 able, 
 And so we forthwith sat us all doAvn to table. 
 Now here you must note, and 'tis worth ob- 
 servation, 
 That as his chair at one end o' th' table had 
 
 station, 
 So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such 
 
 another. 
 Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at 
 
 the other ; 
 By which I perceived, though it seemed a 
 
 riddle, 
 The lower end of this must be just in the 
 
 middle : 
 But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that 
 
 would mind it 
 Amongst the town- statutes 'tis likely might 
 
 find it. 
 But now into th' pottage each deep his spoon 
 
 claps. 
 As in truth one might safely for burning one's 
 
 chaps, 
 "When straight, with the look and the tone of 
 
 a scold. 
 Mistress may'ress complain'd that the pottage 
 
 was cold ; 
 " And all long of your fiddle-faddle," quoth 
 
 she. 
 " Why, what then. Goody Two-Shoes, what if 
 
 it be ? 
 Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle," 
 
 (juoth he. 
 I was glad she was snapp'd thus, and guess' d 
 
 by th' discourse, 
 The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better 
 
 horse, 
 And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, 
 She submitted but out of respect to his year : 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BUELESQUE. [Charles Cotton. 
 
 However, 'twas well she had now so much 
 
 grace, 
 Though not to the man, to submit to his 
 
 place ; 
 For had she proceeded, I verily thought 
 My turn would the next be, for I was in fault : 
 But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, 
 And ev'ry one there fill'd his belly in quiet. 
 
 Supper being ended, and things away taken. 
 Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken ; 
 Wherefore, making me draw something nearer 
 
 his chair. 
 He will'd and required me there to declare 
 My country, my birth, my estate, and my 
 
 parts. 
 And whether I was not a master of arts ; 
 And eke what the bus'ness was had brought 
 
 me thither, 
 "With what I wag going about now, and 
 
 whither : 
 Giving me caution no lie should escape me. 
 For if I should trip he should certainly trap 
 
 me. 
 I answer'd, my country was famed Stafford- 
 shire ; 
 That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever 
 
 writ squire ; 
 That of land I had both sorts, some good, and j With his rays he so tickled my lids that I 
 
 some evil, i waked, 
 
 But that a great part on't was pawn'd to the i And was half ashamed, for I found myself 
 
 In short, then, we piped and we tippled 
 Canary, 
 
 Till my watch pointed one in the circle 
 horary ; 
 
 When, thinking it now was high time to de- 
 part, 
 
 His worship I thank' d with a most grateful 
 heart ; 
 
 And because to great men presents are accept- 
 able, 
 
 I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the 
 table, 
 
 With a certain fantastical box and a stopper ; 
 
 And ho having kindly accepted my offer, 
 
 I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, 
 
 And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' 
 morning. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The Sun in the morning disclosed his light, 
 With complexion as ruddy as mine over 
 
 night ; 
 And o'er the eastern mountains peeping up 's 
 
 head, 
 The casement being open, espied me in bed ; 
 
 Devil; 
 That as for my parts, they were such as he 
 
 saw; 
 That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of 
 
 law. 
 Which I lately had got more by practice than 
 
 reading. 
 By sitting o' th' bench whilst others were 
 
 pleading ; 
 But that arms I had ever more studied than 
 
 arts, 
 And was now to a captain raised by my 
 
 deserts ; 
 That the bus'ness which led me through 
 
 Palatine ground 
 Into Ireland was whither now I was bound ; 
 "^Vhere his worship's great favour I loud will 
 
 proclaim, 
 And in all other places wherever I came. 
 He said, as to that, I might do what I list. 
 But that I was welcome, and gave me his 
 
 fist; 
 WTien, having my fingers made crack with his 
 
 gripes. 
 He call'd to his man for some bottles and 
 
 pipes. 
 To trouble you here with a longer narra- 
 tion 
 Of the several parts of our confabulation. 
 Perhaps would bo tedious ; I'll therefore remit 
 
 ye 
 
 Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, 
 Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are 
 
 recorded. 
 And if not more truly, yet much better 
 
 worded. 
 
 naked ; 
 But up I soon start, and was dress' d in a 
 
 trice. 
 And call'd for a draught of ale, sugar, and 
 
 spice ; 
 Which having turn'd off, I then call to pay, 
 And packing my nawls, whipp'd to horse, and 
 
 away. 
 A guide I had got, who demanded great vails 
 For conducting me over the mountains of 
 
 Wales : 
 Twenty good shillings, which sure very large 
 
 is ; 
 Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his 
 
 charges ; 
 And yet, for all that, rode astride on a beast. 
 The worst that e'er went on three legs, I pro- 
 test : 
 It certainly was the most ugly of jades, 
 His hips and his rump made a right ace of 
 
 His sides were two ladders, well spur-gall'd 
 
 withal ; 
 His neck was a helve, and his head was a 
 
 mall ; 
 For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll 
 
 spare. 
 For the creature was wholly denuded of 
 
 hair ; 
 And, except for two things, as bare as my 
 
 nail, 
 A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail ; 
 And by these the true colour one can no more 
 
 know. 
 Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin 
 
 below. 
 
 S7 
 
Charles Cotton.] A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 Now such as the beast was, even such was the 
 
 ridei', 
 With a head like a nutmeg-, and leg's like a 
 
 spider ; 
 A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, 
 The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat. 
 Even such was my gnide and his beast ; let 
 
 them pass, 
 The one for a horse, and the other an ass. 
 But now with our horses, what sound and 
 
 what rotten, 
 Down to the shore, you must know, v.'^e were 
 
 gotten ; 
 And there we were told it concern' d us to 
 
 ride, 
 Unless we did mean to encounter the tide ; 
 And then, my gviide lab'ring Avith heels and 
 
 with hands. 
 With two up and one doAvn hopp'd over the 
 
 sands, 
 Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs 
 
 too sore, 
 Fol'd out a new leg, and then he had four : 
 And now by plain dint of hard spurring and 
 
 whipping. 
 Dry shod we came where folks sometimes take 
 
 shipping ; 
 And where the salt sea, as the Devil were 
 
 in't, 
 Came roaring t' have hinder' d our journey to 
 
 Fhnt; 
 But we, by good luck, before him got thither, 
 He else would have carried us no man knows 
 
 whither. 
 And now her in Wales is, saint Taph be her 
 
 speed, 
 Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her 
 
 had need ; 
 
 For her ride in great haste, and * * 
 
 For fear of her being catch' d up by the 
 
 fishes : 
 But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a 
 
 louse. 
 For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his 
 
 house ; 
 But in a small house near unto't there was 
 
 store 
 Of such ale as (thank God) I ne'er tasted be- 
 fore ; 
 And surely the Welsh are not wise of their 
 
 fuddle, 
 For this had the taste and complexion of 
 
 puddle. 
 From thence then we march' d, fuU as dry as 
 
 we came, 
 My guide before prancing, his steed no more 
 
 lame, 
 O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and un- 
 even, 
 Until, 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven. 
 More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well 
 
 tell, 
 We happily came to St. Winifred's well : 
 I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, 
 By the cripples lay there ; but I went to my 
 
 inn 
 
 To speak for some meat, for so stomach did 
 
 motion, 
 Before I did farther proceed in devotion : 
 I went into th' kitchen, where victuals ^ 
 
 saw, 
 Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on't v.-as 
 
 raw; 
 And some on't aHve, but soon went to 
 
 slaughter, 
 For four chickens were slain hj ray dame and 
 
 her daughter ; 
 Of which to saint Win, ere mj' vows I had 
 
 paid, 
 They said I should find a rare fricassee made : 
 I thank' d them, and straight to the well did 
 
 repair, 
 Where some I found cursing, and others at 
 
 pray'r ; 
 Some dressing, some stripping, some out, and 
 
 some in. 
 Some naked, where botches and boils might 
 
 be seen ; 
 Of which some were fevers of Venus, I'm 
 
 sure, 
 j And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure : 
 I But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the 
 I sight, 
 
 The beautiful virgin's own tears not more 
 
 bright ; 
 Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, 
 Her conscience, her name, nor herself were 
 
 more clear. 
 In the bottom there lie certain stones that 
 
 look white, 
 But streak' d with pure red, as the morning 
 
 with light, 
 Wliich they say is her blood, and so it may 
 
 be. 
 But for that, lot who shed it look to it for 
 
 me. 
 Over the fountain a chapel there stands, 
 Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's 
 
 hands ; 
 The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th* 
 
 spring 
 Is enclosed with a certain octagonal ring ; 
 From each angle of which a pillar does rise, 
 Of strength and of thickness enough to 
 
 suffice 
 To support and uphold from falling to ground 
 A cupola wherewith the virgin is crown' d. 
 Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the 
 
 north, 
 And where the cold nymph does her basin 
 
 pour forth, 
 Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 
 
 'tis said, 
 And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in 
 
 their head ; 
 For you are to know that the rogues and 
 
 the * * 
 
 Are not let to pollute the spring-head with 
 
 their sores. 
 But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, 
 That a saint and a virgin endued with such 
 
 grace. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 AGAINST FALSE PEIDE. 
 
 [Eakl op Eoscommon. 
 
 Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-wilier 
 To that whoring and filching trade of a 
 
 miller, 
 As within a few paces to furnish the wheels 
 Of I cannot tell how many water-mills : 
 I've studied that point much, you cannot 
 
 guess why, 
 But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous 
 
 than I. 
 And now, for my welcome, four, five, or six 
 
 With as many crystalline, liberal glasses, 
 Did all importune me to drink of the water 
 Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair 
 
 daughter. 
 A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, 
 Xot knowing, amidst aU that choice, where to 
 
 choose. 
 Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my 
 
 sight, 
 From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry 
 
 me quite ; 
 I took the glass from her, and whip, off it 
 
 went, 
 I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint : 
 Eut he was a great villain committed the 
 
 slaughter, 
 For St. Winifred made most delicate water. 
 I slipp'd a hard shilling into her soft hand, 
 Which had like to have made me the place 
 
 have profaned ; 
 And giving two more to the poor tliat were 
 
 there. 
 Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. 
 
 My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, 
 I never ate better moat, that I can tell ; 
 '\\Tien having half dined, there comes in my 
 
 host, 
 A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast : 
 This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, 
 And told me strange stories, which I have 
 
 forgot ; 
 But this I remember, 'twas much on's own 
 
 life, 
 And one thing, that he had converted his 
 
 wife. 
 But now my guide told me it time was to 
 
 go, 
 For that to ciu' beds we must both ride and 
 
 row ; 
 Wherefore calling to pay, and having ac- 
 counted, 
 I soon was down stairs, and as suddenly 
 
 mounted. 
 On then we travell'd, our guide still before, 
 Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on 
 
 four. 
 Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, 
 Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall 
 
 in ; 
 For, underneath, Neptune lay skidking to 
 
 watch us, 
 And, had we but slipp'd once, v^as ready to I 
 
 catch us. 
 Thus in places of danger taking more heed, 
 And in safer travelling mending our speed, 
 
 Eedland Castle and Abergoney we pass'd, 
 And o'er against Connoway came at the last : 
 Just over against a castle there stood, 
 O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left 
 
 hand a wood ; 
 'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at 
 
 high water ^ — 
 
 The storm, the place makes it a dangerous 
 
 matter ; 
 And besides, upon such a steep rock it is 
 
 founded. 
 As would break a man's neck, should he 'scape 
 
 being drowned : 
 Perhaps though in time one may make them 
 
 to yield. 
 But 'tis pretti'st Cob-castle e'er I beheld. 
 The Sun now was going t' unharness his 
 
 steeds. 
 When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst 
 
 the weeds. 
 Came in as good time, as good time could be, 
 To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea ; 
 And bestowing our horses before and abaft, 
 O'er god Neptune's wide cod- piece gave us a 
 
 waft ; 
 Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort. 
 Within very few paces we enter' d the port, 
 Where another King's Head invited me do^vn, 
 For indeed I have ever been true to the 
 
 crown. 
 
 Charles Cotton.— Born 1630, Died 1687. 
 
 650.— AGAINST FALSE PRIDE. 
 
 On sure foundations let your fabric rise, 
 And with attractive majesty surprise ; 
 Not by affected meretricious arts, 
 But strict harmonious symmetry of parts ; 
 Which through the whole insensibly must 
 
 pass 
 With vital heat, to animate the mass. 
 A pure, an active, an auspicious flame, 
 And bright as heaven, from whence the 
 
 blessing came. 
 But few — O few ! souls pre-ordain' d by fate, 
 The race of gods, have reach' d that envied 
 
 height. 
 No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, 
 By heaping hills on hills, can hither climb : 
 The grisly ferryman of hell denied 
 ^neas entrance, till he knew his guide. 
 How justly then ^vill impious mortals fall. 
 Whose pride would soar to heaven without a 
 
 call. 
 Pride (of all others the most dangerous 
 
 fault) 
 Proceeds from want of sense, or want of 
 
 thought. 
 The men who labour and digest things most. 
 Will be much apter to despond than boast ; 
 For if your author be profoundly good, 
 'T\vill cost you dear before he's understood. 
 
 27* 
 
Eabl of Eoscommon.] an AUTHOR SHOULD BE SINCERE. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 How many ages since has Virgil writ ! 
 How few are they who understand him yet ! 
 Approach his altars Avith religions fear ; 
 No vulgar deity inhabits there. 
 Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial 
 
 nod 
 Than poets should before their Mantuan god. 
 Hail mighty Maro ! may that sacred name 
 Kindle my breast -svith thy celestial flame, 
 Sublime ideas and apt words infuse ; 
 The Muse instructs my voice, and thou inspire 
 
 the Muse ! 
 
 Earl of Roscommon.— Born 1633, Died 1684 
 
 651.— AN AUTHOR SHOULD BE 
 SINCERE. 
 
 I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, 
 Compell'd by want to prostitute the pen ; 
 Who must, like lawyers, either starve or 
 
 plead, 
 And follow, light or wrong, where guineas 
 
 lead! 
 Bvit you, Pompilian, wealthy pamper'd heirs. 
 Who to your country owe your swords and 
 
 cares ; 
 Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, 
 For rich ill poets are without excuse. 
 'Tis very dangerous tampering ^vith the Muse, 
 The profit's small, and you have much to lose. 
 For though true wit adorns your birth or 
 
 place, 
 Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. 
 
 No poet any passion can excite, 
 But what they feel transport them when they 
 
 write. 
 Have you been led through the Cumsean cave. 
 And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave ? 
 I hear her now ; I see her rolling eyes ; 
 And panting, Lo, the god, the god ! she 
 
 cries : 
 With words not hers, and more than human 
 
 sound, 
 She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling 
 
 through the ground. 
 But though we must obey when Heaven com- 
 mands, 
 And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
 Beware what spirit rages in your breast ; 
 For ten inspir'd, ten thousand are possess'd : 
 Thus make the proper use of each extreme. 
 And write with fury, but correct wdth i^hlegm. 
 As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, 
 And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting 
 
 glass, 
 Your pulse advises, and begins to beat 
 Through every swelling vein a loud retreat : 
 So when a Muse propitiously invites. 
 Improve her favours, and indulge her flights ; 
 But when you find that vigorous heat abate, 
 Leave oflF, and for another summona wait. 
 
 Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, 
 Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp 
 Appear not meaner than mere human lines, 
 Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines : 
 These, nervous, bold ; those, languid and 
 
 remiss ; 
 There, cold salutes ; but here, a lover's kiss. 
 Thus have I seen a rapid, headlong tide, 
 With foaming waves the passive Saone divide, 
 Whose lazy waters without motion lay, 
 While he with eager force urg'd his impetuous 
 way! 
 Earl of Roscommon.— Born 1633, Died 1684. 
 
 652.— A QUACK. 
 
 A quack (too scandalously mean to name) 
 Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and 
 
 fame; 
 As if Lucina had forgot her trade, 
 The labousring wife invokes his surer aid. 
 Well-season'd bowls the gossip's spirits raise, 
 Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's 
 
 praise ; 
 And largely, what she wants m words, supplies 
 With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. 
 But what a thoughtless animal is man ! 
 (How very active in his o-svn trepan !) 
 For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees. 
 From female mellow praise he takes degrees ; 
 Struts in a new unlicensed go^vn, and then 
 From saving women falls to killing men. 
 Another such had left the nation thin, 
 In spite of all the children he brought in. 
 His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew, 
 And where they fell, as certainly they slew : 
 His name struck everywhere as great a damp. 
 As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. 
 With this, the doctor's pride began to cool ; 
 For smarting soundly may convince a fool. 
 But now repentance came too late for grace ; 
 And meagre famine stared him in the face : 
 Fain would he to the wives be reconciled. 
 But found no husband left to own a child. 
 The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd 
 
 too ; 
 In this sad case, what could our vermin do ? 
 Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, 
 Th' unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail ; 
 And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive. 
 Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. 
 
 Earl of Roscommon.— Born 1633, Died 1684. 
 
 653.— ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 Shall the whole world in ashes lay, 
 As David and the Sibyls say. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.-] SONG. [Eael of Eochester. 
 
 What horror will invade the mind, 
 
 
 When the strict Judge, who would be kind, 
 
 65 5 .—CONSTANCY. 
 
 Shall have few venial faults to find ! 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound. 
 
 I cannot change as others do. 
 
 Shall through the rending tombs rebound, 
 
 Though you unjustly scorn ; 
 
 And wake the nations under ground. 
 
 Since that poor swain that sighs foT yorr, 
 
 1 
 
 For you alone was bom. 
 
 Nature and Death shall, with surprise, 
 
 No, Phillis, no ; your heart to move 
 
 Behold the pale offender rise, 
 
 A surer way I'll try ; 
 
 And view the Judge with conscious eyes. 
 
 And, to revenge my shghted love. 
 
 Then shali, with universal dread. 
 
 Win still love on — will still love on, and 
 die. 
 
 The sacred mystic book be read. 
 
 To try the living and the dead. 
 
 WTien kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, 
 
 The Judge ascends his awfrd throne ; 
 He makes each secret sin be known. 
 And all with shame confess their own. 
 
 And you to mind shall call 
 The sighs that now unpitied rise. 
 
 The tears that vainly f aU ; 
 That welcome hour that ends this smart 
 
 then, what interest shall I make 
 
 Will then begin your pain. 
 
 To save my last important stake, 
 
 For such a faithful, tender heart 
 
 * Wlien the most just have cause to quake ? 
 
 Can never break — can never break in 
 vain. 
 
 Thou mighty formidable King, 
 Thou mercy's unexhausted spring, 
 
 Em-l of Rochester.— Born 1647, Bled 1680. 
 
 Some comfortable pity bring ! 
 
 
 Forget not what my ransom cost. 
 
 
 Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost 
 
 
 In storms ©f guilty terror tost. 
 
 
 * * # * 
 
 656.— SONG. 
 
 Prostrate my contrite heart I rend. 
 My God, my Father, and my Friend, 
 Do not forsake me in my end ! 
 
 Too late, alas ! I must confess. 
 You need not arts to move me ; 
 
 Such charms by nature you possess, 
 'Twere madness not to love you. 
 
 Well may they curse their second breath, 
 Who rise to a reviving death. 
 Thou great Creator of mankind, 
 
 Then spare a heart you may surprise, 
 
 And give my tongue the glory 
 To boast, though my imfaithfid eyes 
 
 Let guUty man compassion find. 
 
 Betray a tender story. 
 
 Earl of Roscommon. — Bom 1633, Died 1684. 
 
 Earl of Rochester.— Born 1647, Died 3680., 
 
 654.— SONG. 
 
 657.— SONG. 
 
 While on those lovely looks I gaze, 
 
 My dear mistress has a heart 
 
 To see a wretch pursuing, 
 
 Soft as those kind looks she gave me. 
 
 In raptures of a bless' d amaze, 
 
 When, with love's resistless art. 
 
 His pleasing, happy ruin ; 
 
 And her eyes, she did enslave me. 
 
 'Tis not for pity that I move. 
 
 But her constancy 's so weak. 
 
 His fate is too aspiring. 
 
 She's so wild and apt to wander, 
 
 Whose heart, broke with a load of love, 
 
 That my jealous heart would break. 
 
 Dies wishing and admiring. 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 But if this murder you'd forego. 
 
 Melting joys about her move. 
 
 ■| Your slave from death removing. 
 
 Killing pleasures, wounding blisses ; 
 
 K Let me your art of charming know. 
 
 She can dress her eyes in love, 
 
 f Or learn you mine of loving. 
 
 And her lips can warm with kisses. 
 
 f But whether hfe or death betide. 
 
 Angels listen when she speaks ; 
 
 In love 'tis equal measure ; 
 
 She's my delight, all mankind's wonder 
 
 The victor lives with empty pride, 
 
 But my jealous heart would break. 
 
 The vanquish' d die with pleasure. 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 Ea/rl of Bochester.—Born 1647, JXed 1680. 
 
 ife- . 
 
 Earl of Rochester.— Born 1647, Died 1680. 
 
John Dbyden.1 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 658.— EEASON. 
 
 Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars 
 To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 
 Is Reason to the sonl ; and as on high 
 Those rolling fires discover but the sky, 
 Not light us here; so Reason's glimmering 
 
 ray 
 Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 
 But guide us upward to a better day. 
 And as those nightly tapers disappear, 
 When day's bright lord ascends our hemi- 
 
 So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight ; 
 So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural 
 Hght. 
 
 John I>ryden.—Bovn 1631, Die^l700. 
 
 659.— PALAMON AND ARCITE ; OR, THE 
 KNIGHT'S TALE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 In days of old, there liv'd, of mighty fame, 
 A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name ; 
 A chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd. 
 The rising nor the setting Sun beheld. 
 Of Athens he was lord ; much land he won, 
 And added foreign countries to his crown 
 In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove, 
 Whom first by force he conquered, then by 
 
 love; 
 He brought in triumph back the beauteous 
 
 dame, 
 With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came. 
 With honour to his home let Theseus ride. 
 With Love to friend, and Fortune for liis 
 
 guide, 
 And his victorious army at his side. 
 I pass their warhke pomp, their proud array, 
 Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on 
 
 the way : 
 But, were it not too long, I would recite 
 The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight 
 Betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight ; 
 The town besieg'd, and how much blood it 
 
 cost 
 The female army and th' Athenian host ; 
 The spousals of Hippolita, the queen ; 
 What tilts and turneys at the feast were 
 
 seen; 
 The storm at their return, the ladies' fear : 
 But these, and other things, I must forbear. 
 The field is spacious I design to sow. 
 With oxen far unfit to draw the plow : 
 The remnant of my tale is of a length 
 To tire your patience, and to waste my 
 
 strength ; 
 And trivial accidents shall be forbom, 
 That others may have time to take their 
 
 turn ; 
 
 As was at first enjoin'd us by mine host, 
 That he whose tale is best, and pleases most, 
 Should win his supper at our common cost. 
 And therefore whore I left, I will pursue 
 This ancient story, whether false or true, 
 In hope it may be mended with a new. 
 The prince I mentioned, full of high renown, 
 In this array drew near th' Athenian town , 
 When, in his pomp and utmost of his pride. 
 Marching, he chanc'd to cast his eye aside, 
 And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay 
 By two and two across the common way : 
 At his approach they rais'd a rueful cry, 
 And beat their breasts, and held their hands 
 
 on high, 
 Creeping and crying, till they seiz'd at last 
 His courser's bridle, and his feet embrac'd. 
 " Tell me," said Theseus, " what and whence 
 
 you are, 
 And why this funeral j)agcant you prepare t 
 Is this the welcome of rctj worthy deeds, 
 To meet my triumph in ill-omen'd weeds ? 
 Or envy you my praise, t-nd would destroy 
 With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy ? 
 Or are you injur'd, and demand relief ? 
 Name your request, and I will ease your 
 
 grief." 
 The most in years of all the mourning train 
 Began (but swooned first away for pain) ; 
 Then scarce recover'd spoke : " Nor envj' wo 
 Thy great renown, nor gi'udge thy viqtorv ; 
 'Tis thine, O king, th' afflicted to redress. 
 And fame has fill'd the world with thy 
 
 success : 
 We, wretched women, sue for that alone, 
 Which of thy goodness is refus'd to none 
 Let fall some drops of pity on oiu* grief, 
 If what we beg be just, and we deserve 
 
 relief: 
 For none of us, who now thy grace implore, 
 But held the rank of sovereign queen before ; 
 TUl, thanks to giddy Chance, which never 
 
 bears, 
 That mortal bliss should last for length of 
 
 years, 
 She cast us headlong from our high estate. 
 And here in hope of thy return we wait : 
 And long have waited in the temple nigh. 
 Built to the gracious goddess Clemency. 
 But reverence thou the power whose name it 
 
 Relieve th' oppress'd, and wipe the widow's 
 
 tears, 
 I, wretched I, have other fortune seen, 
 The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen : 
 At Thebes he fell, curst be the fatal day ! 
 And all the rest thou secst in this array 
 To make their moan, their lords in battle lost 
 Before that town, besieg'd by our confederate 
 
 host : 
 But Creon, old and impious, who commands 
 The Theban city, and usurps the lands, 
 Denies the rites of funeral fires to those 
 Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes. 
 Unburn'd, unbury'd, on a heap they lie ; 
 Such is their fate, and such his tyranny ; 
 
From 1649 to 1G89. j 
 
 PALAMON AND ABCITE. 
 
 [John Detden. 
 
 No friend has leave to bear away the dead, 
 But with theu- lifeless limbs his hounds arc 
 
 fed." 
 At this she shriek'd aloud; the mournful 
 
 train 
 Echo'd her grief, and, grovehng on the plain, 
 With groans, and hands upheld, to move his 
 
 .mind, 
 Besought his pity to their helpless kind ! 
 The prince was touch' d, his tears began to 
 
 flow, 
 And, as his tender heart would break in two, 
 Ho sigh'd, and could not but their fate 
 
 deplore, 
 So wretched now, po fortunate before. 
 Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew, 
 And raising, one by one, the suppliant crew, 
 To comfort each, full solemnly he swore, 
 That by the faith which knights to knighthood 
 
 bore, 
 And whate'cr else to chivalry belongs. 
 He would not cease, till he reveng'd their 
 
 wrongs : 
 That Greece should see perform' d what he 
 
 declar'd ; 
 And cruel Creon find his just reward. 
 He said no more, but, shunning all delay. 
 Rode on ; nor enter 'd Athens on his way : 
 But left his sister and his queen behind. 
 And wav'd his royal banner in the wind : 
 Where in an argent field the god of war 
 Was dra-vvn triumphant on his iron car ; 
 Red was his sword, and shield, and whole 
 
 attire, 
 And all the godhead seem'd to glow with 
 
 fire;^ 
 Ev'n the ground glitter'd whore the standard 
 
 flew, 
 And the gTeen grass was dy'd to sanguine 
 
 hue. 
 High on his pointed lance his pennon bore 
 His Cretan fight, the conquer' d Minotaur : 
 The soldiers shout around with generous 
 
 rage, 
 And in that victory their own presage. 
 He prais'd their ardour ; inly pleas' d to see 
 His host the flower of Grecian chivalry. 
 All day he march' d ; and all th' ensuing 
 
 night ; 
 And saw the city with returning light. 
 The process of the war I need not tell, 
 How Theseus conquer'd, and how Creon 
 
 fell: 
 Or after, how by storm the walls were won. 
 Or how the victor sack'd and bum'd the 
 
 town: 
 How to the ladies he restor'd again 
 The bodies of their lords in battle slain : 
 And with what ancient rites they were 
 
 interr'd ; 
 All these to fitter times shall be deferred ; 
 I spare the widows' tears, their woeful cries, 
 And howling at their husbands' obsequies ; 
 How Theseus at these funerals did assist, 
 And with wha,t gifts the mourning dames 
 
 dismiss' d. 
 
 Thus when the victor chief had Creon 
 
 slain, 
 And conquer'd Thebes, he pitch'd upon the 
 
 plain 
 His mighty camp, and, when the day retnm'd, 
 The country wasted, and the hamlets bum'd, 
 And left the pillagers, to rapine brgrt, — 
 Without control to strip and spoil the dead. 
 
 There, in a heap of slain, among the rest 
 Two youthful knights they found beneath a 
 
 load oppress'd 
 Of slaughter' d foes, whom first to death they 
 
 sent, 
 The trophies of their strength, a bloody 
 
 monument. 
 Both fair, and both of roj^al blood they 
 
 seem'd, 
 Whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds 
 
 deem'd ; 
 That day in equal arms they fought for fame ; 
 Their swords, their shields, their surcoats, 
 
 were the same. 
 Close by each other laid, they press'd the 
 
 ground. 
 Their manly bosoms pierc'd with many a 
 
 griesly wound. 
 Nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were. 
 But some faint signs of feeble life appear : 
 The wandering breath was on the -vving to part, 
 Weak was the pidse, and hardly heav'd the 
 
 heart. 
 These two were sisters' sons ; and Arcite one. 
 Much fam'd in fields, with valiant Palamon. 
 From these their costly arms the spoilers 
 
 rent, 
 And softly both convey'd to Theseus' tent : 
 Whom, known of Croon's line, and cur'd with 
 
 care. 
 He to his city sent as prisoners of the war, 
 Hopeless of random, and condem.n'd to lie 
 In durance, doom'd a lingering death to die. 
 This done, he march' d away -with warlike 
 
 sound, 
 And to his Athens tum'd with laurels crown'd. 
 Where happy long he hv'd, much lov'd, and 
 
 more renown'd. 
 But in a tower, and never to be loos' d, 
 The woeful captive kinsmen are enclos'd. 
 Thus year by year they pass, and day by 
 
 day. 
 Till once, 'twas on the mom of cheerful May, 
 The young Emilia, fairer to be seen 
 Than the fair lUy on the flowery green. 
 More fresh than May herself in blossoms 
 
 new, 
 For with the rosy colour strove her hue, 
 Wak'd, as her custom Avas, before the day, 
 To do th' observance due to sprightly May : 
 For sprightly May commands our youth to 
 
 The vigils of her night, and breaks their 
 
 sluggard sleep ; 
 Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she 
 
 moves ; 
 Inspires new flames, revives extinguish' d 
 
 loves. 
 
John Dryden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, 
 Arose, and dress' d herself in rich array ; 
 Fresh as the month, and as the morning" fair, 
 Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair ; 
 A ribband did the braided tresses bind. 
 The rest was loose, and wanton' d in the wind. 
 Aurora had but newly chas'd the night. 
 And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, 
 "When to the garden walk she took her way, 
 To sport and trip along in cool of day. 
 And offer maiden vows in honour of the 
 
 May. 
 At every turn she made a little stand. 
 And thrust among the thorns her lily hand, 
 To draw the rose ; and every rose she drew, 
 She shook the stalk, and brush' d away the 
 
 dew: 
 Then party-colour' d flowers of white and red 
 She wove, to make a garland for her head : 
 This done, she sung and carol'd out so clear, 
 That men and angels might rejoice to hear : 
 Ev'n wondering Philomel forgot to sing, 
 And learn' d from her to welcome-in the 
 
 Spring, 
 The tower, of which before was mention 
 
 made, 
 Within whose keep the captive knights were 
 
 laid, 
 Built of a large extent, and strong withal. 
 Was one partition of the palace wall : 
 The garden was enclos'd within the square, 
 Where young Emilia took the morning air. 
 
 It happen' d Palamon, the prisoner knight, 
 Kestless for woe, arose before the light. 
 And with his gaoler's leave desir'd to breathe 
 An air more wholesome than the damps be- 
 neath : 
 This granted, to the tower he took his way. 
 Cheer' d with the promise of a glorious day ; 
 Then cast a languishing regard around. 
 And saw with hateful eyes the temples 
 
 crown' d 
 With golden spires, and all the hostile ground. 
 He sigh'd, and turn'd his eyes, because he 
 
 knew 
 'Twas but a larger gaol he had in view : 
 Then look'd below, and, from the castle's 
 
 height. 
 Beheld a nearer and more pleasing sight, 
 The garden, which before he had not seen, 
 In Spring's new livery clad of white and 
 
 green. 
 Fresh flowers in wide parterres, and shady 
 
 walks between. 
 This view'd, but not enjoy'd, with arms 
 
 across 
 He stood, reflecting on his country's loss ; 
 Himself an object of the pubhc scorn, 
 And often wish'd he never had been born. 
 At last, for so his destiny requir'd. 
 With walking giddy, and with thinking tir'd, 
 He through a little window cast his sight, 
 Though thick of bars, that gave a scanty 
 
 light : 
 But ev'n that glimmering serv'd him to descry 
 Th' inevitable charms of Emily. 
 
 Scarce had he seen, but, seiz'd with sudden 
 
 smart. 
 Stung to the quick, he felt it at his heart ; 
 Struck blind with over-powering light he 
 
 stood, 
 Then started back amaz'd, and cry'd aloud. 
 Young Arcite heard, and up he ran with 
 
 haste, 
 To help his friend, and in his arms embrac'd ; 
 And ask'd him why he look'd so deadly wan, 
 And whence and how his change of cheer 
 
 began. 
 Or who had done th' ojffence ? " But if," said 
 
 he, 
 " Your grief alone is hard captivity, 
 For love of Heaven, with patience undergo 
 A cureless ill, since Fate will have it so : 
 So stood our horoscope in chains to lie, 
 And Saturn in the dungeon of the sky. 
 Or other baleful aspect, rul'd our birth. 
 When all the friendly stars were under 
 
 Earth • 
 Whate'er betides, by Destiny 'tis done ; 
 And better bear like men than vainly seek to 
 
 shun." 
 " Nor of my bonds," said Palamon again, 
 " Nor of unhappy planets I complain ; 
 But when my mortal anguish cans' d me cry, 
 That moment I was hurt through either eye ; 
 Pierc'd with a random shaft, I faint away. 
 And perish with insensible decay : 
 A glance of some new goddess gave the 
 
 wound. 
 Whom, like Acteon, unaware I found. 
 Look how she walks along yon shady space. 
 Not Juno moves with more majestic grace ; 
 And all the Cyprian queen is in her face. 
 If thou art Venus (for thy charms confess 
 That face was form'd in Heaven, nor art thou 
 
 less ; 
 Disguis'd in habit, undisguis'd in shape), 
 O help us captives from our chains t' escape ; 
 But if our doom be past, in bonds to lie 
 For life, and in a loathsome dungeon die, 
 Then be thy wrath appeas'd with our disgrace. 
 And show compassion to the Theban race, 
 Oppress'd by tyrant power ! " While yet he 
 
 spoke, 
 Arcite on Emily had fix'd his look ; 
 The fatal dart a ready passage found, 
 And deep within his heart infix' d the wound : 
 So that if Palamon were wounded sore, 
 Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more. 
 Then from his inmost soul he sigh'd, and 
 
 said, 
 " The beauty I behold has struck mo dead : 
 Unknowingly she strikes, and kills by chance. 
 Poison is in her eyes and death in every 
 
 glance 
 O, I must ask, nor ask alone, but move 
 Her mind to mercy, or must die for love." 
 
 Thus Arcite, and thus Palamon replies 
 (Eager his tone, and ardent were his eyes), 
 " Speak' st thou in earnest, or in jesting vein ? " 
 "Jesting," said Arcite, "suits but ill with 
 
 pain." 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND ARCITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 i 
 
 r 
 
 " It suits far worse " (said Palamon again, 
 And bent his brows) " with men who honour 
 
 weigh, 
 Their faith to break, their friendship to 
 
 betray ; 
 But worst -with thee, of noble lineage born. 
 My kinsman, and in arms my brother sworn. 
 Have we not plighted each our holy oath, 
 That one should be the common good of both ; 
 One soul should both inspire, and neither 
 
 prove 
 His fellow's hindrance in pursuit of love ? 
 To this before the Gods we gave our hands, 
 And nothing but our death can break the 
 
 bands. 
 This binds thee, then, to further my design. 
 As I am bound by vow to fiu'ther thine : 
 Nor canst, nor dar'st thou, traitor, on the 
 
 plain 
 Appeach my honour, or thine own maintain, 
 Since thou art of my council, and the friend 
 "Whose faith I trust, and on whose care de- 
 pend : 
 And would' st thou court ray lady's love, 
 
 which I 
 Much rather than release would choose to 
 
 die? 
 But thou, false Arcite, never shalt obtain 
 Thy bad pretence ; I told thee first my pain. 
 For first my love began ere thine was born ; 
 Thou, as my council, and my brother sworn, 
 Art bound t* assist my eldersliip of right, 
 Or justly to be deem'd a perjur'd knight." 
 
 Thus Palamon : but Arcite, with disdain. 
 In haughty language, thus reply' d agayi : 
 " Forsworn thyself : the traitor's odious 
 
 name 
 I first return, and then disprove thy claim. 
 If love be passion, and that passio* nurst 
 With strong desires, I lov'd the lady first. 
 Canst thou pretend desire, whom zeal inflam'd 
 To worship, and a power celestial nam'd ? 
 Thine was devotion to the blest above, 
 I saw the woman, and desir'd her love ; 
 First own'd my passion, and to thee commend 
 Th' important secret, as my chosen friend. 
 Suppose (which yet I grant not) thy desire 
 A moment elder than my rival fire ; 
 Can chance of seeing first thy title prove ? 
 And know'st thou not no law is made for 
 
 love ? 
 Law is to things which to free choice relate ; 
 Love is not in our choice, but in our fate ; 
 Laws are but positive ; love's power, we see. 
 Is Nature's sanction, and her first decree. 
 Each day we break the bond of human laws 
 For love, and vindicate the common cause. 
 Laws for defence of civil rights are plac'd, 
 Love throws the fences down, and makes a 
 
 general waste ; 
 Maids, widows, wives, without distinction 
 
 fall: 
 The sweeping deluge, love, comes on, and 
 
 covers all. 
 If then the laws of friendship I transgress, 
 I keep the greater, while I break the less ; 
 
 And both are mad alike, since neither can 
 
 Both hopeless to be ransom'd, never more 
 To see the Sun, but as he passes o'er." 
 
 Like ^sop's hounds contending for the 
 
 bone. 
 Each pleaded right, and would be lord aione : 
 The fruitless fight continued all the day, 
 A ciir came by and snatch'd the prize away. 
 " As courtiers therefore justle for a grant. 
 And, when they break their friendship, pleat* 
 
 their want. 
 So thou, if Fortune will thy suit advance. 
 Love on, nor envy me my equal chance ; 
 For I must love, and am resolv'd to try 
 My fate, or, failing in th' adventure, die." 
 Great was their strife, which hourly was 
 
 renew' d. 
 Till each with mortal hate his rival view'd : 
 Now friends no more, nor walking hand in 
 
 hand, 
 But when they met they made a surly stand, 
 And glar'd like angry lions as they pass'd. 
 And wish'd that every look might be their 
 
 last. 
 It chanc'd at length, Pirithous came t' at- 
 tend 
 This worthy Theseus, his familiar friend ; 
 Their love in early infancy began, 
 And rose as childhood ripen' d into man : 
 Companions of the war, and lov'd so well. 
 That when one died, as ancient stories tell. 
 His fellow to redeem him went to hell. 
 
 But to pursue my tale. To welcome home 
 His warlike brother is Pirithous come : 
 Arcite of Thebes was known in arms long 
 
 since, 
 And honour'd by this young Thessalian 
 
 prince. 
 Theseus, to gratify his friend and guest, 
 Who made our Arcite' s freedom his request, 
 Eestor'd to liberty the captive knight, 
 But on these hard conditions I recite : 
 That if hereafter Arcite should be found 
 Within the compass of Athenian ground, 
 By day or night, or on whate'er pretence, 
 I His head should pay the forfeit of th' offence. 
 { To this Pirithous for his friend agreed, 
 And on his promise was the prisoner freed. 
 Unpleas'd and pensive hence he takes his 
 
 way, 
 At his own peril ; for his life must pay. 
 Who now but Arcite mourns his bitter fate, 
 Finds his dear purchase, and repents too 
 
 late ? 
 "What have I gain'd," he said, " in prison 
 
 pent, 
 If I but change my bonds for banishment ? 
 And, banish' d from her sight, I sutier more 
 In freedom than I felt in bonds before : 
 Fore' d from her presence, and condemn' d to 
 
 live : 
 Unwelcome freedom, and unthank'd reprieve : 
 Heaven is not but where Emily abides. 
 And where she's absent all is hell besides. 
 Next to my day of birth, was that accurst 
 
John Deyden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Peeiod. — 
 
 Which bound my fi-iendship to Pirithous first. 
 Had I not known that prince I still had been 
 In bondage, and had still Emilia seen ; 
 For, though I never can her grace deserve, 
 'Tis recompense enough to see and serve. 
 
 Palamon, my kinsman and raj'' friend, 
 How much more happy fates thy love attend I 
 Thine is th' adventure, thine the victory ; 
 Well has thy fortune turn'd the dice for thoe. 
 Thou on that angel's face niay'st feed thine 
 
 eyes, 
 In prison — no ; but blissful Paradise ! 
 Thou daily seest that sun of beauty shine. 
 And lov'st at least in love's extremest line. 
 
 1 mourn in absence, love's eternal night. 
 And who can tell but since thou hast her 
 
 sight, 
 And art a comely, yoiing, and valiant knight, 
 Fortune (a yarions power) may cease to 
 
 frown, 
 And by some ways unknown thy wishes 
 
 ci'own ? 
 But Ij the most forlorn of human kind, 
 Nor help can ho^je, nor remedy can find ; 
 But, doom'd to drag my loathsome -life in 
 
 care. 
 For my reward, must end it in despair. 
 Fire, water, air, and earth, and force of fates 
 That governs all, and Heaven that all creates, 
 Nor art, nor Nature's hand can ease my 
 
 ^ef ; 
 Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief : 
 Then farewoU youth, and all the joys that 
 
 dwell 
 With youth and life, and life itself farewell ! 
 
 '• But why, alas ! do mortal men in vain 
 Of Fortune, Fate, or Providence complain ? 
 God gives us what he knows our wants re- 
 quire. 
 And better things than those whi<!h we desire. 
 Some pray for riches, riches they obtain ; 
 But, watch' d by robbers, for their wealth are 
 
 slain. ■ 
 Some pray from prison to be freed ; and 
 
 come, 
 When guilty of their vows, to fall at home ; 
 Murder' d by those they trusted with their 
 
 life, 
 A favour'd servant, or a bosom wife. 
 Such dear-bought blessings happen every day. 
 Because we know not for what things to 
 
 pray. 
 Like drunken sots about the street we roam ; 
 Well knows the sot he has a certain home, 
 Yet knows not how to find th' uncertain 
 
 place, 
 And blunders on, and staggers every pace. 
 Thus all seek happiness ; but few can find, 
 For far the greater part of men are blind. 
 This is my case, who thought our utmost 
 
 good 
 Was in one word of freedom understood : 
 The fatal blessing came, from prison free, 
 I starve abroad, and lose the sight of Emily," 
 
 Thus Arcite : but if Arcite thus deplore 
 His sufferings, Palamon yet sulfers more. 
 
 For when he knew his rival freed and gone, 
 He swells with wrath — he makes outrageous 
 
 moan ; 
 He frets, he fumes, he stares, he stamps the 
 
 ground. 
 The hollow tower with clamours rings around: 
 With briny tears he bath'd his fetter'd feet, 
 And dropt all o'er wth agony of sweat. 
 " Alas ! " he cried, '■ I wretch in prison pine, 
 Too happy rival, while the fruit is thine : 
 Thou liv'st at large, thou draw'st thy native 
 
 air, 
 Pleas'd with thy freedom, proud of my 
 
 despair : 
 Tliou mayst, since thou hast youth and 
 
 courage join'd, 
 A sweet behaviour, and a solid mind. 
 Assemble ours, and all the Theban race, 
 To vindicate on Athens thy disgrace ; 
 And after, by some treaty made, possess 
 Fair Emily, the pledge of lasting peace. 
 So thine shaU be the beauteous prize, while I 
 Must languish in despair, in prison die. 
 Thus all th' advantage of the strife is thine, 
 Thy portion double joys, and double sorrows 
 
 mine." 
 The rage of jealousjr then fir'd his soul, 
 And his face kindled like a burning coal : 
 Now cold Despair, succeeding in her stead. 
 To livid paleness turns the glowing red. 
 His blood, scarce liquid, creeps within his 
 
 veins, 
 Like water which the freezing wind con- 
 strains. 
 Then thus ho said : " Eternal deities. 
 Who rule the world with absolute decrees, 
 And write whatever time shall bring to pass. 
 With pens of adamant, on plates of brass ; 
 What, is the race of human kind your care, 
 Beyond what all his fellow-creatures are ? 
 He with the rest is liable to pain. 
 And like the sheep, his brother beast, is 
 
 slain. 
 Cold, hunger, prisons, ills without a cure. 
 All these he miist, and guiltless, oft endure ; 
 Or does your justice, power, or prescience 
 
 fail. 
 When the good suffer, and the bad prevail ? 
 What worse to wretched Virtue could befall. 
 If Fate or giddy Fortune govern' d all ? 
 Nay, worse than other beasts is our estate ; 
 Them to pursue their pleasures you create ; 
 We, bound by harder laws, must curb our 
 
 will, 
 And your commands, not our desires, fulfil ; 
 Then when the creature is unjustly slain, 
 Yet after death at least he feels no pain ; 
 But man, in life surcharg'd with woe before, 
 Not freed when dead, is doom'd to suffer 
 
 more. 
 A serpent shoots his sting at unaware ; 
 An ambush' d thief forelays a traveller; 
 The man lies murder' d, while the thief and 
 
 snake. 
 One gains the thickets, and one thi-ids the 
 
 brake. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 This let divines decide ; but well I know, 
 Just or unjust, I hare my share of woe. 
 Through Saturn seated in a hickless place, 
 And Juno's wrath, that persecutes my race ; 
 Or Mars and Venus, in a quartile, move 
 My pangs of jealousy for Arcite's love." 
 
 Let Palamon, oppress' d in bondage, mourn, 
 While to his exil'd rival we return. 
 By this, the Sun, declining from his height, 
 The day had shorten' d, to prolong the night : 
 The lengthened night gave length of misery 
 Both to the captive lover and the free : 
 For Palamon in endless prison mourns, 
 And Arcite forfeits hfe if he returns : 
 The banish'd never hopes his love to see, 
 Nor hopes the captive lord his liberty : 
 'Tis hard to say who suffers greater pains. 
 One sees his love, but cannot break his 
 
 chains. 
 One free, and all his motions uncontroU'd, 
 Beholds whate'er he would, but what he would 
 
 behold. 
 Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell 
 What fortune to the banish'd knight befell. 
 When Arcite was to Thebes return'd again, 
 The loss of her he lov'd renew'd his pain; 
 What could be worse than never more to see 
 His life, his soul, his charming Emily ? 
 He rav'd -with all the madness of despair, 
 He roar'd, he beat his breast, ho tore his 
 
 hair. 
 Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears, 
 For, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears : 
 His eye-balls in their hollov;- sockets sink : 
 Bereft of sleep, he loathes his meat and 
 
 drink ; 
 He withers at his heart, and looks as wan 
 As the pale spectre of a murder'd man, 
 That pale turns yellow, and his face receives 
 The faded hue of sapless boxen leaves : 
 In solitary groves he makes his moan. 
 Walks early out, and ever is alone : 
 Nor, mix'd in mirth, in youthful x^le^sures 
 
 shares. 
 But sighs when songs and instruments he 
 
 His spirits are so low, his voice is drown'd, 
 He hears as from afar, or in a swoon. 
 Like the deaf murmurs of a distant sound : 
 Uncomb'd his locks, and squalid his attire. 
 Unlike the trim of Love and gay Desire ; 
 But full of mitseful mopings, which presage 
 The loss of reason, and conclude in rage. 
 This when he had endur'd a year and more, 
 Now wholly changed from what he was be- 
 fore, 
 It happen' d once that, slumbering as ho lay. 
 He dream'd (his dream began at break of 
 
 day) 
 That Hermes o'er his head in air appear'd, 
 And with soft words his drooping spirits 
 
 cheer' d : 
 His hat, adom'd with wings, disclos'd the 
 
 god, 
 And in his hand he bore the sleep-compelling 
 rod; 
 
 Such as he seem'd, when, at his sire's com- 
 mand, 
 On Argus' head he laid the snaky wand. 
 " Arise," he said, " to conquering Athens 
 
 SO, 
 There Fate appoints an end to all thy woe." 
 The fright awaken' d Arcite with a^art, 
 Against his bosom bounced his heaving 
 
 heart ; 
 But soon he said, with scarce recover'd 
 
 breath, 
 " And thither will I go, to meet my death, 
 Sure to be slain, but death is my desire, 
 Since in Emilia's sight I shall expire." 
 By chance he spy'd a mirror while he spoke, 
 And gazing there beheld his alter' d look ; 
 Wondering, he saw his features and his hue 
 So much were chang'd that scarce himself he 
 
 knew, 
 A sudden thought then starting in his mind, 
 " Since I in Arcite cannot Arcite find, 
 The world may search in vain with all their 
 
 eyes. 
 But never penetrate through this disguise. 
 Thanks to the change which grief and sickness 
 
 give, 
 In low estate I may securely live, 
 And see, unknown, my mistress day by day." 
 He said, and clothed himself in coarse array : 
 A labouring hind in show then forth he went, 
 And to th' Athenian towers his journey bent : 
 One squire attended in the same disguise, 
 Made conscious of his master's enterprise. 
 Arriv'd at Athens, soon he came to court, 
 Unknown, unquestion'd, in that thick resort : 
 Proffering for hire his service at the gate, 
 To drudge, draw water, and to run or wait. 
 
 So fair befell him, that for little gain 
 He serv'd at first Emilia's chamberlain ; 
 And, watchful all advantages to spy. 
 Was still at hand, and in his master's eye : 
 And as his bones were big, and sinews strong, 
 Eefus'd no toil that could to slaves belong ; 
 But from deep wells with engines water drew, 
 And us'd his noble hands the wood to how. 
 He pass'd a jeav at least attending thus 
 On Emily, and call'd Philostratus. 
 But never was there man of his degree 
 So much esteem'd, so well belov'd as he. 
 So gentle of condition was he known. 
 That through the court his courtesy was 
 
 blown ; 
 All think him worthy of a greater place, 
 And recommend him to the royal grace, 
 That, exercis'd within a higher sphere. 
 His virtues more conspicuous might appear. 
 I Thus by the general voice was Arcite prais'd, 
 And by great Theseus to high favour rais'd : 
 Among his menial servants first enroll' d. 
 And largely entertain'd with sums of gold : 
 Besides what secretly from Thebes was sent, 
 Of his own income, and his annual rent ; 
 This well employ'd, he purchas'd friends and 
 
 fame. 
 But cautiously conceal' d from whence it 
 
 came. 
 
John Dryden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period.- 
 
 Thus for three years he liv'd mth large in- 
 
 In arms of honour, and esteem m peace ; 
 To Theseus' person he was ever near ; 
 And Theseus for his virtues held him dear. 
 
 book II. 
 
 While Arcite lives in bliss, the story turns 
 Where hopeless Palamon in prison mourns. 
 For six long years immur'd, the captiv'd 
 
 knight 
 Had dragg'd his chains, and scarcely seen the 
 
 light : 
 Lost liberty and love at once he bore ; 
 His prison pain'd him much, his passion more. 
 Nor dares he hope his fetters to remove, 
 Nor ever wishes to be free from love. 
 
 But when the sixth revolving year was run, 
 And May within the Twins receiv'd the Sun, 
 Were it by Chance, or forceful Destiny, 
 Which forms in causes first whate'er shall be. 
 Assisted by a friend, one moonless night. 
 This Palamon from prison took his flight : 
 A pleasant beverage he prepar'd before 
 Of wine and honey, mix'd with added store 
 Of opium ; to his keeper this he brought, 
 Who swallow' d unaware the sleepy draught, 
 And snor'd secure till morn, his senses bound 
 In slumber, and in long oblivion drown' d. 
 Short was the night, and careful Palamon 
 Sought the next covert ere the rising Sun. 
 A thick- spread forest near the city lay, 
 To this with lengthen'd strides he took his 
 
 way 
 (For far he could not fly, and fear'd the day). 
 Safe from pursuit, he meant to shun the light, 
 Till the brown shadows of the friendly night 
 To Thebes might favour his intended flight. 
 When to his country come, his next design 
 Was all the Theban race in arms to join. 
 And war on Theseus, till he lost his life 
 Or won the beauteous Emily to wife. 
 Thus while his thoughts the lingering day 
 
 beguile. 
 To gentle Arcite let us turn our style ; 
 Who little dreamt how nigh he was to care, 
 Till treacherous Fortune caught him in the 
 
 snare. 
 The morning-lark, the messenger of Day, 
 Saluted in her song the morning gray ; 
 And soon the Sun arose with beams so bright 
 That all th' horizon Uugh'd to see the joyous 
 
 sight ; 
 He with his tepid rays the rose renews, 
 And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the 
 
 dews ; 
 When Arcite left his bed, resolv'd to pay 
 Observance to the month of merry May : 
 Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode, 
 Tliat scarcely prints the turf on which he 
 
 trod : 
 At ease he seem'd, and, prancing o'er the 
 
 plains, 
 Tum'd only to the grove his horse's reins, 
 
 The grove I nam'd before ; and, lighted there, 
 A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair ; 
 Then turn'd his face against the rising day. 
 And rais'd his voice to welcome in the May. 
 " For thee, sweet month, the groves green 
 
 liveries wear, 
 If not the first, the fairest of the year : 
 For thee the Graces lead the dancing Hours, 
 And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers ; 
 When thy short reign is past, the feverish 
 
 Sun 
 The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly 
 
 on. 
 So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight. 
 Nor goats with venom' d teeth thy tendrils 
 
 bite, 
 As thou shalt guide my wandermg feet to 
 
 find 
 The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to 
 
 bind." 
 His vows address' d, within the gTove he 
 
 stray'd. 
 Till Fate, or Fortune, near the place convey'd 
 His steps where secret Palamon was laid. 
 Full little thought of him the gentle knight, 
 Who, flying death, had there conceal' d his 
 
 flight. 
 In brakes and brambles hid, and shunning 
 
 mortal sight : 
 And less he knew him for his hated foe, 
 But fear'd liim as a man he did not know. 
 But as it has been said of ancient years. 
 That fields are full of eyes, and woods have 
 
 ears ; 
 For this the wise are ever on their guard, 
 Foi', unforeseen, they say, is unprepar'd. 
 Uncautious Arcite thought himself alone. 
 And less than all suspected Palamon, 
 "Who, listening, heard him, while he search' d 
 
 the grove, 
 And loudly sung liis roundelay of love : 
 But on the sudden stopp'd, and silent stood. 
 As lovers often muse, and change their mood ; 
 Now high as Heaven, and then as low as 
 
 heU; 
 Now up, now down, as buckets in a well : 
 For Venus, Uke her day, will change her 
 
 cheer. 
 And seldom shall we see a Friday clear. 
 Thus Arcite, having sung, with alter' d hue 
 Sunk on the ground, and from his bosom 
 
 drew 
 A desperate sigh, accusing Heaven and Fate, 
 And angry Juno's unrelenting hate. 
 " Curs' d be the day when first I did appear, 
 Let it be blotted from the calendar, 
 Lost it pollute the month, and poison all the 
 
 year. 
 Still will the jealous queen pursue our race ? 
 Cadmus is dead, the Theban city was ; 
 Yet ceases not her hate • for all who come 
 From Cadmus are involv'd in Cadmus' doom. 
 I suffer for my blood : unjust decree ! 
 That jmnishes another's crime on me. 
 In mean estate I serve my mortal foe, 
 The man who cans' d my country's overthrow. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 This is not all ; for Juno, to mj'- shame, 
 Has forc'd me to forsake my former name : 
 Arcite I was, Philostratus I am. 
 That side of Heaven is all my enemy : 
 Mars ruin'd Thebes, his mother ruin'd me. 
 Of all the royal race remains but one 
 Besides myself, the unhappy Palamon, 
 Whom Theseus holds in bonds, and will not 
 
 free ; 
 Without a crime, except his kin to me. 
 Yet these, and all the rest, I could endure ; 
 But love's a malady without a cure : 
 Fierce love has pierc'd me with his fiery dart, 
 He fires within, and hisses at my heart. 
 Your eyes, fair EmUy, my fate pursue ; 
 I suffer for the rest, I die for you. 
 Of such a goddess no time leaves record, 
 Who bum'd the temple where she was ador'd; 
 And let it burn, I nevei- will complain, 
 Pleas' d with my sufferings, if you knev;- my 
 
 pain." 
 At this a sickly qualm his heai-t assail' d, 
 His ears ring inward, and his senses fail'd. 
 No word miss'd Palamon of all he spoke. 
 But soon to deadly pale he chang'd liis look : 
 He trembled every limb, and felt a smaii;, 
 As if cold steel had ghded through his heart : 
 No longer staid, but starting from his place, 
 Discover'd stood, and show'd liis hostile 
 
 face : 
 " False traitor, Arcite ; traitor to thy blood, 
 Bound by thy sacred oath to seek my good, 
 Now art thou found forsworn, for Emily ; 
 And dar'st attempt her love for whom I die. 
 So hast thou cheated Theseus with a wile, 
 Against thy vow, returning to beguile 
 Under a borrow' d name : as false to me, 
 So false thou art to him who set thee free : 
 But rest assur'd that either thou shalt die. 
 Or else renounce thy claim in Emily : 
 For though unarm' d I am, and (freed by 
 
 chance) 
 Am here without my sword or pointed lance : 
 Hope not, base man, unquestion'd hence to 
 
 go, 
 For I am Palamon, thy mortal foe." 
 
 Arcite, who heard his tale, and knew the 
 
 man. 
 His sword unsheath'd, and fiercely thus be- 
 gan : 
 " Now by the gods who govern Heaven above, 
 Wert thou not weak with hunger, mad with 
 
 love. 
 That word had been thy last, or in this grove 
 This hand should force thee to renounce thy 
 
 love. 
 The surety which I gave thee, I defy : 
 Fool, not to know that love endures no tie. 
 And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury. 
 Know I will serve the fair in thy despite. 
 But since thou art my kinsman, and a knight, 
 Here, have my faith, to-morrow in this grove 
 Our arms shall plead the titles of our love : 
 And Heaven so help my right, as I alone 
 Will come, and keep the cause and quarrel 
 
 both unknown : 
 
 With anns of proof both for myself and 
 
 thee, 
 Choose thou the best, and leave the worst to 
 
 me. 
 And, that a better ease thou may'st abide, 
 Bedding and clothes I will this night provide, 
 And needful sustenance, that thou may^t be 
 A conquest better won, and worthy me." 
 His promise Palamon accepts ; but pray'd 
 To keep it better than the first he made. 
 Thus fair they parted till the morrow's dawn 
 For each had laid his plighted faith to pawn, 
 O Love ! thou sternly dost thy power main- 
 tain, 
 And wilt not bear a rival in thy reign, 
 Tyrants and thou all fellowship disdain. 
 This was in Arcite prov'd, and Palamon 
 Both in despair, yet each woiUd love alone. 
 Arcite return'd, and, as in honour ty'd. 
 His foe with bedding and with food supply'd ; 
 Then, ere the day, two suits of armour sought, 
 Which borne before him on his steed he 
 
 brought : 
 Both were of shining steel, and wrought so 
 
 pure, 
 As might the strokes of two such arms endure. 
 Now, at the time and in th' appointed place, 
 The challenger and challeng'd, face to face. 
 Approach ; each other from afar they knew, 
 And from afar their hatred chang'd their hue. 
 So stands the Thracian herdsman with his 
 
 spear. 
 Full in the gap, and hopes the hunted bear. 
 And hears liim rustling in the wood, and sees 
 His course at distance by the bending trees, 
 And thinks, here comes my mortal enemy, 
 And either he must fall in fight, or I : 
 This while he thinks he lifts aloft his dart ; 
 A generous chillness seizes every part ; 
 The veins pour back the blood, and fortify the 
 
 heart. 
 Thus pale they meet ; their eyes with fury 
 
 burn ; 
 None greets ; for none the greeting will re- 
 turn: 
 But in dumb surliness, each arm'd with care 
 His foe protest, as brother of the war : 
 Then both, no moment lost, at once advance 
 Against each other, arm'd with sword and 
 
 lance : 
 They lash, they foin, they pass, they strive to 
 
 bore 
 Their corslets, and the thinnest parts explore. 
 Thus two long hours in equal arms they stood, 
 And wounded, wound; till both were bath' d 
 
 in blood ; 
 And not a foot of ground had either got 
 As if the world depended on the spot. 
 Fell Arcite like an angry tiger far'd. 
 And like a lion Palamon appear' d : 
 Or as two boars whom love to battle draws. 
 With rising bristles, and with frothy jaws. 
 Their adverse breasts with tusks oblique they 
 
 wound, 
 With grunts and groans the forest rings 
 
 around : 
 
John DkYDEN.] 
 
 PALAMON" AND AECITE, 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 So fought the knights, and fighting must 
 
 abide, 
 Till fate an umpire sends their difference to 
 
 decide. 
 *rhe power that ministers to God's decrees, 
 And executes on earth what Heaven fore- 
 sees, 
 Call'd Providence, or Chance, or Fatal Sway, 
 Comes with resistless force, and finds or makes 
 
 her way. 
 Nor kings, nor nations, nor united power, 
 One moment can retard th' appointed hour. 
 And some one day, some wondrous chance 
 
 appears. 
 Which happen' d not in centuries of years : 
 For sure, whate'er we mortals hate, or love. 
 Or hope, or fear, depends on powers above ; 
 They move our appetites to good or ill, 
 And by foresight necessitate the will. 
 In Theseus this appears ; whose j'outhful joy 
 Was beasts of chase in forests to destroy. 
 This gentle knight, inspir'd by jolly May, 
 Forsook his easy couch at early day. 
 And to the w^ood and wilds pursued his way. 
 Beside him rode Hippolita the queen, 
 And Emily attir'd in lively green. 
 With horns, and hounds, and all the tuneful 
 
 cry. 
 To hunt a royal hart within the covert nigh : 
 And as he follow'd Mars before, so now 
 He serves the goddess of the silver bow. 
 The way that Theseus took was to the wood 
 Where the two knights in cruel battle stood : 
 The lawn on which they fought th' appointed 
 
 place 
 In which th' uncoupled hounds began the 
 
 chase. 
 Thither forth-right he rode to rouse the prey, 
 That, sliaded by the fern, in harbour lay ; 
 And, thence dislodg'd, was wont to leave the 
 
 wood. 
 For open fields, and cross the crystal flood. 
 Approach'd, and looking underneath the Sun, 
 He saw proud Arcite and fierce Palamon 
 In mortal battle doubling blow on blow. 
 Like lightning flam'd their faulchions to and 
 
 fro. 
 And shot a dreadful gleam : so strong they 
 
 strook, . 
 There seem'd less force requir'd to fell an 
 
 oak: 
 He gaz'd with wonder on their equal might, 
 Look'd eager on, but knew not either knight : 
 Uesolv'd to learn, he spurr'd his fiery steed 
 With goring rowels to provoke his speed. 
 The minute ended that began the race. 
 So soon he was betwixt them on the place ; 
 And with his sword unsheath'd, on pain of 
 
 Hfe, 
 Commands both combatants to cease their 
 
 strife ; 
 Then with imperious tone pursues his threat : 
 " What are you ? why in arms together met ? 
 How dares your pride presume against my 
 
 laws, 
 As in a listed field to fight your cause ? 
 
 Unask'd the royal grant ; no marshal by, 
 As knightly rites require ; nor judge to try ?" 
 Then Palamon, with scarce recover' d breath, 
 Thus hasty spoke : " We both deserve the 
 
 death. 
 And both would die ; for look the \\^rld 
 
 around, 
 A pair so wretched is not to be found : 
 Our life's a load ; encumber'd -with the charge, 
 We long to set th' imprison' d soul at large. 
 Now, as thou art a sovereign judge, decree 
 The rightful doom of death to him and me. 
 Let neither find thy grace, for grace is cruelty. 
 Me first, O kill me first, and cure my woe : 
 Then sheath the sword of justice on my foe : 
 Or kill him first ; for when his name is heard. 
 He foremost will receive his due reward. 
 Arcite of Thebes is he ; thy mortal foe : 
 On whom thy grace did libei'ty bestow ; 
 But first contracted, that, if ever found 
 By day or night upon th' Athenian ground. 
 His head should pay the forfeit ; see retiu-n'd 
 The perjur'd knight, his oath and honour 
 
 scorn' d ; 
 For this is he, who, Avith a borrow'd name 
 And proffer' d ser\ice, to thy palace came, 
 Now call'd Philofitratiis : retain'd by thee, 
 A traitor trusted, and in high degree, 
 Aspiring to the bed of beauteous Emily. 
 My part remains : from Thebes my birth I 
 
 own. 
 And call myself th' unhappy Pala^mon. 
 Think me not like that man ; since no dis- 
 grace 
 Can force me to renounce the honour of my 
 
 race. 
 Know me for what I am : I broke my chain. 
 Nor promis'd I thy prisoner to remain ; 
 The love of liberty with life is given. 
 And life itself th' inferior gift of heaven. 
 Thus without crime I fled ; but farther know, 
 I, Avith this Arcite,' am thy mortal foe : 
 Then give me death, since I thy life pursue ; 
 For safeguard of thyself, death is my due. 
 More would' st thou know? I love bright 
 
 Emily, 
 And for her sake and in her sight will die : 
 But kiU my rival too ; foi he no less 
 Deserves ; and I thy righteous doom ^nll 
 
 bless, 
 Assur'd that what I lose, he never shall pos- 
 sess." 
 To this reply' d the stern Athenian prince, 
 And sourly smil'd : " In owning your offence 
 You judge yourself ; and I but keep record 
 In place of law, while you pronounce the 
 
 word. 
 Take your desert, the death you have decreed, 
 I seal your doom, and ratify the deed : 
 By Mars, the patron of my arms, you die." 
 He said : dumb Sorrow seiz'd the standers-by. 
 The queen, above the rest by nature good 
 (The pattern form'd of perfect womanhood), 
 For tender pity wept : when she began. 
 Through the bright quire th' infectious virtue 
 
From 1649 to 16S9.J 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Deyden 
 
 All dropt their tears, ev'n the contended maid, 
 And thus among themselves they softly said • 
 " What eyes can suffer this unworthy sight ! 
 Two youths of royal blood, renown' d in fight. 
 The mastership of Heaven in face and mind, 
 And lovers, far beyond their faithless kind : 
 See their wide streaming wounds ; they neither 
 
 came 
 For iiride of empire, nor desire of fame : 
 Kings for kingdoms, madmen for applause ; 
 But love for love alone, that crowns the lover's 
 
 cause." 
 This thought, which ever bribes the beauteous 
 
 kind, 
 Such pity wrought in every lady's mind, 
 They left their steeds, and prostrate on the 
 
 place, 
 From the fierce king, implor'd th' offenders 
 
 grace. 
 He paus'd awhile, stood silent in his mood 
 (For yet his rage was boihng in his blood) ; 
 But soon his tender mind th' impression felt 
 (As softest metals are not slow to melt 
 And pity soonest runs in softest minds) : 
 Then reasons with himself ; and first he 
 
 finds 
 His passion cast a mist before his sense, 
 And either made, or magnify' d th' offence. 
 " Offence I of what ? to whom ? who judg'd 
 
 the cause ? 
 The prisoner freed himself by Nature's laws : 
 Born free, he sought his right : the man ho 
 
 freed 
 Was perjur'd, but his love excus'd the deed." 
 Thus pondering, he look'd under with his 
 
 eyes, 
 And saw the women's tears, and heard their 
 
 cries, 
 "^Vhich mov'd compassion more : he shook his 
 
 head, 
 And softly sighing to himself he said : 
 
 " Curse on th' tmpardoning i^rince, whom 
 
 tears can draw 
 To no remorse ; who rules by lions' law ; 
 And deaf to prayers, by no submission bovr'dj 
 Rends all alike ; the penitent and proud." 
 At this, with look serene, he rais'd his head ; 
 Reason resum'd her place, and passion fled : 
 Then thus aloud he spoke : " The power of 
 
 Lpve, 
 In Earth, and seas, and air, and Heaven 
 
 above. 
 Rules, unresisted, with an awful nod ; 
 By daily miracles declar'd a god : 
 He blinds the wise, gives eye-sight to the 
 
 blind; 
 And moulds and stamps anew the lover's 
 
 mind. 
 Behold that Arcite, and this Palamon, 
 Freed from my fetters, and in safety gone, 
 What hinder' d either in their native soil 
 At ease to reap the harvest of their toil ; 
 But Love, their lord, did otherwise ordain. 
 And brought them in their own despite again. 
 To suffer death deserv'd ; for weU they know, 
 'Tis in my power, and I their deadly foe ; 
 
 The proverb holds, that to be wise and love, 
 Is hardly granted to the gods above. 
 See how the madmen bleed, behold the gains 
 With which their master. Love, rewards their 
 
 pains ; 
 For seven long years, on duty every day, 
 Lo their obedience, and their monarch's pay : 
 Yet, as in duty bound, they serve him on ; 
 And, ask the fools, they think it wisely done; 
 Nor ease, nor wealth, nor life itself regard, 
 For 'tis their maxim, love is love's reward. 
 This is not all : the fair for whom they strove 
 Nor knew before, nor could suspect their love, 
 Nor thought, when she beheld the fight from 
 
 far, 
 Her beauty was th' occasion of the war. 
 But sure a general doom on man is past. 
 And all are fools and lovers, first or last : 
 This both by others and myself I know, 
 For I have serv'd their sovereign long ago ; 
 Oft have been caught within the winding 
 
 train 
 Of female snares, and felt the lover's pain, 
 And learn'd how far the god can human hearts 
 
 constrain. 
 To this remembrance, and the prayers of those 
 Who for th' offending warriors interpose, 
 I give their forfeit lives, on this accord. 
 To do me homage as their sovereign lord ; 
 And as my vassals, to their utmost might, 
 Assist my person, and assert my right." 
 This freely sworn, the knights their grace ob- 
 tain' d. 
 Then thus the king his secret thoughts ex- 
 plain' d : 
 " If wealth, or honour, or a royal race. 
 Or each, or all, may win a lady's grace. 
 Then either of you knights may well deserve 
 A princess born ; and such is she you serve : 
 For Emily is sister to the crown, 
 And but too well to both her beauty known ; 
 But should you combat till you both v.-ere 
 
 dead. 
 Two lovers cannot share a single bed : 
 As therefore both are equal in degree, 
 The lot of both be left to Destin3\ 
 Now hear th' award, and happy may it prove 
 To her, and him who best deserves her love. 
 Depart from hence in -peace, and free as air, 
 Search the wide world, and where you please 
 
 repair ; 
 But on the day when this returning Sun 
 To the same point through every sign has 
 
 run, 
 Then each of you liis hundred knights shall 
 
 bring. 
 In royal lists to figlit before the king ; 
 And then the knight whom Fate or happy 
 
 Chance 
 Shall with his friends to victory advance. 
 And grace his arms so far in equal fight, 
 From out the bars to force his opposite, 
 Or kill, or make him recreant on the plain. 
 The prize of valour and of love shall gain ; 
 The vanquish'd party shall their claim release, 
 And the long jars conclude in lasting peace. 
 
John Dbyden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. 
 
 The charge bo mine t' adorn the cnosen 
 
 ground, 
 The theatre of war, for champions so renown' d ; 
 And take the patron's place of either knight, 
 With eyes impartial to behold the fight ; 
 And Heaven of me so judge, as I shall judge 
 
 aright. 
 If both are satisfied with this accord. 
 Swear by the laws of knighthood on my 
 
 sword. " 
 Who now but Palamon exults with joy ? 
 And ravish' d Arcite seems to touch the sky ; 
 The whole assembled troop was pleas' d as 
 
 well. 
 Extol th' award, and on their knees they fell 
 To bless the gracious king. The knights, 
 
 with leave 
 Departing from the place, his last commands 
 
 receive ; 
 On Emily with equal ardour look, 
 And from her eyes their inspiration took : 
 From thence to Thebes' old walls pursue their 
 
 way, 
 Each to provide his champions for the day. 
 It might be deem'd, on our historian's 
 
 part, 
 Or too much negligence or want of art, 
 If he forgot the vast magnificence 
 Of royal Theseus, and his large expense. 
 He first enclos'd for lists a level ground, 
 The whole circumference a mile around ; 
 The form was circular ; and all without 
 A trench was sunk, to moat the place about. 
 Within, an amphitheatre appear' d, 
 Eais'd in degrees, to sixty paces rear'd ; 
 That when a man was plac'd in one degree, 
 Height was allow' d for him above to see. 
 Eastward was built a gate of marble white : 
 The like adorn'd the western opposite. 
 A nobler object than this fabric was, 
 Eome never saw ; nor of so vast a space : 
 For, rich with spoils of many a conquer' d 
 
 land, 
 AH arts and artists Theseus could command, 
 Who sold for hire, or wrought for better 
 
 fame. 
 The master-painters, and the carvers, came. 
 So rose within the compass of the year 
 An age's work, a glorious theatre. 
 Then o'er its eastern gate was rais'd, above, 
 A temple, sacred to the Queen of Love ; 
 An altar stood below ; on either hand 
 A priest with roses crown'd, who held a myrtle 
 wand. 
 The dome of Mars was on the gate oppos'd. 
 And on the north a turret Avas enclos'd. 
 Within the wall, of alabaster white, 
 And crmson coral, for the Queen of Night, 
 "Who takes in sylvan sports her chaste delight. 
 
 Within these oratories might you see 
 Rich carvings, portraitures, and imagery : 
 Where every figure to the life express' d 
 The godhead's power to whom it was 
 
 address' d. 
 In Venus' temple on the sides were seen 
 The broken slumbers of enamour'd men. 
 
 Prayers, that even spoke, and pity seem'd to 
 
 call, 
 And issuing sighs, that smok'd along the wall. 
 Complaints, and hot desires, the lover's hell. 
 And scalding tears, that wore a channel where 
 
 they fell ; 
 And all around were nuptial bonds, the ties 
 Of love's assurance, and a train of lies, 
 
 ; That, made in lust, conclude in perji^.ries. 
 Beauty, and Youth, and Wealth, and Luxury, 
 
 j And sprightly Hope, and short-enduring Joy ; 
 
 I And sorceries to raise th' infernal powers, 
 
 I And sigils, fram'd in planetary hours • 
 Expense, and Afterthought, and idle Care, 
 And Doubts of motley hue, and dark Despair ; 
 Suspicions, and fantastical Surmise, 
 And Jealousy suffus'd, with jaundice in her 
 
 eyes. 
 Discolouring aU she view'd, in tawny drcss'd, 
 Down-look'd, and with a cuckoo on her fist. 
 Oppos'd to her, on t'other side advance 
 The costly feast, the carol, and the dance. 
 Minstrels and music, poetry and play. 
 And balls by nights, and tournaments by day. 
 All these were painted on the wall, and 
 
 more. 
 With acts and monuments of times before ; 
 And others added hj prophetic doom, 
 And lovers yet unborn, and loves to come ; 
 For there th' Idalian mount, end Citheron, 
 The court of Venus, was in colours drav.'n ; 
 
 ! Before the palace-gate, in careless dress, 
 
 j And loose array, sat portress Idleness ; 
 
 I There, by the fount. Narcissus pin'd alone ; 
 There Samson was, with wiser Solomon, 
 And aU the mightj^ names by love undone. 
 
 } Medea's charms were there, Circean feasts, 
 
 j With bowls that turn'd enamour'd youth to 
 
 j beasts. 
 
 Here might be seen that beauty, wealth, and 
 
 wit, 
 And prowess, to the power of love submit : 
 The spreading snare for all mankind is laid : 
 And lovers all betray, and are betray' d. 
 The goddess' self some noble hand had 
 
 wrought ; 
 Smiling she seem'd, and full of pleasing 
 
 thought : 
 From ocean as she first began to rise. 
 And smooth'd the ruffled seas and clear'd the 
 
 skies. 
 She trod the brine, all bare below the breast, 
 And the green waves but ill conceal' d the 
 
 rest; 
 A lute she held, and on her head was seen 
 A wreath of roses red and myrtles green ; 
 Her turtles fann'd the buxom air above, 
 And, by his mother, stood an infant Love, 
 With wings unfledg'd ; his eyes were banded 
 
 o'er, 
 His hands a bow, his back a quiver bore. 
 Supply' d with arrows bright and keen, a 
 
 deadly store. 
 But in the dome of mighty Mars the red 
 With different figures all the sides were 
 spread ; 
 
From 1649 to 1689,] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 This temple, less in form, with equal grace, 
 Was imitative of the first in Thrace : 
 For that cold region was the lov'd abode. 
 And sovereign mansion of the warrior god. 
 The landscape was a forest wide and bare, 
 Where neither beast, nor human kind repair ; 
 The fowl, that scent afar, the borders fly, 
 And shun the bitter blast, and wheel about 
 
 the skj. 
 A cake of scurf lies baking on the ground. 
 And prickly stubs, instead of trees, arc 
 
 found ; 
 Or woods with knots and knares deform'd and 
 
 old; 
 Headless the most, and hideous to behold : 
 A rattling tempest through the branches went, 
 That stripp'd them bare, and one sole way 
 
 they bent. 
 Heaven froze above, severe, the clouds con- 
 geal, 
 And through the crystal vault appear'd the 
 
 standing hail. 
 Such was the face without ; a mountain stood 
 Tlu"eatening from high, and overlook'd the 
 
 wood : 
 Beneath the lowering brow, and on a bent, 
 The temple stood of Mars armipotent : 
 The frame of burnish' d steel, that cast a glare 
 From far, and seem'd to thaw the freezing 
 
 air. 
 A straight long entry to the temple led, 
 Blind with high walls, and Honour over 
 
 head : 
 Thence issued such a blast, and hollow roar, 
 As threaten' d from the hinge to heave the 
 
 door ; 
 In through that door a northern light there 
 
 shone ; 
 'Twas all it had, for windows there were none ; 
 The gate was adama,nt, eternal frame ! 
 Which, hew'd by Mars himself, from Indian 
 
 quarries came. 
 The labour of a god ; and all along 
 Tough iron plates were clench'd to make it 
 
 strong, 
 A tun about was every pillar there ; 
 A pohsh'd mirror shone not haK so clear. 
 There saw I how the secret felon wrought, 
 And Treason labouring in the traitor's thought : 
 And midwife Time the ripen' d plot to murder 
 
 brought. 
 There the red Anger dar'd the pallid Fear ; 
 ' Next stood Hypocrisy, with holy leer, 
 Soft smiling, and demurely looking down, 
 But hid the dagger underneath the gown : 
 Th' assassinating wife, the household fiend. 
 And, far the blackest there, the traitor-friend. 
 On t'other side there stood Destruction bare, 
 Unpunished Rapine, and a waste of war. 
 Contest, with sharpen'd knives, in cloisters 
 
 drawn, 
 And all Avith blood bespread the holy lawn. 
 Loud menaces were heard, and foul Disgrace, 
 And bawhng infamy, in language base : 
 Till sense was lost in sound, and Silence fled 
 
 the place. 
 
 The slayer of himself yet saw I there, 
 The gore congeal' d was clotted in his hair : 
 With eyes half clos'd, 'nd gaping mouth he 
 
 lay, 
 And grim, as when he breath' d his sudden soul 
 
 away. — _ 
 
 In midst of all the dolne. Misfortune sate. 
 And gloomy Discontent, and fell Debate, 
 And Madness laughing in his ireful mood, 
 And arm'd complaint on Theft, and cries of 
 
 Blood. 
 There was the murder' d corpse, in covert laid. 
 And violent Death in thousand shapes dis- 
 
 play'd ; 
 The city to the soldiers' rage resign' d ; 
 Successless wars, and Poverty behind ; 
 Ships burnt in fight, or forc'd on rocky shores. 
 And the rash hunter strangled by the boars : 
 The new-born babe by nurses overlaid, 
 And the cook caught within the raging fire he 
 
 made. 
 All ills of Mars's nature, flame and steel ; 
 The gasping charioteer, beneath the wheel 
 Of his own car ; the ruin'd house, that falls 
 And intercepts her lord betwixt the walls ; 
 The whole division that to Mars pertains. 
 All trades of death, that deal in steel for 
 
 gains. 
 Were there : the butcher, armourer, and 
 
 smith, 
 Who forges sharpen'd faulchions, or the 
 
 scythe. 
 The scarlet Conquest on a tower was plac'd. 
 With shouts, and soldiers' acclamations 
 
 grac'd : 
 A pointed sword hung threatening o'er his 
 
 head, 
 Sustain' d but by a slender twine of thread. 
 There saw I Mars's ides, the Capitol, 
 The seer in vain foretelling Caesar's fail ; 
 The last triumvirs, and the wars they move. 
 And Antony, who lost the world for love. 
 These, and a thousand more, the fane adorn ; 
 Their fates were painted ere the men were 
 
 born. 
 All copied from the Heavens, and ruling force 
 Of the red star in his revolving course. 
 The form of Mars high on a chariot stood. 
 All sheath' d in arms, and gruffly look'd the 
 
 god: 
 Two geomantic figures were display' d 
 Above his head, a warrior and a maid : 
 One when direct, and one when retrograde, 
 
 Tir'd with deformities of death, I haste 
 To the third temple of Diana chaste. 
 A sylvan scene with -various greens was drawn, 
 Shades on the sides, aixd on the midst a lawn : 
 The silver Cynthia, with her nymphs around, 
 Pursued the flying deer, the woods with horns 
 
 resound : 
 Calisto there stood manifest of shame, 
 And, turn'd a bear, the northern star became : 
 Her son was next, and, by peculiar grace. 
 In the cold circle held the second place : 
 The stag Acteon in the stream had spy'd 
 The naked huntress, and, for seeing, dy'd : 
 
 28 
 
John Dbtden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [FouKTii Peeiou. 
 
 His liounds, unknowing of liis change, pursue 
 The chase, and their mistaken master slew. 
 Peneian Daphne too was there to see, 
 Apollo's love before, and now his tree : 
 Th' adjoining fane th' assembled Greeks ex- 
 press' d, 
 And hunting of the Calydonian beast. 
 Oenides' valour, and his envy'd prize ; 
 The fatal power of Atalanta's eyes; 
 Diana's vengeance on the victor shown, 
 The murdress mother, and consuming son ; 
 The Volscian queen extended on the plain ; 
 The treason punish'd, and the traitor slain. 
 The rest were various huntings, weU design' d. 
 And savage beasts destroy' d, of every kind. 
 Tlae gracefvd goddess was array 'd in green ; 
 About her feet were little beagles seen, 
 That watch' d with upward eyes the motions 
 
 of their queen. 
 Her legs were buskin' d, and the left before 
 In act to shoot, a silver bow she bore, 
 And at her back a painted quiver wore. 
 She trod a wexing moon, that soon would 
 
 wane, 
 And drinking borrow' d light, be fiU'd a^ain ; 
 With downcast eyes, as seeming to survey 
 The dark dominions, her alternate sway. 
 Before her stood a woman in her throes, 
 And call'd Lucina's aid, her burden to disclose. 
 All these the painter drew with such com- 
 mand. 
 That Nature snatch' d the pencil from liis 
 
 hand, 
 Asham'd and angry that his art could feign 
 And mend the tortures of a mother's pain. 
 Theseus beheld the fanes of every god. 
 And thought liis mighty cost was well be- 
 stow' d. 
 So princes now their poets should regard ; 
 But few can write, and fewer can reward. 
 
 The theatre thus rais'd, the lists enclos'd, 
 And all with vast magnificence dispos'd, 
 We leave the monarch pleas' d, and haste to 
 
 bring 
 The knights to combat, and their arms to 
 sing. 
 
 BOOK HI. 
 
 Tlie day approach' d when Fortune should 
 decide 
 Th' important enterprize, and give the bride ; 
 For now the rivals round the world had 
 
 sought, 
 And each his rival, well appointed, brought. 
 The nations, far and near, contend in choice, 
 And send the flower of war by public voice ; 
 That after, or before, were never known 
 Such chiefs, as each an army seem'd alone : 
 Beside the champions, all of high degree, 
 "VMio knighthood lov'd, and deeds of chivalry, 
 Tlirong'd to the lists, and envy'd to behold 
 The names of others, not their own, enroll' d. 
 Nor seems it strange ; for every noble knight 
 
 Who loves the fair, and is endu'd with miglifc, 
 In such a quarrel would be proud to fight. 
 There breathes not scarce a man on British 
 
 ground 
 (An isle for love and arms of old renown' d) 
 But would have sold his life to purchase fame, 
 To Palamon or Arcite sent his name • 
 And had the land selected of the best. 
 Half had come hence, and let the world 
 
 provide the rest. 
 A hundred knights with Palamon there came. 
 Appro v'd in fight, and men of mighty name , 
 Their arms were several, as their natiouri 
 
 were, 
 But fumish'd aU alike with sword and spear. 
 Some wore coat armour, imitating scale. 
 And next their skins were stubborn shirts of 
 
 mail; 
 Some wore a breast-plate and a light jnppon, 
 Their horses cloth'd with rich caparison ; 
 Some for defence would leathern bucklers 
 
 use 
 Of folded hides, and others shields of pruce. 
 One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow. 
 And one a heavy mace to shun the foe. 
 One for his legs and knees provided weU, 
 With jambeaux arm'd, and double plates of 
 
 steel. 
 This on his helmet wore a lady's glove, 
 And that a sleeve embroider'd by his love. 
 With Palamon, above the rest in place, 
 Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace ; 
 Black was Ins beard, and manly was his face ;. 
 The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head, 
 And glar'd betwixt a yellow and a red : 
 He look'd a lion with a gloomy stare. 
 And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair : 
 Big-bon'd, and large of limbs, with sinews 
 
 strong, 
 Broad- shoulder' d, and liis arms were round 
 
 and long. 
 Four milkwhite bulls (the Thracian use of 
 
 old) 
 Were yok'd to draw his car of burnish' d gold. 
 Upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield. 
 Conspicuous from afar, and overlook' d the 
 
 field. 
 His surcoat was a bear-skin on his back ; 
 His hair hung long behind, and glossy raven 
 
 black. 
 His ample forehead bore a coronet, 
 With sparkling diamonds and with rubies 
 
 set; 
 Ten brace, and more, of grey hounds, snowy 
 
 fair. 
 And taU as stags, ran loose, and cours'd around 
 
 his chair, 
 A match for pards in flight, in grapUng for 
 
 the bear ; 
 With golden muzzles all their mouths were 
 
 bound. 
 And collars of ^le same their necks surround. 
 Thus through the fields Lycurgus took his 
 
 way: 
 His Imndred knights attend in pomp and proud^ 
 
 arraj-. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND ARCITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 To matcli this monarch, -with strong Arcite 
 
 came 
 Emetrius, king of Inde, a mighty name, 
 On a bay courser, goodly to behold. 
 The trappings of his horse adorn' d with 
 
 barbarous gold. 
 Not Mars bestrode a steed with greater grace ; 
 His surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of Thrace, 
 Adorn' d with pearls, aU orient, round, and 
 
 great : 
 His saddle was of gold, mth emeralds set. 
 His shoulders large a mantle did attire, 
 With rubies thick and sparkling as the fire : 
 His amber-colour'd locks in ringlets run, 
 With graceful negligence, and shone against 
 
 the Sun ; 
 His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue, 
 Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue : 
 Some sprinkled freckles on hia face were seen. 
 Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the 
 
 skin: 
 His awful presence did the crowd surprise. 
 Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes, 
 Eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway, 
 So fierce they flash' d intolerable day. 
 His age in Nature's youthful prime appear' d, 
 And just began to bloom his yeUow beard. 
 Whene'er he spoke, hia voice was heaid 
 
 around, 
 Loud as a trumpet, with a gdlyer sound : 
 A laurel wreath' d his temples, fresh and green; 
 And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were 
 
 mix'd between. 
 Upon his fist he bore, for his delight. 
 An eagle well reclaim' d, and hly white. 
 
 His liundred knights attend him to the war, 
 AU arm'd for battle j save their heads were 
 
 bare. 
 Words and devices blaz'd on every shield. 
 And pleasing was the terror of the field. 
 For kings, and dukes, and barons you might 
 
 Like sparkling stars, though different in de- 
 gree, 
 
 All for th' increase of arms, and love of 
 chivalry. 
 
 Before the king tame leopards led the way. 
 
 And troops of Uons innocently play. 
 
 So Bacchus through the conquer'd Indies 
 rode. 
 
 And beasts in gambols frisk'd before the 
 honest god. 
 In this array the war of either side 
 
 Through Athens pass'd with military pride. 
 
 At prime, they enter' d on the Sunday mom ; 
 
 Rich tapestry spread the streets, and flowers 
 the posts adorn. 
 
 The town was all a jubilee of feasts ; 
 
 So Theseus will'd, in honour of his guests ; 
 
 Himself with open arms the king embrac'd. 
 
 Then all the rest in their degrees were grac'd. 
 
 No harbinger was needful for a night. 
 
 For every house was proud to lodge a knight. 
 I pass the royal treat, nor must relate 
 
 The gifts bestow' d, nor how the champions 
 sate : 
 
 Who first, or last, or how the knights ad- 
 dress' d 
 Their vows, or who was fairest at the feast ; 
 "Wliose voice, whose graceful dance, did most 
 
 surprise ; 
 Soft amorous sighs, and silent loye of eyes. 
 Tlie rivals call my Muse another way^ ~ 
 To sing their vigils for th' ensuing day. 
 'Twas ebbing darkness, past the noon of night, 
 And Phosphor, on the confines of the light, 
 Promis'd the Sun, ere day began to spring ; 
 The tuneful lark already stretch' d her vfing, 
 And, flickering on her nest, made short essays 
 
 to sing : 
 Wlien wakeful Palamon, preventing day, 
 Took to the royal lists his early way. 
 To Venus at her fane, in her own house, to 
 
 pray. 
 There, falling on his knees before her shrine. 
 He thus implor'd with prayers her power 
 
 divine. 
 " Creator Venus, genial power of love. 
 The bhss of men below and gods above ! 
 Beneath the sliding Sun thou runn'st thy race, 
 Dost fairest shine, and best become thy place. 
 For thee the winds their eastern blasts for- 
 bear, 
 Thy month reveals the spring, and opens all 
 
 the year. 
 Thee, Goddess, thee the storms of winter fly. 
 Earth smiles with flowers renewing, laughs the 
 
 sky. 
 And birds to lays of love their tuneful notes 
 
 apply. 
 For thee the Hon loaths the taste of blood, 
 And roaring hunts his female through the 
 
 wood : 
 For thee the bulls rebellow through the groves, 
 And tempt the stream, and snuff their absen 
 
 loves. 
 'Tis thine, whate'er is pleasant, good, or fair : 
 All nature is thy province, life thy care : 
 Thou mad'st the world, and dost the world 
 
 repair. 
 Thou gladder of the mount of Cy^bheron, 
 Increase of Jove, compardon of the Sun ; 
 If e'er Adonis touch'd thy tender heart, 
 Have pity, goddess, for thou know'st the 
 
 smart. 
 Alas ! I have not words to tell my grief ; 
 To vent my sorrow would be some relief ; 
 Light sufferings give us leisure to complain ; 
 We groan, but cannot speak, in greater pain. 
 O goddess, tell thyself what I would say. 
 Thou know'st it, and I feel too much to pray. 
 So grant my suit, as I enforce my might. 
 In love to be thy champion and thy knight ; 
 A servant to thy sex, a slave to thee, 
 A foe profest to barren chastity. 
 Nor ask I fame or honour of the field, 
 Nor choose I more to vanquish than to yield ; 
 In my divine Emiha make me blest. 
 Let fate, or partial Chance, dispose the rest • 
 Find thou the manner, and the means pre- 
 pare. 
 Possession, more than conquest, is my care. 
 
 28* 
 
John Dryden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Mars is the warrior's god ; in him it hes, 
 
 On whom he favours to confer the prize ; 
 
 With smiling aspect you serenely move 
 
 In your fifth orb, and rule the realm of love. 
 
 The Fates but only spin the coarser clue, 
 
 The finest of the wool is left for you. 
 
 Spare me but one small portion of the twine, 
 
 And let the sisters cut below your line : 
 
 The rest among the rubbish may they sweep, 
 
 Or add it to the yarn of some old miser's heap. 
 
 But, if you this ambitious prayer deny 
 
 (A wish, I grant, beyond mortality), 
 
 Then let me sink beneath proud Arcite's arms, 
 
 And I, once dead, let him possess her charms." 
 
 Thus ended he ; then, with observance due, 
 
 The sacred incense on her altar threw : 
 
 The curling smoke mounts heavy from the 
 
 fires ; 
 At length it catches flame, and in a blaze ex- 
 pires ; 
 At once the gracious goddess gave the sign, 
 Her statue shook, and trembled all the shrine : 
 Pleas'd Palamon the tardy omen took, 
 For, since the flames pursu'd the trailing 
 
 He knew his boon was granted ; but the day 
 To distance driven, and joy adjourn' d with 
 
 long delay. 
 Now Morn with rosy light had streak'd the 
 
 sky. 
 Up rose the Sun, and up rose Emily ; 
 Address'd her early steps to Cynthia's fane. 
 In state attended by her maiden train, 
 Who bore the vests that holy rites require. 
 Incense, and odorous gums, and cover'd fire. 
 The plenteous horns with pleasant mead they 
 
 crown. 
 Nor wanted aught besides in honour of the 
 
 Moon. 
 Now while the temple smok'd with hallow' d 
 
 steam, 
 They wash the virgin in a hving stream : 
 The secret ceremonies I conceal, 
 Uncouth, perhaps unlawful, to reveal ; 
 But such they were as pagan use requir'd, 
 Perform' d by women when the men retir'd. 
 Whose eyes profane their chaste mysterious 
 
 rites 
 Might turn to scandal, or obscene delights. 
 WeU-meaners think no harm ; but for the rest. 
 Things sacred they pervert, and silence is the 
 
 best. 
 Her shining hair, uncomb'd, was loosely spread, 
 A crown of mastless oak adorn' d her head : 
 WTien, to the shrine approach'd, the spotless 
 
 maid 
 Had kindling fires on either altar laid 
 (The rites were such as were observ'd of old, 
 By Statins in his Theban story told), 
 Then kneeling with her hands across her 
 
 breast, 
 Thus lowly she preferr'd her chaste request : 
 "O goddess, haunter of the woodland 
 
 green, 
 To whom both Heaven and Earth and Seas 
 
 are seen. 
 
 Queen of the nether skies, where half the 
 
 year 
 Thy silver beams descend and light the gloomy 
 
 sphere ; 
 Goddess of maids, and conscious of our hearts. 
 So keep me from the vengeance of thy darts, 
 Which Niobe's devoted issue felt, 
 When hissing through the skies the feather'd 
 
 deaths were dealt. 
 As I desire to live a virgin life. 
 Nor know the name of mother or of wife. 
 Thy votress from my tender years I am. 
 And love, like thee, the woods and sylvan 
 
 Like death, thou know'st, I loathe the nuptial 
 
 state. 
 And man, the tyrant of our sex, I hate, 
 A lowly servant, but a lofty mate. 
 Where love is duty on the female side, 
 On theirs mere sensual gust, and sought with 
 
 surly pride. 
 Now by thy triple shape, as thou art seen 
 In Heaven, Earth, Hell, and everywhere a 
 
 queen, 
 Grant this my first desire : — ^let discord cease, 
 And make betwixt the rivals lasting peace ; 
 Quench their hot fire, or far from me remove 
 The flame, and turn it on some other love ; 
 Or, if my frowning stars have so decreed, 
 That one must be rejected, one succeed, 
 Make him my lord, within whose faithful 
 
 breast 
 Is fix'd my image, and who loves me best. 
 But, oh! ev'n that avert ! I choose it not, 
 But take it as the least unhappy lot. 
 A maid I am, and of thy virgin train ; 
 Oh ! let me still that spotless name retain ! 
 Frequent the forests, thy chaste wiU obey, 
 And only make the beasts of chase my 
 
 prey." 
 The flames ascend on either altar clear. 
 While thus the blameless maid address'd her 
 
 prayer. 
 I When, lo ! the burning fire that shone so 
 
 bright 
 Flew ofi', all sudden, with extinguish' d light , 
 And left one altar dark a little space. 
 Which turn'd seK-kindled, and renew'd the 
 
 blaze ; 
 The other victor-flame a moment stood, 
 Then fell, and lifeless left th' extinguish' d 
 
 wood ; 
 For ever lost, th' irrevocable light 
 Forsook the blackening coals, and sunk to 
 
 night : 
 At either end it whistled as it flew, 
 And as the brands were green, so di'opp'd the 
 
 dew. 
 Infected as it fell with sweat of sanguine hue. 
 The maid from that ill omen turn'd her 
 
 eyes, 
 And with loud shrieks and clamours rent the 
 
 Nor knew what signified the boding sign, 
 But found the powers displeas'd, and fear'd 
 the wrath divine. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 Then shook the sacred shrine, and sudden 
 
 Hght 
 Sprang through the vaulted roof, and made 
 
 the temple bright. 
 The power behold ! the power in glory shone. 
 By her bent bow and her keen arrows known; 
 The rest, a huntress issuing from the wood, 
 Eeclining on her cornel spear she stood. 
 Then gracious thus began : " Dismiss thy 
 
 fear, 
 And Heaven's unchang'd decrees attentive 
 
 hear : 
 More powerful gods have torn thee from my 
 
 side. 
 Unwilling to resign, and doom'd a bride ; 
 The two contending knights are weigh'd 
 
 above ; 
 One Mars protects, and one the queen of 
 
 love; 
 But wliich the man, is in the Thunderer's 
 
 breast ; 
 This he pronounc'd, 'tis he who loves thee 
 
 best. 
 The fire that once extinct reviv'd again, 
 Foreshows the love allotted to remain. 
 Farewell!" she said, and vanish' d from the 
 
 place ; 
 The sheaf of arrows shook and rattled in the 
 
 case. 
 Aghast at this the royal virgin stood 
 Disclaim'd, and now no more a sister of the 
 
 wood ; 
 But to the parting goddess thus she pray'd : 
 " Propitious still be present to my aid, 
 Nor quite abandon your once favour'd maid." 
 Then sighing she retum'd; but smil'd be- 
 twixt, 
 With hopes, and fears, and joys, with sorrows 
 
 mixt. 
 The next returning planetary hour 
 Of Mars, who shar'd the heptarchy of power. 
 His steps bold Arcite to the temple bent, 
 T' adore with pagan rites the power armi- 
 
 potent ; 
 Then prostrate, low before his altar lay, 
 And rais'd his manly voice, and thus began to 
 
 pray: 
 " Strong god of arms, whose iron sceptre 
 
 sways 
 The freezing north and Hyperborean seas. 
 And Scythian colds, and Thracia's winter 
 
 ooast. 
 Where stand thy steeds, and thou art honour 'd 
 
 most : 
 There most, but every^vhere thy power is 
 
 known, 
 The fortune of the fight is aU thy own ; 
 Terror is thine, and ■wild amazement, flung 
 From out thy chariot, withers ev'n the strong; 
 And disarray and shameful rout ensue, 
 And force is added to the fainting crew. 
 Acknowledg'd as thou art, accept my prayer. 
 If aught I have achiev'd deserve thy care ; 
 If to my utmost power with sword and shield 
 I dar'd the death, unknowing how to yield, 
 And, falling in my rank, still kept the field : 
 
 Then let my arms prevail, by thee sustain' d. 
 That Emily by conquest may be gain'd. 
 Have pity on my pains ; nor those unknown 
 To Mars, which, when a lover, vrere his own, 
 Venus, the public care of all above. 
 Thy stubborn heart has softened into love : 
 Now by her blandishments and- powerful 
 
 charms. 
 When yielded she lay curling in thy arms, 
 Ev'n by thy shame, if shame it may be eall'd. 
 When Vulftan had thee in his net enthrall' d : 
 O envy'd ignominy, sweet disgrace. 
 When every God that saw thee wish'd thy 
 
 place ! 
 By those dear pleasures aid my arms in fight. 
 And make me conquer in my patron's right : 
 For I am young, a novice in the trade. 
 The fool of love, unpractis'd to persuade, 
 And want the soothing arts that catch the 
 
 fair. 
 But, caught myself, lie struggling in the 
 
 snare ; 
 And she I love, or laughs at all my pain. 
 Or knows her worth too well, and pays me 
 
 with disdain. 
 For sure I am, unless I win in arms, 
 To stand excluded from Emiha's charms : 
 Nor can my strength avail unless by thee 
 Endued by force I gain the victory ; 
 Then for the fire which warm'd thy gen' reus 
 
 heart. 
 Pity thy subject's pains and equal smart. 
 So be the morrow's sweat and labour mine. 
 The palm and honour of the conquest thine : 
 Then shall the war, and stern debate, and 
 
 strife 
 Immortal, be the business of my life ; 
 And in thy fane, the dusty spoils among. 
 High on the burnish' d roof my banner shrJl 
 
 be hung, 
 Rank'd with my champion's bucklers, and 
 
 below, 
 With arms revers'd, th' achievements of my 
 
 foe; 
 And while these limbs the vital spirit feods^ 
 While day to night and night to day succeeds, 
 Thy smoking altar shall be fat with food 
 Of incense, and the grateful steam of blood ; 
 Burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be 
 
 thine, 
 And fires eternal in thy temple shine. 
 The bush of yellow beard, this length of hair. 
 Which from my birth inviolate I bear, 
 Guiltless of steel, and from the razor free. 
 Shall fall a plenteous crop, reserv'd for thee. 
 So may my arms with victory be blest, 
 I ask no more ; let Fate dispose the rest." 
 The champion ceas'd ; there follow' d in the 
 close 
 A hollow groan, a murmuring wind arose ; 
 The rings of iron, that on the doors were 
 
 hung 
 Sent out a jarring sound, and harshly rung ; 
 The bolted gates flew open at the blast. 
 The storm rushed in, and Arcite stood 
 aghast ; 
 
John Drtden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. 
 
 The flames were blown aside, yet shone they 
 
 bright, 
 Fann'd by the wind, and gave a ruffled Hght. 
 Then from the ground a scent began to rise, 
 Sweet-smelling as accepted sacrifice : 
 This omen pleas'd, and as the flames aspire 
 With odorous incense Arcito heaj^s the fire : 
 Nor wanted hymns to Mars, or heathen 
 
 charms ; 
 At length the nodding statue clash'd his arms, 
 And with a sullen sound and feeble cry 
 Half sunk, and half pronounc'd, the word of 
 
 victory. 
 For this, with soul devout, he thank'd the 
 
 god, 
 And, of success secure, return'd to his abode. 
 These vows, thus granted, raised a strife 
 
 above. 
 Betwixt the god of war, and queen of love. 
 She, granting first, had right of time to 
 
 plead : 
 But he had granted too, nor would recede. 
 Jove was for Venus ; but he fear'd his Avife, 
 And seem'd unwilling to decide the strife : 
 Till Saturn from his leaden throne arose, 
 And found a way the difference to compose. 
 Though sparing of his grace, to mischief 
 
 bent. 
 He seldom does a good with good intent. 
 Wajrward, but wise, by long experience taught 
 To please both parties, for ill ends he sought ; 
 For this advantage age from youth has won, 
 As not to be outridden, though outrun. 
 By Fortune he was now to Venus trin'd, 
 And with stern Mars in Capricorn was join'd ; 
 Of him disposing in his own abode. 
 He sooth'd the goddess while he -gull'd the 
 
 god: 
 " Cease, daughter, to complain, and stint the 
 
 strife, 
 Thy Palamon shall have his promis'd wife ; 
 And Mars, the lord of conquest, in the fight 
 "With palm and laurel shall adorn his knight. 
 Wide is my course, nor turn I to my place. 
 Till length of time, and move with tardy 
 
 pace. 
 Man feels me when I press th' etherial plains, 
 My hand is heavy and the wound remains. 
 Inline is the shipwreck in a watery sign, 
 And in an earthy, the dark dungeon mine. 
 Cold, shivering agues, melancholy care, 
 And bitter, blasting winds, and poison'd air. 
 Are mine, and wilful death, resulting from 
 
 despair. 
 The throtling quinsey 'tis my star appoints. 
 And rheumatisms ascend to rack the joints ; 
 "When churls rebel against their native prince, 
 I arm their hands, and furnish the pretence ; 
 And, housing in the lion's hateful sign. 
 Bought senates and deserting troops are 
 
 mine. 
 Mine is the privy poisoning ; I command 
 Unkiiidly seasons and ungrateful land. 
 By me kings' palaces are push'd to ground, 
 And miners crush'd beneath their mines are 
 
 found. 
 
 'Twas I slew Samson when the pillar' d hall 
 Fell down, and crush'd the many with the 
 
 fall. 
 My looking is the fire of pestilence. 
 That sweeps at once the people and the 
 
 prince. 
 Now weep no more, but trust thy graudsire's 
 art, 
 j Mars shall be pleas' d, and thou perform thy 
 I part. 
 
 , 'Tis ill, though different your complexions 
 j are, 
 
 I The family of Heaven for men should war." 
 I Th' expedient pleas' d where neither lost his 
 
 right, 
 I Mars had the day, and Venus had the night. 
 The management they left to Chronos' care ; 
 I Now turn we to th' effect, and shig the war. 
 j In Athens all was pleasure, mirth, and 
 i play. 
 
 All proper to the spring and sprightly May, 
 Which every soul inspir'd with such delight, 
 'Twas jesting all the da}"-, and love at night. 
 Heaven smil'd, and gladded was the heart of 
 
 man ; 
 And Venus had the world as when it first 
 
 began. 
 At length in sleep their bodies they compose, 
 And dreamt the future fight, and early rose. 
 Now scarce the dawning day began to 
 spring, 
 As at a signal given the streets with clamours 
 
 ring: 
 At once the crowd arose ; confus'd and high 
 Ev'n from the Heaven was heard a shouting 
 
 cry; 
 For Mars was early up, and rous'd the sky. 
 The gods came downward to behold the 
 
 wars. 
 Sharpening their sights and leaning from their 
 
 stars. 
 The neighing of the generous horse was 
 
 heard. 
 For battle by the busy groom prepar'd ; 
 Bustling of harness, rattUng of the shield, 
 Clattering of armour, furbish' d for the field. 
 Crowds to the castle mounted up the street, 
 Battering the pavement with their coursers' 
 
 feet; 
 The greedy sight might there devour the gold 
 Of glittering arms, too dazzling to behold ; 
 And polish' d steel that cast the view aside, 
 And crested morions, with their plumy pride. 
 Knights, with a long retinue of their squires, 
 In gaudy liveries march, and quaint attires. 
 One lac'd the helm, another held the lance, 
 A third the shining buckler did advance. 
 The courser paw'd the ground with restless 
 
 feet, 
 And snorting foam'd, and champ' d the golden 
 
 bit. 
 The smiths and armourers on paKreys xide, 
 Files in their hands, and hammers at their 
 
 side. 
 And nails for loosen' d spears, and thongs for 
 shields provide. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [John Urycen. 
 
 The 3'-eomcn guard the streets in seemly 
 
 bands, 
 And clowns come crovrding on, with cudgels 
 
 in their hands. 
 The trumpets, next the gate in order 
 
 plac'd, 
 Attend the sign to sound the martial blast ; 
 The palace-yard is fill'd with floating tides, 
 And the last comers bear the former to the 
 
 sides. 
 The throng is in the midst ; the common crew 
 Shut out, the hall admits the better few ; 
 In knots they stand, or in a raaik they walk, 
 Serious in aspect, earnest in their talk, 
 Factious, and favouring this or t' other side. 
 As their strong fancy or weak reason guide ; 
 Their wagers back their wishes ; numbers 
 
 hold 
 "With the fair freckled king and beard of gold; 
 So vigorous arc his eyes, such rays they 
 
 cast, 
 So prominent his eagle's beak is plac'd. 
 }>ut most their looks on the black monarch 
 
 bend, • - 
 Kis rising muscles and his brawii commend ; 
 His double-biting axe and beaming spear, 
 Each asking a gigantic force to rear. 
 -\11 spoke as partial favour mov'd the mind. 
 And, safe themselves, at others' cost divin'd. 
 Wak'd by the cries, th' Athenian chief 
 
 arose. 
 The knightly forms of combat to dispose ; 
 And passing through th' obsequious guards, he 
 
 sate 
 Conspicuous on a throne, sublime in state ; 
 There for the two contending knights he sent : 
 Arm'd cap-a-pee, with reverence low the}' 
 
 bent; 
 He smil'd on both, and with superior look, 
 Alike their offer' d adoration took. 
 The people press on every side to see 
 Their awfid prince, and hear his high decree. 
 Then, signing to their heralds with his hand. 
 They gave his orders from their lofty stand. 
 Silence is thrice enjoin' d ; then thus aloud 
 The king-at-arms bespeaks the knights and 
 
 listening crowd : 
 " Our sovereign lord has ponder' d in his 
 
 mind 
 The means to spare the blood of gentle kind ; 
 And of his grace and inborn clemency, 
 He modifies his first severe decree. 
 The keener edge of battle to rebate, 
 The troops for honoiu* fighting, not for hate. 
 He wills not death should terminate their 
 
 strife. 
 And wounds, if wounds ensue, be short of 
 
 life; 
 But issues, ore the fight, his dread command, 
 That slings afar, and poinards hand to hand, 
 Be banish' d from the field ; that none shall 
 
 dare 
 With shortened sword to stab in closer war ; 
 But in fair combat fight with manly strength, 
 Nor push v.ith biting point, but strike at 
 
 length. 
 
 The tourney is allow' d but one career. 
 
 Of the tough ash with the sharp-grinded 
 
 spear ; 
 But knights unhors'd may rise from off the 
 
 plain, 
 And fight on foot their honour to regain ; 
 Nor, it at mischief taken, on the ground 
 Be slain, but prisoners to the pillar bound, 
 At either barrier plac'd ; nor (captives made) 
 Be freed, or arm'd anew the fight invade. 
 The chief of either side, bereft of life. 
 Or yielded to liis foe, concludes the strife. 
 Thus dooms the lord: now vahant knights 
 
 and young 
 Fight each his fill with swords and maces 
 
 long." 
 The herald ends. The vaulted firmament 
 "With loud acclaims and vast applause is 
 
 rent: 
 " Heaven guard a prince so gracious and so 
 
 _ good, 
 So just, and yet so provident of blood !" 
 This was the general cry. The trumpets 
 
 sound, 
 And warlike symphony is heard around, 
 The marching troops through Athens take 
 
 their way, 
 The great earl-marshal orders their array. 
 The fair from high the passing pomp be- 
 hold; 
 A rain of flowers is from the windows roll'd. 
 The casements are mth golden tissue spread. 
 And horses' hoofs, for earth, on silken tapestry 
 
 tread ; 
 The king goes midmost, and the rivals ride 
 In equal rank, and close his either side. 
 Next after these, there rode the royal ^vife, 
 With Emily, the cause and the reward of 
 
 strife. 
 The following cavalcade, by three and three. 
 Proceed by titles mar shall' d in degree. 
 Thus through the southern gate they take 
 
 their way, 
 And at the List arriv'd ere prime of day. 
 There, parting from the king, the chiefs 
 
 divide, 
 And, wheeKng east and west, before their 
 
 many ride. 
 Th' Athenian monarch mounts his throne on 
 
 high. 
 And after him the queen and Emily : 
 Next these the kindred of the crown arc 
 
 grac'd 
 With nearer seats, and lords by ladies plac'd. 
 Scarce were they seated, when, with clamours 
 
 loud, 
 In rushed at once a rude, promiscuous crowd ; 
 The guards, and then each other, overbear, 
 And in a moment throng the spacious theatre. 
 Now chang'd the jarring noise to whispers 
 
 low. 
 As winds forsa,king seas more softly blow ; 
 When at the Avesterrv gate, on which the car 
 Is plac'd aloft that bears the god of war, 
 Proud Arcito entering arm'd before his train, 
 Stops at the barrier, and divides the plain. 
 
John Detden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Eed was his banner, and display' d abroad 
 The bloody colours of his patron god. 
 
 At that self moment enters Palamon 
 The gate of Venus and the rising sun ; 
 Wav'd by the wanton winds his banner flies, 
 All maiden white, and shares the people's 
 
 eyes. 
 From east to west, look all the world around, 
 Two troops so match' d were never to be 
 
 found ; 
 Such bodies built for strength, of equal age, 
 In stature siz'd ; so proud an equipage ; 
 The nicest eye could no distinction make, 
 "Where lay th' advantage, or what side to 
 
 take. 
 Thus rang'd, the herald for the last pro- 
 claims 
 A silence while they answer' d to their names; 
 For so the king decreed, to shun the care, 
 The fraud of musters false, the common bane 
 
 of war. 
 The tale was just, and then the gates were 
 
 clos'd. 
 And chief to chief, and troop to troop op- 
 
 pos'd. 
 The heralds last retir'd, and loudly cry'd, 
 The fortune of the field be fairly try'd. 
 At this, the challenger with fierce defy 
 His trumpet sounds; the challeng'd makes 
 
 reply : 
 With clangor rings the field, resounds the 
 
 vaulted sky. 
 Their vizors closed, their lances in the rest. 
 Or at the helmet pointed, or the crest ; 
 They vanish from the barrier, speed the race. 
 And, spurring, see decrease the middle space. 
 A cloud of smoke envelops either host. 
 And all at once the combatants are lost . 
 Darkling they join adverse, and shock un- 
 seen. 
 Coursers with coursers justling, men with 
 
 men ; 
 As, labouring in eclipse, awhile they stay. 
 Till the next blast of wind restores the day. 
 They look anew : the beauteous form of fight 
 Is chang'd, and war appears, a g^^izly sight. 
 Two troops in fair array one moment show'd, 
 The next, a field with fallen bodies strow'd : 
 Not half the number in their seats are found; 
 But men and steeds lie groveling on the 
 
 ground. 
 The points of spears are stuck within the 
 
 shield, 
 The steeds without their riders scour the 
 
 field. 
 The knights unhors'd, on foot renew the 
 
 fight ; 
 The glittering faulchions cast a gleaming 
 
 light; 
 Hauberks and helms are hew'd Tvith many a 
 
 wound. 
 Out spins the streaming blood, and dyes the 
 
 ground. 
 The mighty maces with such haste descend, 
 They break the bones, and make the solid 
 
 armour bend. 
 
 This thrusts amid the throng with furious 
 
 force ; 
 Down goes at once the horseman and the 
 
 horse ; 
 That courser stumbles on the fallen steed, 
 And, floundering, throws the rider o'er his 
 
 head. 
 One rolls along, a foot-baU to his foes ; 
 One with a broken truncheon deals his blows. 
 This halting, this disabled with his wound, 
 In triumph led, is to the pill^ir bound ; 
 Where, by the king's award, he must abide, 
 There goes a captive led on t' other side. 
 By flts they cease ; and, leaning on the lance, 
 Take breath awhile, and to new fight ad- 
 vance. 
 Full oft the rivals met, and neither spar'd 
 His utmost force, and each forgot to ward. 
 The head of this was to the saddle bent, 
 The other backward to the crupper sent : 
 Both were by turns unhors'd; the jealous 
 
 blows 
 Fall thick and heavy, when on foot they close. 
 So deep their faulchions bite that every 
 
 stroke 
 Pierc'd to the quick, and equal wounds thoy 
 
 gave and took. 
 Borne far asunder by the tides of men, 
 Like adamant and steel they meet again. 
 
 So when a tiger sucks the bullock's blood, 
 A famish'd lion, issuing from the wood, 
 Eoars lordly fierce, and challenges the food : 
 Each claims possession, neither will obey. 
 But both their paws are fasten' d on the prey; 
 They bite, they tear, and while in vain they 
 
 strive, 
 The swains come arm'd between, and both to 
 
 distance drive. 
 At length, as Fate foredoom'd, and all 
 
 things tend 
 By course of time to their appointed end : 
 So when the Sun to west was far declin'd. 
 And both afresh in mortal battle join'd, 
 The strong Emetrius came in Arcite's aid. 
 And Palamon with odds was overlaid : 
 For, turning short, he struck with all his 
 
 might 
 Full on the helmet of th' unwary knight. 
 Deep was the wound ; he stagger' d with the 
 
 blow, 
 And turn'd him to his unexpected foe ; 
 Whom with such force he struck, ho fell'd 
 
 him down, 
 And cleft the circle of his golden crown. 
 But Arcite's men, who now prevail' d in fight. 
 Twice ten at once surround the single knight : 
 O'erpower'd, at length, they force him to the 
 
 ground, 
 Unyielded as he was, and to the pillar bound ; 
 And king Lycurgus, while he fought in vain 
 His friend to free, was tumbled on the plain. 
 Who now laments but Palamon, compeU'd 
 No more to try the fortune of the field ! 
 And, worse than death, to view with hateful 
 
 eyes 
 His rival's conquest, and renounce the prize ! 
 
From 1649 fo 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AND ARCITE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 Tlie royal judge on his tribunal plac'd, 
 "Who had beheld the fight from first to last, 
 Bad cease the war ; pronouncing from on high, 
 Arcite of Thebes had won the beauteous Ennly. 
 The sound of trumpets to the voice reply' d. 
 And roimd the royal lists the heralds cry'd, 
 ' ' Arcite of Thebes has won the beauteous 
 
 bride." 
 The people rend the skies with vast 
 
 applause ; 
 All own the chief, when Fortune owns the cause. 
 Arcite is own'd ev'n by the gods above, 
 And conquering Mars insults the queen of love. 
 So laugh' d he, when the rightful Titan fail'd, 
 And Jove's usurping arms in Heaven prevail' d ; 
 Laugh' d aU the powers who favour tyranny ; 
 And all the standing army of the sky. 
 But Venus with dejected eyes appears, 
 And, weeping, on the lists distill' d her tears ; 
 Her will refus'd, which gTieves a woman most, 
 And, in her champion foil'd, the cause of 
 
 Love is lost. 
 Till Saturn said, " Fair daughter, now be stiU, 
 The blustering fool has satisfy 'd his will ; 
 His boon is given ; his knight has gain'd the 
 
 day, 
 But lost the prize, th' arrears are yet to pay. 
 Thy hour is come, and mine the care shall be 
 To please thy knight, and set thy promise 
 
 free." 
 Now while the heralds run the lists around, 
 And Arcite, Arcite, Heaven and Earth 
 
 resound ; 
 A miracle (nor less it could be call'd) 
 Their joy with unexpected sorrow pall'd. 
 The victor knight had laid his helm aside. 
 Part for his ease, the greater part for pride : 
 Bare-headed, popularly low he bow'd, 
 And paid the salutations of the crowd. 
 Then, spurring at full speed, ran endlong on 
 Where Theseus sate on his imperial throne ; 
 Furious he drove, and upward cast his eye. 
 Where next the queen was plac'd his Emily; 
 Then passing to the saddle-bow he bent : 
 A sweet regard the gracious virgin lent 
 (For women, to the brave an easy prey, 
 Still follow Fortune where she leads the way) : 
 Just then, from earth sprung out a flashing 
 
 fire. 
 By Pluto sent, at Saturn's bad desire : 
 The startling steed was seiz'd with sudden 
 
 fright. 
 And bounding, o'er the pummel cast the 
 
 knight : 
 Forward he flew, and, pitching on his head. 
 He quiver'd with his feet, and lay for dead. 
 Black was his count'nance in a little space. 
 For all the blood was gather' d in his face. 
 Help was at hand : they rear'd him from the 
 
 ground, 
 And from his cumbrous arms his limbs 
 
 unbound ; 
 Then lanc'd a vein, and watch'd returning 
 
 breath ; 
 It came, but clogg'd with symptoms of his 
 
 death. 
 
 I The saddle-bow the noble parts had prest* 
 I All bruis'd and mortify'd his manly breast. 
 j Him still entranc'd and in a litter laid, 
 j They bore from field and to his bed convey' d. 
 I At leng-th he wak'd, and, with a feeble cry, 
 I The word he first pronounc'd was Emily. 
 
 Meantime the king, though inwardly he 
 
 mourn'd, ~ 
 
 In pomp triumphant to the town return' d. 
 Attended by the chiefs who fought the field 
 (Now friendly mix'd, and in one troop com- 
 
 pell'd). 
 Compos'd his looks to 'counterfeited cheer. 
 And bade them not for Arcite' s life to fear. 
 But that which gladded all the warrior-train, 
 Though most were sorely wounded, none were 
 
 slain. 
 The surgeons soon despoil' d them of their 
 
 arms. 
 And some with salves they cure, and some 
 
 with charms ; 
 Foment the bruises, and the pains assuage. 
 And heal their inward hurts with sovereign 
 
 draughts of sage. 
 The king in person visits all around, 
 Comforts the sick, congratulates the sound ; 
 Honours the princely chiefs, rewards the rest. 
 And holds for thrice three days a royal feast. 
 None was disgrac'd ; for falling is no shame. 
 And cowardice alone is loss of fame. 
 The venturous knight is from the saddle 
 
 thrown ; 
 But 'tis the fault of fortune, not his own. 
 If crowds and palms the conquering side 
 
 adorn, 
 The victor under better stars was born : 
 The brave man seeks not popular applause, 
 Nor, overpower' d with arms, deserts his 
 
 cause ; 
 Unsham'd, though foil'd, he does the best he 
 
 can : 
 Force is of brutes, but honour is of man. 
 Thus Theseus smU'd on all with equal grace ; 
 And each was set according to his place. 
 With ease were reconcil'd the differing parts. 
 For envy never dwells in noble hearts. 
 At length they took their leave, the time ex- 
 
 pir'd, 
 Well pleas' d, and to their several homes 
 
 retir'd. 
 Meanwhile the health of Arcite still im- 
 pairs ; 
 From bad proceeds to worse, and mocks the 
 
 leeches' cares ; 
 Swoln is his breast, his inward pains increase; 
 All means are us'd, and all without success. 
 The clotted blood lies heavy on his heart. 
 Corrupts, and there remains in spite of art : 
 Nor breathing veins, nor cupping, will pre- 
 vail ; 
 All outward remedies and inward fail ; 
 The mold of Nature's fabric is destroy' d. 
 Her vessels discompos'd, her virtue void ; 
 The bellows of his lungs begin to swell, 
 All out of frame is every secret cell, 
 Nor can the good receive, nor bad expel. 
 
John Dryden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 FFouRTH Period. — 
 
 Those breathing organs, thus within opprest, 
 With venom soon distend the sinews of his 
 
 breast. 
 Nought profits him to save abandon' d life, 
 Nor vomit's upward aid, nor downward laxa- 
 tive. 
 The midmost region batter' d and destroy' d. 
 When Nature cannot Avork, th' effect of art is 
 
 void. 
 For physic can but mend our crazy state, 
 Patch an old building, not a new create. 
 Arcite is doom'd to die in all his pride, 
 Must leave his youth, and yield his beauteous 
 
 bride, 
 Gain'd hardly, against right, and unenjoy'd. 
 When 'twas declar'd all hope of life was past. 
 Conscience (that of all physic works the last) 
 Cans' d him to send for Emily in haste. 
 With her, at his desire, came Palamon : 
 Then, on his pillow rais'd, he thus begun : 
 " No language can express the smallest part 
 Of what I feel and suffer in my heart, 
 For you, whom best I love and value most. 
 But to your service I bequeath my ghost ; 
 Which, from this mortal body when unty'd. 
 Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side, | 
 
 Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend. 
 But wait officious, and your steps attend : 
 How I have lov'd, excuse my faltering tongue, 
 My spirits feeble and my pains are strong : 
 This I may say, I only grieve to die 
 Because I lose my charming Emily : 
 To die, when Heaven had put you in my 
 
 power, 
 Fate could not choose a more malicious hour ! 
 What greater curse could envious Fortune 
 
 give, 
 Than just to die when I began to live ! 
 Vain men ; how vanishing a bliss we crave ; 
 Now warm in love, now withering in the 
 
 grave. 
 Never — O never more to see the Sun ; 
 Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone ! 
 This fate is common ; but I lose my breath 
 Near bliss, and yefc not bless' d before my 
 
 death. 
 Farewell ! but take me dying in your arms, 
 'Tis all I can enjoj^ of all your charms : 
 This hand I cannot but in death resign ; 
 Ah, could I live ! but while I live 'tis mine. 
 I feel my end approach, and, thus embrac'd. 
 Am pleas'd to die ; but hear me speak my 
 
 last. 
 Ah ! my sweet foe, for you, and you alone, 
 I broke my faith with injur'd Palamon. 
 But Love the sense of right and wrong con- 
 founds ; 
 Strong Love and proud Ambition have no 
 
 bounds. 
 And much I doubt, should Heaven my life 
 
 prolong, 
 I should retruTi to justify my wrong : 
 For. while my former flames remain within, 
 Repentance is but want of power to sin. 
 With mortal hatred I pursu'd his life, 
 Nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife : 
 
 Nor I, but as I lov'd ; yet aU combin'd. 
 Your beauty, and my impotence of mind. 
 And his concurrent flame, that blew my fire ; 
 For still our kindred souls had one desire. 
 He had a moment's right in point of time ; 
 Had I seen first, then his had been the crime. 
 Fate made it mine, and justify'd his right, 
 Nor holds this Earth a more deserving knight. 
 For virtue, valour, and for noble blood, 
 Truth, honour, all that is compris'd in good ; 
 So help me Heaven, in all the world is none 
 So worthy to be lov'd as Palamon. 
 He loves you too, with such an holy fire, 
 As will not, cannot but with life expire : 
 Our vow'd affections both have often try'd. 
 Nor any love but yours could ours divide. 
 Then, by my love's inviolable band, 
 By my long suffering, and my short command. 
 If e'er you plight your vows when I am gone, 
 Have pity on the faithful Palamon." 
 
 This was his last ; for Death came on 
 
 amain, 
 And exercis'd below his iron reign ; 
 Then upward to the seat of fife he goes : 
 Sense fled before him, what he touch'd he 
 
 froze : 
 Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw, 
 Though less and less of Emily he saw ; 
 So, speechless, for a little space he lay, 
 Then grasp' d the hand he held, and sigh'd his 
 
 soul away. 
 But whither went his soul let such relate 
 Who search the secrets of the future state : 
 Divines can say but what themselves believe, 
 Strong proofs they have, but not demonstra- 
 tive: 
 For, were all plain, then all sides must agree, 
 And faith itself be lost in certainty. 
 To live uprightly then is sure the best, 
 To save ourselves, and not to damn the rest. 
 The soul of Arcite went where heathens go, 
 Wlio better live than we, though less they 
 
 know. 
 In Palamon a manly grief appears ; 
 Silent he wept, asham'd to show his tears. 
 Emilia shriek'd but once, and then, oppress'd 
 , "^Yith sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast : 
 Till Theseus in his arms convey'd with care, 
 Far from so sad a sight the swooning fair. 
 'Twere loss of time her sorrow to relate ; 
 111 bears the sex a youthful lover's fate, 
 V^Tien just approaching to the nuptial state : 
 But, like a low -hung cloud, it rains so fast. 
 That all at once it falls, and cannot last. 
 The face of things is chang'd, and Athens now. 
 That laugh'd so late, becomes the scene of woe : 
 Matrons and maids, both sexes, every state, 
 With tears lament the knight's untimely fate. 
 Nor greater grief in falling Troy was seen 
 For Hector's death ; but Hector was not then. 
 Old men with dust deform'd their hoary hair. 
 The women beat their breasts, their cheeks 
 
 they tare. 
 " Why would' st thou go," with one consent 
 
 they cry, 
 " When thou had'st gold enough, and Emily?" 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 PALAMON AKD AECITE. 
 
 [John Drtden. 
 
 Theseus himself, who should have cheer'd 
 
 the grief 
 Of others, wanted now the same relief. 
 Old Egeus only could re\'ive liis son, 
 "VVho various changes of the world had Icnown. 
 And strange vicissitudes of human fate, 
 Still altering, never in a steady state ; 
 Good after ill, and after pain delight ; 
 Alternate like the scenes of day and night : 
 " Since every man who lives is bom to die, 
 And none can boast sincere felicity. 
 With equal mind what happens let ns bear. 
 Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond 
 
 our care. 
 Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend ; 
 The world's an inn, and death the journey's 
 
 end. 
 Ev'n kings but play ; and when their part is 
 
 done, 
 Some other, worse or better, mount the 
 
 throne." 
 With words like these the crowd was satisfy' d. 
 And so they would have been had Theseus 
 
 dy'd. 
 But he, their king, was labouring in his mind, 
 A fitting place for funeral pomps to find, 
 "Which were in honour of the dead design' d. 
 And, after long debate, at last he found 
 (As Love itself had mark'd the spot of 
 
 ground) 
 That grove for ever green, that conscious 
 
 land, 
 Wliere he vnth. Palamon fought hand to hand : 
 That where he fed his amorous desires 
 With soft complaints, and felt his hottest 
 
 fires. 
 There other flames might waste his earthly 
 
 part. 
 And burn his limbs where love had burn'd his 
 
 heart. 
 This once resolv'd, the peasants were en- 
 join' d 
 Sore- wood, and firs, and dodder'd oaks to find. 
 AVith sounding axes to the grove they go, 
 Fell, split, and lay the fuel on a row, 
 Vulcanian food : a bier is next prepar'd. 
 On which the lifeless body should be rear'd, 
 Cover'd with cloth of gold, on which was laid 
 The corpse of Arcite, in like robes array'd. 
 White gloves were on his hands, and on liis 
 
 head 
 A wreath of laurel, mix'd with myrtle spread. 
 A sword keen-edg'd within his right he held, 
 Tlie warlike emblem of the conquer' d field : 
 Bare was his manly visage on the bier : 
 Menac'd his countenance ; ev'n in death 
 
 severe. 
 Then to the palace-hall they bore the knight, 
 To lie in solemn state, a public sight. 
 Groans, cries, and bowlings fill the crowded 
 
 place, . 
 And unaffected sorrow sat on every face. 
 Sad Palamon above the rest appears, 
 In sable garments, dew'd with gushing tears : 
 His auburn locks on either shoulder flow'd, 
 Which to the funeral of his friend he vow'd : 
 
 But Emily, as chief, was next his side, 
 A virgin-widow, and a mourning bride. 
 And, that the princely obsequies might be 
 Perform'd according to his high degree. 
 The steed, that bore him living to the fight. 
 Was trapp'd with polish'd steel, all shining 
 
 bright, — — 
 
 And cover'd with th' achievements of the 
 
 knight. 
 The riders rode abreast, and one his shield, 
 His lance of cornel- wood another held ; 
 The third his bow, and, glorious to behold, 
 The costly quiver, all of burnish'd gold. 
 The noblest of the Grecians next appear. 
 And, weeping, on their shoulders bore the 
 
 bier ; 
 With sober pace they mareh'd, and often 
 
 staid. 
 And through the master- street the corpse 
 
 convey' d. 
 The houses to their tops with black were spread. 
 And ev'n the pavements were with mourning 
 
 hid. 
 The right side of the pall old Egeus kept. 
 And on the left the royal Theseus wept ; 
 Each bore a golden bowl, of work divine, 
 With honey fill'd, and milk, and mix'd with 
 
 ruddy wine. 
 Then Palamon, the kinsman of the slain 
 And after him appear' d the illustrious train, 
 To grace the pomp, came Emily the bright 
 With cover'd fire, the funeral pile to light. 
 With high devotion was the service made, 
 And all the rites of pagan-honour paid : 
 So lofty was the pile, a Parthian bow. 
 With vigour drawn, must send the shaft 
 
 below. 
 The bottom was full twenty fathom broad, 
 With crackling straw beneath in due proportion 
 
 strow'd. 
 The fabric seem'd a wood of rising green, 
 With sulphur and bitumen cast between. 
 To feed the flames : the trees were unctuous 
 
 fir, 
 And mountain ash, the mother of the spear ; 
 The mourner yew and builder oak were there : 
 The beech, the swimming alder, and the plane. 
 Hard box, and linden of a softer grain, 
 And laurels, which the gods for conquering 
 
 chiefs ordain. 
 How they were rank'd, shall rest untold by 
 
 me; 
 With nameless nymphs that iiv'd in every 
 
 tree ; 
 Nor how the Dryads, or the woodland train, 
 Disherited, ran howling o'er the plain : 
 Nor how the birds to foreign seats repair'd. 
 Or beasts, that bolted out, and saw the forest 
 
 bar'd- 
 Nor how the ground, now clear'd, with ghastly 
 
 fright 
 Beheld the sudden Sun, a stranger to the light. 
 
 The straw, as first I said, was laid below : 
 Of chips and sere- wood was the second row ; 
 The third of greens, and timber newly fell'd 
 The fourth high stage the fragrant odours held. 
 
John Dryden.] 
 
 PALAMON AND AECITE. 
 
 rFOUKTH PeEIOD. 
 
 And pearls, and precious stones, and rich 
 
 array, 
 In midst of which, embahn'd, the body lay. 
 The service sung, the maid with mourning 
 
 eyes 
 The stubble fir'd ; the smouldering flames 
 
 arise ; 
 This office done, she sunk upon the ground ; 
 Put what she spoke, recover'd from her 
 
 swoon, 
 I want the wit in moving words to dress ; 
 Put by themselves the tender sex may guess. 
 While the devouring fire was burning fast, 
 Eich jewels in the flame the wealthy cast ; 
 And some their shields, and some their lances 
 
 threw, 
 And gave their warrior's ghost, a warrior's 
 
 due. 
 Full bowls of wine, of honey, milk, and blood, 
 Were pour'd upon the pile of burning wood. 
 And hissing flames receive, and hungry lick 
 
 the food. 
 Then thrice the mounted squadrons rido 
 
 around 
 The fire, and Arcite's name they thrice 
 
 resound ; 
 Hail, and farewell, they shouted thrice amain, 
 Thrice facing to the left, and thrice they 
 
 turn'd again ; 
 Still as they turn'd, they beat their clattering 
 
 shields ; 
 The women mix their cries ; and Clamour fiUs 
 
 the fields, 
 The warlike wakes continued all the night, 
 And funeral games were played at new return- 
 ing light, 
 "Who, naked, wrestled best, besmear' d with 
 
 oil, 
 Or who with gauntlets gave or took the foil, 
 I will not tell you, nor would you attend ; 
 Put briefly haste to my long story's end. 
 I pass the rest : the year was fully 
 
 mourn' d, 
 And Palamon long since to Thebes return' d : 
 "When, by the Grecians' general consent. 
 At Athens Theseus held his parliament : 
 Among the laws that pass'd, it was decreed, 
 That conquer' d Thebes from bondage should 
 
 be freed ; 
 Reserving homage to th' Athenian throne, 
 To which the sovereign summon' d Palamon. 
 Unknowing of the cause, he took his way. 
 Mournful in mind, and still in black array. 
 The monarch mounts the throne, and, plac'd 
 
 on high. 
 Commands into the court the beauteous 
 
 Emily ; 
 So call'd, she came ; the senate rose, and paid 
 Pecoming reverence to the royal maid. 
 And first soft whispers through th' assembly 
 
 went : 
 With silent wonder then they watch' d th' 
 
 event : 
 All hush'd, the king arose with awful grace, 
 Deep thought was in his breast, and counsel in 
 
 his face. 
 
 At length, he sigh'd ; and, having first pre- 
 
 par'd 
 Th' attentive audience, thus his will deelar'd. 
 " The Cause and Spring of Motion, from 
 
 above. 
 Hung down on Earth the golden chain of love : 
 Great was th' efi'ect, and high was his intent. 
 When peace among the jarring seeds he sent. 
 Fire, flood, and earth, and air, by this were 
 
 bound, 
 And love, the common Hnk, the now creation 
 
 crown' d. 
 The chain still holds ; for, though the forms 
 
 Eternal matter never wears away : 
 
 The same first Mover certain bounds has 
 
 plac'd. 
 How long those perishable forms shall last : 
 Nor can they last beyond the time assign' d 
 Py that all-seeing and all-making Mind : 
 Shorten their hours they may; for will is free; 
 Put never pass th' appointed destiny. 
 So men oppress'd, when weary of their breath, 
 Throw off the burden, and suborn their death. 
 Then, since those forms begin, and have their 
 
 end, 
 On some unalter'd course they sure depend : 
 Parts of the whole are we ; but God the 
 
 whole : 
 Who gives us life and animating soul : 
 For nature cannot from a part derive 
 That being, which the whole can only give : 
 He perfect, stable ; but imperfect we. 
 Subject to change, and different in degree ; 
 Plants, beasts, and man ; and, as our organs 
 
 are. 
 We more or less of his perfection share. 
 Put by a long descent, th' etherial fire 
 Corrupts ; and forms, the mortal part expire 
 As he withdraws his virtue, so they pass, 
 And the same matter makes another mass ; 
 This law th' Omniscient power was pleas* d to 
 
 give, 
 That every kind should by succession live ! 
 That individuals die, his will ordains. 
 The propagated species stiU remains. 
 The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, 
 Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees ; 
 Three centuries he grows, and three he stays 
 Supreme in state, and in three more decays ; 
 So wears the paving pebble in the street, 
 And towns and towers their fatal period-! 
 
 meet ; 
 So rivers, rapid once, now naked lie, 
 Forsaken of their springs ; and leave their 
 
 channels dry. 
 So man, at first a drop, dilates with heat, 
 Then, form'd, the httle heart begins to beat ; 
 Secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell ; 
 At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the 
 
 sheU, 
 And struggles into breath, and cries for aid ; 
 Then, helpless, in his mother's lap is laid. 
 He creeps, he walks, and, issuing into man, 
 Grudges their life, from whence his own 
 
 began : 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 MAC-FLECKNOE. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 Eeckless of laws, affects to rule alone, 
 Anxious to reign, and restless on the throne : 
 First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last ; 
 Eich of three souls„ and lives all three to 
 
 waste. 
 Some thus ; but thousands more in flower of 
 
 age: 
 For few arrive to run the latter stage. 
 Sunk in the first, in battle some are slain, 
 And others whelm' d beneath the stormy 
 
 main. 
 What makes all this, but Jupiter the king", 
 At whose command we perish, and we 
 
 spring ? 
 Then 'tis our best, since thus ordain'd to die. 
 To make a virtue of necessity. 
 Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain ; 
 The bad grows better, which we well sustain ; 
 And could we choose the time, and choose 
 
 aright, 
 'Tis best to die, our honour at the height. 
 When we have done our ancestors no shame, 
 But serv'd our friends, and well secm-'d our 
 
 fame ; 
 Then. should we wish our happy life to close, 
 And leave no more for Fortune to dispose : 
 So should we make our death a glad relief 
 From future shame, from sickness, and from 
 
 _ grief: 
 Enjoying while we live the present hour, 
 And dying in our excellence and flower, 
 Then round our death-bed every friend should 
 
 run, 
 And joyous of cur conquest early won : 
 While the malicious world with envious tears 
 Should grudge our happy end, and wish it 
 
 theirs. 
 Since then our Arcitc is with honour dead. 
 Why should we mourn, that he so soon is 
 
 freed. 
 Or call untimely what the gods decreed ? 
 With grief as just, a friend may he deplor'd, 
 From a foul prison to free air restor'd. 
 Ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife, 
 Could tears recall him into wretched life ? 
 Their sorrow hurt themselves 5 on him is 
 
 lost; 
 And, worse than both, offends his happy 
 
 ghost. 
 What then remains, but, after past annoy, 
 To take the good vicissitude of joy ? 
 To thank the gracious gods for what they 
 
 give, 
 Possess our souls, and, while we live, to live ? 
 Ordain we then two sorrows to combine. 
 And in one point th' extremes of grief to join ; 
 That thence resulting joy may be renew'd, 
 As jarring notes in harmony conclude. 
 Then I propose that Palamon shall be 
 In marriage joined with beauteous Emily ; 
 For which already I have gain'd th' assent 
 Of my free people in full parliament. 
 Long love to her has borne the faithful 
 
 knight. 
 And well deserv'd, had Fortune done him 
 
 right : 
 
 'Tis time to mend her fault ; since Emily 
 By Arcite's death from former vows is free 
 If you, fair sister, ratify th' accord. 
 And take him for your husband and your 
 
 lord, 
 'Tis no dishonour to confer your grace 
 
 On one descended from a royal race : "~- 
 
 And were he less, yet years of service past 
 From grateful souls exact reward at last : 
 Pity is Heaven's and yours ; nor can she find 
 A throne so soft as in a woman's mind." 
 He said: she blush'd; and, as o'eraw'd by 
 
 might, 
 Seem'd to give Theseus what she gave the 
 
 knight. 
 Then turning to the Theban thus he said : 
 " Small arguments are needful to persuade 
 Your temper to comply Avith my command ; " 
 And speaking thus, he gave Emilia's hand. 
 Smil'd Venus, to behold her own true knight 
 Obtain the conquest, though he lost the fight ; 
 And bless' d with nuptial bliss the sweet 
 
 laborious night. 
 Eros, and Anteros, on either side, 
 One fir'd the bridegroom, and one warm'd the 
 
 bride ; 
 And long- attending Hymen, from above. 
 Shower' d on the bed the whole Idalian grove. 
 All of a tenour was their after-life, 
 No day discolour'd with domestic strife ; 
 No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd, 
 Secure repose, and kindness undeceiv'd. 
 Thus Heaven, beyond the compass of his 
 
 thoiTght, 
 Sent him the blessing he so dearly bought. 
 
 So may the queen of love long duty bless, 
 And aU true lovers find the same success. 
 
 John Dryden.—Born 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 660.— MAC-FLECKNOE. 
 
 All human things are subject to decay ; 
 And, when Fate summons, monarchs must 
 
 obey. 
 This Flecknoe found, who, Hke Augustus, 
 
 young 
 Was call'd to empire, and had govern' d long; 
 In prose and verse was own'd, without 
 
 dispute, 
 Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. 
 This aged prince, now flourishing in peace. 
 And blest mth issue of a large increase, 
 Worn out with bus'ness, did at length debate 
 To settle the succession of the state ; 
 And pond' ring which of all his sons was fit 
 To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, 
 Cried, 'Tis resolved ; for Nature pleads, thafc 
 
 he 
 Should only rule who most resembles me. 
 ShadweU, alone, my perfect image bears, 
 Mature in dulness from his tender years : 
 Shadwell, alone, of all my sons, was ho 
 Who stands confirm' d in full stupidity. 
 
John Detden,] 
 
 MAC-FLECKNOE. 
 
 [Fourth Pekiod. — 
 
 The rest to some faint meaning make pretence ; 
 But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 
 Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, 
 Strike through,,and make a lucid interval ; 
 But Shadwell' s genuine night admits no ray ; 
 His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
 Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, 
 And seems design' d for thoughtless majesty ; 
 Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the 
 
 plain, 
 And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
 Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, 
 Thou last great prophet of Tautology ! 
 Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they, 
 Was sent before but to prepare thy way ; 
 And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came 
 To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
 My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung, 
 When to King John of Portugal I sung, 
 Was but the prelude to that glorious day. 
 When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy 
 
 way 
 With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge, 
 Swell' d with the pride of thy celestial charge ; 
 And, big with hymn, commander of a host, 
 The like was ne'er in Epsom-blankets toss'd. 
 Methinks I see the new Arion sail, 
 The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
 At thy well-sharpen' d thumb, from shore to 
 
 shore. 
 The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar ; 
 About thy boat the httle fishes throng. 
 As at the morning toast that floats along. 
 Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, 
 Thou wield' st thy papers in thy thrashing 
 
 hand. 
 St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time ; 
 Not e'en the feet of thine own Psyche's 
 
 rhyme : 
 Though they in number as in sense excel ; 
 So just, so like Tautology they fell, 
 That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore 
 The lute and sword, which he in triumph 
 
 bore, 
 And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more. 
 Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept 
 
 for joy. 
 In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 
 All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, 
 That for anointed dulness he was made. 
 
 Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind 
 (The fair Augusta, much to fears incUn'd) 
 An ancient fabric, raised t' inform the sight. 
 There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight, 
 A watch-tower once ; but now, so fate 
 
 ordains. 
 Of all the pile an empty name remains ; * * 
 Near these a nursery erects its head, 
 Where queens are form'd, and future heroes 
 
 bred; 
 Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and 
 
 cry, 
 Where infant punks their tender voices try. 
 And little Maximins the gods defy. 
 Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, 
 Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear ; 
 
 But gentle Simkin just reception finds 
 Amidst this monument of vanish' d minds ; 
 Pure clinches the suburban muse affords. 
 And Panton waging harmless war with words. 
 Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well- 
 known. 
 Ambitiously design' d his Shadwell' s throne : 
 For ancient Dekker prophesied, long since. 
 That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, 
 Bom for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense ; 
 To whom true dulness sliould some Psyches 
 
 owe; 
 But worlds of misers from his pen should 
 
 flow ; 
 Humorists and hypocrites it should produce ; 
 Whole Eaymond families, and tribes of 
 Bruce. 
 Now empress Fame had publish' d the 
 renown 
 Of Shadwell' s coronation through the town. 
 Rous' d by report of Fame, the nations meet, 
 From near Bun Hill, and distant Watling 
 
 Street ; 
 No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, 
 But scatter' d limbs of mangled i^oets lay ; * * 
 Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, 
 And Herringman was captain of the guard. 
 The hoary prince in majesty appear' d. 
 High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. 
 At his right hand our young Ascanius sat, 
 Eome's other hope, and pillar of the state ; 
 His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, 
 
 grace. 
 And lambent dulness play'd around his face. 
 As Hannibal did to the altars come. 
 Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome, 
 So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow bo 
 
 vain. 
 That he, till death, true dulness would main- 
 tain; 
 And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, 
 Ne'er to have peace with Wit, nor truce with 
 
 Sense. 
 The king himself the sacred unction made, 
 As king by office, and as priest by trade. 
 In his sinister hand, instead of ball. 
 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale ; 
 " Love's Kingdom " to his right he did 
 
 convey 
 At once his sceptre and his rule of sway ; 
 Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd 
 
 young. 
 And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung : 
 His temples last with poppies were o'erspread. 
 That, nodding, seem'd to consecrate his head. 
 Just at the point of time, if fame not lie, 
 On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly. 
 So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 
 Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. 
 Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make, 
 And omens of his future empire take. 
 The fire then shook the honours of his head. 
 And from his brows damps of oblivion shed 
 Full on the filial dulness : long he stood, 
 Repelling from his breast the raging god ; 
 At length burst out in this prophetic mood : 
 
From 1649 to 1GS9.] 
 
 ALEXANDEE'S FEAST. 
 
 [John Dbydex. 
 
 " Heav'n bless my son, from Ireland let 
 
 Mm reign, 
 To far Barbadoes on the western main ; 
 Of his dominion may no end be known, 
 And greater than his father's be his throne ; 
 Beyond Love's Kingdom let him stretch his 
 
 pen !" 
 He paus'd ; and all the people cried, Amen. 
 Then thus continued he : " My son, advance 
 Still in new impudence, new ignorance, 
 Success let others teach ; learn thou, from 
 
 me, 
 Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. 
 Let Virtuosos in five years be writ ; 
 Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 
 Let gentle George in triiunph tread the 
 
 stage, 
 Make Dorimant betraj", and Loveit rage ; 
 Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, 
 And, in their folly, show the writer's wit. 
 Yet still thy fools shaJl stand in thy defence, 
 And justify their author's want of sense. 
 Let 'em be all by thy own model made 
 Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid ; 
 That they to future ages may be known, 
 Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 
 Nay, let thy men of wit, too, be the same, 
 All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name. 
 But let no alien Sedley interpose. 
 To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. 
 And, when false flowers of rhet'ric thou 
 
 wouldst cull, 
 Trust nature, do not labour to be dull ; 
 But write thy best, and top ; and, in each 
 
 line, 
 Sir Formal' s oratory vsdll be thine : 
 Sir Formal, though tmsought, attends thy 
 
 quill, 
 And does thy northern dedications fill. 
 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to 
 
 fame, 
 By arrogating Jonson's hostile name. 
 Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise. 
 And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 
 Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no 
 
 part : 
 What share have we in nature or in art ? 
 Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, j 
 
 And ran at arts he did not understand ? 
 Where made he love in Prince Meander's vein. 
 Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain ? 
 Wnen did his muse from Fletcher scenes 
 
 purloin, 
 As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to 
 
 thine ? 
 But so transfus'd as oil and waters flow ; 
 His always floats above, thine sinks below. 
 This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, 
 New humours to invent for each new play : 
 This is that boasted bias of thy mind, 
 By which one way to dulness 'tis inclin'd ; 
 Which makes thy writings lean on one side 
 
 stiU, 
 And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. 
 Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence 
 Of likeness ; thine' s a tympany of sense. 
 
 A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ ; 
 But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. 
 Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep : 
 Thy tragic muse gives smiles ; thy comic, 
 
 sleep. 
 With whate'er gall thou sett'at thyself to 
 
 write, ~^ 
 
 Thy inoffensive satires never bite. 
 In thy felonious heart, thou venom lies. 
 It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. 
 Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame 
 In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram. 
 Leave writing plaj's, and choose for thy 
 
 command 
 Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. 
 There thou may'st wings display, and altars 
 
 raise, 
 And torture one poor word ten thousand 
 
 ways. 
 Or, if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents suit. 
 Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy 
 
 lute." 
 He said : but his last words were scarcely 
 
 heard ; 
 For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd ; 
 And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. 
 Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind. 
 Borne upwards by a subterranean wind, 
 The mantle feU to the young prophet's part. 
 With double portion of his father's art. 
 
 John Dryden.—Born 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 66i.— ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won v 
 By Philip's warlike son; 
 
 Aloft in awful state 
 
 The godlike hero sate 
 On his imperial throne : 
 
 His valiant peers were plac'd around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles 
 bound : 
 
 (So should desert in arms be crown' d) 
 The lovely Thais, by his side. 
 Sate, like a blooming eastern bride, 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but the brave, 
 
 None but the brave deserves the fair 
 
 Timotheus, plac'd on high 
 Amid the tuneful quire. 
 With flying fingers touch' ( 
 
 the lyre s 
 
John Dbyden.] 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above 
 (Such is the power of mighty love). 
 A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
 
 When he to fair Olympia press'd : 
 And while he sought her snowy breast : 
 Then, round her slender waist he curl'd. 
 And stamp' d an image of himself, a sovereign 
 
 of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
 A present deity, they shout around : 
 A present deity the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 
 With ravish' d ears 
 
 The monarch hears, 
 
 Assumes the god. 
 
 Affects to nod. 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 With ravish' d ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the sphere?. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician 
 sung : 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes.; 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
 Flush' d with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face ; 
 Now give the hautboys breath : he comes, he 
 comes. 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
 Eich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
 
 Rich the treasure. 
 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Sooth' d with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
 Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes ; and thrice 
 
 he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise ; 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And, while he Heaven and Earth defy'd, 
 Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. 
 
 He chose a mournful Muse 
 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
 Fallen from his high estate. 
 And weltring in his blood ; 
 Deserted, at liis utmost need. 
 By those his former bounty fed : 
 On the bare earth expos'd he lies. 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor 
 sate, 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various tm-ns of Chance below ; 
 And, now and then, a sigh ho stole ; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 Revolving in his alter' d soul 
 
 The various turns of Chance below ; 
 
 And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smil'd, to see 
 That love was in the next degree : 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he sooth' d his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honour but an empty bubble ; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning. 
 Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning. 
 Think, O think, it worth enjoyiiig : 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 Tlie many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crown' d, but Music won the 
 cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gaz'd on the fair 
 Who cans' d his care, 
 And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and 
 look'd, 
 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again ; 
 At length, with love and wine at once 
 
 oppress'd, 
 The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gaz'd on the fair 
 Who caus'd his care. 
 And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and 
 look'd, 
 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
 At length, with love and wine at once 
 
 oppress'd. 
 The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 A louder yet, and y<jt a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
 thunder. 
 
From 1649 to 1GS9.] 
 
 CHAEACTEE OF SKAFTESBUEY. 
 
 [John Dryden. 
 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has rais'd up his head ! 
 As awak'd from the dead, 
 And amaz'd, he stares around. 
 Eevenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
 See the Furies arise : 
 See the snakes that they rear, 
 How they hiss in their hair ; 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes I 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 
 .slain. 
 
 And unbury'd remain 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 How they point to the Persian abodes, 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 The princes applaud, ^^'ith a furious joy ; 
 And the king seiz'd a flambeau Avith zeal to 
 destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy. 
 
 And the king seiz'd a flambeau vnth zeal to 
 destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy. 
 
 Thus, long ago, 
 Ere heaving bellows leam'd to blow, 
 
 While organs yet were mute ; 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
 desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds. 
 And added length to solemn sounds. 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
 before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 I 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, fi-om her sacred store, 
 Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds. 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With Nature's mother- wit, and arts unknown 
 before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 
 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 John Drydcn.—Bom 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 662.--CHAEACTEE OF SHAFTESBUEY. 
 
 Of these the false Achitophel was first, 
 
 A name to all succeeding ages curst ; 
 
 For close designs and crooked counsels fit ; 
 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
 
 li«stless, unfix'd in principles and place ; 
 
 In power unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace : 
 
 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
 
 Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
 
 And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. 
 
 A daring pilot in extremity ; 
 
 Pleas'd with the danger when the waves went 
 
 high. 
 He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, 
 Would steer too nigh the sands to boast hia 
 
 wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near allied. 
 And thin i)artitions do their bounds divide ; 
 Else why should he, with wealth and honour 
 
 blest, 
 Eefuse Ms age the needful hours of rest ? 
 Punish a body which ho could not please ; 
 Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
 And all to leave what with his toil he won, 
 To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son ; 
 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try, 
 And bom a shapeless lump, like anarchy. 
 In friendship false, implacable in hate ; 
 Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state : 
 To compass this, the triple bond he broke, 
 The pillars of the public safety shook, 
 And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke : 
 Then seized -with fear, yet stiU affecting fame. 
 Usurp' d a patriot's all-atoning name. 
 So easy still it proves, in factious times, 
 With public zeal to cancel private crimes ; 
 How safe is treason, and how sacred ill 
 Where none can sin against the people's will ! 
 Where crowds can wink, and no offence be 
 
 known. 
 Since in another's guilt they find their own ! 
 Yet fame deserv'd no enemy can grudge ; 
 The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. 
 In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin 
 With more discerning eyes, or hands more 
 
 clean, 
 Unbrib'd, unsought, the wretched to redress, 
 Swift of despatch, and easy of access. 
 Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown 
 With virtues only proper for the gown ; 
 Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 
 From cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed ; 
 David for him his tuneful harp had strung. 
 And heaven had wanted one immortal song. 
 
 29 
 
John Drtden.] CHAEACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. [Foukth PEiUuD.— 
 
 But wild ambition loves to sHde, not stand ; 
 And fortune's ice prefers to \TLrtue's land. 
 Achitophel, grown weary to possess 
 A lawful fame, and lazy happiness, 
 Disdain' d the golden fruit to gather free, 
 ,And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. 
 
 John Bnjden.—Born 16S1, Died 1700. 
 
 663.— CHARACTER OF VILLIEES, DUKE 
 OF BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 Some of their chiefs were princes of the land : 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; 
 A man so various that he seem'd to be, 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, 
 "Was ev'rything by starts, and nothing long ; 
 Bilt, in the coiu-se of one revolving moon, 
 "Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; 
 Then all for women, painting, rhyming, 
 
 drinking, 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that died in 
 
 thinking. 
 Blest madman ! who could ev'ry hour employ 
 With something new to wish, or to enjoy. 
 Railing and praising were his usual themes ; 
 And both, to show his judgment, in extremes ; 
 So over-violent, or over-civil. 
 That ev'ry man with him was God or devil. 
 In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert : 
 Beggar' d by fools, whom still he found too 
 
 late. 
 He had his jest, and they had his estate ; 
 He laugh'd himself from court, then sought 
 
 relief 
 By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief ; 
 For, spite of him, the weight of business fell 
 On Absalom and wise Achitophel : 
 Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, 
 He left not faction, but of that was left. 
 
 John Ih'yden.^Born 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 •664.—THEODORE AND HONORIA. 
 
 Of all the cities in Romanian lands, 
 
 The chief, and most renown'd, Ravenna 
 
 stands, 
 Adorn' d in ancient times with arms and arts, 
 And rich inhabitants, with generous hearts ; 
 But Theodore tho brave, above the rest. 
 With gifts of fortune and of nature bless'd. 
 The foremost place for wealth and honour 
 
 held, 
 And an in feats of chivalry excell'd. 
 
 This iioble youth to madness lov'd a dame 
 Of high degree, Honoria was her name : 
 
 Fair as the fairest, but of haughty mind, 
 And fiercer than became so soft a kind ; 
 Proud of her birth (for equal she had none), 
 The rest she scom'd, but hated him alone. 
 His gifts, his constant courtship, nothing 
 
 gain'd ; 
 For she, the more he lov'd, the more disdain'd. 
 He liv'd with all the pomp he could devise. 
 At tuts and tournaments obtain' d the prize, 
 But found no favour in his lady's eyes : 
 Relentless as a rock, the lofty maid 
 Tum'd all to poison that he did or said ; 
 Nor prayers, nor tears, nor offer'd vows, coiild 
 
 move ; 
 The Avork went backward, and the more he 
 
 strove 
 T' advance his suit, the farther from her 
 
 love. 
 Wearied at length, and wanting remedy, 
 He doubted oft, and oft resolv'd to die ; 
 But pride stood ready to prevent the blow : 
 For who would die to gratify a foe ? 
 His generous mind disdain'd so mean a fate ; 
 That pass'd, his next endeavour was to hate. 
 But vainer that relief than all the rest. 
 The less he hop'd, with more desire possess'd ; 
 Love stood the siege, and would not yield liis 
 
 breast. 
 Change was the next, but change deceiv'd his 
 
 care : 
 He sought a fairer, but found none so fair. 
 He would have worn her out by slow degrees, 
 As men by fa-sting starve th' untam'd disease : 
 But present love requir'd a present ease. 
 Looking, he feeds alone his famish'd eyes, 
 Feeds lingering death, but looking not, he 
 
 dies. 
 Yet still he chose the longest way to fate. 
 Wasting at once his life and his estate. 
 
 His friends beheld and pitied him in vain : 
 For what advice can ease a lover's pain ? 
 Absence, the best expedient they could find, 
 Might save the fortune, if not cure the mind : 
 This means they long propos'd, but little 
 
 gain'd ; 
 Yet, after much pursuit, at length obtain'd. 
 
 Hard you may think it was to give consent. 
 But struggling with his own desires he went, 
 With large expense, and with a pompous 
 
 train. 
 Provided as to visit France and Spain, 
 Or for some distant voyage o'er the main. 
 But love had cHpp'd his wings, and cut him 
 
 short ; 
 Confin'd within the purlieus of the court, 
 Three miles he went, no farther could retreat ; 
 His travels ended at his country-seat : 
 To Chassis' pleasing plains he took his way, 
 There pitch'd his tents, and there resolv'd to 
 
 stay. 
 The spring was in the prime ; the neighbour- 
 
 ing grove 
 Siipphed with birds, the choristers of love ; 
 Music unbought, that minister'd delight 
 To morning walks, and lull'd his cares by 
 
 night 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THEODORE AND HONOHIA. 
 
 [John Dkyden. 
 
 There he discharg'd his friends, but not th' 
 
 expense 
 Of frequent treats and proud magTiificence. 
 He liv'd as kings retire, though more at 
 
 large 
 From public business, yet with equal charge ; 
 With house and heart still open to receive ; 
 As weU content as love would give him 
 
 leave : 
 He would have liv'd more free ; but many a 
 
 ^est, 
 Who could forsake the friend, pursu'd the 
 
 feast. 
 It hapt one morning, as his fancy led, 
 Before his usual hour he left his bed ; 
 To walk within a lonely lawn, that stood 
 On every side surrounded by a wood : 
 Alone he walk'd, to please his pensive mind, 
 And sought the deepest soUtude to find. 
 'Twas in a grove of spreading pines he 
 
 stray' d ; 
 The winds within the quivering branches 
 
 play'd, 
 And dancing trees a mournful music made. 
 Tiie place itself was suiting to his care, 
 Uncouth and savage, as the cruel fair. 
 He wander'd on, unknowing where he went, 
 Lost in the wood, and all on loVB intent ; 
 The day already half his race had run, 
 And summon'd him to due repast at noon. 
 But love could feel no hunger but his own. 
 Whilst listening to the murmuring leaves he 
 
 stood 
 More than a mile immers'd within the wood, 
 At once the wind was laid; the whispering 
 
 sound 
 Was dumb ; a rising earthquake rock'd the 
 
 ground; 
 With deeper brown the grove was over- 
 spread ; 
 A sudden horror seiz'd his giddy head. 
 And his ears tinkled, and his colour fled •,• 
 Nature was in alarm ; some danger ixigh 
 Seem'd threaten' d, though tmseen to mortal 
 
 eye. 
 Unusd to fear, he summon'd all his soul, 
 And stood collected in himself, and whole ; 
 Not long : for soon a whirhvind rose around, 
 And from afar he heard a screaming sound, 
 As of a dame distress'd, who cried for aid. 
 And fiU'd with loud laments the secret shade. 
 A thicket close beside the grove there 
 
 stood, 
 With briers and brambles chok'd, and dwarf- 
 ish wood ; 
 From thence the noise, which now, approaching 
 
 near, 
 With more distinguish'd notes invades his ear ; 
 He rais'd his head, and saw a beauteous 
 
 maid, 
 With hair dishevell'd, issuing through the 
 
 shade; 
 Stripp'd of her clothes, and ev'n those parts 
 
 reveal'd 
 Which modest nature keeps from sight con- 
 ceal' d. 
 
 Her face, her hands, her naked limbs were 
 
 torn, 
 With passing through the brakes and prickly 
 
 thorn; 
 Two mastiffs gaunt and grim her flight 
 
 pursu'd. 
 And oft their fastened fangs in bloodimbru'd ; 
 Oft they came up, and pinch'd her tender 
 
 side. 
 Mercy, O mercy, heaven ! she ran and cried. 
 When heaven was nam'd, they loos'd their 
 
 hold again, 
 Then sprang she forth, they foUow'd her 
 
 amain. 
 Not far behind, a knight of swarthy face, 
 High on a coal-black steed, pursu'd the chase ; 
 With flashing flames his ardent eyes were 
 
 fill'd, 
 And in his hand a naked sword he held ; 
 He cheer' d the dogs to follow her who fled, 
 And vow'd revenge on her devoted head. 
 
 As Theodore was bom of noble kind. 
 The brutal action rous'd his manly mind ; 
 Mov'd with unworthy usage of the maid, 
 He, though unarm'd, resolv'd to give her aid. 
 A sapling pine he wrench' d from out the 
 
 ground. 
 The readiest weapon that his fury found. 
 Thus furnish' d for offence, he cross'd the way 
 Betwixt the graceless villain and his prey, 
 The knight came thundering on, but, from 
 
 afar, 
 Thus in imperious tone forbade the war : 
 Cease, Theodore, to proffer vain rehef. 
 Nor stop the vengeance of so just a grief ; 
 But give me leave to seize my destin'd prey, 
 And let eternal justice take the way : 
 I but revenge my fate, disdain'd, betray'd, 
 And suffering death for this ungrateful maid. 
 He said, at once dismounting from the 
 
 steed ; 
 For now the heU-hounds with superior speed 
 Had reach' d the dame, and, fastening on her 
 
 side. 
 The ground with issuing streams of purple 
 
 dyed. 
 Stood Theodore, surpris'd in deadly fright, 
 With chattering teeth, and bristling hair 
 
 upright ; 
 Yet arm'd with inborn worth, Whate'er, 
 
 said he. 
 Thou art, who know'st me better than I thee, 
 Or prove thy rightfid cause, or be defied ! 
 The spectre, fiercely staring, thus replied : 
 
 Know, Theodore, thy ancestry I claim. 
 And Guido Cavalcanti was my name. 
 One common sire our fathers did beget ; 
 My name and story some remember yet. 
 Thee, then a boy, within my arms I laid. 
 When for my sins I lov'd this haughty maid ; 
 Not less ador'd in Hfe, nor serv'd by me. 
 Than proud Honoria now is lov'd by thee. 
 What did I not her stubborn heart to gain ? 
 But aU my vows were answer'd with disdain : 
 She scom'd my sorrows and despis'd my 
 
 pain. 29* 
 
John Dzjyden.] 
 
 THEODOEE AND HONORIA. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Long time I dragg'd my days in frmtless 
 
 care ; 
 Then, loatiiing life, and plung'd in deep 
 
 despair, 
 To finish my unhappy life, I fell 
 On tiiis sharp sword, and now am damn'd in 
 
 heU. 
 Short was her joy ; for soon th' insulting 
 
 maid 
 By heaven's decree in this cold grave was 
 
 laid. 
 And as in unreponted sin she died, 
 Doom'd to the same bad place, is punish'd'for 
 
 her pride ; 
 Because she deem'd I well deserv'd to die, 
 And made a merit of her cruelty. 
 There, then, Ave met ; both tried, and both 
 
 were cast, 
 And this irrevocable sentence pass'd : 
 That she, whom I so long pursued in vain, 
 Should suffer from my hands a lingering pain : 
 Renew'd to Kfe, that she might daily die, 
 I daily doom'd to follow, she to fly ; 
 No more a lover, but a mortal foe, 
 I seek her life (for love is none below) ; 
 As often as my dogs with better speed ' 
 Arrest her flight, is she to death decreed; 
 Then with this fatal sword, on which I died, 
 I pierce her open back or tender side, 
 And tear that harden' d heart from out her 
 
 breast, 
 Which, with her entrails, makes my hungi-y 
 
 hounds a feast. 
 Nor lies she long, but, as her fates ordain, 
 Springs up to life, and fresh to second pain, 
 Is sav'd to-day, to-morrow to be slain. 
 
 This, vers'd in death, th' infernal knight 
 
 relates, 
 And then for proof fulfill' d the common fates ; 
 Her heart and bowels through her back he 
 
 drew, 
 And fed the hounds that help'd him to 
 
 pursue ; 
 Stem look'd the fiend, as frustrate of his 
 
 AviU, 
 Not half suffic'd, and greedy yet to Idll. 
 And now the soul, expiring through the 
 
 wound, 
 Had left the body breathless on the ground, 
 When thus the grisly spectre spoke again : 
 Behold the fruit of ill-rewarded pain : 
 As many months as I sustain' d her hate, 
 So many years is she* condemn' d by fate 
 To daily death ; and every several place. 
 Conscious of her disdain and my disgrace. 
 Must witness her just punishment and be 
 A scene of triumph and revenge to me ! 
 As in this grove I took my last farewell. 
 As on this very spot of earth I fell. 
 As Friday saw me die, so she my prey 
 Becomes even here, on this revolving day. 
 Thus, while he spoke, the virgin from the 
 
 ground 
 Upstarted fresh, already clos'd the wound. 
 And unconcern'd for all she felt before, 
 Precipitates her flight along the shore ; 
 
 The hell-hounds, as ungorg'd with flesh and 
 
 blood. 
 Pursue their prey, and seek their wonted 
 
 food ; 
 The fiend remounts his courser, mends his 
 
 pace, 
 And all the vision vanish' d from the place. 
 Long stood the noble youth oppressed with 
 awe, 
 And stupid at the wondrous things ho saw, 
 Surpassing common faith, transgi-essing 
 
 nature's law. 
 He would have been asleep, and wisli'd to 
 
 wake ; 
 But dreams, he knew, no long impi-cssion 
 
 make. 
 Though strong at first; if vision, to what 
 
 end 
 But such as must his future state portend ? 
 His love the damsel, and himseH the fiend. 
 But yet, reflecting that it could not be 
 From heaven, which cannot impious acta 
 
 decree, 
 Eesolv'd within himself to shun the snare 
 Which heU for his destruction did prepare ; 
 And, as his better genius should direct, 
 From an ill cause to draw a good effect. 
 
 Inspir'd from heaven, he homeward took 
 his way. 
 Nor paU'd his new design with long delay ; 
 But of his train a trusty serv'ant sent 
 To call his friends together at his tent. 
 They came, and, usual salutations paid, 
 With words premeditated thus he said : 
 What you have often counseU'd, to remove 
 My vain pursuit of unregarded love, 
 By thrift my sinking fortune to repair. 
 Though late, yet is at last become my care. 
 My heart shall be my OAvn : my vast expense 
 Eeduc'd to bounds by timely providence. 
 This only I require : iuA-ite for me 
 Honoiia, with her father's family, 
 Her friends, and mine ; the cause I shall 
 
 display 
 On Friday next, for that's th' appointed day. 
 Well pleased were aU his friends, the task 
 was hght ; 
 The father, mother, daughter, they invite ; 
 Hardly the dame was drawn to this repast, 
 But yet resolv'd, because it was the last. 
 The day was come, the guests invited came, 
 And with the rest th' inexorable dame. 
 A feast prepar'd with riotous expense. 
 Much cost, more care, and most magnificence. 
 The place ordain' d was in that haunted 
 
 grove 
 Where the revenging ghost pursu'd his love ; 
 The tables in a proud pavilion spread. 
 With flowers below, and tissue overhead ; 
 The rest in rank, Honoria chief in place, 
 Was artfully contriv'd to set her face 
 To front the thicket, and behold the chase. 
 The feast was serv'd, the time so well fore- 
 cast. 
 That just when the desert and fruits were 
 plac'd, 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THEODORE AND HONORIA. 
 
 [John Dbyden. 
 
 The fiend's alarm began : the hollow sound 
 Sung in the leaves, the forest shook around, 
 Air blacken' d, roll'd the thunder, groan' d the 
 
 ground. ^ 
 
 Nor long before the loud laments arise 
 Of one distress' d, and mastiffs' mingled 
 
 cries; 
 And first the dame came rushing through the 
 
 wood. 
 And next the famish'd hounds that sought 
 
 their food, 
 And grip'd her flanks, and oft essay'd their 
 
 jaws in blood. 
 Last came the felon on his sable steed, 
 Arm'd with his naked sword, and urg'd his 
 
 dogs to speed. 
 She ran, and cried, her flight directly bent 
 (A guest unbidden) to the fatal tent, 
 The scene of death, and place ordain'd for 
 
 punishment. 
 Loud was the noise, aghast was every guest ; 
 The women shriek' d, the men forsook the 
 
 feast ; 
 The hounds at nearer distance hoarsely 
 
 bay'd ; 
 The hunter close pursu'd the visionary maid; 
 She rent the heaven with loud laments, 
 
 imploring aid. 
 The gallants, to protect the lady's right, 
 Their falchions brandish' d at the grisly 
 
 sprite. 
 High on his stirrups he provok'd the fight ; 
 Then on the crowd he cast a furious look. 
 And wither' d all their strength before he 
 
 spoke : 
 Back, on your lives I Lot be, said he, my 
 
 prey, 
 And let my vengeance take the destined 
 
 way; 
 Vain are your arms, and vainer your defence. 
 Against th' eternal doom of Providence : 
 Mine is th' ungrateful maid by heaven 
 
 design' d ; 
 Mercy she would not give, nor mercy shall 
 
 she find. 
 At this the former tale again he told 
 With thundering tone, and dreadful to 
 
 behold. 
 Sunk were their hearts with horror of the 
 
 crime. 
 Nor needed to be warn'd a second time. 
 But bore each other back ; some knew the 
 
 face, 
 And all had heard the much lamented case 
 Of him who fell for love, and this the fatal 
 
 place. 
 And now th' infernal minister ad vane' d, 
 Seiz'd the due victim, and with fury launch'd 
 Her back, and, piercing through her inmost 
 
 heart, 
 Drew backward, as before, th' offending part ; 
 The reeking entrails next he tore away, 
 And to his meagre mastiffs made a prey. 
 The pale assistants on each other star'd, 
 With gaping mouths for issuing words pre- 
 
 par'd ; 
 
 The still-born .'soundsxupon the "palate hung, 
 And died imperfect on the faltering tongue. 
 The fright was general ; but the female band 
 (A helpless train) in more confusion stand : 
 With horror shuddering, on a heap they run, 
 Sick at the sight of hateful justice done j 
 For conscience rung th' alarm, and made the 
 
 case their own. 
 So, spread upon a lake with upward eye, 
 A plump of fowl behold their foe on high : 
 They close their trembling troop, and all 
 
 attend 
 On whom the sousing eagle will descend. 
 But most the proud Honoria fear'd th' 
 
 event. 
 And thought to her alone the vision sent. 
 Her guilt presents to her distracted mind 
 Heaven's justice, Theodore's revengeful kind , 
 And the same fate to the same sin assign'd ; 
 Already sees herself the monster's prey, 
 And feels her heart and entrails torn away. 
 'Twas a mute scene of sorrow mix'd with 
 
 fear ; 
 Still on the table lay th* unfinish'd cheer ; 
 The knight and hungry mastiffs stood around; 
 The mangled dame lay breathless on the 
 
 ground : 
 When on a sudden, re-inspir'd with breath, 
 Again she rose, again to suffer death; 
 Nor staid the hell-hounds, nor the hunter 
 
 staid. 
 But follow'd, as before, the flying maid ; 
 Th' avenger took from earth th' avenging 
 
 sword. 
 And mounting light as air, his sable steed he 
 
 spurr'd. 
 The clouds dispeU'd, the sky resum'd her 
 
 light, 
 And nature stood recover'd of her fright. 
 But fear, the last of ills, rcmain'd behind, 
 And horror heavy sat on every mind. 
 Nor Theodore encourag'd more the feast. 
 But sternly look'd, as hatching in his breast 
 Some deep designs; which, when Honoria 
 
 view'd, 
 I'he fresh impulse her former fright renew' d ; 
 She thought herself the trembling dame who 
 
 fled, 
 And him the grisly ghost that spurr'd th' 
 
 infernal stoed ; 
 The more disniay'd : for when the guests with- 
 drew, 
 Their courteous host, saluting all the crew, 
 Eegardless pass'd her o'er, nor grae'd with 
 
 kind adieu ; 
 That sting infix' d within her haughty mind, 
 The downfall of her empire she di\'in'd, 
 And her proud heart with secret sorrow pin'd. 
 Home as they went, the sad discourse 
 
 renew' d 
 Of the relentless dame to death pursu'd. 
 And of the sight obscene so lately view'd. 
 None dost arraign the righteous doom she 
 
 bore ; 
 Ev'n they who pitied most, yet blam'd her 
 
 more; 
 
John Dryden.] PEESENT ENJOYMENT EECOMMENDED. [Fourth Period.— 
 
 The parallel they needed not to name, 
 
 But in the dead they damn'd the living' 
 dame. 
 At every little noise she look'd behind, 
 
 For still the knight was present to her mind ; 
 
 And anxious oft she started on the way, 
 
 And thought the horseman ghost came thund- 
 ering for his prey. 
 
 Return' d, she took her bed with little rest. 
 
 But in short slumbers dreamt the funeral 
 feast ; 
 
 Awak'd, she turn'd her side, and slept again ; 
 
 The same black vapours mounted in her 
 brain, 
 
 And the same dreams return' d with double 
 pain. 
 Now forc'd to wake, because afraid to 
 
 Her blood all fever'd, with a furious leap 
 She sprang from bed, distracted in her mind, 
 And fear'd, at every step, a twitching sprite 
 
 behind. 
 Darkling and desperate, with a staggering 
 
 pace, 
 Of death afraid, and conscious of disgrace. 
 Fear, pride, remorse, at once her heart 
 
 assail' d ; 
 Pride put remorse to flight, but fear prevail'd. 
 Friday, the fatal dnj, when next it came, 
 Her soul forethought the fiend would change 
 
 his game, 
 And her pursue, or Theodore be slain. 
 And two ghosts join their packs to hunt her 
 
 o'er the plain. 
 This dreadful image so possess'd her mind, 
 That, desperate any succour else to find, 
 She ceas'd all farther hope, and now began 
 To make reflection on th' unhappy man : 
 Rich, brave, and young, who past expression 
 
 lov'd ; 
 Proof to disdain, and not to be remov'd ; 
 Of all the men respected and admir'd, 
 Of all the dames, except herself, desir'd : 
 Why not of her ? preferr'd above the rest 
 By him with knightly deeds, and open love 
 
 profess'd ? 
 So had another been, where he his vows 
 
 address'd. 
 This quell' d her pride, yet other doubts 
 
 remain' d. 
 That, once disdaining, she might be disdain'd. 
 The fear was just, but greater fear prevail'd : 
 Fear of her life by hellish hounds assail' d. 
 He took a lowering leave : but who can tell 
 Wliat outward hate might inward love 
 
 conceal ? 
 Her sex's arts she knew : and why not, then. 
 Might deep dissembling have a place in 
 
 men ? 
 Here hope began to da-svn ; resolv'd to try. 
 She fix'd on this her utmost remedy : 
 Death was behind, but htu-d it was to die ; 
 'Twas time enough at last on death to call. 
 The precipice in sight ; a shrub was all 
 That kindly stood betwixt to break the fatal 
 
 fall. 
 
 One maid she had, belov'd above the rest : 
 Secure of her, the secret slie confess' d ; 
 And now the cheerful light her fears dispell' d ; 
 She mtli ^o winding turns the truth con- 
 
 ceal'd, 
 But put thfe woman off, and stood reveal'd. 
 With faults confess'd commission'd her to 
 
 go, 
 If pity yet had place, and reconcile her foe ; 
 The welcome message made, was soon re- 
 
 ceiv'd ; 
 'Twas to be wish'd, and hop'd, but scarce 
 
 belie v'd ; 
 Fate seem'd a fair occasion to present ; 
 He knew the sex, and fear'd she might 
 
 repent. 
 Should he delay the moment of consent. 
 There yet remain' d to gain her friends (a 
 
 care 
 The modesty of maidens well might spare); 
 But she with such a zeal the cause embrac'd 
 (As women, where they will, are all in haste), 
 The father, mother, and the kin beside. 
 Were overborne by fury of the tide ; 
 With full consent of all she chang'd her state ; 
 Resistless in her love, as in her hate. 
 By her example warn'd, the rest beware ; 
 More easy, less imperious, were the fair ; 
 And that one hunting, which the devil 
 
 design'd 
 For one fair female, lost him half the kind. 
 
 John Dryden.—Born 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 665.— ENJOYMENT OF THE PEESENT 
 HOUR RECOMMENDED. 
 
 Enjoy the present smiling hour, 
 And "put it out of Fortune's pow'r : 
 The tide of business, like the running stream, 
 Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, 
 
 And always in extreme. 
 Now with a noiseless, gentle course 
 It keeps within the middle bed ; 
 Anon it lifts aloft the head. 
 And bears down all before it with impetuous 
 force ; 
 And trunks of trees come rolling down ; 
 Sheep and their folds together drown : 
 Both house and homestead into seas are 
 
 borne ; 
 And rocks are from their old foundations 
 torn; 
 And woods, made thin with winds, their 
 scatter' d honours mourn. 
 
 Happy the man, and happy he alone. 
 He who can call to-day his own : 
 He who, secure within, can say. 
 
 To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd 
 to-day. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 
 
 [John Philips. 
 
 Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, 
 The joj^s I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are 
 mine. 
 Not heaven itself upon the past .has power; 
 But what has been, has been, and I have had 
 my hour. 
 
 Fortune, that with malicious joy 
 
 Does man, her slave, oppress, 
 Proud of her office to destroy, 
 
 Is seldom pleas' d to bless : 
 Still various, and inconstant still, 
 But with an inclination to be ill, 
 
 Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she 's kind ; 
 But when she dances in the "wind, 
 
 And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 
 I puff the prostitute away. 
 The little or the much she gave is quietly 
 resign'd : 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, though in rags, will keep me 
 warm. 
 
 'vVhat is 't to me, 
 Wlio never sail in her unfaithful sea, 
 If storms arise, and clouds grow black ; 
 If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? 
 Then let the greedy merchant fear 
 For his ill-gotten gain ; 
 And pray to gods that will not hear, 
 While the debating ■winds and billows bear 
 His wealth into the main. 
 For me, secure from Fortune's blows, 
 Secure of what I cannot lose, 
 In my small pinnace I can sail, 
 Contemning all the blustering roar ; 
 
 And running with a merry gale, 
 With friendly stars my safety seek. 
 Within some little winding creek, 
 And see the storm ashore. 
 
 John Dnjden.—Born 1631, Died 1700. 
 
 666.— THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 
 
 ". . . . Sing, heavenly Muse ! 
 
 Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," 
 
 A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. 
 
 Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, 
 In silken or in leathern purse retains 
 A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain 
 New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; 
 But with his friends, when nightly mists 
 
 arise, 
 To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs : 
 Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton 
 
 eye 
 Transfix' d his soul, and kindled amorous 
 
 flames. 
 
 Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass 
 Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. 
 Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry 
 
 tale, 
 Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. 
 But I, whom griping Penury sm-rounds,- 
 And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, 
 With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, 
 (Wretched repast !) my meagre corpse sustain : 
 Then solitary walk, or doze at home 
 In garret vile, and with a warming puff 
 Eegale chill' d fingers : -or from tube as black 
 As winter chimney, or well-polish' d jet, 
 Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent : 
 Not .blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, 
 Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree 
 Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings 
 Full famous in romantic tale) when he 
 O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, 
 Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese. 
 High over- shadowing rides, with a design 
 To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart. 
 Or Maridunum, or the ancient town 
 Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream 
 Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil ! 
 Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may 
 
 vie 
 With Massic, Setin, or renown' d Falern. 
 Thus while my joyless minutes tedious 
 
 flow. 
 With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, 
 Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men, 
 To my aerial citadel ascends. 
 With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gare. 
 With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know 
 The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
 ^Vhat should I do ? or whither turn ? 
 
 Amaz'd, 
 Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
 Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs 
 
 erect 
 Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews 
 My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to 
 
 teU!) 
 My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; 
 So horrible he seems ! His faded brow, 
 Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic 
 
 beard, 
 And spreading band, admir'd by modern 
 
 saints. 
 Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
 Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
 With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, 
 Grievous to mortal eyes (ye gods, avert 
 Such plagues from righteous men !). Behind 
 
 him stalks 
 Another monster, not unlike himself. 
 Sullen of aspect by the vulgar call'd 
 A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, 
 With force incredible, and magic chiyrms. 
 First have endued : if he his ample palm 
 Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay 
 Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
 Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont). 
 To some enchanted castle is convey' d. 
 Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains 
 
Sib Charles Sedley.] 
 
 TO A VEEY YOUNG LADY. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 In durance strict detain him, till, in form 
 Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. 
 
 Beware, ye debtors ! when ye walk, beware, 
 Be circumspect : oft with insidious ken 
 The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
 Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
 Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
 With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets sing) 
 Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn 
 An everlasting foe, with watchful eye, 
 Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, 
 Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless 
 
 mice 
 Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web 
 Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads 
 Obvious to vagrant flies : she secret stands 
 Within her woven cell : the humming prey, 
 Eegardless of their fate, rush on the toils 
 Inextricable, nor will aught avail 
 Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue 4 
 The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, 
 And butterfly, proud of expanded wings, 
 Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares. 
 Useless resistance make ; with eager strides, 
 She towering flies to her expected spoils ; 
 Then, with envenom'd jaws, the vital blood 
 Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave 
 Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 
 So pass my days. But when nocturnal 
 shades 
 This world envelop, and th' inclement air 
 Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts 
 With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of 
 
 wood ; 
 Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light 
 Of make- weight candle, nor the joyous talk 
 Of loving friend, delights : distress'd, forlorn, 
 Amidst the horrours of the tedious night. 
 Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal 
 
 thoughts 
 My anxious mind : or sometimes mournful 
 
 verse 
 Indite, and sing of gi'oves and myrtle shades, 
 Or desperate lady near a purling stream, 
 Or lover pendant on a willow-tree. 
 Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, 
 And restless wish, and rave ; my parched 
 
 throat 
 Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose : 
 But if a slumber haply does invade 
 My weary limbs, my fancy 's still awake. 
 Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, 
 Tipples imaginary pots of ale, 
 In vain ; awake I find the settled thirst 
 Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom 
 curse. 
 Thus do I live, from pleasure quite 
 debarr'd, 
 Nor taste the fruits that the Sun's genial 
 
 rays 
 Mature, j«hn-apple, nor the downy peach, 
 Nor walnut in rough-furrow' d coat secure, 
 Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay ; 
 Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain : 
 My galligaskins, that have long withstood 
 The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts. 
 
 j By time subdued (what will not time subdue?) 
 ! A horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice 
 i Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds 
 I Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force 
 Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, 
 Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, 
 Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, 
 Long sail'd secure, or through th' ^gean 
 
 Or the Ionian, till cruising near 
 The Lilybean shore, with hideoiis crush 
 On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks !) 
 She strikes rebounding ; whence the shatter'd 
 
 oak, 
 So fierce a shock unable to withstand, 
 Admits the sea : in at the gaping side 
 The crowding waves gush with impetuous 
 
 rage, 
 Eesistless, overwhelming ; horrors seize 
 The mariners ; Death in their eyes appears, 
 They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, 
 
 they pray : 
 (Vain efforts !) still the battering waves rush 
 
 in. 
 Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam. 
 The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. 
 
 John FUilips.—Born 1676, Died 1708. 
 
 667.— TO A VEEY YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit 
 
 As unconcern' d, as Avhen 
 Your infant beauty could beget 
 
 No pleasure, nor no pain. 
 
 When I the dawn used to admire. 
 And praised the coming day ; 
 
 I little thought the growing fire 
 Must take my rest away. 
 
 Your charms in harmless childhood lay. 
 
 Like metals in the mine, 
 Age from no face took more away, 
 
 Than youth conceal' d in thine. 
 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest. 
 Fond Love, as unperceived did fly, 
 
 And in my bosom rest. 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew, 
 
 And Cupid at my heart, 
 Still as his mother favour' d you. 
 
 Threw a new flaming dart. 
 
 Each gloried in their wanton part : 
 
 To make a lover, he 
 Employ 'd the utmost of his art, 
 
 To make a Beauty, she. 
 
1 From 1649 to 1689.] THE SEEDS OF LOVE. [Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham. 
 
 Though now I slowly bend to love 
 
 If e'er, in eager hopes of bliss. 
 
 Uncertain of my fate, 
 
 Within her arms you fall. 
 
 K your fair seK my chains approve, 
 
 The plaster' d fair returns the kiss — 
 
 j I shall my freedom hate. 
 
 Like Thisbe — through a wall. 
 
 Lovers, like dying men, may well 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley.—Born 1639, Died 1701. 
 
 At first disorder' d be. 
 
 
 
 Since none alive can truly tell 
 
 
 What fortune they must see. 
 Sir Charles Sedley.—Born 1639, Died 1701- 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 670.— SONG. 
 
 
 My dear mistress has a heart 
 
 
 Soft as those kind looks she gave me. 
 
 668.— SONG. 
 
 When, with love's resistless art. 
 And her eyes, she did enslave me. 
 
 Love still has something of the sea, 
 
 But her constancy 's so weak, 
 
 From whence his mother rose ; 
 
 She's so wild and apt to wander, 
 
 No time his slaves from doubt can free, 
 
 That my jealous heart would break. 
 
 Nor give their thoughts repose. 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 They are becalm 'd in clearest days. 
 
 Melting joys about her move. 
 
 And in rough weather toss'd ; 
 
 Killing pleasures, wounding blisses ; 
 
 They wither iinder cold delays, 
 
 She can dress her eyes in love. 
 
 Or are in tempests lost. 
 
 And her lips can warm with kisses. 
 
 One whUe they seem to touch the port, 
 Then straight into the main 
 
 Some angry wind, in cniel sport. 
 The vessel drives again. 
 
 Angels listen when she speaks ; 
 
 She's my delight, all mankind's wonder ; 
 But my jealous heart would break, 
 
 Should we live one day asunder. 
 
 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley.—Born 1639, Died 1701. 
 
 Which if they chance to 'scape, 
 
 
 Eivals and Falsehood soon appear. 
 
 
 j In a more cruel shape. 
 
 By such degrees to joy they come, 
 
 
 
 And are so long withstood ; 
 
 
 So slowly they receive the sun, 
 
 671.— THE SEEDS OF LOVE. 
 
 It hardly does them good. 
 
 I sowed the seeds of love, it was all in the 
 
 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; 
 
 spring, 
 
 And to defer a joy, 
 
 In April, May, and June, likewise, when small 
 
 Believe me, gentle Celemene, 
 
 birds they do sing ; 
 
 1 Offends the winged boy. 
 
 My garden 's well planted with flowers every- 
 where. 
 Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself 
 
 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, 
 
 Perhaps, would not remove ; 
 
 the flower that I loved so dear. 
 
 And if I gazed a thousand years, 
 
 
 I could not deeper love. 
 
 My gardener he stood by, I asked him to 
 
 Sir Charles Sedlcy.—Bo-ni 1639, Died 1701. 
 
 choose for me, 
 He chose me the violet, the lily, and pink, but 
 
 
 those I refused all three ; 
 
 
 The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon. 
 The lily and the pink I did o'erlook, and I 
 
 
 669.— COSMELLA^'S CHAEMS. 
 
 vowed I 'd stay till June. 
 
 Cosmelia's charms inspire my lays, 
 
 In June there 's a red rose-bud, and that 's the 
 
 Who, fair in Nature's scorn, 
 
 flower for me ! 
 
 1 r Blooms in the winter of her days. 
 
 But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud 
 
 R Like Glastenbury thorn. 
 
 till I gained the willow-tree ; 
 
 m Cosmelia 's cruel at threescore ; 
 
 The willow-tree ^\'ill twist, and the willow-tree 
 
 ■ Like bards in modem plays, 
 
 f Four acts of life pass guiltless o'er, 
 
 1 But in the fifth she slays. 
 
 will twine, — 
 Oh ! I wish I was in the dear youth's arms 
 that once had the heart of mine. 
 
Thomas Flatman.] 
 
 FOR THOUGHTS. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 My gardener he stood by, he told me to take 
 
 great care, 
 For in the middle of a red rose-bud there 
 
 grows a sharp thorn there ; 
 I told him I 'd take no care till I did feel the 
 
 smart, 
 And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I 
 
 pierced it to the heart. 
 
 I' 11 make me a posy of hyssop, — no other I 
 
 can touch, — 
 That all the world may plainly see I love one 
 
 flower too much ; 
 My garden is run wild ! where shall I plant 
 
 anew — 
 For my bed, that once was covered with 
 
 thyme, is all overrun with rue ? 
 
 Mrs. Fleetwood Hdbergham. — About 1689. 
 
 672.— FOE THOUGHTS. 
 
 Thoughts ! what are they ? 
 
 They are my constant friends ; 
 
 Who, when harsh fate its dull brow bends, 
 
 Uncloud me with a smiling ray, 
 
 And in the depth of midnight force a day. 
 
 When I retire and flee * 
 
 The busy throngs of company, 
 
 To hug myself in privacy, 
 
 O the discourse, the pleasant talk 
 
 'Twixt us, my thoughts, along a lonely walk ! 
 
 You like the stupifying wine. 
 
 The dying malefactors sip, 
 
 With shivering lip, 
 
 T', abate the rigour of their doom 
 
 By a less troublous cut to their long home. 
 
 Make me slight crosses though they piled up 
 
 lie, 
 All by th' enchantments of an ecstacy. 
 
 Do I desire to see 
 The throne and majesty 
 Of that proud one. 
 
 Brother and uncle to the stars and sun, 
 Those can conduct me where such jojs reside, 
 And waft me cross the main, sans wind and 
 tide. 
 
 Would I descry 
 
 Those radiant mansions 'bove the sky, 
 
 Invisible by mortal eye. 
 
 My thoughts, my thoughts can lay 
 
 A shining track there to. 
 
 And nimbly fleeting go ; 
 
 Through all the eleven orbs can shove away ; 
 
 These too like Jacob's ladder are, 
 
 A most angelic thoroughfare. 
 
 The wealth that shines 
 
 In the Oriental mines, 
 
 Those sparkling gems which nature keeps 
 
 Within her cabinet the deeps, 
 
 The verdant fields, 
 
 The rarities the rich world yields, 
 
 Rare structures, whose each gilded spire, 
 
 Glimmers like lightning, which while men 
 
 admire 
 They deem the neighb'ring sky on fire : 
 These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes 
 With myriads of varieties, 
 As on the front of Pisgah I 
 Can th' Holy Land through these my optics 
 
 spy. 
 
 Contemn we then 
 
 The peevish rage of men. 
 
 Whose ^'iolence ne'er can divorce 
 
 Our mutual amity, 
 
 Or lay so damn'd a curse 
 
 As non-addresses 'twixt my thoughts and me; 
 
 For though I sigh in irons, they 
 
 Use their old freedom, readily obey. 
 
 And when my bosom friends desert me stay. 
 
 Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace 
 
 My privilege : make known 
 
 The high prerogative I own 
 
 By making all allurements give you place ; 
 
 Whose sweet society to me 
 
 A sanctuary and a shield shall be 
 
 'Gainst the full quivers of my destiny. 
 
 Thomas Flat laan.— Born 1635, Died 1688. 
 
 673.— DYING. 
 
 When on my sick-bed I languish. 
 Full of sorrow, full of anguish ; 
 Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying, 
 Panting, groaning, speechless, dying — 
 Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say — 
 " Be not fearful, come away ! " 
 
 Thoraas Flatman.—Born 1635, Died 1688. 
 
 674.— THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 
 
 Oh I the sad day 
 When friends shall shako their heads, and 
 say — 
 
 " Oh, miserable me ! " 
 Hark ! how he groans ; look how he pants for 
 
 breath ; 
 See how he struggles with the pangs of 
 Death ! 
 When they shall say of these poor eyes, 
 
 How hollow and how dim they be ; 
 Mark how his breast doth swell and rise 
 Against his potent enemy ! 
 When some old friend shall Blip to my bed- 
 side, 
 Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently 
 slide ; 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 CUSTOM. 
 
 [John Pomfri:-: 
 
 And when his next companions say — 
 
 " How doth he do ? What hopes ? " shall turn 
 
 away; 
 Answering only with a lift-up hand — 
 " Who can his fate withstand ? " 
 Then shall a gasp or two do more 
 Than e'er my rhetoric could before ; 
 Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no 
 
 more. 
 
 Thomas Flatman.—Born 1635, Died 1688. 
 
 675.— AN EVENING HYMN. 
 
 Sleep, downy sleep, come close my eyes, 
 Tired with beholding vanities ; 
 
 Welcome, sweet sleep, that drives away 
 The toils and follies of the day. 
 
 On thy. soft bosom will I lie, 
 
 Forget the world and learn to die : 
 
 O Israel's watchful Shepherd, spread 
 Thine angel tents around my bed. 
 
 Clouds and thick darkness veil thy throne, 
 Its awful glories all unknown : 
 
 Oh ! dart from thence one cheering ray, 
 And turn my midnight into day. 
 
 Thus, when the morn, in crimson di'cst, 
 Breaks from the chambers of the east, 
 
 My grateful songs of praise shall rise 
 Like fragrant incense to the skies. 
 
 Thomas Flatman.—Boni 1635, Died 1688. 
 
 676.-- HYMN TO THE ALMIGHTY. 
 
 Great God, whose sceptre rules the earth, 
 
 Distil Thy fear into my heart. 
 That being wrapt with holy mirth, 
 
 I may proclaim how good Thou art : 
 Open my lips, that I may sing 
 Full praises to my God, my King. 
 
 Great God, Thy garden is defaced, 
 
 The weeds thrive there. Thy flowers decay ; 
 O call to mind Thy promise past, 
 
 Eestore Thou them, cut these away : 
 Till then let not the weeds have power 
 To starve or stint the poorest flower. 
 
 In all extremes, Lord, Thou art still 
 The mount whereto my hopes do flee ; 
 
 O make my soul detest all ill, 
 
 Because so much abhorred by Thee : 
 
 Lord, let Thy gracious trials show 
 
 That I am just, or make me so. 
 
 Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree. 
 Yield to that heavenly voice of Thine ; 
 
 And shall that voice not startle me, 
 
 Nor stir this stone — this heart of mine ? 
 
 No, Lord, till Thou new bore mine ear, 
 
 Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear. 
 
 Fountain of Light, and living breath. 
 Whose mercies never fail nor fade. 
 
 Fill me with life that hath no death, 
 Fill me with life that hath no shade ; 
 
 Appoint the remnant of my days. 
 
 To see Thy power, and sing Thy praise ._ 
 
 Lord, God of Gods, before whose throne 
 Stand storms and fire, O what shall wo 
 
 Eeturn to heaven, that is our own, 
 When all the world belongs to Thee ? 
 
 We have no offering to impart, 
 
 But praises and a wounded heart. 
 
 Thou, that sitt'st in heaven, and see' at 
 My deeds without, my thoughts within ; 
 
 Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest, — 
 
 Command my soul, and cure my sin : 
 How bitter my afflictions be 
 
 1 care not, so I rise to Thee. 
 
 What I possess, or what I crave. 
 
 Brings no content, great God, to mo, 
 
 If what I would, or what I have. 
 Be not possest and blest in Thee : 
 
 What I enjoy, oh, make it mine. 
 
 In making me — that have it — Thine. 
 
 Where winter fortunes cloud the brows 
 
 Of summer friends — when eyes grow 
 strange ; 
 
 When plighted faith forgets its vows — 
 When earth and aU things in it change : 
 
 O Lord, Thy mercies fail me never, — 
 
 When once Thou lov'st. Thou lov'st for ever 
 
 Great God, whose kingdom hath no end, 
 Into whose secrets none can dive, 
 
 Whose mercy none can apprehend. 
 Whose justice none can feel, and live : 
 
 What my dull heart cannot aspire 
 
 To know. Lord, teach me to admire. 
 
 John Quarles. — Born 
 
 Died 1G65. 
 
 677.— CUSTOM. 
 
 Custom, the world's great idol, wo adore , 
 And knowing this, we seek to know do 
 
 more; 
 "VN^iat education did at first receive. 
 Our ripen'd age confirms us to believe. 
 The careful nurse, and priest, are all wc 
 
 To learn opinions, ana our country's creed : 
 The parent's precepts early are instill'd, 
 And spoU'd the man, while they instruct the 
 
 chUd. 
 To what hard fate is human kind betrny :!, 
 When thus implicit fate a virtue made ; 
 \Vhen education more than truth prevail S; 
 And nought is current but what custom seals ; 
 
John Pomfret.] 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Thus, from the time we first began to know, 
 We live and learn, but not the wiser grow. 
 
 We seldom use our liberty aright, 
 Nor judge of things by universal light : 
 Our prepossessions and affections bind 
 The soul in chains, and lord it o'er the 
 
 mind; 
 And if self-interest be but in the case. 
 Our unexamined principles may pass ! 
 Good Heavens I that man should thus himseK 
 
 deceive. 
 To learn on credit, and on trust believe ! 
 { Better the mind no notions had retain' d, 
 I But still a fair, unwritten blank remain' d : 
 j For now, who truth from falsehood would 
 i discern, 
 
 ! Must first disrobe the mind, and all unlearn, 
 j Errors, contracted in unmindful youth, 
 I When once removed will smooth the way to 
 j truth ; 
 
 j To dispossess the child the mortal lives, 
 I But ileath approaches ere the man arrives. 
 
 Those who would learning's glorious king- 
 dom find. 
 The dear-bought purchase of the trading 
 
 mind. 
 From many dangers must themselves acquit. 
 And more than Scylla and Charybdis meet. 
 Oh ! what an ocean must be voyaged o'er, 
 To gain a prospect of the shining shore ! 
 Resisting rocks oppose th' inquiring soul. 
 And adverse waves retard it as they roll. 
 Does not that foolish deference we pay 
 To men that lived long since, our passage 
 
 stay ? 
 What odd, preposterous paths at first we 
 
 tread. 
 And learn to walk by stumbling on the 
 
 dead! 
 First we a blessing from the grave implore. 
 Worship old urns, and monuments adore ! 
 The reverend sage with vast esteem we 
 
 prize : 
 He lived long since, and must be wondrous 
 
 wise! 
 Thus are we debtors to the famous dead, 
 For all those errors which their fancies 
 
 bred ; 
 Errors, indeed ! for real knowledge staid 
 With those first times, not farther was con- 
 
 vey'd : 
 While Ught opinions are much lower brought, 
 For on the waves of ignorance they float : 
 But solid truth scarce ever gains the shore, 
 So soon it sinks, and ne'er emerges more. 
 
 Suppose those many dreadful dangers past, 
 Will knowledge dawn, and bless the mind at 
 
 last? 
 Ah ! no, 'tis now environ' d from our eyes. 
 Hides all its charms, and undiscover'd lies ! 
 Truth, like a single point, escapes the sight, 
 And claims attention to perceive it right ! 
 But what resembles truth is soon descried, 
 Spreads like a surface, and expanded wide ! 
 The first man rarely, very rarely finds 
 The tedious search of long inquiring minds : 
 
 But yet what 's worse, wo know not what we 
 
 err; 
 What mark does truth, what bright distinction 
 
 bear ? 
 How do we know that what we know is 
 
 true? 
 How shall we falsehood fly, and truth 
 
 pursue ? 
 Let none then here his certain knowledge 
 
 boast ; 
 'Tis all but probability at most : 
 This is the easy purch^ise of the mind. 
 The vulgar's treasure, which we soon may 
 
 find! 
 The truth lies hid, and ere we can explore 
 The glittering gem, our fleeting life is o'er. 
 
 John Pom fret. —Born 1667, Died 1703. 
 
 678.— THE WISH. 
 
 If Heaven the grateful liberty would give 
 That I might choose my method how to live ; 
 And all those hours propitious fate should lend. 
 In blissful ease and satisfaction spend ; 
 Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, 
 Built uniform, not little, nor too great ; 
 Better, if on a rising ground it stood ; 
 On this side fields, on that a neighbouring 
 
 wood. 
 It should within no other things contain 
 But what are useful, necessary, plain ; 
 Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, 
 The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. 
 A little garden grateful to the eye. 
 And a cool rivulet run murmuring by ; 
 On whose delicious banks a stately row 
 Of shady limes or sycamores should grow ; 
 At th' end of which a silent study placed, 
 Should be with all the noblest authors graced: 
 Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines 
 Immortal wit and solid leai-ning shines ; 
 Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too. 
 Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; 
 He that with judgment reads his charming 
 
 lines. 
 In which strong art with stronger nature joins. 
 Must grant his fancy docs the best excel ; 
 His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well; 
 With all those moderns, men of steady sense> 
 Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence. 
 In some of these, as fancy should advise, 
 I'd always take my morning exercise ; 
 For sure no minutes bring us more content 
 Than those in pleasing useful studies spent. 
 
 I'd have a clear and competent estate, 
 That I might live genteelly, but not great ; 
 As much as I could moderately spend, 
 A little more sometimes, t'oblige a friend. 
 Nor should the sons of poverty repine 
 Too much at fortune, they should taste of 
 
 mine; 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Earl or Dorset 
 
 And all that objects of true pity were, 
 Should be relieved with what my wants could 
 
 spare ; 
 For that our Maker has too largely given 
 Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven. 
 A frugal plenty should my table spread ; 
 With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread ; 
 Enough to satisfj^ and something more. 
 To feed the stranger and the neighbouringjioor 
 Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food 
 Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. 
 But what 's sufficient to make nature strong, 
 And the bright lamp of life continue long, 
 I'd freely take ; and, as I did possess, 
 The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. 
 
 John Pomfret—Borii 1667, Died 1703. 
 
 679.— SONG. 
 
 Wine, wine in a morning, 
 Makes us frolic and gay, 
 
 That like eagles we soar. 
 In the pride of the day ; 
 
 Gouty sots of the night 
 Only find a decay. 
 
 'Tis the sun i-ipes the grape. 
 And to drinking gives light : 
 
 We imitate him, 
 
 Wlien by noon we 're at height 
 
 They steal wine, who take it 
 When he 's out of sight. 
 
 Boy, fill all the glasses. 
 
 Fill them up now he sliines ; 
 
 The higher he rises 
 The more he refines. 
 
 For wine and "wit fall 
 As their maker declines. 
 
 Thomas Brown. — Bom 
 
 Died, 1704. 
 
 680.— SONG. 
 
 To all you ladies now at land, 
 
 We men at sea indite ; 
 But first would have you understand 
 
 How hard it is to write : 
 The Muses how, and Neptune too. 
 We must implore to write to you, 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 For though the Muses should prove kind, 
 
 And fill our empty brain ; 
 Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind. 
 
 To wave the azure main. 
 Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
 Eoll up and down our ships at sea. 
 ~ With a fa, &c. 
 
 Then if we write not by each post, 
 
 Think not we are unkind ; 
 Nor 5'ct conclude our ships are lost. 
 
 By Dutchmen, or by wind : 
 
 Our tears we '11 send a speedier way, 
 The tide shall bring them twice a-day. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 The king, Avith wonder and surf)rise. 
 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
 Because the tides will higher rise. 
 
 Than e'er they used of old : — - 
 
 But let him know, it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story ; 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 
 
 And quit their fort at Goree : 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who 've left their hearts behind ? 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst. 
 
 Be you to us but kind ; 
 Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 
 
 No sorrow we shall find : 
 'Tis then no matter how things go. 
 Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 To pass our tedious hours away, 
 
 We throw a merry main ; 
 Or else at serious ombre play ; 
 
 But why should Ave in vain 
 Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
 We were undone when we left you. 
 With a fa, &r. 
 
 But now our fears tempestuous grow, 
 
 And cast our hopes away : 
 y/hilst you, regardless of our woe. 
 
 Sit careless at a play : 
 Perhaps, permit some happier man 
 To kiss your hand, or flirt j^our fan. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear. 
 
 That dies in every note ; 
 As if it sigh'd with each man's care, 
 
 For being so remote ; 
 Tliink how often love we 've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 In justice you cannot refuse 
 
 To think of our distress. 
 When we for hopes of honour lose 
 
 Our certain happiness ; 
 All those designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more worth}^ of your love. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 And noAV we 've told you all our loves. 
 
 And likcAvise all our fears. 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity from yoiir tears ; 
 Let 's hear of no inconstancy, 
 AVe have too much of that vt sea. 
 With a fa, &c. 
 
 Earl of Dorset. —Born 1637, Died 1706; 
 
Duke of Buckinghamshire.] HOMER AND YIEGIL. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — - 
 
 681.--HOMEK AND VIEGIL. 
 
 By painful steps at last we labour up 
 
 Parnassus' hill,^ on whose bright airy top 
 
 The epic poets so divinely show, 
 
 And with just pride behold the rest below. 
 
 Heroic poems have just a pretence 
 
 To be the utmost stretch of human sense ; 
 
 A work of such inestimable worth, 
 
 There are but two the world has yet brought 
 
 forth— 
 Homer and Virgil ; with what sacred awe 
 Do those mere sounds the world's attention 
 
 draw ! 
 Just as a changeling seems below the rest 
 Of men, or rather as a two-legg'd beast, 
 So these gigantic souls, amaz'd we find 
 As much above the rest of human kind ! 
 Nature's whole strength united ! endless fame, 
 And universal shouts attend their name ! 
 Eead Homer once, and you can read no more, 
 For all books else appear so mean, so poor. 
 Verse will seem prose ; but still persist to read, 
 And Homer will be all the books you need. 
 Had Bossu never writ, the world had stUl, 
 Like Indians, view'd this wondrous jiiece of 
 
 skiU; 
 As something of divine the work admir'd, 
 Not hope to be instructed, but inspir'd ; 
 But he, disclosing sacred mysteries. 
 Has shown Avhere aU their mighty magic lies ; 
 Describ'd the seeds, and in what order so-noi, 
 That have to such a vast proportion grown. 
 Sure from some angel he the secret knew. 
 Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue. 
 
 But what, alas ! avails it, poor mankind. 
 To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind ? 
 The way is shown, but who has strength to go ? 
 VvTio can all sciences profoundly know ? 
 Whose fancy flies beyond weak reason's sight, 
 And yet has judgment to direct it right ? 
 Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such, 
 Never to say too little or too much ? 
 Let such a man begin without delay ; 
 But he must do beyond what I can say ; 
 Must above Tasso's lofty heights prevail ; 
 Succeed when Spenser, and ev'n Milton fail. 
 
 Duke of Buckinghamshire.- 
 
 -Sorn 1649, Died 
 1721. 
 
 682.— TO THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 Bright star ! by Venus fix'd above. 
 To rule the happy realms of Love ; 
 Who in the dewy rear of day, 
 Advancing thy distinguish' d ray, 
 Dost other Hghts as far outshine 
 As Cynthia's silver glories thine ; 
 Known by superior beauty there. 
 As much as Pastorella here. 
 
 Exei-t, bright Star, thy friendly light, 
 And guide me through the dusky night ! 
 
 Defrauded of her beams, the Moon 
 Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon. 
 I would not rob the shepherd's fold ; 
 I seek no miser's hoarded gold ; 
 To find a nymph I 'm forced to stray. 
 Who lately stole my heart away, 
 
 George Stejpney.—Born 1663, Died 1707. 
 
 683.— SONG. 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares, 
 With which our lives are curst ; 
 
 Of all the plagues a lover bears, 
 Sure rivals are the worst. 
 
 By partners in each other kind 
 
 Afflictions easier grow ; 
 In love alone we hate to find 
 
 Companions of our woe. 
 
 Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 
 
 Are lab'ring in my breast, 
 I beg not you would favour me. 
 
 Would you but sHght the rest. 
 
 How great soe'er your rigours are, 
 
 With them alone I '11 cope ; 
 I can endure my own despair, 
 
 But not another's hope. 
 
 William Walsh. — Born 1663, Died 1709. 
 
 6S4.— SONG. 
 
 Fair and soft, and gay and young, 
 
 All charm — she play'd, she danced, she sung ; 
 
 There was no way to 'scape the dart. 
 
 No care could guard the lover's heart. 
 
 " Ah, why," cried I, and dropp'd a tear, 
 
 Adoring, yet despairing e'er 
 
 To have her to myself alone, 
 
 " Wliy was such sweetness made for one ? '* 
 
 But, growing bolder, in her ear 
 I in soft numbers told my care : 
 She heard, and raised me from her feet, ' 
 And seera'd to glow with equal heat. 
 Like heaven's, too mighty to express. 
 My joys could but be known by guess ; 
 " Ay, fool," said I, " what have I done, 
 To wish her made, for more than one ! '* 
 
 But long she had not been in view, 
 Before her eyes their beams withdrew; 
 Ere I had reckon' d half her charms. 
 She sunk into another's arms. 
 But she that once could faithless be, 
 WiU favour him no more than me : 
 He, too, wiU find he is undone. 
 And that she was not made for one. 
 
 Robert Gould.— About 1689. 
 
From 1G49 to- 1G89.] 
 
 PICTUEE OF A WITCH. 
 
 [Thomas Otway. 
 
 6S5.— SONG. 
 
 Cselia is cruel : Sylvia, thou, 
 
 I must confess, art kind ; 
 But in her cruelty, I vow, 
 
 I more repose can find. 
 For, oh ! thy fancy at all games docs fly, 
 Fond of address, and willing to comply. 
 
 Thus he that loves must be tmdone. 
 
 Each way on rocks we fall ; 
 Either you mil be kind to none, 
 
 Or worse, be kind to all. 
 Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care ; 
 We must be jealous, or we must despair. 
 
 Robert Gould.— About 1689. 
 
 686.— THE OLD MAN'S WISH. 
 
 If I live to grow old, for I find I go down, 
 Let this be my fate : in a country town, 
 May I have a warm house, with a stone at 
 
 the gate, 
 And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. 
 May I govern my jpassion with an 
 
 absolute sway. 
 And grow wiser and better, as my 
 
 - strength wears away, 
 Without gout or stone, by a gentle 
 decay. 
 
 Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, 
 With the ocean at distance, whereon I may 
 
 look; 
 With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. 
 And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. 
 May I govern, &c. 
 
 With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three 
 
 more 
 Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages 
 
 before ; 
 With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or 
 
 teal, 
 And clean, though coarse linen, at every 
 
 meal. 
 
 May I govern, &c. 
 
 With a pudding on Sundays, with stout hum- 
 ming liquor, 
 And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar ; 
 With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine, 
 To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. 
 May I govern, &c. 
 
 With a courage undaunted may I face my last 
 
 day, 
 And when I am dead may the better sort 
 
 say— 
 " In the morning when sober, in the evening 
 
 when mellow, 
 He 's gone, and [has] left not behind him his 
 
 fellow 
 
 For he govern' d his passion with an 
 
 absolute sway, 
 And grew wiser and bettor, as his 
 
 streng-th wore away, 
 Without gout or stone, by a gentle 
 
 decay." 
 
 J}r. Walter Popc—AhQutlGSO. 
 
 6S7.— A BLESSING. 
 
 Then hear me, bounteous Heaven, 
 
 Pour down your blessings on tliis beauteous 
 
 head, 
 Where everlasting sweets are always springing. 
 With a continual giving hand : let peace, 
 Honour, and safety always hover round her : 
 Feed her with plenty ; let her eyes ne'er see 
 A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourn- 
 ing ; 
 Crown all her days with joy, her nights with 
 
 r6st, 
 Harmless as her own thoughts ; and prop her 
 
 virtue. 
 To bear the loss of one that too much loved ; 
 And comfort her with patience in our parting. 
 
 Thomas Otway. — Born 1651, Died 1685. 
 
 688.— PARTING. 
 
 Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst enchant- 
 ment, 
 
 And never more shall find the way to rest. 
 
 But O Monimia ! art thou indeed resolved 
 
 To punish me with everlasting absence ? 
 
 Why tum'st thou from me ? I'm alone already ! 
 
 Methinks I stand upon a naked beach 
 
 Sighing to winds and to the seas complaining; 
 
 Whilst afar off the vessel sails away, 
 
 Where all the treasure of my soul's embark' d! 
 
 Wilt thou not turn ? O cotdd those eyes but 
 speak ! 
 
 I should know all, for love is pregnant in 
 them ! 
 
 They swell, they press their beams upon me 
 still ! 
 
 Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part for 
 ever. 
 
 Give me but one kind word to think upon, 
 
 And please myself with, while my heart is 
 breaking. 
 Thomas Otivay.—Born 1651, Died 1685. 
 
 689.— PICTURE OF A WITCH. 
 
 Through a close lane as I pursued my journey,, 
 And meditating on the last night's vision, 
 I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown 
 double, 
 
Thomas Otwat.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Fourth Period.— 
 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself ; 
 Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and 
 
 red, 
 And palsy shook her head ; her hands seemed 
 
 wither' d ; 
 And on her crooked shoulder had she wrapp'd 
 The tatter' d remnant of an old striped 
 
 hanging, 
 Wliich served to keep her carcass from the 
 
 cold. ^ 
 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely 
 
 patched 
 With different coloured rags — ^black, rod, 
 
 white, yellow, 
 And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. 
 I ask'd her of the way, which she informed 
 
 me ; 
 Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten 
 To save a sister. 
 
 Thomas Otway.—Born 1661, Died 1685. 
 
 690.--SONG. 
 
 Come, all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled 
 
 By cruel beauty's pride. 
 Bring each a garland on his head, — ■ 
 
 Let none his sorrows hide : 
 But hand in hand around me move, 
 Singing the saddest tales of love ; 
 And see, when your complaints ye join. 
 If all your wrongs can equal mine. 
 
 The happiest mortal once was I, 
 
 My heart no sorrow knew ; 
 Pity the pain with which T die, 
 
 But ask not whence it grew ; 
 Yet if a tempting fair you find. 
 That 's very lovely, very kind, 
 Though bright as heaven whose stamp she 
 
 bears, . 
 Think on my fate and shun her snares. 
 
 Thomas Otivay.—Born 1651, Died 1685. 
 
 691.— DESCEIPTION OF MOENINO. 
 
 Wish'd Morning 's come ; and now upon the 
 
 plains. 
 And distant mountains, where they feed their 
 
 flocks. 
 The happy shepherds leave their homely huts. 
 And with their pipes proclaim the new-born 
 
 day. 
 The lusty swain comes with his well-fill' d 
 
 scrip 
 Of healthful viands, which, when hunger 
 
 calls. 
 With much content and appetite he eats. 
 To follow in the field his daily toil, 
 And dress the gi-ateful glebe that yields him 
 
 fruits. 
 
 The beasts that under the warm hedges slept. 
 And weather' d out the cold bleak night, are 
 
 up; 
 And, looking towards the neighbouring 
 
 pastures, raise 
 Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good 
 
 morrow. 
 The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, 
 Assemble all in choirs ; and with their notes 
 Salute and welcome up the rising .sun. 
 
 Thomas Otway.— About 1689. 
 
 692.— SPEECH. 
 
 Speech is morning to the mind ; 
 
 It spreads the beauteous images abroad, 
 
 Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul. 
 
 Nathaniel Lee.— About 1689. 
 
 693.— LOVE. 
 
 All 
 
 when thou 
 
 I disdain 
 art by : far 
 
 be the 
 
 pomp 
 
 noise 
 Of kings and courts from us, whose gentle 
 
 souls 
 Our kinder stars have steer' d another way. 
 Free as the forest-birds we'll pair together, 
 Fly to the arbours, grots, and flowery meads, 
 And, in soft murmurs, interchange our souls : 
 Together drink the crystal of the stream, 
 Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields ; 
 And when the golden evening calls us home, 
 Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till mom. 
 
 Nathaniel Lee. — About 1689. 
 
 694.— SELF-MUEDEE. 
 
 What torments are allotted those sad spirits. 
 Who, groaning with the burden of despair, 
 No longer will endure the cares of life, 
 But boldly set themselves at liberty, 
 Through the dark caves of death to wander 
 
 on. 
 Like wilder' d travellers, without a guide ; 
 Eternal rovers in the gloomy maze, 
 Where scarce the twilight of an infant morn. 
 By a faint glimmer check'ring through the 
 
 trees, 
 Ecflects to dismal view the walking ghosts. 
 That never hope to reach the blessed fields. 
 
 Nathaniel Lee— About 1689. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] SONG. [Sib Geo. Ethebeqe. 
 
 695.— WISHES FOR OBSCUEITY. 
 
 700.— INCONSTANCY OF LOVE. 
 
 How roiserable a thing is a gi-eat man, 
 
 How long must women wish in vain 
 
 Take noisy vexing greatness they that please ; 
 
 A constant love to find ? 
 
 Give me obscure and safe and silent ease. 
 
 No art can fickle man reta.in, 
 
 Acquaintance and commerce let me have 
 
 Or fix a roving mind. 
 
 nono 
 With any powerful thing but Time alone : 
 
 Yet fondly we ourselves deceive, 
 
 My rest let Time be fearful to offend, 
 
 And empty hopes pursue : 
 
 And creep by me as by a slumbering friend ; 
 
 Though false to others, we believe 
 
 Till, with ease glutted, to my bed I steal, 
 
 They will to us prove true. 
 
 As men to sleep after a plenteous meal. 
 
 
 Oh, wretched he who, call'd abroad by power, 
 
 But oh ! the torment to discern 
 
 To know himself can never find an hour ! 
 
 A perjured lover gone ; 
 
 Strange to himself, but to all others known. 
 
 And yet by sad experience learn 
 
 Lends every one his life, but uses none ; 
 
 That we must still love on. 
 
 So, e'er he tasted life, to death he goes. 
 And himself loses ere himself he knows. 
 
 How strangely are we fool'd by fate, 
 Who tread the maze of love ; 
 
 John Croinie. — About 1665. 
 
 When most desirous to retreat, 
 
 
 We know not how to move. 
 Thomas Shadwell.—Born 1640, Died 1692. 
 
 
 696.— PASSIONS. 
 
 
 We oft by lightning read in darkest nights ; 
 
 
 And by your passions I read all your natures, 
 
 
 Though you at other times can keep them 
 dark. 
 
 701.— SONG. 
 
 John Crowne. — About 1665. 
 
 Ladies, though to your conquering eyes 
 
 
 Love owes his chiefest victories, 
 
 
 And borrows those bright arms from you 
 With which he does the world subdue ; 
 
 
 697.— LOVE IN WOMEN. 
 
 Yet you yourselves are not above 
 
 
 The empire nor the griefs of love. 
 
 These are great maxims, sir, it is confess'd ; 
 
 
 Too stately for a woman's narrow breast. 
 
 Then rack not lovers with disdain, 
 
 Poor love is lost in men's capacious minds ; 
 
 Lest love on you revenge their pain ; 
 
 In ours, it fiUs up all the room it finds. 
 
 You are not free because you're fair. 
 
 John Crowne. — About 1665. 
 
 The boy did not his mother spare : 
 
 
 Though beauty be a killing dart, 
 
 1 
 
 It is no armour for the heart. 
 Sir Geo. Ether eg c.— Born 1636, IHed 1694. 
 
 
 698.— INCONSTANCY OF THE 
 
 
 MULTITUDE. 
 I'll not such favour to rebellion show, 
 
 
 
 •To wear a crown the people do bestow ; 
 
 
 Who, when their giddy violence is past, 
 
 702.— SONG. 
 
 Shall from the king, the Adored, revolt at 
 
 See, how fair Corinna lies, 
 
 last; 
 
 Kindly calling with her eyes : 
 
 And then the throne they gave they shall 
 
 In the tender minute prove her ; 
 
 invade, 
 
 Shepherd, why so dull a lover ? 
 
 And scorn the idol which themselves have 
 made. 
 
 John Croxnie.^About 1665. 
 
 Prithee, why so dull a lover ? 
 
 In her blushes see your shame, — 
 
 
 Anger they with love proclaim ; 
 
 
 You too coldly entertain her : 
 Lay your pipe a little by ; 
 
 
 
 If no other charms you try, 
 
 699.— WAEEIORS. 
 
 You wiU never, never gain her. 
 
 I hate these potent madmen, who keep all 
 
 While the happy minute is, 
 
 Mankind awake, while they, by their great 
 
 Court her, you may get a kiss. 
 
 deeds. 
 
 May be, favours that are greater : 
 
 Are drumming hard upon this hoUow world, 
 Only to ma,ko a sound to last for ages. 
 
 Leave your piping ; to her fly ; 
 When the nymph for love is nigh. 
 
 John Crowne. — About 1665. 
 
 Is it with a tune you treat her ? 
 30 
 
Sib Geo. Etherege.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Dull Amlntor ! fie, O ! fie : 
 Kow your Shepherdess is nigh 
 Can you pass your time no better ? 
 
 Sir Geo. Etherege.—Born 1636, Died 1694. 
 
 703.— SOXG. 
 
 ^Vlien Phillis watch'd her harmless sheep, 
 
 Not one poor lamb was made a prey ; 
 Yet she had cause enoug-h to weep, 
 
 Her silly heart did g-o astray : 
 Then flying to the neighbouring grove. 
 
 She left the tender flock to rove, 
 And to the winds did breathe her love. 
 She sought in vain 
 To ease her jpain ; 
 The heedless winds did fan her fire ; 
 Venting her grief 
 Gave no relief, 
 But rather did increase desire. 
 Then sitting with her arms across, 
 
 Her sorrows streaming from each' eye ; 
 .She fix'd her thoughts upon her loss, 
 And in despair resolved to die. 
 
 Sir Geo. Etlicrcge.—Born 1636, Died 1694. 
 
 704.— SONG. 
 
 A curse upon that faithless maid 
 Who first her sex's liberty betray' d ; 
 Born free as man to love and range, 
 Till nobler nature did to custom change ; 
 Custom, that dull excuse for fools, 
 Who think all virtue to consist in rules. 
 
 From love our fetters never sprung. 
 
 That smiling god, all wanton, gay, and young, 
 
 Shows by his wings he cannot be 
 
 Confined to artless slavery ; 
 
 But here and there at random roves. 
 
 Not fix'd to glittering courts or shady groves. 
 
 Then she that constancy profess' d 
 Was but a well dissembler at the best ; 
 And that imaginary sway 
 She seem'd to give in feigning to obey. 
 Was but the height of prudent art 
 To deal with greater liberty her heart. 
 
 Ajphra Behn. — Born 1630, Died 16S9. 
 
 705.— SONG. 
 Love in fantastic triumph sat. 
 
 Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, 
 For whom fresh pains he did create, 
 
 And strange tyrannic power he show'd. 
 
 From thy bright eyes he took his fires. 
 Which round about in sport he hurl'd ; 
 
 But 'twas from mine he took desires 
 Enough t' undo the amorous world. 
 
 From me he took his sighs and tears, 
 
 From thee his pride and cruelty ; 
 From me his languishment and fears. 
 
 And every killing dart from thee : 
 Thus thou and I the god have arm'd, 
 
 And set him up a deity ; 
 But my poor heart alone is harm'd, 
 
 ■While thine the victor is, and free. 
 
 Aplira Behn.— Born 1630, Died 1689. 
 
 706.— FEOM A POEM ENTITLED 
 "AMANDA." 
 
 I have an eye for her that's fair, 
 An ear for her that sings ; 
 Yet don't I care for goiden hair, 
 I scorn the portion lech'rj^ brings 
 To bawdy Beaut3^ I'm a churl, 
 And. hate, though a melodious girl, 
 Her that is nought but air. 
 
 I have a heart for her that's kind, 
 A lip for her that smiles ; 
 But if her mind be like the wind, 
 I'd rather foot it tv/enty miles. 
 
 Is thy voice mellow, is it smart P 
 
 A rt Venus for thy beauty ? 
 
 If kind, and tart, and chaste thou art, 
 
 I'm bound to do thee duty. 
 
 Though, pretty Mail, or bonny Kate, 
 
 Hast thou one hair adulterate, 
 
 I'm blind, and deaf, and out of heart. 
 
 Amanda, thou art kind, well-bred, 
 
 Harmonious, sweetly kind ; 
 
 If thou wilt wed my virgin bed. 
 
 And taste my love, thou'rt to my mind ; 
 
 Take hands, lips, heart, and ej^es. 
 
 Are all too mean a sacrifice. 
 
 N. Roolc— About 1658. 
 
 707.— TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Why, little charmer of the air, 
 Dost thou in music spend the morn. 
 While I thus languish in despair, 
 Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn ? 
 Why dost thou sing and hear me cry ? 
 TcU, wanton songster, tell me why. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGEE. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Great to the ear, though small to sight, 
 
 The happy lover's dear delight : 
 
 Fly to the bowers where such ai'e laid, 
 
 And there bestow thy serenade : 
 
 Haste thee from sorrow, haste away, 
 
 Alas, there's danger in thy stay, 
 
 Lest hearing me so oft complain 
 
 Should make thee change thy cheerful strain. 
 
 Then cease, thou charmer of the air, 
 No more in music spend the morn 
 With me that languish in despair, 
 Oppress'd bj' Cynthia's hate and scorn ; 
 And do not this poor boon deny, 
 I ask but silence while I die. 
 
 Philq) Ayrcs.-^Ahout 1689. 
 
 70S.— ON THE SIGHT OF HIS 
 MISTRESS'S HOUSE. 
 
 To view these walls each night I come alone, 
 And pay my adoration to the stone ; 
 Whence joy and peace are influenced on me, 
 For 'tis the temple of my deity. 
 
 As nights and days an anxious wretch by 
 
 stealth 
 Creeps out to view the place which hoards his 
 
 wealth, 
 So to this house, that keeps from me my 
 
 heart, 
 I couie, look, traverse, weep, and then depart. 
 
 PJiilip Ayres. — About 1689. 
 
 709.— THE YOUNG MAN'S WISH. 
 
 If I could but attain my wish, 
 
 I'd have each day one wholesome dish, 
 
 Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish. 
 
 A glass of port, with good old beer. 
 In Avinter time a fire burnt clear, 
 Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair. 
 
 In some clean town a snug retreat, 
 
 A little garden 'fore my gate. 
 
 With thousand pounds a year estate. 
 
 After my house expense was clear, 
 
 Whatever I could have to spare. 
 
 The neighbouring poor should freely share. 
 
 To keep content and peace through life, 
 I'd have a prudent cleanly wife. 
 Stranger to noise, and eke to strife. 
 
 Then I, when blest with such estate, 
 With such a house, and such a mate, 
 Would envy not the worldly great. 
 
 Let them for noisy honours try, 
 
 Let them seek worldly praise, while I 
 
 Unnoticed would live and die. 
 
 But since dame Fortune 's not thought fit 
 To place me in affluence, yet ~ 
 
 I'll be content with what I get. 
 
 j He's happiest far whose humble mind, 
 
 I Is unto Pro\ddence resigned, 
 
 i And thinketh Fortune always kind. 
 
 Then I will strive to bound my wish. 
 And take, instead of fowl and fish, 
 Whate'er is thrown into my dish. 
 
 Instead of wealth and fortune great, 
 Garden and house and loving mate, 
 I'll rest content in ser\dle state. 
 
 I'll from each foUy strive to fly, 
 Each virtue to attain I'll try. 
 And live as I would wish to die. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689 
 
 710.— THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER. 
 
 Thou wealthy man of large possessions here, 
 Amounting to some thousand pounds a year, 
 Extorted by oppression from the poor. 
 The time is come that thou shalt be no more ; 
 Thy house therefore in order set with speed. 
 And call to mind how you your life do lead. 
 Let true repentance be thy chiefest care. 
 And for another world now, note prepare. 
 For not-withstanding all your heaps of gold, 
 Your lands and lofty buildings manifold. 
 Take notice you must die this very day ; 
 And therefore kiss your bags and come away. 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 (He started straight and turned his head 
 
 aside. 
 Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he 
 
 cried). 
 Lean famished slave ! why do you threaten 
 
 so, 
 Whence come you, pray, and whither must 
 
 Igo? 
 
 I come from ranging round the universe. 
 Through courts and kingdoms far and near I 
 
 pase, 
 Where rich and poor, distressed, bond and 
 
 free. 
 Fall soon or late a sacrifice to mo. 
 From crowned kings, to captives bound in 
 
 chains 
 My power reaches, sir ; the longest reigns 
 That ever were, I put a period to ; 
 And now I'm come in fine to conquer you. 
 
 30* 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER. 
 
 [Fourth Pebiod. — 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 I can't nor won't believe that you, pale 
 
 Death, 
 Were sent this day to stop my vital breath, 
 By reason I in perfect health remain, 
 Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain ; 
 No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I, 
 And do you say that I am drawing nigh 
 The latter minute ? sure it cannot be ; 
 Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me ! 
 
 Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know, 
 
 The tender grass and pleasant flowers that 
 
 grow 
 Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down ? 
 And so is man, though famed with high 
 
 renown. 
 Have you not heard the doleful passing bell 
 Ring out for those that were alive and well 
 The other day, in health and pleasure too, 
 And had as little thoughts of death as you ? 
 For let me tell you, when my warrant 's 
 
 sealed. 
 The sweetest beauty that the earth doth 
 
 yield 
 At my approach shall turn as pale as lead ; 
 'Tis I that lay them on their dying bed. 
 I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout ; 
 But when my raging fevers fly about, 
 I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night, 
 Who hardly lives to see the morning light ; 
 I'm sent each hour like to a nimble page. 
 To infants, hoary heads, and middle age ; 
 Time after time I sweep the world quite 
 
 through ; 
 Then it's in vain to think I'll favour you. 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear, 
 For when I frown none of my servants dare 
 Approach my presence, but in corners hide 
 Until I am appeased and pacified. 
 Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe 
 Nor did I ever fear the force of law, 
 But ever did my enemies subdue. 
 And must I after aU submit to you ? 
 
 'Tis very true, for why, thy daring soul, 
 Wliich never could endure the least control, 
 I'U thrust thee from this earthly tenement, 
 And thou shalt to another world be sent. 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 What ! must I die and leave a vast estate. 
 Which, with my gold, I purchased but of late ? 
 Besides what I had many years ago ? — 
 Whai ! must my wealth and I be parted so ? 
 If you your darts and arrows must let fly, 
 Go search the jails, where mourning debtors 
 
 he; 
 Release them from their sorrow, grief, and 
 
 woe. 
 For I am rich and therefore loth to go. 
 
 I'll search no jails, but the right mark I'll 
 
 hit ; 
 And though you are unwilling to submit. 
 Yet die you must, no other friend can do, — 
 Prepare yourself to go, I'm come for yovi. 
 If you had aU the world aiid ten times more, 
 Yet die you must, — there's millions gone 
 
 before ; 
 The greatest kings on earth yield and obey, 
 And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay : 
 If crowned heads and right renowned peers • 
 Die in the prime and blossoms of their years, 
 Can you suppose to gain a longer spa,ce ? 
 No ! I will send you to anotVj9r place. 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 Oh ! stay thy hand and be not so severe, 
 I have a hopeful son and daughter dear, 
 All that I beg is but to let me live 
 That I may them in lawful marriage give : 
 They being young when I am laid in the 
 
 grave, 
 I fear they will be wronged of vrhat they 
 
 have : 
 xVlthough of me you wiU no pity take, 
 Yet spare me for my little infants' sake. 
 
 If such a vain excuse as this might do, 
 
 It would be long ere mortals would go 
 
 through 
 The shades of death ; for every man would find 
 Something to say that he might stay behind. 
 Yet, if ten thousand arguments they'd use. 
 The destiny of dying to excuse, 
 They'll find it is in vain with me to strive. 
 For why, I part the dearest friends aHve ; 
 Poor parents die, and leave their children 
 
 small 
 With nothing to support them here withal, 
 But the kind hand of gracious Providence, 
 Who is their father, friend, and sole defence. 
 Though I have held you long in disrepute, 
 Yet after all here with a sharp salute 
 I'll put a period to your days and years. 
 Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears. 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 [Then with a groan he made this sad com- 
 plaint] : 
 
 My heart is dying, and my spirits faint ; 
 
 To my close chamber let me be conveyed ; 
 
 Farewell, false world, for thou hast me be- 
 trayed. 
 
 Would I had never wronged the fatherless. 
 
 Nor mourning widows wlien in sad distress ; 
 
 Would I had ne'er been guilty of that sin, 
 
 Would I had never known what gold had 
 been ; 
 
 For by the same my heart was drawn away 
 
 To search for gold : but now this very day 
 
 I find it is but like a slender reed, 
 
 Which fails me most when most I stand in 
 need : 
 
From 1649 to 1689." 
 
 THE CATHOLICK. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 For, woe is me ! the time is come at last, 
 
 Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast, 
 
 Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie, 
 
 Because my sins make me afraid to die : 
 
 Oh ! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile. 
 
 That I to God myself may reconcile, 
 
 For true repentance some small time allow ; 
 
 I never feared a futm-e state till now ! 
 
 My bags of gold and land I'd freely give, 
 
 For to obtain the favour here to live, 
 
 Until I have a sure foundation laid. 
 
 Let me not die before my peace be made ! 
 
 Thou hast not many minutes here to stay. 
 Lift up your heart to God without delay. 
 Implore his pardon now for what is past, 
 "Who knows but He may save yo\ir soul at 
 last? 
 
 RICH MAN. 
 
 I'll water now with tears my dying bed, | 
 
 Before the Lord my sad complaint I'U spread, I 
 And if He -will vouchsafe to pardon me, i 
 
 To die and leave this world I could be free. j 
 False world ! false world, farewell ! farewell 
 
 adieu ! 
 I find, I find, there is no trust in you ! 
 For when upon a dying bed we lie, 
 Your gilded baits are naught but misery. 
 Mj' youthfvd son and loving daughter dear. 
 Take warning by your dying father here ; 
 Let not the world deceive you at this rate. 
 For fear a sad repentance comes too late. 
 Sweet babes, I little thought the other day, 
 I should so suddenly be snatched away 
 By Death, and leave you weeping here behind 
 But Ufe 's a most uncertain thing, I find. 
 When in the grave my head is lain full low. 
 Pray let not folly prove your ovei-throw ; 
 Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will. 
 That He may have a Ijlessing for you still. 
 ^Having saluted them, he turned aside, 
 These were the very words before he died] : 
 
 soul 
 
 A painful life I ready am to leave, 
 AVherefore, in mercy, Lord, my 
 receive. 
 
 Anov i/uioas. — Before 1689 
 
 7 1 1 .—SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED. 
 
 This Indian weed, now withered quite, 
 Though green at noon, cut down at night, 
 
 Shows thy decay ; 
 
 All flesh is hay : 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 The pipe, so lily-like and weak. 
 Does thus thy mortal state bespeak ; 
 
 Thou art e'en such, — 
 
 Gone with a touch : 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 And when the smoke ascends on high, 
 Then thou behold' st the vanity 
 
 Of worldly stuff, 
 
 Gone with a puff : 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 And when the pipe grows foul within, 
 Think on thy soul defiled Avith sin-f - 
 
 For then the fire 
 
 It does require : 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 And seest the ashes cast away. 
 Then to thyself thou mayest say. 
 
 That to the dust 
 
 Keturn thou must. 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 Anonywous. — Before 1689. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Was this small plant for thee cut down ? 
 So was the plant of great renowm. 
 
 Which Mercy sends 
 
 For nobler ends. 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 Doth juice medicinal proceed 
 
 From such a naughty foreign weed ? 
 
 Then what's the power 
 
 Of Jesse's flower ? 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 The promise, like the pipe, allays, 
 And by the mouth of faith conveys, 
 
 What virtue flows 
 
 From Sharon's rose. 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 In vain the unlighted pipe you blow. 
 Your pains in outward means are so, 
 
 THll heavenly fire 
 
 Y'^our heart inspire. 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 Thus smoke, like burning incense, towers, 
 So should a praying heart of yours. 
 
 With ardent cries. 
 
 Surmount the skies. 
 
 Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 
 
 Ralph Erskine. — About 1750. 
 
 7X2.— THE CATHOLICK. 
 I hold as faith 
 
 What Rome's church 
 
 saith 
 Where the King 's 
 
 head 
 The flock 's misled 
 
 What Enriland's church 
 allows 
 
 My conscience dis- 
 avows 
 
 That church can have 
 no shame 
 
 That holds the Pope 
 supreme. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE THEEE KNIGHTS. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Where the altar 's There's service scarce 
 
 drest divine 
 
 The people 's blest With table, bread, and 
 
 wine. 
 He's but an asse Who the communion 
 
 flies 
 Who shuns the masse Is catliolick and wise. 
 
 Aiiomjmous. — 1655. 
 
 713.— THE THEEE KNIGHTS. 
 
 There did three knights come from the west, 
 
 With the high and the lily oh ! 
 And these three knights courted one ladye, 
 
 As the rose was so sweetly blown. 
 
 The first knight came was all in white, 
 And asked of her if she'd be his delight. 
 
 The next knight came was all in green. 
 And asked of her if she'd be his queen. 
 
 The third knight came was all in red, 
 And asked of her if she would wed. 
 
 " Then have you asked of my father dear ? 
 Likewise of her who did me bear ? 
 
 And have you asked of my brother John ? 
 And also of my sister Anne ? " 
 
 " Yes, I've asked of your father dear, 
 Likewise of her who did you bear. 
 
 And I've asked of your sister Anne, 
 
 But I have not asked of your brother John." 
 
 Far on the road as they rode along. 
 
 There did they meet with her brother John. 
 
 She stooped low to kiss him sweet. 
 He to her heart did a dagger meet. 
 
 " Bide on, ride on," cried the servingman, 
 " Methinks your bride she looks wondrous 
 wan." 
 
 " I wish I were on yonder stile. 
 
 For there I would sit and bleed awhile. 
 
 I wish I were on yonder hill, 
 
 There I'd alight and make my will." 
 
 " What would you give to your father dear ?" 
 " The gallant steed which doth me bear." 
 
 " What would you give to your mother 
 
 dear ? " 
 •' My wedding shift which I do wear ; 
 
 But she must wash it veiy clean, 
 
 I'or my heart's blood sticks in every seam." 
 
 ** What would you give to your sister Anne ? " 
 *♦ My gay gold ring, and my feathered fan." 
 
 What would you give to your brother 
 
 John ? " 
 A rope, and a gallows to hang him on." 
 
 What would you give to your brother John's 
 
 Avife ? " 
 A widow's weeds, and a quiet life." 
 
 Anonymoxis. — Before 1G89, 
 
 714.— THE BLIND BEGGAR OF 
 BEDNALL GREEN. 
 
 This song 's of a beggar who long lost his 
 
 sight. 
 And had a fair daughter, most pleasant and 
 
 bright. 
 And many a gallant brave suitor had she. 
 And none was so comely as- pretty Bessee. 
 
 And though she was of complexion most fair, 
 And seeing she was but a beggar his heir. 
 Of ancient housekeepers despised was she, 
 Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee. 
 
 Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessee did 
 
 say: 
 " Good father and mother, lot me now go 
 
 away, 
 To seek out my fortune, whatever it be." 
 This suit then was granted to pretty Bessee. 
 
 This Bessee, that was of a beauty most bright, 
 They clad in grey russet ; and late in the 
 
 night 
 From father and mother alone parted she, 
 Who sighed and sobbed for pretty Bessee. 
 
 She went tiU she came to Stratford-at-Bow, 
 Then she knew not whither or which way 
 
 to go. 
 With tears she lamented her sad destiny ; 
 So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee. 
 
 She kept on her journey until it was day, 
 And went unto Rumford, along the highway ; 
 And at the King's Arms entertained was 
 
 she, 
 So fair and well-favoured was pretty Bessee. 
 
 She had not been there one month at an end. 
 But master and mistress and all was her 
 
 friend : 
 And every brave gallant that once did her 
 
 see. 
 Was straightway in love with pretty Bessee. 
 
 Great gifts they did send her of silver and 
 
 gold. 
 And in their songs daily her love they ex- 
 
 toUed : 
 Her beauty was blazed in every degree, 
 So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee. 
 
From 1649 to 1G89.] THE BLIND BEGGAE OF BEDNALL GEEEN. [Anonymous. 
 
 The young men of Eumf ord in her had their 
 
 joy, 
 
 She showed herseK courteous, but never too 
 
 coy, 
 And at their commandment still she would 
 
 be, 
 So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee. 
 
 Pour suitors at once unto her did go, 
 
 They craved her favour, but still she said no ; 
 
 " I would not have gentlemen marry with 
 
 me ! " 
 Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessee. 
 
 Now one of them was a gallant young knight. 
 And he came unto her disguised in the night ; 
 The second, a gentleman of high degree, 
 Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessee. 
 
 A merchant of London, whose wealth was not 
 
 small, 
 "Was then the third suitor, and proper withal ; 
 Her master's own son the fourth man must 
 
 be, 
 "Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee. 
 
 " If that thou ^vilt many with me," quoth the 
 
 knight, 
 " I'U make thee a lady with joy and delight ; 
 My heart is enthralled in thy fair beauty. 
 Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee." 
 
 The gentleman said, " Come, marry with me, 
 In silks and in velvet my Bessee shall be ; 
 My heart lies distracted, oh ! hear me," quoth 
 
 he, 
 " And grant me thy love, my dear pretty 
 
 Bessee." 
 
 " Let me be thy husband," the merchant did 
 
 say, 
 " Thou shalt Hve in London most gallant and 
 
 gay; 
 My ships shall bring home rich jewels for 
 
 thee, 
 And I will for ever love pretty Bessee." 
 
 Then Bessee she sighed and thus she did say: 
 " My father and mother I mean to obey ; 
 First get their good %vill, and be faithfid to 
 
 me, 
 And you shall enjoy your dear pretty Bessee." 
 
 To every one of them that answer she made, 
 Therefore unto her they joyfully said : 
 " This thing to fulfil v^o all now agree, 
 But where dwells thy father, my pretty 
 Bessee ? " 
 
 '•My father," quoth she, "is soon to be seen : 
 The siUy blind beggar of BednaU Green, 
 That daily sits begging for charity. 
 He is the kind father of pretty Bessee. 
 
 His marks and his token are knowen full 
 
 well. 
 He always is led by a dog and a bell ; 
 A poor silly old man, God knoweth is he. 
 Yet he's the true father of pretty Bessee." 
 
 "Nay, nay," quoth the merchant, " thou art 
 
 not for me." 
 " She," quoth the innholder, " my wife shall 
 
 not be." 
 " I loathe," said the gentleman, "a beggar's 
 
 degree, 
 Therefore, now farewell, my pretty Bessee." 
 
 " Why, then," quoth the knight, " hap better 
 
 or worse, 
 I weigh not true love by the weight of the 
 
 purse, 
 And beauty is beauty in every degree, 
 Then welcome to me, my dear pretty Bessee." 
 
 With thee to thy father forthwith I will 
 
 SO." 
 " Nay, forbear," quoth his kinsman, " it must 
 
 not be so : 
 A poor beggar's daughter a lady shan't be ; 
 Then take thy adieu of thy pretty Bessee." 
 
 As soon then as it was break of the day, 
 The knight had from Eumford stole Bessee 
 
 away ; 
 The young men of Eumford, so sick as may 
 
 be, 
 Eode after to fetch again pretty Bessee, 
 
 As swift as the wind to ride they were seen, 
 Until they came near unto BednaU Green, 
 And as the knight lighted most courteously. 
 They fought against him for pretty Bessee. 
 
 But rescue came presently over the plain. 
 Or else the knight there for his love had been 
 
 slain ; 
 The fray being ended, they straightway did 
 
 see 
 His kinsman come railing at pretty Bessee. 
 
 Then bespoke the blind beggar, " Although I 
 
 be poor, 
 Eail not against my child at my own door. 
 Though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, 
 Yet I will drop angels with thee for my girl ; 
 
 And then if my gold should better her 
 
 birth, 
 And equal the gold you lay on the earth. 
 Then neither rail you, nor gTudge you to see. 
 The blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. 
 
 But first, I will hear, and have it well 
 
 known. 
 The gold that you drop it shall be all your 
 
 own." 
 With that they replied, " Contented we be ! " 
 " Then here 's," quoth the beggar, " for pretty 
 
 With that an angel he dropped on the ground, 
 And dropped, in angels, full three thousand 
 
 pound ; 
 And oftentimes it proved most plain, 
 For the gentleman's one, the beggar dropped 
 
 twain : 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN. [Fourth Period.- 
 
 So that the whole place wherein they did sit, 
 With gold was covered every whit. 
 The gentleman having dropped all his store, 
 Said, " Beggar ! your hand hold, for I have no 
 
 " Thou haat fulfilled thy promise aright, 
 Then marry my girl," quoth he to the 
 
 knight ; 
 "And then," quoth he, '-I wUl throw you 
 
 down, 
 An hundred pounds more to buy her a gown." 
 
 The gentlemen all, who his treasure had seen, 
 Admired the beggar of Bednall Green ; 
 And those that had been her suitors before, 
 Their tender flesh for anger they tore. 
 
 Thus was the fair Bessee matched to a 
 
 knight, 
 And made a lady in others' despite. 
 A fairer lady there never was seen 
 Than the blind beggar's daughter of Bednall 
 
 Green. 
 
 But of her sumptuous marriage and feast. 
 And what fine lords and ladies there pfest. 
 The second i^art shall set forth to your sight, 
 With marvellous pleasure and wished-for 
 delight. 
 
 Of a blind beggar's daughter so bright. 
 That late was betrothed to a young knight, 
 All the whole discourse therefore you may 
 
 see : 
 But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. 
 
 It was in a gallant palace most brave. 
 Adorned with all the cost they could have, 
 This wedding it was kept most sumptuous!}', 
 And all for the love of pretty Bessee. 
 
 And all kind of dainties and delicates sweet. 
 Was brought to their banquet, as it was 
 
 thought meet, 
 Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, 
 Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. 
 
 The wedding through England was spread by 
 
 report, 
 So that a great number thereto did resort 
 Of nobles and gentles of every degree. 
 And all for the fame of pretty Bessee. 
 
 To church then away went this gallant young 
 
 knight. 
 His bride followed after, an angel most 
 
 bright. 
 With troops of ladies, the like was ne'er 
 
 seen. 
 As went with sweet Bessee of Bednall Green. 
 
 This wedding being solemnized then, 
 With music performed by skilfullest men. 
 The nobles and gentlemen down at the side, 
 Each one beholding the beautiful bride. 
 
 But after the sumptuous dinner was done, 
 
 To talk and to reason a number begun. 
 
 And of the blind beggar's daughter most 
 
 bright ; 
 And what with his daughter he gave to the 
 
 knight. 
 
 Then spoke the nobles, " Much marvel have 
 
 we 
 This jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see ! " 
 " My lords," quoth the bride, " my father so 
 
 base 
 Is loth with his presence these states to 
 
 disgrace." 
 
 " The praise of a woman in question to bring, 
 Before her own face is a flattering thing ; 
 But we think thy father's baseness," quoth 
 
 they, 
 " Might by thy beauty be clean put away." 
 
 They no sooner this pleasant word spoke, 
 But in comes the beggar in a silken cloak, 
 A velvet cap and a feather had he. 
 And now a musician, forsooth, he would be. 
 
 And being led in from catching of harm. 
 He had a dainty lute under his arm. 
 Said, " Please you to hear any music of me, 
 A song I will sing you of pretty Bessee." 
 
 With that his lute he twanged straightway. 
 And thereon began most sweetly to play. 
 And after a lesson was played two or three. 
 He strained out this song most delicately :— 
 
 " A beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, 
 Who for her beautj^ may well be a queen, 
 A blithe bonny lass, and dainty was she. 
 And many one called her pretty Bessee. 
 
 Her father he had no goods nor no lands, 
 But begged for a penny all day with his hands. 
 And yet for her marriage gave thousands 
 
 three. 
 Yet still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. 
 
 And here if any one do her disdain, 
 Her father is ready with might and with main 
 To prove she is come of noble degree. 
 Therefore let none flout at my pretty Bessee." 
 
 With that the lords and the company round 
 With a hearty laughter were ready to s wound, 
 At last said the lords, " Full well we may see, 
 The bride and the bridegroom's beholden to 
 thee." 
 
 With that the fair bride all blushing did rise, 
 With crystal water all in her bright eyes, 
 " Pardon my father, brave nobles," quoth she, 
 '• That through blind aft'ection thus doats 
 upon me." 
 
 " If this be thy father," the nobles did say, 
 " Well may ho be proud of this happy day, 
 Yet by his countenance well may we see. 
 His birth with his fortune could never agree ; 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 LORD DELAWARE. 
 
 [Anonymous:. 
 
 And therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee 
 
 bewraj-, 
 And look to us then the truth thou dost sa3% 
 Thy birth and thy parentage what it may be. 
 E'en for the love thou bearest pretty Bessee." 
 
 " Then give me leave, ye gentles each one, 
 A ^ong more to sing and then I'll begone, 
 I And if that I do not win geod report, 
 i Then do not give me one groat for my sport : — 
 
 When first our king his fame did advance. 
 And sought his title in delicate France, 
 In many places gi-eat perils passed he ; 
 But then was not born my pretty Bessee. 
 
 j And at those wars went over to fight 
 Many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight. 
 And with them young Monford of courage so 
 free ; 
 
 i But then was not born my pretty Bessee. 
 
 I And there did young Monford with a blow on 
 
 j the face 
 
 Lose both his eyes in a very short space ; 
 His life had been gone away with his sight. 
 Had not a young woman gone forth in the 
 night. 
 
 Among the said men, her fancy did move, 
 To search and to seek for her o^vn true love, 
 Who seeing young Monford there gasping to 
 
 die. 
 She saved his life through her charity. 
 
 And then all our victuals in beggar's attire, 
 At the hands of good people we then did 
 
 require ; 
 At last into England, as now it is seen, 
 We came, and remained in Bednall Green. 
 
 And thus we have lived in Fortune's despite, 
 Though poor, yet contented with humble 
 
 delight, 
 And in my old years, a comfort to me, 
 God sent me a daughter called pretty Bessee. 
 
 And thus, ye nobles, my song I do end. 
 Hoping by the same no man to offend ; 
 Full forty long winters thus I have been 
 A silly blind beggar of Bednall Green." 
 
 Now when the company, every one. 
 Did hear the strange tale he told in his song, 
 They were amazod, as well they might be. 
 Both at the blind beggar and prett}^ Bessee. 
 
 With that the fair bride they all did embrace, 
 Saying, " You are come of an honourable race. 
 Thy father likewise is of high degree, 
 And thou art right worthy a lady to be." 
 
 Thus was the feast ended with joy and 
 
 delight, 
 A happy bridegroom was made the young 
 
 knight, 
 Who lived in great joy and feHcity 
 With his fair lady, dear pretty Bessee. 
 
 Anonymo^ls. — Before 1689. 
 
 7 1 5 .—LORD DELAWARE. 
 
 In the Parliament House, a great rout has 
 
 been there. 
 Betwixt our good King and the Lord 
 
 Delaware : 
 Says Lord Delaware to his Majesty full soon, 
 " Will it please you, my liege, to grant ~me a 
 
 boon? " 
 
 "What's your boon," says the King, "now 
 
 let me understand ? " 
 " It's, give me all the poor men we've starving 
 
 in this land ; 
 And without delay I'll hie me to Lincolnshire, 
 To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang 
 
 them all there. 
 
 For with hempen cord it's better to stop each 
 
 poor man's breath. 
 Than with famine you should see your subjects 
 
 starve to death." 
 Up starts a Dutch Lord, who to Delaware did 
 
 say, 
 " Thou deserves to be stabbed ! " then he 
 
 turned himself away ; 
 
 " Thou deserves to be stabbed, and the dogs 
 
 have thine ears. 
 For insulting our King in this Parliament of 
 
 peers." 
 Up sprang a Welsh Lord, the brave Duke of 
 
 Devonshire, 
 " In young Delaware's defence, I'll fight this 
 
 Dutch Lord, my sire ; 
 
 For he is in the right, and I'll make it so 
 
 appear : 
 Him I dare to single combat, for insulting 
 
 Delaware." 
 A stage was soon erected, and to combat they 
 
 went. 
 For to kill, or to be killed, it was cither's full 
 
 intent. 
 
 But the very first flourish, when the heralds 
 
 gave command, 
 The sword of brave Devonshire bent backward 
 
 on his hand ; 
 In suspense he paused awhile, scanned his foe 
 
 before he strake, 
 Then against the King's armour, his ben 
 
 sword he brake. 
 
 Then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in 
 
 the ring, 
 Saying, " Lend your sword, that to an end 
 
 this tragedy Ave brin^ : 
 Though he's fighting me in armour, while I 
 
 am fighting bare, 
 Even more than this I'd venture for joung 
 
 Lord Delaware." 
 
 Leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler 
 
 now resounds. 
 Till he left the Dutch Lord a bleeding in his 
 
 wounds : 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE GOLDEN GLOVE. 
 
 [FousTH Period. — 
 
 This seeing, cries the King to his guards 
 
 without delay, 
 " Call Devonshire doAvn, — take the dead man 
 
 away! " 
 
 " No," saj'-s brave Devonshire, " I've fought 
 
 him as a man, 
 Since he's dead, I will keep the trophies I have 
 
 won ; 
 For he fought me in your armour, while I 
 
 fought him bare, 
 And the same you must win back, my liege, 
 
 if ever you them wear." 
 
 God bless the Church of England, may it 
 
 prosper on each hand, 
 And also every poor man now starving in this 
 
 land ; 
 And while I pray success may crown our 
 
 King iipon his throne, 
 I'll wish that every poor man may long enjoy 
 
 his own. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689. 
 
 716.— THE GOLDEN GLOVE. 
 
 A wealthy young squire of Tam worth, we 
 
 hear, 
 He courted a nobleman's daughter so fair; 
 And for to marry her it was his intent, 
 All friends and relations gave their consent. 
 
 The time was appointed for the wedding-day, 
 A young farmer chosen to give her away ; 
 As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy, 
 He inflamed her heart ; " O, my heart ! " she 
 did cry. 
 
 She turned from the sqiih-e, but nothing she 
 
 said. 
 Instead of being married she took to her bed ; 
 The thought of the farmer soon run in her 
 
 mind, 
 A way for to have him she quickly did find. 
 
 Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did 
 
 put on, 
 And a hunting she Avent with her dog and her 
 
 gun; 
 She hunted all round where the farmer did 
 
 dwell. 
 Because in her heart she did love him full 
 
 well : 
 
 She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed, 
 At length the you]»g farmer came into the 
 
 field; 
 And to discourse with him it was her intent, 
 With her dog and her gun to meet him she 
 
 went. 
 
 " I thought you had been at the wedding," 
 
 she cried 
 " To wait on the squire, and give him his 
 
 bride." 
 
 "No, sir," said the farmer, "if the truth I 
 
 may tell, 
 I'll not give her away, for I love her too well." 
 
 " Suppose that the lady should grant you her 
 
 love. 
 You know that the squire your rival will 
 
 prove." 
 " Why, then," says the farmer, " I'll take 
 
 sword in hand, 
 By honour I'll gain her when she shall 
 
 command." 
 
 It pleased the lady to find him so bold ; 
 
 She gave him a glove that was flowered with 
 
 gold, 
 And told him she found it v/hen coming along. 
 As she was a hunting with her dog and gun. 
 
 The lady went home with a heart full of love, 
 And gave oiat a notice that she'd lost a glove ; 
 And said, " Who has found it, and brings it 
 
 to me. 
 Whoever he is, he my husband shall be." 
 
 The farmer was pleased when he heard of the 
 
 news, 
 With heart full of joy to the lady he goes : 
 " Dear honoured ladj^, I've picked up your 
 
 glove. 
 And hope you'U bo pleased to grant mo your 
 
 love." 
 
 "It's already gi-anted, I will be your bride ; 
 I love the sweet breath of a farmer," she 
 
 cried. 
 " I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my 
 
 cow. 
 While my jolly brisk farmer is whiatliag at 
 
 plough." 
 
 And when she was married she told of her fun. 
 How she went a hunting with her dog and 
 
 gun: 
 " And now I've got him so fast in my snare, 
 I'll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare ! " 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1G89.. 
 
 717.— KING JAMES L AND THE 
 TINKLEE. 
 
 And now, to be brief, let's pass over the rest. 
 Who seldom or never were given to jest. 
 And come to King Jamie, the first of our 
 
 throne, 
 A pleasanter monarch sure never was known. 
 
 As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer, 
 He dropped all his nobles ; and when he got 
 
 clear, 
 In hope of some pastime awaj he did ride, 
 Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood- 
 side. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE KEACH I' THE CEEEL. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 And there with a tinkler he happened to meet, 
 And him in kind sort he so freely did greet : 
 " Pray thee, good fello-sv, what hast in thy jug, 
 Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly 
 hug?" 
 
 " By the mass ! " quoth the tinkler, "it's 
 
 nappy brown ale, 
 And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not 
 
 fail ; 
 For although thy jacket looks gaUant and fine, 
 I think that my twopence as good is as thine." 
 
 " By my soul ! honest fellow, the truth thou 
 
 hast spoke," 
 And straight he sat down with the tinkler to 
 
 joke; 
 They drank to the King, and they pledged to . 
 
 each other ; 
 Who'd seen 'em had thought they were brother 
 
 and brother. 
 
 As they were a-drinking the King pleased to 
 
 say, 
 " What news, honest fellow ? come tell me, I 
 
 pray." 
 " There's nothing of news, beyond that I hear 
 The King's on the border a-chasing the deer. 
 
 And tnaly I wish I so happy may be. 
 Whilst he is a-hunting, the King I might see ; 
 For although I've travelled the land many 
 
 ways, 
 I never have yet seen a King in my days." 
 
 The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, 
 
 replied, 
 " I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but 
 
 ride, 
 Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee 
 
 bring 
 To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign 
 
 King." 
 
 " But he'U be surrounded with nobles so gay, 
 And how shall we teU him from them, sir, I 
 
 pray ? " 
 " Thou'lt easily ken him when once thou art 
 
 there ; 
 The King will be covered, his nobles all bare." 
 
 He got up behind him, and likewise his sack, 
 
 His budget of leather, and tools at his back ; 
 
 They rode tiU they camo to the merry green- 
 wood, 
 
 His nobles came round him, bareheaded they 
 stood. 
 
 The tinkler then seeing so many appear, 
 He slily did whisi^er the King in his ear : 
 Saying, " They're all clothed so gloriously gay. 
 But which amongst them is the King, sir, I 
 pray.?" 
 
 The King did with hearty good laughter, reply, 
 " By my soul ! my good fellow, it's thou or 
 it's I ! 
 
 The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all 
 
 round." — 
 With his bag and his budget he feU to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Like one that was frightened quite out of liis 
 
 wits, - 
 
 Then on his knees he instantly gets. 
 Beseeching for mercy ; the King to him said, 
 " Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid. 
 
 Come tell thy name ? " "I am John of the 
 
 Dale, 
 A mender of kettles, a lover of ale." 
 " Else up, Sir John, I will honour thee here, — 
 I make thee a knight of three thousand a 
 
 year ! " 
 
 This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed ; 
 Then unto the court he was sent for with 
 
 Where great store of pleasure and pastime 
 
 was seen. 
 In the royal presence of King and of Queen. 
 
 Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee. 
 At the court of the king who so happy as he ? 
 Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler's old 
 
 sack. 
 And the budget of tools which he bore at his 
 
 back. 
 
 Anonyuions. — Before 1689. 
 
 718.— THE KEACH F THE CEEEL. 
 
 A fair young May went up the street. 
 
 Some white fish for to buy ; 
 And a bonny clerk's fa'n i' luve wi' her, 
 
 And he's followed her by and by, by, 
 And he's followed her by and by. 
 
 " O ! where live ye my bonny lass, 
 
 I pray thee tell to me ; 
 For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk, 
 
 I wad come and visit thee, thee ; 
 
 I wad come and visit thee." 
 
 " ! my father he aye locks the door, 
 
 My mither keeps the key ; 
 And gin ye were ever sic a Avily wicht. 
 
 Ye canna win in to me, me ; 
 
 Ye canna win in to me." 
 
 But the clerk he had ae true brother, 
 
 And a wily wicht was he ; 
 And he has made a lang ladder. 
 
 Was thirty steps and three, three ; 
 
 Was thirty steps and three. 
 
 He has made a cleek but and a creel — 
 
 A creel but and a pin ; 
 And he's away to the chimley-top, 
 
 And he's letten the bonny clerk in, in ; 
 
 And he's letten the bonny clerk in 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 SIR JOHN" BARLEYCOEN. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 The auld wife, being not asleep, 
 
 Tho' late, late was the hour ; 
 "I'll lay my life," quo' the silly auld wife, 
 
 "There's a man i' our dochter's bower, 
 bower ; 
 
 There's a man i' our dochter's bower." 
 
 The auld man he gat owre the bed. 
 
 To see if the thing was true ; 
 But she's ta'en the bonny clerk in her arms, 
 
 And covered him owre wi' blue, blue ; 
 
 And covered him owre m' blue. 
 
 "O! where are ye gaun now, father?" 
 she says, 
 
 " And where are ye gaun sae late ? 
 Ye've disturbed me in my evening prayers, 
 
 And O ! but they were sweit, sweit ; 
 
 And O ! but they were sweit." 
 
 " O ! ill betide ye, silly auld wife. 
 
 And an ill death may ye dee ; 
 She has the muckle bulk in her arms. 
 
 And she's prayin' for you and me, me ; 
 
 And she's prayin' for you and me." 
 
 The auld wife being not asleep, 
 Then something mair was said ; 
 
 " I'll lay my life," quo' the silly auld wife, 
 " There's a man by our dochter's bed, 
 
 bed; 
 There's a man by our dochter's bed." 
 
 The auld wife she gat owre the bed, 
 
 To see if the thing was true ; 
 But what the Avrack took the auld wife's fit ? 
 
 For into the creel she flew, flew ; 
 
 For into the creel she flew. 
 
 The man that was at the chimley-top, 
 
 Finding the creel was fu', 
 He wrappit the rape round his left shouther, 
 
 And fast to him he drew, drew ; 
 
 And fast to him he drew. 
 
 " 0, help ! 0, help ! O, hinny, noo, help 1 
 
 O, help I O, hinny, do ! 
 For him that ye aye wished me at. 
 
 He's carryin' me off just noo, noo ; 
 
 He's carryin' me off just noo." 
 
 " O ! if the ioT\l thief's gotten ye, 
 
 I wish he may keep his hand ; 
 For a' the lee lang winter nicht, 
 
 Ye'U never lie in your bed, bed ; 
 
 Ye' 11 never lie in j-^our bed." 
 
 He's towed her up, he's towed her down, 
 He's towed her through an' through; 
 
 " O, Gude ! assist," quo' the silly auld wife, 
 " For I'm just departin' noo, noo ; 
 For I'm just departin' noo." 
 
 He's towed her up, he's towed her down, 
 He's gien her a richt down fa'. 
 
 Till every rib i' the auld. wife's side, 
 Played nick nack on the wa', wa' ; 
 Played nick nack on the wa'. 
 
 O ! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue, 
 And I wish the blue may do weel ; 
 And every auld wife that's sae jealous o' 
 her dochter, 
 May she get a good keach i' the creel, 
 
 creel ; 
 May she get a good keach i' the creel ! 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 719.— SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. 
 
 There came three men out of the West, 
 
 Their victory to try ; 
 And they have taken a solemn oath, 
 
 Poor Barleycorn should die. 
 
 They took a plough and ploughed him in, 
 And harrowed clods on his head ; 
 
 And then they took a solemn oath, 
 Poor Barleycorn was dead. 
 
 There he lay sleeping in the ground, 
 Till rain from the sky did fall : 
 
 Then Barleycorn sj)rung up his head. 
 And so amazed them all. 
 
 There he remained till Midsummer, 
 And looked both pale and wan ; 
 
 Then Barleycorn he got a beard. 
 And so became a man. 
 
 Then they sent men with scythes so sharp, 
 
 To cut him off at knee ; 
 And then poor little Barleycorn, 
 
 They served him barbarously. 
 
 Then they sent men with pitchforks strong 
 To pierce him through the heart ; 
 
 And like a dreadful tragedy, 
 They bound him to a cart. 
 
 And then they brought him to a barn, 
 
 A prisoner to endure ; 
 And so they fetched him out again, 
 
 And laid him on the floor. 
 
 Then the.y set men with holly clubs. 
 To beat the flesh from his bones ; 
 
 But the miller he served him worse than 
 that, 
 For he ground him betwixt two stones. 
 
 O ! Barleycorn is the choicest grain 
 
 That ever was sown on land ; 
 It will do more than any grain, 
 
 By the turning of your hand. 
 
 It will make a boy into a man, 
 
 And a man into an ass ; 
 It will change your gold into silver. 
 
 And your silver into brass. 
 
 It will make the huntsman hunt the fox, 
 
 That never wovmd his horn ; 
 It will bring the tinker to the stocks, 
 
 That people may him scorn. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE BEAVE EAEL BRAND, &c. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 It will put sack into a glass, 
 
 And claret in the can ; 
 And it will cause a man to drink 
 
 TiU he neither can go nor stand. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 720. 
 
 -THE NOBLEMAN'S GENEROUS 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 A nobleman lived in a village of late, 
 
 Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was 
 
 great; 
 Eor he had seven children, and most of them 
 
 small, 
 And nought but his labour to support them 
 
 withal. 
 
 He never was given to idle and lurk, 
 
 For this nobleman saw him go daily to work. 
 
 With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of 
 
 beer, i 
 
 As cheerful as those that have hundreds a ! 
 
 year. j 
 
 Thus careful, and constant, each morning he j 
 
 went, j 
 
 Unto his daily labour with joy and content ; I 
 So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing, 
 
 As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the | 
 
 spring. i 
 
 One morning, this nobleman talcing a walk, | 
 
 He met this poor man, and he freely did talk ; 1 
 
 He asked him [at first] many questions at I 
 
 large, 
 
 And then began talking concerning his charge. , 
 
 " Thou hast many children, I very well know, | 
 Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low, j 
 And yet thou art cheerful ; I pray tell me j 
 
 true, I 
 
 How can you maintain them as well as you 
 
 do ? " 
 
 " I carefully carry home what I do earn, 
 My daily expenses by this I do learn ; 
 And find it is possible, though we be poor. 
 To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door. 
 
 " I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow, 
 
 Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go ; 
 
 No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I 
 
 plough, 
 Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my 
 
 brow. 
 
 " My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke, 
 We live hke two lambs, nor each other 
 
 provoke ; 
 We both of us strive, like the labouring ant, 
 And do our endeavours to keep us from want. 
 
 " And when I come home from my labour at 
 
 night, 
 To my wife and my children, in whom I 
 
 delight ; 
 
 To see them come round me with prattling 
 
 noise, — 
 Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys. 
 
 " Though I am as weary as weary may be, 
 The youngest I commonly dance onjnyjinee ; 
 I find that content is a moderate feast, 
 I never repine at my lot in the least." 
 
 Now the nobleman hearing what he did say, 
 Was pleased, and invited him home the next 
 
 day; 
 His wife and his children he charged him to 
 
 bring ; 
 In token of favour he gave him a ring. 
 
 He thanked his honour, and taking his leave, 
 He went to his wife, who would hardly 
 
 believe 
 But this same story himself he might raise ; 
 Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze. 
 
 Betimes in the morning the good wife she 
 
 arose. 
 And made them all fine, in the best of their 
 
 clothes ; 
 The good man with his good ■svife, and children 
 
 small. 
 They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall. 
 
 But when they came there, as truth does 
 
 report, 
 All things were prepared in a plentiful sort ; 
 And they at the nobleman's table did dine. 
 With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine. 
 
 The feast being over, he soon let them know. 
 That he then intended on them to bestow 
 A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land ; 
 And gave them the writings then^ with his 
 own hand. 
 
 " Because thou art careful, and good to thy 
 
 wife, 
 I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life ; 
 It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs, 
 Because I beheld thy industrious cares." 
 
 No tongue then is able in full to express 
 
 The depth of their joy, and true thankful- 
 ness; 
 
 With many a curtsey, and bow to the 
 ground, — 
 
 Such noblemen there are but few to be found. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1 649. 
 
 721.— THE BEAVE EARL BRAND AND 
 THE KING OF ENGLAND'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 O did you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand, 
 
 Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie ; 
 He 's courted the king's daughter o' fair 
 England, 
 
 I' the brave nights so early ! 
 
ANONYMOUS.] 
 
 THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGEOVE. [Fourth Peeiod.— 
 
 She was scarcely fifteen years that tide, 
 When sae boldly she came to liis bed-side. 
 
 " O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see 
 A pack of hounds let loose on the lea." 
 
 " O, lady fair, I have no steed but one, 
 But thou shalt ride and I ynM run." 
 
 " O, Earl Brand, bxit my father has two, 
 And thou shalt have the best of tho'." 
 
 Now they have ridden o'er moss and moor, 
 And they have met neither rich nor poor ; 
 
 Till at last they met with old Carl Hood, 
 He's aye for ill, and never for good. 
 
 " Now Earl Brand, an ye love me, 
 Slay this old Carl and gar him dee." 
 
 " O, lady fair, but that would be sair, 
 To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair. 
 
 My own lady fair, I'll not do that, 
 I'll pay him his fee " 
 
 •' O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day. 
 And where have ye stown this fair lady 
 away? " 
 
 " I have not ridden this lee lang day, 
 Nor yet have I stown this lady away ; 
 
 For she is, I trow, my sick sister, 
 
 Whom I have been bringing fra' Winchester." 
 
 " If she's been sick, and nigh to dead, 
 "What makes her wear the ribbon so red ? 
 
 If she's been sick, and like to die. 
 
 What makes her wear the gold sae high ? " 
 
 "VAIien came the Carl to the lady's yett, 
 He rudely, rudely rapped thereat. 
 
 " Now where is the lady of this hall ? " 
 " She's out with her maids a playing at the 
 ball" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! ye are all mista'en. 
 
 Ye may count your maidens owre again. 
 
 I met her far beyond the lea 
 
 "W^ith the young Earl Brand his leman to be." 
 
 Her father of his best men armed fifteen, 
 And they're ridden after them bidene. 
 
 The lady looked owre her left shoulder then. 
 Says " O Earl Brand we are both of us ta'en." 
 
 " If they come on me one by one. 
 
 You may stand by till the fights be done ; 
 
 But if they come on me one and all. 
 You may stand by and see me faU." 
 
 They came upon him one by one, 
 Till fourteen battles he has won ; 
 
 And fourteen men he has them slain, 
 Each after each upon the plain. 
 
 But the fifteenth man behind stole round, 
 And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound. 
 
 Though he was wounded to the deid, 
 He set his lady on her steed. 
 
 They rode till they came to the river Doune, 
 And there they lighted to wash his wound. 
 
 " O, Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood ! " 
 "It's nothing but the glent and my scarlet 
 hood." 
 
 They rode till they came to his mother's yett. 
 So faint and feebly he rapped thereat. 
 
 '• 0, my son 's slain, he is falling to swoon, 
 And it's all for the sake of an English loon." 
 
 " O, say not so, my dearest mother, 
 But marry her to my youngest brother — 
 
 " To a maiden true he'll give his hand, 
 
 Hej lillie, ho lillie lallie ; 
 To the king's daughter o' fair England, 
 To a prize that was won by a slain brother's 
 brand, 
 
 I' the brave nights so early ! " 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 722. 
 
 -THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF 
 BEOMSGROVE. 
 
 Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 And one of them was Sir Ryalas, 
 For he was a jovial hunter. 
 
 He ranged all round down by the wood side, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter, 
 
 Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied. 
 For he v/as a jovial hunter. 
 
 " Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady," said he, 
 Wind well tiiy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 "The Avild boar's killed my lord, and has 
 thirty men gored. 
 And thou beest a jovial hunter." 
 
 " Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to 
 see ? " 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 " Oh, thee blow a blast and he'll come unto 
 thee, 
 As thou beest a jovial hunter." 
 
 Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, 
 and south, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 And the wild boar then heard him full in his 
 den. 
 As he ^vas a jovial hunter. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE USEFUL PLOW. 
 
 [Anoxymous. 
 
 Then he made the best of his speed unto him, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 [Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared 
 with gore], 
 To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter. 
 
 Then the wild boar, being so stout and so 
 strong, 
 Wind well thy horn, good Inmter ; 
 Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him 
 along, 
 To Sir Eyalas, the jovial hunter. 
 
 " Oh, what dost thee want of me ? " wild 
 boar, said he, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 " Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for 
 thee. 
 For I am the jovial hunter." 
 
 Then they fought four hovirs in a long summer 
 day. 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 Till the wild boar fain would have -got him 
 aAvay 
 From Sir Eyalas, the jovial hunter. 
 
 Then Sir Eyalas drawed his broadsword with 
 might, 
 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite, 
 
 For he was a jovial hunter. 
 
 Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 " Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, 
 For thou beest a jovial hunter. 
 
 " There are three things, I demand them of 
 thee," 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 " It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay 
 lady, 
 As thou beest a jovial hunter." 
 
 " If these three things thou dost ask of me," 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 "It's just as my sword and thy neck can 
 agTce, 
 For I am a jovial hunter." 
 
 Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 Till she thought in her heart to tear him 
 through. 
 Though he was a jovial hunter. 
 
 Then Sir Eyalas drawed his broadsword again, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 And he fairly split her head into twain, 
 For he was a jovial hunter. 
 
 In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, 
 Wind well thy horn, good hunter ; 
 
 And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby, 
 Sir Eyalas, the jovial hunter. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1649. 
 
 723.— LADY ALICE. 
 
 Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window, 
 
 At midnight mending her quoif ; 
 And there she saw as fine a corpse 
 
 As ever she saw in her life. 
 
 " What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men 
 tall.P 
 
 What bear j^e on your shoulders ? " 
 " We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, 
 
 An old and true lover of yours." 
 
 " O lay him down gently, ye six men tall, 
 
 All on the grass so green. 
 And to-morrow when the sun goes down, 
 
 Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen. 
 
 "And bury me in Saint Mary's Church, 
 
 All for my love so true ; 
 And make me a garland of marjoram. 
 
 And of lemon thyme, and rue." 
 
 Giles Collins was buried all in the east. 
 
 Lady Alice all in the west ; 
 And the roses that grow on Giles Collins' 3 
 grave, 
 
 They reached Lady Alice's breast. 
 
 The priest of the parish he chanced to pass. 
 And he severed those roses in twain. 
 
 Sure never were seen such true lovers before, 
 Nor e'er will there be again. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689. 
 
 724.— THE USEFUL PLOW. 
 
 A country life is sweet ! 
 In moderate cold and heat, 
 
 To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair ! 
 In every field of wheat. 
 
 The fairest of flowers adorning the bov.'ers, 
 And every meadow's brow ; 
 
 To that I say, no courtier may 
 
 Compare with they who clothe in grey, 
 And follow the useful plow. 
 
 They rise with the morning lark. 
 And labour till almost dark ; 
 
 Then folding their sheep, they hasten to 
 sleep ; 
 Wliile every iDleasant park 
 
 Next morning is ringing with birds that are 
 singing. 
 On each green, tender bough. 
 
 With v/hat content, and merriment, 
 
 Their days are spent, whoso minds are bent 
 To follow the useful plow. 
 
 The gallant that dresses fine, 
 And drinks his bottles of wine, 
 
 Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride, 
 Which deck and adorn his back, 
 
 Are tailors' and mercers', and other men 
 dressers, 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE FAEMEB'S BOY. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 For which they do dun them now. 
 But Ralph and Will no compters fill 
 For tailor's bill, or garments still, 
 
 But follow the useful plow. 
 
 Their hundreds, without remorse. 
 Some spend to keep dogs and horse, 
 
 Who never would give, as long as they live, 
 Not two-pence to help the poor ; 
 
 Their wives are neglected, and harlots 
 respected ; 
 This grieves the nation now ; 
 
 But 'tis not so with us that go 
 
 Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow, 
 And follow the iiseful plow. 
 
 Ano7iyiiious. — Before 1689. 
 
 725.— THE FARMEE'S BOY. 
 
 The sun had set behind yon hills, 
 
 Across yon dreary moor, 
 Weary and lame, a boy there came 
 
 Up to a farmer's door : 
 " Can you tell me if any there be 
 
 That will give me employ, 
 To plow and sow, and reap and mow, 
 
 And be a farmer's boy ? 
 
 " My father is dead, and mother is left 
 
 With five children, great and small ; 
 And what is worse for mother still, 
 
 I'm the oldest of them all. 
 Though little, I'll work as hard as a Turk, 
 
 If you'll give me employ. 
 To plow and sow, and reap and mow, 
 
 Ajid be a farmer's boy. 
 
 " And if that you won't me employ. 
 
 One favour I've to ask, — 
 Will you shelter me till break of day, 
 
 From this cold winter's blast ? 
 At break of day, I'U trudge away 
 
 Elsewhere to seek employ, 
 To plow and sow, and reap and mow, 
 
 And be a farmer's boy." 
 
 " Come, try the lad," the mistress said, 
 
 " Let him no further seek." 
 " O, do, dear father I " the daughter cried, 
 
 While tears ran down her cheek : 
 "He'd work if ho could, so 'tis hard to want 
 food. 
 
 And wander for employ ; 
 Don't turn him away, but let him stay. 
 
 And be a farmer's boy." 
 
 And when the lad became a man, 
 
 The good old farmer died, 
 And left the lad the farm he had. 
 
 And liis daughter for his bride. 
 The lad that was, the farm now has. 
 
 Oft smiles and thinks with joy 
 Of the lucky day he came that way. 
 
 To be a farmer's boy. 
 
 Anonymmis. — Before 1680. 
 
 726.— THE MOW. 
 
 Now our woi:k 's done, thus we feast, 
 After labour comes our rest ; 
 Joy shall reign in every breast. 
 And right welcome is each guest : 
 
 After harvest merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily, wiU we sing now. 
 After the harvest that heaps up the mow. 
 
 Now the plowman he shall plow, 
 And shall whistle as he go. 
 Whether it be fair or blow, 
 For another barley mow, 
 
 O'er the furrow merrily : 
 Merrily, merrily, will we sing now. 
 After the harvest, the fruit of the plow- 
 Toil and plenty, toil and ease, 
 Still the hvisbandman he sees ; 
 Whether when the winter freeze. 
 Or in summer's gentle breeze ; 
 
 Still he labours merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily, after the plow, 
 He looks to the harvest, that gives us the 
 
 mow. 
 
 Anonymous. — Bcfo re 
 
 727.— THE HITCHIN MAY-DAY SONG. 
 
 Remember us poor Mayers all ! 
 
 And thus do we begin 
 To lead our lives in righteousness, 
 
 Or else we die in sin. 
 
 We have been rambling all the night. 
 
 And almost all the day ; 
 And now returned back again, 
 
 We have brought you a branch of May. 
 
 A branch of May we have brought you. 
 And at your door it stands : 
 
 It is but a sprout, 
 
 But it's well budded out 
 By 'the v/ork of our Lord's hands. 
 
 The hedges and trees they are so green, 
 
 As green as any leek ; 
 Our heavenly Father he watered them 
 
 With his heavenly dew so sweet. 
 
 The heavenly gates are open wide. 
 
 Our paths are beaten plain ; 
 And if a man be not too far gone, 
 
 He may return again. 
 
 The life of man is but a span, 
 
 It flourishes like a flower ; 
 We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow. 
 
 And we are dead in an hour. 
 
 The moon shines bright, and the stars give a 
 light, 
 A little before it is day ; 
 So God bless you all, both great and small. 
 And send you a joyful May ! 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689, 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE NEW-MOWN HAY. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 728.— THE HAYMAKEE'S SONG, 
 
 In the merry month of June, 
 
 In the prime time of the year ; 
 Down in yonder meadows 
 
 There runs a river clear : 
 And many a httle fish 
 
 Doth in that river play ; 
 And many a lad, and many a lass, 
 
 Go abroad a-making hay. 
 
 In come the jolly mowers. 
 
 To mow the meadows down ; 
 With budget and with bottle 
 
 Of ale, both stout and bro^vn. 
 All labouring men of courage bold 
 
 Come here their strength to try ; 
 They sweat and blow, and cut and mow, 
 
 For the grass cuts very dry. 
 
 Here's nimble Ben and Tom, 
 
 With pitchfork, and with rake ; 
 Here's MoUj^ Liz, and Susan, 
 
 Come here their hay to make. 
 While sweet, jug, jug, jug ! 
 
 The nightingale doth sing. 
 From morning unto even-song, 
 
 As they are haj'^-making. 
 
 And when that bright day faded, 
 
 And the sun was going down, 
 There was a merry piper 
 
 Approached from the town : 
 He pulled out his pipe and tabor, 
 
 So sweetly he did play, 
 Which made all lay down their rakes, 
 
 And leave off making hay. 
 
 Then joining in a dance. 
 
 They jig it o'er the green ; 
 Though tired with their labour, 
 
 No one less was seen. 
 But sporting like some fairies. 
 
 Their dance they did pursue. 
 In leading up, and casting off. 
 
 Till morning was in view. 
 
 And when that bright dayhght. 
 
 The morning it was come. 
 They lay down and rested 
 
 Till the rising of the sun : 
 Till the rising of the sun. 
 
 When the merry larks do sing, 
 And each lad did rise and take his lass. 
 
 And away to hay-making. 
 
 Anonymous. — Biff ore 1689. 
 
 729.— THE GARDEN-GATE. 
 
 Tlie day was spent, the moon shone bright. 
 
 The village clock struck eight ; 
 Young Mary hastened with delight, 
 
 Unto the garden-gate : 
 But what was there that made her sad ? — 
 The gate was there, but not the lad. 
 Which made poor Mary say and sigh, 
 " Was ever poor girl so sad as I ? " 
 
 She traced the garden here and there, 
 
 The village clock struck nine ; 
 Which made poor Mary sigh, and say, 
 
 " You shan't, you shan't be mine ! 
 You promised to meet at the gate at eight. 
 You ne'er shaU keep me, nor make mewait, 
 For I'll let all such creatures see 
 They ne'er shall make a fool of me ! " 
 
 She traced the garden here and there. 
 
 The village clock struck ten ; 
 Young William caught her in his arms, 
 
 No more to part again : 
 For he'd been to buy the ring that day, 
 And O ! he had been a long, long way ; — 
 Then, how could Mary cruel prove, • 
 To banish the lad she so dearly did love ? 
 
 Up with the morning sun they rose. 
 
 To church they went away. 
 And all the village joyful were. 
 
 Upon their wedding-day : 
 Now in a cot, by a river side, 
 William and Mary both reside ; 
 And she blesses the night that she did wait 
 For her absent swain, at the garden-gate. 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689. 
 
 730.— THE NEW-MOWN HAY. 
 
 As I walked forth one summer's morn. 
 
 Hard by a river's side. 
 Where yellow cowslips did adorn 
 
 The blushing field with pride, 
 I spied a damsel on the grass. 
 
 More blooming than the may ; 
 Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed. 
 
 Among the new-mown hay. 
 
 I said, " Good morning, pretty maid. 
 
 How came you here so soon ? " 
 " To keep my father's sheep," she said, 
 
 " The thing that must be done : 
 While they are feeding 'mong the dew, 
 
 To pass the time away, 
 I sit me down to knit or sew. 
 
 Among the new-mown hay." 
 
 Delighted with her simple tale, 
 
 I sat down by her side ; 
 With vows of love I did prevail 
 
 On her to be my bride : 
 In strains of simple melody, 
 
 She sung a rural lay ; 
 The little lambs stood Hstening by, 
 
 Among the new-mo^vn hay. 
 
 Then to the church they went with speed, 
 
 And Hymen joined them there ; 
 No more her ewes and lambs to feed, 
 
 For she's a lady fair : 
 A lord he was that married her, 
 
 To to^vn they came straightway : 
 She may bless the day he spied her there. 
 
 Among the new-mown hay. 
 
 Anonyiuous. — Before 1689 
 
 31 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 BEGONE DULL CAEE. 
 
 [Fourth Period. — 
 
 731.— BEGONE DULL CARE. 
 
 Begone dull care ! 
 
 I prithee begone from me : 
 Begone duU care ! 
 
 Thou and I can never agree. 
 Long while thou hast been tarrying here, 
 
 And fain thou wouldst me kill ; 
 But i' faith, dull care, 
 
 Thou never shalt have thy will. 
 
 Too much care 
 
 Will make a young man grey ; 
 Too much care 
 
 Will turn an old man to clay. 
 My wife shall dance, and I will sing, 
 
 3o merrily pass the day ; 
 For I hold it is the wisest thing, 
 
 To drive dull care away. 
 
 Hence, dull care, 
 
 I'll none of thy company ; 
 Hence, dull care, 
 
 Thou art no pair for me. 
 W^e'U hunt the wild boar through the wold, 
 
 So merrily pass the day ; 
 And then at night, o'er a cheerful bow 
 
 We'll drive dull care away. 
 
 Anonymous. — Before 1689. 
 
 732.— WHEN THE KING COMES HOME 
 IN PEACE AGAIN. 
 
 Oxford and Cambridge shall agree, 
 With honour crown' d, and dignity ; 
 For learned men shall then take place, 
 And bad be silenced with disgrace : 
 
 They'll know it to be but a casualty 
 
 That hath so long disturb'd their brain ; 
 
 For I can surely tell that all things will go 
 weU 
 WTien the King comes home m peace again. 
 
 Church government shall settled be, 
 
 And then I hope we shall agree 
 
 Without their help, whose high-brain'd zeal 
 
 Hath long disturb'd the common weal ; 
 Greed out of date, and cobblers that do prate 
 
 Of wars that still disturb their brain ; 
 The which you ^vill see, when the time it shall 
 be 
 
 That the King comes home in peace again. 
 
 Though many now are much in debt. 
 
 And many shops are to be let, 
 
 A golden time is draAving near, 
 
 Men shops shall take to hold their ware ; 
 And then all our trade shall flourishing be 
 made, 
 
 To which ere long we shall attain ; 
 For still I can tell all things will be well 
 
 AVhen the King comes home in peace again. 
 
 Maidens shall enjoy their mates. 
 And honest men their lost estates ; 
 Women shall have what they do lack, 
 Their husbands, who are coming back. 
 
 When the wars have an end, then I and my 
 friend 
 All subjects' freedom shall obtain ; 
 
 By which I can tell all things will be well 
 When we enjoy sweet peace again. 
 
 Though people noAv walk in great fear 
 Along the country everywhere, 
 Thieves shall then tremble at the law. 
 And justice shall keep them in awe : 
 
 The Frenchies shall flee with their treacherio, 
 And the foes of the King ashamcid remain : 
 
 The which you shall see, when the time it 
 shall bo 
 That the King comes home in peace again. 
 
 The Parliament must willing be, 
 That aU the world may plainly see 
 How they do labour still for peace. 
 That now these bloody wars may cease ; 
 
 For they will gladly spend their lives to 
 defend 
 The King in all his right to reign : 
 
 So then I can tell all things will be well 
 When we enjoy sweet peace again. 
 
 When all these things to pass shall come 
 Then farewell musket, pick, and drum ; 
 The lamb shall with the lion feed, 
 Which were a happy time indeed. 
 
 O let us pray we may all see the day 
 That peace may govern in his name, 
 
 For then I can tell all things will be well 
 When the King comes home in peace again. 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 733.— I LOVE MY KING AND COUNTEY 
 WELL. 
 
 I love my King and country well, 
 
 Eeligion and the laws : 
 Which I'm mad at the heart that e'er we did 
 sell 
 To buy the good old cause. 
 These unnatural wars 
 And brotherly jars 
 Are no delight or joy to me ; 
 But it is my desire 
 That the wars shoidd expire. 
 And the Bang and his realms agree. 
 
 I never yet did take up arms. 
 
 And yet I dare to dye ; 
 But I'll not bo seduced by jjlianatical charms 
 Till I know a reason why. 
 
 Why the King and the state 
 
 Should fall to debate 
 I ne'er could j'ct a reason see, 
 
 But I find many one 
 
 "VVhy the wars should be done, 
 And the King and his realms agree. 
 
Front 1G49 to 1689.] 
 
 THE NEW LITANY. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 I love the Xing' and the Parliament, 
 But I love them both together : 
 And when they by division asunder are rent, 
 I know 'tis good for neither. 
 Whichsoe'er of those 
 Be victorious, 
 I'm sure for us no good 'twill be. 
 For our plagues will increase 
 Unless we have peace, 
 And the King and his realms agree. 
 
 The King without them can't long stand, 
 
 Nor they without the King ; 
 'Tis they must advise, and 'tis he mnst 
 command, 
 For their power from his must spring. 
 'Tis a comfortless sway 
 "VVlien none will obey ; 
 If the King han't his right, which way 
 shall we? 
 They may vote and make laws, 
 But no good they will cause 
 Till the King and his realms agree. 
 
 A pure religion I would have, 
 
 Not mixt with human wit ; 
 And I cannot endure that each ignorant 
 knave 
 Should dare to meddle with it. 
 The tricks of the law 
 I would fain withdraw, 
 That it may be alike to each degree : 
 And I fain would have such 
 As do meddle so much. 
 When the King and the Church agree. 
 
 We have pray'd and pray'd that the wars 
 might cease, 
 And we be free men made ; 
 I would fight, if my fighting would bring any 
 peace, 
 But war is become a trade. 
 Out servants did ride 
 With swords by their side, 
 And made their masters footmen be ; 
 But we'll be no more slaves 
 To the beggars and knaves 
 Now the King and the realms do agree. 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 cwicZ 1684. 
 
 734.— THE TUB-PEEACHER. 
 
 With face and fashion to be known, 
 With eyes all white, and many a groan. 
 With neck awry and snivelling tone. 
 And handkerchief from nose new-blown, 
 And loving cant to sister Joan ; 
 'Tis a "new teacher about the town, 
 Oh ! the town's new teacher ! 
 
 With cozening laugh, and hollow cheek, 
 To get now gathering.s every week, 
 
 With paltry sense as man can speak. 
 With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, 
 With hums and haws when stuff 's to seek ; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With hair cut shorter than the brow. 
 With little band, as you know how, ~~ — 
 With cloak like Paul, no coat I trow. 
 With surplice none, nor girdle now, 
 With hands to thump, nor knees to bow ; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With shop-board breeding and intrusion, 
 By some outlandish institution. 
 With Calvin's method and conclusion. 
 To bring all things into confusion. 
 And far-stretched sighs for mere illusion'; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With threats of absolute damnation, 
 But certainty of some salvation 
 To his new sect, not every nation, 
 With election and reprobation. 
 And with some use of consolation ; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With troops expecting him at door 
 To hear a sermon and no more. 
 And women follow him good store. 
 And with great Bibles to turn o'er, 
 Whilst Tom writes notes, as bar-boys score, 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With double cap to put his head in. 
 
 That looks like a black pot tipp'd with tin ; 
 
 While with antic gestures he doth gape and 
 
 grin; 
 The sisters admire, and he wheedles them in, 
 Who to cheat their husbands think no sin ; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With great pretended spiritual motions. 
 And many fine whimsical notions, 
 With blind zeal and large devotions. 
 With broaching rebellion and raising com- 
 motions, 
 And poisoning the people with Geneva 
 potions ; 
 'Tis a new teacher, &c. 
 
 Samnel Butler.— Beiv:een 1642 and 1684. 
 
 735.— THE NEW LITANY. 
 
 From an extempore prayer and a godly ditty, 
 From the churlish government of a city. 
 From the power of a country committee, 
 Libera nos, Domine. 
 
 From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish 
 
 nation. 
 From being govern' d by proclamation, 
 And from an old Protestant, quite out of 
 
 fashion, 
 
 Libera, &c. ^^^ 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE OLD PROTESTANT'S LITANY. [Fourth Period.-? 
 
 From meddling with those that are out of our 
 
 reaches, 
 From a fighting priest, and a soldier that 
 
 preaches, 
 From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman 
 
 that teaches, 
 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From the doctrine of deposing of a king, 
 From the Directory, or any such thing, 
 From a fine new marriage without a ring, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From a city that yields at the first summons. 
 From plundering goods, either man or 
 
 woman's. 
 Or having to do with the House of Commons, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From a stumbling horse that tumbles o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 From ushering a lady, or walking before. 
 From an English-Irish rebel, newly come o'er, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From compounding, or hanging in a silken 
 
 altar, 
 From oaths and covenants, and being pounded 
 
 in a mortar, 
 From contributions, or free-quarter. 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From mouldy bread, and musty beer. 
 From a holiday's fast, and a Friday's cheer, 
 From a brother-hood, and a she-cavalier. 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From Nick Neuter, for yon, and for you. 
 From Thomas Turn-coat, that will never prove 
 
 true. 
 From a reverend Rabbi that's worse than a 
 
 Jew, 
 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From a country justice that still looks big, 
 From swallowing up the Italian fig, 
 Or learning of the Scottish jig. 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From being taken in a disguise, 
 From believing of the printed lies. 
 From the Devil and from the Excise, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From a broken pate with a pint pot, 
 From fighting for I know not what, 
 And from a friend as false as a Scot, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From one that speaks no sense, yet talks all 
 
 that he can, 
 From an old woman and a Parliament man. 
 From an Anabaptist and a Presbyter man. 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From Irish rebels and Welsh hubbub-men. 
 From Independents and their tub-men. 
 From sheriffs' bailiffs, and their club-men, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From one that cares not what he saith. 
 From trusting one that never payeth, 
 From a private preacher and a public faith, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From a vapouring horse and a Roundhead in 
 
 buff. 
 From roaring Jack Cavee, with money little 
 
 enough. 
 From beads and such idolatrous stuff, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 From holydays, and aU that's holy. 
 
 From May-poles and fiddlers, and all that's 
 
 JoUy, 
 From Latin or learning, since that is folly, 
 Libera, &c. 
 
 And now to make an end of all, 
 I wish the Roundheads had a fall, 
 Or else were hanged in Goldsmiths' Hall. 
 Amen. Benedicat Dominus. 
 
 Ationymov^. — Between 1642 and 1G84. 
 
 736.— THE OLD PROTESTANT'S LITANY. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased to grant our 
 
 requests, 
 And quite destroy all the vipers' nests. 
 That England and her true religion molests, 
 Te rogamus, audi nos. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased to censure with pity 
 The present estate of our once famous city ; 
 Let her still be govem'd by men just and 
 -vvitty, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased to consider the 
 
 Tower, 
 And all other prisons in the Parliament's 
 
 power, 
 Where King Charles his friends find their 
 
 welcome but sour, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased to look on the grief 
 Of the King's old servants, and send them 
 
 relief. 
 Restore to the yeomen o' th' Guard chines of 
 
 beef, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased very quickly to brin^. 
 Unto his just rights our so much-wrong'd 
 
 King, 
 That he may be happy in everything, 
 Te rogamiis, &c. 
 
 Tliat Wliitchall may shine in its pristine lustre, 
 That the Parliament may make a general 
 
 muster, 
 That knaves may be punish' d by men who are 
 
 juster, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. ^ 
 
From 1649 to 1689.1 
 
 HEY, THEN, UP GO WE. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 That now the dog-days are fully expired, 
 Tliat those cursed curs, which our patience 
 
 have tired, 
 May suffer what is by true justice required, 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased to incline conqu'ring 
 Thomas 
 
 (Who now hath both city and Tower gotten 
 from us), 
 
 That he may be just in performing his pro- 
 mise, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That our hopeful Prince and our gracious 
 
 Queen 
 (Whom we here in England long time have 
 
 not seen) 
 May soon be restored to what they have 
 
 been, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That the rest of the royal issue may be 
 From their Parhamentary guardians set free. 
 And be kept according to their high degree, 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That our ancient Liturgy may be restored, 
 That the organs (by sectaries so much ab- 
 
 horr'd) 
 May sound divine praises, according to the 
 
 word, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 Tliat the ring in marriage, the cross at the 
 
 font, 
 Which the Devil and the Roundheads so much 
 
 affront. 
 May be used again, as before they were wont, 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That Episcopacy, used in its right kind. 
 
 In England once more entertainment may 
 
 find. 
 That Scots and Iqwd factions may go down 
 
 the wind, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt be pleased again to restore 
 All things in due order, as they were before, 
 That the Church and the State may be vex'd 
 no more. 
 
 To rogamus, &c. 
 
 That all the King's friends may enjoy their 
 
 estates. 
 And not be kept, as they have been, at low 
 
 rates, 
 That the poor may find comfort again at their 
 
 gates, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou wilt all our oppressions remove, 
 And grant us firm faith and hope, join'd with 
 
 true love. 
 Convert or confound all which virtue reprove, 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That all peevish sects that would live tin- 
 
 controll'd. 
 And will not be govern'd, as all subjects 
 
 should, 
 To New England may pack, or live quiet i' th' 
 
 Old, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. — _ 
 
 That gracious King Charles, with his children 
 
 and wife, 
 Who long time have suffer' d through this civil 
 
 strife. 
 May end with high honour their natural life, 
 To rogamus, &c. 
 
 That they who have seized on honest men's 
 
 treasure. 
 Only for their loyalty to God and to Caesar, 
 May in time convenient find measure for 
 
 measure, 
 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 That thou all these blessings upon us wilt 
 
 send, 
 We are no Inde^jeyidents, on Thee we depend. 
 And as we believe, from all harm us defend ; 
 Te rogamus, &c. 
 
 Anoniimous. — Beticcen 1642 and 1684. 
 
 737.— HEY, THEN, UP GO WE. 
 
 Know this, my brethren, heaven is clear. 
 
 And all the clouds are gone ; 
 The righteous man shall flourish now, 
 
 Good days are coming on. 
 Then come, my brethren, and be glad, 
 
 And eke rejoice with me ; 
 Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down, 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 We'll break the windows which the whore 
 
 Of Babylon hath painted, 
 And when the Popish saints are down 
 
 Then Barrow shall be sainted ; 
 There's neither cross nor crucifix 
 
 Shall stand for men to see, 
 Eome's trash and trumpery shall go down. 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 Whate'er the Popish hands have built 
 
 Our hammers shall undo ; 
 We'll break their pipes and burn their copes. 
 
 And pull down churches too ; 
 We'll exercise within the groves, 
 
 And teach beneath a tree ; 
 We'll make a j)ulpit of a cask, 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 We'll put down universities. 
 
 Where learning is profest, 
 Because they practise and maintain 
 
 The language of the Beast ; 
 We'll drive the doctors out of doors, 
 
 And all that learned be ; 
 We'll cry all arts and learning down, 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
Anonymous.] THE CAMERONIAX CAT. [Fourth Period.^ 
 
 We'll down -vv-ith deans and prebends too, 
 
 Assure thyself that for the deed 
 
 And I rejoyce to tell ye 
 
 Thou blood for blood shalt pay, 
 
 We then shall get our fill of pig, 
 
 For killing of the Lord's own mouse 
 
 And capons for the belly. 
 
 Upon the Sabbath-day." 
 
 We'll burn the Fathers' weighty tomes. 
 
 
 And make the School-men flee ; 
 
 The presbyter laid by the book. 
 
 We'll down with all that smells of wit, 
 
 And earnestly he pray'd 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 That the great sin the cat had done 
 
 
 Might not on him be laid. 
 
 If once the Antichristian crew 
 Be crash' d and overthrown. 
 
 And straight to execution 
 
 We'll teach the nobles how to stoop, 
 
 Poor Pussy she was drawn, 
 
 And keep the gentry down : 
 Good manners have an ill report. 
 
 And high hang'd up upon a tree — 
 The preacher sung a psalm. 
 
 And turn to pride, we see. 
 
 And when the work was ended. 
 
 We'll therefore put good manners dovm, 
 
 They thought the cat near dead. 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 She gave a paw, and then a mew, 
 
 The name of lords shall be abhorr'd, 
 
 And stretched out her head. 
 
 For every man 's a brother ; 
 
 " Thy name," said he, " shall certainly 
 
 No reason why in Church and State 
 
 A beacon still remain, 
 
 One man should rule another ; 
 
 A terror unto evil ones 
 
 But when the change of government 
 
 For evermore, Amen." 
 
 Shall set our fingers free, 
 
 
 We'll make these wanton sisters stoop. 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 What though the King and Parliament 
 
 
 
 Do not accord together. 
 
 
 We have more cause to be content, 
 
 
 This is our sunshine weather : 
 
 739.— I THANK YOU TWICE. 
 
 For if that reason should take place, , 
 
 The hierarchy is out of date, 
 
 And they should once agree, 
 
 Our monarchy was sick of late, 
 
 "Who would be in a Roundhead's case, 
 
 But now 'tis grown an excellent state : 
 
 For hey, then, up go we. 
 
 Oh, God a-mercy. Parliament ! 
 
 What should we do, then, in this case . 
 
 The teachers knew not what to say, 
 
 Let's put it to a venture ; 
 
 The 'prentices have leave to play, 
 
 If that we hold out seven years' space 
 
 The people have all forgotten to pray ; 
 
 We'll sue out our indenture. 
 
 Still, God a-mercy, Parliament! 
 
 A time may come to make us rue, 
 
 
 And time may set us free, 
 
 The Roundhead and the Cavalier 
 
 Except the gaUows claim his due. 
 
 Have fought it out almost seven year, 
 
 And hey, then, up go we. 
 
 And yet, methinks, they are never the near : 
 
 Francis Quarles. — 1642. 
 
 Oh, God, &c. 
 
 
 The gentry are sequester'd all ; 
 
 
 Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall, 
 For there they meet with the devil and all ; 
 
 
 
 StiU, God, &c. 
 
 738.— THE CAMERONIAN CAT. 
 
 The Parliament are grown to that height 
 
 
 They care not a pin what his Majesty saith ; 
 
 There was a Cameronian cat 
 
 And they pay all their debts with the public 
 
 Was hunting for a prey, 
 
 faith. 
 
 And in the house she catch' d a monae 
 
 Oh, God, &c. 
 
 Upon the Sabbath-day. 
 
 
 
 Though all we have here is brought to 
 
 The Whig, being offended 
 
 nought. 
 
 At such an act profane, 
 
 In Ireland we have whole lordships bought, 
 
 Lay by his book, the cat he took, 
 
 There we shall one day be rich, 'tis thought : 
 
 And bound her in a chain. 
 
 Stm, God, &c. 
 
 " Thou damned, thou cursed creature, 
 
 We must forsake our father and mother, 
 
 This deed so dark with thee, 
 
 And for the State undo our own brother, 
 
 Think' st thou to bring to hell below 
 
 And never leave murthering one another : 
 
 My holy wife and me ? 
 
 Oh, God, &c. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] 
 
 THE ROUNDHEAD. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Now the King- is caught and the devil is dead, 
 Fairfax must be disbanded, 
 Or else he may chance be Hotham-ed. 
 StiU, God, &c. 
 
 They have made King Charles a glorious king. 
 He was told, long ago, of such a thing ; 
 Now he and his subjects have reason to sing, 
 Oh, God, &c. 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 740.— THE PURITAN. 
 
 With face and fashion to be known, 
 For one of sure election ; 
 With eyes all white, and many a groan, 
 With neck aside to draw in tone, 
 With harp in 's nose, or he is none : 
 See a new teacher of the town. 
 Oh the town, oh the town's new teacher 
 
 With pate cut shorter than the brow. 
 With little ruff starch' d, you know how, 
 With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow, 
 With surplice none ; but lately now 
 With hands to thump, no knees to bow : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With coz'ning cough, and hollow cheek. 
 To get new gatherings every week, 
 With i^altry change of and to ckc, 
 With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, 
 To find out words, when stuff 's to seek : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With shop-board breeding and intrusion, 
 With some outlandish institution. 
 With Ursine' s catechism to muse on. 
 With system's method for confusion, 
 With grounds strong laid of mere illusion : 
 See a new teacher, &g. 
 
 With rights indiflferent all damned, 
 And made unlawful, if commanded ; 
 Good works of POpery down banded. 
 And moral laws from him estranged. 
 Except the sabbath still unchanged : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With speech unthought, quick revelation, 
 With boldness in predestination, 
 With threats of absolute damnation, 
 Yet yea and nay hath some salvation 
 For his own tribe, not every nation : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With after license cast a crown, 
 "When bishop new had put him down ; 
 With tricks call'd repetition, 
 And doctrine newly brought to town 
 Of teaching men to hang and drown : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With flesh-provision to keep Lent, 
 With shelves of sweetmeats often spent, 
 
 Which new maid bought, old lady sent, 
 Though, to be saved, a poor present, 
 Yet legacies assure to event : 
 See a new teacher, &g. 
 
 With troops expecting laim at th' door. 
 That would hoar sermons, and no more ; 
 With noting tools, and sighs great itore, 
 Vv^'ith Bibles great to turn them o'er, 
 While he ^vrests places by the score : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With running text, the name forsaken. 
 With /or and hut, both by sense shaken. 
 Cheap doctrines forced, wild uses taken. 
 Both sometimes one by mark mistaken ; 
 With anything to any shapen : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 With new-wrought caps against the canon, 
 For taking cold, tho' sure he have none ; 
 A sermon's end, where he began one, 
 A new hour long, when 's glass had run one, 
 New use, new points, new notes to stand on : 
 See a new teacher, &c. 
 
 John Cleveland. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 741.— THE ROUNDHEAD. 
 
 AVhat creature 's that, with his short hairs. 
 His little band, and huge long ears, 
 
 That this new faith hath founded ? 
 The saints themselves were never such, 
 The prelates ne'er ruled half so much ; 
 
 Oh ! such a rogue 's a Roundhead. 
 
 "What's he that doth the bishops hate, 
 And counts their calling reprobate, 
 
 'Cause by the Pope propounded; 
 And thinks a zealous cobbler better 
 Than learned Usher in ev'ry letter ? 
 
 Oh ! such a rogue 's a Roundhead. 
 
 What's he that doth high treason say. 
 As often as his yea and nay, 
 
 And wish the King confounded ; 
 And dares maintain that Mr. Pirn 
 Is fitter for a crown than him ? 
 
 Oh ! such a rogue 's a Roundhead. 
 
 "SVhat's he that if he chance to hear 
 A little piece of Common Prayer, 
 
 Doth think his conscience wounded ; 
 Will go five miles to preach and pray, 
 And meet a sister by the way ? 
 
 Oh ! such a rogue 's a Roundhead. 
 
 What's he that met a holy sister. 
 And in a haycock gently kiss'd her ? 
 
 Oh ! then his zeal abounded : 
 'Twas underneath a shady willow. 
 Her Bible served her for a pillow. 
 
 And there he got a Roundhead. 
 
 Samuel Butler.— Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
Anonymous.] PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE UNDER THE ROSE. [Fourth Pekiod.— 
 
 742.— PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 
 
 There is an old proverb which all ^iie wor.a 
 
 knows, 
 Anything may be spoke, if 't be under the rose : 
 Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint, 
 Of the state of the land, and th' enormities 
 
 in't. 
 
 Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number 
 
 of knaves. 
 More than ever were known in a State before ; 
 But I hope that their mischiefs have digg'd 
 
 their own graves. 
 And we'll never trust knaves for their sakes 
 
 any more. 
 
 Under the rose be it spoken, the city 's an ass 
 So long to the public to let their gold run, 
 To keep the King out ; but 'tis now come to 
 
 pass, 
 I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won. 
 
 Under the rose be it spoken, there's a company 
 of men. 
 
 Trainbands they are called — a plague con- 
 found 'em : — 
 
 And when they are waiting at Westminster 
 Hall, 
 
 May their wives be beguiled and begat with 
 child aU ! 
 
 Under the rose be it spoken, there's a damn'd 
 
 committee 
 Sits in hell (Goldsmiths' Hall), in the midst of 
 
 the city, 
 Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers — 
 The devil take their souls, and the hangman 
 
 their ears. 
 
 Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not 
 
 repent 
 Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament, 
 Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the 
 
 King, 
 Then Derrick may chance have 'em all in a 
 
 string. 
 
 Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod 
 
 now leave 
 To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to 
 
 deceive ; 
 For all they have spoken or taught will ne'er 
 
 save 'em, 
 Unless they will leave that fault, hell 's sure 
 
 have 'em ! 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 743.— THE CAVALIER'S FAREWELL TO 
 HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Fair Fidelia, tempt no more, 
 I may no more thy deity adore 
 Nor offer to thy shrine, 
 I serve one more divine 
 . And farr more great than you : 
 
 I must go. 
 
 Lest the foe 
 Gaine the cause and win the day. 
 Let's march bravely on, 
 Charge ym in the van, 
 Our cause God's is, 
 Though their odds is 
 
 Ten to one. 
 
 Tempt no more, I may not yeeld 
 Altho' thine eyes 
 A kingdome may surprize : 
 Leave off thy wanton toiles. 
 The high-born Prince of Wales 
 Is mounted in the field. 
 
 Where the royall gentry flocke. 
 
 Though alone 
 
 Nobly borne 
 Of a ne'er decaying stocke. 
 
 Cavaliers, be bold, 
 
 Bravely keep your hold. 
 
 He that loyters 
 
 Is by traytors 
 
 Bought and sold. 
 
 One kisse more, and then farcAveU ; 
 
 Oh no, no more, 
 
 I prithee give me o'er, — 
 Why cloudest thou thy beames ? 
 I see by these extreames 
 A woman's heaven or hell. 
 
 Pray the King may have his owne, 
 
 And the Queen 
 
 May be seen 
 With her babes on England's throna, 
 Rally up your men. 
 One shall vanquish ten, 
 Victory, we 
 Come to try thee 
 
 Once agen. 
 
 John Adauison. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 744.— THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR 
 OF BRAY. 
 
 In Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight, 
 
 Sir Samuel by name, 
 Who by his feats in civil broils 
 
 Obtain' d a mighty fame. 
 
 Nor was he much less wise and stout, 
 
 But fit in both respects 
 To humble sturdy Cavaliers, 
 
 And to support the sects. 
 
 This worthy knight was one that swore 
 
 He would not cut his beard 
 Till this langodly nation was 
 
 From kings and bishops clear' d : 
 
 Which holy vow he firmly kept, 
 
 And most devoutly wore 
 A grizly meteor on his face 
 
 Till they were both no more. 
 
From 1649 io 1689.] THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 His worship was, in short, a man 
 
 Of such exceeding worth. 
 No pen or pencil can describe, 
 
 Or rhyming bard set forth. 
 
 Many and mighty things he did 
 Both sober and in liquor, — 
 
 Witness the mortal fray between 
 The Cobbler and the Vicar ; 
 
 Which by his wsdom and his power 
 
 He wisely did prevent, 
 And both the combatants at once 
 
 In wooden durance pent. 
 
 The manner how these two fell out 
 And quarrell'd in their ale, 
 
 I shall attempt at large to show 
 In the succeeding tale. 
 
 A strolling cobbler, who was wont 
 To trudge from town to town, 
 
 Happen'd upon his walk to meet 
 A vicar in his gown. 
 
 And as they forward jogg'd along, 
 
 The vicai, gi-owing hot, 
 First ilsk'd the cobbler if he knew 
 
 Where they might take a pot ? 
 
 '• Yes, mari-y that I do," quoth he ; 
 
 " Here is a house hard by. 
 That far exceeds all Bedfordshire 
 
 For ale and landlady." 
 
 " Thither let's go," the vicar said ; 
 
 And when they thither came, 
 He liked the liquor wondrous well, 
 
 But better far the dame. 
 
 And she, who, like a cunning jilt, 
 Knew how to please her guest, 
 
 Used all her little tricks and arts 
 To entertain the priest. 
 
 The cobbler, too, who quickly saw 
 
 The landlady's design. 
 Did all that in his power was 
 
 To manage the divine. 
 
 With smutty jests and merry songs 
 They charm'd the vicar so. 
 
 That ho determined for that night 
 No further he would go. 
 
 And being fixt, the cobbler thought 
 
 'Twas proper to go try 
 If he conl<l get a job or two 
 
 His charges to supjily. 
 
 So going out into the street, 
 He bawls with all his might — 
 
 " If any of you tread awry 
 I'm here to set you right. 
 
 I can repair youi* leaky boots, 
 And imderlay j^our soles ; 
 
 BacksUders, I can underprop 
 And patch up all your holes." 
 
 The vicar, who unluckily 
 
 The cobbler's outcry heard. 
 From off the bench on which he sat 
 
 With mighty fury rear'd. 
 
 Quoth he, " What priest, what holy priest 
 Can hear this bawling slave, _ _ 
 
 But must, in justice to his coat, 
 Chastise the saucy knave ? 
 
 What has this wretch to do with souls, 
 
 Or with backshders either, 
 Whose business only is his awls, 
 
 His lasts, his thread, and leather ? 
 
 I lose my patience to be made 
 
 This strolling varlet's sport ; 
 Nor could I think this saucy rogue 
 
 Could serve me in such sort." 
 
 The cobbler, who had no design 
 
 The vicar to displease, 
 Unluckily repeats again — 
 
 " I'm come j'our soals to ease : 
 
 The inward and the outward too 
 
 I can repair and mend ; 
 And all that my assistance want. 
 
 1 11 use them like a friend." 
 
 The country folk no sooner heard 
 
 The honest cobbler's tongue, 
 But from the village far and near 
 
 They round about him throng. 
 
 Some bring their boots, and some their shoes, 
 
 And some their buskins bring : 
 The cobbler sits him down to work, 
 
 And then begins to sing. 
 
 " Death often at the cobbler's stall 
 
 Was wont to make a stand, 
 But found the cobbler singing still, 
 
 And on the mending hand ; 
 
 Until at length he met old Time, 
 
 And then they both together 
 Quite tear the cobbler's aged sole 
 
 From off the upper leather. 
 
 Even so a while I may old shoes 
 
 By care and art maintain, 
 But when the leather 's rotten grown 
 
 All art and care is vain." 
 
 And thus the cobbler stitch' d and sung. 
 
 Not thinking any harm ; 
 Till out the vicar angry came 
 
 With ale and passion warm. 
 
 " Dost thou not know, vile slave ! " quoth he, 
 
 " How impious 'tis to jest 
 With sacred things, and to profane 
 
 The office of a priest ? 
 
 How dar'st thou, most audacious wretch! 
 
 Those vile expressions use, 
 Which make the souls of men as cheap 
 
 As soals of boots and shoes ? 
 
Anonymous.] THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY. [Fourth Period. — 
 
 Such reprobates as you betray 
 
 Our character and gown, 
 And would, if you had once the power, 
 
 The Church itself pull down." 
 
 Or else some spy to Cavaliers, 
 And art by them sent out 
 
 To carry false intelligence. 
 And scatter lies about." 
 
 The cobbler, not aware that he 
 Had done or said amiss, 
 
 Eeply'd, " I do not understand 
 What you can mean by this. 
 
 But whilst the vicar full of ire 
 Was raihng at this rate, 
 
 His worship, good Sir Samuel, 
 O'erlighted at the gate. 
 
 Tho' I but a poor cobbler be, 
 And stroll about for bread, 
 
 None better loves the Church than I 
 That ever wore a head. 
 
 And asking of the landlady 
 
 Th' occasion of the stir ; 
 Quoth she, " If you will give me leave, 
 
 I will inform you, sir. 
 
 But since you are so good at names. 
 And make so loud a pother, 
 
 I'll tell you plainly I'm afraid 
 
 You're but some cobbling brother. 
 
 This cobbler happening to o'ertake 
 
 The vicar in his walk, 
 In friendly sort they forward march. 
 
 And to each other talk. 
 
 Come, vicar, tho' you talk so big, 
 Our trades are near akin ; 
 
 I patch and cobble outAvard seals 
 As you do those within. 
 
 Until the parson first proposed 
 To stop and take a whet ; 
 
 So cheek by jole they hither came 
 Like travellers well met. 
 
 And I'll appeal to any man 
 That understands the nation, 
 
 If I han't done more good than you 
 In my respective station. 
 
 A world of healths and jests went rotmd, 
 
 Sometimes a merry tale ; 
 Till they resolved to stay all night, 
 
 So well they liked my ale. 
 
 Old leather, I must needs confess, 
 I've .sometimes used as new. 
 
 And often pared the soal so near 
 That I have spoil' d the shoe. 
 
 Thus all things lovingly went on, 
 And who so great as they ; 
 
 Before an ugly accident 
 Began this mortal fray. 
 
 You vicars, by a different way, 
 Have done the very same ; 
 
 For you have pared your doctrines so 
 You made rehgion lame. 
 
 The case I take it to be this, — 
 
 The vicar being fixt, 
 The cobbler chanced to cry his trade, 
 
 And in his cry he mixt 
 
 Your principles you've quite disown'd. 
 And old ones changed for new, 
 
 That no man can distinguish right 
 "Which are the false or true. 
 
 Some harmless words, which I suppose 
 
 The vicar falsely thought 
 Might be design'd to banter bim, 
 
 And scandalize his coat." 
 
 I dare be bold, you're one of those 
 Have took the Covenant ; 
 
 With Cavaliers are Cavalier, 
 And with the saints a saint." 
 
 " If that be all," quoth he, " go out 
 And bid them both come in ; 
 
 A dozen of your nappy ale 
 Will set 'em right again. 
 
 The vicar at this sharp rebuke 
 Begins to storm and swear ; 
 
 Quoth he, " Thou vile apostate wretch ! 
 Dost thou with me compare ? 
 
 And if the ale should chance to fail, 
 For so perhaps it may, . 
 
 I have it in my powers to try 
 A more effectual way. 
 
 I that have care of many souls, 
 And power to damn or save, 
 
 Dar'st thou thyself compare with me, 
 Thou vile, ungodly knave ! 
 
 These vicars are a wilful tribe, 
 A restless, stubborn crew ; 
 
 And if they are not humbled quite, 
 The State they will undo. 
 
 I wish I had thee somewhere else, 
 I'd quickly make thee know 
 
 "What 'tis to make comparisons, 
 And to revile me so. 
 
 The cobbler is a cunning knave. 
 That goes about by stealth, 
 
 And would, instead of mending shoes, 
 Repair the Commonwealth. 
 
 Thou art an enemy to the State, 
 Some priest in ma.squerade. 
 
 That, to promote the Pope's designs, 
 Has learnt the cobbling trade : 
 
 However, bid 'em both come in, 
 This fray must have an end ; 
 
 Such little feuds as these do oft 
 To greater mischiefs tend." 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 Without more bidding out she goes 
 
 And told them, by her troth, 
 " There was a magistrate vrithin 
 
 That needs must see 'em both. 
 
 But, gentlemen, pray distance keep, 
 
 And don't too testy be ; 
 111 words good manners still corrupt 
 
 And spoil good company." 
 
 To this the vicar first replies, 
 
 " I fear nr-magistrate ; 
 For let 'em make what laws they will, 
 
 I'll still obey the State. 
 
 Whatever I can say or do, 
 
 I'm sure not much avails ; 
 I shall stiU be Vicar of Bray 
 
 Whichever side pre-^^ails. 
 
 My conscience, thanks to Heaven, is come 
 
 To such a happy pass, 
 That I can take the Covenant 
 
 And never hang an ass. 
 
 I've took so many oaths before, 
 
 That now mthout remorse 
 I take all oaths the State can make, 
 
 As meerly things of course. 
 
 Go therefore, dame, the justice tell 
 
 His summons I'll obey ; 
 And further you may let him know 
 
 I Vicar am of Bray." 
 
 " I find indeed," the cobbler said, 
 
 " I am not much mistaken ; 
 This vicar knows the ready way • 
 
 To save his reverend bacon. 
 
 This is a hopeful priest indeed. 
 
 And well deserves the rope ; 
 Rather than lose his vicarage 
 
 He'd swear to Turk or Pope. 
 
 For gain he would his God deny, 
 
 His country and his King ; 
 Swear and forswear, recant and lye, 
 
 Do any wicked thing." 
 
 At this the vicar set his teeth, 
 
 And to the cobbler flew ; 
 And with his sacerdotal fist 
 
 Gave him a box or two. 
 
 The cobbler soon return'd the blows. 
 
 And with both head and heel 
 So manfully behaved himself, 
 
 He made the vicar reel. 
 
 Great was the outcrj^ that v-as made, 
 
 And in the woman ran 
 To tell his worship that the fight 
 
 Betwixt them was began. 
 
 " And is it so indeed?" quoth he ; 
 
 " I'll make the slaves repent : " 
 Then up he took his basket hilt, 
 
 And out enraged he Avent. 
 
 The country folk no sooner saw 
 
 The knight with naked blade, 
 But for his worship instantly 
 
 An open lane was made ; 
 
 I Who with a stern and angry look 
 [ Cried out, " What knaves are these — 
 ( That in the face of justice dare 
 Disturb the public peace ? 
 
 Vile rascals ! I will make you know 
 
 I am a magistrate, 
 And that as such I bear about 
 
 The vengeance of the State. 
 
 Go, seize them, Ralph, and bring them in. 
 
 That I may know the cause. 
 That first induced them to this rage. 
 
 And thus to break the laws." 
 
 Ralph, who was both his squire and clerk, 
 
 And constable Avithal, 
 I' th' name o' th' Commonwealth aloud 
 
 Did for assistance bawl. 
 
 The words had hardly pass'd his mouth 
 
 But they secure them both ; 
 And Ralph, to show his furious zeal 
 
 And hatred to the cloth, 
 
 Runs to the vicar through the crowd. 
 
 And takes him by the throat : 
 " How ill," says he, " doth this become 
 
 Your character and coat ! 
 
 Was it for this not long ago 
 
 Y'ou took the Covenant, 
 And in most solemn manner swore 
 
 That you'd become a saint ? " 
 
 And here he gave him such a pinch 
 
 That made the vicar shout — 
 " Good people, I shall murder' d be 
 
 By this ungodly lout. 
 
 He gripes my throat to that degree 
 
 I can't his talons bear ; 
 And if you do not hold his hands, 
 
 He'll throttle me, I fear." 
 
 At this a butcher of the towTi 
 
 Steps uj) to Rali>h in ire, — 
 *' AVhat, will you squeeze his guUet through. 
 
 You son of blood and fire r 
 
 Y'ou are the Devil's instrument 
 
 To execute the laws ; 
 What, will you murther the poor man 
 
 V/ith your phanatick claws ? " 
 
 At which the squire quits his hold, 
 
 And lugging out his blade, 
 Full at the sturdy butcher's pate 
 
 A furious stroke he made. 
 
 A dismal outcry then began 
 
 Among the country folk ; 
 Who all conclude the butcher slain 
 
 By such a mortal stroke. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE COBBLEE AND THE VICAE OF BEAT. [Fourth Pekiod.— 
 
 But here good fortune, that has still 
 
 A friendship for the brave, 
 I' th' nick misguides the fatal blow. 
 
 And does the butcher save. 
 
 The knight, who heard the noise within, 
 
 Euns out with might and main, 
 And seeing Ealph amidst the crowd 
 
 In danger to be slain, 
 
 Without regard to age or sex 
 
 Old basket-hilt so ply'd. 
 That in an instant three or four 
 
 Lay bleeding at his side. 
 
 And greater mischiefs in his rage 
 
 This furious knight had done. 
 If he had not prevented been 
 
 By Dick, the blacksmith's son, 
 
 Who catch'd his worship on the hip. 
 
 And gave him such a squelch. 
 That he some moments breathless lay 
 
 Ere he was heard to belch. 
 
 Nor was the squire in better case, 
 
 By sturdy butcher ply'd, 
 Who from the shoulder to the flank 
 
 Had soundly swinged his hide. 
 
 Whilst things in tliis confusion stood, 
 And knight and squire disarm' d, 
 
 Up comes a neighbouring gentleman 
 The outcry had alarm' d ; 
 
 Who riding up among the crowd, 
 
 The -vdcar first he spy'd, 
 With sleeveless gown and bloody band 
 
 And hands behind him ty'd. 
 
 " Bless me," says he, "what means all this ?" 
 
 Then turning round his eyes. 
 In the same plight, or in a worse, 
 
 The cobbler bleeding spies. 
 
 And looking further round he saw, 
 
 Like one in doleful dump, 
 The knight, amidst a gaping mob. 
 
 Sit pensive on his rump. 
 
 And by his side lay Ealph his squire. 
 
 Whom butcher fell had maul'd ; 
 Who bitterly bemoan' d his fate. 
 
 And for a surgeon call'd. 
 
 Surprised at first he paused awhile, 
 
 And then accosts the knight, — 
 " What makes you here, Sir Samuel, 
 
 In this unhappy plight ? " 
 
 At this the knight gave 's breast a thump, 
 
 And stretching out his hand, — 
 " If you will pull me up," he cried, 
 
 " I'll try if I can stand. 
 
 And then I'll let you know the cause ; 
 
 But first take eare of Ealph, 
 Who in my good or ill success 
 
 Doth alwaj's stand my half." 
 
 In short, he got liis worship up 
 
 And let him in the door ; 
 Where he at length relates the tale 
 
 As I have told before. 
 
 When he had heard the story out. 
 
 The gentleman replies, — 
 " It is not in my province, sir, 
 
 Your worship to advise. 
 
 But were I in your worship's place, 
 
 The only thing I'd do, 
 Was first to reprimand the fools. 
 
 And then to let them go. 
 
 I think it first advisable 
 
 To take them from the rabble. 
 
 And let them come and both set forth 
 The occasion of the squabble. 
 
 This is the Vicar, sir, of Bray, 
 
 A man of no repute, 
 The scorn and scandal of his tribe, 
 
 A loose, ill- manner' d brute. 
 
 The cobbler 's a poor strolling wretch 
 That mends my servants' .shoes ; 
 
 And often calls as he goes by 
 To bring me country news." 
 
 At this his worship grip'd his beard. 
 
 And in an angry mood, 
 Swore by the laws of chivalry 
 
 That blood required blood. 
 
 " Besides, I'm by the Commonwealth 
 
 Entrusted to chastise 
 All knaves that straggle uj) and down 
 
 To raise such mutinies. 
 
 However, since 'tis your request, 
 They shall be call'd and heard ; 
 
 But neither Ealph nor I can grant 
 Such rascals should be clear'd." 
 
 And so, to wind the tale up short. 
 They were call'd in together ; 
 
 And by the gentleman were ask'd 
 What wind 'twas blew them thither. 
 
 " Good ale and handsome landladies 
 You might have nearer home ; 
 
 And therefore 'tis for something more 
 That you so far are come." 
 
 To which the vicar answer'd first, — 
 
 " My living is so small. 
 That I am forced to stroll about 
 
 To try and get a call." 
 
 " And," quoth the cobbler, " I am forced 
 To leave my wife and dwelling, 
 
 T' escape the danger of being press' d 
 To go a colonelling. 
 
 There's many an honest jovial lad 
 
 Unwarily draAvn in, 
 Tliat I have reason to suspect 
 
 Will scarce get out again. 
 
From 1649 to 1689.] THE COBBLER AND THE VICAE OP BRAY. [Anonymous. 
 
 
 The proverb says, Harm ivatch harm catch, 
 
 And since he calls so many names 
 
 I'll out of danger keep, 
 
 And talks so very loud, 
 
 
 For he that sleeps in a whole skin 
 
 I will be bound to make it plain 
 
 
 Doth most securely sleep. 
 
 'Twas he that raised the crowd. 
 
 
 My business is to mend bad soals 
 
 Nay, further, I will make 't appear 
 
 
 And stitch up broken quarters : 
 
 He and the priests have done _ 
 
 
 A cobbler's name would look but odd 
 
 More mischief than the cobblers far ~ 
 
 
 Among a list of martyrs." 
 
 All over Christendom. 
 
 
 " Faith, cobbler," quoth the gentleman, 
 
 All Europe groans beneath their yoke, 
 
 
 " And that shall be my case ; 
 
 And poor Great Britain owes 
 
 
 I will neither party join, 
 
 To them her present miseries, 
 
 
 Let what will come to pass. 
 
 And dread of future woes. 
 
 
 No importunities or threats 
 
 The priests of all rehgions are. 
 
 
 My fixt resolve shall rest ; 
 
 And will be still the same. 
 
 
 Come here. Sir Samuel, where' s his health 
 
 And all, tho' in a different way. 
 
 
 That loves old England best. 
 
 Are playing the same game." 
 
 
 I pity those unhappy fools 
 
 At this the gentleman stood up, — 
 " Cobbler, you run too fast ; 
 
 
 Who, ere they were aware, 
 Designing and ambitious men 
 Have drawn into a snare. 
 
 By thus condemning all the tribe. 
 You go beyond your last. 
 
 Much mischief has by priests been done, 
 
 
 But, vicar, to come to the case, — 
 Amidst a senseless crowd, 
 
 And more is doing still ; 
 But then to censure all alike 
 
 
 "What ui-ged you to such violence, 
 And made you talk so loud ? 
 
 Must be exceeding ill. 
 Too many, I must needs confess, 
 
 1 
 
 Passion I'm sure does iU become 
 
 Are mightily to blame. 
 
 
 Your character and cloath. 
 
 Who by their wicked practices 
 
 
 And, tho' the cause be ne'er so just, 
 
 Disgrace the very name. 
 
 
 Brings scandal upon both. 
 
 But, cobbler, still the major part 
 
 
 Vicar, I speak it with regret, 
 
 The miner should conclude ; 
 
 
 An inadvertent priest 
 
 'To argue at another rate 's 
 
 
 Renders himself ridiculous, 
 
 Impertinent and rude." 
 
 
 And everybody's jest." 
 
 By this time all the neighbours round 
 
 
 The vicar to be thus rebuked 
 
 Were flock'd about the door, 
 
 
 A little time stood mute ; 
 
 And some were on the vicar's side. 
 
 
 But having gulp'd his passion down, 
 
 But on the cobbler's more. 
 
 
 Replies, — "That cobbling brute 
 
 Among the rest a grazier, who 
 
 
 Has treated me with such contempt, 
 
 Had lately been at town 
 
 
 Such vile expressions used. 
 
 To sell his oxen and his sheep. 
 
 
 That I no longer could forbear 
 
 Brim-full of news came down. 
 
 
 To hear myself abused. 
 
 Quoth he, "The priests have preach'd and 
 
 
 The rascal had the insolence 
 
 pray'd. 
 
 
 To. give himself the He, 
 
 And made so damn'd a pother, 
 
 
 And to aver h' had done more good 
 
 That all the people are run mad 
 
 
 And saved more soals than I. 
 
 To murther one another. 
 
 
 Nay, further, sir, this miscreant 
 
 By their contrivances and arts 
 
 
 To tell me was so bold. 
 
 They've play'd their game so long. 
 
 
 Our trades were very near of kin, 
 
 That no man knows which side is right, 
 
 
 But his was the more olJ. 
 
 Or which is in the wrong. 
 
 
 Now, sir, I will to you appeal 
 
 I'm sure I've Smithfield market used 
 
 
 On such a provocation. 
 
 For more than twenty year. 
 
 
 If there was not sufficient cause 
 
 But never did such murmurings 
 
 
 To use a little passion ? " 
 
 And dreadful outcries hear. 
 
 
 " Now," quoth the cobbler, " with your leave 
 
 Some for a church, and some a tub, 
 
 
 I'll prove it to his face. 
 
 And some for both together ; . 
 
 
 All this is mere suggestion. 
 
 And some, perhaps the gi-eater part, 
 
 
 And forojgn to the case. 
 
 i 
 
 Have no regard for either. 
 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE COBBLEE AND THE VICAE OF BEAT. Eoueth Period. 
 
 Some for a king-, and somo for none ; 
 
 And some have hankerings 
 To meiid the Commonwealth, and make 
 
 An empire of all kings. 
 
 "What's worse, old Noll is marching oif. 
 And Dick, his heir-apparent, 
 
 Succeeds him in the government, 
 A very lame vicegerent. 
 
 He'll reign but little time, poor fool, 
 
 But sink beneath the State, 
 That will not fail to ride the fool 
 
 'Bove common horseman's weight. 
 
 And rulers, when they lose the power, 
 
 Like horses overvveigh'd, 
 Must either fall and break their kn«es. 
 
 Or else turn perfect jade." 
 
 The vicar to be twice rebuked 
 
 No longer could contain ; 
 But thus replies, — " To knaves like you 
 
 All arguments are vain. 
 
 The Church must use her arm of flesh, ' 
 
 The other will not do ; 
 The clergy waste their breath and time 
 
 On miscreants like you. 
 
 You are so stubborn and so proud, 
 
 So dull and prepossest, 
 That no instructions can prevail 
 
 How well soe'er addrest. 
 
 "Who would reform such reprobates. 
 Must drub them soundly first ; 
 
 I know no other way but that 
 To make them wise or just." 
 
 *' Fie, vicar, fie," his patron said, 
 
 " Sure that is not the way ; 
 You should instruct your auditors 
 
 To suffer or obey. 
 
 Those were the doctrines that of old 
 The learned fathers taught ; 
 
 And 'twas by them the Church at first 
 Was to perfection brought. 
 
 Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside, 
 
 And calmly take your cup ; 
 And let us try in friendly wise 
 
 To make the matter up. 
 
 That's certainly the wiser course, 
 
 And better too by far ; 
 All men of prudence strive to quencli 
 
 The sparks of civil war. 
 
 By furious heats and ill advice 
 
 Our neighbours are undone, 
 Then let us timely caution take 
 
 From their destruction. 
 
 If we would turn our heads about, 
 And look towards forty- one, 
 
 "Vt'e soon should see what little jars 
 Those cruel wars begun. 
 
 ! A one-eyed cobbler then was one 
 j Of that rebellious crew, 
 j That did in Charles the martyr's blood 
 Their wicked hands imbrue. 
 
 I mention this not to deface 
 
 This cobbler's reputation, 
 Whom I have always honest found. 
 
 And useful in his station. 
 
 But this I urge to let you see 
 
 The danger of a fight 
 Between a cobbler and a priest. 
 
 Though he were ne'er so right. 
 
 The vicars are a numerous tribe. 
 
 So are the cobblers too ; 
 And if a general quarrel rise. 
 
 What must the country do ? 
 
 Our outward and our inward seals 
 
 Must quickly want repair ; 
 And all the neighbourhood around 
 
 Would the misfortune share." 
 
 " Sir," quoth the grazier, " I believe 
 . Our outward seals indeed 
 May quickly want the cobbler's help 
 To be from leakings freed. 
 
 But for our inward souls, I think 
 They're of a worth too great 
 
 To be committed to the care 
 Of any holy cheat, 
 
 Who only serves his God for gain, 
 
 Eeligion is his trade ; 
 And 'tis by such as these our Church 
 
 So scandalous is made. 
 
 Why should I trust my soul with one 
 That preaches, swears, and prays, 
 
 And the next moment contradicts 
 Himself in aR he saj'S ? 
 
 His solemn oaths he looks upon 
 
 As only words of course ! 
 Which like their wives our fathers took 
 
 For better or for worse. 
 
 But he takes oaths as some take vr — s. 
 
 Only to serve his ease ; 
 And rogues and w — s, it is well known. 
 
 May part whene'er they please.'*' 
 
 At this the cobbler bolder grew. 
 And stoutly thus reply' d, — 
 
 " If you're so good at drubbing, sir. 
 Your manhood shall be try'd. 
 
 What I have said I will maintain, 
 And further prove withal — 
 
 I daily do more good than you 
 In my respective call. 
 
 I know your character," quoth he, 
 " You proud insulting vicar, 
 
 Wlio only huff and domineer 
 And quarrel in your liquor." 
 
From 1649 to 1G89.] COUNTKY SONG, " THE EESTOEATION. 
 
 [Anonymous. 
 
 The holiest gentleman, who paw 
 
 'Twonld come again to blows. 
 Commands the cobbler to forbear, 
 
 And to the vicar goes. 
 
 " Vicar," says he, " for shame give o'er 
 
 And mitigate yonr rage ; 
 You scandalize your cloth too much 
 
 A cobbler to engage. 
 
 All people's eyes are on your tribe, 
 
 And every little ill 
 They multiply and aggravate, 
 
 And will because they will. 
 
 But now let's call another cause. 
 
 So let this health go round ; 
 Be peace and plenty, truth and right, 
 
 In good old England found." 
 
 Quoth Ralph, " All this is empty talk, 
 
 And only tends to laughter ; 
 If these two varlets should bo spared, 
 
 Who'd pity us hereafter ? 
 
 Your worship may do what you please. 
 
 But I'll have satisfaction 
 For drubbing and for damages 
 
 In this ungodly action. 
 
 I think that you can do no less 
 
 Than send them to the stocks ; 
 And I'll assist the constable 
 
 In fixing in their hocks. 
 
 There let 'em sit and fight it out, 
 
 Or scold till they are friends ; 
 Or, what is better much than both. 
 
 Till I am made amends." 
 
 "Ealph," quoth the knight, "that's well 
 advised. 
 
 Let them both hither go. 
 And you and the sub-magistrate 
 
 Take care that it be so. 
 
 Let them be lock'd in face to face, 
 
 Bare buttocks on the ground ; 
 And let them in that posture sit. 
 
 Till they with us compound. 
 
 Thus fixt, we'll leave them for a time. 
 
 Whilst we with grief relate. 
 How at a wake this knight and squire 
 
 Got each a broken pate." 
 
 Anonymous. — Between 1642 and 1684. 
 
 745- 
 
 -A COUNTEY SONG, INTITULED 
 THE EESTOEATION. 
 
 Come, come away 
 
 To the temple, and pray, 
 
 And sing with a pleasant strain ; 
 
 The schismatick 's dead, 
 
 The liturgy 's read. 
 And the King enjoyes his own again. 
 
 The vicar is glad. 
 
 The clerk is not sad, _ 
 
 And the parish cannot refrain ~ 
 
 To leap and rejoyce 
 
 And lift up theif voyce. 
 That the King enjoyes his own again. 
 
 The country doth bow 
 
 To old justices now. 
 That long aside have been lain ; 
 
 The bishop's restored, 
 
 God is rightly adored, 
 And the King enjoyes his own again. 
 
 Committee-men fall, 
 
 And majors- generall. 
 No more doe those tyrantg reign ; 
 
 There's no sequestration, 
 
 Nor new decimation. 
 For the King enjoyes the sword again. 
 
 The scholar doth look 
 
 With joy on his book, 
 Tom whistles and plows amain ; 
 
 Soldiers plunder no more 
 
 As they did heretofore. 
 For the King enjoyes the sword again. 
 
 The citizens trade. 
 
 The merchants do lade. 
 And send their ships into Spain ; 
 
 No pirates at sea 
 
 To make them a prey. 
 For the King enjoyes the sword again. 
 
 The old man and boy. 
 
 The clergy and lay. 
 Their joyes cannot contain ; 
 
 'Tis better than of late 
 
 With the Church and the State, 
 Now the King enjoyes the sword again. 
 
 Let's render our praise 
 
 For these happy dayes 
 To God and our soveraign ; 
 
 Your drinking give o'er. 
 
 Swear not as before, 
 For the King bears not the sword in vain; 
 
 Fanaticks, be quiet, 
 
 And keep a good diet, 
 To cure your crazy brain ; 
 
 Throw off your disguise. 
 
 Go to church and be wise, 
 For the King bears not the sword in vain. 
 
 Let faction and pride 
 
 Be now laid aside, 
 That truth and peace may reign ; 
 
 Let every one mend, 
 
 And there is an end. 
 For the king bears not the sword in vain. 
 
 Anomjmous. — 1661. 
 
Anonymous.] 
 
 THE LOYAL SOLDIER. 
 
 [Fourth Pebiod.- 
 
 746.— THE LOYAL SOLDIEE. 
 
 When in the field of Mars we lie, 
 
 Amongst those martial wights, 
 "Who, never daunted, are to dye 
 
 For King and countrie's rights; 
 As on Belona's god I wait. 
 
 And her attendant be, 
 Yet, being absent from my mate, 
 
 I live in misery. 
 
 When lofty winds aloud do blow, 
 
 It snoweth, hail, or rain. 
 And Charon in his boat doth row, 
 
 Yet steadfast I'll remain ; 
 And for my shelter in some barn creep. 
 
 Or under some hedge lye ; 
 Whilst such as do now strong castles keep 
 
 Knows no such misery. 
 
 WTien down in strq,w we tumbling lye, 
 
 With Morpheus' charms asleep, 
 My heavy, sad, and mournful eye 
 
 In security so deep ; 
 Then do I dream within my arms 
 
 With thee I sleeping lye. 
 Then do I dread or fear no harms, 
 
 Nor feel no misery. 
 
 When all my joys are thus compleat 
 
 The cannons loud do play, 
 The drums alarum straight do beat, 
 
 Trumpet sounds, horse, away ! 
 
 Awake I then, and nought can find 
 
 But death attending me. 
 And all my joys are vanisht quite,— 
 
 This is my misery. 
 
 When hunger oftentimes I feel. 
 
 And water cold do drink, 
 Yet from my colours I'U not steal, 
 
 Nor from my King will shrink ; 
 No traytor base shall make me yield. 
 
 But for the cause I'll be : 
 This is my love, pray Heaven to sliield. 
 
 And farewell misery. 
 
 Then to our arms we straight do fly. 
 
 And forthwith march away ; 
 Few towns or cities we come nigh 
 
 Good liquor us deny ; 
 In Lethe deep our woes we steep — 
 
 Our loves forgotten be, 
 Amongst the jovialst we sing. 
 
 Hang up aU misery. 
 
 Propitious fate, then be more kind. 
 
 Grim death, lend me thy dart, 
 O stm and moon, and eke the wind, • 
 
 Great Jove, take thou our part ; 
 That of these Eoundheads and these wars 
 
 An end that we may see. 
 And thy great name we'll all applaud. 
 
 And hang all misery. 
 
 Anony PIOUS. — 1G8C. 
 
THE FIFTH PERIOD, 
 
 FEOM 1689 TO 1727. 
 
 rpHESE thirty-eight years produced a class of writers in prose and poetry, who, during the 
 X whole of the eighteenth century, were deemed the best, or nearly the best, that the 
 country had ever known. The central period of twelve years, which compose the reign of Anne 
 (1702-14), was, indeed, usually styled the "Augustan Era of English Literature," on account of 
 its supposed resemblance in intellectual opulence to the reign of the Emperor Augustus. This 
 opinion has not been followed or confirmed in the present age. The praise due to good sense, 
 and" a correct and polished style, is allowed to the prose writers, and that due to a felicity in 
 painting artificial life, is awarded to the poets ; but modern critics seem to have agreed to 
 pass over these qualities as of secondary moment, and to hold in greater estimation the 
 writings of the times preceding the Eestoration, and of our own day, as being more boldly 
 original, both in style and in thought, more imaginative, and more sentimental. The " Edin- 
 burgh Review" appears to state the prevailing sentiment in the following sentences: — 
 " Speaking generally of that generation of authors, it may be said that, as poets, they had no 
 force or greatness of fancy, no pathos and no enthusiasm, and, as philosophers, no compre- 
 hensiveness, depth, or originality. They are sagacious, no doubt, neat, clear, and reasonable ; 
 but, for the most part, cold, timid, and superficial." The same critic represents it as their 
 chief praise that they corrected the indecency, and polished the pleasantry and sarcasm, of the 
 vicious school introduced at the Restoration. " Writing," he continues, "with infinite good 
 sense, and great grace and vivacitj', and, above all, writing for the first time in a tone that 
 was peculiar to the upper ranks of society, and upon subjects that were almost exclusively 
 interesting to them, they naturally figured as the most accomplished, fashionable, and perfect 
 writers which the world had ever seen, and made the wild, luxuriant, and humble sweetness of 
 our earlier authors appear rude and untutored in the comparison." While there is general 
 truth in these remarks, it must at the same time be observed, that the age produced several 
 writers, who, each in his own line, may be called extraordinary. Satire, expressed in forcible 
 and copious language, was certainly carried to its utmost pitch of excellence by Swift. The 
 poetry of elegant and artificial life was exhibited, in a perfection never since attained, by 
 Pope. The art of describing the manners and discussing the morals of the passing age, was 
 practised for the first time, with unrivalled felicity, by Addison. And with all the licentious- 
 ness of Congreve and Farquhar, it may be fairly said that EngUsh comedy was in their hands 
 what it had never been before, and has scarcely in any instance been since. — Chambers' 
 " Cyclopaedia of English Literature," vol. i., p. 534. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 MATTKEW PRIOR. 
 
 " Matthew Prior, a distinguished poet, was 
 born in 1664, in London according to one 
 account, according to another, at Wimborne, 
 in Dorsetshire. His father dying when he 
 was young, an imcle, who was a vintner, or 
 tavern-keeper, at Charing Cross, took him 
 
 under his care, and sent him to Westminster 
 School, of which Dr. Busby was then master. 
 Before he had passed through the school, his 
 uncle took him home, for the purpose of bring- 
 ing him into his own business ; but the Earl 
 of Dorset, a great patron of letters, having 
 found him one day reading Horace, and being 
 pleased with his conversation, determined to 
 
 32 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Pekiod. — 
 
 give him an university education. He was 
 accordingly admitted of St. John's College, 
 Cambridge, in 1682, proceeded bachelor of 
 arts in 1686, and was soon after elected to a 
 fellowship. After having proved his poetic 
 talents by some college exercises, he was in- 
 troduced at court by the Earl of Dorset, and 
 was so effectually recommended, that, in 1690, 
 he was appointed secretary to the English ple- 
 nipotentiaries who attended the congress at 
 the Hague. Being now enlisted in the service 
 of the court, his productions were, for some 
 years, chiefly directed to courtly topics, of 
 which one of the most considerable was an 
 Ode presented to King William in 1695, on 
 the death of Queen Mary. In 1697, he was 
 nominated secretary to the commissioners for 
 the treaty of Eyswick ; and, on his return, 
 was made secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of 
 Ireland. He went to France in the following 
 year, as secretary, first to the Earl of Port- 
 land, and then to the Earl of Jersey ; and being 
 now regarded as one conversant in public 
 affairs, he was summoned by King William to 
 Loo, where he had a confidential audience. In 
 the beginning of 1701 he satin Parhamentfor 
 East Grinstcad. 
 
 "Prior had hitherto been promoted and acted 
 with the Whigs ; but the Tories now having 
 become the prevalent party, he turned about, 
 and ever after adhered to them. He even 
 voted for the impeachment of those lords who 
 advised that partition treaty in which he had 
 been oflficially employed. Like most converts, 
 he embraced his new friends with much zeal, 
 and from that time almost all his social con- 
 nections were confined within the limits of his 
 party. 
 
 " The successes in the beginning of Queen 
 Anne's reign were celebrated by the poets on 
 both sides ; and Prior sung the victories of 
 Blenheim and Eamilies : he afterAvards, how- 
 ever, joined in the attack of the great general 
 who had been his theme. It will not be worth 
 while here to take notice of all his changes in 
 the political world, except to mention the dis- 
 graces which followed the famous congress of 
 Utrecht, in which he was deeply engaged. For 
 the completion of that business he was left in 
 France, with the appointments and authority 
 of an ambassador, though without the title, 
 the proud Duke of Shrewsbury having refused 
 to be joined in commission with a man so 
 meanly bom. Prior, however, publicly as- 
 sumed the character tiU he was superseded by 
 the Earl of Stair, on the accession of George I. 
 The Whigs being now in power, he was wel- 
 comed, on his return, by a warrant from the 
 House of Commons, under which he was com- 
 mitted to the custody of a messenger. He 
 was examined before the Privy Council respect- 
 ing his share in the peace of Utrecht, was 
 treated with rigour, and Walpole moved an 
 impeachment against kim, on a charge of high 
 treason, for holding clandestine conferences 
 with the French plenipotentiary. His name 
 
 was excepted from an act of grace passed in 
 1717; at length, however, he was discharged, 
 without being brought to trial, to end his days 
 in retirement. 
 
 " We are now to consider Prior among the 
 poetical characters of the time. In his writings 
 is found that incongruous mixture of light and 
 rather indecent topics with grave, and even 
 religious ones, which was not uncommon at 
 that period. In the faculty of telling a story 
 with ease and vivacity, he yields only to Swift, 
 compared to whom his humour is occasionally 
 strained and quaint. His songs and amatory 
 pieces are generally elegant and classical.- The 
 most popular of his serious compositions are, 
 ' Henry and Emma, or the Nut-Brown Maid,' 
 modernized from an antique original; and 
 ' Solomon,' the idea of which is taken from 
 the Book of Ecclesiastes. These are har- 
 monious in their versification, splendid and 
 correct in their diction, and copious in poetical 
 imagery ; but they exert no powerful effect on 
 the feelings or the fancy, and are enfeebled 
 by prolixity. His ' Alma,' a piece of philo- 
 sophical pleasantry, was written to console 
 himself when under confinement, and displays 
 a considerable share of reading. As to his 
 elaborate effusions of loyalty and patriotism, 
 they seem to have sunk into total neglect. 
 
 " The life of Prior was cut short by a linger- 
 ing illness, which closed his days at Wimpole, 
 the seat of Lord Oxford, in September, 1721, 
 in the fifty-eighth year of his age." — Aikiil's 
 " Select Brit. Poets/' p. 239. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 "Joseph Addison was the son of the Re- 
 verend Lancelot Addison, at whose parsonage 
 at Milston, near Ambrosbury, Wiltshire, he 
 was born in 1672. At the age of fifteen he 
 was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, 
 where he distinguished himself by his pro- 
 ficiency in classical literature, especially in 
 Latin poetry. He was afterwards elected a 
 demy of Magdalen College, where he took the 
 degrees of bachelor and master of arts. In 
 his twenty-second year he became an author 
 in his own language, publishing a short copy 
 of verses addressed to the veteran poet, 
 Dryden. Other pieces in verse and prose 
 succeeded ; and in 1695 he opened the career 
 of his fortune as a literary man, by a compli- 
 mentary poem on one of the campaigns of 
 King William, addressed to the Lord-keeper 
 Somers. A pension of .£300 from the crown-, 
 which his patron obtained for him, enabled 
 him to indulge his inclination for travel ; and 
 an epistolary poem to Lord Halifax in 1701, 
 with a prose relation of his travels, published 
 on his return, are distinguished by the spirit 
 of liberty which they breathe, and which, 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 during life, was his ruling passion The most 
 famous of his political poems, ' The Cam- 
 paign,' appeared in 1704. It was a task 
 kindly imposed bj^ Lord Halifax, who inti- 
 mated to him that the writer should not lose 
 his labour. It was accordingly rewarded by 
 an immediate appointment to the post of 
 commissioner of appeals. 
 
 " This will be the proper i^lace for consider- 
 ing the merits of Addison in his character of 
 a writer in verse. Though Dryden and Pope 
 had already secured the first places on the 
 British Parnassus, and other rivals for fame 
 were springing to view, it will scarcely be 
 denied that Addison, by a decent mediocrity 
 of j)oetic language, rising occasionally to 
 superior efforts, has deserved that degree of 
 praise, which, in general estimation, has been 
 allotted to him. It cannot be doubted that 
 playful and humorous wit was the quality in 
 which he obtained almost unrivalled pre- 
 eminence ; but the reader of his ' Poem to Sir 
 Godfrey KneUer,' mil discover, in the com- 
 parison of the painter to Phidias, a very happy 
 and elegant resemblance pointed out in his 
 verse. His celebrated tragedy of ' Cato," 
 equally remarkable for a correctness of i^lan, 
 and a sustained elevation of style, then un- 
 usual on the English stage, was further dis- 
 tinguished by the glow of its sentiments in 
 favour of political liberty, and was equally 
 applauded by both parties. 
 
 " A very short account will suffice for the 
 remainder of his works. His connection with 
 Steele engaged him in occasionally writing in 
 the ' Tatlcr,' the ' Si^ectator, ' and the 
 ' Guardian,' in which his productions, 
 serious and humorous, conferred upon him 
 immortal honour, and placed him deservedly 
 at the head of his class. Some other peri- 
 odical papers, decidedly political, were traced 
 to Addison, of which the ' Freeholder ' was 
 one of the most conspicuous. In 1716 he 
 married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, 
 a connection which is said not to have been 
 remarkably happy. In the following year he 
 was raised to the office of one of the principal 
 secretaries of state ; but finding himself ill 
 suited to the post, and in a dechning state of 
 health, he resigned it to Mr. Craggs. In 
 reality, his constitution was suffering from an 
 habitual excess in wine ; and it is a lamentable 
 circumstance tliat a person so generally free 
 from moral defects, should have given way to 
 a fondness for the pleasures of a tavern life. 
 Addison died in June, 1719, leaving an only 
 •daughter by the Countess of Warwick." — See 
 Spcnce's "Anecdotes"; Lord Macaulay : Dr. 
 Lockier, Dean of Peterborough ; Abbe Philip- 
 peaux, of Blois ; Lady M. W. Montagu ; Dr. 
 Di-ake ; Blair's " Lect. on Ehetoric and 
 Belles-Lettres " ; Thackeray's "English Hu- 
 mourists of the Eighteenth Cent." ; Professor 
 T. B. Shaw ; Dr. Young ; Professor C. D. 
 Cleveland ; Dr. Hurd ; Robert Chambers ; 
 Dr. Anderson ; Maunder ; Professor G. W. 
 
 Greene. We may say that Baskerville pub- 
 lished a splendid edition of Addison's works 
 in 1761, of which the genial Dibdin says: 
 " He who hath the Baskerville edition, hath 
 a good, and even a glorious, performance. 
 It is pleasant, and, of course, profitable, to 
 turn over the pages of these lovely~tomes at 
 one's Tusculum, on a day of oppression from 
 heat, or of confinement from rain." Bohn has 
 also published a beautiful edition. See Alli- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet, of Eng. Lit." ; Camp- 
 bell's " Spec." ; Shaw ; Spalding ; Angus. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Jonathan Swift, born 1G(37, died 1745. 
 " When we come to the name of Swift we feel 
 ourselves again approaching an Alpine region. 
 The air of a stern mountain- summit breathes 
 cliill around our temples, and we feel that if 
 we have no amiability to melt, we have alti- 
 tude at least to measure, and strange pro- 
 found secrets of nature, like the ravines of 
 lofty hills, to explore. The men of the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth centuries may be com- 
 pared to Lebanon, or Snowdon, or Benlo- 
 mond, towering grandly over fertile valleys, 
 on which they smile — Swift to the tremendous 
 Romsdale Horn in Norway, sheilding abroad, 
 from a brow of four thousand feet liigh, what 
 seems a scowl of settled indignation, as if re- 
 solved not to rejoice even over the wide- stretch- 
 ing deserts which, and nothing but which, it 
 everlastingly beholds. Mountains all of them, 
 but what a difference between such a mountain 
 as Shakspere and such a mountain as Swift ! 
 
 "Instead of going minutely over a path iO 
 long since trodden to mire as tlie life of 
 Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking 
 to form some estimate of his character and 
 j genius. It is refreshing to come upon a new 
 thing in the world, even though it be a strange 
 or even a bad thing ; and certainly, in any age 
 and country, such a being as Svvift must have 
 appeared an anomaly, not for hi.^ transcendent 
 goodness, nor for his utter badness, but be- 
 cause the elements of good and evil wore 
 mixed in him into a medley so astounding, and 
 in proportions respectively so large, yet un- 
 equal, that the analysis of the two seemed to 
 many competent only to the Great Chemist, 
 Death, and that a sense of the disproportion 
 seems to have moved the man himself to in- 
 extinguishable laughter, — a laughter which, 
 radiating out of hi-s own singular heart as a 
 centre, swept over the circumference of all 
 beings within his reach, and returned cr3dng, 
 ' Give, give,' as if he were demanding a uni- 
 versal sphere for the exercise of the savage 
 scorn which dwelt within him, a.nd as if ho 
 laughed not more ' consumedly ' at others tlian 
 he did at himself. .,9,^, 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 " Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say \ 
 somethings about his genius. That, like his j 
 character, was intensely peculiar. It was a 
 compound of infinite ingenuity, with very 
 little poetical imagination; of gigantic strength, 
 v*-ith a propensity to incessant trifling; of 
 passionate purpose, with the clearest and 
 coldest expression, as though a furnace were 
 fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, 
 he was for ever toying with Lilliputian slings 
 and small craft. One of the most violent of 
 party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in 
 temper, his favourite motto was Vivo la haga' 
 telle. The creator of entire new worlds, we 
 doubt if his works contain more than two or 
 three lines of genuine poetry. He may be 
 compared to one of the locusts of the Apoca- 
 lypse, in that he had a tail like unto a scor- 
 pion, and a sting in his tail ; but his ' face is 
 not as the face of man, his hair is not as the 
 hair of women, and on his head there is no 
 crown Hke gold.' All Swift's creations are 
 more or less disgusting. Not one of them is 
 beautiful. His Lilliputians are amazingly life- 
 like, but compare them to Shakspere's fairies, 
 such, as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustard- 
 seed ; his Brobdignagians are excrescences hke 
 enormous warts ; and his Yahoos might have 
 been spawned in the nightmare of a drunken 
 butcher. The same coarseness characterises 
 his poems and his ' Tale of a Tub.' He might 
 well, however, in his old age, exclaim, in refe- 
 rence to the latter, ' Good God ! what a genius 
 I had when I wrote that book ! ' It is the 
 wildest, wittiest, wickedest, wealthiest book 
 of its size in the English language. Thoughts 
 and figures swarm in every corner of its pages, 
 till you think of a disturbed nest of angry ants, 
 for all the figures and thoughts are black and 
 bitter. One would have imagined the book to 
 have issued from a mind that had been gather- 
 ing gall as well as sense in an antenatal state 
 of being. 
 
 " Swift, in all his writings — sermons, poli- 
 tical tracts, poems, and fictions — is essentially 
 a satirist. He consisted originally of three 
 principal parts, — sense, an intense feeling of 
 the ludicrous, and selfish passion ; and these 
 were sure, in certain circumstances, to ferment 
 into a spirit of satire, ' strong as death, and 
 cruel as the grave.' Bom with not very much 
 natural benevolence, with little purely poetic 
 feeling, with furious passions and unbounded 
 ambition, he was entirely dependent for his 
 peace of mind upon success. Had he become, 
 as by his talents he was entitled to be, the 
 prime minister of his day, he would have 
 figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than 
 even Chatham. But as he was prevented from 
 being the first statesman, he became the first 
 satirist of his time. From vain efforts to 
 grasp supremacy for himself and his party, he 
 retired growling to his Dublin den ; and there, 
 as Haman, thought scorn to lay his hand on 
 Mordecai, but extended his murderous purpose 
 to all the people of the Jews, — and as Nero 
 
 -svished that Rome had one neck, that he 
 might destroy it at a blow, — so Swift was 
 stung by his personal disappointment to hurl 
 out scorn at man and suspicion at his Maker. 
 It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which 
 was in man which excited his hatred and 
 contempt ; it was man himself. He was not 
 merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish 
 and malignant elements which are mingled in 
 man's nature and character, and disposed to 
 trace them to any cause save a Divine will, 
 but he believed man to be, as a whole, the 
 work and child of the devil ; and he told the 
 imaginary creator and creature to their face, 
 what he thought the truth, — ' The devil is an 
 ass.' His was the very madness of Mani- 
 chaeism. That heresy held that the devil was 
 one of two aboriginal creative powers, but | 
 Swift seemed to believe at times that he was 
 the only God. From a Yahoo man, it was 
 difficult to avoid the inference of a demon 
 deity. It is very laughable to find writers in 
 Blackwood and elsewhere striving to prove 
 Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his 
 professions, and however sincere he might be 
 often in these, the whole tendency of his 
 writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of 
 man's body and soul, his denial of every 
 human virtue, the filth he pours upon every 
 phase of human nature, and the doctrines he 
 insinuates — that man has fallen indeed, but 
 fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, 
 or, rather, is just a bungled brute, — were not 
 enough to show that either his notions were 
 grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he 
 himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, 
 to be driven from men, and to have a beast's 
 heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds 
 us of an impure angel, who has surprised man 
 naked and asleep, looked at him with micro- 
 scopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of 
 fallen dignity and incipient godhood, and in 
 heartless rhymes reported accordingly. 
 
 " Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, 
 although the feminine element which was in 
 the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. 
 Pope was a more successful and a happier man 
 than Swift. He was much smaller, too, in soul 
 as well as in body, and his gall-organ was pro- 
 portionably less. Pope's feeling to humanity 
 was a tiny malice ; Swift's became, at length, a 
 black malignity. Pope always reminds us of 
 an injured and pouting hero of Lilliput, ' doing 
 well to be angry ' under the gourd of a pocket- 
 flap, or squealing out his griefs from the centre 
 of an empty snuff-box ; Swift is a man, nay, 
 monster of misanthropy. In minute and mi- 
 croscopic vision of human infirmities, Pope 
 excels even Swift; but then you always con-- 
 ceivo Swift leaning down a giant, though 
 gnarled, stature to behold them, whOe Pope is 
 on their level, and has only to look straight 
 before him. Pope's wrath is always measured ; 
 Swift's, as in the ' Legion-Club,' is a whirl- 
 wind of ' black fire and horror,' in the breath 
 of which no flesh can live, and against which 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 genius and virtue themselves furnish i;o 
 shield. 
 
 " After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put 
 in the plea of Byron — 
 
 * All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 All my madness none can know.' 
 
 There was a black spot of madness in his 
 brain, and another black spot in his heart ; 
 and the two at last met, and closed up his 
 destiny in night. Let human nature forgive 
 its most determined and systematic reviler, 
 for the sake of the wretchedness in which he 
 was involved all his life long. He was born 
 (in 1667) a posthumous child ; he was brought 
 up an object of charity; he spent much of 
 his youth in dependence ; he had to leave his 
 Irish college without a degree ; he was flat- 
 tered with hopes from King William and the 
 Whigs, which were not fulfilled ; he was con- 
 demned to spend a great part of his life in Ire- 
 land, a country he detested ; he was involved — 
 partly, no doubt, through his own blame — in 
 a succession of fruitless and miserable in- 
 trigues, alike of love and politics ; he was 
 soured hj Avant of success in England, and 
 spoiled by enormous populai-ity in Ireland ; 
 he was tried by a kind of religious doubts, 
 which would not go out to prayer or fasting ; 
 he was haimted by the fear of the dreadful 
 calamity which at last befell him ; his senses 
 and his soul left him one by one ; he became 
 first giddy, then deaf, and then mad ; his 
 madness was of the most terrible sort — it was 
 a ' silent rage ; ' for a year or two he lay 
 dumb ; and at last, on the 19th of October, 
 1745, 
 
 ' Swift expired, a driveller and a show,' 
 
 leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, 
 and his works as a many-volumed legacy of 
 curse to mankind." — Gilfillan's " Less-known 
 Brit. Poets," iii. 43-47. See Aikin's " Select 
 Brit. Poets" ; Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 "Alexander Pope, an English poet of great 
 eminence, was born in London in 1688. His 
 father, who appears to have acquired wealth by 
 trade, was a Roman Catholic, and being disaf- 
 fected to the politics of KingWUliam,he retired 
 to Binfield, in Windsor Forest, where he pur- 
 chased a small house, with some acres of land, 
 and lived frugally upon the fortune he had 
 saved. Alexander, who was from infancy of 
 a delicate habit of body, after learning to 
 read and write at home, was placed about his 
 eighth year under the care of a Romish priest, 
 who taught him the rudiments of Latin and 
 Greek. His natural fondness for books was 
 
 indulged about this period by Ogilby's trans- 
 lation of 'Homer,' and Sandys's of Ovid's 
 ' Metamorphoses,' which gave him so much 
 delight, that they may be said to have made 
 him a poet. He pursued his studies under 
 different priests, to whom he was consigned. 
 At length he became the director of his~bwn 
 pursuits, the variety of which proved that he 
 Avas by no means deficient in industry, though 
 his reading was rather excursive than method- 
 ical. From his early years poetry Avas adopted 
 by him as a profession, for his poetical read- 
 ing was always accompanied with attempts at 
 imitation or translation ; and it may be affirmed 
 that he rose at once almost to perfection in 
 this walk. His manners and conversation 
 were equally beyond his years ; and it does 
 not appear that he ever cultivated friendship 
 with any one of his own age or condition. 
 
 " Pope's ' Pastorals ' were first printed in a 
 volume of Tonson's 'Miscellanies' in 1709, 
 and were generally admired for the sweetness 
 of the versification and th'e lustre of the 
 diction, though they betrayed a want of 
 original observation and an artificial cast of 
 sentiment : in fact, they Avere anything rather 
 than real pastorals. In the mean time he 
 Avas exercising himself in compositions of a 
 higher class ; and by his ' Essay on Criticism,' 
 published two years afterwards, he obtained a 
 great accession of reputation, merited by the 
 comprehension of thought, the general good 
 sense, and the frequent beauty of illustration 
 Avhich it presents, though it displays many of 
 the inaccui-acies of a juvenile author. In 
 1712, his 'Rape of the Lock,' a mock heroic, 
 made its first appearance, and conferred upon 
 him the best title ho possesses to the merit of 
 invention. The machinery of the ' Sylphs ' 
 was afterwards added, an exquisite fancy- 
 piece, wrought with unrivalled skill and 
 beauty. The * Temple of Fame,' altered from 
 Chaucer, though partaking of the embarrass- 
 ment of the original plan, has many passages 
 Avhich may rank Avith his hapi)iest efforts. 
 
 " In the year 1713, Pope issued proposals for 
 publishing a translation of Homer's ' Iliad,' 
 the success of which soon removed all doubt 
 of its making an accession to his reputation, 
 whilst it afforded an ample remuneration for 
 his labour. This noble work was published 
 in separate volumes, each containing four 
 books; and the produce of the subscription 
 enabled him to take that house at Twickenham 
 Avhich he made so famous by his residence and 
 decorations. He brought hither his father 
 and mother ; of whom the first parent died 
 two years afterAvards. The second long sur- 
 vived, to be comforted by the truly filial atten- 
 tions of her son. About this period he 
 probably Avrote his ' Epistle from Eloisa to 
 Abelard,' partly founded upon the extant 
 letters of these distinguished persons. He 
 has rendered this one of the most impressive 
 poems of which love is the subject ; as it is 
 likeAvise the most finished of all his Avorks of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Period.' 
 
 equal length, in point of language and versifi- 
 cation. The exaggeration, however, which he 
 has given to the most impassioned expressions 
 of Eloisa, and liis deviations from the true 
 story, have been pointed out by Mr. Berring- 
 ton in his ' Lives of the Two Lovers.' 
 
 " During the years in which he was chiefly 
 engaged with the ' Iliad,' he published several 
 occasional works, to which he usually prefixed 
 very elegant prefaces ; but the desire of farther 
 emolument induced him to extend his transla- 
 tion to the ' Odyssey,' in which task he en- 
 gaged two inferior hands, whom he paid out of 
 the produce of a new subscription. He himself, 
 however, translated twelve books out of the 
 twenty-four, with a happiness not inferior to 
 his ' Iliad ' ; and the transaction, conducted 
 in a truly mercantile spirit, was the source of 
 considerable profit to him. After the appear- 
 ance of the ' Odyssey,' Pope almost solely made 
 himself known as a satirist and moralist. In 
 1728 he published the three first books of the 
 ' Dunciad,' a kind of mock heroic, the object 
 of which was to overwhelm with indelible 
 ridicule all his antagonists, together w*ith 
 some other authors whom spleen or party led 
 him to rank among the dunces, though they 
 had given him no personal ofi'ence. Notwith- 
 standing that the diction and versification of 
 this poem are laboured with the greatest care, 
 we shall borrow nothing from it. Its imagery 
 is often extremely gross and offensive; and 
 irritability, ill-nature, and partiality, are so 
 prominent through the whole, that whatever 
 he gains as a poet, he loses as a man. He 
 has, indeed, a claim to the character of a 
 satirist in this production, but none at all to 
 that of a moralist. 
 
 " The other selected pieces, though not en- 
 tirely free from the same defects, may yet be 
 tolerated ; and his noble work, called the 
 ' Essay on Man,' which may stand in the 
 first class of ethical poems, does not deviate 
 from the style proper to its topic. This piece 
 gave an example of the poet's extraordinary 
 power of managing argumentation in verse, 
 and of compressing his thoughts into clauses 
 of the most energetic brevity, as well as of 
 expanding them into passages distinguished by 
 every poetic ornament. The origin of this 
 essay is, however, generally ascribed to Lord 
 Bolingbroke, who was adopted by the author 
 as his ' guide, philosopher, and friend ' ; and 
 there is little doubt that, with respect to man- 
 kind in general, Pope adopted, without always 
 fully understanding, the system of Boling- 
 broke. 
 
 " On his works in prose, among which a col- 
 lection of letters appears conspicuous, it is 
 unnecessary hero to remark. His life was not 
 prolonged to the period of old age ; an oppres- 
 sive asthma indicated an early decline, and 
 accumulated infirmities incapacitated him from 
 pursuing the plan he had formed for new 
 works. After having complied, through the 
 instigation of a Catholic friend, with the cere- 
 
 monies of that religion, he quietly expired on 
 May 30th, 1744, at the age of fifty-six. He 
 was interred at Twickenham, where a monu- 
 ment was erected to his memory by the com- 
 mentator and legatee of his writings, Bishop 
 Warburton. 
 
 " Eegarded as a poet, while it is allowed 
 that Pope was deficient in invention, his other 
 qualifications will scarcely be disputed ; and 
 it will generally be admitted that no English 
 writer has caiTied to a gi-eater degree cor- 
 rectness of versification, strength and splen- 
 dour of diction, and the truly poetical power 
 of vivifying and adorning every subject that ho 
 touched. The popularity of his productions 
 has been proved by their constituting a school 
 of English poetry, which in part continues to 
 the xu-esent time." — xiikin's " Select Brit. 
 Poets," pp. 345, 346. 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL. 
 
 This poet is now "chiefly remembered from 
 his connection with Addison. He was born at 
 Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April, 1701, he 
 became a member of Queen's College, Oxford. 
 In 1708, he was made M.A., and two years 
 after was chosen FeUow. He held his Fellow- 
 ship till 1726, when, marrying in Dublin, he 
 necessarily vacated it. He attracted Addison' s 
 attention first by some elegant lines in praise 
 of Rosamond, and then by the ' Prospect of 
 Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although 
 called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took 
 the Tory side. This poem Addison, in spite 
 of its politics, praised highly in the S]pectator, 
 which led to a lifelong friendship between 
 them. Tickell commenced contributing to the 
 Spectator, among other things publishing there 
 a poem entitled the ' Eoyal Progress.' Some 
 time after, he produced a translation of tlie 
 first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared 
 to be superior to Pope's. This led the latter 
 to imagine that it was Addison's own, although 
 it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., 
 which still exists, that it was a veritable pro- 
 duction of Tickell' s. When Addison went 
 to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, 
 Tickell accompanied him, and Avas employed 
 in public business. When Addison became 
 Secretary of State, he made Tickell Under- 
 Secretary ; and when he died, he left him the 
 charge of publishing his works, with an 
 earnest recommendation to the care of Craggs. 
 Tickell faithfully performed the task, pre- 
 fixing to them an elegy on his departed friend, 
 which is now his own chief title to fame. In 
 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords- 
 Justices of Ireland, a place of great trust and 
 honour, and which he retained to his death. 
 This event happened at Bath, in the year 
 1740. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 " His genius was not strong, but elegant and 
 refined, and appears, as we have just stated, 
 to best advantage in his lines on Addison's 
 death, which are warm with genuine love, 
 tremulous with sincere sorrow, and shine 
 with a sober splendour, such as Addison's 
 own exquisite taste would have approved." — 
 Gilfillan's " Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. iii., 
 pp. 29, 30. 
 
 SIR SAMUEL GAETH. 
 
 Sir Samuel Garth, died 1718—1719. He 
 was a native of Yorkshire, educated at Peter 
 House, Cambridge, took the degree of M.D. 
 in 1691, and was admitted fellow, June 26, 
 1693. In 1687 he commenced a dispute be- 
 tween the physicians and apothecaries ; the 
 apothecaries opposing the design of the phy- 
 sicians to furnish the poor with advice gratis, 
 and medicines at prime cost. To hold the 
 apothecaries up to public reprobation and 
 ridicule. Garth published, in 1699, 4to, his 
 satirical poem of the " Dispensary," which 
 pleased the town so much, that it went 
 through three editions in a few months. See 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Dr. John- 
 son's " Lives of the Poets " ; Gilfillan's " Less- 
 known Brit. Poets." 
 
 BISHOP KEN. 
 
 Bishop Ken, born 1637, died 1710. He 
 was educated at Winchester School, whence 
 he removed to New College, Oxford, where 
 he was elected fellow. About 1680 he 
 was appointed chaplain to the Princess 
 of Orange, whom he accompanied to Hol- 
 land. He afterwards went with Lord 
 Dartmouth to Tangiers, and on his return, 
 was made chaplain to Charles II., whom he 
 attended in his last illness, but was hindered 
 from exercising the duties of his function by 
 the Eomish priests. The king, who had a 
 great regard for him, nominated liim to the 
 bishopric of Bath and Wells, which was con- 
 firmed by James II. Ken was one of the 
 seven bishops sent to the Tower for resisting 
 the tyranny of his sovereign. He however 
 refused to take the oaths at the Revolution, 
 for which he vras deprived. Queen Anne 
 granted him a pension of .£200 per annum, 
 and he was universally esteemed for his 
 amiable manners, childlike simplicity, and 
 unafi"eGted piety. A meeker and a braver 
 man never lived, and by his pure and holy 
 life he has thrown a lustre on the bench of 
 bishops. He published several Avorks of 
 piety, and wrote some exquisite hymns, and 
 also an epic poem, entitled " Edmund." He 
 was born at Berkhampstead, Herts, and died 
 in Wiltshire. See Beeton's "Diet. Univer. 
 Biog." 
 
 NAHUM TATE. 
 
 Nahum Tate, an Irish poet ; he was 
 appointed Laureate in 1692. He wrote " Pa- 
 nacea," a poem on tea ; ten dramatic pieces, a 
 number of poems on various subjects, and, in 
 conjunction with Brady, translated the Psalms 
 into metre. Born at Dublin, 1652 , died in 
 London, 1715. See Beeton's "Diet. Univ. 
 Biog." 
 
 SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. 
 
 Sir Richard Blackmore, bom 1658 (?), died 
 1729. He was a physician, had an extensive 
 practice, knighted by William III., and wrote 
 several epic poems, of which the " Creation " 
 has been admitted into the collections of the 
 British Poets. Johnson remarks, that "Black- 
 more, by the unremitted enmity of the wits, 
 whom he provoked more by his virtue than his 
 dulness, has been exposed to worse treatment 
 than he deserved," and he adds that "the 
 poem on ' Creation ' wants neither harmony 
 of numbers, accuracy of thought, nor elegance 
 of diction." Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit. " ; 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 AMBROSE PHILIPS. 
 
 Ambrose Philips, born 1675, died 1749. 
 " Educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 was a friend of Addison and Steele, but was 
 violently attacked by Pope. He wrote three 
 tragedies and some Pastorals, which were 
 much admired at the time, but are now 
 deservedly forgotten. 'The pieces of Philips 
 that please best,' observes Johnson, ' are 
 those which, from Pope and Pope's adherents, 
 procured him the name of ' Namby Pamby,' 
 the poems of short lines, by which he paid 
 his court to all ages and characters, from 
 Walpole, the ' steerer of the realm,' to Miss 
 Pulteney in the nursery. The numbers are 
 smooth and sprightly, and the diction is 
 seldom faulty. They are not much loaded 
 with thought, yet, if they had been written 
 by Addison, they would have had admirers.' " 
 —Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit.," p. 312. 
 
 JOHN GAY. 
 
 John Gay, born 1688, died 1732. " Gay was 
 the second son of John Gay, Esq., of Frithel- 
 stock, near Great Torrington, Devonshire. 
 His parents died during his infancy,- and after 
 receiving his education at Barnstaple, the 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Period. 
 
 poet was placed apprentice to a silk-mercer 
 in London. The Duchess of Monmouth in 
 1712 (by which time Gay had appeared as a 
 poet) made him her private secretary, and he 
 attracted the notice and friendship of Pope 
 and the other leading literary men of the time. 
 ' Gay was the general favourite of the whole 
 association of wits ; but they regarded him 
 as a playfellow rather than as a partner.' 
 His connections with the Tory party excluded 
 him from the patronage of the house of 
 Brunswick ; but after the loss of an illusory 
 wealth in the wreck of the South Sea Scheme 
 in 1720, the compelled industry of the 
 luxurious and indolent poet realized for him 
 a tolerable competency. Sheltered in the 
 last years of his life under the hospitable roof 
 of his noble patrons, the Duke and Duchess 
 of Queensbury, and in the enjoyment of an 
 affectionate correspondence with his friends, 
 Pope and Swift, he suddenly died of fever in 
 1732. The death of this single-hearted man 
 was deeply lamented. 
 
 " Gay is best known by his Fables and his 
 ' Beggar's Opera.' The former bear the first 
 rank in the language of their class of writing ; 
 the latter, though the applications of its 
 political satire are obsolete, and its morality 
 not especially commendable, still, by the 
 vigour and liveliness of its portraitures, 
 retains its place on the stage. It banished 
 the affectations of the Italian Opera, as his 
 Pastorals, written in ridicule of those of 
 Ambrose Philips, effectually suppressed the 
 false taste in that species of composition. 
 
 " The style of Gay is fluent, lively, and 
 natural. His genius is not of a high order, 
 but is eminently adapted to the subjects it 
 has selected. He may be termed the inventor 
 of the English Ballad Opera. The most 
 popular of his ballads is 'Black-eyed Susan.' " 
 — Scrymgeour's "Poetry and Poets of Britain," 
 pp. 296-7. See Campbell's "Spec"; Alli- 
 bone's " Crit. Die. Eng. Lit." ; Dr. Johnson's 
 "Life of (Jay"; Hazlitt's " Lect. Eng. 
 Poets"; "Biog. Brit."; S^vift's Works; 
 Pope's Works; Spencer's "Anecdotes"; 
 " Mischief arising from the Beggar's Opera ".; 
 " Lon. Gent. Mag.," vol. xliii. ; Hewitt's 
 " Homes and Haunts of Eminent Brit. 
 Poets"; Thackeray's "Humorists of the 
 Eighteenth Cent." 
 
 THOMAS PAENELL. 
 
 Thomas Parnell, born 1679, died 1717. 
 " An agreeable poet, was descended from an 
 ancient family in Cheshire. His father, who 
 was attached to the cause of the Parliament 
 in the civil wars of Charles L, withdrew to 
 Ireland after the restoration, where he pur- 
 chased an estate. His eldest son, Thomas, 
 was born at Dublin, in 1679, and received 
 
 his school education in that city. At an 
 eaxly age he was removed to the college, 
 where he was admitted to the degree of M.A. 
 in 1700, took deacon's orders in the same 
 year, and was ordained priest three years 
 afterwards. In 1705 ho was presented to the 
 archdeaconry of Clogher, and about the same 
 time married a lady of great beauty and 
 merit. He now began to make those frequent 
 excursions to England, in which the most 
 desirable part of his life was thenceforth spent. 
 His first connections were principally with 
 the Whigs, at that time in power; and Ad- 
 dison, Congreve, and Steele are named 
 among his chief companions. When, at the 
 latter part of Queen Anne's reign, the Tories 
 were triumphant, Parnell deserted his former 
 friends, and associated Avith Swift, Pope, 
 Gay, and Arbuthnot. Swift introduced him 
 to Lord-Treasurer Harley ; and, with the 
 dictatorial air which he was fond of assum- 
 ing, insistedupon the Treasurer's going with his 
 staff in his hand into the antichamber, Avhere 
 Parnell was waiting to welcome him. It is 
 said of this poet, that every year, as soon as 
 he had collected the rents of his estate, and 
 the revenue of his benefices, he came over to 
 England, and spent some months, living in 
 an elegant style, and rather impairing than 
 improving his fortune. At this time he was 
 an assiduous preacher in the London pulpitp, 
 with the intention of rising to notice ; but 
 the change of the ministry at Queen Anne's 
 death put an end to his more brilliant pro- 
 spects in the church. By means, however, 
 of Swift's recommendation to Archbishop 
 King, he obtained a prebend, and the valuable 
 living of Finglass. 
 
 " His domestic happiness received a severe 
 shock in 1712, by the death of his beloved 
 wife ; and it was the effect on his spirits of 
 this affliction which led him into such a 
 habit of intemj)erance in wine as shortened 
 his days. This, at least, is the gloss put 
 upon the circumstance by his historian, Gold- 
 smith, Avho represents him ' as in some 
 measure a martyr to conjugal fidelity.' But 
 it can scarcely be doubted, that this mode of 
 life had already been formed when his very 
 unequal spirits had reqviired the aid of a glass 
 for his support. He died at Chester, on his 
 way to Ireland, in July, 1717, in the thirty- 
 eighth year of his age, and was buried in 
 Trinity Church, in that city. 
 
 " Parnell was the author of several pieces, 
 both in prose and verse ; but it is only by the 
 latter that he is now known. Of these a 
 collection was published by Pope, with a 
 dedication to the Earl of Oxford. Their 
 characters are ease, sprightliness, fancj', 
 clearness of language, and melody of versifica- 
 tion ; and though not ranking among the 
 most finished productions ot the British 
 muse, they claim a place among the most 
 pleasing. A large addition to these was 
 made in a work printed in Dublin, in 1758, of 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 which Dr. Johnson saj^s, ' I know not 
 whence they came, nor have ever enquired 
 whither they are going.' " — ^Aikin's " Select 
 Brit. Poets," p. 221. 
 
 MATTHEW GEEEN. 
 
 Matthew Green, born 1696, died 17«7. 
 "His parents were respectable Dissenters, who 
 brought him up within the limits of the sect. 
 His learning was confined to a little Latin ; 
 but, from the frequency of his classical al- 
 lusions, it may be concluded that what he 
 read when young, he did not forget. The 
 austerity in which he was educated had the 
 effect of inspiring him with settled disgust ; 
 and he fled from the gloom of dissenting 
 worship when he was no longer compelled to 
 attend it. Thus set loose from the opinions 
 of his youth, he speculated very freely on 
 religious topics, and at length adopted the 
 system of outward compliance with established 
 forms and inward laxity of belief. He seems 
 at one time to have been much inclined to 
 the principles of Quakerism ; but he found that 
 its practice would not agree with one who hved 
 ' by puUing off the hat.' We find that he had 
 obtained a place in the Custom house, the 
 duties of which he is said to have discharged 
 with great diligence and fidehty. It is further 
 attested, that he was a man of great probity 
 and sweetness of disposition, and that his 
 conversation abounded with wit, but of the 
 most inoffensive kind. He seems to have 
 been subject to low spirits, as a relief from 
 which he composed his principal poem, ' The 
 Spleen.' 
 
 " The poems of Green, which were not made 
 public till after his death, consist of ' The 
 Spleen ' ; ' The Grotto ' ; ' Verses on Bar- 
 clay's Apology ' ; ' The Seeker,' and some 
 smaller pieces, aU comprised in a small 
 volume. In manner and subject they are 
 some of the most original in our language. 
 They rank among the easy and familiar, but 
 are replete with uncommon thoughts, new 
 and striking images, and those associations 
 of remote ideas by some unexpected simili- 
 tudes, in which wit principally consists. Few 
 poems -will bear more repeated perusals ; and, 
 with those who can fully enter into them, 
 they do not fail to become favorites." — Aikin's 
 " Select Brit. Poets," p. 310. 
 
 ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 
 
 Anne Countess of Winchelsea, died 1720, 
 was the daughter of Sir William Kingsmill of 
 Sidmonton, in the county of Southampton, 
 maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and 
 wife to Heneage Earl of Winchelsea. A col- 
 
 Isction of her poems was i>rinted in 1713; 
 several still remain unpublished. 
 
 "It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, 
 " that excepting the ' Nocturnal Reverie,' and 
 a passage or two in the ' Windsor Forest ' of 
 Pope, the poetry of the period intervening 
 between the publication of ' Paradise -Lost ' 
 and ' The Seasons ' does not contain a single 
 new image of external nature." — Campbell's 
 " Specimens," p. 705. 
 
 "WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. 
 
 William SomerviUe, born 1692, died 1742, 
 was descended from an ancient family. He 
 possessed an estate of <£1,500 per annum, 
 was amiable and hospitable, and united 
 elegant and refined pursuits with the active 
 amusements which he has so graphically de- 
 scribed in his " Chase " ; but from deficiency 
 in economy and temperance, was driven, ac- 
 cording to Shenstone's account, to drink 
 himself into pains of body in order to get rid 
 of those of the mind. Campbell's " Spec." 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 He was born 1686, died 1758. He was 
 of a happy, jovial, and contented humour, 
 and rendered great services to the litera- 
 ture of his country by reviving the taste 
 for the excellent old Scottish poets, and by 
 editing and imitating the incomparable songs 
 and ballads current among the people. He 
 was also the author of an original pastoral 
 poem, the 'Gentle (or Noble) Shepherd,' 
 which grew out of two eclogues he had 
 written, descriptive of the rural life and 
 scenery of Scotland. The complete work 
 appeared in 1725, and consists of a series of 
 dialogues in verse, written in the melodious 
 and picturesque dialect of the country, and 
 interwoven into a simple but interesting 
 love-story. The pictures of nature given in 
 this charming work, equally faithful and 
 ideal, the exact representation of real peasant 
 life and sentiment, which Ramsay, with the 
 true instinct of a poet, knew how to make 
 strictly true to reality without a particle of 
 vulgarity, and the light but firm delineations 
 of character, render this poem far superior 
 in interest, however inferior in romantic 
 ideality, to the 'Pastor Fido,' the 'Galatea,' 
 or the ' Faithful Shepherdess.' The songs he 
 has occasionally interspersed, though they 
 may sometimes be out of place by retarding 
 the march of events, are often eminently 
 beautiful, as are many scattered through 
 Ramsay's voluminous collections, in which he 
 combined the revival of older compositions 
 with imitations and originals of his own. The 
 treasures of tenderness, beautiful description, 
 and sly humour which Ramsay transmitted 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Period.- 
 
 from Dunbar, James I., David Lyndsay, and a 
 thousand nameless national bards, were con- 
 centrated into one splended focus in the 
 writings of the author of ' Tarn O'Shanter.' " 
 —Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 311-2. 
 
 ELIJAH EENTOK 
 
 Elijah Fenton, bom 1683, died 1730. A 
 native of Shelton, Staffordshire, educated at 
 Jesus College, Cambridge, is best known as 
 the assistant of Pope in the translation of 
 the " Odyssey." Johnson and Warton state 
 that he translated only the 1st, 4th, 19th, 
 and 20th books, but the Earl of Orrery 
 asserts that he really translated double the 
 number of books that Pope has owned. " His 
 reward was a trifle, an arrant trifle," writes 
 the Earl in a letter to Mr. Duncombe. He 
 has even told me that he thought Pope feared 
 him more than he loved him. He had no 
 opinion of Pope's heart, and declared him, in 
 the words of Bishop Atterbury, "Mens 
 curva in corpore curvo." He was for some 
 time master of the free Grammar School, 
 Sevenoaks, Kent, and subsequently tutor to 
 Lord BroghUl, son of his friend the Earl of 
 Orrery. He published " Poems on Several 
 Occasions," 1717, " Marianne," a tragedy. — 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. " ; Johnson's 
 "Lives of the Eng. Poets"; Bowles' ed. 
 of Pope. 
 
 EDWAED WAED. 
 
 Edward Ward, bom 1667, died 1731. 
 *' Edward (familiarly called Ned) Ward was a 
 low-bom uneducated man, who followed the 
 trade of a publican. He is said, however, to 
 have attracted many eminent persons to his 
 house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, 
 to have had a general acquaintance among 
 authors, and to have been a great retailer of 
 literary anecdotes. In those times the tavern 
 was a less discreditable haunt than at present, 
 and his literary acquaintance might probably 
 be extensive. Ten thick volumes attest the 
 industry or cacoethes of this facetious pub- 
 lican, who wrote his very will in verse. His 
 favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His 
 works give a complete picture of the mind of a 
 vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is 
 the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit 
 and humour are equally gross ; but his de- 
 scriptions are still curious and full of life, 
 and are worth preserving, as delineations of 
 the manners of the times." — Campbell's " Spe- 
 cimens," p. 350. 
 
 BARTON BOOTH. 
 
 Barton Booth, bom 1681, died 1733, an 
 eminent English author. He wrote those 
 
 charming stanzas, " Sweet are the charms of 
 her I love." He left a dramatic piece 
 entitled "The Death of Dido," 1716, 5vo. 
 The memoirs of Booth were published in 
 London, 1733; also by Theop. Gibber, 'and 
 by Mr. Victor.— Allibone's " Crit. Diet. En^'. 
 Lit." 
 
 JOHN OLDMIXON. 
 
 John Oldmixon, bora 1673, died 1742. 
 " Ridiculed in the Tatler under the name of 
 Omikron, the unborn poet, and one of the 
 heroes of the ' Dunciad,' who mounts the side 
 of a lighter in order to plunge vnth. more 
 effect. His party virulence was rewarded 
 with the place of collector of the customs at 
 the port of Bridgewater." — Campbell's " Spe- 
 
 DR. GEORGE SEWELL. 
 
 Dr. George Sewell, died Feb. 8, 1726. 
 He was the author of " Sir Walter Raleigh," 
 a tragedy ; several papers in the fifth volume 
 of the Tatler, and ninth of the Spectator ; a 
 life of John Philips, and several other things. 
 He was a physician at Hampstead, with very 
 little practice, and chiefly subsisted on the 
 invitations of the neighboviring gentlemen, to 
 whom his amiable character made him ac- 
 ceptable ; but at his death not a friend or 
 relative came to commit his remains to the 
 dust. He was buried in the meanest manner, 
 under a hollow tree, that was once part of 
 the boundary of the church-yard of Hamp- 
 stead. No memorial was placed over his 
 remains. — Campbell's " Specimens," -p. 345. 
 
 THOMAS SOUTHEENE. 
 
 Thomas Southeme, bom in Dublin, 1659, 
 died 1746. " He studied the law in the 
 Temple, but quitted that profession for the 
 army. The close of his life was tranquil 
 and surrounded with competence. Southeme 
 was the author of ten plays, the most 
 conspicuous of which are the tragedies of 
 ' Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage,' and the 
 pathetic drama of ' Oroonoko.' The sufferings 
 of the generous and unhappy African, torn by 
 the slave-trade from his country and his 
 home, and his love for Imoinda, furnish good 
 materials to the pathetic genius of Southeme, 
 who was the first English author to hold up 
 to execration the cruelties of that infernal 
 traffic that so long remained a stain upon 
 o^^r country. The distress in ' Isabella ' is 
 also carried to a high degree of intensity, and 
 tenderness and pathos may be asserted to be 
 the primary characteristics of Southeme' s 
 dramatic genius." — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 NICHOLAS EOWE. 
 
 Nicholas Rowe, bom 1673, died 1718. "He 
 was descended from an aucient family in 
 Devonshire, was the son of John Rowe, 
 Esquire, a barrister of reputation and 
 extensive practice. Being- placed at West- 
 minster School, under Dr. Busby, he 
 pursued the classical studies of that place 
 with credit. At the age of sixteen he 
 v/as removed from school, and entered a 
 student of the Middle Temple, it being his 
 father's intention to bring him up to his own 
 profession : but the death of this parent, 
 when Nicholas was only nineteen, freed him 
 from what he probably thought a pursuit 
 foreign to his disposition ; and he turned his 
 chief studies to poetry and polite literature. 
 At the age of twenty-five he produced his 
 first tragedy, ' The Ambitious Stepmother ; ' 
 which was afterwards succeeded by ' Tamer- 
 lane ' ; ' The Fair Penitent ' ; ' Ulysses ' ; 
 ' The Royal Convert ' ; ' Jane Shore ' ; and 
 ' Lady Jane Grey.' Of these, though all have 
 their merits, the third and the two last alone 
 keep possession of the stage ; but ' Jane 
 Shore ' in particular never fails to be viewed 
 with deep interest. His plays, from which 
 are derived his principal claims upon pos- 
 terity, are chiefly founded on the model of 
 French tragedy : and in liis diction, w^iich is 
 poetical without being bombastic or affected ; 
 in his versification, which is singularly sweet ; 
 and in tirades of sentiment, given mth force 
 and elegance, he has few competitors. 
 
 " As a miscellaneous poet, Rowe occupies but 
 an inconsiderably place among his coun- 
 trymen; but it has been thought proper to 
 give some of his songs or ballads in the pas- 
 toral strain ; which have a touching sim- 
 plicity, scarcely excelled by any pieces of the 
 kind. His principal efforts, however, were 
 in poetical translation ; and his version of 
 Lucan's Pharsalia has been placed by Dr. 
 Johnson among the greatest productions of 
 English poetry." — Aikin's " Select Brit. 
 Poets," p. 230. 
 
 GEORGE LILLO. 
 
 George Lillo, bom 1693, died 1739, "is in 
 many respects a remarkable and singular 
 literary figure. He was a jeweller in London, 
 and appears to have been a prudent and 
 industrious tradesman, and to have accu- 
 mulated a fair competence. His dramatic 
 works consist of a peculiar species of what 
 may be called tragedies of domestic life. 
 The principal of them are ' George Barnwell,' 
 the ' Fatal Curiosity,' and ' Arden of Faver- 
 sham.' Lillo composed sometimes in verse 
 and sometimes in prose ; he based his pieces 
 upon remarkable examples of crime, generally 
 
 in the middle ranks of society, and worked 
 up the interest to a high pitch of intensity. 
 In ' George Barnwell ' is traced the career of 
 a London shopman — a real person — who is 
 lured by the artifices of an abandoned woman 
 and the force of his own passion, first into 
 embezzlement, and then into the murder of 
 an uncle. The hero of the play, like his 
 prototype in actual life, expiates his offences 
 on the scaffold. The subject of the ' Fatal 
 Curiosity,' Lillo' s most powerful work, is 
 far more dramatic in its interests. A couple, 
 reduced by circumstances, and by the absence 
 of their son, to the lowest depths of distress, 
 receive into their house a stranger, who is 
 evidently in possession of a large sum : while 
 he is asleep, they determine to assassinate 
 him for the purpose of plunder, and after-, 
 wards discover in their victim their long-lost 
 son. It will be remembered that the tragic 
 story of ' Arden of Faversham,' a tissue of 
 conjugal infidelity and murder, was an event 
 that really took place in the reign of EUza- 
 beth, and had furnished materials for a very 
 popular drama, attributed, but on insufficient 
 evidence, to Shakspere among other play- 
 wrights of the time. It was again revived 
 by Lillo, and treated in his characteristic 
 manner — a manner singularly intense in 
 spirit, though prosaic in form. Indeed, the 
 very absence of imagination in this writer 
 may have contributed to the effect he pro- 
 duced, by augmenting the air of reality in his 
 conceptions. He has something of the gloom 
 and sombre directness which we see in 
 Webster or Tourneur, but ho is entirely 
 devoid of the wild fantastic fancy which 
 distinguishes that great writer. He is real, 
 but with the reality, not of Walter Scott, but 
 of Defoe." — Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 
 265-6. 
 
 SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. 
 
 Sir John Vanbrugh, bora 1666, died 1726, 
 " was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Van- 
 brugh of London, merchant ; he was bom in 
 the parish of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, 1666. 
 He received a very liberal education, and at 
 the age of nineteen was sent by his father to 
 France, where he continued several years. 
 In 1703 he was appointed Clarencicux king 
 of arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by 
 Queen Anne to carry the habit and ensigns 
 of the order of the garter to King George the 
 First, then at Hanover. He was also made 
 comptroller-general of the board of works, 
 and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 
 1714 he received the order of knighthood, 
 and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, 
 daughter of Colonel Yarborough. Sir John 
 died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland- 
 yard, and is interred in the family vault under 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 the church of St. Stephen Walbrook. He 
 left only one son, Avho fell at the battle of 
 Fonteno}'." — Campbell's " Specimens," p. 345. 
 
 GEORGE FARQUHAE. 
 
 George Farquhar "was born at Lon- 
 donderry in Ireland in 1678, and in his 
 personal as well as his literary cha- 
 racter he exemplifies the merits and the 
 defects of his nation. He received some 
 education at college, but at the early age of 
 eighteen embraced the profession of an actor. 
 Having accidentally wounded one of his 
 comrades in a fencing-match, he quitted the 
 stage and served for some time in the army, 
 in the Earl of Orrery's regiment. His mili- 
 tary experience enabled him to give very 
 lively and faithful representations of gay, 
 rattling officers, and furnished him with 
 materials for one of his pleasantest comedies. 
 His dramatic productions, which were mostly 
 written after his return to his original 
 profession, are more numerous than those 
 of his predecessors, and consist of seven 
 plays : ' Love and a Bottle,' the ' Constant 
 Couple,' the ' Inconstant,' the ' Stage 
 Coach,' the ' Twin Rivals,' the ' Re- 
 cruiting Officer,' and the ' Beaux' Stra- 
 tagem.' These were produced in rapid suc- 
 cession, for the literary career of poor 
 Farquhar was compressed into a short space 
 of time — between 1698, when the first of the 
 above pieces was acted, and the author's 
 early death about 1708. The end of this 
 brief course, which terminated at the age of 
 thirty, was clouded by ill health and poverty ; 
 for Farquhar was induced to marry a lady 
 who gave out, contrary to truth, that she was 
 possessed of some fortune. 
 
 " The works of Farquhar are a faithful re- 
 flexion of his gay, loving, vivacious character ; 
 and it appears that down to his early death, 
 not only did they go on increasing in joyous 
 animation, but exhibit a constantly aug- 
 menting skill and ingenuity in construction, 
 his last works being incomparably his best. 
 Among them it will be unnecessary to dwell 
 minutely on any but the ' Constant Couple ' 
 (the intrigue of which is extremely animated), 
 the ' Inconstant,' and chiefly the ' Recruiting 
 Officer' and the 'Beaux' Stratagem.' In 
 Farquhar' s pieces we are delighted with the 
 overflow of high animal spirits, generally 
 accompanied, as in nature, by a certain 
 frankness and generosity. We readily pardon 
 the peccadillos of his personages, as we 
 attribute their escapades less to innate de- 
 pravity than to the heat of blood and the 
 effervescence of youth. His heroes often 
 engage in deceptions and tricks, but there is 
 no trace of the deep and deliberate rascality 
 which we see in Wycherley's intrigues, or of 
 
 the thorough scoundrelism of Vanbrugh's 
 sharpers. The ' Beaux' Stratagem ' is deci- 
 dedly the best-constructed of our author's 
 plays; and the expedient of the two embarrassed 
 gentlemen, who come down into the country 
 disguised as the master and his servant, 
 though not perhaps very probable, is ex- 
 tremely well conducted, and furnishes a series 
 of Uvely and amusing adventures. The con- 
 trast between Archer and Aimwell and Dick 
 Amlet and Brass in Vanbrugh's ' Confe- 
 deracy,' shows a higher moral tone in Far- 
 quhar, as compared with his predecessor ; and 
 the numerous characters with whom they are 
 brought in contact — Boniface the landlord. 
 Cherry, Squire Sullen, and the inimitable 
 Scrub, not to mention Gibbet the highwayman, 
 and Father Foigard the Irish-French Jesuit — 
 are drawn -ndth never-failing vivacity. Pas- 
 sages, expressions, nay, sometimes whole 
 scenes, may be found among the dramas of 
 Farquhar, stamped with that rich humour 
 and oddity which engrave them on the 
 memory. Thus Boniface's laudation of his 
 ale, ' as the saying is,' Squire Sullen' s inimi- 
 table conversation with Scrub : ' What day 
 of the week is it ? Scrub. Sunday, sir. Sul, 
 Sunday ? Then bring me a dram ! ' And 
 Scrub's suspicions : ' I am sure they are 
 talking of me, for they laughed consumedly ! ' 
 — such traits prove that Farquhar possessed 
 a true comic genius. The scenes in the 
 ' Recruiting Officer,' Avhere Sergeant Kite 
 inveigles the two clowns to enlist, and those 
 in which Captain Plume figures, are also of 
 high merit. In those plays upon which I 
 have not thought it necessary to insist, as the 
 ' Constant Couple ' and the ' Inconstant,' the 
 reader will not fail to find scenes worked up 
 to a great brilliancy of comic effect : as, for 
 example, the admirable interview between Sir 
 Harry Wildair and Lady Lurewell, when the 
 envious coquette endeavours to make him 
 jealous of his wife, and he drives her almost 
 to madness by dilating on his conjugal 
 happiness. Throughout Farquhar' s plays the 
 predominant quality is a gay geniality, which 
 more than compensates for his less elaborate 
 brilliancy in sparkling repartee. He seems 
 always to ■write from his heart ; and there- 
 fore, though we shall in vain seek in his 
 dramas for a very high standard of moralitj', 
 his writings are free from that inhuman tone 
 of blackguard heartlessness which disgraces 
 the comic literature of the time." — Shaw's 
 " HLst. Eng. Lit.," pp. 255-7. 
 
 GEORGE GRANVILLE, 
 
 Lord Lansdowne, born 1667, died 1735. A 
 noble imitator, in an aristocratic sense, of 
 Waller, and better known " as Granville the 
 polite, than Granville the poet." 
 
FIFTH PEEIOD 
 
 From 1689 to 1727. 
 
 747.— AN ODE. 
 
 Man ! foolish man ! 
 Scarce know'st thou how thyself began ; 
 Scarce hast thou thought enough to prove 
 
 thou art ; 
 Yet steeled with studied boldness, thou darest 
 
 try- 
 To pend thy doubting reason's dazzled eye 
 Through the mysterious gulf of vast immen- 
 sity. 
 Much thou canst there discern, much thence 
 
 impart. 
 Vain wretch ! suppress thy kno^ving pride ; 
 
 Mortify thy learned lust ! 
 Vain are thy thoughts, while thou thyself art 
 
 dust. 
 
 Let Wit her sails, her oars let Wisdom lend ; 
 
 The helm let politic Experience guide : 
 
 Yet cease to hope thy short-lived bark shall 
 
 ride 
 DoAvn spreading Fate's unnavigable tide. 
 What, though still it farther tend ? 
 Still 'tis farther from its end ; 
 And, in the bosom of that boundless sea, 
 Still finds its error lengthen with its way. 
 With daring pride and insolent delight 
 Your doubts resolved you boast, your labours 
 
 crowned ; 
 And "ErPHKA ! your god, forsooth is found 
 Incomprehensible and infinite. 
 But is he therefore found? vain searcher ! no: 
 Lot your imperfect definition show. 
 That nothing you, the weak definer, know. 
 
 Say, why should the collected main 
 
 Itself within itself contain ? 
 Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep, 
 
 And with delighted silence sleep 
 On the loved bosom of its parent deep ? 
 
 Why should its numerous waters stay 
 In comely discipline, and fair array. 
 Till winds and tides exert their high command.^ 
 
 Then prompt and ready to obey, 
 
 Why do the rising surges spread 
 Their opening ranks o'er earth's submissive 
 
 head, 
 Marching through different paths to different 
 lands ? 
 
 Why does the constant sun 
 With measured steps his radiant journeys 
 
 run.? 
 Why does he order the diurnal hours 
 To leave earth's other part, and rise on ours ? 
 Why does he wake the correspondent moon. 
 And fill her willing lamp with liquid light. 
 Commanding her with delegated powers 
 To beautify the world, and bless the night ? 
 
 Why does each animated star 
 Love the just lim.its of its proper sphere ? 
 
 Why does each consenting sign 
 
 With prudent harmony combine 
 In turns to move, and subsequent appear, 
 To gird the globe, and regulate the year ? 
 
 Man does with dangerous curiosity 
 These unfathomed wonders try : 
 With fancied rules and arbitrary laws 
 Matter and motion he restrains ; 
 And studied lines and fictions circles draws : 
 Then -with imagined sovereignty 
 Lord of his new hypothesis he reigns. 
 He reigns-, how long I till some usurper 
 
 rise. 
 And he, too, mighty thoughtful, mighty 
 wise. 
 Studios new lines, and other circles feigns. 
 From this last toil again what knowledge 
 flows? 
 
 Just as much, perhaps, as shows, 
 That all his predecessor's lailes 
 Were empty cant, all jargon of the Schools ; 
 That he on the other's ruin rears his 
 throne ; 
 And shows his friend's mistake, and thence 
 confirms his own. 
 
 On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies, 
 Mountainous heaps of wonders rise ; 
 Whose towering strength will ne'er submit 
 To Eeason's batteries, or the mines of Wit : 
 Yet still inquiring, still mistaking man. 
 Each hour repulsed, each hour dare onward 
 press ; 
 And levelling at God his wandering guess, 
 (That feeble engine of his reasoning war, 
 Which guids his doubts, and combats his 
 despair.) 
 
Matthew Pkior.] 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 [Fifth Period. 
 
 Laws to his Maker the learned -wretch can 
 
 give: 
 Can bound that nature, and prescribe that 
 
 wiU, 
 'Whose pregnant word did either ocean fill : 
 Can tell us whence all beings are, and how- 
 
 they move and Uve. 
 
 Through either ocean, foolish man ! 
 
 That pregnant word sent forth again, 
 
 Might to a world extend each atom there ; 
 
 For every drop call forth a spa, a heaven for 
 
 every star. 
 
 Let Qunning Earth her fruitful wonders 
 
 hide ; 
 And only Uft thy staggering reason up 
 To trembling Calvary's astonish'd top ; 
 Then mock thy knowledge, and confound thy 
 
 pride, 
 Explaining how Perfection suffered pain. 
 Almighty languished, and eternal died : 
 How by her patient victor Death was slain ; 
 And earth profaned, yet blessed vnth. 
 
 deicide. 
 Then down with aU thy boasted volumes, 
 
 down ; 
 
 Only reserve the sacred one : 
 Low, reverentlj^ low, 
 
 Make thy stubborn knowledge bow ; 
 Weep out thy reason's and thy body's 
 
 eyes ; 
 
 Deject thyself, that thou may'st rise ; 
 To look to Heaven, be blind to all below. 
 
 Then Faith, for Ecason's glimmering light, 
 
 Hhall give 
 
 Her immortal perspective ; 
 And Grace's presence Nature's loss retrieve : 
 Then thy enlivened soul shall see, 
 That all the volumes of philosophy, 
 With all their comments, never could invent 
 
 So politic an instrument, 
 To reach the Heaven of Heavens, the high 
 
 abode, 
 Where Moses places his mj'sterious God, 
 As was that ladder which old Jacob reared. 
 When light divine had human darkness 
 
 cleared ; 
 And his enlarged ideas found the road. 
 Which Faith had dictated, and Angels trod. 
 
 MaWieiv Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 74S.— A SONG. 
 
 In vain you tell your parting lover, 
 You wish fair winds may waft him over. 
 Alas ! what winds can happy prove. 
 That bear me far from what I love ! 
 Alas ! what dangers on the main 
 Can equal those that I sustain. 
 From slighted vows, and cold disdain ! 
 
 Be gentle, and in pity choose 
 To wish the wildest tejipests loose : 
 
 That, thrown again upon the coast, 
 Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost, 
 I may once more repeat my pain ; 
 Once more in dying notes complain 
 Of slighted vows, and cold disdain. 
 
 Matthexo Prior. — Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 749-— THE DESPAIEING SHEPHERD. 
 
 Alexis shunned his fellow swains, 
 Their rural sports, and jocund strains, 
 
 (Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow !) 
 He lost his crook, he left his flocks ; 
 And wandering through the lonely rocks. 
 
 He nourished endless woe. 
 
 The nymphs and shepherds round him came 
 His grief some pity, others blame. 
 
 The fatal cause all kindly seek ; 
 He mingled hi? concern with theirs, 
 He gave them back their friendly tearB, 
 
 He sighed, but would not speak. 
 
 Clorinda came among the rest ; 
 And she too kind concern expressed. 
 
 And asked the reason of his woe ; 
 She asked, but with an air and mien. 
 That made it easily foreseen. 
 
 She feared too much to know. 
 
 The shepherd raised his mournful head ; 
 And will you pardon me, he said, 
 
 "While I the cruel truth reveal ; 
 Wliich nothing from my breast should tear. 
 Which never shovdd offend your ear. 
 
 But that you bid me tell ? 
 
 'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, 
 Since you appeared upon the plain ; 
 
 You are the cause of all my care : 
 Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart. 
 Ten thousand torments vex my heart, 
 
 I love and I despair. 
 
 Too much, Alexis, I have heard ; 
 
 'Tis what I thought ; 'tis what I feared : 
 
 And yet I pardon you, she cried ; 
 But you shall promise ne'er again 
 To breathe your vows, or speak 3-our pain : 
 
 He bowed, obeyed, and died ! 
 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Bled 1721. 
 
 750.— THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Celia and I the other day 
 Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea ; 
 The setting sun adorned the coast, 
 His beams entire, his fierceness lost ; 
 And on the surface of the deep, 
 The winds lay only not asleep. 
 
From 1689 to 172'< 
 
 CUPID MISTAKEN. 
 
 [Matthew Prior. 
 
 The nymph did like the scene appear, 
 Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; 
 Soft feU her words, as flew the air : 
 With secret joy I heard her say, 
 That she would never miss one day 
 A walk so fine, a sight so gay. 
 
 But, oh the change ! the -winds grow high ; 
 Impending tempests charge the sky ; 
 The lightning flies ; the thunder roars ; 
 And big waves lash the frightened shores. 
 Struck with the horror of the sight, 
 She turns her head, and wings her flight ; 
 And trembling vows, she'U ne'er again 
 Approach the shore, or view the main. 
 
 Once more at least look back, said I ; 
 Thyself in that large glass descry ; 
 When thou art in good humour dressed, 
 When gentle reason rules thy breast, 
 The sun upon the calmest sea 
 Appears not half so bright as thee. 
 'Tis then, that with delight I rove 
 Upon the boundless depth of love ; 
 I bless my chain, I hand my oar ; 
 Nor think on aU I left on shore. 
 
 But when vain doubt, and groundless fear 
 Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; 
 When the big lip, and watery eye 
 TeU me, the rising storm is nigh ; 
 'Tis then, thou art yon angry main. 
 Deformed by winds, and dashed by rain ; 
 And the poor sailor, that must try 
 Its fury, labours less than I. 
 
 Ship^vi-ecked, in vain to land I make ; 
 While Love and Fate stiU drive me back ; 
 Forced to dote on thee thy own way, 
 I chide thee first, and then obey. 
 Wretched when from thee, vexed_ when nigh, 
 I with thee, or without thee, die ! 
 
 Matthew Friar.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 751.— CUPID AND GANYMEDE. 
 
 In Heaven, one holiday, you read 
 
 In Avise Anacreon, Ganymede 
 
 Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw 
 
 A main, to pass an hour, or so ; 
 
 The little Trojan, by the way. 
 
 By Hermes taught, played aU the play. 
 
 The god unhappily engaged. 
 By nature rash, by pla.y enraged, 
 Complained, and sighed, and cried, and 
 
 fretted ; 
 Lost every earthly thing he betted : 
 In ready-money, all the store 
 Picked up long since from Danae's shower; 
 A snuff-box, set with bleeding hearts, 
 Rubies, aU pierced with diamond darts ; 
 His nine-pins made of myrtle- wood 
 (The tree in Ida's forest stood) ; 
 His bowl pure gold, the very same 
 Which Paris gave the Cyprian dame : 
 Two table-books in shagreen covers ; 
 Filled with good verse from real lovers ; 
 Merchandise rare 1 a biUet-doux, 
 
 Its matter passionate, yet true ; 
 
 Heaps of hair-rings, and ciphered seals ; 
 
 Eich trifles ; serious bagatelles. 
 
 What sad disorders piay begets ! 
 Desperate and mad, at length he sets 
 Those darts whose points make gods adore 
 His might, and deprecate hi-s powcir; - 
 Those darts, whence all our joy and pain 
 Arise : those darts — Come, seven's the main. 
 Cries Ganymede ; the usual trick ; 
 Seven, slur a six ; eleven, a nick. 
 
 Ill news go fast : 'twas quickly known, 
 That simple Cupid was undone. 
 Swifter than lightning Venus flew : 
 Too late she found the thing too true. 
 Guess how the goddess greets her son : 
 Come hither, sirrah ! no, begone ; 
 And, hark ye, is it so indeed ? 
 A comi'ade you for Ganymede ! 
 An imp as wicked, for his age, 
 As any earthly lady's page ; 
 A scandal and a scourge to Troy ; 
 A prince's son ! a blackguard boy ; 
 A sharper, that with box and dice 
 Draws in young deities to vice. 
 All Heaven is by the ears together, 
 Since first that little rogue came hither ; 
 Juno herself has had no peace : 
 And truly I've been favoured less : 
 For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame 
 Says things not fit for me to name). 
 Has acted ill for such a god. 
 And taken Avays extrcmelj' odd. 
 
 And thou, unhappy child, she said 
 (Her anger by her grief allayed), 
 Unhappy child, who thus hast lost 
 All the estate we e'er could boast ; 
 Whither, O whither wilt thou run. 
 Thy name despised, thy weakness known ? 
 Nor shall thy shrine on earth be crowned ; 
 Nor shall thy power in Heaven be owned ; 
 When thou, nor man, nor god canst wound. 
 
 Obedient Cupid kneeling cried. 
 Cease, dearest mother, cease to chide : 
 Gany'sa cheat, and I'm a bubble : 
 Yet why this great excess of trouble ? 
 The dice were false : the darts are gone : 
 Yet how are you or I undone ? 
 
 The loss of these I can supply 
 With keener shafts from Cloe's eye : 
 Fear not we e'er can be disgraced, 
 While that bright magazine shall last. 
 Your crowded altars still shaU smoke ; 
 And man your friendly aid invoke : 
 Jove shall again revere your power. 
 And rise a swan, or fall a shower. 
 
 Matthew Friar.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 752.— CUPID MISTAKEN. 
 
 As after noon, one summer's day, 
 Venus stood bathing in a river, 
 
 Cupid a- shooting went that way, 
 
 Now strung his bow, new filled liis quiver. 
 
Matthew Prioh.] 
 
 MEECURY AND CUPID. 
 
 [Fifth Period — 
 
 With skill he chose his sharpest dart, 
 With all his might his bow he drew ; 
 
 Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 
 The too well-guided arrow flew. 
 
 I faint ! I die ! the goddess cried ; 
 
 cruel, couldst thou find none other, 
 To wreck thy spleen on •' Parricide ! 
 
 Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 
 
 Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak ; 
 Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye : 
 Alas ! how easy my mistake ; 
 
 1 took you for your likeness Cloe. 
 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 753.— MERCUEY AND CUPID. 
 
 In sullen humour one day Jove 
 
 Sent Hermes down to Ida's gi-ove, 
 
 Commanding Cupid to deliver 
 
 His store of darts, his total quiver ; 
 
 That Hermes should the weapons break, 
 
 Or throw them into Lethe's lake. 
 
 Hermes, you know, must do his errand : 
 He found his man, produced his warrant ; 
 Cupid, your darts — this very hour — 
 There's no contending against power. 
 
 How sullen Jupiter, just now, 
 I think I said ; and you'll allow, 
 That Cupid was as bad as he : 
 Hear but the youngster's repartee. 
 
 Come, kinsman (said the little god). 
 Put off your -wings, lay by your rod ; 
 Retire with me to yonder bower, 
 And rest yourself for half an hour ; 
 'Tis far indeed from hence to Heaven, 
 But you fly fast ; and 'tis but seven. 
 We'll take one cooling cup of nectar ; 
 And drink to this celestial hector — 
 
 He break my dart, or hurt my power I 
 He, Leda's swan, and Danati's shower ! 
 Go, bid him his wife's tongue restrain, 
 And mind his thunder, and his rain. — 
 My darts ! O certainly I'll give them : 
 From Cloe's eyes he shall receive them. 
 There's one, the best in all my quiver, 
 Twang ! through his very heart and liver. 
 He then shall pine, and sigh, and rave : 
 Good lord ! what bustle shall we have ! 
 Neptune must straight be sent to sea, 
 And Flora summoned twice a day : 
 One must find shells, and t'other flowers, 
 For cooling grots, and fragrant bowers, 
 That Cloe may be served in state : 
 The Hours must at her toilet wait : 
 Whilst all the reasoning fools below 
 Wonder their watches go too slow. 
 Lybs must fly south, and Eurus east, 
 For jewels for her hair and breast ; 
 No matter though their cruel haste 
 Sink cities, and lay forests waste ; 
 No matter though this fleet be lost ; 
 Or that lie wind-bound on the coast. 
 
 What whispering in my mother's ear ! 
 What care, that Juno should not hear ! 
 What work among you scholar gods ! 
 Phoebus must write him amorous odes : 
 And thou, poor cousin, must compose 
 His letters in submissive prose ; 
 Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain 
 The honour of my mystic reign, 
 Shall all his gifts and vows disdain ; 
 And laugh at your old bully's pain. 
 
 Dear coz., said Hermes in a fright, 
 For Heaven's sake, keep your darts ! good 
 night. 
 Mattheiu Prior.— Bom 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 754.— THE GARLAND. 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose. 
 
 The \'iolet sweet, and lily fair. 
 The dappled pink, and blushing rose, 
 
 To deck my charming Cloe's hair. 
 
 At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 
 Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
 
 The flowers less blooming than her face ; 
 The scent less fragrant than her breath. 
 
 The flowers she wore along the day ; 
 
 And every nymph and shepherd said, 
 That in her hair they looked more gay 
 
 Than glowing in their native bed. 
 
 Undressed at evening when she found 
 Their odours lost, their colours past ; 
 
 She changed her look, and on the ground 
 Her garland and her eye she cast. 
 
 That eye dropped sense distinct and clear. 
 As any Muse's tongue could speak. 
 
 When from its lid a pearly tear 
 
 Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 
 
 Dissembling what I knew too well, 
 My love, my life, said I, explain 
 
 This change of humour ; pr'ythee, tell : 
 That falling tear — What does it mean ? 
 
 She sighed ; she smiled ; and to the flowers 
 Pointing, the lovely moralist said : 
 
 See, friend, in some few fleeting hours. 
 See yonder, what a change is made. 
 
 Ah me ! the blooming pride of May, 
 And that of beauty are but one ; 
 
 At morn both flourish bright and gay. 
 Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. 
 
 At dawn poor Stella danced and sung ; 
 
 The amorous youth around her bowed ; 
 At night her fatal knell was rung ; 
 
 I saw, and kissed her in her shroud. 
 
 Such as she is, who died to-day, 
 Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow ; 
 
 Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display 
 The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow. 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Matthew Peior. 
 
 755.— HENRY AND EMMA. 
 
 Thou, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command 
 (Though low my voice, though ai-tless be my 
 
 hand) 
 I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play. 
 Careless of what the censuring world may say : 
 Bright Cloe, object of mj'- constant vow, 
 Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow ; 
 Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's 
 
 strains. 
 And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his 
 
 pains ? 
 No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old ; 
 Though since her youth three hundred years 
 
 have roU'd : 
 At thy desh-e she shall again be raised ; 
 And her reviving charms in lasting verse be 
 
 praised. 
 No longer man of woman shall complain. 
 That he may love, and not be loved again ; 
 That we in vain the fickle sex pursue, 
 Who change the constant lover for the new. 
 Whatever has been writ, whatever said, 
 Of female passion feigned, or faith decayed : 
 Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand. 
 Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand. 
 And, while my notes to future times proclaim 
 Unconquered love, and ever-during flame ; 
 O fairest of the sex ! be thou my Muse : 
 Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse ; 
 Let me partake the blessings I rehearse. 
 And grant me, love, the just reward of verse ! 
 As beauty's potent queen, \Nath every grace 
 That once was Emma's, has adorned thy face ; 
 And as her son has to my bosom dealt 
 That constant flame, which faithful Henry 
 
 felt; 
 O let the story with thy life agree. 
 Let men once more the bright example see ; 
 What Emma was to him, be thou to me. 
 Nor send me by thy frown from her I love, 
 Distant and sad, a banished man to rove. 
 But oh ! with pity, long-entreated, crown 
 My pains and hopes ; and when thou say'st 
 
 that one 
 Of all mankind thou lov'st, oh ! think ^n me 
 
 alone. 
 Where beauteous Isis and her husband 
 
 Tame 
 With mingled waves for ever flow the same. 
 In times of yore an ancient baron lived ; 
 Great gifts bestowed, and great respect re- 
 ceived. 
 AVhen dreadful Edward with successful care 
 Led his free Britons to the Gallic war. 
 This lord had headed his appointed bands. 
 In firm allegiance to his king's commands ; 
 And (all due honours faithfuUj^ discharged) 
 Had brought back his paternal coat enlarged 
 With a new mark, the witness of his toil. 
 And no inglorious part of foreign sjjoil. 
 
 From the loud camp retired and noisy 
 
 court. 
 In honoui-able ease and rm-al sport, 
 
 The remnant of his days he safely passed ; 
 Nor found they lagged too slow, nor flew too 
 
 fast. 
 He made his wish with his estate comply, 
 Joyful to Live, yet not afraid to die. 
 
 One child he had, a daughter chaste and 
 fair, 
 His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir ; 
 They called her Emma; for the beauteous 
 
 dame. 
 Who gave the virgin birth, had borne the 
 
 name ; 
 The name the indulgent father doubly loved ; 
 For in the child the mother's charms im- 
 proved. 
 Yet as, when little, round his knees she 
 
 played. 
 He called her oft in sport his Nut-brown 
 
 Maid, 
 The friends and tenants took the fondling 
 
 word 
 (As still thej'^ please, who imitate their lord) ; 
 Usage confirmed what fancy had begun ; 
 The mutual terms around the lands were 
 j known ; 
 
 I And Emma and the Nut-brown Maid were, 
 one. 
 As with her stature, stiU her charms in- 
 creased ; 
 Through all the isle her beauty was confessed. 
 Oh ! what perfection must that virgin share, 
 Who fairest is esteemed, where all are fair ! 
 From distant shires repair the noble youth. 
 And find report for once had lessened truth. 
 By wonder first, and then by passion moved, 
 They came, they saw, they marvelled, and 
 
 they loved. 
 By public praises, and by secret sighs, 
 I Each owned the general power of Emma's 
 I eyes. 
 
 j In tilts and tournaments the valiant strove, 
 i By glorious deeds to purchase Emma's love. 
 '. In gentle verse the witty told their flame, 
 I And graced their choicest songs with Emma's 
 i name. 
 
 In vain they combated,' in vain they writ : 
 Useless their strength, and impotent their 
 
 wit. 
 Great Venus only must direct the dart, 
 Wliich else Avill never reach the fair one's 
 
 heart. 
 Spite of the attempts of force, and soft effects 
 
 of art. 
 Great Venus must prefer the happy one ; 
 In Henry's cause her favour must be shown ; 
 And Emma, of mankind, must love but him 
 alone. 
 While these in public to the castle came. 
 And by their grandeur justified their flame ; 
 More secret ways the careful Henry takes ; 
 His' squires, his arms, and equipage forsakes, 
 In borrowed name and false attire arrayed. 
 Oft he finds means to see the beauteous maid. 
 When Emma hunts, in huntsman's habit 
 dressed, 
 Henry on foot pursues the bounding beast ; 
 
 33 
 
Matthew Prior. 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Fifth Period.- 
 
 In Ms right hand his beechen pole he bears, 
 And graceful at his side his horn he wears. 
 Still to the glade, where she has bent her 
 
 way, 
 "With knowing skill he drives the future prey ; 
 Bids her decline the hill, and shun the brake, 
 And shows the path her steed may safest 
 
 take; 
 Directs her spear to fix the glorious wound, 
 Pleased in his toils to have her triumph 
 
 crowned ; 
 And blows her praises in no common sound. 
 A falconer Henry is, when Emma hawks ; 
 With her of tarsels and of lures he talks ; 
 Upon his wrist the towering merlin stands, 
 Practised to rise, and stoop at her commands. 
 And when superior now the bird has flown. 
 And headlong brought the tumbling quarry 
 
 doAvn ; 
 With humble reverence he accosts the fair, 
 And with the honou.red feather decks her hair. 
 Yet still, as from the sportive field she goes 
 His downcast eye reveals his inward woes ; 
 And by his look and sorrow is expressed, 
 A nobler game pursued than bird or beast. 
 
 A shepherd now along the plain he roves, 
 And with his jolly pipe delights the groves. 
 The neighbouring swains around the stranger 
 
 throng, 
 Or to admire, or emulate his song ; 
 While with soft sorrow he renews his lays, 
 Nor heedful of their envy, nor their praise. 
 But, soon as Emma's eyes adorn the plain, 
 His notes he raises to a nobler strain, 
 With dutiful respect, and studious fear ; 
 Lest any careless sound offend her ear. 
 
 A frantic gipsy now, the house he haunts. 
 And in wild phrases speaks dissembled wants. 
 With the fond maids in palmistry he deals : 
 They tell the secret first, which he reveals ; 
 Says who shall wed, and who shall be be- 
 guiled ; 
 What groom shall get, and 'squire maintain 
 
 the child. 
 But, when bright Emma would her fortune 
 
 know, 
 A softer look unbends his opening brow ; 
 With trembling awe he gazes on her eye. 
 And in soft accents forms the kind reply ; 
 That she shall prove as fortunate as fair ; 
 And Hymen's choicest gifts are aU reserved 
 for her. 
 Now oft had Henry changed his sly dis- 
 guise, 
 Unmarked by all but beauteous Emma's eyes ; 
 Oft had found means alone to see the dame. 
 And at her feet to breathe his amorous flame, 
 And oft the pangs of absence to remove 
 By letters, soft interpreters of love. 
 Till Time and Industry (the mighty two 
 That bring our wishes nearer to our view) 
 Made him perceive, that the inclining fair 
 Eeceived his vows with no reluctant ear ; 
 That Venus had confirmed her equal reign, 
 And dealt to Emma's heart a share of Henry's 
 pain. 
 
 Wliile Cupid smiled, by kind occasion 
 
 blessed. 
 And, with the secret kept, the love increased ; 
 The amorous youth frequents the silent 
 
 groves ; 
 And much he meditates, for much he loves. 
 He loves ; 'tis true ; and is beloved again : 
 Great are his joys, but will they long remain ? 
 Emma mfch smiles receives his present flame ; 
 But smiling, will she ever be the same ! 
 Beautiful looks are ruled by fickle minds ; 
 And summer seas are turned by sudden 
 
 winds. 
 Another love may gain her easy youth : 
 Time changes thought ; and flattery conquers 
 
 truth. 
 impotent estate of human life. 
 Where hope and fear maintain eternal strife ! 
 "Wliere fleeting joy does lasting doubt inspire, 
 And most we question what we most desire ! 
 Amongst thy various gifts, great Heaven 
 
 bestow 
 Our cup of love unmixed ; forbear to throw 
 Bitter ingredients in ; nor pall the draught 
 With nauseous grief; for our ill-judging 
 
 thought 
 Hardly enjoys the pleasurable taste ; 
 Or deems it not sincere, or fears it cannot 
 
 last. 
 With wishes raised, with jealousies op- 
 pressed 
 (Alternate tyrants of the human breast), 
 By one great trial he resolves to prove 
 The faith of woman, and the force of love. 
 If scanning Emma's virtues he may find 
 That beauteous frame enclose a steady mind, 
 He'll fix his hope, of future joy seciu'e ; 
 And Hve a slave to Hymen's happy power. 
 But if the fair one, as he fears, is frail ; 
 If, poised aright in reason's equal scale, 
 Light fly her merit, and her faults prevail ; 
 His mind he vows to free from amorous care. 
 The latent mischief from his heart to tear. 
 Resume his azure arms, and shine again in 
 
 war. 
 South of the castle, in a verdant glade, 
 A sprePvding beech extends her friendly shade ; . 
 Here oft the nymph his breathing vows had 
 
 lieard, 
 Here oft her silence had her heart declared. 
 As active spring awaked her infant buds. 
 And genial life informed the verdant woods, 
 Henry, in knots involving Emma's name, 
 Had haK expressed and half concealed liis 
 
 flame. 
 Upon this tree ; and, as the tender mark 
 Grew with the year, and widened with the 
 
 bark, 
 Venus had heard the virgin's soft address, 
 That, as the wound, the passion might 
 
 increase. 
 As potent Nature shed her kindly showers, 
 And decked the various mead ynth opening 
 
 flowers ; 
 Upon this tree the nymph's obliging care 
 Had left a frequent wreath for Henry's hair ; 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 HENRY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Matthew Pkioe. 
 
 Which as with g-ay delight the lover found, 
 Pleased with his conquest, with her present 
 
 crowned, 
 Glorious through all the plains he oft had 
 
 gone, 
 And to each swain the mystic honour shown ; 
 The gift still praised, the giver still unknown. 
 His secret note the troubled Henry writes, 
 To the known tree the lovely maid invites ; 
 Imperfect words and dubious terms express, 
 That unforeseen mischance disturbed his 
 
 peace ; 
 That he must something to her ear commend, 
 On which her conduct, and liis life depend. 
 
 Soon as the fair one had the note received, 
 The remnant of the day alone she grieved ; 
 For different this from every former note, 
 Which Venus dictated, and Henry wrote ; 
 Which told her all his future hopes were laid 
 On the dear bosom of his Nut-brown Maid ; 
 Which always blessed her eyes, and owned 
 
 her power ; 
 And bid her oft adieu, yet added more. 
 
 Now night advanced. The house in sleep 
 
 were laid ; 
 The nurse experienced, and the prying maid ; 
 And last that sprite, which does incessant 
 
 haunt 
 The lover's steps, the ancient maiden-aunt. 
 To her dear Henry Emma wings her way, 
 With quickened pace repairing forced delay ; 
 For love, fantastic power, that is afraid 
 To stir abroad till watchfulness be laid, 
 Undaunted then o'er cliffs and valleys strays, 
 And leads his votaries safe through pathless 
 
 ways. 
 Not Argus with his hundred eyes shall find 
 Where Cupid goes, though he, poor guide ! is 
 
 bhnd. 
 The maiden first arriving, sent her eye 
 To ask, if yet its chief delight were nigh ; 
 With fear and with desire, with joy and pain, 
 She sees, and runs to meet him on the plain. 
 But oh ! his steps proclaim no lover's haste : 
 On the low ground his fixed regards are cast ; 
 His artful bosom heaves dissembled sighs ; 
 And tears suborned fall copious from his 
 
 eyes. 
 With ease, alas ! we credit what we love ; 
 His painted grief does real sorrow move 
 In the afiiicted fair ; adown her cheek 
 Trickling the genuine tears their current 
 
 break ; 
 Attentive stood the mournful nymph; the 
 
 man 
 Broke silence first, the tale alternate ran. 
 
 Sincere, O tell me, hast thou felt a pain, 
 Emma, beyond what woman Icnows to feign ? 
 Has thy uncertain bosom ever strove 
 With the first tumults of a real love ? 
 Hast thou now dreaded, and now blest his 
 
 away, 
 Py turns averse, and joyful to obey ? 
 
 Thy virgin softness hast thou e'er bewailed ; 
 As Eeason yielded, and as Love prevailed ? 
 And wept the potent god's resistless dart, 
 His killing pleasure, his ecstatic smart, 
 And heavenly poison thrilling through thy 
 
 heart ? 
 
 If so, with pity view my wretched state. 
 At least deplore, and then forget my fate ; 
 To some more happy knight reserve thy 
 
 charms ; 
 By Fortune favoured, and successful arms : 
 And only, as the sun's revolving ray 
 Brings back each year this melancholy day, 
 Permit one sigh, and set apai't one tear, 
 To an abandoned exile's endless care. 
 For me, alas ! oUt-cast of human race, 
 Love's anger only waits, and dire disgrace ; 
 For lo ! these hands in murther are imbrued, 
 These trembling feet by justice are pursued ; 
 Fate calls aloud, and hastens me away, 
 A shameful death attends my longer stay ; 
 And I this night must fly from thee and love, 
 Condemned in lonely woods, a banished man, 
 
 to rovo. 
 
 What is our bliss, that changeth with the 
 
 moon ; 
 And day of Kfe, that darkens ere 'tis noon ? 
 What is true passion, if unblest it dies, 
 And where is Emma's joy, if Henry flies ? 
 If love, alas ! be pain, the pain I bear 
 No thought can figure, and no tongue declare. 
 Ne'er faithful woman felt, nor false one 
 
 feigned, 
 The flames which long have in my bosom 
 
 reigned : 
 The god of love himself inhabits there, 
 With all his rage, and dread, and grief, and 
 
 care. 
 His complement of stores, and total war. 
 
 O ! cease then coldly to suspect my love ; 
 And let my deed at least my faith approve. 
 Alas ! no youth shall my endearments share 
 Nor day nor night shall interrupt my care ; 
 No future story shall with truth upbraid 
 The cold indifference of the Nut-brown Maid 
 Nor to hard banishment shall Henry run, 
 While careless Emma sleeps on beds of down 
 View me resolved, where'er thou lead'st, to go 
 Friend to thy pain, and partner of thy woo ; 
 For I attest fair Venus and her son. 
 That I, of all mankind, will love but thco 
 
 alone. 
 
 Let Prudence yet obstruct thy venturous 
 way, 
 And take good heed, what men will think and 
 
 say; 
 That beauteous Emma vagrant courses took. 
 Her father's house and civil life forsook : 
 That, full of youthful blood, and fond of man, 
 She to the woodland with an exile ran. 
 Reflect, that lessened fame is ne'er regained ; 
 And virgin honour, once, is always stained : 
 
 33* 
 
IMatthew Prior.] 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Fifth Period. - 
 
 Timely advised, the coming evil shun ; 
 Better not do the deed, than weep it done. 
 No penance can absolve our guilty fame ; 
 Nor tears, that wash out sin, can wash out 
 
 shame. 
 Then fly the sad effects of desperate love ; 
 And leave a banished man through lonely 
 
 woods to rove. 
 
 Let Emma's hapless case be falsely told 
 By the rash young, or the ill-natured old ; 
 Let every tongue its various censures choose, 
 Absolve with coldness, or with spite accuse ; 
 Fair truth at last her radiant beams will 
 
 raise, 
 And malice vanquished heightens virtue's 
 
 praise. 
 L€t then thy favour but indulge my flight, 
 O ! let my presence make thy travels light. 
 And potent Venus shall exalt my name. 
 Above the rumours of censorious Fame. 
 Nor from that busy demon's restless power 
 Will ever Emma other grace implore, 
 Than that this truth should to the world be 
 
 known, 
 That I, of all mankind, have loved but thee 
 
 alone. 
 
 But canst thou wield the sword, and bend 
 
 the bow, 
 With active force repel the sturdy foe ? 
 When the loud tumult speaks the battle 
 
 nigh,^ 
 And winged deaths in whistling arrows fly ; 
 Wilt thou, though wounded, yet undaunted 
 
 stay, 
 Perform thy part, and share the dangerous 
 
 day ? 
 Then, as thy strength decays, thy heart will 
 
 fan. 
 Thy Hmbs all trembling, and thy cheeks all 
 
 pale; 
 With fruitless sorrow, thou, inglorious maid, 
 Wilt weep thy safety by thy love betrayed : 
 Then to thy friend, by foes o'ercharged, deny 
 Thy little useless aid, and coward fly : 
 Then wilt thou curse the chance that made 
 
 thee love 
 A banished man, condemned in lonelj'' woods 
 
 to rove. 
 
 With fatal certainty Tlaalestris knew 
 To send the arrow from the twanging yew ; 
 And, great in arms, and foremost in the war, 
 Bonduca brandished high the British spear. 
 Could thirst of vengeance and desire of fame 
 Excite the female breast ^vith martial flame, 
 And shall not love's diviner power inspire 
 More hardy virtue, and more generous fire ? 
 
 Near thee, mistrust not, constant I'll abide. 
 And fall, or vanquish, fighting by thy side. 
 Though my inferior strength may not allow, 
 That I should bear or draw the warrior bow ; 
 
 With ready hand, I will the shaft supply, 
 And joy to see thy victor arrows fly. 
 Touched in the battle by the hostile reed, 
 Shouldst thou (but Heaven avert it !) shouldst 
 
 thou bleed ; 
 To stanch the wounds, my finest lawn I'd 
 
 tear. 
 Wash them with tears, and wipe them with 
 
 my hair ; 
 Blest, when my dangers and my toils have 
 
 shown 
 That I, of aU mankind, could love but thee 
 
 alone. 
 
 But canst thou, tender maid, canst thou 
 
 sustain 
 Afflictive want, or hunger's pressing pain ? 
 Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk arrayed. 
 From sunbeams guarded, and of winds afraid ; 
 Can they bear angry Jove ! can they resist 
 The parching dog- star, and the bleak north- 
 east ? 
 When, chilled by adverse snows and beating 
 
 rain, 
 We tread with weary steps the longsome 
 
 plain; 
 When with hard toil we seek our evening 
 
 food. 
 Berries and acorns, from the neighbouring 
 
 wood ; 
 And find among the cliffs no other house. 
 But the thin covert of some gathered boughs ; 
 Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye 
 Around the dreary waste ; and weeping try 
 (Though then, alas ! that trial be too late) 
 To find thy father's hospitable gate. 
 And seats, where ease and plenty brooding 
 
 sate ! 
 Those seats, whence long excluded thou must 
 
 mourn; 
 That gate, for ever barred to thy return : 
 Wilt thou not then bewail ill-fated love. 
 And hate a banished man, condemned in 
 
 woods to rove ? 
 
 Thy rise of fortune did I only wed, 
 From its decline determined to recede ; 
 Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
 On the smooth surface of a summer's sea : 
 While gentle zephyrs 'play in prosperous gales, 
 And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails ; 
 But would forsake the ship, and make the 
 
 shore, 
 "When the winds whistle, and the tempests 
 
 roar? 
 No, Henry, no : one sacred oath has tied 
 Our loves ; one destiny our life shall guide ; 
 Nor wild nor deep our common way divide. 
 When from the cave thou risest with the 
 
 day. 
 To beat the woods, and rouse the bounding 
 
 prey; 
 The cave with moss and branches I'll adorn, 
 And cheerfvd sit to wait my lord's return. 
 
Frovi 1689 tn 1727.] 
 
 HEJSTBY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Matthew PrioPw 
 
 And, when thou frequent bring' st the smitten 
 
 deer 
 (For seldom, archers say, thy arrows err), 
 I'll fetch quick fuel from the neighbouring 
 
 wood, 
 And strike the sparkling flint, and dress the 
 
 food; 
 With humble duty and officious haste, 
 I'll cull the furthest mead for thy repast ; 
 The choicest herbs I to thy board will bring, 
 And draw thy water from the freshest spring ; 
 And, when at night Avith weary toil oppressed, 
 Soft slumbers thou enjoy' st, and wholesome 
 
 rest; 
 Watchful I'U guard thee, and with midnight 
 
 prayer 
 Weary the gods to keep thee in their care ; 
 And joyous ask, at mom's returning ray. 
 If thou hast health, and I may bless the day. 
 My thoughts shall fix, my latest wish depend, 
 On thee, guide, gaardian, kinsman, father, 
 
 friend : 
 By all these sacred names be Henry known 
 To Emma's heart ; and grateful let him own. 
 That she, of all mankind, could love but him 
 
 alone! 
 
 Vainly thou tell'st me, what the woman's 
 
 care 
 Shall in the Avildness of the wood prepare : 
 Thou, ere thou goest, unhappiest of thy kind, 
 Must leave the habit and the sex behind. 
 No longer shaU thy comely tresses break 
 In flowing ringlets on thy snowy neck ; 
 Or .sit behind thy head, an ample round, 
 In graceful braids with various ribbon bound : 
 No longer shall the bodice, aptly laced, 
 From thy full bosom to thy slender waist, 
 That air and harmony of shape express. 
 Fine by degrees, and beautifully less : 
 Nor shall thy lower garments artful plait, 
 From thy fair side dependent to thy feet, 
 Arm their chaste beauties with a modest 
 
 pride, 
 And double every charm they seek to hide. 
 The ambrosial plenty of thy shining hair, 
 Cropped off and lost, scarce lower than thy 
 
 ear 
 ShaU stand uncouth : a horseman's coat shall 
 
 hide 
 Thy taper shape, and comeliness of side. 
 The short trunk-hose shall show thy foot and 
 
 knee 
 Licentious, and to common eye-sight free : 
 And, with a bolder stride and looser air. 
 Mingled with men, a man thou must appear. 
 
 Nor solitude, nor gentle peace of mind, 
 Mistaken maid, shalt thou in forests find ; 
 'Tis long since Cynthia and her train were 
 
 there : 
 Or guardian gods made innocence their care. 
 Vagrants and outlaws shall offend thy view ; 
 For such must be my friends, a hideous crew. 
 By adverse fortune mixed in social ill, 
 Trained to assault, and disciplined to kill ; 
 
 Their common loves, a lewd abandoned pack, 
 
 The beadle's lash still flagrant on their back : 
 
 By sloth corrupted, by disorder fed, 
 
 Made bold by want and prostitute for bread. 
 
 With such must Emma hunt the tedious day. 
 
 Assist their violence, and divide their prey : 
 
 With such she must return at setting light. 
 
 Though not partaker, witness of their night. 
 
 Thy ear, inured to charitable sounds 
 
 And pitying love, must feel the hateful 
 
 wounds 
 Of jest obscene and vulgar ribaldry, 
 The ill-bred question, and the lewd reply ; 
 Brought by long habitude from bad to worse,. 
 Must hear the frequent oath, the direful 
 
 curse. 
 That latest weapon of the wretches' war, 
 And blasphemy, sad comrade of despair. 
 
 Now, Emma, now the last reflection make, 
 What thou wouldst follow, what thou must 
 
 forsake : 
 By our ill-omened stars, and adverse Heaven,. 
 No middle object to thy choice is given. 
 Or yield thy virtue to attain thy love ; 
 Or leave a banished man, condemned in woods- 
 
 to rove. 
 
 grief of heart ! that our unhappy fates 
 Force thee to suffer what thy honour hates : 
 Mix thee amongst the bad ; or make thee run 
 Too near the paths which virtue bids thee 
 
 shun. 
 Yet with her Henry still let Emma go ; 
 Vvith him abhor the vice, but share the woe ; 
 And sure my little heart can never err 
 Amidst the worst, if Henry still be there. 
 I Our outward act is prompted from within; 
 I And from the sinner's mind proceeds the sua ; 
 
 By her own choice free virtue is approved, 
 I Nor by the force of outward objects moved. 
 I Who has assayed no danger, gains no praise. 
 I In a small isle, amidst the widest seas, 
 Triumphant Constancy has fixed her seat, 
 In vain the Syrens sing, the tempests beat : 
 Their flattery she rejects, nor fears their 
 threat. 
 For thee alone these litte charms I dressed : 
 Condemned them, or absolved them by thy 
 
 test. 
 In comely figure ranged my jewels shone, 
 Or neghgently placed for thee alone ; 
 For thee again they shall be laid aside ; 
 The woman, Henry, shall put off her pride 
 For thee : my clothes, my sex, exchanged for 
 
 thee, 
 I'll mingle with the people's wretched lee; 
 O fine extreme of human infamy ! 
 Wanting the scissors, with these hands I'll 
 
 tear 
 (If that obstructs my flight) this load of hair. 
 Black soot, or yellow walnut, shall disgrace 
 This little red and white of Emma's face. 
 These nails with scratches shall deform my 
 
 breast. 
 Lest by my look or colour be expressed 
 
Matthew Prioe.] 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Fifth Peeiod.- 
 
 The mark of aught high-born, or ever better 
 
 Yet in this commerce, under this disguise, 
 Let me be grateful still to Henrj^'s eyes ; 
 Lost to the world, let me to him be known : 
 My fate I can absolve, if he shall own, 
 That, leaving all mankind, I love but him 
 alone. 
 
 O wildest thoughts of an abandoned mind ! 
 Name, habit, parents, woman, left behind, 
 Even honour dubious, thou prefer' st to go 
 Wild to the woods with me : said Emma so ? 
 Or did I dream what Emma never said ? 
 O guilty error ! and O wretched maid ! 
 Whose roving fancy would resolve the same 
 With him, who next shall tempt her easy 
 
 fame; 
 And blow with empty words the susceptible 
 
 flame. 
 Now why should doubtful terms thy mind 
 
 perplex, 
 Confess thy frailty, and avow the sex : 
 No longer loose desire for constant love 
 Mistake ; but say, 'tis man with whom thou 
 
 long'st to rove. 
 
 Arc there not poisons, racks, and flames, 
 and swords. 
 That Emma thus must die bj'- Henry's words ? 
 Yet what could swords or poison, racks or 
 
 But mangle and disjoint this brittle frame ! 
 More fatal Henry's words, they murder 
 
 Emma's fame. 
 And fall these sayings from that gentle 
 
 tongue. 
 Where civil speech and soft persuasion hung ; 
 ^Vhose artfol sweetness and harmonious 
 
 strain. 
 Courting my grace, yet courting it in vain, 
 Called sighs, and tears, and wishes, to its aid ; 
 And, whilst it Henry's glowing flame conveyed, 
 Stni blame the coldness of the Nut-brown 
 
 Maid ? 
 Let envious jealousy and canker'd spite 
 Produce my .actions to severest light. 
 And tax my open day, or secret night. 
 Did e'er my tongue speak my unguarded 
 
 heart 
 The least inclined to play the wanton's part ? 
 Did e'er my eye one inward thought reveal, 
 Which angels might not hear, and virgins tell ? 
 And hast thou, Henry, in my conduct known 
 One fault, but that which I must never own. 
 That I, of all mankind, have loved but thee 
 
 alone ? 
 
 Vainly thou talk'st of loving me alone : 
 Each man is man ; and all our sex is one. 
 False are our words, and fickle is our mind ; 
 Nor in love's ritual can we ever find 
 Vows made to last, or promises to bind. 
 
 By nature prompted, and for empire made, 
 Alike by strength or cunning we invade ; 
 AVhen armed with rage we march against the 
 
 foe, 
 We lift the battle-axe, and draw the bow ; 
 When, fired with passion, we attack the fair. 
 Delusive sighs and brittle vows we bear ; 
 Our falsehood and our arms have equal use ; 
 As they our conquest or dehght produce. 
 The fooHsh heart thougav'st, again receive. 
 The only boon departing love can give. 
 To be less wretched, be no longer true ; 
 What strives to fly thee, why shouldst thou 
 
 pursue ? 
 Forget the present flame, indulge a new ; 
 Single the loveliest of the amorous youth ; 
 Ask for his vow ; but hope not for his truth. 
 The next man (and the next thou shalt 
 
 believe) 
 Will pawn his gods, intending to deceive ; 
 Wni kneel, implore, persist, o'ercome, and 
 
 leave. 
 Hence let thy Cupid aim his arrows right ; 
 Be wise and false, shun trouble, seek delight ; 
 Change thou the first, nor wait thy lover's 
 
 fiight. 
 Why shouldst thou weep ? let nature judge 
 
 our case ; 
 I saw thee young and fair ; pursued the chase 
 Of youth and beauty : I another saw 
 Fairer and younger : yielding to the law 
 Of our all-ruling mother, I pursued 
 More youth, more beauty ; blest vicissitude ! 
 My active heart still keeps its pristine 
 
 flame; 
 The object altered, the desire the same. 
 
 This younger, fairer, pleads her rightful 
 
 charms ; 
 With present power compels me to her arms. 
 And much I fear, from my subjected mind 
 (If beauty's force to constant love can bind). 
 That years may roU, ere ia her turn the 
 
 maid 
 Shall weep the fury of my love decayed : 
 And weeping follow me, as thou dost now. 
 With idle clamours of a broken vow. 
 
 Nor can the wildness of thy wishes err 
 So wide, to hope that thou mayst live with 
 
 her. 
 Love, wcU thou know'st, no partnership 
 
 allows : 
 Cupid averse rejects divided vows : 
 Then from thy foolish heart, vain maid, 
 
 remove 
 An useless sorrow, and an ill-starred love ; 
 And leave me, Avith the fair, at large in w^oods 
 
 to rove. 
 
 Are we in life through one great error led ; 
 Is each man perjured, and each nymph be- 
 trayed ? 
 Of the superior sex art thou the worst ? 
 Am I of mine the most completely cursed ? 
 Yet let me go with thee ; and going prove. 
 From w^hat I wiU endure, how much I love. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Matthew Prior. 
 
 This potent beauty, this triumphant fair, 
 Tliis happy object of our different care, 
 Her let me follow ; her let me attend 
 A servant (she may scorn the name of 
 
 friend). 
 What she demands, incessant I'U prepare ; 
 I'll weave her garlands ; and I'll plait her 
 
 hair : 
 My busy diligence shall deck her board 
 (For there at least I may approach my 
 
 lord) ; 
 And, when her Henry's softer hours advise 
 His sen'ant's absence, mth dejected eyes 
 Far I'll recede, and sighs forbid to rise. 
 
 Yet, when increasing grief brings slow 
 
 disease ; 
 And ebbing life, on terms severe as these, 
 Will have its little lamp no longer fed ; 
 WTien Henry's mistress shows him Emma 
 
 dead ; 
 Rescue my poor remains from vile neglect : 
 V/ith virgin honours let my hearse be decked. 
 And decent emblem ; and at least persuade 
 This happy nymph, that Emma may be laid 
 Where thou, dear author of my death, where 
 
 she, 
 With frequent eye my sepulclire may see. 
 The nymph amidst her joys may haply breathe 
 One pious sigh, reflecting on my death, 
 And the sad fate which she may one day 
 
 prove, 
 "Who hopes from Henrj^'s vows eternal love. 
 And thou forsv^rom, thou cruel, as thou art, 
 If Emma's image ever touched thy heart ; 
 Thou sure must give one thought, and drop 
 
 one tear 
 To her, whom love abandoned to despair ; 
 To her, who, dying, on the wounded stone 
 Bid it in lasting characters bo known. 
 That, of mankind, she loved but thee 
 
 alone. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Hear, solemn Jove ; and .conscious Venus, 
 
 And thou, bright maid, believe me whilst I 
 
 No time, no change, no future flame, shall 
 
 move 
 The weU-placed basis of my lasting love. 
 O powerful virtue ! O victorious fair ! 
 At least excuse a trial too severe : 
 lieceive the triumph, and forget the war. 
 No banished man, condemned in woods to 
 
 rove, 
 Intreats thy pardon, and implores thy love : 
 No perjured knight desires to quit thy arms. 
 Fairest collection of thy sex's charms, 
 Crown of my love, and honour of my youth ! 
 Henry, thy Henry, with eternal truth. 
 As thou mayst wish, shall all his life emploj, 
 And found his glory in his Emma's joy. 
 j In me behold the potent Edgar's heir, 
 
 Illustrious earl ; him terrible in war 
 Let Loyre confess, for she has felt his sword. 
 And trembling fled before the British lord. 
 
 Him great in peace and wealth fair Deva 
 
 knows ; 
 For she amidst his spacious meadows flows ; 
 Inclines her urn upon his fattened lands ; 
 And sees his numerous herds imprint her 
 
 sands. 
 And thou, my fair, my dove, shali raise thy 
 
 thought 
 To greatness next to empire ; shalt be brought 
 With solemn pomp to my paternal seat : 
 Where peace and plenty on thy word shall 
 
 wait. 
 Music and song shall wake the marriage-day : 
 And, whilst the priests accuse the bride's 
 
 delay, 
 Myrtles and roses shall obstruct her way. 
 Friendship shall still thy evening feasts 
 
 adorn. 
 And blooming peace shall ever bless thy 
 
 morn. 
 Succeeding years their happy race shall run, 
 And age unheeded by delight come on ; 
 While yet superior love shall mock his power, 
 And when old Time shall turn the fated 
 
 hour, 
 Which only can our well- tied knot unfold ; 
 "What rests of both, one septdchre shall hold. 
 Hence then for ever from my Emma's 
 
 breast 
 (That heaven of softness, and that seat of 
 
 rest) 
 Ye doubts and fears, and all that know to 
 
 move 
 Tormenting grief, and all that trouble love, 
 Scattered by winds recede, and wild in forests 
 
 rove. 
 
 O day the fairest sure that ever rose ! 
 Period and end of anxious Emma's vroes ! 
 Sire of her joy, and source of her deKght ; 
 O ! winged with pleasure take thy happy 
 
 flight, 
 And give each future morn a tincture of thy 
 
 white. 
 Yet tell thy votary, potent queen of love, 
 Henry, my Henry, wiU he never rove ? 
 Will he be ever kind, and just, and good ? 
 And is there yet no mistress in the wood ? 
 None, none there is ; the thought was rash 
 
 and vain ; 
 A false idea, and a fancied pain. 
 Doubt shaU for ever quit my strengthened 
 
 heart. 
 And anxious jealousy's corroding smart ; 
 Nor other inmate shall inhabit there. 
 But soft Belief, young Joy, and pleasing 
 
 Care : 
 Hence let the tides of plenty ebb and flow, 
 And fortune's various gale unheeded blow. 
 If at my feet the suppliant goddess stands. 
 And sheds her treasure with unwearied hands; 
 Her present favour cautious I'll embrace. 
 And not unthankful use the profi'ered grace : 
 If she reclaims the temporary boon. 
 And tries her pinions, fluttering to be gone ; 
 
Matthew Prior.] 
 
 HENEY AND EMMA. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Secure of mind, I'll obviate her intent, 
 And unconcerned return the goods she lent. 
 Nor happiness can I, nor misery feel, 
 From any turn of her fantastic wheel : 
 Friendship's great laws, and love's superior 
 
 powers. 
 Must mark the colour of my future hours. 
 From the events which thy commands create 
 I must my blessings or my sorrows date, 
 And Henry's wJJl must dictate Emma's fate. 
 Yet while with close delight and inward 
 pride 
 (Which from the world my careful soul shall 
 
 hide) 
 I see thee, lord and end of my desire, 
 Exalted high as virtue can require ; 
 With power invested, and with pleasure 
 
 cheered ; 
 Sought by the good, by the oppressor feared ; 
 Loaded and blest with all the affluent store, 
 Which human vows at smoking shrines im- 
 plore ; 
 Grateful and humble grant me to employ 
 My life subservient only to thy joy ; 
 And at my death to bless thy kindness shown 
 To her, who of mankind could love but thee 
 alone. 
 
 While thus the constant pair alternate 
 
 said, 
 Joyful above them and around them played 
 Angels and sportive loves, a numerous crowd ; 
 Smiling they clapped their wings, and lew 
 
 they bowed : 
 They tumbled all their little quivers o'er, 
 To choose propitious shafts, a precious store ; 
 That, when their god should take his future 
 
 darts, 
 To strike (however rarely) constant lieai-ts, 
 His happy skill might proper arms employ, 
 All tipped with pleasure, and all winged with 
 
 joy: 
 And those, they vowed, whose lives should 
 
 imitate 
 These lovers' constancy, should share their 
 
 fate. 
 The queen of beauty stopped her bridled 
 
 doves ; 
 Approved the little labour of the loves ; 
 Was proud and pleased the mutual vow to 
 
 hear ; 
 And to the triumph called the god of war : 
 Soon as she calls, the god is always near. 
 Now, Mars, she said, let Fame exalt her 
 
 voice. 
 Nor let thy conquests only be her choice : 
 But, when she sings great Edward from the 
 
 field 
 Ketumed, the hostile spear and captive shield 
 In Concord's temple hung, and Gallia taught 
 
 to yield ; 
 And when, as prudent Saturn shall complete 
 The years designed to perfect Britain's state, 
 The swift-winged power shall take her trump 
 
 again. 
 To sinjf her favourite Anna's wondrous reisTi ; 
 
 To recollect unwearied Marlborough's toils, 
 Old Rufus' hall unequal to his spoils ; 
 The British soldier from his high command 
 Glorious, and Gaul thrice vanquished by his 
 
 hand : 
 Let her at least perform what I desire ; 
 With second breath the vocal brass inspire ; 
 And tell the nations, in no vulgar strain, 
 What wars I manage, and what wreaths I 
 
 gain. 
 And, when thy tumults and thy fights are 
 
 past. 
 And when thy laurels at my feet are cast, 
 Faithful mayst thou, like British Henry, 
 
 prove : 
 And, Emma-like, let me return thy love. 
 Renowned for truth, let all thy sons 
 
 appear ; 
 And constant beauty shall reward their care. 
 Mars smiled, and bowed: the Cyprian 
 
 deity 
 Turned to the glorious ruler of the sky ; 
 And thou, she smiling said, great god of days 
 And verse, behold my deed, and sing my 
 
 praise, 
 As on the British earth, my favourite isle. 
 Thy gentle rays and kindest influence smile, 
 Through aU her laughing fields and verdant 
 
 groves, 
 Proclaim with joy these memorable loves. 
 From every annual course let one great day 
 To celebrated sports and floral play 
 Be set aside ; and, in the softest lays 
 Of thy poetic sons, be solemn praise 
 And everlasting marks of honour paid. 
 To the true lover and the Nut-brown Maid. 
 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 756.— THE THIEF AND THE COR- 
 DELIER. 
 
 Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know 
 the Greve, 
 
 The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave ; 
 
 Where honour and justice most oddly con- 
 tribute 
 
 To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet ; 
 Derry down, doAvn, hey derry down. 
 
 There death breaks the shackles which force 
 
 had put on; 
 And the hangman completes what the judge 
 
 but begun ; 
 There the squire of the pad, and the knight of 
 
 the post. 
 Find their pains no more balked, and their 
 
 hopes no more crossed. 
 
 Derry do^vn, etc. 
 
 Great claims are there made, and great secrets 
 
 are known ; 
 And the king, and the law, and the thief has 
 
 his own ; 
 
From 1689 tol-727.] 
 
 PEOTOGENES AND APELLES. 
 
 [Matthew Prior. 
 
 But my hearers cry out : What a deuce dost 
 
 thou ail ? 
 Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale. 
 Derry do^vn, etc. 
 
 'Twas there then, in civil respect to harsh 
 
 laws, 
 And for want of false witness, to back a bad 
 
 cause, 
 A Korman, though late, was obliged to 
 
 appear ; 
 And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier ? 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 The squire, whose good grace was to open the 
 
 scene, 
 Seemed not in great haste, that the show 
 
 should begin ; 
 Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart ; 
 And often took leave ; but was loth to depart. 
 Derry do^vn, etc. 
 
 What frightens you thus, my good son, says 
 
 the priest ; 
 You murdered, are sorry, and have been con- 
 
 father ! my sorrow avOI scarce save my 
 
 bacon ; 
 For 'twas not that I miu'dered, but that I 
 was taken. 
 
 Derrj' down, etc. 
 
 Pugh ! pr'ythee ne'er trouble thy head with 
 
 such fancies ; 
 Eely on the aid you shall have from Saint 
 
 Francis ; 
 If the money you promised be brought to the 
 
 chest, 
 You have only to die ; let the church • do the 
 
 rest. 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 And what will folks say, if they see you 
 afraid ; ^ 
 
 It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade : 
 
 Courage, friend; to-day is your period of 
 sorrow ; 
 
 And things will go better, believe me, to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 To-morrow ? our hero replied in a fright : 
 He that's hanged before noon, ought to think 
 
 of to-night : 
 Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be 
 
 fairly trussed up. 
 For you surely to-night shall in paradise sup. 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 Alas ! quoth the squire, howe'er sumptuous 
 
 the treat, f 
 
 Parbleu, I shall have little stomach to eat ; 
 
 1 should therefore esteem it great favour and 
 
 grace. 
 Would you be so kind, as to go in my place. 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 That I would, quoth the father, and thank 
 
 you to boot ; 
 But our actions, you know, with our duty 
 
 must suit. 
 The feast, I proposed to you, I cannot taste ; 
 For this night, by our order, is marked for a 
 
 fast. — 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 Then turning about to the hangman, he said : 
 Dispatch me I pr'ythee, this troublesome 
 
 blade -. 
 For thy cord, and my cord both equally tie ; 
 And we live by the gold for which other men 
 
 die. 
 
 Derry down, etc. 
 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Dietl 1721. 
 
 757.— PEOTOGENES AND APELLES. 
 
 When poets wrote, and painters drew, 
 As nature pointed out the view ; 
 Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece, 
 To spoil the well-proportioned piece ; 
 And in our verse ere monkish rhymes 
 
 ! Had jangled their fantastic chimes ; 
 Ere on the flowery lands of Ehodes 
 Those knights had fixed their dull abodes. 
 Who knew not much to paint or write. 
 Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight ; 
 Protogenes, historians note, 
 
 ; Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot ; 
 
 I And, as old Pliny's writings show, 
 
 I Apelles did the same at Co, 
 
 j Agreed these points of time and place, 
 
 j Proceed we in the present case. ^ 
 
 I Piqued by Protogenes' s fame, 
 
 ' From Co to Ehodes Apelles came. 
 To see a rival and a friend. 
 Prepared to censure, or commend ; 
 Here to absolve, and there object, 
 As art with candour might direct. 
 He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings. 
 His servants follow with the things ; 
 Appears the governante of the house ; 
 For such in Greece were much in use : 
 If young or handsome, yea or no, 
 Concerns not me or thee to know. 
 
 Does squire Protogenes live here ? 
 Yes, sir, says she, with gi-acious air, 
 And courtesy low ; but just called out 
 By lords peculiarly devout. 
 Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow 
 Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow, 
 To grace the church : 'tis Venus' day : 
 I hope, sir, you intend to stay. 
 To see our Venus. 'Tis the piece 
 The most renowned throughout all Greece, 
 So like the original, they say : 
 But I have no great skill that way. 
 But, sir, at six ('tis now past three) 
 Dromo must make my master's tea : 
 At six, sir, if you please to come. 
 You'll find my master, sir, at home. 
 
Matthew Prior.] 
 
 ABEA'S LOVE FOE SOLOMON. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Tea, says a critic, hig with -laughter, 
 Was found some twenty ages after ; 
 Authors, before they write, should read ; 
 'Tis very true, but we'll proceed : 
 
 And, sir, at present would you please 
 To leave your name ? Fair maiden, yes. 
 Eeach me that board. No sooner spoke 
 But done. With one judicious stroke, 
 On the plain ground Apelles drew 
 A circle regularly true ; 
 And will you please, sweetheart, said he, 
 To show your master this from me ? 
 By it he presently will know 
 How painters write their names at Co. 
 
 He gave the pannel to the maid. 
 Smiling and courtesying, sir, she said, 
 I shall not fail to tell my master : 
 And, sir, for fear of all disaster, 
 I'll keep it my own self ; safe bind. 
 Says the old proverb, and safe find. 
 So, sir, as sure as key or lock — 
 Your servant, sir — at six o'clock. 
 
 Again at six Apelles came, 
 Found the same prating civil dame. 
 Sir, that my master has been here, 
 Will by the board itself appear. 
 If from the perfect line be found. 
 He has presumed to swell the round, 
 Or colours on the draught to lay, 
 'Tis thus (he ordered me to say) 
 Thus write the painters of this isle : 
 Let those of Co remark the style. 
 
 She said ; and to his hand restored 
 The rival pledge, the missive board. 
 Upon the happy line were laid 
 Such obvious Hght, and easy shade, 
 That Paris' apple stood confest, 
 Or Leda's egg, or Cloe's breast. 
 
 Apelles viewed the finished piece, 
 And live, said he, the arts of Greece ! 
 Howe'er Protogenes and I 
 May in our rival talents vie ; 
 Howe'er our works may have expressed 
 "Who truest drew, or coloured best. 
 When he beheld my flowing line, 
 He found at least I could design : 
 And from his artful round I grant, 
 That he with perfect skill can paint. 
 ; The duUest genius cannot fail 
 To find the moral of my tale : 
 That the distinguished part of men, 
 With compass, pencil, sword, or pen. 
 Should in life's visit leave their name, 
 In characters, which may proclaim, 
 That they with ardour strove to raise 
 At once their arts, and country's praise ; 
 And in their working, took great care. 
 That all was full, and round, and fair. 
 
 Mattheio Prior. — Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 758.— ABEA'S LOVE FOE SOLOMON. 
 
 Another nymph, amongst the many fair. 
 That made my softer hours their solemn 
 care, 
 
 Before the rest affected still to stand. 
 And watch' d my eye, preventing my command. 
 Abra, she so was call'd, did soonest haste . 
 To grace my presence ; Abra went the last ; 
 Abra was ready ere I call'd her name ; 
 And, though I call'd another, Abra came. 
 Her equals first observed her growing zeal, 
 And laughiug, gloss' d that Abra served so 
 
 well. 
 To me her actions did unheeded die. 
 Or were remark' d but with a common eye ; 
 Till, more apprised of what the rumour said, 
 More I observed peculiar in the maid. 
 The sun declined had shot his western ray, 
 When, tired with business of the solemn day, 
 I purposed to unbend the evening hours. 
 And banquet private in the women's bowers. 
 I call'd before I sat to wash my hands 
 (For so the precept of the law commands) : 
 Love had ordain'd that it was Abra's turn 
 To mix the sweets, and minister the urn. 
 With awful homage, and submissive dread^ 
 The maid approach'd, on my declining head 
 To pour the oils ; she trembled as she 
 
 pour'd ; 
 With an unguarded look she now devour' d 
 My nearer face ; and now recaU'd her eye. 
 And heaved, and strove to hide, a sudden 
 
 sigh. 
 And whence, said I, canst thou have dread or 
 
 pain ? 
 A^Tiat can thy imagerj'- of sorrow mean ? 
 Secluded from the world and all its care, 
 Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear ? 
 For sure, I added, sure thy little heart 
 Ne'er felt love's anger, or received his dart. 
 Abash' d she blush' d, and with disorder 
 spoke : 
 Her rising shame adom'd the words it broke. 
 
 If the great master will descend to hear 
 The humble series of his handmaid's care ; 
 O ! while she tells it, let him not put on 
 The look that awes the nations from the 
 
 throne ! ,. 
 O ! let not death severe in glory lie 
 In the king's frown and terror of his eye ! 
 Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain ; 
 And, though to mention be to suffer pain, 
 If the king smile whilst I my woe recite, 
 If weeping, I find favour in his sight, 
 Flow fast, my tears, full rising his dehght. 
 ! witness earth beneath, and heaven 
 
 above ! 
 For can I hide it ? I am sick of love : 
 If madness may the name of passion bear, 
 Or love be call'd what is indeed despair. 
 Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will 
 controls 
 The inward bent and motion of our souls ; 
 Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees 
 Between the cause and cure of my disease ? 
 The mighty object of that raging fire, 
 In which, unpitied, Abra must expire. 
 Had he been born some simple shepherd's 
 
 heir, 
 The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his care. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 [Matthew Prior. 
 
 At mom with him I o'er the hills had run, 
 Scornful of winter's frost and summer's sun, 
 Still asking where he made his flock to rest at 
 
 noon; 
 For him at night, the dear expected guest, 
 I had with hasty joy prepared the feast ; 
 And from the cottage, o'er the distant plain, 
 Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain. 
 Wavering, impatient, toss'd by hope and 
 
 fear, 
 TiU ho and joy together should appear. 
 And the loved dog declare his master near. 
 On my declining neck and open breast 
 I should have lull'd the lovely youth to rest, 
 And from beneath liis head, at da-\vning day. 
 With softest care have stol'n my arm away. 
 To rise, and from the fold release his sheep, 
 Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep. 
 Or if kind heaven, propitious to my flame 
 {For sure from heaven the faithful ardour 
 
 came). 
 Had blest my life, and deck'd my natal hour 
 With height of title, and extent of power ; 
 Without a crime my passion had aspired. 
 Found the loved prince, and told what I 
 
 desired. 
 Then I had come, preventing Sheba's queen. 
 To see the comeliest of the sons of men. 
 To hear the charming poet's amorous song. 
 And gather honey falling from his tongue. 
 To take the fragrant kisses of his mouth. 
 Sweeter than breezes of her native south, 
 Likening his grace, his person, and his mien, 
 To all that great or beauteous I had seen. 
 Serene and bright his eyes, as solar beams 
 Reflecting temper' d light from crystal streams ; 
 Ruddy as gold his cheek ; his bosom fair 
 As silver ; the curl'd ringlets of his hair 
 Black as the raven's wing; his lip more red 
 Than eastern coral, or the scarlet thread ; 
 Even his teeth, and white like a young flock 
 Coeval, newly shorn, from the clear l^rook 
 Recent, and branching on the sunny rock. 
 Ivorj^ with sapphires interspersed, explains 
 How white his hands, how blue the manly 
 
 veins. 
 Columns of polish' d marble, firmly set 
 On golden bases, are his legs and feet ; 
 His stature all majestic, all divine, 
 Straight as the palm-tree, strong as is the 
 
 pine. 
 Saffron and myrrh are on his garments shed. 
 And everlasting sweets bloom round his head. 
 WTiat utter I ? where am I ? Avretched maid ! 
 Die, Abra, die : too plainly hast thou said 
 Thy soul's desire to meet his high embrace, 
 And blessing stamp' d upon thy future race ; 
 To bid attentive nations bless thy womb. 
 With unborn monarchs charged, and Solomons 
 
 to come. 
 Here o'er her si)eech her flowing eyes prevail. 
 
 foolish maid ! and oh, unhappy tale ! * * 
 
 1 saw her ; 'twas humanity ; it gave 
 Some respite to the sorrows of my slave. 
 Her fond excess proclaim'd her passion true. 
 And generous pity to that truth was due. 
 
 Well I intreated her, who well deserved : 
 I call'd her often, for she always served. 
 Use made her person easy to my sight, 
 And ease insensibly produced delight. 
 "Whene'er I re veil' d in the women's bowers 
 (For first I sought her but at looser hours). 
 The apples she had gather' d smeit -most 
 
 sweet. 
 The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat : 
 But fruits their odour lost, and meats their 
 
 taste. 
 If gentle Abra had not deck'd the feast. 
 Dishonour' d did the sparkling goblet stand, 
 Unless received from gentle Abra's hand ; 
 And, when the virgins form'd the evening 
 
 choir. 
 Raising their voices to the master lyre, 
 Too flat I thought this voice, and that too 
 
 shrill. 
 One show'd too much, and one too little skill ; 
 Nor could my soul approve the music's tone. 
 Till all was hush'd, and Abra sung alone. 
 Fairer she seem'd distinguish' d from the 
 
 rest. 
 And better mien disclosed, as better drest. 
 A bright tiara round her forehead tied, 
 To juster bounds confined its rising pride. 
 The blushing ruby on her snowy breast 
 Render'd its panting whiteness more confess'd; 
 Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm, 
 And every gem augmented every charm. 
 Her senses pleased, her beavity still improved, 
 And she more lovely grew, as more beloved. 
 
 Mattheiv rrior.—Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 759.— EPITAPH EXTEMPORE. 
 
 Nobles and heralds, by your leave, 
 
 Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 
 
 The son of Adam and of Eve ; 
 
 Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ? 
 
 Matthew Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 760.— FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 As doctors give phj^sic by way of prevention. 
 
 Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone 
 took care ; 
 
 For delays are unsafe, and his pious inten- 
 tion 
 
 May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir. 
 
 Then take Matt's word for it, the sculptor is 
 
 paid ; 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own 
 
 eye; 
 Yet credit but lightly what more may be 
 
 said. 
 For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to 
 
 he. 
 
Matthew Pbiok.] 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, 
 
 His virtues and vices were as other men's 
 
 are ; 
 High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd 
 
 great fears, 
 In a life party-colour' d, half pleasure, half 
 
 care. 
 
 Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a 
 
 slave, 
 He strove to make interest and freedom 
 
 agree ; 
 In public employments industrious and grave. 
 And alone with his friends, Lord ! how merry 
 
 was he. 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would 
 
 trust; 
 And whirl'd in the round as the wheel tum'd 
 
 about. 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man 
 
 was but dust. 
 
 This verse, little polish'd, though mighty 
 
 sincere. 
 Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
 It says that his relics collected lie here, 
 And no mortal yet knows if this may be true. 
 
 Fierce robbers there are that infest the high- 
 way. 
 
 So Matt may be kill'd, and his bones never 
 found ; 
 
 False witness at court, and fierce tempests at 
 sea. 
 
 So Matt may yet chance to be hang'd or be 
 drown' d. 
 
 If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in 
 
 air. 
 To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the 
 
 same; 
 And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a 
 
 tear, 
 He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind to his 
 
 fame. 
 
 Moithew Prior.— Bom 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 761.— AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Interr'd beneath this marble stone, 
 
 Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
 
 While rolling threescore years and one 
 
 Did round this globe their courses run ; 
 
 If human things went ill or well. 
 
 If changing empires rose or fell. 
 
 The morning past, the evening came. 
 
 And found this couple just the same. 
 
 They walk'd and ate, good folks : What then ? 
 
 Why, then they walk'd and ate again ; 
 
 They soundly slept the night away ; 
 
 They did just nothing aU the day. 
 
 Nor sister either had, nor brother ; 
 
 They seem'd ju.st tallied for each other. 
 
 Their Moral and Economy 
 
 Most perfectly they made agree ; 
 
 Each virtue kept its proper bound, 
 
 Nor trespass'd on the other's ground. 
 
 Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; 
 
 They neither punish' d nor rewarded. 
 
 He cared not what the footman did ; 
 
 Her maids she neither praised nor chid : 
 
 So every servant took his course. 
 
 And, bad at first, they all grew worse. 
 
 Slothful disorder fill'd his stable. 
 
 And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. 
 
 Their beer was strong, their Avine was port ; 
 
 Their meal was large, their grace was short. 
 
 They gave the poor the remnant meat, 
 
 Just when it grew not fit to eat. 
 
 They paid the church and parish rate. 
 
 And took, but read not, the receipt ; 
 
 For which they claim' d their Sunday's due, 
 
 Of slumbering in an upper pew. 
 
 No man's defects sought they to know, 
 
 So never made themselves a foe. 
 
 No man's good deeds did they commend, 
 
 So never raised themselves a friend. 
 
 Nor cherish' d they relations poor, 
 
 That might decrease their present store ; 
 
 Nor bam nor house did they repair. 
 
 That might oblige their future heir. 
 
 They neither added nor confoimded ; 
 
 They neither wanted nor abounded. 
 
 Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
 
 At news of public grief or joy. 
 
 When bells were rung and bonfires made. 
 
 If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid ; 
 
 Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
 
 Whoever either died or married, 
 
 Their billet at the fire was found, 
 
 Whoever was deposed or crown'd. 
 
 Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise. 
 
 They would not learn, nor could advise ; 
 
 Without love, hatred, joy, or fear. 
 
 They led — a kind of — as it were ; 
 
 Nor wish'd, nor cared, nor laugh'd, nor cried ; 
 
 And so they lived, and so they died. 
 
 Mattlieiv Prior.— Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
 762. — ON BISHOP ATTEEBUEY'S 
 BURYING THE DUKE OF 
 BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX. 
 
 " I have no hopes," the duke he says, and 
 
 dies ; 
 "In sure and certain hopes," the prelate 
 
 cries : 
 Of these two learned peers, I i^r'ythee, say, 
 
 man. 
 Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman ? 
 The duke he stands an infidel confessed, 
 " He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly 
 
 priest. 
 The duke, though Icnave, still " brother dear," 
 
 he cries ; 
 And who can say the reverend prelate lies ? 
 Mattlieiv Prior. — Born 1664, Died 1721. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 AN ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 [Joseph Addison. 
 
 763.— A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 
 AT OXFORD. 
 
 Cecilia, whose exalted hymns 
 
 With joy and wonder fill the blest, 
 In choirs of warbling seraphims, 
 
 Known and distinguish'd from the rest, 
 Attend, harmonious saint, and see 
 Thy vocal sons of harmony ; 
 Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our 
 prayers ; 
 Enliven all our earthly airs. 
 And, as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing 
 of thee ; 
 Tune every string and every tongue, 
 Be thou the Muse and subject of our 
 song. 
 
 Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim, 
 Employ the echo in her name. 
 Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise. 
 At bright Ceciha's name, their lays ; 
 The organ labours in her praise. 
 Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace, 
 From every voice the tuneful accents fly. 
 In soaring trebles now it rises high, 
 And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base. 
 Cecilia's name through all the notes we 
 sing. 
 The work of every skilful tongue. 
 The soimd of every trembling string, 
 The sound and triumph of our song. 
 
 For ever consecrate the day 
 To music and Cecilia ; 
 Music, the greatest good that mortals 
 
 know. 
 And all of heaven we have below. 
 
 Music can noble hints impart, 
 Engender fury, kindle love ; 
 "With unsuspected eloquence can move. 
 And manage all the man with secret art. 
 When Orpheus strikes the trembling 
 
 lyre. 
 The streams stand still, the stones 
 
 admire ; 
 The listening savages advance, 
 
 The wolf and lamb around hun trip. 
 The bears in awkward measures leap. 
 And tigers mingle in the dance. 
 The moving woods attended, as he play'd. 
 And Rhodope was left without a shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Music religious heats inspires. 
 
 It wakes the soul, and lifts it high, 
 
 And wings it with sublime desires, 
 And fits it to bespeak the Deity. 
 
 The Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue. 
 
 And seems well pleased and courted with 
 a song. 
 
 Soft movirg sounds and heavenly airs 
 Give force to every word, and recommend our 
 prayers. 
 
 When time itself shall be no more. 
 And all things in confusion hurl'd, 
 
 Music shaU then exert its power, 
 And sound survive the ruins of the world : 
 
 Then saints and angels shall agree 
 
 In one eternal jubilee : 
 All heaven shall echo with their hymns 
 divine. 
 
 And God himself with pleasure see 
 The whole creation in a chorus join. 
 
 Consecrate the place and day 
 To music and Cecilia. 
 Let no rough winds approach, nor dare 
 
 Invade the hallow'd bounds. 
 Nor rudely shake the tuneful air, 
 
 Nor spoil the fleeting sounds. 
 Nor mournful sigh nor groan he heard, 
 But gladness dwell on every tongue ; 
 Whilst all, with voice and strings prepared. 
 Keep up the loud harmonious song. 
 And imitate the blest above. 
 In joy, and harmony, and love. 
 
 Joseph Addison.— Born 1672, IHed 1709. 
 
 764.— AN ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 Prepare the hallow'd strain, my Muse, 
 
 Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers 
 
 choose ; 
 The bright Cecilia's praise rehearse. 
 In warbling words, and gliding verse. 
 That smoothly run into a song, 
 And gently die away, and melt upon the 
 
 tongue. 
 
 First let the sprightly violin 
 
 The joyful melody begin, 
 
 And none of all her strings be mute ; 
 
 WhUe the sharp sound and shriller lay 
 
 In sweet harmonious notes decay, 
 Soften'd and meUow'd by the flute. 
 " The flute that sweetly can complain, 
 Dissolve the frozen nymph's disdain ; 
 Panting sympathy impart. 
 Till she partake her lover's smart." 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Next, let the solemn organ join 
 Religious airs, and strains divine, 
 Such as may lift us to the skies, 
 And set all Heaven before our eyes : 
 
 " Such as may lift us to the skies ; 
 
 So far at least till they 
 
 Descend with kind surprise, 
 And meet our pious harmony half-way." 
 
 Let then the trumpet's piercing sound 
 Our ravish'd ears with pleasure wovmd. 
 
Joseph Addison.] 
 
 A LETTEE FEOM ITALY. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 The soul overpowering with delight, 
 As, with a quick uncommon ray, 
 A streak of lightning clears the day, 
 
 And flashes on the sight. 
 Let Echo too perform her part. 
 Prolonging every note with art, 
 
 And in a low expiring strain 
 
 Play all the concert o'er again- 
 Such were the tuneful notes that hung 
 On bright Cecilia's charming tongue : 
 Notes that sacred heats inspired, 
 And with religious ardour fired : 
 The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd 
 His smother'd passion in his breast, 
 No sooner heard the warbling dame. 
 
 But, by the secret influence tuxn'd, 
 He felt a new diviner flame. 
 
 And with devotion bum'd. 
 
 With ravish' d soul, and looks amazed. 
 Upon her beauteous face he gazed ; 
 
 Nor made his amorous complaint : 
 In vain her eyes his heart had charm' d, 
 Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd, 
 
 And changed the lover to a saint. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 And now the choir complete rejoices, 
 With trembling strings and melting voices. 
 The tuneful ferment rises high, 
 And works with mingled melody : 
 Quick divisions run their rounds, 
 A thousand trills and quivering sounds 
 
 In airy circles o'er us fly, 
 Till, wafted by a gentle breeze. 
 They faint and languish by degrees, 
 Ajid at a distance die. 
 
 Joseph Addison.— Bom 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 765.— A LETTER FROM ITALY. 
 
 Wliile you, my lord, the rural shades admire, 
 And from Britannia's public posts retire. 
 Nor longer, her ungratefiil sons to please, 
 For their advantage sacrifice your ease ; 
 Me into foreign realms my fate conveys. 
 Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, 
 Where the soft season and inviting clime 
 Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme 
 
 For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes. 
 Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, 
 Poetic fields encompass me around. 
 And still I seem to tread on classic ground ; 
 For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung, 
 That not a mountain rears its head unsung, 
 Eenown'd in verse each shady thicket grows. 
 And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. 
 
 How am I pleased to search the hills and 
 woods 
 For rising springs and celebrated floods ! 
 To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, 
 And trace the smooth CUtumnus to his 
 
 To see the Mincio draw his watery store 
 Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, 
 And hoary Albula's infected tide \ 
 
 O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. [ 
 
 Fired with a thousand raptures I survey 
 Eridanus through flowery meadows stray. 
 The king of floods ! that, rolling o'er the 
 
 plains, 
 The towering Alps of half their moisture 
 
 drains, 
 And proudly swoln with a whole winter's 
 
 Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. 
 Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful 
 throng, 
 I look for streams immortalized in song. 
 That lost in silence and oblivion lie, 
 (Dumb are their fountains and their channels 
 
 dry,) 
 Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill. 
 And in the smooth description murmur stiU. 
 
 Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire. 
 And the famed river's empty shores admire. 
 That, destitute of strength, derives its course 
 From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source. 
 Yet sung so often in poetic lays. 
 With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys ; 
 So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme ! 
 Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious 
 
 stream, 
 That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd. 
 And unobserved in wild meanders play'd ; 
 Till by your lines and Nassau's sword re- 
 nown' d. 
 Its rising billows through the world resound. 
 Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce. 
 Or where the fame of an immortal verse. 
 Oh could the Muse my ravish'd breast 
 inspire 
 With warmth like yours, and raise an equal 
 
 fire, 
 Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should 
 
 shine. 
 And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine ! 
 See how the golden groves arortnd me 
 smile, 
 That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, 
 Or when transplanted and preserved with 
 
 care. 
 Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern 
 
 air. 
 Here kindly warmth their mounting juice 
 
 ferments 
 To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents : 
 Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle 
 
 bloom, 
 And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
 Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, 
 Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats ; 
 Wliere western gales eternally reside, 
 And all the seasons lavish all their pride : 
 Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together 
 
 •rise, 
 And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 
 
 Immortal glories in my mind revive, 
 And in my soul a thousand passions strive. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 A LETTEE FEOM ITALY. 
 
 [Joseph Addison 
 
 When Eome's exalted beauties I descry 
 
 Magnificent in piles of ruin He. 
 
 An ampiitheatre's amazing height 
 
 Here fills my eye mth terror and delight, 
 
 That on its public shows unpeopled Eome, 
 
 And held uncrowded nations in its womb ; 
 
 Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the 
 
 skies ; 
 And here the proud triumphal arches rise, 
 Where the old Eomans' deathless acts dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid : 
 Whole rivers here for.sake the fields below, 
 And wondering at their height through airy 
 
 channels flow. 
 Still to new scenes my wandering Muse 
 retires, 
 And the dumb show of breathing rocks 
 
 admires ; 
 Where the smooth chisel all its force has 
 
 shown. 
 And soften' d into flesh the rugged stone. 
 In solemn silence, a majestic band, 
 Heroes, and gods, and Eoman consuls stand ; 
 Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, 
 And emperors in Parian marble frown ; 
 Wliile the bright dames, to whom they humble 
 
 sued. 
 Still show the charms that their proud hearts 
 
 subdued. 
 Fain would I Eaphael's godlike art rehearse. 
 And show the immortal labours in my verse, 
 Wliere from the mingled strength of shade and 
 
 light 
 A new creation rises to my sight, 
 Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow. 
 So warm with life his blended colours glow. 
 From theme to theme with secret pleasure 
 
 toss'd, 
 Amidst the soft variety I'm lost : 
 Here pleasing airs my ravish' d soul confound 
 With cu'cling notes and labyrinths of sound ; 
 Here domes and temples rise in distant views, 
 And opening palaces invite my Muse. 
 
 How has kind Heaven adorn' d the happy 
 land, 
 And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
 But what avail her unexhausted stores. 
 Her blooming mountains and her sunny 
 
 shores, 
 With aU the gifts that heaven and earth 
 
 impart. 
 The smiles of nature and the charms of art. 
 While proud oppression in her valleys reigns. 
 And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
 The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
 The reddening orange and the swelling 
 
 grain : 
 Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines. 
 And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : 
 Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty 
 
 cursed. 
 And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. 
 
 O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, 
 Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight I 
 
 Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 
 And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; 
 Eased of her load, subjection grows more 
 
 Ught, 
 And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight ; 
 Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
 Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasuie to the 
 
 day. 
 Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; 
 How has she oft exhausted all her stores, 
 How oft in fields of death thy presence 
 
 sought, 
 Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly 
 
 bought ! 
 On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
 The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine. 
 With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
 And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
 We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
 In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, 
 Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine. 
 Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads 
 
 shine: 
 'Tis Hberty that crowns Britannia's isle. 
 And makes her barren rocks and her bleak 
 
 mountains smile. 
 Others with towering piles may please the 
 sight. 
 And in their proud aspiring domes delight ; 
 A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give, 
 Or teach their animated rocks to live : 
 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, 
 And hold in balance each contending state, 
 To threaten bold presumptuous kings with 
 
 war. 
 And answer her afflicted neighbours' prayer. 
 The Dane and Swede, roused up by fierce 
 
 alarms. 
 Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms : 
 Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease. 
 And all the northern world lies hush'd in 
 
 The ambitious Gaul • beholds with secret 
 dread 
 Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, 
 And fain her godlike sons would disunite 
 By foreign gold, or by domestic spite ; 
 But strives in vain to conquer or divide, 
 Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels 
 gTiide. 
 
 Fired with the name, which I so oft have 
 found 
 The distant climes and different tongues 
 
 resound, 
 I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain. 
 That longs to launch into a bolder strain. 
 But I've already troubled you too long, 
 Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song. 
 My humble verse demands a softer theme, 
 A painted meadow, or a purling stream ; 
 Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays, 
 And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should 
 praise. 
 
 Joseph Addison. — Born 1672, Died 170Q. 
 
Joseph Addison.] 
 
 AN ODE, 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 766.— AN ODE. 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 
 With all the blue ethereal sk.y, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Their great Original proclaim. 
 
 The unwearied Sun from day to day 
 
 Does his Creator's power display; 
 
 And publishes, to every land, 
 
 The work of an almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The Moon takes tip the wondrous tale ; 
 And nightly, to the listening Earth, 
 Repeats the story of her birth : 
 "Wliilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets, in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
 What though no real voice, nor sound 
 Amidst their radiant orbs be found : 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice. 
 And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
 For ever singing as they shine : 
 " The hand that made us is divine." 
 
 Joseph Addison. — Born 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 767.— A HYMN. 
 
 When all thy mercies, my God, 
 
 My rising soul surveys ; 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 O how shall words -with equal warmth 
 
 The gratitude declare. 
 That glows within my ravish' d heart ! 
 
 But thou canst read it there. 
 
 Thy providence my life sustain' d, 
 
 And all my wants redress'd, 
 Wlien in the silent womb I lay, 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries 
 
 Thy mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 
 
 To form themselves in prayer. 
 
 TJnnumber'd comforts to my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestow' d. 
 Before my infant heart conceived 
 
 From whence these comfoi'ts flow'd. 
 
 When in the slippery paths of youth 
 
 With heedless steps I ran. 
 Thine arm unseen convey' d me safe, 
 
 And led me up to man. 
 
 Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 
 
 It gently clear' d my way ; 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice, 
 
 More to be fear'd than they. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 
 
 With health renew' d my face ; 
 And when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
 
 Revived my soul wdth grace. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
 
 Has made mj cup run o'er. 
 And in a kind and faithful friend 
 
 Has doubled all my store. 
 
 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 
 My daily thanks employ ; 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
 
 That tastes those gifts with joy. 
 
 Tlirough every period of my life. 
 
 Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
 And after death, in distant worlds, 
 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 When nature fails, and day and night 
 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 
 Through all eternity, to Thee 
 
 A joyful song I'll raise ; 
 For, oh! eternity's too short 
 
 To utter all thy praise. 
 
 Joseph Addison.— Born 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 768.— AN ODE. 
 
 How are thy servants blest, Lord ! 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide. 
 
 Their help Omnipotence. 
 
 In foreign realms, and lands remote, 
 
 Supported by thy care, 
 Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, 
 
 And breathed in tainted air. 
 
 Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, 
 
 Made every region please ; 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd. 
 
 And smooth' d the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 Think, my soul, devoutly think. 
 
 How, with affrighted eyes, 
 Tliou saw'st the wide-extended deep 
 
 In all its horrors rise. 
 
 Confusion dwelt in every face. 
 
 And fear in every heart ; 
 When waves on waves, and gulphs on 
 gulphs, 
 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 
 Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy set me free ; 
 "Wliilst, in the confidence of prayer, 
 
 My soul took hold on Thee. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.J 
 
 DESCEIPTION OF A CITY SHOWEE 
 
 [Jonathan Swift. 
 
 For though in dreadfiil whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave, 
 I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 
 The storm was laid, the winds retired, 
 
 Obedient to thy will ; 
 The sea that roar'd at thy command, 
 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 
 
 Thy goodne.'«s I'll adore : 
 And praise Thee for thy mercies past, 
 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 
 My life, if Thou preserv'st my life. 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
 And death, if death must be my doom. 
 
 Shall join my soul to Thee. 
 
 Joseph Addison. — Born 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 769.— A HYMN. 
 
 When rising from the bed of death, 
 O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, 
 
 I see my Maker face to face ; 
 O how shall I appear ! 
 
 If yet, while pardon may be found. 
 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 
 And trembles at the thought : 
 
 When Thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 
 
 In majesty severe. 
 And sit in jtidgment on my soul ; 
 
 O how shall I appear ! 
 
 But Thou hast told the troubled soul, 
 
 Who does her sins lament. 
 The timely tribute of her tears 
 
 Shall endless woe prevent. 
 
 Then see the sorrows of my heart, 
 
 Ere yet it be too late ; 
 And add my Saviour's dying groans, 
 
 To give those sorrows weight. 
 
 For never shall my soul despair 
 
 Her pardon to prociire, 
 "Who knows thy only Son has died 
 
 To make that pardon sure. 
 
 Joseph Addison.— Born 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 770.--PAEAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye : 
 My noon-day walks He shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads 
 My weary wandering steps He leads : 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread. 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
 For Thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 
 Tliy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my wants beguile : 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown" d. 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 Joseph Addison. — Born 1672, Died 1709. 
 
 771.— MORNING. 
 
 Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach 
 Appearing showed the mddy morn's approach. 
 The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door 
 Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the 
 
 floor. 
 Now Moll had whirled her mop with dexterous 
 
 airs, 
 Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. 
 The youth with broomy stumps began to 
 
 trace 
 The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the 
 
 place. 
 The small-coal man was heard with cadence 
 
 deep. 
 Till drown' d in shriller notes of chimney- 
 sweep : 
 Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet ; 
 And brick-dust MoU. had scream 'd throv.gh half 
 
 the street. 
 The turnkey now his flock returning sees, 
 Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees ; 
 The watchful bailiff's take their silent stands. 
 And schoolboys lag with satchels in their 
 
 hands. 
 
 Jonathan Sivift. — Born 1667, Died 1745. 
 
 772.--DESCEIPTION OF A CITY 
 SHOWEE. 
 
 Careful observers may foretell the hour 
 
 (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shov/er, 
 
 While rain depends, the pensive cat gives 
 
 o'er 
 Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. 
 Eeturning home at night, you'll find the 
 
 sink 
 Strike your offended sense with double stink. 
 
 34 
 
Jonathan Swift.] 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 [Fifth Period. 
 
 If you be wise, then go not far to dine ; 
 You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in 
 
 wine. 
 A coming shower your shooting corns presage, 
 Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will 
 
 rage : 
 Sauntering in coffee-hotxse is Dulman seen ; 
 He damns the climate, and complains of 
 
 spleen. 
 Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled 
 
 wings, 
 A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, 
 That swilled more liquor than it could con- 
 tain. 
 And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. 
 Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope. 
 While the first drizzling shower is borne 
 
 aslope ; 
 Such is that sprinkling, which some careless 
 
 quean 
 Flirts on you from her mop — but not so 
 
 You fly, invoke the gods ; then turning, stop 
 To ran ; she, singing, stiU whirls on her 
 
 mop. 
 Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal 
 
 strife, 
 But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, 
 And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 
 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which 
 
 was dust. 
 Ah ! where must needy poet seek for aid. 
 When dust and rain at once his coat invade ? 
 Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain 
 Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain ! 
 Now in contiguous drops the flood comes 
 
 down, 
 Threatening -with deluge this devoted town. 
 To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, 
 Pretend to cheapen goods, but notliing buy. 
 The Templar spruce, while every spout 's a- 
 
 broach, 
 Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. 
 The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty 
 
 strides. 
 While streams run down her oiled umbrella's 
 
 Here various kinds, by various fortunes led. 
 Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. 
 Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs 
 Forget their feuds, and join to save their 
 
 wigs. 
 Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits, 
 While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by 
 
 fits; 
 And ever and anon with frightful din 
 The leather sounds ; he trembles from 
 
 within. 
 So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden 
 
 steed, 
 Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed 
 (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do. 
 Instead of paying chairmen, run them 
 
 through), 
 Laocoon struck the outside with his spear. 
 And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. 
 
 Now from all parts the swelling kennels 
 
 flow. 
 And bear their trophies with them as they 
 
 go: 
 Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell 
 What street they sailed from by their sight 
 
 and smell. 
 They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, 
 From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their 
 
 course, 
 And in huge confluence joined at Snowhill 
 
 ridge, 
 Fall from the conduit prone to Holbom 
 
 Bridge. 
 Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, 
 
 and blood, 
 Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched 
 
 in mud, 
 Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling 
 
 down the flood. 
 
 Jonathan Swift— Born 1667, Dial 1745. 
 
 773.— BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 In ancient times, as story tells, 
 The saints would often leave their cells, 
 And stroll about, but hide their quality, 
 To try good people's hospitality. 
 
 It happened on a winter night 
 (As authors of the legend write). 
 Two brother hermits, saints by trade. 
 Taking their tour in masquerade, 
 Disguised in tattered habits went 
 To a small village do-ivn in Kent ; 
 Where, in the strollers' canting strain, 
 They begged from door to door in vain ; 
 Tried every tone might pity win, 
 But not a soul would let them in. 
 
 Our wandering saints in woful sta,te, 
 Treated at this ungodly rate. 
 Having through all the village past, 
 To a small cottage came at last, 
 Where dwelt a good old honest j-eoman, 
 Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, 
 Who kindly did the saints invite 
 In his poor hut to pass the night. 
 And then the hospitable sire 
 Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire, 
 While he from out the chimney took 
 A flitch of bacon off the hook. 
 And freely from the fattest side 
 Cut out large slices to be fried ; 
 Then stepped aside to fetch them dx-ink, 
 FiHed a large jug up to the brink, 
 And saw it fairly twice go round : 
 Yet (what was wonderful) they found 
 'Twas still replenished to the top, 
 As if they ne'er had touched a drop. 
 The good old couple were amazed. 
 And often on each other gazed : 
 For both were frighted to the heart, 
 And just began to cry — " What art r " 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 [Jonathan Swift. 
 
 Then softly turned aside to view, 
 Wliether the lights were burning blue. 
 The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't. 
 Told them their calling and their errant : 
 Good folks, you need not be afraid, 
 Wo are but saints, the hermits said ; , 
 
 No hurt shall come to you or yours ; 
 But, for that pack of churlish boors, 
 Not fit to live on Chi-istian ground. 
 They and their houses shall be droAvned : 
 While 3-0U shall see your cottage rise, 
 And grow a church before your eyes. 
 
 They scarce had spoke, ^vhen fair and soft 
 The roof began to mount aloft ; 
 Aloft rose every beam and rafter, 
 The heavy wall climbed slowly after. 
 
 The chimney widened, and gi-cw higher, 
 Became a steeple with a spire. 
 
 The kettle to the top was hoist, 
 And there stood fastened to a joist ; 
 B;it with the up-side down, to show 
 lis inclination for below : 
 In vain ; for some superior force, 
 Applied at bottom, stops its course ; 
 Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 
 Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 
 
 A wooden jack, which had almost 
 Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
 A sudden alteration feels, 
 Increased by new intestine wheels : 
 And, what exalts the wonder more. 
 The number made the motion slower ; 
 The flier, which, though 't had leaden feet, 
 Turned round so quick, you scarce could see't. 
 Now, slackened by some secret power, 
 Can hardly move an inch an hour. 
 The jack and chimney, near allied, 
 Had never left each other's side : 
 The chimnej'- to a steeple grown, 
 The jack would not be left alone ; 
 I'ut, up against the steeple reared, 
 Became a clock, and still adhered : 
 And still its love to household cares 
 By a shrill voice at noon declares ; 
 Warning the cook-maid not to burn 
 That roast meat, which it cannot tui'n. 
 
 The groaning chair was seen to crawl 
 Like a huge snail, half up the v/all ; 
 Tliere stuck aloft in public view. 
 And, with small change, a pulpit grew. 
 
 The porringers, that in a row 
 Hung high, and made a glittering shov/, 
 To a less noble substance changed. 
 Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 
 
 The ballads pasted on the wall, 
 Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
 Fair Eosamond, and Kobin Hood, 
 The Little Children in the Wood, 
 Now seemed to look abundance better, 
 Improved in pictui-e, size, and letter ; 
 And high in order placed, describe 
 The heraldry of every tribe. 
 
 A bedstead of the antique mode, 
 Compact of timber many a load ; 
 Such as our grandsires wont to use. 
 Was metamorphosed into pev/s ; 
 
 Which still their ancient natm-e keep, 
 By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 
 
 The cottage, by such feats as these, 
 'Grown to a church by just degrees ; 
 The hermits then desire their host 
 To ask for what he fancied most. 
 Philemon, having paused a while. 
 Returned them thanks in homely style ; 
 Then said, My house is grown so fine, 
 Methinks I still would call it mine : 
 I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; 
 Make me the parson, if you please. 
 He spoke, and presently he feels 
 His grazier's coat fall down his heels : 
 Ho sees, yet hardly can believe. 
 About each arm a pudding sleeve : 
 His waistcoat to a cassock grow, 
 And both assumed a sable hue ; 
 But being old, continued just 
 As threadbare and as full of dust. 
 His talk was now of tithes and dues ; 
 Could smoke his pipe, and read the news : 
 Knew how to preach old sermons next, 
 Vamped in the preface and the text : 
 At christenings well could act liis part, 
 And had the service aU by heart : 
 Wished women might have chUdx-en fast, 
 And thought whose sow had farrowed last : 
 Against dissenters would repine, 
 And stood up firm for right divine : 
 Found his head filled with many a system, 
 But classic authors — he ne'er missed them. 
 
 Thus having furbished up a parson. 
 Dame Baucis next they played their farce 
 
 on: 
 Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen 
 Good pinners, edged with Colberteen : 
 Her petticoat, transformed apace. 
 Became black satin flounced with lace. 
 Plain Goody would no longer down : 
 'Twas madam in her grogram gown. 
 Philemon was in great suprise. 
 And hardly could believe his eyes : 
 Amazed to see her look so prim ; 
 And she admired as much at him. 
 
 Thus, happy in their change of life. 
 Wore several years the man and wife : 
 When on a day which proved their last. 
 Discoursing o'er old stories past. 
 They went by chance, amidst their talk, 
 To the churchyard to fetch a walk ; 
 When Baucis hastily cried out. 
 My dear, I see your forehead sprout ! 
 Sprout, quoth the man, what's this you tell 
 
 us? 
 I hope you don't believe me jealous ? 
 But yet, methinks, I feel it tioie ; 
 
 And really yours is budding too 
 
 Nay now I cannot stir my foot ; 
 
 It feels as if 'twere taking root. 
 
 Description would but tire my Muse ; 
 In short, they both were turned to yews. 
 
 Old Goodman Dobson, of the green, 
 Eemembers he the trees hath seen ; 
 He'll talk of them from noon till night. 
 And goes with folks to show the sight ; 
 
 5^* 
 
Jonathan Swift.] 
 
 VERSES ON" HIS- OWN DEATH 
 
 [Fifth Peuiod. 
 
 On Sundays, after evening- prayer, 
 He gathers all the parish there ; 
 Points out the place of either yew, 
 Here Baucis, there Philemon grew, 
 Tni once a parson of our to-wii, 
 To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 
 At which, 'tis hard to be believed, 
 How much the other tree was gi-icved ; 
 Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted ; 
 So the next parson stubbed and burnt it. 
 
 Jonathan Sv:ift.—Born 1667, Died 1745. 
 
 774.— VEESES ON HIS OWN DEATH. 
 
 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew 
 From nature, I believe them true : 
 They argne no corrupted mind 
 In him ; the fault is in mankind. 
 
 This maxim more than all the rest 
 Is thought too base for human breast : 
 " In all distresses of our friends, 
 We first consult our private ends ; 
 While nature, kindly bent to ease us, 
 Points out some circumstance to please us. 
 
 If this perhaps your patience move, 
 Let reason and experience prove. 
 
 We all behold with envious eyes 
 Our equal raised above our size. 
 Who woiild not at a crowded show 
 Stand high himself, keep others low ? 
 I love my friend as well as you ; 
 But why should he obstruct my view ? 
 Then let me have the higher post ; 
 Suppose it but an inch at most. 
 If in a battle you should find 
 One, whom you love of all mankind, 
 Had some heroic action done, 
 A champion kill'd, or trophy won ; 
 Eather than thus be over-topt, 
 Would you not wish his laurels cropt ? 
 Dear honest Ned is in the gout, 
 Lies racked with pain, and you without : 
 How patiently you hear him groan ! 
 How glad the case is not your own ! 
 
 What poet would not grieve to see 
 His brother write as well as he ? 
 But, rather than they should excel, 
 Would wish his rivals all in hell ? 
 i Her end when Emulation misses. 
 
 She turns to envy, stings, and hisses : 
 The strongest friendship yields to pride. 
 Unless the odds be on our side. 
 "Vain human kind ! fantastic race ! 
 Thy various follies who can trace ? 
 Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, 
 Their empire in our hearts divide. 
 Give others riches, power, and station, 
 'Tis all to me an usurpation. 
 I have no title to aspire ; 
 Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. 
 In Pope I cannot read a line, 
 But with a sigh I wish it mine : 
 
 W^hcn he can in one couplet fix 
 
 More sense than I can do in six ; 
 
 It gives me such a jealous fit, 
 
 I cry, " Pox take him and his wit ! " 
 
 I grieve to be outdone by Gay 
 
 Jn my own humorous biting way. 
 
 Arbuthnot is no more my friend. 
 
 Who dares to irony pretend. 
 
 Which I was born to introduce, 
 
 Eefined it first, and showed its use. 
 
 St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows 
 
 That I had some repute for prose ; 
 
 And, till they drove me ovit of date, 
 
 Could maul a minister of state. 
 
 If they have mortified my pride. 
 
 And made me throw my pen aside ; 
 
 If -with such talents Heaven hath bless' d 'em, 
 
 Have I not reason to detest 'em ? 
 
 To all my foes, dear Fortune, send 
 Thy gifts, but never to my friend : 
 I tamely can endure the first ; 
 But this with envy makes me burst. 
 
 Thus much may serve by way of proem ; 
 Proceed we therefore to our poem. 
 
 The time is not remote when I 
 Must by the course of nature die ; 
 When, I foresee, my special friends 
 Will try to find their private ends : 
 And, though 'tis hardly understood 
 Which way my death can do them good, 
 Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : 
 " See how the Dean begins to break 1 
 Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! 
 You plainly find it in his face. 
 That old vertigo in his head 
 Will never leave him till he 's dead. 
 Besides, his memory decays : 
 He recollects not what he says ; 
 He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
 Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
 Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; 
 He told them fifty times before. 
 How does he fancy we can sit 
 To hear his out-of -fashion wit ? 
 But he takes up with younger folks. 
 Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
 Faith, he must make his stories shorter. 
 Or change his comrades once a quarter ; 
 In half the time he talks them round, 
 ■ There must another set be found. 
 
 For poetry, he's past his prime : 
 He takes an hour to find a rhyme ; 
 His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
 His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
 I'd have him throw away his pen — 
 But there's no talking to some men." 
 
 And then their tenderness appears 
 By adding largely to my years : 
 " He's older than he would be reckon' d, 
 And well remembers Charles the Second. 
 He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; 
 And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 
 His stomach too begins to fail ; 
 Last year we thought him strong and halo ; 
 But now he's quite another thing : 
 I wish he may hold oiit till spring." 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 VEESES ON HIS OWN DEATH. 
 
 [Jonathan Swift. 
 
 They hug themselves and reason thus : 
 " It is not yet so bad with us ! " 
 
 In such a case they talk in tropes, 
 And by their fears express their hopes. 
 Some great misfortune to portend, 
 No enemy can match a friend. 
 With all the kindness they profess. 
 The merit of a lucky guess 
 (When daily how-d'ye's come of course, 
 And servants ansvver, " Worse and worse ! 
 "Would please them better, than to tell. 
 That, " God be praised, the Dean is well." 
 Then he who prophesied the best, 
 Approves his foresight to the rest : 
 " You know I always fear'd the worst, 
 And often told you so at first." 
 He'd rather choose that I should die, 
 Than his predictions prove a lie. 
 Not one foretells I shall recover ; 
 But all agree to give me over. 
 
 Yet should some neighbour feel a pain 
 Just in the parts where I complain ; 
 How many a message would he send ! 
 What hearty prayers that I should mend ! 
 Inquire what regimen I kept ? 
 What gave me ease, and how I slept ? 
 And more lament when I was dead. 
 Than all the snivellers round my bed. 
 
 My good companions, never fear ; 
 For, though you may mistake a year, 
 Though your prognostics run too fast, 
 They must be verified at last. 
 
 Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
 " How is the Dean ? " — " He's just alive." 
 Now the departing prayer is read ; 
 He hardly breathes — the Dean is dead. 
 
 Before the passing-bell begun, 
 The news through half the town is run. 
 " Oh I may we all for death i)repare ! 
 What has he left ? and who's his heir ? " 
 " I know no more than what the news is ; 
 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses." 
 " To public uses ! there's a whim I 
 What had the public done for him ? 
 INIere envy, avarice, and pride : 
 He gave it aU — but first he died. 
 And had the Dean, in all the nation. 
 No worthy friend, no poor relation ? 
 So readj'- to do strangers good. 
 Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 
 
 Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd; 
 With elegies the town is cloy'd : 
 Some paragraph in every paper. 
 To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. 
 
 The doctors, tender of their fame. 
 Wisely on me lay all the blame. 
 " We must confess, his case was nice ; 
 But he would never take advice. 
 Had he been ruled, for aught appears, 
 He might have lived these twenty years : 
 For, when we open'd him, we found 
 That all his vital parts were sound." 
 
 From Dublin soon to London spread, 
 'Tis told at court, '• the Deau is dead." 
 And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, 
 Runs laughing up to tell the queen. 
 
 The queen, so gracious, mild, and good. 
 Cries, " Is he gone ! 'tis time he should. 
 He's dead, you say ; then let him rot : 
 I'm glad the medals were forgot. 
 I promised him, I own ; but when ? 
 
 I pnly was the princess then : 
 
 But now, as consort of the king. 
 You know, 'tis qvdte another thing." 
 
 Now Chartres, at^ir Robert's levee, 
 Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy ; 
 " Why, if he died without his shoes," 
 Cries Bob, " I'm sorry for the news : 
 Oh, were the wretch but living still. 
 And in his place my good friend Will ! 
 Or had a mitre on his head. 
 Provided Bolingbroke were dead ! " 
 
 Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains : 
 Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! 
 And then, to make them pass the glibber, 
 Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Gibber. 
 He'll treat me as he does my betters, 
 Publish my will, my life, my letters ; 
 Revive the libels born to die : 
 Which Pope must bear as well as I. 
 
 Here shift the scene to repres*ent 
 How those I love my death lament. 
 Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay 
 A week, and Arbuthnot a day. 
 
 St. John himself will scarce forbear 
 To bite his pen, and drop a tear. 
 The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 
 " I'm sorry — but we all must die ! " 
 
 Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise, 
 All fortitude of mind supplies : 
 For how can stony bowels melt 
 In those who never pity felt ! 
 When we are lash'd, they kiss the red, 
 Resigning to the will of God. 
 
 The fools, my juniors by a, year, 
 Are tortm*ed with suspense and fear ; 
 Who wisely thought my age a screen, 
 When death approach'd, to stand between : 
 The screen removed, their heai-ts are trembling; 
 They mourn for me without- dissembling. 
 
 My female friends, whose tender hearts 
 Have better learn' d to act their parts, 
 Receive the news in doleful dumps : 
 " The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?) 
 Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! 
 (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) 
 Six deans, they say, must bear the pall : 
 (I wish I knew what king to call.) 
 Madame, your husband will attend 
 The funeral of so good a friend ? 
 No, madame, 'tis a shocking sight ; 
 And he's engaged to-morrow night : 
 My lady Club will take it ill, 
 If he should fail her at quadrille. 
 He loved the Dean — (I lead a heart :) 
 But dearest friends, they say, must part. 
 His time was come ; he ran his race ; 
 We hope he's in a better place." 
 
 Why do we grieve that friends should die ? 
 No loss ipore easy to supply. 
 One year is past ; a different scene ! 
 No farther mention of the Dean, 
 
Jonathan Swift.] VERSES ON HIS OWN DEATH. [Fifth Period. 
 
 Who now, alas ! no more is miss'd, 
 
 " Sir, I have heard another story ; 
 
 Than if he never did exist. 
 
 He was a most confounded Tory, 
 
 Where's now the favourite of Apollo ? 
 
 And grew, or he is much belied, 
 
 Departed : — and his works mtist follow ; 
 
 Extremely dull, before he died." 
 
 Must undergo the common fate ; 
 
 " Can we the Drapier then forget ? 
 
 His kind of wit is out of date. , 
 
 Is not our nation in his debt ? 
 
 Some country squire to Lintot goes, 
 
 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters ! " — 
 
 Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. 
 
 " He should have left them for his betters : 
 
 Says Lintot, " I have heard the name ; 
 
 We had a hundred abler men, 
 
 He died a j^ear ago." — "The same." 
 
 Nor need depend upon his pen. — 
 
 He searches all the shop in vain. 
 
 Say what you -»vill about his reading, 
 
 " Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane : 
 
 You never can defend his breeding ; 
 
 I sent them, with a load of books, 
 
 Who, in his satires running riot. 
 
 Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. 
 
 Could never leave the world in quiet ; 
 
 To fancy they could live a year ! 
 
 Attacking, when he took the whim. 
 
 I find you're but a stranger here. 
 
 Court, city, camp — all one to him. — 
 
 The Dean was famous in his time. 
 
 But why would he, except he slobber' d, 
 
 And had a kind of knack at rhyme. 
 
 Offend our patriot, groat Sir Robert, 
 
 His way of writing now is past : 
 
 Whose cotmsels aid the sovereign power 
 
 The town has got a better taste. 
 
 To save the nation every hour ! 
 
 I keep no antiquated stuff ; 
 
 What scenes of evil he unravels, 
 
 But spick and span I have enough. 
 
 In satires, libels, lying travels ; 
 
 Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em : 
 
 Not sparing his own clergy cloth, i 
 
 Here's CoUey (Jibber's birth-day poem. 
 
 But eats into it, Hke a moth ! " 
 
 This ode you never yet have seen. 
 
 " Perhaps I may allow the Dean 
 
 By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. 
 
 Had too much satire in his vein, 
 
 Then here's a letter finely penn'd 
 
 And seem'd determined not to starve it, 
 
 Against the Craftsman and his friend : 
 
 Because no age could more deserve it. 
 
 It clearly shows that all reflection 
 
 Yet malice never was his aim ; 
 
 On ministers is disaffection. 
 
 He lash'd the vice, but spared the name. 
 
 Next, here's Sir Robert's \indication, 
 
 No individual could resent, 
 
 And Mr, Henley's last oration. 
 
 Where thousands equally were meant : 
 
 The hawkers have not got them yet : 
 
 His satire points at no defect. 
 
 Your honour i^lease to buy a set ? 
 
 But what all mortals may correct ; 
 
 Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 
 
 For he abhon-''d the senseless tribe 
 
 'Tis read by every politician : 
 
 Who call it humour when they gibe : 
 
 The country members, when in town. 
 
 He spared a hump, or crooked nose, 
 
 To all their borougjis send them down ; 
 
 Whose owners set not up for beaux. 
 
 You never met a thing so smart ; 
 
 True genuine dulness moved his pity. 
 
 The courtiers have them all by heart : 
 
 Unless it offer' d to be witty. 
 
 Those maids of honour who can read, 
 
 Those who their ignorance confest. 
 
 Are taught to use them for their creed. 
 
 He ne'er offended with a jest ; 
 
 The reverend author's good intention 
 
 But laugh' d to hear an idiot quote 
 
 Hath been rewarded with a pension : 
 
 A verse from Horace learn' d by rote. 
 
 He doth an honour to his gown. 
 
 Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd. 
 
 By bravely running priest-craft down : 
 
 Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. 
 
 He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, 
 
 If you resent it, who's to blame ? 
 
 That Moses was a grand impostor ; 
 
 He neither knows you, nor your name. 
 
 That all his miracles were cheats. 
 
 Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke. 
 
 Perform' d as jugglers do their feats : 
 
 Because its owner is a duke ? 
 
 The church had never such a writer ; 
 
 His friendships, still to few confined. 
 
 A shame he had not got a mitre ! " 
 
 Were always of the middling kind ; 
 
 Suppose me dead ; and then suppose 
 
 No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, 
 
 A club assembled at the Rose ; 
 
 Who fain would pass for lords indeed : i 
 
 Where, from discourse of this and that, 
 
 Where titles give no right or power, 
 
 I grow the subject of their chat. 
 
 And peerage is a wither' d flower ; 
 
 And while they toss my name about. 
 
 He would have deem'd it a disgrace. 
 
 With favour some, and some without ; 
 
 If such a wretch had known his face. 
 
 One, quite indifferent in the cause, 
 
 On rural sqiaires, that kingdom's bane, 
 
 My character impartial draws. 
 
 He vented oft his wrath in vain : , 
 
 " The Dean, if we believe report, 
 
 ******* squires to market brought, 1 
 
 Was never ill received at court, 
 
 Who sell their souls and **** for nought : 
 
 Although, ironically grave. 
 
 The **** **** go joyful back. 
 
 He shamed the fool, and lash'd the knave ; 
 
 To rob the church, their tenants rack ; 
 
 To steal a hint was never known, 
 
 Go snacks with ***** justices. 
 
 But what he writ was all his own." 
 
 And keep the peace to pick up fees ; 
 
' From 1689 to 1727.] VERSES ON HIS OWN DEATH. [Jonathan Swift. 
 
 In every job to have a share, 
 
 By solemn league and covenant bound, 
 
 A gaol or turnpike to repair ; 
 
 To ruin, slaughter, and confound ; 
 
 And turn ******* to pubKc roads 
 
 To turn religion to a fable, 
 
 Commodious to their own abodes. 
 
 . And make the government a Babel ; 
 
 He never thought an honour done him, 
 
 Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, 
 
 Because a peer was proud to own him ; 
 
 Corrupt the senate, rob the crownrj 
 
 Would rather slip aside, and choose 
 
 To sacrifice Old England's glory, 
 
 To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; 
 
 And make her infamous in story : 
 
 And scorn the tools with stars and garters, 
 
 When such a tempest shook the laud. 
 
 So often seen caressing Chartres. 
 
 How could unguarded virtue stand ! 
 
 He never courted men in station, 
 
 With horror, grief, despair, the Dean 
 
 Nor persons held in admiration ; 
 
 Beheld the dire destructive scene : 
 
 Of no man's greatness was afraid, 
 
 His friends in exile, or the Tower, 
 
 Because he sought for no man's aid. 
 
 Himself within the frown of power ; 
 
 Though trusted long in great affairs. 
 
 Pursued by base envenom' d pens, 
 
 He gave himself no haughty airs : 
 
 Far to the land of s and fens ; 
 
 Without regarding private ends, 
 
 A servile race in folly nursed. 
 
 1 Spent all his credit for his friends ; 
 
 Who truckle most, when treated worst. 
 
 And only chose the mse and good ; 
 
 By innocence and resolution. 
 
 No flatterers ; no aUies in blood : 
 
 He bore continual persecution ; 
 
 But succour'd virtue in distress, 
 
 While numbers to preferment rose, 
 
 And seldom faU'd of good success ; 
 
 Whose merit was to be his foes ; 
 
 As numbers in their hearts must own, 
 
 When ev'n his own familiar friends. 
 
 Who, but for him, had been unknown. 
 
 Intent upon their private ends. 
 
 He kept with princes due decorum ; 
 
 Like renegadoes now he feels. 
 
 Yet never stood in awe before 'em. 
 
 Against him lifting up their heels. 
 
 He foUow'd David's lesson just ; 
 
 The Dean did, by his peij, defeat 
 
 In princes never put his trust : 
 
 An infamous destructive cheat ; 
 
 And, would you make him truly sour, 
 
 Taught fools their interest how to know. 
 
 Provoke him with a slave in power. 
 
 And gave them arms to ward the blow. 
 
 The Irish senate if you named, 
 
 Envy hath own'd it was his doing, 
 
 With what impatience he declaimed ! 
 
 To save that hapless land from ruin ; 
 
 Fair liberty was all his cry ; 
 
 WMle they who at the steerage stood. 
 
 For her he stood prepared to die ; 
 
 And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. 
 
 For her he boldly stood alone ; 
 
 To save them from their evil fate. 
 
 For her he oft exposed his own. 
 
 In him was held a crime of state. 
 
 Two kingdoms, just as faction led, 
 
 A wicked monster on the bench, 
 
 Had set a price upon his head ; 
 
 Whose fury blood could never quench ; 
 
 But not a traitor could be found. 
 
 As vile and profligate a villain, 
 
 To sell him for six hundred pound. 
 
 As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian ; 
 
 Had he but spared his tongue and pen, 
 
 Who long all justice had discarded. 
 
 He might have rose like other men : 
 
 Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded ; 
 
 But power was never in his thought, 
 
 Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, 
 
 And wealth he valued not a groat : 
 
 And make him of his zeal repent : 
 
 Ingratitude he often found. 
 
 But Heaven his innocence defends, 
 
 And pitied those who meant the wound ; 
 
 The grateful people stand his friends ; 
 
 But kept the tenour of his mind. 
 
 Not strains of law, nor judges' frown. 
 
 To merit well of human-kind ; 
 
 Nor topics brought to please the crown. 
 
 Nor made a sacrifice of those 
 
 Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, 
 
 Who still were true, to please his foes. 
 
 Prevail to bring him in convict. 
 
 He labour'd many a fruitless hour, 
 
 In exile, with a steady heart, 
 
 To reconcile his friends in power ; 
 
 He spent his life's declining part ; 
 
 Saw mischief by a faction brewing. 
 
 Where folly, pride, and faction sway. 
 
 While they pursued each other's ruin. 
 
 Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." 
 
 But, finding vain was all his care, 
 
 " Alas, poor Dean ! his only scope 
 
 He left the court in mere despair. 
 
 Was to be held a misanthrope. 
 
 And, oh ! how short are human schemes ! 
 
 This into general odium drew him. 
 
 Here ended all our golden dreams. 
 
 Which if he liked, much good may 't do him. 
 
 What St. John's skill in state affairs. 
 
 His zeal was not to lash our crimes. 
 
 What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, 
 
 But discontent against the times : 
 
 To save their sinking country lent. 
 
 For, had we made him timely offers. 
 
 Was all destroy' d by one event. 
 
 To raise his post, or fill his cofiers, 
 
 Too soon that precious life was ended, 
 
 Perhaps he might have truckled down. 
 
 On which alone our weal depended. 
 
 Like other brethren of his gown ; 
 
 When up a dangerovis faction starts, 
 
 For party he would scarce have bled : — 
 
 With wrath and vengeance in their hearts ; 
 
 I say no more — ^because he's dead. — 
 
Jonathan Swift.] 
 
 THE GEAND QUESTION DEBATED. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 What writings has he left behind ? " 
 
 " I hear they're of a different kind : 
 A few in verse ; but most in prose — " 
 
 " Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose : — 
 All scribbled in the worst of times, 
 To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ; 
 To praise queen Anne, nay more, defend her, 
 As never favouring the Pretender : 
 Or libels yet conceal' d from sight, 
 Against the court to show his spite : 
 Perhaps his travels, part the third ; 
 A lie at every second word — 
 Offensive to a loyal ear : — 
 But — not one sermon, you may swear." 
 
 " He knew an hundred pleasing stories, 
 With all the turns of Whigs and Tories : 
 Was cheerful to his dying day ; 
 And friends would let him have his way. 
 
 As for his works in verse or prose, 
 I own myself no judge of those. 
 Nor can I tell what critics thought them ; 
 But this I know, all people bought them, 
 As with a moral view design' d 
 To please and to reform mankind : 
 And, if he often miss'd his aim, 
 The world must own it to their shame, 
 The praise is his, ajtid theirs the blame. 
 He gave the little wealth he had 
 To build a house for fools and mad ; 
 To show, by one satiric touch. 
 No nation wanted it so much. 
 That kingdom he had left hia debtor ; 
 I wish it soon may have a better. 
 And, since you dread no further lashes, 
 Methinks you may forgive his ashes." 
 
 Jonathan Swift— Born 1667, Died 1745. 
 
 775.— THE GEAND QUESTION 
 DEBATED. 
 
 Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of 
 
 care : 
 " Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. 
 This Hamilton's bawn, whilst it sticks on my 
 
 hand, 
 I lose by the house what I get by the land ; 
 But how to dispose of it to the best bidder, 
 For a barrack or malt-house, we now must 
 
 consider. 
 First, let me suppose I make it a malt- 
 house. 
 Here I have computed the profit will fall t' 
 
 us ; 
 There's nine hundred pounds for labour and 
 
 grain, 
 I increase it to twelve, so three hundred 
 
 remain ; 
 A handsome addition for wine and good 
 
 cheer, 
 Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a 
 
 year : 
 With a dozen largo vessels my vault shall be 
 
 stored ; 
 No little scrub joint shall come on my board ; 
 
 And you and the Dean no more shall combine 
 To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ; 
 Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to 
 
 purloin 
 A stone and a quarter of beef from my 
 
 surloin. 
 If I make it a barrack, the crown is my 
 
 tenant ! 
 My dear, I have ponder' d again and again 
 
 on 't : 
 In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my 
 
 rent ; 
 Whatever they give me, I must be content, 
 Or join with the court in every debate ; 
 And rather than that, I would lose my 
 
 estate." 
 Thus ended the knight ; thus began his meek 
 
 wife : 
 " It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life. 
 I'm grown a mere mopus ; no company 
 
 comes. 
 But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull 
 
 Eums ; 
 With parsons what lady can keep herself 
 
 clean ? 
 I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. 
 But if you Avili give us a barrack, my dear, 
 The captain, I'm sure, wiU always come 
 
 here ; 
 I then shall not value his Deanship a straw, 
 For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in 
 
 awe ; 
 Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert, 
 Will tell him that chaplains should not be so 
 
 pert ; 
 That men of his coat should be minding their 
 
 prayers, 
 And not among ladies to give themselves 
 
 airs." 
 Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; 
 The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. 
 But Hannah, who listen' d to all that was 
 
 past, 
 And could not endure so vulgar a taste, 
 As soon as her ladyship call'd to be drest, 
 Cried, "Madam, why surely my master's 
 
 Sir Arthur the maltster I how fine it vnU 
 
 sound ! 
 I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. 
 But madam, I guess' d there would never come 
 
 good, 
 When I saw him so often with Darby and 
 
 Wood. 
 And now my dream 's out ; for I was a- 
 
 dream'd 
 That I saAV a huge rat — O dear, how I 
 
 screa)n'd ! 
 And after, methought, I had lost my new 
 
 shoes ; 
 And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill 
 
 news. 
 Dear madam, had you but the spirit to 
 
 tease. 
 You might have a barrack whenever you 
 
 j)lease : 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED. 
 
 [Jonathan Swift. 
 
 And, madam, I always believed you so stout, 
 That for twenty denials you would not give 
 
 out. 
 If I had a husband like him, I purtest, 
 Till he gave me my Avill, I would give him no 
 
 rest ; 
 And, rather than come in the same pair of 
 
 sheets ' 
 
 With such a cross man, I would he in the 
 
 streets ; 
 But, madam, I beg you contrive and invent, 
 And worry him out, till he gives his consent. 
 Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, 
 An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink : 
 For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, 
 I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. 
 I fancy already a barrack contrived 
 At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arrived ; 
 Of this, to be sm-e, Sir Arthur has warning. 
 And waits on the captain betimes the next 
 
 morning. 
 Now see, when they meet, how their honours 
 
 behave : 
 ' Noble captain, your servant ' — ' Sir Arthur, 
 
 your slave ; 
 You honour me much ' — ' The honour is 
 
 mine.' — 
 ' 'T%vas a sad rainy night ' — ' But the morning 
 
 is fine.' 
 ' Pray how does my lady ? ' — ' My wife 's at 
 
 your ser\-ice.' 
 ' I think I have seen her pictm-e by Jervas.' — 
 ' Good morrow, good captain. I'll wait on you 
 
 down.' — 
 ' You sha'n't stir a foot.'—' You'll think me a 
 
 clown : ' 
 ' For all the world, captain — ' — ' Not half an 
 
 inch farther." — 
 ' You must be obcy'd 1 ' — ' Your servant, Sir 
 
 Arthur! 
 My humble respects to my lady unknown.' — 
 ' I hope you -will use my house as your own.' " 
 " Go bring me my smock, and leave off your 
 
 prate. 
 Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." 
 " Pray, madam, be quiet ; what was it I 
 said ? 
 You had like to have put it quite out of my 
 
 Next day, to be sure, the captain will come. 
 At the head of his troops, with trumpet and 
 
 drum. 
 Now, madam, observe how he marches in 
 
 .state : 
 The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate : 
 Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, 
 Tantara, tantara ; while all the boys hollow. 
 See now comes the captain all daub'd with 
 
 gold lace : 
 O la ! the sweet gentleman ! look in his face ; 
 And see how he rides like a lord of the land. 
 With the fine flaming sword that he holds in 
 
 his hand ; 
 And his horse, the dear creter, it prances and 
 
 rears ; 
 With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears : 
 
 At last comes tlie troop by the word of com- 
 mand, 
 Drawn up in our court ; when the captain 
 
 cries. Stand ! 
 Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen 
 (For sure I had dizen'd you out likejx queen). 
 The captain, to show he is proud of the 
 
 favour, 
 Looks up to your window, and cocks up his 
 
 beaver. 
 (His beaver is cock'd ; pray, madam, mark 
 
 that, 
 For a captain of horse never takes off his 
 
 hat, 
 Because he has never a hand that is idle ; 
 For the right holds the sword, and the left 
 
 holds the bridle :) 
 Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, 
 As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; 
 (How I tremble to think of the blood it hath 
 
 spilt ;) 
 Then he lowers down the i)oint, and kisses the 
 
 hilt. 
 Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : 
 ' Fv&y, captain, be pleased to alight and walk 
 
 in.' 
 The captain salutes you with congee pro- 
 found. 
 And your ladyship curtsies half-way to the 
 
 ground. 
 ' Kit, run to your master, and bid him como 
 
 to us ; 
 I'm sure he'U be proud of the honour you do 
 
 us. 
 And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay. 
 And take a short dinner here with us to-day : 
 You're heartily welcome ; but a-s for good 
 
 cheer, 
 You come in the very worst time of the year : 
 
 If I had expected so worthy a guest ' 
 
 ' Lord ! madam ! your ladyship sure is in 
 
 jest : 
 You banter me, madam ; the kingdom must 
 
 j grant ' 
 
 j ' You officers, captain, are so complaisant ! ' " 
 i "Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody 
 
 i coming " 
 
 I " No, madam ; 'tis only Sir Arthur a- 
 ! humming. 
 
 I To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story), 
 I The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; 
 j The Dean and the doctor have humbled their 
 I pride. 
 
 For the captain's intreated to sit by your 
 
 side; 
 And, because he's their betters, you carve for 
 
 him first ; 
 The parsons for envy are ready to burst. 
 The servants amazed are scarce ever able 
 To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the 
 table ; 
 I And Molly and I have thrust in our nose 
 To peep at the captain all in his fine clo'es. 
 Dear madam, be sure he's a fine-spoken man, 
 Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue 
 
 ran ; 
 
Pope.] 
 
 THE MESSIAH. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 ' And, madam,' says he, * if such dinners you 
 
 give, 
 You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you 
 
 live. 
 I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose ; 
 But the Devil's as welcome whereA'er he goes : 
 G — d — n me ! they bid us reform and repent. 
 But, z — s ! by their looks they never keep 
 
 Lent. 
 Mister curate, for all your grave looks, I'm 
 
 afraid 
 You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's 
 
 maid : 
 I wish she would lend you her pretty white 
 
 hand 
 In mending your cassoc, and smoothing your 
 
 band. 
 (For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like 
 
 a ninny, 
 That the captain supposed he was curate to 
 
 Jinny.) 
 Whenever you see a cassoc and gown, 
 A hundred to one but it covers a clown. 
 Observe how a parson comes into a room ; 
 G — d — n me ! he hobbles as bad as my groom ; 
 A scholard, when just from his college broke 
 
 loose. 
 Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose ; 
 Your Noveds, and Bluturcks, and Omurs, and 
 
 stuff. 
 By G — , they don't signify this pinch of snuff. 
 To give a young gentleman right education, 
 The army's the only good school in the nation : 
 My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a 
 
 fool, 
 But at cuffs I was always the cock of the 
 
 school ; ' 
 I never could take to my book for the blood 
 
 o' me. 
 And the puppy confess' d he expected no good 
 
 o| me. 
 He caught me one morning coquetting his 
 
 wife ; 
 But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in 
 
 my life : 
 So I took to the road, and what's very odd, 
 The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G — . 
 Now, madam, you'U think it a. strange thing 
 
 to say, 
 But the sight of a book makes me sick to tins 
 
 day.' 
 "Never since I was born did I hear so 
 
 much wit, 
 And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should 
 
 split. 
 So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the 
 
 Dean, 
 As who should say, Now, am I skinny and 
 
 lean ? 
 But he durst not so much as once open his 
 
 lips, 
 And the doctor was plaguily down in the 
 
 hips." 
 Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, 
 TiU she heard the Dean call, " Will your lady- 
 ship walk ? " 
 
 Her ladyship answers, " I'm just coming 
 
 down : " 
 Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a 
 
 frown, 
 Although it was plain in her heart she was 
 
 glad. 
 Cried, " Hussy, why sure the wench is gone 
 
 mad! * 
 
 How could these chimeras get into your 
 
 brains ? — 
 Come hither, and take this old gown for your 
 
 pains. 
 But the Dean, if this secret should come to 
 
 his ears. 
 Will never have done with his gibes and his 
 
 jeers : 
 For your life, not a word of the matter, I 
 
 charge ye : 
 Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy." 
 
 Jonathan Swift. — Born 1667, Died 1745. 
 
 776.— THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : 
 To heavenly themes subhmer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more — thou my voice inspire. 
 Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with 
 fire ! 
 Eapt into future times, the bard beg^in : 
 A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a 
 
 Son! 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the 
 
 The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. 
 And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour. 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly shower. 
 The sick and weak the heaUng plant shall 
 
 aid. 
 From storms a shelter, and from heat a 
 
 shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds 
 
 shall fail ; 
 Eetuming Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
 And white-robed Innocence from heaven 
 
 descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected 
 
 morn ! 
 Oh, spring to light, auspicious Babe, be 
 
 bom ! 
 See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to 
 
 bring, 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance ! 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance ! 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise. 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skies! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
 
From, 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 SATIEE. 
 
 [Pope. 
 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 
 Lo ! earth receives him from the bending 
 
 skies ; 
 Sink dovra, ye mountains ; and ye valleys 
 
 rise; 
 With heads declined, ye cedars homage pay ; 
 Be smooth, ye rocks : ye rapid floods, give 
 
 way! 
 The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards fore- 
 told: 
 Hear him, ye deaf : and all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual 
 
 ray. 
 And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 'Tis he the obstructed paths of soimd shall 
 
 clear. 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding 
 
 ear: 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his cmtcli 
 
 forego. 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall 
 
 hear; 
 From every face he wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal 
 
 wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; 
 Explores the lost, the wandering sheep 
 
 directs. 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms. 
 Feeds from his hand and in his bosom 
 
 warms ; 
 Thus shall mankind his guardian care 
 
 engage, 
 The promised father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against nation rise. 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered 
 
 o'er, 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more : 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare 
 
 end. 
 Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
 Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall 
 
 yield, 
 And the same hand that sowed, shall reap 
 
 the field. 
 The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
 Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush 
 
 nods. 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with 
 
 thorn. 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn : 
 To leafless shrubs the flowery palms suc- 
 ceed, 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant 
 
 mead. 
 And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead : 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's 
 
 feet. ^ 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake ; 
 Pleased the green lustre of the scales survey, 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently 
 
 play. 
 Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, 
 
 rise ! 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 See a long I'ace thy spacious courts adorn ! 
 See future sons and daughters yet unborn, 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ! 
 See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 
 
 kings, 
 And heaped with products of Sabean springs. 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains 
 
 glow. 
 See heaven its sparkling portals wide display. 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the mom. 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall 
 
 shine 
 Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke 
 
 decay, 
 Eocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; 
 But fixed his word, his saving power remains ; 
 Thy realm for evey lasts, thy own Messiah 
 
 reigns ! 
 
 Pope.— Born 1688, Died 1744. 
 
 777.— SATIEE. 
 
 I've often wished that I had clear 
 For life, six hundred pounds a year, 
 A handsome house to lodge a friend, 
 A river at my garden's end, 
 A terrace-walk, and half a rood 
 Of land, set out to plant a wood. 
 
 Well, now I have all this and more, 
 I ask not to increase my store ; 
 But here a grievance seems to lie. 
 All this is mine but till I die ; 
 I can't but think 'twould sound more clever 
 To me and to my heirs for ever. 
 
 If I ne'er got or lost a groat. 
 By any trick, or any fault ; 
 And if I pray by Eeason's rules. 
 And not like forty other fools : 
 As thus, " Vouchsafe, oh gracious Maker ! 
 To grant me this and t'other aero : 
 Or, if it be thy will and pleasure, 
 Direct my plow to find a treasure : 
 
Pope.] SATIRE. [Fifth Period.— 
 
 But only what my station fits, 
 
 Would take me in his coach to chat. 
 
 And to be kept in my right wits, 
 
 And qu6.stion me of this and that ; 
 
 Preserve, Ahnighty Providence I 
 
 As, "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the 
 
 Just what you gave me, competence : 
 
 wind? " 
 
 And let me in the^e shades compose 
 
 " Who's chariot 's that we left behind ?" 
 
 Something in verse as true as prose ; 
 
 Or gravely try to read the lines 
 
 Eemoved from all th' ambitious scene. 
 
 Writ underneath the country signs ; 
 
 Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen." 
 
 Or, " Have you nothing new to-day 
 
 In short, I'm perfectly content, 
 
 From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay ? " 
 
 Let me but live on this side Trent ; 
 
 Such tattle often entertains 
 
 Nor cross the Channel twice a year, 
 
 My lord and me as far as Staines, 
 
 To spend six months with statesmen Rere. 
 
 As once a week we travel down 
 
 I must by all means come to town, 
 
 To Windsor, and again to town, 
 
 'Tis for the service of the crown. 
 
 Where all that passes inter nos, 
 
 " Lewis, the Dean will be of use. 
 
 Might be proclaim' d at Charing-Cross. 
 
 Send for him up, take no excuse." 
 
 Yet some I know with envy swell. 
 
 The toil, the danger of the seas ; 
 
 Because they see me used so well : 
 
 Great ministers ne'er think of these ; 
 
 " How think you of our friend the Dean ? 
 
 Or let it cost five hundred pound. 
 
 I wonder what some people mean ; 
 
 No matter where the money's found. 
 
 My lord and he are grown so great. 
 
 It is but so much more in debt. 
 
 Always together, tete-d-tete. 
 
 And that they ne'er consider' d j-et. 
 
 What, they admire him for his jokes — 
 
 " Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, 
 
 See but the fortune of some folks ! " 
 
 Let my lord know you're come to town." 
 
 There flies about a strange report 
 
 I hurry me in haste away, 
 
 Of some express arrived at court ; 
 
 Not thinking it is levee-day ; 
 
 I'm stopt by all the fools I meet, 
 
 And find his honour in a pound. 
 
 And catechised in every street. 
 
 Hemm'd by a triple circle round, 
 
 "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great; 
 
 Chequer' d with ribbons blue and green : 
 
 Inform us, will the emp'ror treat ? 
 
 How should I thrust myself between ? 
 
 Or do the prints and papers lie? " 
 
 Some wag observes me thus perplext. 
 
 Faith, Sir, you know as much as I. 
 
 And smiling whispers to the next. 
 
 " Ah, doctor, how you love to jest ! 
 
 " I thought the Dean had been too proud 
 
 'Tis now no secret " — I protest 
 
 To justle here among a crowd." 
 
 'Tis one to me — "Then tell us, pray, 
 
 Another, in a surly fit. 
 
 When are the troops to have their pay ? " 
 
 Tells me I have more zeal than vvit, 
 
 And tho' I solemnly declare 
 
 " So eager to express your love. 
 
 I know no more than my lord-mayor. 
 
 You ne'er consider whom you shove, 
 
 They stand amazed, and think me grown 
 
 But rudely press before a duke." 
 
 The closest mortal ever known. 
 
 I own, I'm pleased with this rebuke, 
 
 Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, 
 
 And take it kindly meant to show 
 
 My choicest hours of life are lost ; 
 
 What I desire the world should know. 
 
 Yet always wishing to retreat, 
 
 I get a whisper, and withdraw : 
 
 Oh, could I see my country seat ! 
 
 'When twenty fools I never saAv 
 
 There, leaning near a gentle brook. 
 
 Come with petitions fairly penn'd. 
 
 Sleep, or peruse some ancient book. 
 
 Desiring I would stand their friend. 
 
 And there in sweet oblivion drown 
 
 This, humbly offers me his case — 
 
 Those cares that ha.nnt the court and 
 
 That, begs my int'rest for a place — 
 
 town. 
 
 A hundred other men's affairs, 
 
 charming noons ! and nights divine ! 
 
 Like bees, are humming in my ears. 
 
 Or when I sup, or when I dine, 
 
 " To-morrow my appeal comes on. 
 
 My friends above, my folks below. 
 
 Without your help the cause is gone."— 
 
 Chatting and laughing all-a-row, 
 
 The duke expects my lord and you, 
 
 The beans and bacon set before 'em. 
 
 About some great affair, at two — 
 
 The grace-cup served with all decorum : 
 
 " Put my lord Bolingbroke in mind, 
 
 Each willing to be pleased, and please, 
 
 To get my warrant quickly signed : 
 
 And even the very dogs at ease ! 
 
 Consider 'tis my first request." — 
 
 Here no man prates of idle things, 
 
 Be satisfied, I'll do my best :— 
 
 How this or that Italian sings. 
 
 Then presently he falls to tease. 
 
 A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's, 
 
 " You may be certain, if you please; 
 
 Or what's in either of the houses : 
 
 I doubt not, if his lordship knew — 
 
 But something much more our concern, 
 
 And, Mr. Dean, one word from you — " 
 
 And quite a scandal not to learn : 
 
 'Tis (let me see) three years and more, 
 
 Which is the happier, or the wiser. 
 
 (October next it will be four,) 
 
 A man of merit, or a miser ? 
 
 Since Harley bid me fir^t attend, 
 
 Whether we ought to choose our friends 
 
 And chose me for an humble friend ; 
 
 For their own worth or our own ends ? 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
From 168y to 1727.] 
 
 TO A LADi'. 
 
 [Pope. 
 
 What good, or better, we may call, 
 And what, the very best of all ? 
 
 Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) 
 A tale extremely ci propos : 
 Name a town life, and in a trice 
 He had a story of two mice. 
 Once on a time (so runs the fable) 
 A country mouse, right hosjiitable, 
 Received a town mouse at his board, 
 Just as a farmer might a lord. 
 A frugal mouse upon the whole. 
 Yet loved his friend, and had a soul. 
 Knew what was handsome, and would do't, 
 On just occasion, coute que coute. 
 He brought him bacon (nothing lean) ; 
 Pudding that might have pleased a dean ; 
 Cheese such as men in Suffolk make. 
 But wish'd it Stilton for his sake ; 
 Yet, to his guest though no Avay sparing. 
 He eat himself the rind and paring. 
 Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, 
 But shovv'd his breeding and his wit ; 
 He did his best to seem to eat. 
 And cried, '• I vow you're mighty neat. 
 But lord, my friend, this savage scene I 
 For God's sake, come, and live with men : 
 Consider, mice, like men, must die. 
 Both smaU and great, both you and I : 
 Then spend your life in joy and sport ; 
 (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court.") 
 
 The veriest hermit in the nation 
 May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. 
 AAvay they come, through thick and thin, 
 To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn : 
 ('Twas on the night of a debate. 
 When all their lordships had sate late.) 
 
 Behold the place where if a poet 
 Shined in description he might show it ; 
 Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, 
 And tips with silver all the Avails ; 
 Palladian waUs, Venetian doors, 
 Grotesco roo^, and stucco floors : 
 But let it (in a word) be said, 
 The moon was up, and men a-bed, 
 The napkins white, the carpet red : 
 The guests withdrawn had left the treat, 
 And down the mice sate, tete-o.-tete. 
 
 Our courtier walks from dish to dish, 
 Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ; 
 Tells all their names, lays down the law, 
 " Que <;a est hon ! Goutez ra ! 
 That jelly 's rich, this malmsey healing, 
 Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." 
 Was ever such a happy swain ! 
 He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. 
 "I'm quite ashamed — 'tis mighty rude 
 To eat so much — but all's so good. 
 I have a thousand thanks to give — 
 My lord alone knows how to live." 
 No sooner said, but from the hall 
 Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all : 
 " A rat ! a rat ! clap to the door " — 
 The cat comes bouncing on the floor. 
 O for the heart of Homer's mice, 
 Or gods to save them in a trice ! 
 (It was by Providence they think, 
 "For your damn'd stucco has no chink.) 
 
 " An't please your honour," quoth the peasant, 
 " This same dessert is not so pleasant : 
 Give me again my hollow tree, 
 A crust of bread, and liberty ! " 
 
 Pope.— Born 1688, Died 1744. 
 
 778.— TO A LADY. 
 
 Nothing so true as what you once let faU, 
 " Most women have no characters at all." 
 Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, 
 And best distinguish' d by black, brown, or 
 
 fair. 
 How many pictures of one nymph we view. 
 All how unlike each other, all how true ! 
 Arcadia's countess, here in erminod pride. 
 Is there, Pastora by a fountain side. 
 Here Fannia, leering on her own good man. 
 And there, a naked Leda with a swan. 
 Let then the fair one beautifully cry. 
 In Magdalene's loose hair, and lifted eye, 
 Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, 
 With simpering angels, palms, and harps 
 
 divine ; 
 Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, 
 If foUy gi-ow romantic, I must paint it. 
 
 Come then, the colours and the ground 
 
 prepare ! 
 Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ; 
 Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it 
 Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this 
 
 minute. 
 Eufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er the 
 
 Park, 
 Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark, 
 Agrees as ill with Eufa studying Locke, 
 As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock ; 
 Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task. 
 With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask : 
 So morning insects, that in muck begun. 
 Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun. 
 
 How soft is Silia ! fearful to offend ; 
 The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's 
 
 friend. 
 To her Calista proved her conduct nice, 
 And good Simplicius asks of her advice. 
 Sudden, she storms ! she raves ! You tip the 
 
 wink, 
 But spare your censure ; Silia does not drink. 
 All eyes may see from what the change arose. 
 All eyes may sec — a pimple on her nose. 
 
 Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark. 
 Sighs for the shades — " How charming is a 
 
 park ! " 
 A park is purchased, but the fair he sees 
 All bathed in tears — "Oh odious, odious 
 
 trees ! " 
 Ladies, like variegated tulips, show, 
 'Tis to their changes half their charms we 
 
 owe; 
 Fine by defect, and delicately weak, 
 Their happy spots the nice admirer take. 
 'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd. 
 Awed without virtue, without beauty charm'd ; 
 
FOPE.J 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, 
 Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; 
 Strange graces still, and stranger flights she 
 
 had, 
 Was just not ugly, and was just not mad ; 
 Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, 
 As when she touch' d the brink of all we 
 
 hate. 
 Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild. 
 To make a wash, would hardly stew a child ; 
 Has ev'n been proved to grant a lover's 
 
 prayer. 
 And paid a tradesman once to make him 
 
 stare ; 
 Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim. 
 And made a widow happy, for a whim. 
 "Why then declare good-nature is her scorn, 
 When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ? 
 ^Vhy pique all mortals, yet affect a name ? 
 A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame : 
 Xow deep in Taylor and the Book of 
 
 Martyrs, 
 Now drinking citron with his grace and 
 
 Chartres ; 
 Now conscience chills her, and now passion 
 
 bums; 
 And atheism and religion take their turns ; 
 A very heathen in the carnal part. 
 Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart. 
 
 See Sin in state, majestically drunk. 
 Proud as a peeress, ];)rouder as a punk ; 
 Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, 
 A teeming mistress, but a barren bride. 
 What then? let blood and body bear the 
 
 fault, 
 Her head's untouch' d, that noble seat of 
 
 thought : 
 Such this day's doctrine — in another fit 
 She sins with poets through pure love of wit. 
 What has not fired her bosom or her brain ? 
 Cffisar and Tall-boy, Charles and Char- 
 lemagne. 
 As Helluo, late dictator of the feast, 
 The nose of Haut-gout, and the tip of Taste, 
 Critiqued your wine, and analysed your meat. 
 Yet on plain pudding deign' d at home to eat : 
 So Philomede, lecturing all mankind 
 On the soft passion, and the taste refined, 
 Th' address, the delicacy — stoops at once, 
 And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce. 
 
 Flavia's a -wit, has too much sense to pray ; 
 To toast our wants and wishes, is her way ; 
 Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give 
 The mighty blessing, " while we live, to live." 
 Then all for death, that opiate of the soul ! 
 Lucretia's dagger, Eosamonda's bowl. 
 Say, what can cause such impotence of mind ? 
 A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind? 
 Wise wretch ! with pleasures too refined to 
 
 please ; 
 With too much spirit to be e'er at ease ; 
 With too much quickness ever to be taught ; 
 With too much thinking to have common 
 
 thought : 
 You purchaFe pain with all that joy can give. 
 And die of nothing but a rage to live. 
 
 Turn then from wits ; and look on Simo's 
 
 mate, 
 No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate. 
 Or her, that owns her faults, but never 
 
 mends. 
 Because she's honest, and the best of friends. 
 Or her, whose life the church and scandal 
 
 share, 
 For ever in a passion, or a prayer. 
 Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her 
 
 grace) 
 Cries, " Ah ! how charming, if there's no such 
 
 place ! " 
 Or who in sweet vicissitude appears 
 Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears, 
 The daily anodyne, and nightly draught. 
 To kill those foes to fair-ones, time and 
 
 thought. 
 Woman and fool are two hard things to hit ; 
 For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. 
 
 But what are these to great Atossa's mind ? 
 Scarce once herself, by turns all woman-kind ! 
 Who, with herself, or others, from her birth 
 Finds all her life one warfare upon Earth : 
 Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools. 
 Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. 
 No thought advances, but her eddy brain 
 Wliisks it about, and down it goes again. 
 Full sixty years the world has been her 
 
 trade, 
 The wisest fool much time has ever made. 
 From loveless youth to unrespected age 
 No passion gratified, except her rage. 
 So much the fury still outran the wit. 
 The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit. 
 Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from 
 
 Hell, 
 But he's a bolder man who dares be well. 
 Her every turn with violence pursued. 
 Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude : 
 To that each passion turns, or soon or late ; 
 Love, if it makes her jield, mnst make her 
 
 hate : 
 Superiors ? death ! and equals ? what a curse ! 
 But an inferior not dependant ? worse. 
 Offend her, and she knows not to forgive ; 
 Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you 
 
 live : 
 But die, and she'll adore you — Then the 
 
 bust 
 And temple rise — ^then fall again to dust. 
 Last night, her lord was all that's good and 
 
 great ; 
 A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. 
 Strange ! by the means defeated of the ends. 
 By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of 
 
 friends. 
 By wealth of followers ! -without one distress 
 Sick of herself, through very selfishness I 
 Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, 
 Childless with all her children, wants an heir. 
 To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded 
 
 store. 
 Or wanders. Heaven-directed, to the poor. 
 
 Pictures, like these, dear madam, to design. 
 Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line ; 
 
From 1689 to 172' 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 [Pope. 
 
 Some wandering touches, some reflected 
 
 light, 
 Some flying stroke alone can hit them right : 
 For how should equal colours do the knack ? 
 Chameleons who can paint in white and black ? 
 " Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a 
 spot." — 
 Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. 
 " With every pleasing, every prudent part, 
 Say, what can Chloe want ? " — She wants a 
 
 heart. 
 She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she 
 
 ought ; 
 But never, never reach' d one generous 
 
 thought. 
 Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, 
 Content to dwell in decencies for ever. 
 So very reasonable, so unmoved, 
 As never yet to love, or to be loved. 
 She, while her lover pants upon her breast, 
 Can mark the figures on an Indian chest ; 
 And when she sees her friend in deep despair, 
 Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. 
 Forbid it, Heaven, a favour or a debt 
 She e'er should cancel — but she may forget. 
 Safe is your secret still in Chloe' s ear ; 
 But none of Chloe' s shall you ever hear. 
 Of all her dears she never slander'd one, 
 But cares not if a thousand are undone. 
 Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead ? 
 She bids her footman put it in her head. 
 Chloe is prudent — Would you too be wise ? 
 Then never break your heart when Chloe 
 dies. 
 One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, 
 Which Heaven has varnish' d out, and made 
 
 a queen : 
 The same for ever ! and described by all 
 With truth and goodness, as with crown and 
 
 baU. 
 Poets heap virtues, painters gems at ^vill, 
 And show their zeal, and hide their want of 
 
 skill. 
 "Tis well — ^but, artists ! who can paint or 
 
 write, 
 To draw the naked is your true delight. 
 That robe of quality so struts and swells, 
 None see what parts of Nature it conceals : 
 Th' exactest traits of body or of mind. 
 We owe to models of an humble kind. 
 If Queensberry to strip there's no compelling, 
 'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen. 
 From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing 
 To draw the man who loves his God, or king : 
 Alas ! I copy (or my draught would fail) 
 From honest Mali' met, or plain parson Hale. 
 But gi-ant, in public, men sometimes 
 are shown, 
 A woman 's seen in private life alone : 
 Our bolder talents in full life display'd ; 
 Your virtues open fairest in the shade. 
 Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide ; 
 There, none distinguish 'twixt your shame or 
 
 pride. 
 Weakness or delicacy ; all so nice. 
 That each may seem a virtue, or a vice. 
 
 ! In men, we various ruling passions find ; 
 j In women, two almost divide the kind : 
 Those, only fix'd, they first or last obey. 
 The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. 
 That, Nature gives ; and where the lesson 
 taught 
 Is but to please, can pleasure seem-a fault ? 
 Experience, this ; by man's oppression curst, 
 They seek the second not to lose the first. 
 Men, some to business, some to pleasure 
 take. 
 But every woman is at heart a rake : 
 Men, some to quiet, some to public strife ; 
 But every lady would be queen for life. 
 
 Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of 
 queens ! 
 Power all their end, but beauty all the means : 
 In youth they conquer with so wild a rage. 
 As leaves them scarce a subject in their age : 
 For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam ; 
 No thought of peace or happiness at home. 
 But wisdom's triumph is well-timed retreat. 
 As hard a science to the fair as great ! 
 Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless 
 
 grown. 
 Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone, 
 Worn out in public, weary every eye. 
 Nor leave one sigh behind them when they 
 die. 
 Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, 
 Still out of reach, yet never out of view ; 
 Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, 
 To covet flying, and regret when lost : 
 At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, 
 It grows their age's prudence to pretend ; 
 Ashamed to o^vn they gave delight before. 
 Reduced to feign it, when they give no more. 
 As hags hold sabbaths, less for joy than 
 
 spite, 
 So these their merry, miserable night ; 
 Still round and round the ghosts of beauty 
 
 glide. 
 And haunt the places where their honour 
 died. 
 Soe how the world its veterans rewards I 
 A j-outh of frolics, an old-age of cards : 
 Fair to no purpose, artful to no end ; 
 Young without lovers, old without a friend ; 
 A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ; 
 Alive, ridiculous ; and dead, forgot ! 
 
 Ah ! friend ! to dazzle let the vain design ; 
 To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be 
 
 thine ! 
 That charm shall grow, while what fatigues 
 
 the ring, 
 Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing : 
 So when the Sun's broad beam has tired the 
 
 sight, 
 All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light, 
 Serene in virgin modesty she shines. 
 And unobserved the glaring orb declines. 
 Oh ! blest with temper, whose rmclouded 
 ray 
 Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day : 
 She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear 
 Sighs for a daughter with unwound 3d ear ; 
 
Pope.] 
 
 THE MAN OF ROSS. 
 
 [Fifth Period- 
 
 She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, 
 Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ; 
 Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, 
 Yet has her humour most, when she obeys ; 
 Let fops or Fortune fly which way they will, 
 Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille ; 
 Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them 
 
 all, 
 And mistress of herself, though china fall. 
 And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, 
 Woman's at best a contradiction still. 
 Heaven when it strives to polish all it can 
 Its last best work, but forms a softer man ; 
 Picks from each sex, to make the favourite 
 
 blest, 
 Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest : 
 Blends, in exception to all general rules, 
 Your taste of follies, with our scorn of 
 
 fools : 
 Reserve with frankness, art with truth 
 
 allied, 
 Courage with softness, modesty with pride ; 
 Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new ; 
 Shakes all together, and produces — you. 
 Be this a woman's fame ! with this unblest. 
 Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a 
 
 jest. 
 This Phoebus promised (I forget the year) 
 When those blue eyes first open'd on the 
 
 sphere ; 
 Ascendant Phoebus watch' d that hour with 
 
 care. 
 Averted half your parents' simple prayer ; 
 And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf 
 That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. 
 The generous god, who wit and gold refines. 
 And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, 
 Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall 
 
 know it, 
 To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet. 
 
 Pope— Born 1688, Died 1744. 
 
 779.— THE MAN OF ROSS. 
 
 But all our praises why should lords 
 
 engross ? 
 Rise, honest Muse ! and sing the Man of 
 
 Ross : 
 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding 
 
 bounds. 
 And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 
 Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry 
 
 brow ? 
 From the dry rock who bade tlio waters 
 
 flow ? 
 Not to the skies in useless columns tost, 
 Or in proud falls magnificently lost ; 
 But clear and artless pouring through the 
 
 plain 
 Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 
 Whose causeway parts the vale with shady 
 
 rows ? 
 WhoSe seats the weary traveller repose ? 
 
 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to 
 
 rise ? 
 " The Man of Ross," each lisping babe 
 
 replies. 
 Behold the market-place with poor o'er- 
 . spread ! 
 j The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
 I He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of 
 i state, 
 
 j "Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate ; 
 I Him portion' d maids, apprenticed orphans 
 j blest, 
 
 I The young who labour, and the old who 
 I rest. 
 
 Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves. 
 Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and 
 
 gives. 
 Is there a variance ? enter but his door, 
 Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no 
 
 more. 
 Despairing quacks with curses fled the place. 
 And vile attorneys, now an useless race. 
 
 Pope.— Born 1688, Died 1744. 
 
 780.— THE TOILET. 
 
 And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
 played, 
 
 i Each silver vase in mystic order laid ; 
 
 I First, robed in white, the nymph intent 
 
 j adores, 
 
 I With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
 A heavenly image in the glass appears, 
 To that she bends, to that her eye she rears ; 
 The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
 Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
 Unnumbered treasures ope at once, o.nd 
 
 here 
 The various ofi'erings of the world appear ; 
 From each she nicely culls with curious 
 
 toil, 
 And decks the goddess with the glittering 
 
 spoil. 
 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box : 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
 Transformed to combs, the speckled and the 
 
 white. 
 Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
 Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
 Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
 The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
 Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
 And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
 Tlie busy sylphs surround their darling care. 
 These set the head, and those divide the 
 
 hair ; 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the 
 
 gown, 
 And Betty 's praised for labours not her own. 
 
 Po2-)e.—Borii 1688, Died 1744. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 COLIN AND LUCY. 
 
 [Thomas Tickell: 
 
 78 1. —THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS 
 SOUL. 
 
 Vital spark of heaveBly flame, 
 Quit, oh quit this mortal frame : 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 
 Oh the pain, the bhss of dying ! 
 
 Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 
 And let me languish into life ! 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
 
 Sister spirit, come away ! 
 
 What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings : I mount ! I fly ! 
 O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 Death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 Pope— Bom 1G88, Dial 1744. 
 
 782.— THE QUIET LIFE. 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 
 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with 
 bread, 
 Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
 In winter, fire. 
 
 Elcst, who can unconcern' dly find 
 
 Hours, days, and years glide soft away, 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
 
 Together mix'd ; sweet recreation. 
 And innocence, which most does please. 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
 
 Thus unlamented let me die ; 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 Tope.— Born 1688, Bietl 1744. 
 
 783.— MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The troops exulting sat in order round, 
 And beaming fires illumined all the ground. 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night ! 
 O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred 
 
 light ; 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene. 
 And i^t a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And si ars unnumbered gild the glowing pole ; 
 O'er tl e dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 
 And til '^vith silver every mountain's head ; 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect 
 
 rise , ' ^ — — 
 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful 
 
 light. 
 So many flames before proud Ilion blaze. 
 And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their 
 
 rays ; 
 The long reflections of the distant fires 
 Gleam on the walls and tremble on the 
 
 spires. 
 A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, 
 And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field. 
 Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend. 
 Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes 
 
 send ; 
 Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaj^s of 
 
 corn. 
 And ardent warriors wait the rising morn. 
 
 Pope.— Born 1688, med 1744. 
 
 784.— COLIN AND LUCY. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, 
 Bright Lucy was the grace. 
 
 Nor e'er did Lifiy's limpid stream 
 Eeflect so sweet a face ; 
 
 TiU luckless love and pining care 
 
 Impaired her rosy hue. 
 Her coral lips and damask cheeks, 
 
 And eyes of glossy blue. 
 
 Oh 1 have you seen a Hly pale 
 Wlion beating rains descend ? 
 
 So drooped the slow-consuming maid, 
 Her life now near its end. 
 
 By Lucy warned, of flattering swains. 
 
 Take heed, ye easy fair ! 
 Of vengeance due to broken vows, 
 
 Ye perjiired swains ! beware. 
 
 Three times all in the dead of night 
 
 A bell was heard to ring. 
 And shrieking, at her window thrice 
 
 The raven flapped his wing. 
 
 Too well the love -lorn maiden know 
 The solemn boding sound. 
 
 And thus in djdng words bespoke 
 The virgins weeping round : 
 
 " I hear a voice you cannot hear. 
 Which says I must not stay ; 
 
 I see a hand you cannot see. 
 Which beckons me away. 
 
 35 
 
Thomas Tickell.] TO EARL WAEWICK, ON ADDISON'S DEATH. [Fifth Period.^ 
 
 By a false heart and broken vows 
 
 In early youth I die. 
 Was I to blame because his bride 
 
 Was thrice as rich as I ? 
 
 Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, 
 
 Vows due to me aloae ; 
 Nor thou, fond maid ! receive his kiss. 
 
 Nor think him all thy own. 
 
 To-morrow in the church to wed, 
 
 Impatient both prepare ; 
 But know, fond maid ! and know, false man ! 
 
 That Lucy will be there. 
 
 Then bear my corse, my comrades ! bear, 
 This bridegroom bKthe to meet ; 
 
 He in his wedding' trim so gay, 
 I in my mnding sheet." 
 
 She spoke ; she died. Her corpse was borne 
 
 The bridegroom blithe to meet : 
 He in his wedding trim so gay. 
 
 She in her winding sheet. 
 
 Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts ? 
 
 How were these nuptials kept ? 
 : The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead, 
 
 And all the village wept. 
 
 Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. 
 
 At once his bosom swell ; 
 The damps of death bedewed his brow : 
 
 He shook, he groaned, he fell. 
 
 From the vain bride, ah ! bride no more ! 
 
 The varying crimson fled, 
 When stretched before her rival's corpse 
 
 She saw her husband dead. 
 
 Then to his Lucy's new-made grave 
 
 Conveyed by trembling swains. 
 One mould with her, beneath one sod, 
 
 For ever he remains. 
 
 Oft at this grave the constant hind 
 
 And pHghted maid are seen ; 
 With garlands gay and true-love knots 
 
 They deck the sacred green. 
 
 But, swain forsworn ! whoe'er thou art, 
 
 This hallowed spot forbear ; 
 Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 
 
 And fear to meet him there. 
 
 TJiomas Tickell.-^Born 1686, Died 1740. 
 
 785.— TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON 
 THE DEATH OF ADDISON. 
 
 If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath 
 
 stay'd. 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan. 
 And judge, O judge, my bosom by your own. 
 What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part for ever to the grave ? 
 How silent did his old companions tread. 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead. 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded 
 
 things, 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks 
 
 of kings ! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir ; 
 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: 
 And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd ! 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave wo 
 
 bend. 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 
 Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu ; 
 And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. 
 To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy loved memorial part. 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
 My lyi*e be broken, and untuned my tongue. 
 My grief be doubled from thy image free, 
 And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee ! 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone. 
 Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown, 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallow'd mould 
 
 below ; 
 Proud names, who once the reins of empire 
 
 held; 
 In arms who triumph'd ; or in arts excell'd; 
 Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of 
 
 blood ; 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were 
 
 given ; 
 And saints, who taught and led the way to 
 
 heaven ; 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty 
 
 rest. 
 Since their foundation came a nobler guest ; 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bKss convey'd 
 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
 What new employments please th' unbodied 
 
 mind ? 
 A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky. 
 From world to world unwearied does he fly ? 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels 
 
 gaze ? 
 Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
 How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
 Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 
 In hymns of love, not ill essay' d below ? 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind ?♦ 
 
From 1G89 to 1727.] 
 
 THE DISPENSARY. 
 
 [Samuel Garth. 
 
 Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me thy aid, thou gruardian genius, lend ! 
 When rag-e misguides me, or when fear 
 
 alarms, 
 "WTien pain distresses, or when pleasure 
 
 charms, 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, j 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; ' 
 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us 
 
 more. 
 
 That awful form, which, so the heavens 
 
 decree, 
 Must stni be loved and still deplored by me ; 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
 Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike 
 
 my sight ; 
 If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
 I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there ; 
 If pensive to the riu-al shades I rove. 
 His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely gTOve ; 
 'Twas there of just and good ho reason'd 
 
 strong, 
 Clear'd some great truth, or raised some 
 
 serious s®ng : 
 There patient show'd us the wise course to 
 
 steer, 
 A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
 There taught us how to live ; and (oh ! too 
 
 high I 
 
 The price for knowledge,) taught us how to 
 
 die. I 
 
 Thou hill, whose brow the antique struc- j 
 
 tures grace, 
 Itear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble i 
 
 race, I 
 
 V,lay, once so loved, whene'er thy bower { 
 
 appears, | 
 
 O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden 
 
 tears ? 
 How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and 
 
 fair, 
 Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 
 How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged 
 
 trees, 
 Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore; 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 No more the summer in thy glooms allay 'd, 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. 
 
 From other ills, however fortune froAvn'd, 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; 
 Reluctant now I toixch the trembling string. 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
 And these sad accents, murmur' d o'er his 
 
 urn, 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 O ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, 
 And Cniggs in death to Addison succeeds,) 
 The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, 
 And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! 
 
 These works divine, which on his death-bed 
 laid 
 To thee, Craggs ! th' expiring sage convey'd, 
 Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame. 
 Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. 
 Swift after him thy social spirit flies, 
 And close to his, how soon ! thy coffm lies. 
 Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell 
 In future tongues : each other's boast ! fare- 
 well ! 
 Farewell ! whom, joined in fame, in friendship 
 
 tried, 
 No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 
 
 Thomas Ticlcell.—Born 1686, DiecZ 1740. 
 
 786.— THE DISPENSARY. 
 
 Speak, goddess ! since 'tis thou that best canst 
 
 tell 
 How ancient leagues to modern discord fell ; 
 And why physicians were so cautious grown 
 Of others' lives, and lavish of their own ; 
 How by a journey to th' Elysian plain 
 Peace triumph' d, and old Time return' d again. 
 
 Not far from that most celebrated place, 
 Where angry Justice shows her awful face ; 
 Where little villains must submit to fate. 
 That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; 
 There stands a dome, majestic to the sight. 
 And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; 
 A golden globe, placed high with artful skUI, 
 Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill : 
 This pile was, by the pious patron's aim. 
 Raised for a use as noble as its frame ; 
 Nor did the learn' d society decline 
 The propagation of that great design ; 
 In all her mazes, nature's face they view'd. 
 And, as she disappear'd, their search pursued. 
 Wrapp'd in the shade of night the goddess lies, 
 Yet to the leam'd unveils her dark disguise, 
 But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. 
 
 Now she unfolds the faint and dawning 
 
 strife 
 Of infant atoms kindling into life ; 
 How ductile matter new meanders takes. 
 And slender trains of twisting fibres makes ; 
 And hov/ the viscous seeks a closer tone. 
 By just degrees to harden into bone ; 
 While the more loose flow from the vital urn, 
 And in full tides of purple streams return ; 
 How lambent flames from life's bright lamps 
 
 arise, 
 And dart in emanations through the eyes ; 
 How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours. 
 To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; 
 Whence their mechanic powers the spirits 
 
 claim ; 
 How great their force, how delicate their 
 
 frame ; 
 How the same nerves are fashion' d to sustain 
 The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ; 
 
 35* 
 
JsAMUEL Garth.] 
 
 THE DISPENSAEY. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, 
 And floods of chyle in silver currents run ; 
 How the dim speck of entity began 
 T' extend its recent form, and stretch to 
 
 man ; 
 To how minute an origin we owe 
 Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau ; 
 Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim. 
 And why chill virgins redden into flame ; 
 Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, 
 And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes ; 
 All ice, why Lucrece ; or Sempronia, fire ; 
 Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire ; 
 When Milo's vigour at the Olympic 's shown, 
 Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to 
 
 Sloane ; 
 How matter, by the varied shape of pores, 
 Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. 
 
 Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to 
 find. 
 How body acts upon impassive mind ; 
 How fumes of wine the thinking part can 
 
 fire, 
 Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire ; 
 Why our complexions oft our soul declare, 
 And how the passions in the feature are ; 
 How touch and harmony arise between 
 Corporeal figure, and a form unseen ; 
 How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, 
 And act at every summons of the wUl. 
 With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, 
 Which in the womb of distant causes lie. 
 
 But now no grand inquiries are descried, 
 Mean faction reigns where knowledge should 
 
 preside, 
 Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. 
 Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal. 
 And for important nothings shoAv a zeal : 
 The drooping sciences neglected pine. 
 And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. 
 No readers here with hectic looks are found, 
 Noreyes in rheum,through midnight- watching, 
 
 drown' d ; 
 The lonely edifice in sweats complains 
 That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. 
 
 This place, so fit for undisturb'd repose. 
 The God of Sloth for his asylum chose ; 
 Upon a couch of down in these abodes. 
 Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods ; 
 Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, 
 With murmurs of soft riUs, and whispering 
 
 trees : 
 The poppy and each numbing plant dispense 
 Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence ; 
 No passions interrupt his easy reign, 
 No problems puzzle his lethargic brain ; 
 But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed. 
 And lazy fogft hang lingering o'er his head. 
 
 As at full length the pamper' d monarch lay, 
 Battening in ease, and slumbering life away ; 
 A spiteful noise his downy chains unties, 
 Hastes forward, and increases as it flies. 
 
 First, some to cleave the stubborn flint 
 
 engage. 
 Till, urged by blows, it sparkles into rags : 
 Some temper lute, some spacious vessels 
 
 move ; 
 These furnaces erect, and those approve ; 
 Here phials in nice discipline are set. 
 There gallipots are ranged in alphabet. 
 In this place, magazines of pills you spy : 
 In that, like forage, herbs in bundles lie ; 
 While lifted pestles, brandish' d in the air, 
 Descend in peals, and civil wars declare, 
 Loud strokes, with pounding spice, the fabric 
 
 rend, 
 And aromatic clouds in spires ascend. 
 
 So when the Cyclops o'er their anvils sweat. 
 And swelling sinews echoing blows repeat ; 
 From the volcanos gross eruptions rise, 
 And curling sheets of smoke obscure the 
 skies. 
 
 The slumbering god, amazed at this new 
 
 din. 
 Thrice strove to rise, and thrice sunk down 
 
 again, 
 Listless he stretch'd, and gaping rubb'd his 
 
 eyes, 
 Then falter'd thus betwixt half words and 
 
 sighs : 
 
 How impotent a deity am I ! 
 With godhead born, but cursed, that cannot 
 
 die! 
 Through my indulgence, mortals hourly share 
 A gTateful negligence, and ease from care. 
 Ltill'd in my arms, how long have I withheld 
 The northern monarchs from the dusty field ! 
 How I have kept the British fleet at ease. 
 From tempting the rough dangers of the 
 
 seas! 
 Hibernia owns the mildness of my reign. 
 And my divinity 's adored in Spain. 
 I swains to sylvan solitudes convey. 
 Where, stretch'd on mossy beds, they waste 
 
 away 
 In gentle joys the night, in vows the day. 
 What marks of wondrous clemency I've shown, 
 Some reverend worthies of the gown can 
 
 own: 
 Triumphant plenty, with a cheerful grMe, 
 Basks in their eyes, and sparkles in their 
 
 face. 
 How sleek their looks, how goodly is their 
 
 mien, 
 When big they strut behind a double chin ! 
 Each faculty in blandishments they lull. 
 Aspiring to be venerably dull ; 
 No learn'd debates molest their downy trance. 
 Or discompose their pompous ignorance ; 
 But, undisturb'd, they loiter life away. 
 So wither green, and blossom in decay ; 
 Deep sunk in down, they, by my gentle care, 
 Avoid th' inclemencies of morning air, 
 And leave to tatter'd crape the drudgery of 
 
 prayer. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 CEEATIOK 
 
 [Blackmore. 
 
 Urim was civil, and not void of sense, 
 Had humour, and a courteous confidence : 
 So spruce he moves, so gracefully he cocks, 
 The hallow'd rose declares him orthodox : 
 He pass'd his easy hours, instead of prayeu, 
 In madrigals, and phillysing the fair ; 
 Constant at feasts, and each decorum knew, 
 And soon as the dessert appear'd, withdrew ; 
 Always obUging, and Avithout offence, 
 And fancied, for his gay impertinence. 
 But see how ill mistaken parts succeed ; 
 He threw off my dominion, and would read ; 
 Engaged in controversy, wrangled well ; 
 In convocation language could excel ; 
 In volumes proved the church without defence, 
 By nothing guarded but by Providence ; 
 How grace and moderation disagree ; 
 And violence advances charity. 
 Thus writ till none would read, becoming 
 
 soon 
 A wretched scribbler, of a rare buffoon. 
 
 Mankind my fond propitious power has 
 tried, 
 Too oft to own, too much to be denied. 
 And all I ask are shades and silont bowers, 
 To pass in soft forgetfulji.oss my hours. 
 Oft have my fears som.fe distant villa chose, 
 O'er their qnietus where fat judges doze, 
 And lull their coug'h and conscience to repose : 
 Or, if some cloister's refuge I implore, 
 Where holy drones o'er dying tapers snore. 
 The pejj IS of Nassau's arms these eyes unclose, 
 Mirit) lie molests, to give the world repose. 
 That ease I offer with contempt he flies, 
 His couch a trench, his canopy the skies. 
 Nor climes nor seasons liis resolves control. 
 The equator has no heat, no ice the pole. 
 With arms resistless o'er the globe he flies, 
 And leaves to Jove the empire of the skies. 
 
 But, as the slothful god to yawn begun. 
 He shook off the duU mist, and thus went on : 
 
 'Twas in this reverend dome I sought 
 
 repose, 
 These walls were that asylum I had chose. 
 Here have I ruled long undisturb'd with 
 
 broils. 
 And laugh'd at heroes, and their glorious 
 
 toils. 
 My annals are in mouldy mildews wrought. 
 With easy insignificance of thought. 
 But now some busy, enterprising brain 
 Invents new fancies to renew my pain. 
 And labours to dissolve my easy reign. 
 
 With that, the god his darling phantom 
 calls, 
 And from his faltering lips this message falls : 
 
 Since mortals will dispute my power, I'll 
 
 try 
 Who has the gi'eatest empire, they or I. 
 Find Envy out ; some prince's court attend, 
 Most likely there you'll meet the faniish'd 
 
 fiend; 
 
 Or where dull critics authors' fate foretell ; 
 Or where stale maids, or meagre eunuchs, 
 
 dwell ; 
 Tell the bleak fury what new projects reign 
 Among the homicides of Warwick-lane ; 
 And what the event, unless sheL_ straight 
 
 inclines 
 To blast their hopes, and baffle their designs. 
 
 More he had spoke, but sudden vapours 
 rise. 
 And mth their silken cords tie doym. his eyes. 
 
 Samuel Garth. — Born , Died 1718. 
 
 787.— CREATION. 
 
 You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds ; 
 Why its spontaneous birth are thorns and 
 
 weeds : 
 Why for the harvest it the harrow needs ? 
 The Author might a nobler world have 
 
 made, 
 In brighter dress the hills and vales arrayed, 
 And all its face in flowery scenes displayed ; 
 The glebe untilled might plenteous crops have 
 
 borne. 
 And brought forth spicy groves instead of 
 
 thorn : 
 Rich fruit and flowers, without the gardener's 
 
 pains, 
 Might every hill have crowned, have honoured 
 
 all the plains ; 
 This Nature might have boasted, had the 
 
 Mind 
 "Who formed the spacious universe designed 
 That man from labour free, as well as grief. 
 Should pass in lazy luxury his life. 
 But he his creature gave a fertile soil. 
 Fertile, but not without the owner's toil, 
 That some reward his industry should crown, 
 And that his food in part might be his own. 
 But while insulting you arraign the land. 
 Ask why it wants the plough, or labourer's 
 
 hand; 
 Kind to the marble rocks, you ne'er complain 
 That they, without the sculptor's skill and 
 
 pain, 
 No perfect statue yield, no basse-relieve. 
 Or finished column for the palace give. 
 Yet if from hills unlaboured figures came, 
 Man might have ease enjoyed, though never 
 
 fame. 
 You may the world of more defect upbraid, 
 That other works by Nature are unmade : 
 That she did never, at her own expense, 
 A palace rear, and in magnifieence 
 Out-rival art, to grace the stately rooms ; 
 That she no castle builds, no lofty domes. 
 Had Nature's hand these various works pre- 
 pared, 
 "Wliat thoughtful care, what labour had been 
 
 spared ! 
 
Ambrose Philips.] 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. 
 
 Fifth Period. — 
 
 But then no realm would one great master 
 
 shoAv, 
 No Phidias Greece, and Rome no Ang-elo. 
 With equal reason, too, you mig-ht demand 
 Why boats and ships require the artist's 
 
 hand ; 
 Why generous Nature did not these provide, 
 To pass the standing lake, or flowing tide ? 
 You say the hills, which high in air arise, 
 Harbour in clouds, and mingle with the skies, 
 That earth's dishonour and encumbering load, 
 Of many spacious regions man defraud ; 
 For beasts and birds of prey a desolate abode. 
 But can the objector no convenience find 
 In mountains, hills, and rocks, which gird and 
 
 bind 
 The mighty frame, that else would be dis- 
 joined ? 
 Do not those heaps the raging tide restrain, 
 And for the dome afford the marble vein ? 
 Do not the rivers from the mountains flow, 
 And bring down riches to the vale below ? 
 See how the torrent rolls the golden sand 
 From the high ridges to the flatter land. 
 The lofty lines abound with endless stOre 
 Of mineral treasure and metallic ore. 
 
 Blachnorc.—Born 1G76, Died 1729. 
 
 788.— A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. 
 
 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, 
 The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
 And hears and sees thee all the while 
 Softly speak and sweetly smile. 
 
 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 
 And raised such tumults in my breast ; 
 For while I gazed, in transport tossed, 
 My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 
 
 My bosom glowed ; the subtle flamo 
 Ran qmckly through my vital frame ; 
 O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
 My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 
 
 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, 
 My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 
 My feeble pulse forgot to play ; 
 I fainted, sunk, and died away. 
 
 Ambrose PhiU;ps. — Born 1G71, Died 1749. 
 
 789.—EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF 
 DORSET. 
 
 From frozen climes, and endless tracts of 
 
 snow, 
 From streams which northern winds forbid to 
 
 flow, 
 What present shall the Muse to Dorset 
 
 bring, 
 Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing ? 
 
 The hoary winter here conceals from sight 
 All pleasing objects which to verso invite. 
 The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, 
 The flowery plains, and silver-streaming 
 
 , floods, 
 By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, 
 And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. 
 No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the 
 spring, 
 No birds within the desert region sing. 
 The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds 
 
 defy, 
 While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. 
 The vast leviathan wants room to play. 
 And spout his waters in the face of day. 
 The starving wolves along the main sea 
 
 prowl, 
 And to the moon in icy valleys howl. 
 O'er many a shining league the level main 
 Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : 
 There solid billows of enormous size, 
 Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 
 
 And yet but lately have I seen, even here. 
 The winter in a lovely dross appear. 
 Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured 
 
 snow. 
 Or winds begun throL^gh hazy skies to blow : 
 At evening a keen eastern breeze arose. 
 And the descending rain -ansullied froze. 
 Soon as the silent shades of night withdrev,', 
 The ruddy morn disclosed at oiice to view 
 The face of nature in a rich disguise. 
 And brightened every object to my eyeS : 
 For every shrub, and every blade of grass, 
 And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in 
 
 glass ; 
 In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns 
 
 show, 
 While through the ice the crimson berries 
 
 glow. 
 The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes 
 
 yield, 
 Seem'd polished lances in a hostile field. 
 The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise 
 Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise : 
 The spreading oak, the beech, and towering 
 
 pine 
 Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine. 
 The frighted birds the rattling branches 
 
 shun, 
 "Which wave and ghtter in the distant sun. 
 
 When, if a sudden gust of Avind arise, 
 The brittle forest into atoms flies ; 
 The crackling wood beneath the tempest 
 
 bends 
 And in a spangled shower the prospect ends : 
 Or, if a southern gale the region warm, 
 And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, 
 The traveller a miry country sees. 
 And journeys sad beneath the dropping 
 
 trees : 
 Like some deluded peasant. Merlin leads 
 Through fragrant bowers, and through deli- 
 cious meads ; 
 While here enchanted gardens to him rise. 
 And airy fabrics there attract his eyes. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 THE FIEST PASTORAL. 
 
 [Ambrose Philips. 
 
 His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, 
 And, while he thinks the fair illusion true, 
 The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, 
 And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways 
 
 appear : 
 A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
 And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns. 
 
 Ambrose Philijjs.— Born i.G71, Died 1749. 
 
 790.— THE FIRST PASTORAL. 
 If we, O Dorset ! quit the city-throng. 
 To meditate in shades the rural song, 
 By your command, be present ; and, bring 
 The Muse along! The Muse to you shall 
 
 sing 
 Her influence, Buckhurst, let mo there obtain, 
 And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain. 
 
 Begin. — In unluxurious times of yore. 
 When flocks and herds were no inglorious 
 
 store, 
 Lobbiii, a shepherd boj'*, one evening fair. 
 As western winds had cooled the sultry air, 
 His numbered sheep v/ithin the fold now pent, 
 Thus plained him of his dreary discontent : 
 Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs 
 He solitary sat, to breathe his vows. 
 Venting the tender anguish of his heart, 
 As passion taught, in accents free of art ; 
 And Httle did he hope, while, night by night. 
 His sighs were lavished thus on Lucy bright. 
 " Ah ! well-a-day, how long must I endure 
 This pining pain ? Or who shall speed ray cure ? 
 Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose. 
 Delights in grief, nor any measure laiows : 
 And now the moon begins in clouds to rise ; 
 The brightening stars increase within the skies ; 
 The Avinds are hushed ; the dews distil ; and 
 
 sleep 
 Hath closed the eyelids of my weary sheep : 
 I only, with the prowling wolf, constrained 
 All night to wake : with hunger he is pained. 
 And I with love. His hunger he may tame ; 
 But who can quench, O cruel love ! thy flame ? 
 "Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair, 
 Upraise my heedless head, then void of care, 
 'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game ; 
 Nor could they merry make, till Bobbin came. 
 Who better seen than I in shepherd's arts, 
 To please the lads, and -win the lasses' hearts ? 
 How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet, 
 Wont they upon the green to shift their 
 
 feet? 
 And, wearied in the dance, how would they 
 
 yearn 
 Some well-devised tale from me to learn ? 
 For many songs and tales of mirth had I, 
 To chase the loitering sun adown the sky : 
 But ah ! since Lucy coy deep-wrought her 
 
 spite 
 Within my heart, unmindful of delight. 
 The joUy grooms I fly, and, all alone, 
 To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless 
 
 Oh ! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair. 
 Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair. 
 Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind, 
 Though not so fair, she would have proved 
 
 more kind. 
 think, un\vitting maid, wliile yet is time, 
 How fljdng years impair thy youthf«l prime ! 
 Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay. 
 And flowers, though left ungathered, will 
 
 decay ! 
 The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring ! 
 But beauty faded has no second spring. 
 My words are wind ! She, deaf to all my 
 
 cries. 
 Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes. 
 Like frislring heifer, loose in flow'ry meads, 
 She gads where'er her roving fanny leads ; 
 Yet still from me. Ah me ! the tiresome 
 
 chase ! 
 Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace. 
 She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind. 
 Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind. 
 No cruel purpose in my speed I bear ; 
 'Tis only love ; and love why shouldst thou 
 
 fear ? 
 What idle fears a maiden breast alarm ! 
 Stay, simple girl ; a lover cannot harm ! 
 Two sportive kidlings, both fair-flecked, I rear, 
 Wliose shooting horns like tender buds ap- 
 pear : 
 A lambkin, too, of spotless fleece, I breed, 
 And teaclx the fondling from my hand to feed : 
 Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields 
 Of ev'ry dewy sweet the morning yields ; 
 From early spring to autumn late shalt thou 
 Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow : 
 And when — but why these unavailing pains ? 
 The gifts alike, and giver, she disdains ; 
 And now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem 
 Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem ; 
 Yet was she bom, like me, of shepherd-sire. 
 And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. 
 O ! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, 
 Or could I half the warmth I feel impart. 
 How would I wander, every day, to find 
 The choice of wildings, blushing through the 
 
 rind ! 
 For glossy plums how lightsome climb the 
 
 tree. 
 How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee. 
 Or, if thou deign to live a shepherdess. 
 Thou Lobbin's flock, andLobbin shalt possess ; 
 And fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I, 
 If liquid foimtains flatter not ; and why 
 Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show 
 The bord'ring flowers less beauteous than 
 
 they grow ? 
 O come, my love ! nor think the employment 
 
 mean, 
 j The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean ; 
 To drive afield, by morn, the fattening ewes, 
 Ere the warm sun drink up the cooUy dews ; 
 While with my pipe, and with my voice, 
 
 I cheer 
 Each hour, and tlirough the day detain thine 
 
 ear. 
 
Ambrose Philips." 
 
 TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 How would the crook beseem thy lily hand ! 
 How would my younglings round thee gazing 
 
 stand ! 
 Ah, witless younglings ! gaze not on her eye : 
 Thence all my sorrow ; thence the death I die. 
 Oh, killing beauty ! and oh, sore desire ! 
 Must then my sufFrings but with life expire ? 
 Though blossoms every year the trees adorn, 
 Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn : 
 Nor trow I when this bitter blast wiU. end. 
 Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend. 
 Sleep, sleep, my flock ; for happy ye may take 
 Sweet nightly rest, though still your master 
 
 wake." 
 
 Now to the waning moon the nightingale, 
 In slender warblings, tuned her piteous tale. 
 The love-sick shepherd, list'ning, felt relief. 
 Pleased with so sweet a partner in his grief, 
 Till, by degrees, her notes and silent night 
 ,To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite. 
 
 Amlrose Pliilips. — Born 1671, Died 1749. 
 
 791.— TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY. 
 
 Timely blossom, infant fair, 
 
 Fondling of a happy pair, 
 
 Every morn and every night 
 
 Their solicitous delight ; 
 
 Sleeping, waking, still at ease, . 
 
 Pleasing, without skill to please. 
 
 Little gossip, blithe and hale. 
 
 Tattling many a broken tale, 
 
 Singing many a tuneless song, 
 
 Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
 
 Simple maiden, void of art. 
 
 Babbling out the very heart, 
 
 Yet abandon' d to thy will, 
 
 Yet imagining no ill. 
 
 Yet too innocent to blush ; 
 
 Like the linnet in the bush, 
 
 To the mother- linnet's note 
 
 ModuHng her slender throat ; 
 
 Chirping forth thy petty joys, 
 
 Wanton in the change of toys, 
 
 Like the linnet green in May 
 
 Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 
 
 Wearied then and glad of rest. 
 
 Like the linnet in the nest. 
 
 This thy present happy lot, 
 
 This in time will be forgot ; 
 
 Other pleasures, other cares, 
 
 Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
 
 And thou shalt in thy daughters see. 
 
 This picture once resembled thee. 
 
 Ambrose Philips.— Born 1611, Died 1749. 
 
 792.— THE MONKEY WHO HAD SEEN 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 A monkey, to reform the times, 
 Resolved to visit foreign climes : 
 
 For men in distant regions roam 
 To bring politer manners home. 
 So forth he fares, all toil defies : 
 Misfortune serves to make us wise. 
 
 At length the treach'rous snare was laid ; 
 Poor Pug was caught, to town conveyed, 
 There sold. How envied was his doom, 
 Made captive in a lady's room ! 
 Proud as a lover of his chains, 
 He day by day her favour gains. 
 Whene'er the duty of the day 
 The toilet calls ; with mimic play 
 He twirls her knot, he cracks her fan, 
 Like any other gentleman. 
 In visits too his parts and wit, 
 When jests grew dull, were siu-e to hit. 
 Proud with applause, he thought his mind 
 In every courtly art refined ; 
 Like Orpheus burnt with public zeal, 
 To civilize the monkey weal : 
 So watched occasion, broke his chain. 
 And sought his native woods again. 
 
 The hairy sylvans round him press, 
 Astonished at his strut and dress. 
 Some praise his sleeve ; and others gloat 
 Upon his rich embroidered coat ; 
 His dapper periwig commending. 
 With the black tail behind depending ; 
 His powdered back, above, below, 
 Like hoary frost, or fleecy snow ; 
 But all with envy and desire 
 His fluttering shoulder-knot admire. 
 
 " Hear and imj)rove," he pertly cries ; 
 " I come to make a nation wise.- 
 Weigh your own words ; support your place. 
 The next in rank to human race. 
 In cities long I passed my days. 
 Conversed with men, and learnt their ways. 
 Their dress, their courtly manners see ; 
 Reform your state and copy me. 
 Seek je to thrive ? in flattery deal ; 
 Your scorn, your hate, with that conceal. 
 Seem only to regard your friends. 
 But use them for your private ends. 
 Stint not to truth the flow of wit ; 
 Be prompt to lie whene'er 'tis fit. 
 Bend all your force to spatter merit ; 
 Scandal is conversation's spirit. 
 Boldly to everything attend. 
 And men your talents shall commend. 
 I knew the great. Observe me right ; 
 So shall you grow Hke man polite." 
 
 He spoke and .bowed. With muttering jaws 
 The wondering circle grinned applause. 
 Now, warm with malice, envy, spite, 
 Their most obliging friends they bite ; 
 And fond to copy human ways. 
 Practise new mischiefs all their days. 
 
 Thus the dull lad, too tall for school. 
 With travel finishes the fool ; 
 Studious of every coxcomb's airs. 
 He drinks, games, dresses, whores, and 
 
 swears ; 
 O'erlooks with scorn all virtuous arts, 
 For vice is fitted to his parts. 
 
 John Gay.— Bom 1688, Died 1732. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 THE OLD HEN AND THE COCK. 
 
 [John Gay. 
 
 793.— THE PAINTER ^TIO PLEASED 
 
 NOBODY AND EVERYBODY. 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue, 
 
 Keep probability in view. 
 
 The traveller leaping o'er those bounds, 
 
 The credit of his book confounds. 
 
 Who with his tongue hath armies routed, 
 
 Makes even his real courage doubted : 
 
 But flattery never seems absurd ; 
 
 The flattered alwaj-s takes your word : 
 
 Impossibilities seem just ; 
 
 They take the strongest praise on trust. 
 
 Hyperboles, though ne'er so great, 
 
 Will still come short of self-conceit. 
 
 So very like a painter drew, 
 That every eye the picture knew ; 
 He hit complexion, feature, air. 
 So just, the life itseK was there. 
 No flattery with his colours laid, 
 To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
 Ho gave each muscle all its strength, 
 The mouth, the chin, the nose's length. 
 His honest pencil touched with truth. 
 And marked the date of age and youth. 
 He lost his friends, his practice failed ; 
 Truth should not always be revealed ; 
 In dusty piles his pictures lay, 
 For no one sent the second pay. 
 Two bustos, fraught with every grace, 
 A Venus' and Apollo's face. 
 He placed in view ; resolved to please, 
 WTioever sat, he drew from these. 
 From these corrected every feature, 
 And spirited each awkward creature. 
 
 All things were set ; the hour was come, 
 His pallet ready o'er his thumb. 
 My lord appeared ; and seated right 
 In proper attitude and light. 
 The painter looked, he sketched the piece, 
 Then dipp'd his pencil, talked of Greece, 
 Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air ; 
 " Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there 
 Might well a Raphael's hand require. 
 To give them all the native fire ; 
 The features fraught with sense and wit. 
 You'll grant are very hard to hit ; 
 But yet with patience you shall view 
 As much as paint and art can do. 
 Observe the work." My lord replied : 
 " Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; 
 Besides, my nose is somewhat long : 
 Dear sir, for me, 'tis far too j^oung." 
 
 " Oh ! pardon me," the artist cried, 
 " In this, the painters must decide. 
 The piece even common eyes must strike, 
 I warrant it extremely like." 
 
 My lord examined it anew ; 
 No looking-glass seemed half so true. 
 
 A lady came, with borrowed grace 
 He from his Venus formed her face. 
 Her lover praised the painter's art ; 
 So like the picture in his heart ! 
 To every age some charm he lent : 
 Even beauties were almost content. 
 
 Through all the town his art they praised ; 
 His custom grew, his price was raised. 
 Had he the real likeness shown. 
 Would any man the picture own ?1 
 But when thus happily he wrought. 
 Each found the likeness in his thought.^ 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 794.— THE LION AND THE CUB. 
 
 How fond are men of rule and place. 
 
 Who court it from the mean and base ! 
 
 These cannot bear an equal nigh. 
 
 But from superior merit fly. 
 
 They love the cellar's vulgar joke. 
 
 And lose their hours in ale and smoke. 
 
 There o'er some petty club preside ; 
 
 So poor, so paltry is their pride ! 
 
 Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit.' 
 
 In hopes to be supreme in wit. 
 
 If these can read, to these I write, 
 
 To set their worth in truest light. 
 
 A lion-cub, of sordid mind, 
 Avoided all the lion kind ; 
 Fond of applause, he sought the feasts 
 Of vulgar and ignoble beasts ; 
 With asses all his time he spent. 
 Their club's perpetual president. 
 He caught their manners, looks, and airs ; 
 An ass in everything but ears ! 
 If e'er his highness meant a joke, 
 They grinned applause before he spoke ; 
 But at each word what shouts of praise ! 
 Good gods ! how natural he brays ! 
 
 Elate Avith flattery and conceit. 
 He seeks his royal sire's retreat ; 
 Forward, and fond to show his parts. 
 His highness brays ; the lion starts. 
 
 " Pupx)y, that cursed vociferation 
 Betrays thy life and conversation : 
 Coxcombs, an ever noisy race. 
 Are trumpets of their own disgi-acc." 
 
 " Why so severe ? " the cub replies ; 
 " Our senate always held me wise." 
 
 " How weak is pride 1 " returns the sire ; 
 " All fools are vain, when fools admire I 
 But know, what stupid asses prize, 
 Lions and noble beasts despise." 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1731 
 
 795.— THE OLD HEN AND THE COCK. 
 
 Restrain your child ; you'll soon believe 
 The text which says, Ave sprung from Eve. 
 
 As an old hen led forth her train, 
 And seemed to peck to show the grain ; 
 She raked the chaff, she scratched the ground, 
 And gleaned the spacious yard around. 
 A giddy chick, to try her wings. 
 On the Avell's narrow margin springs, 
 
John Gay. 
 
 THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEAED. 
 
 FFiFTH Peeiod. — 
 
 And prone she drops. The mother's breast 
 All day with sorrow was possess'd. 
 
 A cock she met ; her son she knew ; 
 And in her heart affection grew. 
 
 " My son," says she, " I grant your years 
 Have reached beyond a mother's cares ; 
 I see you vig'rous, strong, and bold ; 
 I hear with joy your triumphs told. 
 'Tis not from cocks thy fate I dread j 
 But let thy ever- wary tread 
 Avoid yon well ; that fatal place 
 Is sure perdition to our race. 
 Print this my counsel on thy breast ; 
 To the just gods I leave the rest." 
 
 He thanked her care ; yet day by day 
 His bosom burned to disobey ; 
 And every time the well he saw. 
 Scorned in his heart the foolish law : 
 Near and more near each day he drew, 
 And longed to try the dangerous view. 
 
 " "Why was this idle charge ? " he cries ; 
 " Let courage female fears despise. 
 Or did she doubt my heart was brave, 
 And therefore this injunction gave ? 
 Or does her harvest store the place, 
 A treasure for her younger race ? 
 And would she thus my search prevent ? 
 I stand resolved, and dare the event." 
 
 Thus said. He mounts the margin's round, 
 And pries into the depth profound. 
 He stretched his neck ; and from below 
 With stretching neck advanced a foe : 
 With wrath his ruffled plumes he rears, 
 The foe with ruffled plumes appears : 
 Threat answered threat, his fury grew, 
 Headlong to meet the war he flew. 
 But when the watery death he found, 
 He thus lamented as he drowned : 
 
 " I ne'er had been in this condition. 
 But for my mother's prohibition." 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 796.— THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEAED. 
 
 'Tis certain, that the modish passions 
 Descend among the crowd, like fashions. 
 Excuse me then, if pride, conceit 
 (The manners of the fair and great) 
 I give to monkeys, asses, dogs. 
 Pleas, owls, goats, butterflies, and hogs. 
 I say that these are proud. What then ? 
 I never said they equal men, 
 
 A goat (as vain as goat can be) 
 Affected singularity. 
 Whene'er a thymy bank he found. 
 Ho rolled upon the fragrant ground ; 
 And then with fond attention stood, 
 Pixed o'er his image in the flood. 
 
 " I hate my frowsy beard," ho cries ; 
 " My youth is lost in this disguise. 
 Did not the females know my vigour, 
 Well might they loathe this reverend figitrc.'' 
 
 Resolved to smoothe his shaggy face, 
 He sought the barber of the place. 
 A flippant monkey, spruce and smart, 
 Hard by, professed the dapper art ; 
 His pole with pewter basins hung, 
 Black rotten teeth in order strung, 
 Eanged cups that in the window stoodj 
 Lined with red rags, to look like blood. 
 Did well his threefold trade explain. 
 Who shaved, drew teeth, and breathed a vein. 
 
 The goat he welcomes with an air, 
 And seats him in his wooden chair : 
 Mouth, nose, and cheek the lather hides : 
 Light, smooth, and swift the razor glides. 
 
 " I hope your custom, sir," says pug. 
 " Sure never face was half so smug." 
 
 The goat, impatient for applause. 
 Swift to the neighbourmg hill withdraws : 
 The shaggy people grinned and stared. 
 
 " Heyday ! what 's here ? without a beard ! 
 Say, brother, whence the dire disgrace ? 
 What envious hand hath robbed your face ? " 
 
 When thus the fop, with smiles of scorn : 
 '' Are beards by civil nations Avorn ? 
 Even Muscovites have mowed their chins. 
 Shall we, like formal Capuchins, 
 Stubborn in pride, retain the mode. 
 And bear about the hairy load ? 
 Whene'er we through the village stray, 
 Are we not mocked along the way ; 
 Insulted with loud shouts of scorn, 
 By boys our beards disgraced and torn ? " 
 
 " Were you no more with goats to dwell, 
 Brother, I grant you reason well," 
 Replies a bearded chief. '• Beside, 
 If boys can mortify thy pride, 
 How wilt thou stand the ridicule 
 Of our whole flock ? Affected fool 1 
 Coxcombs, distinguished from the rest, 
 To all but coxcombs are a jest." 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 797.— THE SICK MAN AND THE 
 ANGEL. 
 
 " Is there no hope ? " the sick man said. 
 
 The silent doctor shook his head. 
 
 And took his leave vnt\\ signs of sorrow. 
 
 Despairing of his fee to-morrow. 
 
 When thus the man with gasping breath : 
 
 " I feel the chiUing wound of death : 
 
 Since I must bid the world adieu, 
 i Let me my former life review, 
 j I grant, my bargains well were made ; 
 1 But all men over-reach in trade ; 
 ' 'Tis self-defence in each pr.ofession. 
 
 Sure self-defence is no transgression. 
 
 The little portion in my hands, 
 
 By good security on lands. 
 
 It well increased. If, unawares, 
 I My justice to myself and heirs 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF HOESES. 
 
 [John Gay. 
 
 Hath let my debtor rot in jail, 
 For want of good sufficient bail ; 
 If I by writ, or bond, or deed, 
 Eeduced a family to need, 
 My will bath made the world amends ; 
 My hope on charity depends. 
 When I am numbered with the dead, 
 And all my pious gifts are read. 
 By heaven and earth 'twill then be knoAvn 
 I My charities were amply shown." 
 
 An angel came. " Ah, friend ! " he cried, 
 " No more in flattering hope confide. 
 Can thy good deeds in foi-mer times 
 Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
 What widow or what orphan prays 
 To crown thy life with length of days ? 
 I A pious action's in thy power, 
 j Embrace with joy the happy hour. 
 Now, while you draw the vital air. 
 Prove your intention is sincere. 
 This instant give a hundred pound ; 
 Your neighbours want, and you abound." 
 " But why such haste ? " the sick man 
 whines ; 
 " Who knows as yet what Heaven designs ? 
 Perhaps I may recover still ; 
 That sum and more are in my will." 
 
 " Fool," says the vision, " now 'tis plain. 
 Your life, your soul, your heaven v^as gain. 
 From every side, -svith all your might, 
 You scraped, and scraped beyond j'our right ; 
 And after death would fain atone, 
 By giving what is not your own." 
 
 " While there is life, there 's hope," he 
 cried ; 
 " Then why such haste ? " so groaned and 
 died. 
 
 Jolv.i Gay.— Born 1G88, Died 1732. 
 
 798.— THE FOX AT THE POINT OF 
 DEATH. 
 
 A fox, in life's extreme decay. 
 Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay ; 
 All appetite had left his maw. 
 And age disarmed his mumbling jaw. 
 His numerous race aroiand him stand 
 To learn their dying sire's command : 
 He raised his head with whining moan, 
 And thus was heard the feeble tone : 
 
 " Ah, sons ! from evil ways depart : 
 My crimes lie heavy on my heart. 
 See, see, the murdered geese appear ! 
 Why are those bleeding turkeys here ? 
 Why all around this cackling train, 
 Who haunt my ears for chicken slain ? " 
 
 The hungry foxes round them stared, 
 And for the promised feast prepared. 
 
 " Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer ? 
 Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. 
 These are the phantoms of your brain, 
 "And your sons lick their lips in vain." 
 
 " O gluttons ! " says the drooping sire, 
 
 " Restrain inordinate desire. 
 
 Your liqu'rish taste you shall deplore, 
 
 W^hen peace of conscience is no more. 
 
 Does not the hound betray our pace, 
 
 And gins and guns destroy our race? 
 
 Thieves dread the searching eye of itowev, 
 
 And never feel the quiet hour. 
 
 Old age (which few of us shall know) 
 
 Now puts a period to my woe. 
 
 Would you true happiness attain, 
 
 Let honesty your passions rein ; 
 
 So live in credit and esteem. 
 
 And the good name you lost, redeem." 
 
 " The counsel's good," a fox replies, 
 " Could we perform what you advise. 
 Think what our ancestors have done ; 
 A line of thieves from son to son : 
 To us descends the long disgrace, 
 And infamy hath marked our race. 
 Though we like harmless sheep should feed, 
 Honest in thought, in word, and deed ; 
 Whatever henroost is decreased. 
 We shall be thought to share the feasf. 
 The change shall never be believed, 
 A lost good name is ne'er retrieved." 
 
 " Nay, then," replies the feeble fox, 
 " (But hark ! I hear a hen that clocks) 
 Go, but be moderate in your food ; 
 A chicken too might do me good." 
 
 John Gay.— Bom 1688, Died 17321 
 
 799.— THE COUNCIL OF HOESES. 
 
 Upon a time a neighing steed, 
 
 Who grazed among a numerous breed. 
 
 With mutiny had fired the train, 
 
 And spread dissension through the plain. 
 
 On matters that concerned the state 
 
 The council met in grand debate. 
 
 A colt, whose eye-balls flamed with ire, 
 
 Elate with strength and youthful fire. 
 
 In haste stept forth before the rest. 
 
 And thus the liste.iing throng addressed : 
 
 " Good gods ! hoAV abject is our race, 
 Condemned to slavery and disgrace ! 
 Shall Ave our servitude retain. 
 Because our sires have borne the chain ? 
 Consider, friends, your strength and might : 
 'Tis conquest to assert your right. 
 How cumbrous is the gilded coach ! 
 The pride of man is our reproach. 
 Were we designed for daily toil. 
 To drag the ploughshare through the soil, 
 To sweat in harness through the road. 
 To groan beneath the carrier's load ? 
 How feeble are the two-legged kind ! 
 Wliat force is in our nerves combined I 
 Shall then our nobler jaws submit 
 To foam and chamx) the galling bit ? 
 Shall haughty man my back bestride ? 
 Shall the sharp spur provoke my side ? 
 Forbid it, heavens ! Eeject the rein ; 
 Your shame, your infamy disdain. 
 
John Gay.j THE POET AND THE EOSE. [Fifth Period.— 
 
 Let him the lion first control, 
 
 Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 
 
 And still the tiger's famished gi-owl. 
 
 More fragrant roses there ; 
 
 Let us, like them, our freedom claim, 
 
 I see thy withering head reclined 
 
 And make him tremble at our name." 
 
 With envy and despair ! 
 
 A general nod approved the cause, 
 
 One common fate we both must prove ; 
 
 And all the circle neighed applause. 
 
 You die with envy, I with love." 
 
 When, lo ! with grave and solemn pace, 
 
 " Spare your comparisons," replied 
 
 A steed advanced before the race. 
 
 An angry rose, who grew beside. 
 
 "With age and long experience wise ; 
 
 " Of all mankind, you should not flout us ; 
 
 Around he cast his thoughtful eyes, 
 
 WTiat can a poet do without us ! 
 
 And, to the murmurs of the train. 
 
 In every love-song roses bloom ; 
 
 Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain : 
 
 We lend you colour and perfume. 
 
 " When I had health and strength, like you, 
 
 Does it to Chloe's charms conduce. 
 
 The toils of servitude I knew ; 
 
 To found her praise on our abuse ? 
 
 Now grateful man rewards my pains. 
 
 Must we, to flatter her, be made 
 
 And gives me all these wide domains. 
 
 To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?" 
 
 At will I crop the year's increase ; 
 My latter life is rest and jpeace. 
 
 John Gay. — Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 I grant, to man we lend our pains. 
 
 
 And aid him to correct the plains. 
 
 
 
 But doth not he divide the care. 
 
 
 Through all the labours of the year ? 
 
 801.— THE HAEE AND MANY 
 
 How many thousand structures rise, 
 
 FEIENDS. 
 
 To fence us from inclement skies ! 
 
 
 For us he bears the sultry day, 
 
 Friendship, like love, is but a name, 
 
 And stores up all our winter's hay. 
 
 Unless to one you stint the flame. 
 
 He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain ; 
 
 The child, whom many fathers share. 
 
 We share the toil, and share the grain. 
 
 Hath seldom known a father's care. 
 
 Since every creature was decreed 
 
 'Tis thus in friendships ; who depend 
 
 To aid each other's mutual need, 
 
 On many, rarely find a friend. 
 
 Appease your discontented mind, 
 
 A hare, who in a civil way. 
 
 And act the part by heaven assigned." 
 
 Complied with everything, like Gay, 
 
 The tumult ceased. The colt submitted. 
 
 Was known by all the bestial train 
 
 And, like his ancestors, was bitted. 
 
 Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
 
 
 Her care was never to oftend, 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 And every creature was her friend. 
 
 
 As forth she went at early dawn. 
 
 
 To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
 Behind she hears the hunters' cries, 
 
 
 
 And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
 
 800.— THE POET AND THE EOSE. 
 
 She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
 
 
 , She hears the near advance of death ; 
 
 I hate the man who builds his name 
 
 She doubles to mislead the hound. 
 
 On ruins of another's fame. 
 
 And measures back her mazy round ; 
 
 Thus prudes, by characters o'erthro^^^l, 
 
 Till fainting in the public way, 
 
 Imagine that they raise their own. 
 
 Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay. 
 
 Thus scribblers, covetous of praise, 
 
 What transport in her bosom grew,- 
 
 Think slander can transplant the bays. 
 
 When first the horse appeared in view ! 
 
 Beauties and bards have equal pride, 
 
 " Let me," says she, " your back ascend, 
 
 With both all rivals are decried. 
 
 And owe my safetj'^ to a friend. 
 
 Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature. 
 
 You know my feet betray my flight ; 
 
 Must call her sister awkward creature ; 
 
 To friendship every burden's light." 
 
 For the kind flattery 's sure to charm. 
 
 The horse replied — "Poor honest puss, 
 
 When we some other nymph disarm. 
 
 It grieves my heart to see thee thus ; 
 
 As in the cool of early day 
 
 Be comforted, relief is near ; 
 
 A poet sought the sweets of May, 
 
 For all your friends are in the rear." 
 
 The garden's fragrant breath ascends, 
 
 She next the stately bull implored ; 
 
 And every stalk with odour bends. 
 
 And thus replied the mighty lord — 
 
 A rose ho plucked, he gazed, admired. 
 
 " Since every beast alive can tell 
 
 Thus singing as the muse inspu-ed : 
 
 That I sincerely wish you well. 
 
 '' Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace ; 
 
 I may, without offence, pretend 
 
 How happy should I prove. 
 
 To take the freedom of a friend. 
 
 Might I supply that envied place 
 
 Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow 
 
 With never-fading love ! 
 
 Expects me near yon barley mow : 
 
 There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye, 
 
 And when a lady's in the case. 
 
 Involved in fragrance, burn and die ! 
 
 You know all other things give place. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] A BALLAD. 
 
 [John Ga^ 
 
 To leave you thus miglit seem unkind ; 
 But see, the goat is just behind." 
 
 The goat remarked her pulse was high, 
 Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
 " My back," says she, " may do you harm ; 
 The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 
 
 The sheep was feeble, and complained 
 His sides a load of wool sustained : 
 Said he was slow, confessed his fears ; 
 For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 
 
 She now the trotting calf addressed. 
 To save from death a friend distressed. 
 
 " Shall I," says he, " of tender age, 
 In this important care engage ; 
 Older and abler passed you by ; 
 HoAv strong are those ! how weak am I ! 
 Should I presume to bear you hence, 
 Those friends of mine may take offence. 
 Excuse me then. You know my heart, 
 But dearest friends, alas ! must part. j 
 
 How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! j 
 
 For see the hounds are just in view." j 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 8o2.— SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL. 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind. 
 When black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
 " Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew." 
 
 WiUiam, who high upon the yard 
 
 Eock'd with the billow to and fro. 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
 He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below ; 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 
 
 hands, 
 And (quick as lightning) on the deck he 
 stands. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 
 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
 (If chance his mate's shrill call he hear), 
 And drops at once into her nest. 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 " O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 
 We only part to meet again. 
 Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall 
 
 be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 Believe not what the landmen say, 
 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant 
 mind. 
 They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, 
 In every port a mistress find ; 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 If to fair India's coast we sail, 
 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view. 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely 
 Sue. ~ - 
 
 Though battle call me from thy arms, 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round mo fly, 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's 
 eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadfiil word, 
 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 No longer must she stay aboard : 
 
 They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his 
 head. 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 
 " Adieu ! " she cries ; and waved her lily 
 hand. 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 803.— A BALLAD. 
 
 'Twas when the seas were roaring 
 
 With hoUow blasts of wind ; 
 A damsel lay deploring, 
 
 All on a rock reclined. 
 Wide o'er the foaming billows 
 
 She casts a wistful look ; 
 Her head was crown'd with willows, 
 
 That trembled o'er the brook. 
 
 Twelve months are gone and over, 
 
 And nine long tedious days. 
 Why didst thou, venturous lover, 
 
 Why didst thou trust the seas ? 
 Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean. 
 
 And let my lover rest : 
 Ah ! what's thy troubled motion 
 
 To that within my breast ? 
 
 The merchant, robb'd of pleasure. 
 
 Sees tempests in despair : 
 But what's the loss of treasure. 
 
 To losing of my dear ? 
 Should you some coast be laid on, 
 
 Where gold and diamonds grow, 
 You'd find a richer maiden. 
 
 But none that loves you so. 
 
 How can they say that nature 
 
 Has nothing made in vain ; 
 Why then beneath the water 
 
 Should hideous rocks remain ? 
 No eyes the rocks discover, 
 
 That lurk beneath the deep. 
 To wreck the wand' ring lover, 
 
 And leave the maid to v/eep. 
 
John Gay.] 
 
 THE COUNTRY BALLAD SINGEE. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 All melancholy lying-, 
 
 Thus wail'd she for her dear ; 
 Repaid each blast with sighing", 
 
 Each billow with a tear ; 
 When o'er the white wave stooping, 
 
 His floating corpse she spied ; 
 Then, like a lily drooping, 
 
 She bow'd her head, and died. 
 
 John Gmj.—Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 804. 
 
 -THE COUNTRY BALLAD 
 SINGER. 
 
 Sublimer strains, O rustic muse ! prepare ; 
 Forget awhile the barn and dair^^'s care ; 
 Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, 
 The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays ; 
 With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse, 
 Wliile rocks and woods the various notes 
 
 rehearse. 
 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil 
 Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ,- 
 Wide through the field was seen a goodly 
 
 rout, 
 Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves 
 
 about ; 
 Tlie lads with sharpened hook and sweating 
 
 brow 
 Cut down the labours of the winter plough. 
 # * * # # 
 
 When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied. 
 His hat and oaken staff lay close beside ; 
 That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing", 
 Or with the rosin' d bow torment the string; 
 That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed, 
 Could call soft warblings from the breathing 
 
 reed ; 
 That Bowzj'-beus who, with jocund tongue. 
 Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung : 
 They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright. 
 And in disport surround the drunken %vight. 
 
 Ah, Eowzybee, why didst thou stay so long ? 
 The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous 
 
 strong ! 
 Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas 
 
 night,- 
 But thou sat'st toping till the morning light. 
 Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the 
 
 rout, 
 And Icissed with smacking lip the snoring 
 
 lout 
 (For custom saya, " Wlioe'er this venture 
 
 proves. 
 For such a Idss demands a pair of gloves.") 
 By her example Dorcas bolder grows. 
 And plays a tickling straw within his nose. 
 He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke 
 The sneering strains with stammering speech 
 
 bespoke : 
 To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er ; 
 As fov the maids, I've something else in store. 
 
 No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song, 
 Bnt lads and lasses round about him throng. 
 
 Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd 
 Sings with a note so shrilling, sweet, and loud ; 
 No parish-clerk, who calls the psalms so clear, 
 Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. 
 
 Of nature's laws his carols first begun. 
 Why the grave owl can never face the sun. 
 For owls, as swains observe, detest the light. 
 And only sing and seek their prey by night. 
 How turnips hide their swelling heads below, 
 And how the closing coleworts upwards grow ; 
 How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring 
 
 clowns 
 O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless 
 
 downs. 
 Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail, 
 And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his 
 
 tail. 
 He sung where woodcocks in the simimer 
 
 feed. 
 And in what climates they renew their breed 
 (Some think to northern coasts their flight 
 
 they tend, 
 Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend) ; 
 Where swallows in the winter's season keep. 
 And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep ; 
 How nature does the puppy's eyelid close, 
 Till the bright sun has nine times set and 
 
 rose 
 (For huntsmen by their long experience find, 
 That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). 
 Novr he goes on, and sings of fairs and 
 
 shows. 
 For still new fairs before his eyes arose. 
 How pedlers' stalls Avith glittering toys are 
 
 laid, 
 The various faii'ings of the country maid. 
 Long silken laces hang upon the twine. 
 And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine ; 
 How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors 
 
 spies. 
 And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. 
 Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told. 
 Where silver spoons are won, and rings of 
 
 gold. 
 The lads and lasses trudge the street along. 
 And all the fair is crowded in his song. 
 The mountebank now treads the stage, and 
 
 sells 
 His 15 ills, his balsams, and his ague- spells ; 
 Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, 
 And on the rope the venturous maiden 
 
 swings ; 
 Jack Pudding, in his party-coloured jacket, 
 Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. 
 Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats. 
 Of pockets picked in crowds and various 
 
 cheats. 
 Then sad he simg " The Children in the 
 
 Wood" 
 (Ah, barbarous uncle, stained with infant 
 
 blood !) 
 How blackbei-ries they plucked in deserts 
 
 ■nnld, 
 And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled ; 
 Their little corpse the robin-redbreasts found. 
 And strewed Avith pious bill the leaves around. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON. 
 
 [John Gay, 
 
 (Ah, gentle birds ! if this verse lasts so long-, 
 Your names shall live for ever in my song.) 
 For "Buxom Joan" he sung the doubtful 
 
 strife, 
 How the sly sailor ni.ade the maid a wife. 
 
 To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell 
 Wliat woful wars in " Chevy Chase " befell, 
 "V^'hen " Percy drove the deer with hound and 
 
 horn ; 
 Wars to be wept by children yet unborn ! " 
 Ah, Witherington ! more years thy life had 
 
 crowned, 
 If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound ! 
 Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody 
 
 stumps, 
 By future bards be wailed in doleful dumps. 
 
 " AU in the land of Essex" next he chaunts. 
 How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn 
 
 gallants : 
 How the grave brother stood on bank so 
 
 green — 
 Happy for him if mares had never been ! 
 
 Then he was seized with a religious qualm, 
 And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. 
 He sung of "Taffy Welsh" and " Sa'wney 
 
 Scot," 
 " Lilly-bullero " and the "Irish Trot." 
 Why should I tell of " Batcman " or of 
 
 " Shore," 
 Or "Wantley's Dragon," slain by valiant 
 
 Moore, 
 " The Bower of Rosamond," or " Robin 
 
 Hood," 
 And how the " grass now grows where Troy 
 
 town stood ' ' ? 
 His carols ceased : the listening maids and 
 
 swains 
 Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. 
 Sudden ho rose, and, as he reels along, 
 Swears kisses sweet should weU reward his 
 
 song. 
 Tlie damsels laughing fly ; the giddy clown 
 Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown ; 
 The power that guards the drunk his sleep 
 
 attends, 
 Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends. 
 
 John Gay.— Bom 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 805. 
 
 -WALKING THE STREETS OF 
 LONDON. 
 
 Tlu-ough winter streets to steer your course 
 
 aright. 
 How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; 
 How jostling crowds with prudence to 
 
 decline, 
 Wlien to assert the waU, and when resign, 
 I sing ; thou. Trivia, goddess, aid my song. 
 Through spacious streets conduct thy bard 
 
 along ; 
 By thee transported, I securely stray 
 Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way ; 
 The silent court and opening square explore. 
 And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 
 
 To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken 
 
 ways, 
 Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays : 
 For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the 
 
 ground, 
 Whilst every stroke Ms labouring lungs re- 
 sound ; ~ 
 For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 
 Witliin their bounds, and heaps of dirt sub- 
 side. 
 My youthful bosom burns with thirst of 
 
 fame, 
 From the great theme to build a glorious 
 
 name ; 
 To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown. 
 And bind my temples with a civic crown : 
 But more my country's love demands my 
 
 lays ; 
 My country's be the profit, mine the praise ! 
 When the black youth at chosen stands 
 
 rejoice, 
 And " clean your shoes " resounds from every 
 
 voice ; 
 When late their miry sides stage-coaches 
 
 show. 
 And their stiff horses through the town move 
 
 slow; 
 When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies. 
 And damsels first renew their oj'ster cries ; 
 Then let the prudent walker shoes provide. 
 Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide ; 
 The wooden heel may raise the dancer's 
 
 bound, 
 And with the scalloped top his step bo 
 
 crowned ; 
 Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet 
 Throus'b freezing snows, and rains, and 
 
 soaking sleet. 
 Should the big last extend the shoe too wide. 
 Each stone will wrench the unwary step 
 
 aside ; 
 The sudden turn may stretch the swelling 
 
 vein. 
 Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ; 
 And, when too short the modish shoes are 
 
 worn. 
 You'll judge the seasons ))y your shooting 
 
 corn. 
 Nor should it prove thy less important 
 
 care, 
 To choose a proper coat for winter's wear. 
 Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold. 
 The silken drugget ill can fence the cold ; 
 The frieze's spongj'- nap is soaked Avith rain, 
 And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled 
 
 grain ; 
 True Witney broadcloth, with its shag un- 
 shorn, 
 Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn : 
 Be this the horseman's fence, for who would 
 
 wear 
 Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? 
 Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands ara 
 
 pent, 
 Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms 
 
 prevent. 
 
AViLLiAM SoMERviLLE.] DESCEIFTION OF A HAEE HUNT. 
 
 [Fifth Period. 
 
 Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace, 
 Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace. 
 That garment best the winter's rage defends, 
 Whose ample form without one plait depends ; 
 By various names in various counties known, 
 Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; 
 Be thine of kersey firm, though small the 
 
 cost, 
 Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the 
 
 frost. 
 If the strong cane support thy walking 
 
 hand, 
 Chairmen no longer shall the wall command ; 
 Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, 
 And rattling coaches stop to make thee way : 
 This shall direct thy cautious tread aright, 
 Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. 
 Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, 
 
 produce ; 
 Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. 
 In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, 
 And lazily insure a life's disease ; 
 While softer chairs the tawdry load convey 
 To court, to White's, assemblies, or the play ; 
 Eosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends, 
 And exercise thy lasting youth defends. 
 Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts pro- 
 fane : 
 Thus some beneath their arm support the 
 
 cane ; 
 The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, 
 And miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. 
 Oh ! may I never such misfortune meet ! 
 May no such vicious walkers crowd the street ! 
 May Providence o'ershade me with her wings. 
 While the bold Muse experienced danger 
 
 sings ! 
 
 John Gay.— Born 1688, Died 1732. 
 
 806.— DESCRIPTION OF A HAEE HUNT. 
 
 Now golden Autumn from her open lap 
 Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields 
 
 are shorn ; 
 Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer yiewa 
 The rising pyramids that grace his yard, 
 And counts his large increase ; his bams are 
 
 stored, 
 And groaning staddles bend beneath their 
 
 load. 
 All now is free as air, and the gay pack 
 In the rough bristly stubbles range un^lamed : 
 No widow's tears o'erflow, no secret curse 
 Swells in the farmer's breast, which his pale 
 
 lips 
 Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord 
 
 awed : 
 But courteous now he levels every fence, 
 Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud, 
 Charm k1 with the rattling thunder of the 
 
 field. 
 Oh boar me, some kind Power invisible ! 
 
 To that extended lawn, where the gay court 
 View the swift racers, stretching to the goal ; 
 Games more renowned, and a far nobler 
 
 train, 
 Than proud Elean fields could boast of old. 
 Oh ! were a Theban lyre not wanting here, 
 And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right ! 
 Or to those spacious plains, where the strained 
 
 eye 
 In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last 
 Sarum's proud spire, that o'er the hills 
 
 ascends, 
 And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy 
 
 downs. 
 Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle 
 
 cKmbs, 
 With matchless speed, thy green aspiring 
 
 brow, 
 And leaves the lagging multitude behind. 
 Hail, gentle Dawn ! mild blushing goddess 
 
 hail! 
 Eejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread 
 O'er half the skies, gems pave thy radiant 
 
 way, 
 And orient pearls from every shrub depend. 
 Farewell, Cleora ; here deep sunk in down 
 Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused, 
 Till grateful steams shaU tempt thee to 
 
 receive 
 Thy early meal, or thy officious maids, 
 The toilet placed, shall urge thee to perform 
 The important work. Me other joys invite, 
 The horn sonorous calls, the pack awaked 
 Their matins chant, nor brook my long 
 
 delay. 
 My courser hears their voice ; see there with 
 
 ears 
 And tail erect, neighing he paws the ground ; 
 Fierce rapture kindles in his reddening eyes, 
 And boils in every vein. As captive boys 
 Cowed by the ruling rod, and haughty frowns 
 Of pedagogues severe, from their hard tasks. 
 If once dismissed, no limits can contain 
 The tumult raised within their little breasts, 
 But give a loose to all their frolic play : 
 So from their kennel rush the joyous pack ; 
 A thousand wanton gaieties express 
 Their inward ecstasy, their pleasing sport 
 Once more indulged, and liberty restored. 
 The rising sun that o'er the horizon peeps, 
 As many colours from their glossy skins 
 Beaming reflects, as paint the various bow 
 When April showers descend. Delightful 
 
 scene ! 
 Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs, 
 And in each smiling countenance appears 
 Fresh blooming health, and iiniversal joy. 
 Huntsman, lead on ! behind the clustering 
 
 pack 
 Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip 
 Loud-clanging, and thy harsher voice obey : 
 Spare not the straggling cur, that wildly 
 
 roves ; 
 But let thy brisk assistant on his back 
 Imprint thy just resentments ; let each lash 
 Bite to the quick, till howKng he return 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A HAEE HUNT. [William Somebville. 
 
 And v/hining creep amid the trembling 
 
 crowd. 
 Here on this verdant spot, where nature 
 
 kind, 
 With double blessings crowns the farmer's 
 
 hopes ; ^ 
 
 Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank 
 
 mead 
 Affords the wandering hares a rich repast, 
 Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they 
 
 spread 
 And range around, and dash the glittering 
 
 dew. 
 If some stanch hound, with his authentic 
 
 voice. 
 Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribe 
 Attend his call, then with one mutual cry 
 The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills 
 Eopeat the pleasing tale. See how they 
 
 thread 
 The breaks, and up yon furrow drive along ! 
 But quick they back recoil, and wisely check 
 Their eager haste ; then o'er the fallow'd 
 
 ground 
 How leisurely they work, and many a pause 
 The harmonious concert breaks ; till more 
 
 assured 
 With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. 
 What artful labjTinths perplex their way ! 
 Ah I there she lies ; how close ! she pants, 
 
 she doubts 
 If now she lives ; she trembles as she sits, 
 With horror seized. The withered grass that 
 
 clings 
 Around her head, of the same russet hue 
 Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes 
 With life full-beaming her vain wiles be- 
 trayed. 
 At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed, 
 No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard. 
 Lest the v/ild hound run gadding o'er the 
 
 plain 
 Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. 
 Now gently put her off ; see how direct 
 To her known mews she flies ! Here, hunts- 
 man, bring 
 (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, 
 And calmly lay them in. How low they 
 
 stoop. 
 And seem to plough the ground ! then all at 
 
 once 
 With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steam 
 That glads their flutt'ring hearts. As wiuds 
 
 let loose 
 From the dark caverns of the blust'ring god, 
 Thoy burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. 
 Hope gives them wings while she's spurred on 
 
 by fear. 
 The welkin rings ; men, dogs, hills, rocks, and 
 
 woods 
 In the full concert join. Now, my brave 
 
 youths, 
 Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to 
 
 joy • _ 
 See how their coursers, than the mountain 
 
 More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick 
 
 clouds 
 Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs 
 
 scarce print 
 The grass unbruised ; with emulation fired 
 They strain to lead the field, top fEe barred 
 
 gate, 
 O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush 
 The thorny-twining hedge : the riders bend 
 O'er their arched necks ; with steady hands, 
 
 by turns 
 Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. 
 Where are their sorrows, disappointments, 
 
 wrongs, 
 Vexations, sickness, cares ? All, all are gone, 
 And with the panting winds lag far behind. 
 Huntsman ! her gait observe ; if in wide 
 
 rings 
 She w^heel her mazy way, in the same round 
 Persisting still, she'll foil the beaten track. 
 But if she fly, and with the favouring wind 
 Ui'ge her bold course ; less intricate thy task : 
 Push on thy pack. Like some poor exiled 
 
 wretch 
 The frighted chase leaves her late dear 
 
 abodes. 
 O'er plains remote she stretches far away, 
 Ah 1 never to return ! for greedy Death 
 Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey. 
 Hark ! from j'on covert, where those tower- 
 ing oaks 
 Above the humble copse aspiring rise, 
 What glorious triumphs burst in ev'ry gale 
 Upon our ravished ears ! The hunters shout, 
 The clanging horns swell their sv/eet- winding 
 
 notes, 
 The pack wide-opening load the trembling 
 
 air 
 With A'arious melody ; from tree to tree 
 The propagated cry redoubling bounds. 
 And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy 
 Through all the regions near : afflictive birch 
 No more the schoolboy dreads, his prison 
 
 broke, 
 Scamp'ring he flies, nor heeds his master's 
 
 call ; 
 The weary traveller forgets his road, 
 And climbs the adjacent hill ; the ploughman 
 
 leaves 
 The unfinished furrow ; nor his bleating 
 
 flocks 
 Are now the shepherd's joy ; men, boys, and 
 
 girls 
 Desert the impeopled village; and wild 
 
 crowds 
 Spread o'er the plain, by the sweet frenzy 
 
 seized. 
 Look, how she pants ! and o'er yon op'ning 
 
 glade 
 Slips glancing by ; while, at the further end. 
 The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile, 
 Maze within maze. The covert's utmost 
 
 bound 
 Slily she skirts ; behind them cautious creeps. 
 And in that very track, so lately stained 
 By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue 
 
 ?6 
 
William Somerville.] PEAISE OF A COUNTEY LIFE. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 The foe she flies. Let cavillers deny 
 
 That brutes have reason j sure 'tis something 
 
 more, 
 'Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires, 
 Beyond the short extent of hnman thought. 
 But hold — I see her from the covert break ; 
 Sad on yon little eminence she sits ; 
 Intent she listens with one ear erect, 
 Pond'ring, and doubtful what new course to 
 
 take, 
 And how to escape the fierce blood-thirsty 
 
 crew, 
 That still urge on, and still in volleys loud. 
 Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress. 
 As now in louder peals, the loaded winds 
 Bring on the gath'ring storm, her fears 
 
 prevail ; 
 And o'er the plain, and o'er the mountain's 
 
 ridge, 
 Away she flies ; nor ships with wind and tide, 
 And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. 
 Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try. 
 And each clean courser's speed: We scour 
 
 along, 
 In pleasing hurry and confusion tossed ; 
 Obhvion to be wished. The patient pack 
 Hang on the scent unwearied, up they climb. 
 And ardent we pursue ; our labouring steeds 
 We press, we gore ; till once the summit 
 
 gained, 
 Painfully panting, there we breathe a while ; 
 Then Hike a foaming torrent, pouring down 
 Precipitant, we smoke along the vale. 
 Happy the man, who with unrivalled speed 
 Can pass his fellows, and with pleasure view 
 The struggling pack ; how in the rapid course 
 Alternate they preside, and jostling push 
 To guide the dubious scent ; how giddy youth 
 Oft babbling errs, by wiser age reproved ; 
 How, niggard of his strength, the wise old 
 
 hound 
 Hangs in the rear, tiU some important point 
 Eouse all his diligence, or tiU the chase 
 Sinking he finds; then to the head he 
 
 springs. 
 With thirst of glory fired, and wins the 
 
 prize. 
 Huntsman, take heed; they stop in fuU 
 
 career. 
 Yon crov/ding flocks, that at a distance 
 
 graze, 
 Have haply soiled the turf. See I that old 
 
 hound, 
 How busily he works, but dares not trust 
 His doubtful sense ; draw yet a wider ring. 
 Hark ! now again the chorus fills ; as bells 
 Silenced a while at once their peal renew. 
 And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls. 
 See, how they toss, with animated rage 
 Eecovering all they lost! — Thg-t eager haste 
 Some doubling wile foreshows. — Ah ! yet once 
 
 more 
 They're checked — ^hold back with speed — on 
 
 either hand 
 They flourish round — even yet persist — 'Tis 
 
 right, 
 
 Away they spring; the rusthng stubbles 
 
 bend 
 Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor 
 
 chase 
 Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced. 
 From *)rake to brake she flies, and visits all 
 Her well-known haunts, where once she 
 
 ranged secure, 
 With love and plenty blessed. See ! there 
 
 she goes. 
 She reels along, and by her gait betrays 
 Her inward weakness. See, how black she 
 
 looks ! 
 The sweat that clogs the obstructed pores, 
 
 scarce leaves 
 A languid scent. And now in open view 
 See, see, she flies ; each eager hound exerts 
 His utmost speed, and stretches ev'ry nerve. 
 How quick she turns ! their gaping jaws 
 
 eludes. 
 And yet a moment lives ; till round inclosed 
 By all the greedy pack, with infant screams 
 She yields her breath, and there reluctan 
 
 dies. 
 So when the furious Bacchanals assailed 
 Thracian Orpheus, i)oor ill-fated bard ! 
 Loud was the cry ; hills, woods, and Hebrua' 
 
 banks, 
 Eeturned their clamorous rage ; distressed he 
 
 flies, 
 Shifting from place to place, but flies in 
 
 vain; 
 For eager they pursue, till panting, faint, 
 By noisy multitudes o'erpowered, he sinks. 
 To the relentless crowd a bleeding prey. 
 
 William 8omerville.—Born 1682, Died 1742. 
 
 807.— PEAISE OF A COUNTEY LIFE. 
 
 O happy, if ye knew your happy state, 
 Ye rangers of the fields ! whom Nature boon 
 Cheers with her smiles, and every element 
 Conspires to bless. What, if no heroes frown 
 From marble pedestals ; nor Eaphael's works, 
 Nor Titian's lively tints, adorn our walls ? 
 Yet these the meanest of us may behold ; 
 And at another's cost may feast at will 
 Our wondering eyes; what can the owner 
 
 more? 
 But vain, alas! is wealth, not graced with 
 
 power. 
 The flowery landscape, and the gilded dom«, 
 And vistas opening to the wearied eye. 
 Through aU his wide domain ; the planted 
 
 grove. 
 The shrubby wilderness with its gay choir 
 Of warbling birds, can't lull to soft repose 
 The ambitious wretch, whose discontented 
 
 soul 
 Is harrowed day and night; he mourns, he 
 
 pines, 
 Until his prince's favour makes him great. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 [Thomas Parnell. 
 
 See, there lie comes, the exalted idol comes ! 
 The circle 's formed, and all hia fawning 
 
 slaves 
 Devoutly bow to earth ; from every month 
 The nauseous flattery flows, which he returns 
 With promises, that die as soon as bom. 
 Vile intercourse ! where virtue has no place. 
 Frown but the monarch; all his glories 
 
 fade; 
 He mingles with the throng, outcast, 
 
 undone, 
 The pageant of a day ; without one friend 
 To soothe his tortured mind ; all, all are 
 
 fled. 
 For though they basked in his meridian ray. 
 The insects vanish, as his beams decline. 
 Not such our friends ; for here no dark 
 
 design, 
 No wicked interest bribes the venal heart ; 
 But inclination to our bosom leads. 
 And weds them there for life ; our social cups 
 Smile, as we smile ; open and unreserved. 
 We speak our inmost souls ; good humour, 
 
 mirth. 
 Soft complaisance, and wit from malice free, 
 Smoothe every brow, and glow on every 
 
 cheek. 
 'O happiness sincere ! what wretch would 
 
 groan 
 Beneath the galling load of power, or walk 
 Upon the slippery pavements of the great. 
 Who thus could reign, unenvied and secure ? 
 Ye guardian powers who make mankind 
 
 your care. 
 Give me to know wise Nature's hidden 
 
 depths. 
 Trace each mysterious cause, with judgment 
 
 read 
 The expanded volume, and submiss adore 
 That great creative Will, who at a word 
 Spoke forth the wondrous scene. But if my 
 
 soul 
 To this gross clay confined, flutters on earth 
 With less ambitious wing ; unskilled to 
 
 range 
 From orb to orb, where Newton leads the 
 
 way; 
 And view, with piercing eyes, the grand 
 
 machine, 
 Worlds above worlds ; subservient to his 
 
 voice. 
 Who veiled in clouded majesty, alone 
 Gives light to all; bids the great system 
 
 move. 
 And changeful seasons in their turns advance. 
 Unmoved, unchanged himseK; yet this at 
 
 least 
 Grant me propitious, an inglorious life. 
 Calm and serene, nor lost in false pursuits 
 ■ Of wealth or honours ; but enough to raise 
 My drooping friends, preventing modest want 
 ' That dares not ask. And if to crown my 
 
 joys, 
 Yc grant me health, that, ruddy in my cheeks. 
 Blooms in my life's decline ; fields, woods, 
 
 and streams. 
 
 Each towering hill, each humble vale below, 
 Shall hear my cheering voice, my hounds shall 
 
 wake 
 The lazy morn, and glad the horizon round. 
 
 William Somcrville. — Born 1682, BiccL 1742. 
 
 8o8.— A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, 
 When midnight fairies danced the maze, 
 
 Lived Edwin of the Green ; 
 Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
 Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 
 
 Though badly shaped he'd been. 
 
 His mountain back mote well be said. 
 To measure height against his head. 
 
 And lift itself above : 
 Yet, spite of all that Nature did 
 To make his uncouth form forbid, 
 
 This creature dared to love. 
 
 He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. 
 Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 
 
 Could ladies look within : 
 But one sir Topaz dress' d with art. 
 And, if a shape could win a heart, 
 
 He had a shape to win. 
 
 Edwin, if right I read my song, 
 With slighted passion paced along 
 
 All in the moony light ; 
 'Twas near an old enchanted court. 
 Where sportive fairies made resort 
 
 To revel out the night. 
 
 His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 
 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost 
 
 That reach' d the neighbour-town ; 
 With weary steps he quits the shades. 
 Resolved, the darkling dome he treads, 
 
 And drops his limbs adown. 
 
 But scant he lays him on the floor, 
 When hollow winds remove the door. 
 
 And trembling rocks the ground : 
 And, well I ween to count aright, 
 At once a hundred tapers light 
 
 On all the walls around. 
 
 Now sounding tongues assail his ear. 
 Now sounding feet approached near, 
 
 And now the sounds increase : 
 And from the corner where he lay 
 Ho sees a train profusely gay, 
 
 Come prankling o'er the place. 
 
 But (trust me, gentles !) never yet 
 Was dight a masquing half so neat, 
 
 Or half so rich before ; 
 The country lent the sweet perfumes, 
 The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, 
 
 The town its silken store. og* 
 
Thomas Paknell.] A FAIRY TALE. [Fifth Period.-^ 
 
 Now whilst he gazed, a gallant drest 
 In flaunting robes above the rest, 
 
 With awful accent cried : 
 " What mortal of a wretched mind. 
 Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, 
 
 Has here presumed to hide ? " 
 
 Then screaming all at once they fly. 
 And all at once the tapers dye ; 
 
 Poor Edwin falls to floor ; 
 Forlorn his state, and dark the place, 
 Was never wight in such a case 
 
 Through all the land before. 
 
 At this the swain, whose venturous soul 
 No fears of magic art control. 
 
 Advanced in open sight : 
 " Nor have I cause of dreed," he said, 
 " Who view, by no presumption led, 
 
 Your revels of the night. 
 
 But soon as Dan Apollo rose. 
 Full jolly creature home he goes, 
 
 He feels his back the less ; 
 His honest tongue and steady mind 
 Had rid him of the lump behind. 
 
 Which made him want success. 
 
 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, 
 Which made my steps unweeting rove 
 
 Amid the nightly dew." 
 " 'Tis Avell," the gallant cries again, 
 " We fairies never injure men 
 
 Who dare to tell us true. 
 
 With lusty livelyhed he talks. 
 He seems a dauncing as he walks, 
 
 His story soon took -svind ; 
 And beauteous Edith sees the youth 
 Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 
 
 Without a bunch behind. 
 
 Exalt thy love-dejected heart, 
 
 Be mine the task, or ere we part, '' 
 
 To make thee grief resign ; 
 Now take the pleasure of thy cliaunce ; 
 Whilst I with Mab, my partner dauiice. 
 
 Be little Mable thine." 
 
 The story told, sir Topaz moved, 
 The youth of Edith erst approved. 
 
 To see the revel scene : 
 At close of eve he leaves his home, 
 And wends to find the ruin'd dome 
 
 All on the gloomy plain. 
 
 He spoke, and all a sudden there 
 Light music floats in wanton air ; 
 
 The monarch leads the queen : 
 The rest their fairy partners found : 
 And Mable trimly tript the ground 
 
 With Edwin of the Green. 
 
 As there he bides, it so befell. 
 
 The wind came rustling down a dell, | 
 
 A shaking seized the wall ; ^ 
 Up spring the taj^ers as before, !, 
 The fairies bragly foot the floor. 
 
 And music fills the hall. 
 
 The dauncing past, the board was laid. 
 And siker such a feast was made, 
 
 As heart and lip desire, 
 Withouten hands the dishes fly. 
 The glasses with a wish come nigh. 
 
 And with a wish retire. 
 
 But certes sorely sunk with woe 
 Sir Topaz sees the elphin show, 
 
 His spirits in him die : 
 When Oberon cries, " A man is near, 
 A mortal passion, cleoped fear. 
 
 Hangs flagging in the sky." 
 
 But now, to please the fairy king, 
 Full every deal they laugh and sing. 
 
 And antic feats devise ; 
 Some wind and tumble like an ape. 
 And other some transmute their shape 
 
 In Edwin's wondering eyes. 
 
 With that sir Topaz, hapless youth ! 
 In accents faultering, ay for ruth. 
 
 Entreats them pity graunt ; 
 For als he been a mister -wdght 
 Betray' d by wandering in the night 
 
 To tread the circled haunt ; 
 
 Till one at last, that Eobin hight, 
 Eenown'd for pinching maids by night, 
 
 Has bent him up aloof : 
 And full against the beam he flung, 
 Where by the back the youth he hung 
 
 To spraul unneath the roof. 
 
 " Ah, losel vile," at once they roar : 
 " And little skill'd of fairie lore. 
 
 Thy cause to come, we know : 
 Now has thy kestrel courage fell ; 
 And fairies, since a lye you tell, i 
 
 Are free to work thee woe." | 
 
 From thence, "Reverse my charm,',' he cries, 
 '• And let it fairly now suffice 
 
 The gambol has been shown." 
 But Oberon answers vnth. a smile : 
 " Content thee, Edwin, for a while. 
 
 The vantage is thine own." 
 
 Then Will, who bears the whispy fire 
 To trail the swains among the mire. 
 
 The caitiff upward flung ; 
 There, like a tortoise, in a shop 
 He dangled from the chamber-top. 
 
 Where whilome Edwin hung. 
 
 Here ended all the phantom-play ; 
 They smelt the fresh approach of day, 
 
 And heard a cock to crow ; 
 The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
 Has clapp'd the door, iind whistled loud, 
 
 To warn them all to go. 
 
 The revel now proceeds apace, 
 Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, 
 
 They sit, they drink, and eat ; 
 The time with frolic mirth beguile. 
 And poor sir Topaz hangs the while 
 
 Till all the rout retreat. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.1 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 [Thomas Parnell. 
 
 By this the stars began to wink, 
 
 They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, 
 And down y-drops the knight : 
 
 For never spell by fairie laid 
 
 With strong enchantment bound a glade, 
 Beyond the length of night. 
 
 ChiU, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, 
 Till up the welkin rose the day, 
 
 Then deem'd the dole was o'er ; 
 But wot ye well his harder lot ? 
 His seely back the bunch had got 
 
 Which Edwin lost afore. 
 
 This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ; 
 
 She softly stroak'd my youngling head, 
 
 And when the tale was done, 
 " Thus some are born, my son," she cries, 
 " With base impediments to rise, 
 
 And some are born with none. 
 
 " But virtue can itself advance 
 
 To what the favourite fools of chance 
 
 By fortune seem design'd ; 
 Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, 
 And from itself shake off the weight 
 
 Upon th' unworthy mind." 
 
 Thomas Parnell— Born 1G79, Died 1717. 
 
 809.— THE HERMIT. 
 
 Far in a wild, Tinknown to public view, 
 From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; 
 The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
 His food the fruits, his drink the crystal 
 
 well : 
 Remote from men, with God he pass'd the 
 
 days, 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
 Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion 
 
 rose ; 
 That Vice should triumph. Virtue, Vice obey. 
 This sprung some doubt of Providence's 
 
 sway : 
 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. 
 And all the tenour of his soul is lost : 
 So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
 Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 
 Down bend the banks,' the trees depending 
 
 grow, 
 And skies beneath with answering colours 
 
 glow : 
 But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
 Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. 
 And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun, 
 Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
 To clear this doubt, to know the world by 
 
 sight. 
 To find if books, or swains, report it right 
 (For yet by swains alone the world he knew. 
 Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly 
 
 dew), 
 
 He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, 
 And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
 Then with the Sun a rising journey went. 
 Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
 The morn was wasted in the pathless 
 
 grass, 
 And long and lonesome was the wild^to"pass ; 
 But when the southern Sun had warm'd the 
 
 day, 
 A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
 His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
 And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
 Then near approaching, " Father, hail ! " he 
 
 cried, 
 "And hail, my son," the reverend sire 
 
 replied ; 
 Words follow'd words, from question answer 
 
 flow'd, 
 And talk of vaiious kind deceived the road ; 
 Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, 
 While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
 Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
 Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
 
 Now sunk the Sun ; the closing hour of day 
 Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey ; 
 Nature in silence bid the world repose ; 
 When near the road a stately palace rose : 
 There by the Moon through ranks of trees 
 
 they pass, 
 Whose verdure crov\'n'd their sloping sides of 
 
 gi'ass. 
 It chanced the noble master of the dome 
 Still made his house the wandering stranger's 
 
 home: 
 Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
 Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
 The pair arrive : the Uvery'd servants wait ; 
 Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
 The table groans with costly piles of food. 
 And all is more than hospitably good. 
 Then led to rest, the day's long toil they 
 
 drown, 
 Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of 
 
 down. 
 At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, 
 Along the wide canals the zephyrs play : 
 Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
 And shake the neighbouring wood to banish 
 
 sleep. 
 Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
 An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall j 
 Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
 Which the kind master forced the guests to 
 
 taste. 
 Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch 
 
 they go ; 
 And, but the landlord, none had cause of 
 
 woe- 
 His cup was vanish' d ; for in secret guise 
 The younger guest purloin' d the glittering 
 
 prize. 
 As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
 Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
 Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near. 
 Then walks with faintness on, and looks with 
 
 fear ; 
 
Thomas Paenell.] 
 
 THE HEEMIT. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 So seem'd the sire ; when far upon the road, 
 The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
 He stopp'd with silence, walk' d with trembling 
 
 heart, 
 And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to 
 
 part : 
 Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 
 
 hard, 
 That generous actions meet a base reward. 
 While thus they pass, the Sun his glory 
 
 shrouds, 
 The changing skies hang out their sable 
 
 clouds ; 
 A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
 And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
 Wam'd by the signs, the wandering pair 
 
 retreat, 
 To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground. 
 And strong, and large, and unimproved 
 
 around ; 
 Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 
 Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
 As near the miser's heavy doors they 
 
 drew. 
 Fierce rising gusts Avith sudden fury blew ; 
 The nimble lightning mix'd with showers 
 
 began, 
 And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders 
 
 ran. 
 Here long they knock, but knock or call in 
 
 vain. 
 Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
 At length some pity warm'd the master's 
 
 breast 
 ('Twas then his threshold first received a 
 
 guest) ; 
 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. 
 And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 
 One frugal fagot lights the naked walls. 
 And Nature's fervour through their limbs 
 
 recalls : 
 Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, 
 (Each hardly granted) served them both to 
 
 dine; 
 And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
 A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
 With still remark the pondering hermit 
 
 view'd, 
 In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
 " And why should such," within himself he 
 
 cried, 
 " Lock the ' lost wealth a thousand want 
 
 beside ? " 
 But what new marks of wonder soon take 
 
 place 
 In every settling feature of his face ; 
 When from his vest the young companion 
 
 bore 
 That cup, the generous landlord own'd before. 
 And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
 The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. 
 
 But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
 The Sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
 A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
 And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
 
 The weather courts them from the poor 
 
 retreat, 
 And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 
 While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 
 
 wrought 
 With all the travel of uncertain thought ; 
 His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness 
 
 here : 
 Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
 Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
 Now Night's dim shades again involve the 
 
 sky, 
 Again the wanderers want a place to He, 
 Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
 The soil improved around, the mansion neat. 
 And neither poorly low, nor idly great : 
 It seem'd to speak its master's turn of 
 
 mind, 
 Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 
 Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 
 Then bless the mansion, and the master 
 
 greet : 
 Their greeting fair, bestow' d with modest 
 
 guise, 
 The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
 "Without a vain, without a grudging 
 
 heart. 
 To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
 From him you come, for him accept it here, 
 A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
 He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
 Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, 
 When the grave household round his hall 
 
 repair, 
 Wam'd by a bell, and close the hours with 
 
 prayer. 
 At length the world, renew'd by calm 
 
 repose. 
 Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose ; 
 Before the pilgi-ims part, the younger crept. 
 Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, 
 And writhed his neck : the landlord's little 
 
 pride, 
 O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, 
 
 and died. 
 Horrour of horrours ! what ! his only son ! 
 How look'd our hermit when the fact was 
 
 done ; 
 Not Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder 
 
 part, 
 And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 
 
 heart. 
 Confused, and struck with silence at the 
 
 deed, 
 He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with 
 
 speed. 
 His steps the youth pursues ; the country 
 
 lay 
 Perplex' d with roads, a servant show'd the 
 
 way : 
 A river cross' d the path ; the passage o'er 
 Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
 Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. 
 And deep the waves beneath the bending 
 
 glide. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 
 
 [Thomas Parnell. 
 
 The youth, who Beem'd to watch a time to 
 
 sin, 
 Approach' d the careless guide, and thrust 
 
 him in ; 
 Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, 
 Then flashing turns, and sinks among the 
 
 dead. 
 Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's 
 
 eyes, 
 He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
 "Detested wretch ! " — But scarce his speech 
 
 began, 
 When the strange partner seeni'd no longer 
 
 man : 
 His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
 His robe tum'd white, and flow'd upon his 
 
 feet; 
 Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
 Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
 And mngs, whose colours glitter' d on the 
 
 day, 
 Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
 The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
 And moves in all the majesty of light. 
 
 Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion 
 
 grew, 
 Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
 Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
 And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
 But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
 (The voice of music ravish' d as he spoke). 
 " Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice 
 
 unknown, 
 In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
 These charms, success in our bright region 
 
 find. 
 And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; 
 For this, commission' d, I forsook the sky, 
 Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow- servant I. 
 " Then know the truth of government 
 
 divine, 
 And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
 "The Maker justly claims that world he 
 
 made. 
 In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
 Its sacred majestj'- through all depends 
 On using second means to work his ends : 
 'Tis thus, withdra^vn in state from human 
 
 eye, 
 The power exerts his attributes on high, 
 Your action uses, nor controls your will, 
 And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
 " What strange events can strike with more 
 
 surprise. 
 Than those which lately struck thy wondering 
 
 eyes? 
 Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty 
 
 just. 
 And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 
 " The great, vain man, who fared on costly 
 
 food. 
 Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
 Who made his ivory stands with goblets 
 
 shine, 
 And forced his guests to morning draughts of 
 
 wine, 
 
 Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
 And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
 " The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted 
 
 door 
 Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor ; 
 With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
 That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be 
 
 kind. 
 Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 
 
 bowl. 
 And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
 Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 
 With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to 
 
 glow, 
 And loose from dross the silver runs below. 
 
 " Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
 But now the child haK-wean'd his heart from 
 
 God ; 
 (Child of his age) for him he lived in pain. 
 And measured back his steps to Earth again. 
 To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
 But God, to save the father, took the son. 
 To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
 (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow,) 
 The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
 Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
 
 " But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
 Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 
 This night his treasured heaps he meant to 
 
 steal. 
 And what a fund of charity wordd fail ! 
 Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial 
 
 o'er, 
 Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
 On sounding piuions here the youth with- 
 drew. 
 The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
 Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, 
 His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
 The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; 
 The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. 
 
 The bending hermit here a prayer begun 
 " Lord ! as in Heaven, on Earth thy will be 
 
 done : " 
 Then gladly turning sought his ancient 
 
 place. 
 And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 
 
 Thomas Farnell. — Born 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 8io.— HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind. 
 Sweet delight of human kind ! 
 Heavenly born, and bred on high. 
 To crown the favourites of the sky 
 With more of happiness below 
 Than victors in a triumph know ! 
 Whither, O whither art thou fled, 
 To lay thy meek contented head ; 
 "Wliat happy region dost thou please 
 To make the seat of calms and ease ! 
 
Thomas Pabnell.] SONG. [Fifth Period. — 
 
 Ambition searches all its sphere 
 
 They speak their Maker as they can, 
 
 Of pomp and state to meet thee there. 
 
 But want and ask the tongue of man. 
 
 Increasing avarice would find 
 
 
 Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
 
 Go search among your idle dreams. 
 
 The bold adventurer ploughs his way- 
 
 Your busy or your vain extremes ; 
 
 Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
 
 And find a life of equal bliss, 
 
 To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
 
 Or own the next begun in this. 
 
 Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
 
 Thomas FarncU.—Bom 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 The silent heart, which grief assaib. 
 
 
 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the va^cs, 
 Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
 
 
 
 And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
 
 
 Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
 
 8 II. —SONG. 
 
 That solitude 's the nurse of woe. 
 
 
 No real happiness is found 
 
 In trailing purple o'er the ground : 
 
 My days have been so wondrous free, 
 The little birds that fly 
 
 Or in a soul exalted high, 
 
 To range the circuit of the sky. 
 
 With careless ease from tree to tree, 
 Were but as bless' d as I. 
 
 Converse Avith stars above, and know 
 
 Ask gliding waters, if a tear 
 
 All nature in its forms below ; 
 
 Of mine increased their stream ? 
 
 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
 
 Or ask the flying gales, if e'er 
 I lent one sigh to them ? 
 
 And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace, appear. 
 
 But now my former days retire, 
 
 This world itself, if thou art here, 
 
 And I'm by beauty caught, 
 
 Is once again with Eden blest. 
 
 The tender chains of sweet desire 
 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 Are fix'd upon my thought. 
 
 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood. 
 
 Ye nightingales ! ye twisting pines ! 
 
 I sung my ^Adshes to the wood. 
 
 Ye swains that haiint the grove ! 
 
 And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
 
 Ye gentle echoes ! breezy winds ! 
 
 The branches whisper as they waved : 
 
 Ye close retreats of love ! 
 
 It seem'd as all the quiet place 
 
 
 Confess' d the presence of his grace. 
 
 With all of Nature, all of Art, 
 
 When thus she spoke — Go rule thy will. 
 
 Assist the dear design ; 
 
 Bid thy wild passions all be still. 
 
 Oh teach a young unpractised heart 
 
 Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
 
 To make my Nancy mine. 
 
 The joys which from religion flow : 
 Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
 And I'll be there to crown the rest. 
 
 The very thought of change I hate, 
 
 As much as of despair ; 
 Nor ever covet to be great. 
 
 Oh ! by yonder mossy seat. 
 
 Unless it be for her. 
 
 In my hours of sweet retreat, 
 
 'Tis true, the passion in my mind 
 
 Might I thus my soul employ, 
 
 Is mix'd with soft distress ; 
 
 "With sense of gratitude and joy ; 
 
 Yet while the fair I love is kind, 
 
 liaised as ancient prophets were, 
 
 I cannot wish it less. 
 
 In heavenly vision, praise and prayer, 
 Pleasing all men, hurting none. 
 
 ThoiHa.-i Parnell—Born 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 Pleased and bless' d with God alone : 
 
 
 Then while the gardens take my sight. 
 
 
 With all the colours of delight ; 
 
 
 While silver waters glide along, 
 
 
 To please my ear, and court my song : 
 
 8 1 2.— MORNING HYMN. 
 
 I'll lift my voice, and tune my string. 
 
 See the star that leads the day, 
 
 And thee, great Source of nature, sing. 
 
 Rising, shoots a golden ray, 
 
 
 To make the shades of darkness go 
 
 The sun that walks his airy way. 
 
 From heaven above and earth below ; 
 
 To light the world, and give the day ; 
 
 And warn us early, with the sight. 
 
 The moon that shines with borrow' d light ; 
 
 To leave the beds of silent night. 
 
 The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
 
 
 The seas that roll unnumber'd waves ; 
 
 From a heart sincere and sound, 
 
 The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
 
 From its very deepest ground, 
 
 The field whose ears conceal the grain, 
 
 Send devotion up on high. 
 
 The yellow treasure of the plain ; 
 
 Wing'd with heat, to reach the sky. 
 
 All of these, and all I see. 
 
 See the time for sleep has run ! 
 
 Should be sung, and sung by me : 
 
 Rise before or with tlie sun : 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 [Thomas Parnell. 
 
 Lift thy hands, and humbly pray 
 
 Tlie fountain of eternal day, — 
 
 That, as the light, serenely fair, 
 
 Illustrates all the tracts of air, 
 
 The sacred Spirit so may rest 
 
 With quick'nintr beams upon thy breast ; 
 
 And kindly clear it all within 
 
 From darker blemishes of sin ; 
 
 And shine with grace until we view 
 
 The realm it gilds with glory too. 
 
 See the day that dawiis in air, 
 Brings along its toil and care : 
 From the lap of night it springs, 
 With heaps of business on its wings. 
 Prepare to meet them in a mind 
 That bows submissively resign' d ; 
 That would to works appointed fall. 
 That knows that God has order' d all. 
 
 And whether 'svith a small repast 
 We break the sqbcr morning fast ; 
 Or in our thoughts and houses lay 
 The future methods of the day ; 
 Or early walk abroad to meet 
 Our business with industrious feet : — 
 Whate'er we think, whatc'er we do, 
 His glory still be kept in view. 
 
 Oh ! giver of eternal bliss, 
 
 Grant, heavenly Father ! gi-ant me this ! 
 
 Grant it to all, as well as me. 
 
 All those whose hearts are fix'd on thee, — 
 
 Who revere thy Son above, 
 
 Who thy sacred Spirit love. 
 
 Thomas rarnell—Born 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 813.— NOONTIDE HYMN. 
 
 The sun is swiftly mounted high, 
 It glitters in the southern sky ! 
 Its beams with force and glory beat, 
 And fruitful earth is fill'd mth heat. 
 
 Father ! also with thy fire 
 Warm the cold, the dead desire. 
 And make the sacred love of thee, 
 Within my soul, a sun to me ! 
 Let it shine so fairly bright. 
 That nothing else be took for light ; 
 That worldly charms be seen to fade, 
 And in its lustre find a shade ! 
 
 Let it strongly shine within, 
 To scatter all the clouds of sin. 
 That drive when gusts of passion rise, 
 And intercept it from our eyes ! 
 Let its glory more than vie 
 With the sun that lights the sky ! 
 
 Let it swiftly mount in air. 
 Mount with that, and leave it there ! 
 And soar, with more aspiring flight, 
 To realms of everlasting light ! 
 
 Thus while here I'm forced to be, 
 I daily wish to live with thee, 
 And feel that union, which thy love 
 Will, after death, complete above. 
 
 From my soul I send my prayer,— 
 Great Creator, boAV thine ear ! ~ ~ 
 Thou, for whose propitious sway 
 The world was taught to Bee the day ; 
 Who spake the word, and earth begun, 
 And show'd its beauties in the sun. 
 
 With pleasure I thy creatures view. 
 And would with good affection, too, 
 Good affection, sweetly free, 
 Loose from them and move to thee : 
 O ! teach me due returns to give. 
 And to thy glory let me live ! 
 And then my days shall shine the more, 
 Or pass more blessed than before. 
 
 Thomas Farncll—Born 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 814.— EVENING HYMN. 
 
 The beam-repelling mists arise. 
 And evening spreads obscurer skies. 
 The twilight will the night forerun, 
 And night itself be soon begun. 
 
 Upon thy knees devoutly bow, 
 And pray the God of glory now 
 To fill thy breast ; or deadly sin 
 May cause a blinder night within. 
 And, whether pleasing vapours rise, 
 WTiich gently dim the closing eyes, 
 Which make the weary members bless'd, 
 With sweet refreshment in their rest ; 
 
 Or whether spirits, in the brain, 
 Dispel their soft embrace again ; 
 And on my watchful bed I stay, 
 Forsook by sleep, and waiting day ; 
 Be God for ever in my view. 
 And never he forsake me too ! 
 
 But still, as day concludes in night. 
 To break again the new-born light, 
 His wondrous bounty let me find. 
 With still a more enlighten' d mind ; 
 When grace and love in one agree — 
 Grace from God, and love from me : 
 Grace that will from heaven inspire. 
 Love that seals it in desire ; 
 Gi'ace and love that mingle beams. 
 And fill me with increasing flames. 
 
 Thou that hast thy palace far 
 Above the moon and every star ; 
 Thou, that sittest on a throne 
 To which the night was never known, 
 Regard my voice, and make me bless'd. 
 By kindly granting its request ! 
 
Matthew Green.] 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 If thoughts on thoe my soul employ, 
 My darkness -will afford me joy, 
 Till thou shalt call, and I shall soar, 
 And part ^vith darkness evermore ! 
 
 Thomas Parnell.—Born 1679, Died 1717. 
 
 8 1 S .—CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Contentment, parent of delight, 
 
 So much a stranger to our sight, 
 
 Say, goddess, in what happy place 
 
 Mortals behold thy blooming face ; 
 
 Thy gracious auspices impart, 
 
 And for thy temple choose my heart. 
 
 They, whom thou deignest to inspire, 
 
 Thy science learn, to bound desire ; 
 
 By happy alchemy of mind 
 
 They turn to pleasure all they find ; 
 
 They both disdain in outward mien 
 
 The grave and solemn garb of Spleen, 
 
 And meretricious arts of dress, 
 
 To feign a joy, and hide distress ; 
 
 Unmoved when the rude tempest blows, 
 
 Without an opiate they repose ; 
 
 And, cover' d by your shield, defy 
 
 The whizzing shafts that round them fly : 
 
 Nor meddling with the gods' affairs. 
 
 Concern themselves with distant cares ; 
 
 But place their bliss in mental rest, 
 
 And feast upon the good possess'd. 
 
 Forced by soft violence of pray'r, 
 The blithsome goddess soothes my care, 
 I feel the deity inspire. 
 And thus she models my desire. 
 Two hundred poimds half-yearly paid. 
 Annuity securely made, 
 A farm some twenty miles from town, 
 Small, tight, salubrious, and my own ; 
 Two maids that never saw the tovra, 
 A serving-man not quite a clown, 
 A boy to help to tread the mow, 
 And drive, while t'other holds the plough ; 
 A chief, of temper form'd to please. 
 Fit to converse and keep the keys ; 
 And better to preserve the peace, 
 Commission'd by the name of niece ; 
 With understandings of a size 
 To think their master very wise. 
 May Heaven (it's all I wish for) send 
 One genial room to treat a friend, 
 Where decent cupboard, little plate. 
 Display benevolence, not state. 
 And may my humble dwelling stand 
 Upon some chosen spot of land : 
 A pond before full to the brim. 
 Where cows mayoool, and geese may swim; 
 Behind, a green, like velvet neat, 
 Soft to the eye and to the feet ; 
 Where od'rous plants in evening fair 
 Breathe all around ambrosial air ; 
 From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground, 
 Fenced by a slope with bushes crown'd, 
 
 Fit dwelling for the feather' d throng. 
 
 Who pay their quit-rents with a song ; 
 
 With op'ning views of hill and dale. 
 
 Which sense and fancy too regale, 
 
 Where the haK-cirque, which vision bounds, 
 
 Like amphitheatre surrounds : 
 
 And woods impervious to the breeze. 
 
 Thick phalanx of embodied trees, 
 
 From hills through plains in dusk array 
 
 Extended far, repel the day. 
 
 Here stillness, height, and solemn shade 
 
 Invite, and contemplation aid : 
 
 Here Nymphs from hollow oaks relate 
 
 The dark decrees and will of fate, 
 
 And dreams beneath the spreading beech 
 
 Inspire, and docile fancy teach ; 
 
 While soft as breezy breath of wind, 
 
 Impulses rustle through the mind : 
 
 Here Dryads, scorning Phoebus' ray, 
 
 While Pan melodious pipes away. 
 
 In measured motions frisk about. 
 
 Till old Silenus puts them out. 
 
 There see the clover, pea, and bean, 
 
 Vie in variety of gi'een ; 
 
 Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep, 
 
 Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep, 
 
 Plump Ceres golden tresses wear, 
 
 And poppy top-knots deck her hair. 
 
 And silver streams through meadows stray, 
 
 And Naiads on the margin play. 
 
 And lesser Nymphs on side of hills 
 
 From plaything urns pour down the rills. 
 
 Thus shelter'd, free from care and strife, 
 May I enjoy a calm through life ; 
 See faction, safe in low degree, 
 
 ! As men at land see storms at sea, 
 
 < And laugh at miserable elves, 
 
 i Not kind, so much as to themselves, 
 Cursed with such souls of base alloy, 
 As can possess, but not enjoy ; 
 
 i Debarr'd the pleasure to impart 
 By avarice, sphincter of the heart ; 
 Who wealth, ha.. I eam'd by guilty cares, 
 Bequeath untouch' d to thankless heirs. 
 May I, with look ungloom'd by guile. 
 And wearing virtue's liv'ry-smile. 
 Prone the distressed to relieve. 
 And little trespasses forgive. 
 With income not in fortune's power, 
 And skill to make a busy hour. 
 With trips to town life to amuse. 
 To purchase books, and hear tl e news. 
 To see old friends, brush off the clown. 
 And quicken taste at coming down, 
 Unhurt by sickness' blasting rage, 
 And slowly mellowing in age. 
 When Fate extends its gathering gripe. 
 Fall off like fnxit grown fully ripe, 
 Quit a worn being -without pain, 
 Perhaps to blossom soon again. 
 
 But now more serious see me grow, 
 And what I think, my Memmius, know. 
 
 Th' enthusiast's hope, and raptures wild. 
 Have never yet my reason foil'd. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 THE SEEKER. 
 
 [Matthew Gresn. 
 
 His springy soul dilates like air, 
 
 "When free from weight of ambient care, 
 
 And, hush'd in meditation deep, 
 
 Slides into dreams, as when asleep ; 
 
 Then, fond of new discoveries grown, 
 
 Proves a Columbus of her own, 
 
 Disdains the narrow bounds of place, 
 
 And through the wilds of endless space, 
 
 Borne up on metaphysic wings, 
 
 Chases light forms and shadowy things. 
 
 And, in the vague excursion caught, 
 
 Brings home some rare exotic thought. 
 
 The melancholy man such dreams. 
 
 As brightest evidence, esteems ; 
 
 Fain would he see some distant scene 
 
 Suggested by his restless Spleen, 
 
 And Fancy's telescope applies 
 
 With tinctured glass to cheat his eyes. 
 
 Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night, 
 
 I close examine by the light ; 
 
 For who, though bribed by gain to lie, 
 
 Dare sunbeam-written truths deny, 
 
 And execute plain common sense 
 
 On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? 
 
 That superstition mayn't create, 
 And club its ills with those of fate, 
 I many a notion take to task, 
 Made dreadful by its visor-mask. 
 Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, 
 Is cured, and certainty I find ; 
 Since optic reason shows me plain, 
 I dreaded spectres of the brain ; 
 And legendary fears are gone, 
 Though in tenacious childhood sown. 
 Thus in opinions I commence 
 Freeholder in the proper sense,' 
 And neither suit nor service do, 
 Nor homage to pretenders show, 
 "Who boast themselves by spurious roll 
 Lords of the manor of the soul ; 
 Preferring sense from chin that's bare, 
 To nonsense throned in whisker' d hair. 
 
 To thee, Creator uncreate, 
 
 O Entium Ens ! divinely great ! 
 
 Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try, 
 
 Nor near the blazing glory fly, 
 
 Nor straining break thy feeble bow, 
 
 Unfeather'd arrows far to throw ; 
 
 Through fields unknown nor madly stray, 
 
 Where no ideas mark the way. 
 
 With tender eyes, and colours faint. 
 
 And trembhng hands, forbear to paint. 
 
 Who, features veil'd by light, can hit? 
 
 Where can, what has no outline, fit ? 
 
 My soul, the vain attempt forego, 
 
 Thyself, the fitter subject know. 
 
 He wisely shuns the bold extreme. 
 
 Who soon lays by th' unequal theme, 
 
 Nor runs, with wisdom's sirens caught, 
 
 On quicksands swallowing shipwreck' d 
 
 thought ; 
 But conscious of his distance, gives, 
 Mute praise, and humble negatives.' 
 
 In one, no object of our sight. 
 
 Immutable, and infinite, 
 
 Who can't be cruel, or unjust, 
 
 Calm and resign' d, I fix my trust ; 
 
 To him my past and present state 
 
 I owe, and must my future fate. ^ 
 
 A stranger into life I'm come, 
 
 Dying may be our going home. 
 
 Transported here by angry Fate, 
 
 The convicts of a prior state. 
 
 Hence I no anxious thoughts bestow 
 
 On matters I can never know. 
 
 Through life's foul way, like vagrant, pass'd, 
 
 He'U grant a settlement at last ; 
 
 And with sweet ease the wearied cro^vn 
 
 By leave to lay his being down. 
 
 If doom'd to dance th' eternal round 
 
 Of life no sooner lost but found, 
 
 And dissolution soon to come. 
 
 Like sponge, wipes out life's present sura, 
 
 But can't our state of pow'r bereave 
 
 An endless series to receive ; 
 
 Then, if hard dealt with here by fate. 
 
 We balance in another state. 
 
 And consciousness must go along. 
 
 And sign th' acquittance for the wrong. 
 
 He for his creatures must decree 
 
 More happiness than misery, 
 
 Or be supposed to create, 
 
 Curious to try, what 'tis to hate : 
 
 And do an act, which rage infers, 
 
 'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs. 
 
 Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail 
 
 On even keel with gentle gale ; 
 
 At helm I make my reason sit, . 
 
 My crew of passions all submit. 
 
 If dark and blust'ring prove some nights. 
 
 Philosophy puts forth her lights ; 
 
 Experience holds the cautious glass. 
 
 To shun the breakers, as I pass, 
 
 And frequent throws the wary lead. 
 
 To see what dangers may be hid : 
 
 And once in seven years I'm seen 
 
 At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. 
 
 Though pleased to see the dolphins play, 
 
 I mind my compass and my way. 
 
 With store sufficient for relief. 
 
 And wisely still prepared to reef. 
 
 Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 
 
 Of cloudy weather in the soul, 
 
 1 make (may heaven propitious send 
 
 Such wind and weather to the end). 
 
 Neither becalm'd, nor overblown. 
 
 Life's voyage to the world unknown. 
 
 MaUheio Green.— Born 1696, Died 1737. 
 
 8i6.— THE SEEKEE. 
 
 When I first came to London, I rambled 
 
 about 
 From sermon to sermon, took a slice and 
 
 went out. 
 
Countess op Winchelsea.] A NOCTURNAL EEVEEIE. 
 
 [Fifth Period.- 
 
 Thon on me, in divinity bachelor, tried 
 Many priests to obtrude a Levitical bride ; 
 And urging their various opinions, intended 
 To make me wed systems which they recom- 
 mended. 
 
 Said a lech'rous old friar, skulking near 
 Lincoln's Inn 
 
 (Whose trade 's to absolve, but whose pas- 
 time 's to sin ; 
 
 Who, spider-like, seizes weak Protestant flies. 
 
 Which hung in his sophistry cobweb he 
 spies) : 
 
 " Ah ! pity your soul, for without our church 
 pale, 
 
 If you happen to die, to be damn'd you can't 
 fail; 
 
 The Bible you boast is a wild revelation : 
 
 Hear a church that can't err if you hope for 
 ■ salvation." 
 
 Said a formal non-con (whose rich stock of 
 grace 
 
 Lies forward exposed in shop- window of face) : 
 
 " Ah ! pity your soul : come, be of our sect ; 
 
 For then you are safe, and may plead you're 
 elect. 
 
 As it stands in the Acts, we can prove our- 
 selves saints, 
 
 Being Christ's little flock everj^Avhere spoke 
 against." 
 
 Said a jolly church parson (devoted to ease 
 While penal law dragons guard his golden 
 
 fleece) : 
 "If you pity your soul, I pray listen to 
 
 neither ; 
 The first is in error, the last a deceiver ; 
 That ours is the ti?ue church, the sense of our 
 
 tribe is, 
 And surely in medio tutissimus ibis." 
 
 Said a yea and nay friend with a stiff hat and 
 band 
 
 (Who, while he talk'd gravely, would hold 
 forth his hand) : 
 
 " Dominion and wealth are the aim of all 
 three, 
 
 Though about ways and means they may all 
 disagi'ee ; 
 
 Then, pr'ythee be wise, go the quakers' by- 
 way, 
 
 'Tis plain, without turnpikes ; so nothing to 
 pay." 
 
 ]\Io.tthcw Green.— Born 1G96, Died 1737. 
 
 In such a night, when passing clouds give 
 place, 
 
 Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face ; 
 
 When in some river overhung with green. 
 
 The waving moon and trembling leaves are 
 seen ; 
 
 When freshened grass now bears itself up- 
 right. 
 
 And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite. 
 
 Whence springs the Avoodbine, and the 
 bramble rose. 
 
 And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows ; 
 
 Wlailst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, 
 
 Yet chequers stiU with red the dusky 
 
 817.— A NOCTUENAL EEVEEIE. 
 
 In such a night, when every louder wind 
 Is to its distant cavern safe confined, 
 And only gentle zephyr fans his wings, 
 And lonely Philomel still waking sings ; 
 Or from some tree, famed for the owl's 
 
 delight, 
 She, holloaing clear, dii-ccts the wanderer right : 
 
 When scattered glowworms, but in twilight 
 
 fine. 
 Show trivial beauties watch their hour to 
 
 shine ; 
 Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every 
 
 light, 
 In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright : 
 When odours which declined repelling da^'^, 
 Thi-ough temperate air uninterrupted stray ; 
 When darkened groves their softest shadows 
 
 wear, 
 And falling waters we distinctly hear ; 
 Wlien through the gloom more venerable 
 
 shows 
 Some ancient fabric, awful in repose ; 
 While sunburnt hills their swarthj'' looks 
 
 conceal. 
 And swelling haycpcks thicken up the vale : 
 When the loosed horse now, as his pasture 
 
 leads, 
 Comes slowly grazing tln^ough the adjoining 
 
 meads, 
 Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we 
 
 fear. 
 Till torn-ui) forage in his teeth we hear ; 
 "Wlien nibbling sheep at large pursue their 
 
 food, 
 And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; 
 When curlews cvy beneath the village walls. 
 And to her straggling brood the partridge 
 
 calls ; 
 Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep, 
 Which but endures whilst tyrant man does 
 
 sleep ; 
 When a sedate content the spirit feels. 
 And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; 
 But silent musings urge the mind to seek 
 Something too high for syllables to speak ; 
 Till the free soul to a composedness charmed. 
 Finding the elements of rage disarmed, 
 O'er aU below a solemn quiet grown, 
 Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like 
 
 her own : 
 In such a night let me abroad remain. 
 Till morning breaks, and all's confused again ; 
 Our cares, our toils, our clamours are re- 
 newed, 
 Or pleasures seldom reached again pursued. 
 
 Anne, Countess of Wiiiclielsca, Born , 
 
 Died 1720. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 [Btshop Ken. 
 
 i 
 
 8 1 8.— LIFE'S PROGEESS. 
 
 How gaily is at first begun 
 
 Our life's uncertain race ! 
 Wliilst yet that sprightly morning sun, 
 With which wo just set out to run, 
 
 Enlightens aU the place. 
 
 How smiling the world's prospect lies, 
 
 How tempting to go through ! 
 Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, 
 From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise. 
 
 Did more inviting show. 
 
 How soft the first ideas prove 
 
 Which wander through our minds ! 
 How full the joys, how free the love. 
 Which does that early season move. 
 As flowers the western winds ! 
 
 Our sighs are then but vernal air. 
 
 But April drops our tears, 
 Wliich swiftly passing, all grows fair. 
 Whilst beauty compensates our care, 
 
 And youth each vapour clears. 
 
 But oh ! too soon, alas ! we climb. 
 
 Scarce feehng v/e ascend, 
 The gently-rising hill of Time, 
 From whence with grief we see that prime 
 
 And all its sweetness end. 
 
 The die now cast, our station known. 
 
 Fond expectation past : 
 The thorns wliich former days had sown, 
 To crops of late repentance grown, 
 
 Through which we toil at last. 
 
 Whilst Qxcvy care 's a dri\dng harm, 
 
 That helps to bear us down ; 
 Which faded smiles no more can charm, 
 But every tear 's a winter storm, 
 
 And every look 's a frown. 
 
 Anne, Couiitess of Wincltelsea. — Born , 
 
 Died 1720. 
 
 819.— MORNING HYMN. 
 
 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
 Thy daily course of duty run ; 
 Shake off dull sloth, and joy fid rise 
 To pay thy morning sacrifice. 
 
 Thy precious time misspent redeem ; 
 Each precious day thy last esteem ; 
 Improve thy talent AAT.th due care, 
 For the great day thyself prepare. 
 
 In conversation be sincere, 
 Keep conscience as the noontide clear : 
 Think how all-seeing God thy ways 
 And all thy secret thoughts surveys. 
 
 * 
 By influence of the light divine, 
 Let thy own light to others shine ; 
 Reflect all heaven's propitious rays 
 In ardent love and cheerful praise. 
 
 Wake, and lift thyself, my heart, 
 And with the angels bear thj' iiiirt, 
 Who all night long unwearied sing 
 High praises to the eternal King. 
 
 I wake I I wake ! — ye heavenly choir, 
 May j^our devotion me inspire, ~ 
 
 That I like j'ou my age may spend, 
 Like you may on my God attend. 
 
 May I like you in God delight, 
 Have all day long my God in sight ; 
 Perform, like j'ou, my Maker's will — 
 Oh, may I never more do ill I 
 
 Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly ; 
 But God shall that defect suppl}^, 
 And my soul, wing'd with warm desire, 
 Shall aU day long to heaven aspire. 
 
 All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
 And hast refresh' d me whilst I slept ; 
 Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, 
 I may of endless light partake. 
 
 I would not wake, nor rise again. 
 Even heaven itself I would disdain, 
 Wert not Thou there to be enjoy 'd. 
 And I in hymns to be employ'd. 
 
 Bishop Ken.— Born 1637, Died 1711. 
 
 820.— EVENING HYMN. 
 
 All praise to Thee, my God, this night, 
 For all the blessings of the light : 
 Keep me, oh, keep me, King of kings. 
 Beneath Thy own Almighty wings ! 
 
 Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
 The ill that I this day have done ; 
 That mth the world, myself, and Thee, 
 I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 
 
 Teach me to live, that I may dread 
 The grave as little as my bed ; 
 To die, that this vile body may 
 Rise glorious at the judgment-day. 
 
 Oh ! may my soul on Thee repose, 
 And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close — 
 Sleep, that may me more vigorous make, 
 To serve my God when I awake. 
 
 When in the night I sleepless lie, 
 My soul with heavenly thoughts supply ; 
 Let no ill dreams disturb my rest. 
 No powers of darkness me molest. 
 
 Dull sleep ! — of sense me to deprive ; 
 I am but half my time alive ; 
 Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved 
 To lie so long of Thee bereaved. 
 
Bishop Ken.] 
 
 MIDNIGHT HYMN. 
 
 Fifth Period. 
 
 But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, 
 Let it not hold me long in chains ; 
 And now and then let loose my heart, 
 Till it a hallelujah dart. 
 
 The faster sleep the senses binds, 
 The more unfetter' d are our minds ; 
 Oh, may my soul, from matter free, 
 Thy loveliness unclouded see ! 
 
 Oh ! when shall I, in endless day, 
 For ever chase dark sleep away ; 
 And hymns with the supernal choir 
 Incessant sing, and never tire ? 
 
 Oh, may my guardian, while I sleep, 
 Close to my bed his vigils keep ; 
 His love angelical instil, 
 Stop all the avenues of ill. 
 
 Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art ; 
 Oh, never, then, from me depart ; 
 For to my soul 'tis hell to be 
 But for one moment void of Thee. 
 
 Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; 
 Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
 Guard my first springs of thought and will. 
 And with Thyself my spirit fiU. 
 
 Direct, control, suggest, this day, 
 
 All I design, or do, or say ; 
 
 That all my powers, with all their might, 
 
 In Thy sole glory may unite. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise Him all creatures here below ; 
 Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 Bislwjo Ken.— Born 1637, Died 1711. 
 
 821.— MIDNIGHT HYMN. 
 
 My God, now I from sleep awake, 
 
 The sole possession of me take ; 
 
 From midnight terrors me secure. 
 
 And guard my heart from thoughts impure. 
 
 Blest angels ! while we silent lie, 
 You hallelujahs sing on high ; 
 You joyful hymn the Ever-blest 
 Before the throne, and never rest. 
 
 I with your choir celestial join 
 In offering up a hymn divine : 
 With you in heaven I hope to dwell, 
 And bid the night and world farev/ell. 
 
 My soul, when I shake off this dust. 
 Lord, in Thy arms I will intrust : 
 Oh, make me Thy peculiar care, 
 Some mansion for my soul prepare. 
 
 Give me a place at Thy saints' feet, 
 Or some fallen angel's vacant seat : 
 I'll strive to sing as loud as they 
 Wlio sit above in brighter day. 
 
 Oh, may I always ready stand 
 With my lamp burning in my hand ; 
 May I in sight of heaven rejoice, 
 ^Vhene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice. 
 
 All praise to Thee in light array' d, 
 Wlio light Thy dweUing-place hast made ; 
 A boundless ocean of bright beams 
 From Thy all-glorious Godhead streams. 
 
 The sun, in its meridian height. 
 
 Is very darkness in Thy sight : 
 
 My soul, oh, lighten and inflame 
 
 With thought and love of Thy great name ! 
 
 Blest Jesu ! Thou, on heaven intent. 
 Whole nights hast in devotion spent ; 
 But I, frail creature, soon am tired. 
 And aU my zeal is soon expired. 
 
 My soul ! how canst thou weary grow 
 Of antedating bliss below. 
 In sacred hymns and hea,venly love, 
 Which will eternal be above ? 
 
 Shine on me. Lord ; new life impart ; 
 Fresh ardours kindle in my heart : 
 One ray of Thy all- quickening light 
 Dispels the sloth and clouds of night ! 
 
 Lord, lest the tempter me surprise, 
 Watch over Thine own sacriflce ; 
 All loose, all idle thoughts cast out. 
 And make my very dreams devout. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise Him all creatures here below ; 
 Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 Bislio]p Ken.— Born 1637, Died 1711. 
 
 822.— THE BIETH OF CHRIST. 
 
 While shepherds watch'd their flocks by 
 night, 
 
 All seated on the ground, 
 The angel of the Lord came down, 
 
 And glory shone around. 
 
 " Fear not," said he (for mighty dread 
 Had seized their troubled mind) ; 
 
 " Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
 To you and all mankind. 
 
 To you, in David's town, this day, 
 
 Is born of David's line 
 The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord j 
 
 And this shall be the sign : 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOE. [Allan Bamsay. 
 
 The heavenly Babe you there shall find 
 
 To human view display'd, 
 All meanly wrapp'd in swathing bands, 
 • And in a manger laid." 
 
 Thus spake the seraph ; and forthwith 
 
 Appear' d a shining throng 
 Of angels, praising God, and thus 
 
 Address' d their joyful song : — 
 
 " All glory be to God on high, 
 ! And to the earth be peace ; * 
 
 Goodwill henceforth from Heaven to men 
 Begin, and never cease ! " 
 
 Nahum Tate.— Born 1652, Died 1715. 
 
 823.— FEOM PSALM CIV. 
 
 Bless God, my soul ! — Thou, Lord, alone 
 Possessest empire without bounds ; 
 
 With honour Thou art crown' d. Thy throne 
 Eternal majesty surrounds. 
 
 With light Thou dost Thyself enrobe. 
 
 And glory for a garment take ; 
 Heaven's curtains stretch beyond the globe, 
 
 Thy canopy of state to make. 
 
 God builds on liquid air, and forms 
 His palace-chambers in the skies ; 
 
 The clouds His chariot are, and storms 
 
 The swift-wing' d steeds with which He flies. 
 
 As bright as flame, as swift as wind, 
 His ministers heaven's palace fill ; 
 
 All have their sundry tasks assign'd. 
 
 All proud to serve their Sovereign's will. 
 
 The various troops of sea and land 
 In sense of common want agree ; 
 
 AH wait on Thy dispensing hand, 
 
 And have their daily alms from Thee. 
 
 They gather what Thy stores disperse, 
 Without their trouble to provide : 
 
 Thou open'st Thine hand, the universe. 
 The craving world, is all supplied. 
 
 Thou for a moment hidest Thy face — 
 The numerous ranks of creatures mourn ; 
 
 Thou takest their breath — all nature's race 
 Forthwith to mother Earth return. 
 
 Again Thou send'st Thy spirit forth 
 To inspire the mass with vital seed — 
 
 Nature's restored, and parent Earth 
 Smiles on her new-created breed. 
 
 Thus through successive ages stands. 
 Firm fix'd. Thy providential care ; 
 
 Pleased with the work of Thy own hands. 
 Thou dost the wastes of time repair. 
 
 Nahum Tate.— Bom 1652, Died 1715. 
 
 824.— SONG. 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, 
 Where heartsome with thee I have mony a 
 
 day been : 
 To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more. 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber nojuorg. 
 These tears that I shed they are a' for my 
 
 dear, 
 And not for the dangers attending on weir ; 
 Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody 
 
 shore, 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no more ! 
 
 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind. 
 No tempest can equal the storm in my mind : 
 Though loudest of thunders on louder waves 
 
 roar. 
 That's naething like leaving my love on the 
 
 shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair 
 
 pain'd, 
 But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be 
 
 gain'd : 
 And beauty and love 's the reward of the 
 
 brave ; 
 And I maun deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my 
 
 excuse. 
 Since honour commands me, how can I 
 
 refuse ? 
 Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee ; 
 And losing thy favotir I'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame. 
 And, if I should chance to come glorious 
 
 hame, 
 I'll bring a heart to thee with love running 
 
 o'er. 
 And then I'U leave thee and Lochaber no 
 
 more. 
 
 Allan Ramsay.— Born 1686, Died 1757. 
 
 825. 
 
 -THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER 
 THE MOOR. 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor, 
 
 I left my love behind me ; 
 Ye powers ! what pain do I endure, 
 
 When soft ideas mind me ! 
 Soon as the ruddy morn display'd 
 
 The beaming day ensuing, 
 I met betimes my lovely maid, 
 
 In fit retreats for wooing. 
 
 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, 
 Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
 
 We kiss'd and promised time away, 
 Tin night spread her black curtain. 
 
Allan Kamsay.] 
 
 ODE FEOM HOEACE. 
 
 [Fifth Period. — 
 
 I pitied all beneath the skies, 
 
 E'en kings, when she was nigh me ; 
 
 In raptures I beheld her eyes. 
 Which could but ill deny me. 
 
 Should I be call'd where cannons roar, 
 
 Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
 Or cast upon some foi-eign shore, 
 
 Where dangers may surround mo ; 
 Yet hopes again to see my love, 
 
 To feast on glowing kisses, 
 Shall make my cares at distance move, 
 
 In prospect of such blisses. 
 
 In all my soul there 's not one place 
 
 To let a rival enter ; 
 Since she excels in every grace, 
 
 In her my love shall centre. 
 Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. 
 
 Their waves the Alps shall cover. 
 On Greenland ice shall roses grow. 
 
 Before I cease to love her. 
 
 The next time I go o'er the moor. 
 
 She shall a lover find me ; 
 And that my faith is firm and pure, 
 
 Though I left her behind me : 
 Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 
 
 My heart to her fair bosom ; 
 There, while my being does remain. 
 
 My love more fresh shall blossom. 
 
 Allan Ramsay. -^Born 1686, Died 1757. 
 
 826.— ODE FROM HOEACE. 
 
 Look up to Pentland's towering tap, 
 Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, 
 
 O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scaur, and slap. 
 As high as ony Roman wa'. 
 
 Driving their ba's frae whins or tee. 
 There's no ae gowfer to be seen, 
 
 Nor douser fowk wysing ajee 
 
 The blast bonis on Tamson's green. 
 
 Then fling, on coals, and ripe the ribs, 
 And beek the house baith but 'and ben ; 
 
 That mutchkin stoup it bauds but dribs, 
 Then let's get in the tappit hen. 
 
 Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
 And drives away the winter soon ; 
 
 It makes a man baith gash and bauld. 
 And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 
 
 Leave to the gods your ilka care, 
 
 If that they think us worth their while : 
 
 They can a rowth of blessings spare, 
 Which will our fashions fears beguile. 
 
 For what they have a mind to do. 
 
 That will they do, should we gang wud 
 
 If they command the storms to blaw. 
 Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. 
 
 But soon as e'er they cry, "' Be quiet," 
 The blattering winds dare nae mair move. 
 
 But cour into their caves, and wait 
 The high command of supreme Jove. 
 
 Let neist day come as it thinks fit. 
 The present minute 's only ours ; 
 
 On pleasure let's employ our wit. 
 
 And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy when ye are young. 
 Before auld age your vitals nip. 
 
 And lay yc twafald o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth 's a blythe and heartsome time ; 
 
 Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, 
 Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 
 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 
 Watch the saft minutes of delight. 
 
 When Jenny speaks beneath her breath ; 
 
 And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
 On you, if she kep ony skaith. 
 
 " Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say ; 
 
 " Ye'll worry me, you greedy rook ; " 
 Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, 
 
 And liide hersell in some dark nook. 
 
 Her laugh will lead you to the place, 
 I Where lies the happiness you want,. 
 And plainly tells you to your face. 
 Nineteen naysays are half a grant. 
 
 Now to her heaving bosom cling. 
 
 And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
 Frae her fair finger whup a ring. 
 
 As token of a future bliss. 
 
 These benisons, I'm very sure, 
 Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 
 
 Then surly carles, whisht, forbear 
 
 To plague us with your whining cant. 
 
 Allan Ramsay.— Born 16SG, Died 1757. 
 
 827.— SONG. 
 
 Pursuing beauty, men descry 
 
 The distant shore, and long to prove 
 Still richer in variety 
 
 The treasures of the land of love. 
 
 We women, like weak Indians, stand 
 Inviting from our golden coast 
 
 The wand' ring rovers to our land : 
 But she who trades with them is lost. 
 
 With humble vows they first begin, 
 Stealing unseen into the heart ; 
 
 But by possession settled in. 
 They quickly play another part. 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. [Nicholas Rowe. 
 
 For beads and baubles we resign, 
 
 If while my hard fate I sustain. 
 
 In ignorance, our shining store ; 
 
 In her breast any pity is found, 
 
 Discover nature's richest mine, 
 
 Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, 
 
 Ani yet the tyrants wdll have more. 
 
 And see me laid low in the ground : 
 
 
 The last humble boon that I crave,_ _ 
 
 Be wise, be wise, and do not try 
 
 Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; 
 
 How he can court, or you be won ; 
 
 And when she looks down on my grave. 
 
 For love is but discovery : 
 
 Let her own that her shepherd was true. 
 
 When that is made, the pleasure 's done. 
 
 
 
 Then to her new Iqve let her go. 
 
 Thomas Southerne. — Born 1659, Died 1746. 
 
 And deck her in golden array ; 
 
 
 Be finest at every fine show. 
 
 - 
 
 And frolic it all the long day : 
 
 
 While Colin, forgotten and gone. 
 
 
 
 No more shall be talk'd of or seen. 
 
 
 Unless Avhen, beneath the pale moon, 
 
 828.— COLIN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 His ghost shall glide over the green. 
 
 ' Despairing beside a clear stream. 
 
 Nicholas Roive.— Born 1673, Died 1718. 
 
 ; A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 
 
 
 ; And while a false nymph was his theme, 
 
 
 A willow supported his head. 
 The wind that blew over the plain, 
 
 
 
 To his sighs with a sigh did reply ; 
 
 
 And the brook, in return to his pain. 
 
 829.— THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. 
 
 Ran mournfully murmuring by. 
 
 
 
 As on a summer's day 
 
 Alas ! sillj'- swain that I was ! 
 
 Thus sadly complaining he cried ; 
 When first I beheld that fair face, 
 
 In the greenwood shade I lay, 
 The maid that I loved, 
 As her fancy moved. 
 
 'Twere better by far I had died : 
 
 Came walking forth that way. 
 
 She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue ; 
 When she smiled, 'twas a pleasure too 
 great ; 
 ^m I listen' d, and cried when she sung, 
 ^B Was nightingale ever so sweet ? 
 
 And as she pass'd by 
 With a scornful glance of her eye, 
 
 " What a shame," quoth she, 
 " For a swain must it be, 
 Lilce a lazy loon for to die ! 
 
 How foolish was I to believe 
 
 " And dost thou nothing heed 
 
 She could dote on so lowly a clown, 
 
 W^hat Pan our God has decreed ; 
 
 Or that her fond heart would not grieve 
 
 What a prize to-day 
 Shall be given away 
 To the sweetest shepherd's reed ! 
 
 To forsake the fine folk of the town ; 
 To think that a beauty so gay 
 
 So kind and so constant would prove, 
 
 
 Oi; go clad, like our maidens, in grey, 
 
 *' There's not a single swain 
 
 Or live in a cottage on love ! 
 
 Of all this fruitful plain. 
 
 
 But with holies and fears 
 
 AVhat though I have skill to complain, 
 
 Now busily prepares 
 
 Though the muses my temples have 
 
 The bonny boon to gain. 
 
 crown'd ; 
 
 
 What though, when they hear my soft 
 
 " Shall another maiden shine 
 
 \ strain, 
 
 In brighter array than thine ? 
 
 The virgins sit weeping around ? 
 
 Up, up, duU swain, 
 
 Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain, 
 
 Tune thy pipe once again. 
 
 Thy pipe and thy laurel resign. 
 
 And make the garland mine." 
 
 Thy false one inclines to a swain 
 
 
 Whose music is sweeter than thine. 
 
 " Alas ! my love," he cried, 
 
 
 " What avails this courtly pride ? 
 
 All you, my companions so dear. 
 
 Since thy dear desert 
 
 Who sorrow to see me betray'd, 
 
 Is written in my heart 
 
 Whatever I suffer, forbear. 
 
 What is all the world beside ? 
 
 Forbear to accuse the false maid. 
 
 
 Though through the wide world I should 
 
 " To me thou art more gay, 
 
 range, 
 
 In this homely russet grey. 
 
 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ; 
 
 Than the nymphs of our greeU; 
 
 Twas hers to be false and to change. 
 
 So trim and so sheen ; 
 
 lis mine to be constant and die. 
 |-~ ■ • 
 
 Or the brightest queen of May. 
 
Nicholas Eowe.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Fifth Period. 
 
 " What though my fortune frown, 
 And deny thee a silken gown ; 
 My own dear maid, 
 Be content with this shade, 
 And a shepherd all thy own." 
 
 Nicliolas Rou-e.—Bom 1673, IHed 1718. 
 
 830.— SONG. 
 
 To the brook and the willow that heard him 
 complain, 
 Ah wiUow, willow, 
 Poor Colin sat weeping, and told them his 
 pain; 
 Ah willow, willow ; ah willow, willow. 
 
 Sweet stream, he cried sadly, I'll teach thee 
 to flow. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 And the waters shall rise to the brink with 
 my woe. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 All restless and painful poor Amoret lies, 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 And counts the sad moments of time as it 
 flies. 
 
 Ah wiUow, &c. 
 
 To the nymph my heart loves, ye soft slumbers 
 repair ; 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make 
 her your care. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 Dear brook, were thy chance near her pillow 
 to creep. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 Perhaps thy soft murmurs might lull her to 
 sleep. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 Let me be kept waking, my eyes never close, 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 So the sleep that I lose brings my fair one 
 repose. 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 But if I am doomed to be wretched indeed ; 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 If the loss of my dear one, my love is de- 
 creed ; 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 If no more my sad heart by those eyes shall 
 be cheered ; 
 Ah wiDow, &c. 
 If the voice of my warbler no more shall be 
 heard ; 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 Believe me, thou fair one ; thou dear one 
 believe, 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will 
 I give. 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 One fate to thy Colin and thee shall be tied. 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 And soon lay the cold shepherd close by thy 
 cold side. 
 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 
 Then run, gentle brook ; and to lose thyself, 
 haste ; 
 Ah willow, &c. 
 Fade thou too, my willow, this verse is my 
 last ; 
 Ah willow, willow ; ah willow, willow. 
 
 Nicholas Eowe.— Born 1673, Bled 1718. 
 
 831.— FROM FATAL CURIOSITY. 
 
 Who should this stranger be ? And then 
 
 this casket — 
 He says it is of value, and yet trusts it. 
 As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand — 
 His confidence amazes me — Perhaps 
 It is not what he says — I'm strongly tempted 
 To open it, and see — ^No, let it rest. 
 Why should my curiosity excite me 
 To search and pry into th' affairs of others, 
 Who have t' employ my thoughts, so many 
 
 cares 
 And sorrows of my own ? — With how much 
 
 ease 
 The spring gives way ! Surprising ! most 
 
 prodigious ! 
 My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart 
 Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's 
 
 the lustre, 
 How immense the worth of these fair jewels ! 
 Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever 
 Base poverty, and all its abject train ; 
 The mean devices we're reduced to use 
 To keep out famine, and preserve our lives 
 From day to da,y ; the cold neglect of friends ; 
 The galling scorn, or more provoking pity 
 
 Of an insulting world Possessed of these, 
 
 Plenty, content, and power, might take their 
 
 turn. 
 And lofty pride bare its aspiring head 
 At our approach, and once more bend before 
 
 us. 
 — A pleasing dream ! 'Tis past ; and now I 
 
 wake 
 More wretched by the happiness I've lost ; 
 For sure it was a happiness to think. 
 Though but a moment, such a treasure 
 
 mine. 
 Nay, it was more than thought — I saw and 
 
 touched 
 
From 1689 to 1727.] 
 
 AN ODE TO JOHN LOED GOWEE. 
 
 [Elijah Fenton. 
 
 The bright temptation, and I see it yet 
 
 'Tis here — 'tis mine — I have it in posses- 
 sion 
 
 Must I resig-n it ? ]\Iust I give it back ? 
 
 Am I in love with misery and want ? 
 
 To rob myseK, and court so vast a loss ?— — 
 
 Eetain it then But how ? there is a 
 
 way 
 
 Why sinks my heart ? Why does my blood 
 
 run cold ? 
 Why am I thrilled with horror ? 'Tis not 
 
 choice, 
 But dire necessity suggests the thought. 
 
 Georje Lillo.—Born 1693, Died 1743. 
 
 832.— VEESES. 
 
 Why, Damon, with the forward day. 
 Dost thou thy little spot survey, 
 Erom tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 
 Pursue the progress of the year, 
 
 What winds arise, what rains descend. 
 When thou before that year shalt end ? 
 
 What do thy noon-tide walks avail. 
 
 To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
 
 Tlien wantonly to death decree 
 
 An insect usefullor than thee ? 
 
 Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 
 As low, as earthy, and as blind. 
 
 Vain wretch I canst thou expect to see 
 The downy peach make court to tliee ? 
 Or that thy sense shall ever meet 
 Tlie bean-flower's deep-embosom' d sweet, 
 
 Exhaling with an evening blast ? 
 
 Thy evenings then will all be past. 
 
 Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, 
 (For vanity's in little seen) 
 All must be left when Death appears, 
 In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
 Nor one of all thy plants that grow, 
 But rosemary will with thee go. 
 
 Dr. Geo. Seivell.—Bied 1726. 
 
 833.— FABLE, EELATED BY A BEAU 
 TO ESOP. 
 
 A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, 
 Attacked a lady's heart together. 
 The Band, in a most learned plea. 
 Made up of deep philosophy. 
 Told her, if she would please to wed 
 A reverend board, and take instead 
 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 
 Old solemn truth, 
 With books and morals, into bed. 
 
 How happy she would be. 
 
 The Bob, he talked of management, 
 What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
 On care, and pains, and industry ; 
 And truly ho must be so free 
 To own he thought your airy beaux. 
 With powdered wigs, and dancing-shoes, 
 Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
 But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 
 
 He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirtli, 
 
 And that to be the dearest wife 
 
 Of one, who laboured all his life 
 
 To make a mine of gold his own. 
 
 And not spend sixpence when he'd done, 
 
 Was heaven upon earth. 
 
 When these two blades had done, d'ye 
 
 see. 
 The Feather (as it might be me) 
 Steps out, sir, from behind the skreen, 
 With such an air and such a mien — 
 Look you, old gentleman, — in short 
 He quickly spoiled the statesman's sport. 
 
 It proved such sunshine weather 
 That you must know, at the first beck 
 The lady leaped about his neck, 
 
 And off they went together. 
 
 Sir John ranhrugJi.—Bom 1666, Died 1726. 
 
 834-' 
 
 -AN ODE TO THE EIGHT HON. 
 JOHN LOED GOWEE. 
 
 O'er winter's long inclement sway, 
 
 At length the lusty Spring prevails ; 
 And swift to meet the smiling May, 
 
 Is wafted by the western gales. 
 Around him dance the rosy Hours, 
 And damasking the ground with flovv^ers, 
 
 With ambient sweets perfume the mom ; 
 With shadowy verdure flourish' d high, 
 A sudden youth the groves enjoy ; 
 
 Where Philomel laments forlorn. 
 
 By her awaked, the woodland choir 
 
 To hail the coming god prepares ; 
 And tempts me to resume the lyre. 
 
 Soft warbling to the vernal airs. 
 Yet once more, O ye Muses ! deign 
 For me, the meanest of your train, 
 
 Unblamed t' approach your blest retreat : 
 Wbere Horace wantons at your spring, 
 And Pindar sweeps a bolder string ; 
 
 Whose notes th' Aonian hiUs repeat. 
 
 Or if invoked, where Thames' s fruitful tides. 
 Slow through the vale in silver volumes 
 play; 
 Now your own Phcebus o'er the month 
 presides, 
 Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the 
 day; 3.^ 
 
Edward Ward.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Fifth Peuiod.- 
 
 Tliither, indulgent to my prayer, 
 
 Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair 
 
 To swell the notes I feebly raise : 
 So with aspiring ardours warm'd 
 May Gower's propitious ear be charm' d 
 
 To listen to my lays. 
 
 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, 
 
 Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede 
 To dint of sword defies the foe ; 
 
 In fight unknowing to recede : 
 From Volga's banks, th' imperious Czar 
 Leads forth his furry troops to war ; 
 
 Fond of the softer southern sky : 
 The Soldan galls th' lUyrian coast ; 
 But soon this miscrea-nt Moony host 
 
 Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. 
 
 But here, no clarion's shrilling note 
 
 The Muse's green retreat can pierce ; 
 The grove, from noisy camps remote, 
 
 Is only vocal with my verse : 
 Here, wing'd with innocence and jo3% 
 Let the soft hours that o'er me fly 
 
 Drop freedom, health, and gay desires : 
 ^Vllile the bright Seine, t' exalt the soul, 
 With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, 
 
 And wit and social mirth inspires. 
 
 Enamour' d of the Seine, celestial fair, 
 
 (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) 
 Bacchus, to win the nj-'mph who caused his care, 
 Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain : 
 There secret in her sapphire cell, 
 He with the Nais wont to dwell : 
 
 Leaving the nectar' d feasts of Jove : 
 And where her mazy waters flow 
 He gave the mantling vine to grow, 
 A trophy to his love. 
 
 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, 
 
 With blind opinion for his guide ; 
 And, rebel to her rightful sway, 
 
 Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd ? 
 Fool ! Time no change of motion knows ; 
 With equal speed the torrent flows, 
 
 To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away ; 
 The past is all by death possest ; 
 And frugal fate that guards the rest, 
 
 By giving, bids him live To-Day. 
 
 O Gower ! through all the destined space. 
 
 What breath the Powers allot to me 
 Shall sing the virtues of thy race. 
 
 United and complete in thee. 
 O flower of ancient English faith ! 
 Pursue th' unbeaten Patriot-path, 
 
 In which confirm' d thy father shone : 
 The light his fair example gives, 
 Already from thy dawn receives 
 
 A lustre equal to its o^vn. 
 
 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns 
 
 rear'd. 
 
 Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume ; 
 
 Loud Preans echoing round the roof arc 
 
 heard, 
 
 And clouds of incense all the void perfume. 
 
 There Phocion, La3lius, Capel, Hyde, 
 With Falkland seated near his side, 
 
 Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace ; 
 Prophetic of thy happier fame, 
 She, to receive thy radiant name, 
 
 Selects a whiter space. 
 
 Elijah Fcnton.—Borii 1683, Bictl 1730. 
 
 835.— SONG. 
 
 O give me, kind Bacchus, thou God of the 
 
 vine. 
 Not a pipe or a tun, but an ocean of wine ; 
 And a ship that's well-mann'd with such rare 
 
 merry fellows. 
 That ne'er forsook tavern for porterly ale- 
 house. 
 May her bottom be leaky to let in the tipple, 
 And no pump on board her to save ship or 
 
 people : 
 So that each jolly lad may suck heartily 
 
 round. 
 And be always obliged to drink or be 
 
 drown' d ! 
 Let a fleet from Virginia, well laden with 
 
 weed, 
 And a cargo of pipes, that we nothing may 
 
 need. 
 Attend at our stern to supply us with guns, 
 And to w^eigh us our funk, not by pounds, but 
 
 by tuns. 
 When thus fitted out we would sail cross the 
 
 line, 
 And swim round the world in a sea of good 
 
 wine ; 
 Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more 
 To renounce such a life for the pleasures on 
 
 shore. 
 Look cheerfully round us and comfort our 
 
 eyes 
 With a deluge of claret inclosed by the skies ; 
 A sight that would mend a pale mortal's 
 
 complexion. 
 And make him blusb more than the sun by 
 
 reflection. 
 No zealous contentions should ever perplex us, 
 No politic jars should divide us or vex us ; 
 No presbyter Jack should reform us or ride 
 
 us, 
 The stars and our whimsical noddles should 
 
 guide us. 
 No blustering storms should possess us with 
 
 fears. 
 Or hurry us, like cowards, from drinking to \ 
 
 prayers, i 
 
 But still with full bowls we'd for Bacchus i 
 
 maintain \ 
 
 The most glorious dominion o'er the clarety ; 
 
 main ; 
 And tipple all round till our eyes shone as 
 
 bright 
 As the sun does by day, or the moon does by 
 
 night. 
 
From 1689 icV, 1727.1 SOKG. [John Oldmixon 
 
 Thus would I live free from all care or design, 
 
 Nature must change her beauteous face, 
 
 And when death should arrive I'd be pickled 
 
 And vary as the seasons rise ; 
 
 in wine : 
 
 As winter to the spring gives place, 
 
 That is, toss'd over-board, have the sea for 
 
 Summer th' approach of autumn flies : 
 
 ray grave, 
 
 No change on love the seasons bring-, — 
 
 And lie nobly entomb'd in a blood-colour' d 
 
 Love only knows perpetual spring. 
 
 wave ; 
 
 That, living or dead, both my body and 
 
 Devouring time, with stealing pace. 
 
 spirit 
 
 Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; 
 
 Should float round the globe in an ocean of 
 
 And marble towers, and gates of brass, 
 
 claret, 
 
 In his rude march he levels low : 
 
 The truest of friends and the best of all 
 
 But time, destroying far and wide. 
 
 juices, 
 
 Love from the soul can ne'er divide. 
 
 Worth both the rich metals that India pro- 
 
 
 duces : 
 
 Death only, with his cruel dart. 
 
 For all men we find from the young to the 
 
 The gentle godhead can remove ; 
 
 old, 
 
 And drive him from the bleeding heart 
 
 Will exchange for the bottle their silver and 
 
 To mingle with the bless' d above. 
 
 gold, 
 
 Where, known to all his kindred train, 
 
 Except rich fanatics— a pox on their pic- 
 tures ! 
 That make themselves slaves to their prayers 
 
 He finds a lasting rest from pain. 
 
 Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, 
 
 and their lectures ; 
 
 Twin-born, from heaven together came : 
 
 And think that on earth there is nothing 
 
 Love will the universe control. 
 
 divine. 
 
 When dying seasons lose their name ; 
 
 But a canting old fool and a bag full of coin. 
 
 Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, 
 
 What though the dull saint make his standard 
 
 When time and death shall be no more. 
 
 and sterling 
 
 
 His refuge, his glory, his god, and his dar- 
 ling ; 
 
 The mortal that drinks is the only brave 
 fellow. 
 
 Barton Booth.— Boi-n 1681, Died 1733. 
 
 
 
 Though never so poor, he 's a king when he 's 
 
 
 mellow ; 
 Grows richer than Croesus with whimsical 
 
 837.— SONG. 
 
 thinking, 
 
 Love is by fancy led about 
 
 And never knows care whilst he follows his 
 
 Frum hope to fear, from joy to doubt ; 
 
 drinking. 
 
 Whom we now an angel call, 
 
 Edivanl Ward.— Born 1667, Died 1731. 
 
 Divinely graced in every feature. 
 
 Straight 's a deform' d, a perjured creature; 
 
 
 Love and hate are fancy all. 
 'Tis but as fancy shall present 
 
 
 
 (Objects of grief, or of content, 
 
 836.— SONG. 
 
 That the lover 's blest, or dies : 
 
 
 Visions of mighty pain, or pleasure, 
 
 Sweet are the charms of her I love. 
 
 Imagined want, imagined treasure, 
 
 More fragrant than the damask rose, 
 
 All in powerful fancy lies. 
 
 Soft as the down of turtle dove, 
 
 
 Gentle as air when Zephyr blows. 
 
 Qe<yi7ge Granville, Lord Lansdowne. — 
 
 Eefreshing as descending rains 
 
 ]^-::-n 1667, Died 1735. 
 
 To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains. 
 
 
 True as the needle to the polo. 
 
 
 Or as the dial to the sun ; 
 
 838.— SONG. 
 
 Constant as gliding waters roll. 
 
 Whose swelling tides obey the moon ; 
 From every other charmer free. 
 My life and love shall follow thee. 
 
 I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste, 
 That I no more would court 
 
 The joys that seem when they are past 
 As dull as they are short. 
 
 The lamb the flowery thyme devours, 
 
 I oft to hate my mistress swear, 
 
 The dam the tender kid pursues ; 
 
 But soon my weakness find % 
 
 Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers 
 
 I make my oaths when she 'a severe, 
 
 Of verdant spring her note renews ; 
 
 But break them when she's kind. 
 
 All follow what they most admire, 
 
 
 As I pursue my soul's desire. 
 
 John Oldmixon.—Bom 1673, Died 1742. 
 
Sir Eobekt Ayton.] 
 
 THE CHUECH-BUILDEE. 
 
 [Fifth Pektod.- 
 
 839.— THE CHUECH-BUILDEE. 
 
 A wretch had committed all manner of evil, 
 And was justly afraid of death and the 
 
 devil; 
 Being touch'd mth remorse, he sent for a 
 
 priest, 
 He was wondrous godly, he pray'd and con- j 
 
 fess'd : 
 But the father, unmoved with the marks of 
 
 contrition, 
 Before absolution, imposed this condition : 
 
 " You must build and endow, at your own 
 
 proper charge, 
 A church," quoth the parson, " convenient 
 
 and large. 
 Where souls to the tune of four thousand and 
 
 odd, 
 Without any crowding, may sit and serve 
 
 God." 
 
 " I'U do't," cried the penitent, "father, ne'er 
 fear it ; 
 
 My estate is encumber' d, but if I once clear 
 it, 
 
 The beneficed clerks should be sweetly in- 
 creased — 
 
 Instead of one church, I'd build fifty at 
 least." 
 
 But ah ! what is man ? I speak it with 
 
 sorrow, 
 His fit of religion was gone by to-morrow ; 
 He then huff'd the doctor, and call'd him to 
 
 naught. 
 There were churches to spare, and he'd not 
 
 give a groat. 
 When he mention'd his vow, he cried, " D — n 
 
 me, I'm sober, 
 But all yesterday I was drunk with October." 
 
 ^ir Robert Ayton. — About 1711. 
 
THE SIXTH PERIOD, 
 
 FKOM 1727 TO 1780. 
 
 DURING this period Great Britain produced some of the greatest names in the world's 
 muster roll of men of genius. We have, among poets, Edward Young, with his solemn 
 and often grand " Night Thoughts " ; Thomson with his graphic descriptions of Winter in its 
 gloom and stoma ; Spring in its clear sunshine and fitful showers, its peeping flowers and its 
 cheery feelings ; Summer in its gay voluptuousness ; and Autumn in its falling leaves, quiet 
 decay, and melancholy fancies. We have John Dyer with his exquisite " Grongar Hill," and 
 Shenstone with his exquisite " Garden," and Gray with his " Elegy in a Country Church-yard," 
 which the world will never let die ; and dear, generous, genial, loving, and beloved Oliver 
 Goldsmith, and Chatterton, the wondrous boy whose monument at that grand old church at 
 Bristol awakens thoughts "too deep for tears." We have Logan and Bruce, the poetical 
 Wartons, Beattie with his " Minstrel," Alexander Eoss -with his " Woo'd and Married and 
 A' ; " Christopher Smart with his ill-fated story belongs to this period, and Lady Ann Barnard, 
 who has thrown a lustre even on the illustrious family of the Lindsays. We have as Novelists : 
 Samuel Eichardson, Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, the great and noble Samuel Johnson, the 
 delicious author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which touches the heart in youth and old age, 
 and Hem'y Mackenzie. 
 
 Among Historians we have David Hume, Dr. William Eobertson, William Tytler, EdAvard 
 Gibbon. In Divinity there shine the names of Butler, Bishop Warburton, Bishop Lowth, Dr. 
 C. Middleton, Dr. Isaac Watts, so simple and so great, this testimony, in passing from an 
 Episcopalian, but from one who loves all good men. We have Hurd, Jortin, the Evangelist 
 John Wesley and his -brother Charles, who between them produced some of the most exquisite 
 Hymns in the English language ; Nathaniel Lardner, Leland, Blair, Campbell, add to the list of 
 ij'reai and much loved names. We have also the magnificent Edmund Burke. Never shall we 
 forget his generous kindness to poor deserving George Crabbe. All night Crabbe walked on 
 Westminster Bridge after leaving his letter at the groat man's house ; little did Burke know 
 that ! but all night he walked in suspense ; but when he called next day the helping hand was 
 stretched out, and nobly did Crabbe repay. We have Junius, and Adam Smith, and Sir 
 William Blackstone, and the great Earl of Chatham. It was a glorious xjeriod, and Englishmen 
 may well be proud of it. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 I 
 
 EICHAED SAVAGE. 
 
 " Eichard Savage, born 1696, died 1743, so 
 well known for Johnson's account of him, was 
 the bastard child of Eichard Savage, Earl 
 Elvers, and the Countess of Macclesfield. He 
 led a dissipated and erratic life, the Adctim of 
 circumstances and of his own passions. In his 
 miscellaneous poems the best are ' The Wan- 
 derer' and 'The Bastard.' "—See Shaw's 
 "Hist. Eng. Lit." p. 312. 
 
 EOBEET BLAIE. 
 
 "Eobert Blair, bom 1699, died 1746, was 
 minister of the parish of Athelstaneford,in East 
 Lothian. His son, who died not many years ago, 
 was a very high legal character in Scotland. The 
 eighteenth century has produced few specimens 
 of blank verse of so powerful and simple a 
 character as that of ' The Grave.' It is a 
 popular poem, not merely because it is reli- 
 gious, but because its language and imagery 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 are free, natural, and picturesque. The latest 
 editor of the poets has, with sin^ilarly bad 
 taste, noted some of this author's most ner- 
 vous and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, 
 among which ho reckons that of friendship 
 ' the solder of society.' Blair may be a homely 
 and even a gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious 
 criticism ; but there is a masculine and pro- 
 nounced character even in his gloom and 
 homeliness that keeps it most distinctly apart 
 from either dullness or vulgarity. His style 
 pleases us like the powerful expression of a 
 countenance without regular beauty. Blair 
 was a great favourite with Burns, who quotes 
 from ' The Grave ' very frequently in his 
 letters." — Campbell's " Specimens." See 
 GilfiUan's Ed. of Blair's "Grave" ; AUibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 
 
 " This admirable person was born at South- 
 ampton on the 17th of July, 1674. His 
 father, of the same name, kept a boarding- 
 school for young gentlemen, and was a man 
 of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the 
 eldest of nine children, and began early to 
 display precocity of genius. At four he com- 
 menced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, 
 under one Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept 
 the free- school at Southampton, he learned 
 Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription 
 was proposed for sending him to one of the 
 great universities, but he preferred casting in 
 his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired ac- 
 cordingly, in 1690, to an academy kept by 
 the Eev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, 
 became the husband of the celebrated Eliza- 
 beth Eowe, the once popular author of 
 ' Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The 
 Rowes belonged to the Independent body. At 
 this academy Watts began to write poetry, 
 chiefly in the Latin language, and in the then 
 popular Pindaric measure. At the age of 
 twenty, he returned to his father's house, and 
 spent two quiet years in devotion, meditation, 
 and study. He became next a tutor in the 
 family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. 
 He was afterwards chosen assistant to Dr. 
 Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, be- 
 came his successor. His health, however, 
 failed, and, after getting an assistant for a 
 while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, 
 Sir Thomas Abney, a benevolent gentleman of 
 the neighbourhood, received Watts into his 
 house, where he continued during the rest of 
 his life — all his wants attended to, and his 
 feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he 
 lived to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas 
 died eight years after Dr. Watts entered his 
 establishment, but the widow and daughters 
 continued unwearied in their attentions. Ab- 
 ney House was a mansion surrounded by fine 
 
 gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the 
 Doctor became thoroughly at home, and was 
 wont to refresh his body and mind in the 
 intervals of study. He preached regularly to 
 a congregation, and in the pulpit, although his 
 stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the 
 excellence of his matter, the easy flow of his 
 language, and the jiropriety of his pronuncia- 
 tion, rendered him very popular. In private 
 he was exceedingly kind to the poor and to 
 children, giving to the former a third part of 
 his small income of ^100 a-year, and writing 
 for the other his inimitable hymns. Besides 
 these, he published a well-known ' Treatise on 
 Logic,' another on ' The Improvement of the 
 Mind,' besides various theological productions, 
 amongst which his ' World to Come ' has 
 been pre-eminently popular. In 1728, he 
 received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen an 
 unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As 
 age advanced, he found himself unable to dis- 
 charge his ministerial duties, and offered to 
 remit his salary, but his congregation refused 
 to accept his demission. On the 25th No- 
 vember, 1748, quite worn out, but without 
 suifering, this a]?le and worthy man expired. 
 
 "If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the 
 highest purpose of hnmo.nity, it Avas certainly 
 fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and 
 other treatises have served to brace the in- 
 tellects, methodise the studios, and con- 
 centrate the activities of thousands — we had 
 nearly said of millions — of minds. This has 
 given him an enviable di^^tinction, but he 
 shone still more in that other province he 
 so felicitously chose and so successfullly 
 occupied — that of the hearts of the young. 
 One of his detractors called him ' Mother 
 Watts.' He might have taken up- this 
 epithet, and bound it as a crown unto 
 him. We have heard of a pious foreigner 
 possessed of imperfect English, who, in an 
 agony of supplication to God for some sick 
 friend, said, ' O Fader, hear me ! O Mudder, 
 hear me ! ' It struck us as one of the finest 
 of stories, and containing one of the most 
 beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, 
 recognising in Him a pity which not even a 
 father, which only a mother can feel. Like a 
 tender mother does good Watts bend over the 
 little children, and secure that their first 
 words of song shall be those of simple, heart- 
 felt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder 
 Brother. To create a little heaven in the 
 nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or 
 twaddling, but beautifully natural and ex- 
 quisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, 
 was the high task to which Watts consecrated, 
 and by which he has immortalised, his genius." 
 — GilfiUan's "Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. 
 iii., pp. 91-93. 
 
 PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 
 
 "Philip Doddridge, bom 1702, died 1751, 
 one of the most distinguished Nonconformist 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 divines. He was born in London, was edu- 
 cated among the Dissenters, became minister 
 at Northampton, and died at Lisbon, whither 
 he had departed for the benefit of his health. 
 Doddridge was a man of learning and earnest 
 piety. He was beloved and admired by all 
 the religious bodies of the country. His style 
 is plain, simple, and forcible. He was a critic 
 of some acumen, and a preacher of great dis- 
 tinction. But his name lives from his practical 
 works and expository writings, the chief 
 of which are — ' Discourses on Eegeneration,' 
 1741; 'Rise and Progress of Religion in the 
 Soul,' 1745 ; and his greatest and most ex- 
 tensive work, ' The Family Expositor,' one of 
 the most widely-circulated works of its class." 
 — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Dr. Kippis, in 
 " Biog. Brit." ; Dr. Ralph Wardlaw ; Bishop 
 "Warburton ; Dr. E. Williams ; T. H. Home ; 
 Dr. Dibdin ; Barrington, Bishop of Durham ; 
 Robert Hall's " Letters " ; Dr. Francis Hunt ; 
 Morell; "London Evangel. Mag."; Bishop 
 Jebb. 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 Edward Young, born 1681, died 17G5. "I 
 now come," says Shaw, in his ' Hist. Eng. 
 Lit.,' " to Edward Young, the most powerful 
 of the secondary poets of the epoch. He 
 began his career in the unsuccessful pursuit 
 of fortune in the public and diplomatic service 
 of the country. Disappointed in his hopes 
 and somewhat soured in his temper he entered 
 the Church, and serious domestic losses still 
 further intensified a natural tendency to 
 morbid and melancholy reflection. He ob- 
 tained his first literary fame by his satire 
 entitled the 'Love of Fame, the Universal 
 Passion,' written before he had abandoned a 
 secular career. It is in rhyme and bears con- 
 siderable resemblance to the manner of Pope, 
 though it is deficient in that exquisite grace 
 and neatness which distinguish the latter. In 
 referring the vices and follies of mankind 
 chiefly to vanity and the foolish desire of 
 applause, Young exhibits a false and narrow 
 view of hiiman motives ; but there are many 
 passages in the three epistles, which compose 
 this satire, that exhibit strong powers of 
 observation and description, and a keen and 
 vigorous expression which, though sometimes 
 degenerating into that tendency to paradox 
 and epigram which are the prevailing defect 
 of Young's genius, are not unworthy of his 
 great model. The Second Epistle, describing 
 the character of women, may be compared, 
 without altogether losing in the parallel, to 
 Pope's admirable work on the same subject. 
 But Young's place in the history of English 
 poetry — a place long a very high one, and 
 which is likely to remain a far from unenviable 
 one — is due to his striking and original poem 
 ' The Night Thoughts.' This work, consisting 
 
 of nine nights or meditations, is in blank 
 verse, and consists of reflections on Life, 
 Death, Immortality, and all the most solemn 
 subjects that can engage the attention of the 
 Christian and the philosopher. The general 
 tone of the work is sombre and gloomy, per- 
 haps in some degree affectedly so, f?»r though 
 the author perpetually parades the melancholy 
 personal circumstances under which he wrote, 
 overwhelmed by the rapidly-succeeding losses 
 of many who were dearest to him, the reader 
 can never get rid of the idea that the grief 
 and desolation were purposely exaggerated for 
 eiFect. In spite of this, however, the grandeur 
 of Nature and the sublimity of the Divine 
 attributes are so forcibly and eloquently de- 
 picted, the arguments against sin and in- 
 fidelity are so concisely and powerfully urged, 
 ! and the contrast between the nothingness of 
 I man's earthly aims and the immensity of his 
 I immortal aspirations is so pointedly set before 
 I us, that the poem will always make deep im- 
 I pression on the religious reader. The pre- 
 i vailing defects of Young's mind were an 
 irresistible tendency to antithesis and epi- 
 grammatic contrast, and a want of discrimi- 
 nation that often leaves him utterly unable to 
 distinguish between an idea really just and 
 striking, and one which is only superficially so : 
 and this Avant of taste frequently leads him 
 into illustrations and comparisons rather 
 puerile than ingenious, as when he compares 
 the stars to diamonds in a seal-ring upon the 
 finger of the Almighty. Ho is also remark- 
 able for a deficiency in continuous' elevation, 
 advancing so to say by jerks and starts of 
 pathos and sublimity. The march of his 
 verse is generally solemn and majestic, though 
 it possesses little of the rolling thundrous 
 melody of Milton ; and Young is fond of in- 
 troducing familiar images and expressions, 
 often with great eS'ect, amid his most lofty 
 bursts of declamation. The epigrammatic 
 nature of some of his most striking images 
 is best testified by the large number of ex- 
 pressions which have passed from his writings 
 into the colloquial language of society, such 
 as ' procrastination is the thief of time,' ' all 
 men think all men mortal but themselves,' 
 and a multitude of others. A sort of quaint 
 solemnity, like the ornamentation upon a 
 Gothic tomb, is the impression which the 
 'Night Thoughts' are calculated to make 
 upon the reader in the present time ; and it 
 is a strong proof of the essential greatness of 
 his genius, that the quaintness is not able to 
 extinguish the solemnity." — Dr. Angus's 
 " Handbook of Eng. Lit." ; Gilfillan's Ed. of 
 " Young's Poems "; Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens." 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 " James Thomson, a distinguished Bri- 
 tish poet, born at Ednam, near Kelso, in 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Pebiod.- 
 
 Scotland, in 1700, was one of the nine 
 children of the Eev. Mr. Thomson, minister 
 of that place. James was sent to the school 
 of Jedburgh, where he attracted the notice of 
 a neighbouring minister by his propensity to 
 poetry, who encouraged his early attempts, 
 and corrected his performances. On his re- 
 moval from school, he was sent to the 
 university of Edinburgh, where he chiefly 
 attended to the cultivation of his poetical 
 faculty ; but' the death of his father, during 
 his second session, ha\'ing brought his mother 
 to Edinburgh for the purpose of educating her 
 children, James complied with the advice of 
 his friends, and entered upon a course of 
 divinity. Here, we are told, that the ex- 
 planation of a psalm having been required 
 from him as a probationary exercise, he per- 
 formed it in language so splendid, that he was 
 reproved by his professor for employing a dic- 
 tion which it was not likely that any one of his 
 future audience could comprehend. This ad- 
 monition completed the disgust which he felt 
 for the profession chosen for him ; and having 
 connected liimseK with some young men in 
 the university who were aspirants after literary 
 eminence, he readily listened to the advice of 
 a lady, the friend of his mother, and deter- 
 mined to try his fortune in the great metro- 
 polis, London. 
 
 " In 1725 Thomson came by sea to the 
 capital, where he soon found out his college 
 acquaintance. Mallet, to whom ho showed 
 his poem of ' Winter,' then composed in de- 
 tached passages of the descriptive kind. 
 Mallet advised him to form them into a con- 
 nected piece, and immediately to print it. It 
 was purchased for a small sum, and appeared 
 in 1726, dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton. 
 Its merits, however, were little understood by 
 the public ; till Mr. Whateley, a person of 
 acknowledged taste, happening to cast an eye 
 upon it, was struck with its beauties, and 
 gave it vogue. His dedicatee, who had 
 hitherto neglected him, made him a present 
 of twenty guineas, and he was introduced to 
 Pope, Bishop Eundle, and Lord-Chancellor 
 Talbot, In 1727, he published another of his 
 seasons, ' Summer,' dedicated to Mr, Dodding- 
 ton, for it was still the custom for poets to 
 pay this tinbute to men in power. In the 
 same year he gave to the public his ' Poem, 
 sacred to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton,' 
 and his ' Britannia.' His ' Spring ' was pub- 
 lished in 1728, addressed to the Countess of 
 Hertford ; and the ' Seasons ' were completed 
 by the addition of 'Autumn,' dedicated to Mr. 
 Onslow, in 1730, when they were published 
 collectively. 
 
 "As nothing was more tempting to the 
 cupidity of an author than dramatic com- 
 position, Thomson resolved to become a com- 
 petitor for that laurel also, and in 1728 he 
 had the influence to bring upon the stage of 
 Drury-lane his tragedy of ' Sophonisba.' It 
 was succeeded by ' Agamemnon ; ' ' Edward 
 
 and Eieonora ; ' and ' Tancred and Sigis- 
 munda ; ' but although these pieces were not 
 without their merits, the moral strain was too 
 prevalent for the public taste, and they have 
 long ceased to occupy the theatre. Through 
 the recommendation of Dr. Eundle, he was, 
 about 1729, selected as the travelling asso- 
 ciate of the Hon, Mr, Talbot, eldest son of 
 the Chancellor, with whom he visited most of 
 the courts of the European continent. During 
 this tour, the idea of a poem on ' Liberty ' 
 suggested itself, and after his return, he em- 
 ployed two years in its completion. The place 
 of secretary of the briefs, which was nearly a 
 sinecure, repaid him for his attendance on Mr. 
 Talbot. ' Liberty ' at length appeared, and 
 was dedicated to Frederick, Prince of Wales, 
 whoj in opposition to the court, affected the 
 X^atronage of letters, as well as of liberal 
 sentiments in politics. He granted Thomson 
 a pension, to remunerate him for the loss of 
 his place by the death of Lord Chancellor 
 Talbot. In 1746 appeared his poem, called 
 ' The Castle of Indolence,' which had been 
 several years under his i^clishing hand, and 
 by many is considered as his principal per- 
 formance. He was now in tolerably affluent 
 circmnstances, a place of Surveyor- General of 
 the Leeward Islands, given him by Mr. Lyttle- 
 ton, bringing him in, after paying a deputy, 
 about <£300 a year. He did not, however, 
 long enjoy this state of comfort ; for returning 
 I one evening from London to Kew-lane, he was 
 I attacked by a fever, which proved fatal in 
 1 August, 1748, the 48th year of his age. He 
 I was interred without any memorial in Eich- 
 mond Church ; but a monument was erected 
 to his memory, in Westminster Abbey, in 
 1762, with the profits arising from an edition 
 of his works published by Mr, Millar. 
 
 " Thomson in person was large and ungainly, 
 with a heavy, unanimated countenance, and 
 having nothing in his appearance in mixed 
 society indicating the man of genius or refine- 
 ment. He was, however, easy and cheerful 
 with select friends, by whom he was singularly 
 beloved for the kindness of his heart, and his 
 freedom from all the malignant passions which 
 too often debase the literary character. His 
 temper was much inclined to indolence, and 
 he was fond of indulgence of every kind ; in 
 particularhe was more attached to the pleasures 
 of sense, than the sentimental delicacy of his 
 writings would induce a reader to suppose. 
 For the moral tendency of his works, no 
 author has deserved more praise ; and no one 
 can rise from the perusal of his pages, without 
 being sensible of a melioration of his principles 
 or feelings. 
 
 " The poetical merits of Thomson un- 
 doubtedly stand most conspicuous in his 
 ' Seasons,' the first long composition, perhaps, 
 of which natural description was made the 
 staple, and certainlj' the most fertile of grand 
 and beautiful delineations, in great measure 
 deduced from the author's own observation. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Its diction is somewliat cumbrous and la- 
 boured, but energetic and expressive. Its 
 versification does not denote a practised ear, 
 but is seldom unpleasantly harsh. Upon the 
 whole, no poem has been more, and more 
 deservedly, popular ; and it has exerted a 
 powerful influence upon public taste, not only 
 in this country, but throughout Europe. Any 
 addition to his fame has principally arisen 
 from his ' Castle of Indolence,' an allegorical 
 composition in the manner and stanza of 
 Spenser, and among the imitators of this poet 
 Thomson may deserve the preference, on 
 account of the application of his fable, and 
 the moral and descriptive beauties by which 
 it is filled up. This piece is entirely free from 
 the stiffness of language perceptible in the 
 author's blank verse, which is also the case 
 with many of his songs, and other rhymed 
 poems." — ^Aikin's "Select Brit. Poets." See 
 Gilfillan's Ed. of " Thomson's Poems " ; 
 Scrynigeour's " Poetry and Poets of Bri- 
 tain " ; Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JOHN DYEE. 
 
 " John Dyer, an agreeable poet, was the son 
 of a solicitor at Aberglasney, in Carmarthen- 
 shire, where he was born in 1700. He was 
 brought up at Westminster School, and was 
 ilesigned by his father for his own profession ; 
 but being at liberty, in consequence of his 
 father's death, to follow his own inclination, 
 he indulged what he took for a natural taste 
 in painting, and entered as pupil to Mr. 
 Richardson. After wandering for some time 
 about South Wales and the adjacent counties 
 as an itinerant artist, he appeared convinced 
 that he should not attain to eminence in that 
 profession. In 1727 ho first made himself 
 known as a poet, by the j)ublication of his 
 ' Grongar Hill,' descriptive of a scene afforded 
 by his native country, which became one of 
 the most popular pieces of its class, and has 
 been admitted into numerous collections. 
 Dyer then travelled to Italy, still in pursuit 
 of professional improvement ; and if he did 
 not acquire this in any considerable degree, 
 he improved his poetical taste, and laid in a 
 store of new images. These he displayed in 
 a poem of some length, published in 1740, 
 which he entitled ' The Ruins of Eome,' that 
 capital having been the principal object of his 
 journeyings. Of this work it may be said, 
 that it contains many passages of real poetry, 
 and that the strain of moral and political re- 
 flection denotes a benevolent and enlightened 
 mind. 
 
 " His health being now in a delicate state, 
 he was advised by his friends to take orders ; 
 and he was accordingly ordained by Dr. 
 Thomas, Bishop of Lincoln ; and entering 
 into the married state, he sat down on a small 
 
 living in Leicestershire. This he exchanged 
 for one in Lincolnshire ; but the fenny country 
 in which he was placed did not agree with his 
 health, and he complained of the want of 
 books and company. In 1757 he published 
 his largest work, ' The Fleece,' -a didactic 
 poem, in four books, of which the first part 
 is pastoral, the second mechanical, and the 
 third and fourth historical and geographical. 
 This poem has never been very popular, many 
 of its topics not being well adapted to poetry ; 
 yet the opinions of critics have vai-ied con- 
 cerning it. It is certain that there are many 
 pleasing, and some grand and impressive pas- 
 sages in the work ; but, upon the whole, the 
 general feeling is, that the length of the per- 
 formance necessarily imposed upon it a degree 
 of tediousness. 
 
 " Dyer did not long survive the completion 
 of his book. He died of a gradual decline in 
 1758, leaving behind him, besides the reputa- 
 tion of an ingenious poet, the character of an 
 honest, humane, and T^orthy person." — Aikin'a 
 " Select Poets of Brit." See AUibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." ; " Life of Dyer," by Dr. 
 Samuel Johnson ; Drake's "Literary Hours," 
 vol. i., p. 160, et seq. ; vol. ii., p. 35. A col- 
 lective edition of Dyer's Works was pub- 
 lished in 1761, 8vo. ; Gilfillan's Ed. of " Dyer's 
 Poems " ; Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 " William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born 
 in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of an ancient 
 family, and mingled from the first in the most 
 fashionable circles. Ere he was twenty he 
 ■wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscel- 
 lany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he 
 joined the standard of Prince Charles, and 
 Avrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or 
 Prestonpans. When the i*e verse of his party 
 came, after many wanderings and hair's- 
 breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found 
 refuge in France. As 'he was a general fa- 
 vourite, and as much allowance was made for 
 his poetical temperament, a pardon was soon 
 procured for him by his friends, and he re- 
 turned to his native country. His health, 
 however, originally delicate, had suffered by 
 his Highland privations, and he was compelled 
 to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he 
 died in 1754. 
 
 " Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, 
 but his attachments were not deep, and he 
 rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who 
 was annoyed at his addresses, asked John 
 Home how she could get rid of them. He, 
 knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear 
 to favour him. She acted on the advice, and 
 he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet 
 his best poem is a tale of love, and a tale, too, 
 told with great simplicity and pathos. We 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod. 
 
 refer to his ' Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of 
 which we never felt fiilly till we saw some 
 time ago that lovely region, with its ' dowie 
 dens,' — its clear living stream, — Newark 
 Castle, with its woods and memories, — and 
 the green wildernesses of silent hiUs which 
 stretch on all sides around; saw it, too, in 
 that aspect of which Wordsworth sung in the 
 words — 
 
 ' The grace of forest charms decayed 
 And pastoral melancholy.' 
 
 It is the highest praise we can bestow upon 
 Hamilton's baUad that it ranks in merit near 
 Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow 
 Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow 
 Eevisited.' " — GilfiHan's " Less-known Brit. 
 Poets," vol. iii., pp. 102, 103. See Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Lord Woodhouselee's 
 " Life of Lord Kames"; Professor Eichardson; 
 Boswell's "Life of Johnson"; Anderson's 
 "Brit. Poets" ; " The Lounger" ; "Transac. 
 of Scot. Antiq." ; Chambers's and Thompson's 
 " Biog. Diet, of Eminent Scotsmen." 
 
 DE. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 " Dr. Samuel Johnson, a learned English 
 critic, lexicographer, and miscellaneous writer, 
 was the son of a bookseller at Lichfield. His 
 education was commenced at the free school 
 of Lichfield, and in 1728 he was admitted of 
 Pembroke College, Oxford ; but being too poor 
 to remain at the university, he, in 1731, quitted 
 it without a degree. He soon afterwards lost 
 his father, who left him in such poor circum- 
 stances that he sought the post of usher of a 
 school at Market-Bos worth, Leicestershire, 
 where, however, he did not continue long. He 
 next resided with a printer at Birmingham, 
 where he translated Lobo's account of Abys- 
 sinia. In 1735 he married Mrs. Porter, a 
 widow lady of that town, who was possessed of 
 the sum of ^£800 ; and with this capital he the 
 same year opened a school at Edial, near Lich- 
 field ; but he obtained only three scholars, one 
 of whom was David Garrick. About this time 
 he began his tragedy of ' Irene.' In 1737 he 
 set out for the metropolis, accompanied by 
 Garrick. On fixing his residence in London, 
 he formed a connection with Cave, the publisher 
 of the ' Gentleman's Magazine,' for which 
 work he wrote during several years, his prin- 
 cipal employment being an account of the par- 
 liamentary debates. At this period he con- 
 tracted an intimacy with Eichard Savage, 
 whose name he has immortalized by one of the 
 finest pieces of biography ever written. In 
 1749 appeared his 'Vanity of Human Wishes,' 
 an imitation of Juvenal's tenth Satire. Two 
 years previously, he had printed proposals for 
 an edition of Shakspere, and the plan of his 
 
 English dictionary addressed to Lord Chester- 
 field. The price agreed upon between himself 
 and the booksellers for the last work was 
 ^1,575. In 1749 Garrick produced his friend's 
 tragedy upon the stage of Drury Lane Theatre, 
 but it was unsuccessful. In 1750 he com- 
 menced his ' Eambler,' a periodical paper, 
 which was continued till 1752. In this work 
 only five papers were the production of other 
 writers. About the period of his relinquishing 
 the ' Eambler ' he lost his wife, a circum- 
 stance which greatly affected him, as appears 
 from his ' Meditations,' and the sermon which 
 he wrote on her death. In 1754 he visited 
 Oxford. The next year appeared his dictionary, 
 which, instead of three, had occupied eight 
 years. Lord Chesterfield endeavoured to assist 
 it by writing two papers in its favour in the 
 '.World ;' but, as he had hitherto neglected 
 the author, Johnson treated him with con- 
 tempt. The publication of his great work did 
 not relieve him from his embarrassments, for 
 the price of his labour had been consumed m 
 the progress of its compilation, and the year 
 following we find him under an arrest for five 
 guineas, from which he was released by Ei- 
 chardson, the printer. In 1758 he began the 
 ' Idler,' which was published in a weekly 
 newspaper. On the death of his mother, in 
 1759, he wrote the romance of ' Easselas,' to 
 defray the expenses of her funeral, and to pay 
 her debts. In 1762, George III. granted him 
 a pension of ^6300 per annum. In 1763, 
 Boswell, his future biographer, was introduced 
 to him, a circumstance to which we owe the 
 most minute account of a man's life and cha- 
 racter that has ever been written. Boswell, 
 though a very ordinary mortal, has immor- 
 talized himself by this performance. In his 
 book everything about Johnson is supplied to 
 us ; in Lord Macaulay's words, we have ' his 
 coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, 
 his St. Vitus' s dance, his rolling walk, his 
 blinking eye, the outward signs which too 
 clearly marked the approbation of his dinner ; 
 his insatiable appetite for fish-sauce and veal- 
 pie with plums ; his inextinguishable thirst 
 for tea ; his trick of touching the posts as he 
 walked ; his mysterious practice of treasuring 
 up scraps of orange-peel ; his morning slum- 
 bers ; his midnight disputations ; his contor- 
 tions ; his mutterings ; his gruntings ; his 
 puffings ; his vigorous, acute, and ready elo- 
 quence ; his sarcastic wit ; his vehemence ; his 
 insolence ; his fits of tempestuous rage ; his 
 queer inmates — old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. 
 Williams, the cat Hodge, and the negro Frank 
 — all are as familiar to us as the objects by 
 which we have been surrounded from child- 
 hood.* Johnson had the honour of a conversa- 
 tion with the king in the royal library, in 
 1765, when his Majesty asked if he intended 
 to publish any more works. To this he an- 
 swered, that he thought he had written 
 enough ; on which the king said, ' So should 
 I too, if you had not written so well.' About 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 this time he instituted the Literary Club, con- 
 sisting of some of the most celebrated men of 
 the age. In 1773 he went on a tour with 
 Boswell to the western islands of Scotland, of 
 which journey he shortly afterwards published 
 an account, which occasioned a controversy 
 between him and Macpherson, relative to the 
 poems of Ossian. In 1775 the university of 
 Oxford sent him the degree of LL.D., which 
 diploma, ten years before, had been conferred 
 on him by the university of Dublin. In 1779 
 he began his ' Lives of the English Poets,' 
 which was the last of his literary labours. 
 After a long illness, during part of which he 
 had fearful apprehensions of death, his mind 
 became calm, composed, and resigned, and he 
 died full of that faith which he had so vigo- 
 rously defended and inculcated in his writings. 
 His remains were interred in Westminster 
 Abbey, and a statue, with an appropriate 
 inscription, has been erected to his memory in 
 St. Paul's Cathedral. A complete Ust of his 
 works is prefixed to BosweU's ' Life.' As a 
 writer, few have done such essential service to 
 his country, by fixing its language and regu- 
 lating its morality. In his person he was 
 large, robust, and unwieldy ; in his dress he 
 was singular and slovenly ; in conversation 
 positive, and impatient of contradiction. But 
 with all his singularities he had an excellent 
 heart, full of tenderness and compassion, and 
 his actions were the result of principle. He 
 was a stout advocate for truth, and a zealous 
 champion for the Christian religion as pro- 
 fessed in the Church of England. In pohtics 
 he was a Tory, and at one period of his life a 
 friend to the house of Stuart. He had a 
 noble independence of mind, and would never 
 stoop to any man, however exalted, or disguise 
 his sentiments to flatter another. Born at 
 Lichfield, 1709; died in London, 1784."— 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." See Gilfillan's 
 Ed. of " Johnson's Poems "' ; AUibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Lord Brougham's " Lives of 
 Men of Letters," &c. ; Cumberland's " Me- 
 moirs"; Orme; Hazlitt, "On the Periodical 
 Essayists " ; Christopher North. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 "WiUiam CoUins, born 1721, died 1759. 
 His career was brief and unhappy. He ex- 
 hibited from very early years the strong 
 poetical powers of a genius which, ripened 
 by practice and experience, would have made 
 him the first lyrical writer of his age ; but his 
 ambition was rather feverish than sustained ; 
 he led a life of projects and dissipation ; and 
 the first shock of literary disappointment 
 drove him to despondency, despondency to 
 indulgence, and indulgence to insanity. This 
 gifted being died at 38, after suffering the 
 crudest afiiiction and humiliation that can 
 
 oppress humanity. He was educated at 
 Winchester School, and afterwards at Mag- 
 dalen College, Oxford, and entered upon the 
 career of professional Kterature, full of golden 
 dreams, and meditating vast projects. His 
 first publication was a series of Eclogues, 
 transferring the usual sentiments of pastoral 
 to the scenery and manners of the East. 
 Oriental, or Persian, incidents were for the 
 first time made the subjects of compositions, 
 retaining in their form and general cast of 
 thought and language the worn-out type of 
 pastoral. Thus the lamentation of the shep- 
 herd expelled from his native fields is replaced 
 by a camel-driver bewailing the dangers and 
 solitude of his desert journey* ; and the 
 dialogues so frequent in the bucolics of 
 Virgil or Theocritus are transformed into 
 the amoeba3an complaints of two Circassian 
 exiles. The national character and sentiments 
 of the East, though every effort is made by 
 the poet to give local colouring and appro- 
 priate costume and scenery, are in no sense 
 more true to nature than in the majority of 
 pictures representing the fabulous Arcadia of 
 the poets, and though these Eclogues exhibit 
 traces of vivid imagery and melodious verse, 
 the real genius of Collins must be looked for 
 in his ' Odes.' Judged by these latter, though 
 they are but few in number, he will be found 
 entitled to a very high j)lace : for true warmth 
 of colouring, power of personification, and 
 dreamy sweetness of harmony, no English 
 poet had till then appeared that could be com- 
 pared to Collins. His most commonly quoted 
 lyric is the ode entitled ' The Passions,' in 
 which Fear, Rage, Pity, Joy, Hope, Melan- 
 choly, and other abstract qualities are succes- 
 sively introduced trying their skill on different 
 musical instruments. Their respective choice 
 of these, and the manner in which each Passion 
 acquits itself, is very ingeniously conceived. 
 Nevertheless, many of the less popular odes, 
 as that addressed to ' Fear,' to ' Pity,' to 
 ' Simplicity,' and that ' On the Poetical 
 Character,' contain happy strokes, some- 
 times expressed in wonderfully laconic lan- 
 guage, and singularly vivid portraiture. 
 Collins possessed to an unusual degree the 
 power of giving life and personality to an 
 abstract conception, and that this power is 
 exceedingly rare may be seen by the pre- 
 dominant coldness and pedantry which gene- 
 rally prevail in modern lyric poetry, where 
 personification has been abused till it has 
 become a mere mechanical artifice. In Collins 
 the prosopopoeia is always fresh and vivid. 
 In the unfinished ' Ode on the Superstitions 
 of the Highlands,' there are many fine touches 
 of fancy and description ; but the reader 
 cannot divest himself of a consciousness that 
 the pictures are rather transcripts from books 
 than vivid reflection from personal knowledge. 
 Collins writes of the Highlands and their in- 
 habitants not like a native, but like an English 
 hunter after the picturesque. Some of the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 smaller and less ambitious lyrics, as the 
 ' Verses to the Memory of Thomson,' the 
 
 * Dirge in Cymbeline,' and the exquisite verses 
 
 * How sleep the Brave,' are perhaps destined 
 to a more certain immortality : for a tender, 
 luxuriant richness of reverie, perhaps there is 
 nothing in the English language that surpasses 
 them. All the qualities of Collins' s finest 
 thought and expression will be found united 
 in the lovely little ' Ode to Evening,' consist- 
 ing of but a few stanzas in blank verse, but so 
 'subtly harmonized that they may be read a 
 thousand times without observing the absence 
 of rhyme, and exhibiting such a sweet, sooth- 
 ing, and yet picturesque series of images, all 
 appropriate to the subject, that the sights and 
 sounds of evening seem to be reproduced with 
 a magical fidelity : the whole poem seems 
 dropping with dew ajid breathing the frag- 
 rance of the hour. It resembles a melody of 
 Schubert." 
 
 JOHN BYEOM. 
 
 *'John Byrom, bom at Manchester, 1691, 
 died 1763, educated at Cambridge, inventor 
 of a patented system of shorthand, and at last 
 a private gentleman in his native place, is 
 best known for a pastoral which first appeared 
 in the 'Spectator,' — 'My time, O ye Muses, 
 was happily spent.' He wrote several other 
 small poems, which have lately been published 
 by a local society in Manchester. His writings 
 exhibit ease and fancy." — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. 
 Lit. ; " Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTOISTE. 
 
 " William Shenstone, bom 1714, died 1763, 
 a poet, whose popularity, once considerable, 
 has now given place to oblivion ; but whose 
 pleasing and original poem ' The School-mis- 
 tress ' wlU deserve to retain a place in every 
 collection of English verse. He is still more 
 remarkable as having been one of the first to 
 cultivate that picturesque mode of laying out 
 gardens, and developing by weU-concealed art 
 the natural beauties of scenery, which, under 
 the name of the English style, has supplanted 
 the majestic but formal manner of Italy, 
 France, and Holland. In the former. Nature 
 is followed and humoured, in the latter she 
 is forced. The ' School-mistress ' is in the 
 Spenserian stanza and antique diction, and, 
 with a delightful mixture of quaint playful- 
 ness and tender description, paints the dwell- 
 ing, the character, and the pursuits of an old 
 village dame who keeps a rustic day-school. 
 The Pastoral ballads of Shenstone are me- 
 lodious, but the thin current of natural feeling 
 which pervades them cannot make the reader 
 
 forget the improbability of the Arcadian 
 manners, such as never existed in any age 
 or country, or the querulous and childish tone 
 of thought." — Shaw's " Hiat. Eng. Lit." 
 
 Dr. Angus speaks more generously and 
 kindly : — " Nature and description flourish 
 again in Shenstone and Goldsmith. William 
 Shenstone (1714-1763) was born at the Leas- 
 owes, in Shropshire, a small estate which he 
 made bj"- his taste ' the envy of the great and 
 the admiration of the skilful.' He was first 
 taught at a dame-school, and has immortalized 
 his teacher in the ' School-mistress.' In 1732, 
 he entered Pembroke College, Oxford, and, on 
 the Leasowes coming into his own hand, he 
 retired to that place, and there remained most 
 of his life, influenced therein partly by his 
 fondness for gardening, and partly by dis- 
 appointed love and disappointed ambition. 
 Here he wrote his Pastorals and his Elegies — 
 worlvs which, if not remarkable for genius, 
 are certainly among the best of the class to 
 which they belong. They abound in sim- 
 plicity and pathos, though they are wanting- 
 in force and variety. Campbell thinks, and 
 probably with justice, that if he had gone 
 more into living nature for subjects, and had 
 described their realities with the same fond 
 and naive touches which give so much delight- 
 fulness to his ' School-mistress,' he would have 
 increased his fame. 
 
 " His ' Schoolmistress ' was published in 
 1742, though it was written at college. The 
 poem is a descriptive sketch in imitation of 
 Spenser's style, ' so quaint and ludicrous, yet 
 so true to nature,' that it reminds the reader 
 of the paintings of Wilkie or of Webster. 
 His ' Pastoral Ballad ' is a happy specimen 
 of that kind of composition, and, it may be 
 added, one of the latest ; the Arcadianisms in 
 which it indulges having given place to the 
 real-life descriptions which are found in Burns 
 and Hogg. The whole is written in the well- 
 known metre : — 
 
 ' She gazed as I slowly withdrew, 
 My path I could hardly discern ; 
 So sweetly she bade me adieu, 
 I thought that she bade me return.* 
 
 " His prose essays and letters occupy two 
 volumes of the three of his works as published 
 b\' Dodsley ; the former are good specimens of 
 English style ; without the learning of Cowley, 
 but Avith a good deal of his ease and ele- 
 gance." 
 
 DAYID MALLETT. 
 
 " David Mallett was the son of a small inn- 
 keeper in Crieff, Perthshire, where he was bom 
 in the year 1700. Crieff, as many of our 
 readers know, is situated on the western side 
 of a hiU, and commands a most varied and 
 beautiful prospect, including Drummond 
 
From 1127 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Castle, -with its solemn shadowy woods, and 
 the Ochils, on the south, — Ochtertyre, one of 
 the loveliest spots in Scotland, and the gorge 
 of Glenturrett, on the north, — and the bold 
 dark hiUs which surround the romantic village 
 of Comrie, on the west. Crieff is now a place 
 of considerable note, and forms a centre of 
 summer attraction to multitudes ; but at the 
 commencement of the eighteenth century it 
 must have been a miserable hamlet. Malloch 
 was originally the name of the poet, and the 
 name is still common in that part of Perth- 
 shire. David attended the college of Aberdeen, 
 and became, afterwards, an unsalaried tutor 
 in the family of Mr. Home of Dreghom, near 
 Edinburgh. We find him next in the Duke of 
 Montrose's family, with a salary of .£30 per 
 annum. In 1723 he accompanied his pupils 
 to London, and changed his name to Mallett, 
 as more euphonious. Next year he produced 
 his pretty ballad of ' William and Margaret,' 
 and published it in Aaron HiU's ' Plain 
 Dealer,' This served as an introduction to 
 the literary society of the metropolis, including 
 such names as Young and Pope. In 1733 he 
 disgraced himself by a satire on the greatest 
 man then living — the venerable Richard 
 Bentley, Mallett was one of those mean 
 creatures who always worship a rising, and 
 turn their backs on a setting sun. By his 
 very considerable talents, his management, and 
 his address, he soon rose in the world. He 
 was appointed under-secretary to the Prince of 
 AVales, ■with a salary of ^6200 a year. In con- 
 junction with Thomson, to whom he was really 
 kind, he -wrote, in 1740, ' The Masque of 
 Alfred,' in honour of the birthday of the 
 Princess Augusta. His first wife, of whom 
 nothing is recorded, having died, he married 
 the daughter of Lord Carlisle's steward, who 
 brought him a fortune of j£l 0,000. Both she 
 and Mallett gave themselves out as Deists. 
 This was partly owing to his intimacy with 
 Bolingbroke, to gratify whom he heaped abuse 
 upon Pope in a preface to ' The Patriot-King,' 
 and was rewarded by Bolingbroke leaving him 
 the whole of his works and MSS. These he 
 afterwards published, and exposed himself to 
 the vengeful sarcasm of Johnson, who said 
 that Bolingbroke was a scoundrel and a coward 
 — a scoundrel, to charge a blunderbuss against 
 Christianity ; and a coward, because he durst 
 not fire it himself, but left a shilling to a beg- 
 garly Scotsman to draw the trigger after his 
 death. Mallett ranked himself among the 
 calumniators and, as it proved, murderers of 
 Admiral Byng. He wrote a Life of Lord 
 Bacon, in which, it was said, he forgot that 
 Bacon was a philosopher, and would, probably, 
 wlien he came to v/rite the Life of Marlborough, 
 forget that he was a general. This Life of 
 Bacon is now utterly forgotten. We happened 
 to read it in our early days, and thought it a 
 very contemptible performance. The Duchess 
 of Marlborough left .£1,000 m her will between 
 Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her 
 
 husband. Glover threw up his share of the 
 work, and Mallett engaged to perform the 
 whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated 
 by a pension from the second Duke of Marl- 
 borough. He got the money, but when he 
 died it was found that he had not written a 
 line of the work. In his latter daiys he held 
 the lucrative ofiice of Keeper of the Book of 
 Entries for the port of London. He died on 
 the 21st of April, 1765. 
 
 " Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to 
 Scotland. He was a bad, mean, insincere, and 
 unprincipled man, whose success was procured 
 by despicable and dastardly arts. He had 
 doubtless some genius, and his ' Birks of 
 Invermay' and ' William and Margaret ' shall 
 preserve his name after his clumsy imitation 
 of Thomson, called ' The Excursion,' and his 
 long, rambhng ' Amyntor and Theodora,' have 
 been forgotten." — See GUfiHan's " Less-known 
 Brit. Poets," vol. iii., pp. 130-132. 
 
 MAEK AKENSIDE. 
 
 " Mark Akenside, born 1721, died 1770, was 
 the son of a butcher, and was born at New- 
 castle-on-Tyne. An accident in his early years , 
 caused by the fall of his father's cleaver on 
 his foot, lamed him for life, and perpetuated 
 the memory of his lowly birth. He received 
 his education at the grammar-school of that 
 town, where Lord Eldon, Lord Stowell, and 
 Lord Collingwood also received the rudiments 
 of learning : he afterwards graduated at the 
 universities of Edinburgh and Leyden. On 
 his return to England he settled for a shrot 
 time at Northampton, then at Hampstead, and 
 finally in London. Here he gained ultimately 
 the highest honours of his profession, and 
 when he died was physician to the queen. 
 'His chief poem, on ' The Pleasures of Ima- 
 gination,' he completed before he left Leyden. 
 On reaching London it was sent to Dodsley, 
 who, by Pope's advice, purchased and pub- 
 lished it. The sum he gave was .£120, then 
 deemed a large amount for such a work. It 
 immediately gained a measure of celebrity 
 which it has scarcely maintained. In later 
 life Akenside altered it in parts without im- 
 proving it : he made it, indeed, only more 
 dry and scholastic, and is said to have re- 
 modelled some of the passages which in their 
 primitive state are still most admired and 
 popular. He also published a collection of 
 ' Odes,' and in 1746 he engaged to write in 
 the ' Museum,' a periodical then issued by 
 Dodsley' s house. 
 
 " Akenside' s genius was decidedly classical: 
 he had extensive learning, lofty conceptions, 
 and a true love and knowledge of nature. His 
 Puritan origin and tastes gave an earnest- 
 ness to his moral views which pervades all his 
 writmg. His ear, though not equal to Gray's, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Perioi?. 
 
 was correct, and his blank verse is free and 
 beautifully modulated, deserving to be studied 
 by all who would excel in that truly English 
 metre. His philosophical ideas are taken 
 chiefly from Plato, Shaftesbury, and Hutche- 
 sou. He adopted Addison's threefold division 
 ot the sources of the pleasures of imagination, 
 though in his later edition he substituted 
 another. The poem is seldom read conti- 
 nuouslj'-, but it contains many passages of 
 great force and beauty ; those, for example, 
 where he speaks of the death of Caasar, where 
 he compares nature and art, where he describes 
 the final causes of the emotion of taste, and in 
 a fragment of a fourth book, where he sketches 
 the landscape on the banks of his native Tyne, 
 and notes the feelings of his o^vn boyhood. 
 His ' Hymn to the Naiads' has the true classic 
 ring, and has caught the manner and the feel- 
 ing of Callimachus. His inscriptions — those, 
 for example, on Chaucer and Shakspere — are 
 reckoned among our best, and have been imi- 
 tated by both Southey and Wordsworth. His 
 odes are his least successful productions ; his 
 ' Ode to the Earl of Huntingdon ' having re- 
 ceived most favour. Yet withal, his popularity 
 was greater in his own day than it is likely to 
 be in ours — popularity attributable to the 
 influence of the writings of Gray, and espe- 
 cially to the revived study of Milton and other 
 classic models through the notes and writings 
 of Warton. 
 
 " It may be added that, upon the question 
 sometimes discussed, whether the progress of 
 science is favourable to poetry, Akenside 
 differs from Campbell. The latter speaks of 
 poetic feelings that yield ' to cold material 
 laws .' the former holds that the ' rainbow's 
 tinctured hues ' shine the more brightly when 
 Kcience has investigated and explained them." 
 — Dr. Angus's "Handbook of Eng. Lit.," pp. 
 216, 217. See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON. 
 
 " George, Lord Lyttelton, born at Hagley, 
 in Jan., 1708-9, was the eldest son of Sir 
 Thomas Lyttelton, Bart., of the same place. 
 He received his early education at Eton, 
 whence he was sent to Christchurch College, 
 Oxford. In both of these places he was dis- 
 tinguished for classical literature, and some 
 of his poems which we have borrowed were 
 the fruits of his juvenile studies. In his nine- 
 teenth year he set out on a tour to the Conti- 
 nent ; and some of the letters which he wrote 
 during this absence to his father are pleasing 
 proofs of his sound principles, and his unre- 
 served confidence in a venerated parent. He 
 also wrote a poetical epistle to Dr. Ayscough, 
 his Oxford tutor, which is one of the best of 
 his works. On his return from abroad he Avas 
 chosen representative in Parliament for the 
 
 borough of Oakhampton ; and being warmed 
 with that patriotic ardour which rarely fails 
 to inspire the bosom of an ingenuous youth, 
 he became a distinguished partisan of opposi- 
 tion politics, whilst his father was a supporter 
 of the ministry, then ranged under the banners 
 of Walpole. "When Frederic Prince of Wales, 
 having quarrelled with the court, formed a 
 separate court of his own, in 1737, Lyttelton 
 was appointed secretary to the Prince, with an 
 advanced salary. At this time Pope bestowed 
 his praise upon our patriot in an animated 
 couplet : 
 
 Free as young Lyttelton her course pursue, 
 Still true to virtue, and as warm as true. 
 
 " In 1741 he married Lucy, the daughter of 
 Hugh Fortescue, Esq., a lady for whom he 
 entertained the purest affection, and with 
 whom he lived in unabated conjugal harmony. 
 Her death in childbed, in 1747, was lamented 
 by him in a ' Monody,' which stands promi- 
 nent among his poetical works, and displays 
 much natural feeling, amidst the more elabo- 
 rate strains of a poet's imagination. So much 
 may suffice respecting his productions of this 
 class, which are distinguished by the correct- 
 ness of their versification, the elegance of their 
 diction, and the delicacy of their sentiments. 
 His miscellaneous pieces, and his history of 
 Henry II., the last, the work of his age, have 
 each their appropriate merits, but may here 
 be omitted. 
 
 " The death of his father, in 1751, produced 
 his succession to the title and a large estate ; 
 and his taste for rural ornament rendered 
 Hagley one of the most debghtful residences 
 in the kingdom. At the dissolution of the 
 ministry, of which he composed a part, in 
 1759, he was rewarded with elevation to the 
 peerage, by the style of Baron Lyttelton, of 
 Frankley, in the county of Worcester, He 
 died of a lingering disorder, which he bore 
 with pious resignation, in August, 1773, in the 
 64th 3'ear of his age." — Aikin's " Select Brit. 
 Poets." See Gilfillan's Ed. of " Brit. Poets." 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Thomas Gray, born 1716, died 1771, " was 
 a man of vast and varied acquirements, and 
 whose life was devoted to the cultivation of 
 letters. He was the son of a respectable 
 London money-scrivener, but his father was a 
 man of violent and arbitrary character, and 
 the poet was early left to the tender care of 
 an excellent mother, who had been obliged to 
 separate from her tyrannical husband. He 
 received his education at Eton, and afterwards 
 settled in learned retirement at Cambridge, 
 where he passed nearly the whole of his life. 
 He travelled in France and Italy as tutor to 
 Horace Walpole, but quarrelling with his 
 
From 1727 io 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 pupil, he returned home alone. Fixing him- 
 self at Cambridge, he soon acquired a high 
 poetical reputation by his beautiful ' Ode on a 
 Distant Prospect of Eton College,' published 
 in 1747, which was followed, at pretty fre- 
 quent intervals, by his other imposing and 
 highly-finished works, the ' Elegy written in 
 a Country Churchyard,' the ' Pindaric Odes,' 
 and the far from numerous but splendid pro- 
 ductions which make up his works. His 
 quiet and studious retirement was only broken 
 by occasional excursions to the North of Eng- 
 land, and other holiday journeys, of which he 
 has given in his letters so vivid and animated 
 a description. His correspondence with his 
 friends, and particularly with the poet Mason, 
 is remarkable for intei-esting details, (descrip- 
 tions, and reflections, and is indeed, hke that 
 of Cowley, among the most delightful records 
 of a thoughtful and literary life. Gray refused 
 the offer of the Laureateship, which was pro- 
 posed to him on the death of Cibber, but 
 accepted the appointment of Professor of 
 Modern History in the University, though he 
 never performed the functions of that chair, 
 his fastidious temper and indolent self- 
 indulgence keeping him perpetually engaged 
 in forming vast literary projects which he 
 never executed. He appears not to have been 
 popular among his colleagues ; his haughty, 
 retiring, and somewhat effeminate character 
 prevented him from sympathizing with the 
 tastes and studies that prevailed th«ve ; and 
 he was at little pains to conceal his contempt 
 for academical society. His industry was un- 
 tiring, and his acquirements undoubtedly im- 
 mense ; for he had pushed his researches far 
 beyond the usual limits of ancient classical 
 philology, and was not only deeply versed in 
 the romance literature of the Middle Ages, in 
 modern French and Italian, but had studied 
 the then almost unknown departments of 
 Scandinavian and Celtic poetry. Constant 
 traces may be found in all his works of the 
 degree to which he had assimilated the spirit 
 not only of the Greek lyric poetry, but the 
 finest perfume of the great Italian writers : 
 many passages of his works are a kind of 
 mosaic of thought and imagery borrowed from 
 Pindar, from the choral portions of the Attic 
 tragedy, and from the majestic lyrics of the 
 Italian poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
 centuries : but though the substance of these 
 mosaics may be borrowed from a multitude of 
 sources, the fragments are, so to say, fused 
 into one solid body by the intense flame of a 
 powerful and fervent imagination. His finest 
 lyric compositions are the Odes entitled ' The 
 Bard,' that on the ' Progress of Poetry,' the 
 ' Installation Ode ' on the Duke of Grafton's 
 election to the Chancellorship of the Uni- 
 versity, and the short but truly noble ' Ode 
 to Adversity,' which breathes the severe and 
 lofty spirit of the highest Greek lyric in- 
 spiration. The ' Elegy written in a Country 
 Churchyard ' is a masterpiece from beginning 
 
 to end. The thoughts indeed are obvious 
 enough, but the dignity Avith which they are 
 expressed, the immense range of allusion and 
 description with which they are illustrated, 
 and the finished grace of the language and 
 versification in which they are embodied^ give 
 to this work something of that inimitable per- 
 fection of design and execution which we see 
 in an antique statue or a sculptured gem. In 
 the ' Bard,' starting from the picturesque idea 
 of a Welsh poet and patriot contemplating 
 the victorious invasion of his country by 
 Edward I., he passes in prophetic review the 
 whole panorama of English History, and gives 
 a series of most animated events and per* 
 sonages from the thirteenth to the eighteenth 
 century. It is true that he is occasionally 
 turgid, but the general march of the poem 
 has a rush and a glow worthy of Pindar him- 
 self. The phantoms of the great and the 
 illustrious flit before us like the shadowy 
 kings in the weird procession of Macbeth : 
 and the unity of sentiment is maintained first 
 by the gratified vengeance with which the 
 prophet foresees the crimes and sufferings of 
 the oppressors of his country and their de- 
 scendants, and by the triumphant prediction 
 of the glorious reign of the Tudor race in 
 Britain. In the odes entitled ' The Fatal 
 Sisters ' and ' The Descent of Odin,' Gray 
 borrowed his materials from the Scandinavian 
 legends. The tone of the Norse poetry is not 
 perhaps very faithfully reproduced, but the 
 fiery and gigantic imagery of the ancient 
 Scalds was for the first time imitated in 
 English ; and though the chants retain some 
 echoes of the sentiment and versification of 
 more modern and polished literature, these 
 attempts to revive the rude and archaic 
 grandeur of the mythological traditions of the 
 Eddas deserve no niggardly meed of appro- 
 bation. In general Gray may be said to over- 
 colour his language, and to indulge occasionally 
 in an excess of ornament and personifica- 
 tion ; he will nevertheless be always regarded 
 as a lyric poet of a very high order, and as 
 one who brought an immense store of varied 
 and picturesque erudition to feed the fire of a 
 rich and powerful fancy." — Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit.," pp. 388, 389; Allibonc's "Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit. " ; Beeton's " Diet. Univer. 
 Biog." ; Gilfillan's Ed. of " Gray's Poems." 
 
 WILLIAM MASON. 
 
 " William Mason, a poet of some distinction, 
 born in 1725, was the son of a clergyman, who 
 held the living of Hull. He was admitted 
 first of St. John's College, and afterwards of 
 Pembroke CoUege, Cambridge, of the latter of 
 which he was elected Fellow in 1747. He 
 entered into holy orders in 1754, and, by the 
 favour of the Earl of Holderness, was pre- 
 
 38 
 
BIOGEAPKICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 sented to the valuable rectory of Aston, 
 Yorkshire, and became chaplain to His 
 Majesty. Some poems which he printed gave 
 him reputation, Avhich received a great ac- 
 cession from his dramatic poem of ' Elfrida.' 
 By this piece, and his ' Caractacus,' which 
 followed, it Avas his aim to attempt the 
 restoration of the ancient Greek chorus in 
 tragedy ; but this is so evidently an appen- 
 dage of the infant and imperfect state of the 
 drama, that a pedantic attachment to the 
 ancients could alone suggest its revival. In 
 1756 he published a small collection of 
 * Odes,' which were generally considered as 
 displaying more of the artificial mechanism 
 of poetry, than of its genuine spirit. This 
 was not the case with his ' Elegies,' published 
 in 1763, which, abating some superfluity of 
 ornament, are in general marked with the 
 simplicity of language proper to this species 
 of composition, and breathe noble sentiments 
 of freedom and virtue. A collection of all 
 his poems which he thought worthj'- of prs- 
 serving, was published in 1764, and afterwards 
 went through several editions. He had 
 married an amiable lady, who died of a con- 
 sumption in 1767, and was buried in the 
 cathedral of Bristol, under a monument, on 
 which are inscribed some very tender and 
 beautiful lines, by her husband. 
 
 " In 1772, the first book of Mason's * En- 
 glish Garden,' a didactic and descriptive poem, 
 in blank verse, made its appearance, of which 
 the fourth and concluding book was printed 
 in 1781. Its purpose was to recommend the 
 modern system of natural or landscape gar- 
 dening, to which the author adheres with 
 the rigour of exclusive taste. The versifica- 
 tion is formed upon the best models, and the 
 description, in many ]Darts, is rich and A^vid ; 
 but a general air of stiffness prevented it 
 from attaining any considerable share of 
 popularity. Some of his following poetic 
 pieces express his liberal sentiments on poli- 
 tical subjects ; and when the late Mr. Pitt 
 came into power, being then the friend of a 
 free constitution, Mason addressed him in an 
 ' Ode,' containing many patriotic and manly 
 ideas. But being struck Avith alarm at the 
 unhappy events of the French Ee volution, 
 one of his latest pieces was a ' Palinody to 
 Liberty.' He likewise revived, in an improved 
 form, and published, Du Fresnoy's Latin 
 poem on the Art of Painting, enriching it 
 with additions furnished by Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds, and with a metrical version. Few 
 have been better executed than this, which 
 unites to great beauties of language a correct 
 representation of the original. His tribute 
 to the memory of Gray, being an edition of 
 his poems, with some additions, and ' Memoirs 
 of ^ his Life and "Writings,' was favourably re- 
 ceived by the public. 
 
 " Mason died in April, 1797, at the a,ge of 
 S5V3nty-two, in consequence of a mortification 
 produced by a hurt in his leg. A tablet has 
 
 been placed to his memory in Poets' Corner, 
 in Westminster Abbey. His character in 
 private life was exemplary for worth and 
 active benevolence, though not without a 
 degree of stateliness and assumed superiority 
 of manner." — Aikin's " Select Brit. Poets." 
 See Gilfillan's " Less-known Brit. Poets " ; 
 Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, bom 1728, died 1774. 
 " The#most charming and versatile, and cer- 
 tainly one of the greatest writers of the 
 eighteenth century, whose works, whether in 
 prose or verse, bear ^ peculiar stamp of gentle 
 grace and elegance. He was bom at the 
 village of Pallas, in the county of Longford, 
 Ireland. His father was a poor curate of 
 English extraction, struggling, with the aid 
 of farming and a miserable stipend, to bring 
 up a large family. By the assistance of a 
 benevolent uncle, Mr. Contarine, Oliver was 
 enabled to enter the University of Dublin in 
 the humble quality of sizar. He however 
 neglected the opportunities for study which 
 the place offered him, and became notorious 
 for his irregularities, his disobedience to au- 
 thority, and above all for a degree of im- 
 providence carried to the extreme, though 
 excused by a tenderness and charity almost 
 morbid. The earlier part of his life is an 
 obscure and monotonous narrative of in- 
 effectual struggles to subsist, and of wander- 
 ings which enabled him to traverse almost 
 the whole of Europe. Having been for 
 a short time tutor in a family in Ireland, 
 he determined to study medicine ; and after 
 nominally attending lectures in Edinburgh, he 
 began those travels — for the most part on 
 foot, and subsisting by the aid of his flute 
 and the charity given to a poor scholar — 
 which successively led him to Leyden, throiigh 
 Holland, France, Germany, and Switzerland, 
 and even to Pavia, where he boasted, though 
 the assertion is hardly capable of proof, that 
 he received a medical degree. His pro- 
 fessional as well as his general knowledge 
 was of the most superficial and inaccurate 
 character. It was while wandering in the 
 guise of a beggar in Switzerland that he 
 sketched out the plan of his poem of the 
 ' Traveller,' which afterwards formed the 
 commencement of his fame. In 1756 he 
 found his way back to his native country ; 
 and his career during about eight years was 
 a succession of desultory struggles Avith 
 famine, sometimes as a chemist's shopman in 
 London ; sometimes as an usher in boarding- 
 schools, the drudge of his employers and the 
 butt and laughing-stock of the pupils ; some- 
 times as a practitioner of medicine among the 
 poorest and most squalid population — ' the 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 beg-gars in Axe Lane,' as he expressed it him- 
 self ; and more generally as a miserable and 
 scantily-paid bookseller's hack. More than 
 •once, under the pressure of intolerable dis- 
 tress, he exchanged the bondage of the school 
 for the severer slavery of the corrector's table 
 in a printing-office, a.nd was driven back again 
 to the bondage of the school. The grace and 
 readiness of his pen would probably have af- 
 forded him a decent subsistence, even from 
 the hardly-earned Avages of a drudge-writer, 
 but for his extreme improvidence, his almost 
 childish generosity, his passion for pleasure 
 and fine clothes, and above all his propensity 
 for gambling. At one time, during this 
 wretched period of his career, he failed to 
 pass the examination qualifying him for the 
 humble medical post of a hospital mate; and, 
 under the pressure of want and improvidence, 
 committed the dishonourable action of pawn- 
 ing a suit of clothes lent him by his employer, 
 Griffiths, for the purpose of appearing with 
 decency before the Board. His literary ap- 
 prenticeship was passed in this severe school 
 — writing to order, and at a moment's notice, 
 schoolbooks, tales for children, prefaces, in- 
 dexes, and reviews of books ; and contributing 
 to the • Monthly,' ' Critical,' and ' Lady's 
 Eeview,' the ' British Magazine,' and other 
 periodicals. His chief employer in this way 
 appears to have been Griffiths, and he is said 
 to have been at one time engaged as a cor- 
 rector of the press in Richardson's sersdce. 
 In this period of obscure drudgery he com- 
 posed some of his most charming works, or 
 at least formed that inimitable style which 
 makes him the rival, and perhaps more than 
 the rival, of Addison. He produced the 
 ' Chinese Letters,' the plan of which is imi- 
 tated from Montesquieu's ' Lettres Persanes,' 
 giving a description of English life and man- 
 ners in the assumed character of a Chinese 
 traveller, and containing some of those little 
 sketches and humorous characters in which 
 he was unequalled ; a ' Life of Beau Nash ; ' 
 and a short and gracefully -narrated ' History 
 of England,' in the form of ' Letters from a 
 Nobleman to his Son,' the authorship of which 
 was ascribed to Lyttelton. It was in 1764 
 that the publication of his beautiful poem of 
 the ' Traveller ' caused him to emerge from 
 the slough of obscure literary drudgery in 
 which he had hitherto been crawling. The 
 imiversal judgment of the public pronounced 
 that nothing so harmonious and so original 
 had appeared since the time of Pope ; and 
 from this period Goldsmith's career was one 
 of uninterrupted literary success, though his 
 folly and improvidence kept him plunged in 
 debt which even his large earnings could not 
 enable him to avoid, and from which indeed 
 no amount of fortune would have saved him. 
 In 176G appeared the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' 
 that masterpiece of gentle humour and deli- 
 cate tenderness ; in the following year his first 
 comedy, the ' Goodnatured Man,' which failed ^ 
 
 upon the stage in some measure from its very 
 merits, some of its comic scenes shocking the 
 perverted taste of an audience which admired 
 the whining, preaching, sentimental pieces 
 that were then in fashion. In 1708 Gold- 
 smith composed, as taskwork for "the- book- 
 sellers — though taskwork for which his now 
 rapidly rising popularity secured good pay- 
 ment — the ' History of Eome,' distinguished 
 by its extreme superficiahty of information 
 and want of research no less than by en- 
 chanting grace of style and vivacity of narra- 
 tion. In 1770 he published the ' Deserted 
 Village,' the companion poem to the 'Tra- 
 veller,' written in some measure in the same 
 manner, and not less touching and perfect ; 
 and in 1773 was acted his comedy ' She 
 Stoops to Conquer,' one of the gayest, plea- 
 santest, and most amusing pieces that the 
 English stage can boast. Goldsmith had long 
 risen from the obscurity to which he had been 
 condemned : he was one of the most admired 
 and popular authors of his time ; his society 
 was courted by the wits, artists, statesmen, 
 and writers who formed a brilliant circle 
 round Johnson and Eejmolds — Burke, Garrick, 
 Beauclerk, Percy, Gibbon, Boswell — and he 
 became a member of that famous Club which 
 is so intimately associated with the in- 
 tellectual history of that time. Goldsmith 
 was one of those men whom it is impossible 
 not to love, and equally impossible not to 
 despise and laugh at ; his vanity, his childish 
 though not malignant envy, his more than 
 Irish aptitude for blunders, his eagerness to 
 shine in conversation, for which he was pecu- 
 liarly unfitted, his weaknesses and genius 
 combined, made him the pet and the laughing- 
 stock of the company. He was now in the 
 receipt of an income which for that time and 
 for the profession of letters might have been 
 accounted splendid ; but his improvidence 
 kept him plunged in debt, and he was always 
 anticipating his receipts, so that he continued 
 to be the slave of booksellers, who obliged 
 him to waste his exquisite talent on works 
 hastily thrown off, and for which he neither 
 possessed the requisite knowledge nor could 
 make the necessary researches : thus he 
 successively put forth as taskwork the 
 ' History of England,' the ' History of 
 Greece,' and the ' History'- of Animated 
 Nature,' the two former works being mere 
 compilations of second-hand facts, and the 
 last an epitomized translation of BufFon. In 
 these books we see how Goldsmith's never- 
 failing charm of style and easy grace of 
 nai-ration compensates for total ignorance 
 and a complete absence of independent know- 
 ledge of the subject. In 1774 this brilliamt 
 and feverish career was terminated. Gold- 
 smith was sufi'ering from a painful and dan- 
 gerous disease, aggravated by disquietude of 
 mind arising from the disorder in his affairs ; 
 and rolj'ing upon his knowledge of medicine 
 he imprudently persisted in employin'? a 
 
 38* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Pebiod.- 
 
 violent remedy, ag-ainst the advice of his phy- 
 sicians. He died at the age of foi-ty-six, 
 deeply mourned by the brilliant circle of 
 friends to which his very weaknesses had 
 endeared him no less than his admirable 
 genius, and surrounded by the tears and 
 blessings of many wretches whom his in- 
 exhaustible benevolence had relieved. He 
 was buried in the Temple Churchyard, and a 
 monument was erected to his memory in 
 Westminster Abbey, for which Johnson wrote 
 a Latin inscription, one passage of which 
 gracefully alludes to the versatility of his 
 genius : ' qui nullum fere scribendi genus non 
 tetigit, nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.' 
 
 " In everything Goldsmith wrote, prose or 
 verse, serious or comic, there is a peculiar 
 delicacy and purity of sentiment, tinging, of 
 course, the language and diction as well as 
 the thought. It seems as if his genius, though 
 in its earlier career surrounded with squalid 
 distress, was incapable of being sullied by 
 any stain of coarseness or vulgarity. Though 
 of English descent he had in an eminent 
 degree the defects as well as the virtues of 
 the Irish character ; and no quality in his 
 writings is more striking than the union of 
 grotesque humour with a sort of pensive ten- 
 derness which gives to his verse a peculiar 
 character of gliding melody and grace. He 
 had seen much, and reproduced with singular 
 vivacity quaint strokes of nature, as in his 
 sketch of Beau Tibbs and innumerable pas- 
 sages in the * Vicar of Wakefield.' The two 
 poems of the ' Traveller ' and the ' Deserted 
 Village' wiU ever be regarded as masterpieces 
 of sentiment and description. The light yet 
 rapid touch with which, in the former, he 
 has traced the scenery and the natural pecu- 
 liarities of various countries will be admired 
 long after the reader has learned to neglect 
 the false social theories embodied in his 
 deductions ; and in spite of the inconsistency 
 pointed out by Macaulay, between the pic- 
 tures of the village in its pristine beauty and 
 happiness, and the same village when ruined 
 and depopulated by the forced emigi-ation of 
 its inhabitants, the reader lingers over the 
 delicious details of human as well as inanimate 
 nature which the poet has combined into the 
 lovely pastoral picture of ' sv/eet Auburn.' 
 The touches of tender personal feeling which 
 he has interwoven with his description, as the 
 fond hope with which he dwelt on the i^roject 
 of returning to pass his age among the scones 
 of innocence which had cradled his boyhood, 
 the comparison of himself to a hare returning 
 to die whore it was kindled, the deserted 
 garden, the village alehouse, the school, and 
 the evening landscape, are all touched with 
 the pensive grace of a Claude ; while, when 
 the occasion demands, Goldsmith rises with 
 easy wing to the height of lofty and even 
 sublime elevation, as in the image of the 
 Btorm-girded yet sunshine-crowned peak to 
 which he compares the good pastor. 
 
 " The ' Vicar of Wakefield,' in spite of the 
 extreme absurdity and inconsistency of its 
 I plot, an inconsistency which grows more -per- 
 ceptible in the latter part of the story, will 
 ever remain one of those rare gems which no 
 lapse of time can tarnish. The gentle and 
 quiet humour embodied in the simple Dr. 
 Primrose, the delicate yet \agorous contrasts 
 I of character in the other personages, the at- 
 j mosphere of purity, cheerfvdness, and gaiety 
 ! which envelops all the scenes and incidents, 
 I will contribute, no less than the transparency 
 and grace of the style, to make this story a 
 classic for all time. Goldsmith's two come- 
 dies are vt'ritten in two different manners, the 
 ' Goodnatured Man ' being a comedy of cha- 
 racter, and ' She Stoops to Conquer " a 
 comedy of intrigue. In the first the excessive 
 easiness and generosity of the hero is not a 
 quality sufiiciently reprehensible to make him 
 a favourable subject for that satire which is 
 the essential element of this kind of theatrical 
 painting ; and the merit of the piece chiefly 
 consists in the truly laughable personage of 
 Croaker, and in the excellent scene where the 
 disguised bailiffs are passed off on Miss Eich- 
 land as the friends of Honeywood, whose 
 house and person they have seized. But in 
 ' She Stoops to Conquer ' we have a first-rate 
 specimen of the comedy of intrigue, where 
 the interest mainly depends upon a tissue of 
 lively and farcical incidents, and where the 
 characters, though lightly sketched, form a 
 gallery of eccentric pictures. The best proof 
 of Goldsmith's success in this piece is the 
 constancy with which it has always kept pos- 
 session of the stage ; and the peals of 
 laughter which never fail to greet the lively 
 bustle of its scenes and the pleasant ab- 
 surdities of Young Marlow, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hardcastle, and above all the admirable Tony 
 Lumpkin, a conception worthy of Vanbrugh 
 himself. 
 
 " Some of Goldsmith's lighter fugitive 
 poems are incomparable for their peculiar 
 humour. The ' Haunch of Venison ' is a 
 model of easy narrative and accurate sketch- 
 ing of commonplace society ; and in ' Retalia- 
 tion ' we have a series of slight yet delicate 
 portraits of some of the most distinguished 
 literary friends of the poet, thrown off with a 
 hand at once refined and vigorous. In how 
 masterly a manner, and yet in how few 
 strokes, has Goldsmith placed before us Gar- 
 rick, Burke, and Reynolds ; and how deeply 
 do we regret that he should not have given us 
 similar portraits of Johnson, Gibbon, and 
 Boswell. Several of the songs and ballads 
 scattered through his works are remarkable 
 for their tenderness and harmony, though the 
 ' Edwin and Angelina,' which has been so 
 often lauded, has always appeared to me 
 mawkish, aff'ected, and devoid of the true 
 spirit of the mediseval ballad." — Shaw's 
 " Hist, of Eng. Lit.," pp. 350—354. See Dr. 
 Angua';i " Haudbook of Eng. Lit." -, GilfiUan's 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Edit, of " Goldsmith's Poems " ; Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." ; Maunder'^ " Biog. 
 Diet." : Allibone's "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 " Tobias Smollett, well Icnown in his time 
 for the variety and multiplicity of his pub- 
 lications, was born in 1720, at Dalquhurn, 
 in the county of Dumbarton. He was edu- 
 cated under a surgeon in Glasgow, where he 
 also attended the medical lectures of the 
 University ; and at this early period he gave 
 some specimens of a talent for writing verses. 
 As it is on this ground that he has obtained a 
 l)laee in the present collection, we shall pass 
 over his various cha,racters of surgeon's mate, 
 physician, historiographer, politician, miscel- 
 laneous writer, and especially novelist, and 
 consider his claims as a minor poet of no mean 
 rank. He will be found, in this collection, as 
 the author of ' The Tears of Scotland,' the 
 ' Ode to Leven-Water,' and some other short 
 pieces, which are polished, tender, and pic- 
 turesque ; and, especially, of an ' Ode to In- 
 dependence,' -which aims at a loftier flight, 
 and perhaps has few superiors in the lyric 
 style. 
 
 " Smollett married a lady of Jamaica : he 
 was, unfortunately, of an irritable disposition, 
 which involved him in frequent quarrels, and 
 finally shortened his life. He died in the 
 neighbourhood of Leghorn, in October, 1771, 
 in the fifty-first year of his age." — Aikin's 
 " Select Brit. Poets." See Gilfillan's Edit, of 
 " Smollett's Poems." 
 
 JOHN ARMSTRONG. 
 
 " John Armstrong, a Scotch poet and physi- 
 cian, who, in 1732, took his degree of M.D. at 
 Edinburgh, In 1744 he published the ' Art 
 of Preserving Health,' one of the best 
 didactic poems in our language, and shortly 
 afterwards received the appointment of phy- 
 sician to the military hospital. In 1760 he 
 was appointed physician to the army in Ger- 
 many, and the next year wrote a poem called 
 ' Day, an Epistle to John Wilkes, of Ayles- 
 bury, Esq.' In this letter he threw out a 
 reflection upon Churchill, which drew on him 
 the resentment of that satirist. He published 
 several other works of a miscellaneous cha- 
 racter. Born at Castleton, Roxburghshire, 
 1709; died at London, 1779."— Beeton's 
 "Diet. Univ. Biog." See Allibone's " Cnt. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit."; GUfillan's Edit, of "Arm- 
 strong's Poems." 
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 " William Julius Mickle was born at Lang- 
 holm, in Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father, 
 who was a clergyman of the Scottish church, 
 had lived for some time in London, and 
 had preached in the dissenting"" meeting- 
 house of the celebrated Dr. Watts. He re- 
 turned to Scotland, on being presented to 
 the living of Langholm, the duties of which 
 he fvdfiUed for many years ; and, in consider- 
 ation of his long services, was permitted to 
 retain the stipend after he had removed to 
 Edinburgh, for the better education of his 
 children. His brother-in-law was a brewer in 
 Edinburgh, on whose death the old clergyman 
 unfortunately embarked his property, in order 
 to continue his business, under the name of 
 his eldest son. William, who was a younger 
 son, was taken from the High-School of Edin- 
 burgh, and placed as a clerk in the concern ; 
 and, on coming of age, took the whole re- 
 sponsibility of it upon himself. When it is 
 mentioned, that Mickle had, from his boyish 
 years, been an enthusiastic reader of Spenser, 
 and that, before he was twenty, he had com- 
 posed two tragedies and half an epic poem, 
 which were in due time consigned to the 
 flames, it may be easily conceived that his 
 habits of mind were not peculiarly fitted for 
 close and minute attention to a trade which 
 required incessant superintendence. He was, 
 besides, unfortunate, in becoming security for 
 an insolvent acquaintance. In the year 1763 
 he became a bankrupt; and, being appre- 
 hensive of the severity of one of his creditors, 
 he repaired to London, feeling the misery of 
 his own circumstances aggravated by those of 
 the relations whom he had left behind him. 
 
 "Before leaving Scotland, he had corre- 
 spouded with Lord Lyttelton, to whom he had 
 submitted some of his poems in MS., and one, 
 entitled ' Providence,' which he had printed 
 in 1762. Lord Lyttelton patronized his Muse 
 rather than his fortune. He undertook (to 
 use his lordship's ovn\ phrase) to be his 
 ' schoolmaster in poetry ; ' but his fastidious 
 blottings could be of no service to any man 
 who had a particle of genius : and the only 
 personal benefit wliich he attempted to render 
 him was to write to his brother, the governor 
 of Jamaica, in Mickle' s behalf, when our poet 
 had thoughts of going out to that island. 
 Mickle, however, always spoke with becoming 
 liberality of this connexion. He was pleased 
 with the suavity of Lord Lyttelton' s manners, 
 and knew that his means of patronage were 
 very slender. In the mean time, he lived 
 nearly two years in London, upon remittances 
 from his friends in Scotland, and by writing 
 for the daily papers. 
 
 "After having fluctuated between several 
 schemes for subsistence, he at length accepted 
 of the situation of corrector to the Clarendon 
 press, at Oxford. Whilst he retained that 
 office, he published a poem, which he at first 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period.—' 
 
 named ' The Concubine ; ' but on finding 
 that the title alarmed delicate ears, and sug- 
 gested a false idea of its spirit and contents, 
 he changed it to ' Syr Marty n.' At Oxford 
 he also engaged in polemical divinity, and 
 published some severe animadversions on 
 Dr. Harwood's recent translation of the Xew 
 Testament. He also showed his fidelity to 
 the cause of religion in a tract, entitled ' Vol- 
 taire in the Shades ; or, Dialogues on the 
 Deistical Controversy.' 
 
 " His greatest poetical undertaking was the 
 translation of ' The Lusiad,' which he began 
 in 1770, and finished in five years. For the 
 sake of leisure and retirement, he gave up his 
 situation at the Clarendon press, and resided 
 at the house of a Mr. Tomkins, a farmer, at 
 Forest Hill, near Oxford. The English 
 Lusiad Avas dedicated, by permission, to the 
 Duke of Buccleuch ; but his Grace returned 
 not the slightest notice or kindness to his 
 ingenious countryman. Whatever might be 
 the duke's reasons, good or bad, for this 
 neglect, he was a man fully capable of acting 
 on his own judgment ; and there was no 
 necessity for making any other person respon- 
 sible for his conduct. But Mickle, or his 
 friends, suspected that Adam Smith and 
 David Hume had maliciously stood between 
 him and the Buccleuch patronage. This was 
 a mere suspicion, which our author and his 
 friends ought either to have proved or sup- 
 pressed. Mickle was indeed the declared 
 antagonist of Hume ; he had written against 
 him, and could not hear his name mentioned 
 Avith temper : but there is not the slightest 
 evidence that the hatred was mutual. That 
 Adam Smith should have done him a mean 
 injury, no one -will believe probable, who is 
 acquainted with the traditional private cha- 
 racter of that philosopher. But Mickle was 
 also the antagonist of Smith's doctrines on 
 political economy, as may be seen in his 
 ' Dissertation on the Charter of the East 
 India Company.' The author of the ' Wealth 
 of Nations,' forsooth, was jealous of his 
 opinions on monopolies ! Even this paltry 
 supposition is contradicted by dates, for 
 Mickle's tract upon the subject of Monopolies 
 was published several years after the preface 
 to the Lusiad. Upon the whole, the suspicion 
 of his philosophical enemies having poisoned 
 the ear of the Duke of Buccleuch seems to 
 have proceeded from the same irritable vanity 
 which made him threaten to celebrate Garrick 
 as the hero of a second Dunciad when he re- 
 fused to accept of his tragedy, ' The Siege of 
 Marseilles.' 
 
 " Though the Lusiad had a tolerable sale, his 
 circumstances still made his friends solicitous 
 that ho should obtain some settled provision. 
 Dr. Lowth offered to provide for him in the 
 Church. He refused the offer with honourable 
 dehcacy, lest his former writings in favour of 
 religion should be attributed to the prospect 
 of reward. At length the friendship of his 
 
 kinsman. Commodore Johnstone, relieved him . 
 from unsettled prospects. Being appointed 
 to the command of a squadron destined -for 
 the coast of Portugal, he took out the tran- 
 slator of Camoens as his private secretary. 
 Mickle was received with distinguished 
 honours at Lisbon. The Duke of Braganza, 
 in admitting him a member of the Eoyal 
 Academy of Lisbon, presented him with his 
 own picture. 
 
 "He returned to England in 1780, with a 
 considerable acquisition of prize-money, and 
 was appointed an agent for the distribution 
 of the prize profits of the cruise. His fortune 
 now enabled him to discharge the debts of his 
 early and mercantile life. Ho married the 
 daughter of Mr. Tomkins, with whom he had 
 resided while translating the Lusiad ; and, 
 with every prospect of spending the remainder 
 of his life in affluence and tranquillity, pur- 
 chased a house, and settled at Wheatley, near 
 Oxford. So far his circumstances have almost 
 the agreeable air of a concluding novel j but 
 the failure of a banker with whom he was 
 connected as prize agent, and a chancery suit 
 in which he was involved, greatly diminished 
 his finances, and disturbed the peace of his 
 latter years. He died at Forest Hill, after a 
 short illness. 
 
 "His reputation principally rests upon the 
 translation of the Lusiad, which no English- 
 man had attempted before him, except Sir 
 Richard Fanshawe. Sir Richard's version is 
 quaint, flat, and harsh ; and he has interwoven 
 many ridiculously conceited expressions which 
 are foreign both to the spirit and style of his 
 original ; but in general it is closer than the 
 modern translation to the literal meaning oi: 
 Camoens. Altogether, Fanshawe' s represen- 
 tation of the Portuguese poem may be com- 
 pared to the wrong side of the tapestry. 
 Mickle, on the other hand, is free, flowery, and 
 periphrastical ; he is incomparably more spi- 
 rited than Fanshawe ; but still he departs from 
 the majestic simplicity of Camoens' diction as 
 widely as Pope has done from that of Homer. 
 The sonorous and simple language of the 
 Lusitanian epic is like the sound of a trumpet ; 
 and Mickle's imitation like the shakes and 
 flourishes of the flute. 
 
 " Although he was not responsible for the 
 faults of the original, he has taken abundance 
 of pains to defend them in his notes and 
 preface. In this he has not been successful. 
 The long lecture on geography and Portuguese 
 history, which Gama delivers to the King of 
 Melinda, is a wearisome interruption to the 
 narrative ; and the use of Pagan mythology 
 is a radical and unanswerable defect. Mickle 
 informs us as an apology for the latter cir- 
 cumstance, that all this Pagan machinery was 
 allegorical, and that the gods and goddesses 
 of Homer were allegorical also ; an assertion 
 which would require to be proved, before it 
 can be admitted. Camoens himself has said 
 something about his concealment of a moral 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 meaning luuler his Pagan deities ; but if he 
 has any such morality, it is so well hidden 
 that it is impossible to discover it. The 
 Venus of the Lusiad, we are told, is Divine 
 Love ; and how is this Divine Love employed ? 
 For no other end than to give the poet an 
 opportunity of displaying a scene of sensual 
 gratification, an island is purposely raised up 
 in the ocean ; Venus conducts De Gama and 
 his followers to this blessed spot, where a 
 bevy of the nymphs of Venus are very good- 
 naturedly prepared to treat them to their 
 favours ; not as a trial, but as a reward for 
 their virtues ! Voltaire was certainly justified 
 in pronouncing this episode a piece of gra- 
 tuitous indecency. In the same allegorical 
 spirit no doubt, Bacchus, who opposes the 
 Portuguese discoverers in the councils of 
 Heaven, disguises himself as a Popish priest, 
 and celebrates the rites of the CathoUc religion. 
 The imagination is somewhat puzzled to dis- 
 cover why Bacchus should be an enemy to 
 the natives of a country the soil of which is 
 so productive of his beverage ; and a friend 
 to the Mahometans who forbid the use of it : 
 although there is something amusing in the 
 idea of the joUy god officiating as a Eomish 
 clergyman. 
 
 '• Mickle's story of Syr Martyn is the most 
 pleasing of his original pieces. The object of 
 the narrative is to exhibit the degrading 
 effects of concubinage in the history of an 
 amiable man, who is reduced to despondency 
 and sottishness, under the dominion of a 
 beldam and a slattern. The defect of the 
 moral is, that the same evils might have 
 happened to Syr Martyn in a state of matri- 
 mony. The simplicity of the tale is also, 
 unhappily, overlaid by a weight of allegory, 
 and of obsolete phraseology, which it has not 
 importance to sustain. Such a style applied 
 to the history of a man and his housekeeper, 
 is hke building a diminutive dwelling in all 
 the pomp of Gothic architecture." — Campbell's 
 " Specimens," pp. 609 — 611. 
 
 JOHN LANGHORNE. 
 
 *' This poetical divine was born in 1735, at 
 Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. Left father- 
 less at four years old, his mother fidfiUed 
 her double charge of duty with great ten- 
 derness and assiduity. He was educated 
 at Appleby, and subsequently became assistant 
 at the Free-school of Wakefield, took deacon's 
 orders, and gave promise, although very 
 young, of becoming a popular preacher. After 
 various vicissitud(^s of life and fortune, and 
 publishing a number of works in prose and 
 verpe, Langhoi-ne repaired to London, and 
 obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship 
 of Wt. John's, ClerkenweU. He soon after- 
 wards became assistant-preacher m Lincoln's 
 
 Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual 
 audience to address, and bore a somewhat 
 trying ordeal with complete success. He con- 
 tinued for a number of years in London, 
 maintaining his reputation both as a preacher 
 and writer. His most popular works were 
 the ' Letters of Theodosius and Constantia,' 
 and a translation of Plutarch's Gvcs, which 
 Wrangham afterwards corrected and im- 
 proved, and which is still standard. He was 
 twice married, and survived both his Avives. He 
 obtained the living of Blagden in Somerset- 
 shire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend 
 in the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, 
 aged only forty-four ; his death, it is supposed, 
 being accelerated by intemperance, although 
 it does not seem to have been of a gross or 
 aggravated description. 
 
 " Langhorne, an amiable man, and highly 
 popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, 
 survives now in memory chiefly through his 
 Plutarch's Lives, and through a few lines in 
 his ' Country Justice,' which are immor- 
 taKsed by the well-known story of Scott's 
 interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a 
 plea besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but 
 the plea, being founded on early reading, is 
 partial, and has not been responded to by the 
 public." — Gilfillan's " Less-Known Brit. 
 Poets," pp. 220, 221. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 
 
 " Sir William Blackstone, a learned English 
 judge, who, in 1738, was entered at Pembroke 
 College, Oxford, and at the age of twenty com- 
 posed a treatise on the elements of architec- 
 ture. He also cultivated poetry, and obtained 
 Mr. Benson's prize medal for the best verses 
 on Milton. These pursuits, however, were 
 abandoned for the study of the law, when he 
 composed his well-known effusion called ' The 
 Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse.' In 1740 he 
 was entered at the Middle Temple, and in 
 1744 chosen fellow of All Souls College. In 
 1749 he was appointed recorder of Walling- 
 ford, in Berkshire, and in the following year 
 became LL.D., and published an ' Essay on 
 Collateral Consanguinity,' occasioned by the 
 exclusive claim to fellowships made by the 
 founder's kindred at All Souls. In 1758 he 
 printed ' Considerations on Copyholders ; ' 
 and the same year was appointed Vinerian 
 professor of the common law, his lectures in 
 which capacity gave rise to his celebrated 
 'Commentaries.' In 1759 he published 
 ' Reflections on the Opinions of Messrs. Pratt, 
 Moreton, and Wilbraham,' relating to Lord 
 Lichfield's disqualification ; his lordship being 
 then candidate for the chancellorship. Tho 
 same year appeared his edition of ' The Great 
 Charter, and Charter of the Forest.' Of this 
 work it has been said that there is net a 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 sentence in the composition that is not neces- 
 sary to the whole, and that should not be 
 perused. In 1761 he was made king's counsel, 
 and chosen member of parliament for Hindon, 
 in Wilts. The same year he vacated his 
 fellowship by marriage, and was appointed 
 principal of New-inn Hall. In 1763 he was 
 appointed solicitor-general to the Queen, and 
 bencher of the Middle Temple. In the next 
 year appeared the first volume of his ' Com- 
 mentaries,' which was followed by three 
 others. It is upon these that his fame now 
 principally rests ; and, although opinion is 
 divided as to the correctness and depth of the 
 matter they contain, the beauty, precision, 
 and elegance of their style have called forth 
 universal admiration. In 1766 he resigned 
 his places at Oxford ; and in 1768 was chosen 
 member for Westbury, in Wiltshire. In 1770 
 he became one of the judges in the court of 
 King's Bench, whence he removed to the 
 Common Pleas. He now fixed his residence 
 in London, and attended to the duties of his 
 office with great application, untU overtaken 
 by death. Born in London, 1723 ; died 1780. 
 — The fundamental error in the ' Commen- 
 taries ' is thus pointed out by Jeremy Ben- 
 tham. ' There are two characters,' says he, 
 ' one or other of which every man who finds 
 anything to say on the subject of law may be 
 said to take upon him, — that of the expositor, 
 and that of the censor. To the province of 
 the expositor it belongs to explain to us what 
 he supposes the law is ; to that of the censor, 
 to observe to us what he thinks it ought to 
 ■be. Of these two perfectly distinguishable 
 functions, the former alone is that which it 
 fell necessarily within our author's province 
 to discharge.' Blackstone, however, makes 
 use of both these functions throughout his 
 work, and hence the confusion. His produc- 
 tions have found several translators on the 
 Continent." — Beeton's '• Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 See Maunder' s " Diet. Biog. " ; Allibone's 
 " Crit. Di«t. Eng. Lit." 
 
 BISHOP PERCY. 
 
 " Bishop Percy, born 1 728. died 1811. The 
 great revolution in taste, substituting romantic 
 for classical sentiment and subjects, which 
 culminated in the poems and novels of Walter 
 Scott, is traceable to the labours of Bishop 
 Percy. The friend of Johnson, and one of the 
 most accomplished member's of that circle in 
 which Johnson was supreme, Percy was strongly 
 impressed with the vast stores of the beau- 
 tiful, though rude poetry which lay buried in 
 obscure collections of ballads and legendary 
 compositions, and he devoted himself to the 
 task of explaining and popularising the then 
 neglected beauties of these old rhapsodists 
 with the ardour of an antiquary, and with the 
 
 taste of a true poet. His publication in 1765, 
 under the title of ' Reliques of Ancient Eng- 
 lish Poetry,' of a collection of such ballads, 
 many of which had been preserved only in 
 manuscript, while others, having originally 
 been printed in the rudest manner on flying 
 sheets for circulation among the lower orders 
 of the people, had owed their preservation 
 only to the care of collectors, must be con- 
 sidered as a critical epoch in the history of 
 our literature. Many authors before him, as, 
 for example, Addison and Sir Philip Sydney, 
 had expressed the admiration which a culti- 
 vated taste must ever feel for the rough but 
 inimitable graces of our old ballad-poets ; but 
 Percy was the first w^ho undertook an exami- 
 nation, at once systematic and popular, of 
 those neglected treasures. His ' Essay on the 
 Ancient Minstrels,' prefixed to the pieces he 
 selected, exhibits considerable research, and 
 is written in a pleasing and attractive manner ; 
 and the extracts are made with great taste, 
 and with a particular view of exciting the 
 public sympathy in favour of a class of compo- 
 sitions, the merits of which were then new 
 and unfamiliar to the general reader. It is 
 true that he did not always adhere with scru- 
 pulous fidelity to the ancient texts, and where 
 the poems were in a fragmentary and imper- 
 fect condition, he did not hesitate, any more 
 than Scott after him in the ' Border Jlin- 
 strelsy,' to fill up the rents of time with 
 matter of his own invention. This, however, 
 at a period when his chief object was to excite 
 among general readers an interest in these 
 fine old monuments of mediaeval genius, was 
 no unpardonable offence, and gave him the 
 opportunity of exhibiting his own poetical 
 powers, which were far from contemptible, 
 and his skill in imitating, with more or less 
 success, the language and manner of the 
 ancient Border poets. Percy found, in col- 
 lecting these old compositions, that the majo- 
 rity of those most curious from their antiquity 
 and most interesting from their merit were 
 distinctly traceable, both as regards their 
 subjects and the dialect in which they were 
 written, to the North Count ree ; that is, to 
 the frontier region between England and Scot- 
 land, which, during the long v^ars that had 
 raged almost without intermission between 
 the Borderers on both sides of the Debatcable 
 Land, had necessarily been the scene of the 
 most frequent and striking incidents of pre- 
 datory warfare, such as those recorded in the 
 noble ballads of ' Chevy Chase,' and the 
 ' Battle of Otterburn.' The language in the 
 Northern marches of England, and in the 
 Scottish frontier-region bordering upon them, 
 was one and the same dialect ; something be- 
 tween the Lowla.nd Scotch and the speech of 
 Cumberland or Westmoreland : and it is curi- 
 ous to find the ballad-singer modifying the 
 incidents of his legend so as to suit the preju- 
 dices and flatter the national pride of his 
 listeners according as they were inhabitants 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 of the Northern or Southern district. In 
 Tarious independent copies or versions of the 
 same legend, we find the victory given to the 
 one side or to the other, and the English or 
 Scottish hero alternately playing the nobler 
 and more romantic part. Besides a very 
 large number of these purely heroic ballads, 
 Percy gave specimens of an immense series of 
 songs and lyrics extending down to a compa- 
 ratively late period of English history, em- 
 bracing even the Civil War and the Restora- 
 tion : but the chief interest of his collection, 
 and the chief service he rendered to literature 
 by his publication, is concentrated on the 
 earlier portion. It is impossible to exaggerate 
 the influence exerted by Percy's ' Reliques ; ' 
 this book has been devoured with the most 
 intense interest by generation after generation 
 of English poets, and has undoubtedly con- 
 tributed to give a first direction to the youth- 
 ful genius of many of our most illustrious 
 writers. The boyish enthusiasm of Walter 
 Scott was stirred, ' as with the sound of a 
 trumpet,' by the \'i%'id recitals of the old 
 Border rhapsodists ; and but for Percy it is 
 possible that we should have had neither the 
 ' Lady of the Lake ' nor ' Waverley.' Nor was 
 it upon the genius of Scott alone that is im- 
 pressed the stamp of this ballad imitation : 
 Wordsworth, Coleridge, even Tennyson him- 
 self have been deeply modified, in the form 
 and colouring of their productions, by the 
 same cause : and perhaps the influence of the 
 ' Reliques,' whether direct or indirect, near or 
 remote, will be perceptible to distant ages in 
 English poetry and fiction." — Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit.," pp. 412—414. 
 
 JAMES MACPHERSON. 
 
 "James Macpherson, born 1738, died 1796, 
 
 a Scotch poet, whose first work, and that 
 
 which brought him mostly into notice, was a 
 
 translation of poems attributed by him to 
 
 Ossian. These poems possess great beauty ; 
 
 but their authenticity was disputed by Dr. 
 
 Johnson and other writers, and as zealously 
 
 maintained by the editor and Dr. Blair ; it is 
 
 now, however, generally admitted that Ossian' s 
 
 poems are a forgery. In 1773 Macpherson 
 
 published a translation of the ' Iliad ' into 
 
 heroic prose, a work of little value. He was 
 
 also the author of an ' Introduction to the 
 
 History of Great Britain and Ireland,' a 
 
 ' History of Great Britain, from 1660 to the 
 
 Vccession of the House of Hanover,' and of 
 
 Some political pamphlets in defence of Lord 
 
 U'orth's administration, for which he ob- 
 
 t^ed a place and a seat in the House of 
 
 Ccaimons." — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTOX. 
 
 ' ' No nam e in our literature affords an example 
 of earher precocity or of a sadder career than 
 that of the ' marvellous boy who perished in 
 his pride,' Thomas Chatterton. He was born 
 at Bristol in 1752, was son of a -sexton and 
 parish schoolmaster, and died by suicide before 
 he had completed his eighteenth year. Yet in 
 that brief interval he gave proof of jDower un- 
 surpassed in j)ne so young, and executed a 
 number of forgeries almost without parallel 
 for ingenuity and variety. The writings which 
 he passed off as origin?ila he professes to have 
 discovered in ' Cannynge's Coffre,' a chest 
 preserved in the muniment-room of the old 
 church of St. Mary Redclifte, Bristol. These 
 he produced gradually, generally taking ad- 
 vantage of some public occurrence likely to 
 give them an interest. In October, 1768, a 
 new bridge across the Avon was opened, and 
 forthwith he sent an account of the ceremonies 
 that took place on the opening of the old 
 bridge — processions, tournaments, and re- 
 ligious solemnities. Mr. Biirgtiin, who was 
 fond of heraldic honours, he supplies with a 
 pedigree reaching back to William the Con- 
 queror. To another citizen he presents the 
 ' Romaunt of the Cnyghte,' written by one of 
 his ancestors between four and five hundred 
 years before. To a rehgious citizen he gives 
 an ancient fragment of a sermon on the 
 Holy Spirit, wroten by Thomas Rowley in 
 the fifteenth century. To another with anti- 
 quarian tastes he gives an account of the 
 churches of the city three hundred years 
 before. And to Horace Walpole, who was 
 busy writing the ' History of British Painters,' 
 he gives a record of Carvellers and Peyncters 
 who once fiourished in Bristol. Besides all 
 these forgeries he sent to the ' Town and 
 Country Magazine ' a number of poems which 
 occasioned a sharp controversy. Gray and 
 Mason at once pronounced them spurious 
 imitations, but many maintained their genu- 
 ineness. Meanwhile, Chatterton had obtained 
 a release from the attorney's office where he 
 had served for the last three years, and had 
 come to London. Here he wrote for maga- 
 zines and newspapers, gaining thereby a very 
 precarious subsistence. At last he grew de- 
 spondent, took to drinking, which aggravated 
 his constitutional tendencies, and after being 
 reduced to actual want, tore up his papers, 
 and destroyed himself by taking arsenic. He 
 was interred in the burying- ground of the 
 Shoe Lane Workhouse, and the citizens of 
 Bristol afterwards erected, in their city, a 
 monument to his memory. His poems, pub- 
 lished under the name of Rowley, consist of 
 the tragedy of ' Ella,' the ' Ode to EUa,' a 
 ballad entitled the ' Bristow Tragedy, or the 
 Death of Sir Charles Bowdin,' some pastoral 
 poems, and other minor pieces. The ' Ode to 
 Ella ' has all the air of a modern poem, except 
 spelling and phraseology. Most of the others 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 have allasions and a style more or less appro- 
 priate to the time in which they profess to 
 have been written ; but they are none of them 
 likely to deceive a competent scholar. Chat- 
 torton displays occasionally great power of 
 satire, and generally a luxuriance of fancy and 
 richness of invention which, considering his 
 youth, were not unworthy of Spenser. His 
 avowed compositions are very inferior to the 
 forgeries — a fact that Scott explains by sup- 
 posing that in the forgeries all his powers 
 must have been taxed to the utmost to sup- 
 port the deception." — Dr. Angus's " Hand- 
 book Eng. Lit." SeeAUibone's "Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit."; Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit."; Gilfillau's 
 ed. " Chatterton's Poems." 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONEE. 
 
 ♦' William Falconer, born 1730, died 1769, 
 was the son of a barber in Edinburgh, and 
 went to sea at an early age in a merchant 
 vessel of Leith. He was afterwards mate of 
 a ship that was wrecked in the Levant, and 
 was one of only three out of her crew that 
 were saved, a catastrophe which formed the 
 subject of his future poem. He was for some 
 time in the capacity of a servant to Campbell, 
 the author of ' Lexiphanes,' when purser of a 
 ship. Campbell is said to have discovered in 
 Falconer talents worthy of cultivation, and 
 when the latter distinguished himself as a 
 poet, used to boast that he had been his 
 scholar. What he learned from Campbell it 
 is not very easy to ascertain. His education, 
 as he often assured Governor Hunter, had 
 been confined to reading, writing, and a little 
 arithmetic, though in the course of his life he 
 picked up some acquaintance with the French, 
 Spanish, and Italian languages. In these his 
 countryman was not likely to have much as- 
 sisted him ; but he might have lent him books, 
 and possibly instructed him in the use of 
 figures. Falconer published his ' Shipwreck ' 
 in 1762, and by the favour of the Duke of 
 York, to whom it was dedicated, obtained the 
 appointment of a midshipman in the 'Eoyal 
 George,' and afterwards that of purser in the 
 ' Glory' frigate. He soon afterwards married 
 a Miss Hicks, an accomplished and beautiful 
 woman, the daughter of the surgeon of Sheer- 
 ness-yard. At the peace of 1763 he was on 
 the point of being reduced to distressed cir- 
 cumstances by his ship being laid up in ordi- 
 nary at Chatham, when, by the friendship of 
 Commissioner Hanway, who ordered the cabin 
 of the ' Glory ' to be fitted up for his resi- 
 dence, he enjoyed for some time a retreat for 
 study without expense or embarrassment. 
 Hero he employed himself in compiling his 
 ' Marine Dictionary,' which appeared in 1769, 
 and has been always highly spoken of by 
 those who are capable of estimating its merits. 
 
 He embarked also in the politics of the day, 
 as a poetical antagonist to Churchill, but with 
 little advantage to his memory. Before the 
 publication of his 'Marine Dictionary,' he had 
 left his retreat at Chatham for a less comfort- 
 able abode in the metropolis, and appears to 
 have struggled with considerable difficulties, 
 in the midst of which he received proposals 
 from the late Mr. Mui-ray, the bookseller, to 
 join him in the business which he had newly 
 established. The cause of his refusing this 
 offer was, in all probability, the appointment 
 which he received to the pursersliip of the 
 'Aurora,' East Indiaman. In that ship he 
 embarked for India, in September, 1769, but 
 the 'Aurora' was never heard of after she 
 passed the Cape, and was thought to have 
 foundered in the Channel of Mozambique ; so 
 that the poet of the ' Ship-wreck ' may be sup- 
 posed to have perished by the same species of 
 calamity which he had rehearsed. 
 
 " The subject of the ' Shipwreck,' and the 
 fate of its author, bespeak an uncommon par- 
 tiality in its favour. If we pay respect to the 
 ingenious scholar who can produce agreeable 
 verses amidst the shades of retirement, or the 
 shelves of his hbrary, how much more interest 
 i must we take in the ' ship-boy on the high 
 I and giddy mast,' cherishing refined visions of 
 I fancy at the hour which he may casually 
 j snatch from fatigue and danger. Nor did 
 1 Falconer neglect the proper acquirements of 
 ! seamanship in cultivating poetry, but evinced 
 considerable knowledge of his profession, both 
 in his ' Marine Dictionary ' and in the nautical 
 precepts of the ' Shipwreck.' In that poem 
 he may be said to have added a congenial 
 and peculiarly British subject to the lan- 
 guage ; at least, we had no previous poem 
 of any length of which the characters and 
 catastrophe were purely naval. 
 
 "The scene of the catastrophe (though he 
 followed only the fact of his own history) was 
 poetically laid amidst seas and shores where 
 the mind easily gathers romantic associations, 
 and where it supposes the most pictui-esque 
 vicissitudes of scenery and chmate. The 
 spectacle of a majestic British ship on the 
 shores of Greece brings as strong a remini- 
 scence to the mind as can well be imagined, of 
 the changes which time has wrought in trans- 
 planting the empire of arts and civilization. 
 Falconer's characters are few ; but the calm, 
 sagacious commander, and the rough, obsti- 
 nate Eodmond, are well contrasted. Some 
 part of the love-story of ' Palemon ' is rather 
 swainish and protracted, yet the effect of his 
 being involved in the calamity leaves a deeper 
 sympathy in the mind for the daughter o 
 Albert, when we conceive her at once deprive! 
 both of a father and a lover. The incidens 
 of the ' Ship^vreck,' like those of a w4- 
 wr ought tragedy, gradually deepen, while t^ey 
 yet leave a suspense of hope and fear toche 
 imagination. In the final scene there is sme- 
 thing that deeply touches our compassin in 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 the picture of the unfortunate man who is 
 struck blind by a flash of lightning at the 
 helm. I remember, by the way, to have met 
 with an affecting account of the identical 
 calamity befalling the steersman of a forlorn 
 vessel in a similar moment, given in a prose 
 and veracious history of . the loss of a vessel 
 on the coast of America. Falconer skilfully 
 heightens this trait by showing its effect on 
 the commiseration of Redmond, the roughest 
 of his characters, who guides the victim of 
 misfortune to lay hold of a sail. 
 
 ' A flash, quick glancing on the nerves of 
 light, 
 
 Struck the pale helmsman w^ith eternal 
 night : 
 
 Redmond, who heard a piteous groan be- 
 hind, 
 
 Touch' d with compassion, gazed upon the 
 blind ; 
 
 And, while arormd his sad companions 
 crowd, 
 
 He guides th' unhappy victim to the 
 I shroud, 
 
 Hie thee aloft, my gallant friend ! ho cries ; 
 
 Thy only succour on the mast relies ! ' 
 
 " The effect of some of his sea phrases is 
 to give a definite and authentic character to 
 his descriptions ; but that of most of them, to a 
 landsman's ear, resembles slang, and produces 
 obscurity. His diction, too, generally aboxmds 
 with common-place expletives and feeble lines. 
 His scholarship on the shores of Greece is 
 only what we should accept of from a seaman ; 
 but his poem has the sensible charm of ap- 
 pearing a transcript of reality, and leaves an 
 impression of truth and nature on the mind." 
 — Campbell' 8 "Specimens," 480, 481. See AUi- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; Chambers's 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. 
 
 ROBERT LLOYD. 
 
 " Robert Lloyd was born in London in 1733. 
 He was the son of one of the under-masters 
 of Westminster School. He went to Cam- 
 bridge, where he became distinguished for his 
 talents and notorious for his dissipation. He 
 became an usher under his father, but soon 
 tired of the drudgery, and commenced profes- 
 sional author. He published a poem called 
 ' The Actor,' which attracted attention, and 
 was the precursor of the 'Rosciad.' Ho 
 wrote for periodicals, produced some theatrical 
 pieces of no great merit, and edited the ' St. 
 James's Magazine.' This failed, and Lloyd, 
 involved in pecuniary distresses, was cast into 
 the Fleet. Here he was deserted by all his 
 boon companions except Churchill, to whose 
 sister he was attached, and who allowed him 
 a guinea a-week and a servant, besides pro- 
 moting a subscription for his benefit. When 
 
 the news of Churchill's death arrived, Lloyd 
 was seated at dinner ; he became instantly 
 sick, cried out ' Poor Charles ! I shall follow 
 him soon,' and died in a few weeks. Chur- 
 chill's sister, a woman of excellent abilities, 
 waited on Lloyd dux'ing his illness, and died 
 soon after him of a broken heartr This was 
 in 1764. 
 
 " Lloyd was a minor Churchill. He had not 
 his brawny force, but he had more than iiis 
 liveliness of wit, and was a much better-con- 
 ditioned man, and more temperate in his 
 satire. Cowper knew, loved, and admired, 
 and in some of his verses imitated, Robci't 
 Lloyd." — Gilfillan's "Less-known Brit. Poets," 
 126, 127. 
 
 CHARLES CHURCHILL. 
 
 " Charles Churchill, born 1731, died 17G4. 
 He was the son of a respectable clergyman, 
 who was curate and lecturer of St. John's, 
 Westminster. He was educated at West- 
 minster School, and entered Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, but not being disposed 
 
 'O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to 
 
 waste. 
 Or cramp wild genius in the chains of 
 taste,' 
 
 he left the university abruptly, and coming to 
 London made a clandestine marriage in the 
 Fleet. His father, though much displeased at 
 the proceeding, became reconciled to what 
 could not be remedied, and received the im- 
 prudent couple for about a year under his 
 roof. After this young Churchill went for 
 some time to study theology at Sunderland, 
 in the north of England, and having taken 
 orders, officiated at Cadbury, in Somerset- 
 shire, and at Rainham, a living of his father's 
 in Essex, till upon the death of his father he 
 sticceeded, in 1758, to the curacy and lecture- 
 ship of St. John's, Westminster. Here he 
 conducted himself for some time mth a de- 
 corum suitable to his profession, and increased 
 his narrow income by undertaking private 
 tuition. He got into debt, it is true ; and Dr. 
 Lloyd, of Westminster, the father of his friend 
 the poet, was obliged to mediate with his cre- 
 ditors for their acceptance of a composition ; 
 but when fortune put it into his power 
 Churchill honourably discharged all his obli- 
 gations. His ' Rosciad ' appeared at first 
 anonymously, in 1761, and was ascribed to 
 one or other of half the wits in town ; but 
 his acknowledgement of it, and his poetical 
 ' Apology,' in which he retaliated upon the 
 critical reviewers of his poem (not fearing to 
 affront even Fielding and Smollett), made him 
 at once famous and formidable. The players, 
 at least, felt him to be so. Garrick himself, 
 who, though extolled in the ' Rosciad,' was 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 sarcastically alluded to in the ' Apoloj?y,' 
 courted him like a suppliant ; and his satire 
 had the etfect of driving: poor Tom Davies, 
 the biographer of Garrick, though he was a 
 tolerable. performer, from the stage. A letter 
 from another actor, of the name of Davis, who 
 seems rather to have dreaded than experienced 
 his severity, is preserved in Nichols's ' Literary 
 Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century,' in 
 which the poor comedian deprecates the poet's 
 censure in an expected publication, as likely 
 to deprive him of bread. What was mean 
 in Garrick might have been an object of com- 
 passion in this humble man ; but Churchill 
 answered him with surly contempt, and hold- 
 ing to the plea of justice, treated his fears with 
 the apparent satisfaction of a hangman. His 
 moral character, in the meantime, did not 
 keep pace with his literary reputation. As he 
 got above neglect he seems to have thought 
 himself above censure. His superior, the 
 Dean of Westminster, having had occasion to 
 rebuke him for some irregularities, he threw 
 aside at once the clerical habit and profession, 
 and arrayed his ungainly form in the splen- 
 dour of fashion. Amidst the remarks of his 
 enemies, and what he pronounces the still 
 more insulting advice of his prudent friends 
 upon his irregular life, he published his epistle 
 to Lloyd, entitled ' Night,' a sort of manifesto 
 of the impulses, for they could not be called 
 principles, by which he professed his conduct 
 to be influenced. The pleading maxims of this 
 epistle are, that prudence and hj^pocrisy in 
 these times are the same thing ! that good 
 hours are but fine words ; and that it is 
 better to avow faults than to conceal them. 
 Speaking of his convivial enjoyments, he 
 says — 
 
 'Night's laughing hours unheeded slip 
 
 away, 
 Nor one dull thought foretells approach 
 of day.' 
 
 In the same description he somewhat awk- 
 wardly introduces 
 
 'Wine's gay God, with Temperance by 
 
 his side, 
 Whilst Health attends.' 
 
 How w^ould Churchill have belaboured any 
 fool or hypocrite who had pretended to boast 
 of health and temperance in the midst of 
 orgies that turned night into day ! 
 
 " By his connection with Wilkes he added 
 political to personal causes of animosity, and 
 did not diminish the number of unfavourable 
 eyes that were turned upon his private cha- 
 racter. He had certainly, with all his faults, 
 some strong and good qualities of the heart ; 
 but the particular proofs of these were not 
 likely to be sedulously collected as materials 
 of his biography, for he had now placed him- 
 self m that hght of reputation when a man's 
 likeness is taken by its shadow and darkness. 
 
 Accordingly, the most prominent circum- 
 stances that we afterwards learn respecting 
 him are, that he separated from his wife, and 
 seduced the daughter of a tradesman in West- 
 minster. At the end of a fortnight, either 
 from his satiety or repentance, he advised this 
 unfortunate woman to return to her friends ; 
 but took her back again upon her finding her 
 home made intolerable by the reproaches of a 
 sister. His reputation for inebriety also re- 
 ceived some public acknowledgments. Ho- 
 garth gave as much celebrity as he could to 
 his love of porter, by representing him in the 
 act of drinking a mug of that liquor in the 
 shape of a bear ; but the painter lip.d no great 
 reason to congratulate himself ultimately on 
 the effects of his caricature. Our poet was 
 included in the general warrant that was 
 issued for apprehending Wilkes. He hid him- 
 self, however, and avoided imprisonment. In 
 the autumn of 1764 he paid a visit to Mr. 
 Wilkes at Boulogne, where he caught a mili- 
 tary fever, and expired in his thirty-third 
 year. 
 
 " Churchill may be ranked as a satirist im- 
 mediately after Pope and Dry den, with per- 
 haps a greater share of humour than either. 
 He has the bitterness of Pope, with less wit 
 to atone for it ; but no mean share of the 
 free manner and energetic plainness of Dry- 
 den. After the * Rosciad ' and ' Apology ' he 
 began his poem of the ' Ghost ' (founded on 
 the well-known story of Cock -lane), many parts 
 of which tradition reports him to have com- 
 posed when scarce recovered from his fits of 
 drunkenness. It is certainly a rambling and 
 scandalous production, with a few such ori- 
 ginal gleams as might have crossed the brain 
 of genius amidst the bile and lassitude of dis- 
 sipation. The novelty of political warfare 
 seems to have given a new impulse to his 
 powers in the ' Prophecy of Famine,' a satire 
 on Scotland, which even to Scotchmen must 
 seem to sheath its sting in its laughable ex- 
 travagance. His poetical ' Epistle to Hogarth' 
 is remarkable, amidst its savage ferocitj^ for 
 one of the best panegyrics that was ever be- 
 stowed on that painter's works. He scalps 
 indeed even barbarously the infirmities of the 
 man, but, on the whole, spares the laurels of 
 the artist. The following is his description of 
 Hogarth's powers : — 
 
 ' In walks of humour, in that cast of 
 
 style. 
 Which, probing to the quick, yet makes 
 
 us smile ; 
 In comedy, his nat'ral road to fame, 
 Nor let me call it by a meaner name. 
 Where a beginning, middle, and an end 
 Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts 
 
 depend, 
 Each made for each, as bodies for their 
 
 soul, 
 So as to form one true and perfect 
 
 whole. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Where a plain story to the eye is told, 
 Which we conceive the moment we 
 
 behold, 
 Hogarth iinrivall'd stands, and shall 
 
 engage 
 UnrivaU'd praise to the most distant age.' 
 
 " There are two peculiarly interesting pas- 
 sages in his ' Conference.' One of them, 
 expressive of remorse for his crime of se- 
 duction, has been often quoted. The other is 
 a touching description of a man of independent 
 spirit reduced by despair and poverty to accept 
 of the means of sustaining life on humiliating 
 terms. 
 
 ' What proof might do, what hunger 
 
 might effect, 
 What famish' d nature, looking with 
 
 neglect 
 On all she once held dear, what fear, at 
 
 strife 
 With fainting virtue for the means of 
 
 life. 
 Might make this coward flesh, in love 
 
 with breath, 
 Shudd'ring at pain, and shrinking back 
 
 from death. 
 In treason to my soul, descend to bear, 
 Trusting to fate, I neither know nor 
 
 care. 
 Once, — at this hour whose woimds 
 
 afresh I feel, 
 Which nor prosperity nor time can heal, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Those wounds, which humbled all that 
 
 pride of man, 
 Which brings such mighty aid to virtue's 
 
 plan ; 
 Once, awed by fortune's most oppressive 
 
 frown. 
 By legal rapine to the earth bow'd down, 
 My credit at last gasp, my state undone, 
 Trembling to meet the shock I could not 
 
 shun, 
 Virtue gave ground, and black despair 
 
 prevail' d ; 
 Sinking beneath the storm, my spirits 
 
 fail'd, 
 Like Peter's faith.' 
 
 " But without enumerating similar pas- 
 sages, which may form an exception to the 
 remark, the general tenor of his later works 
 fell beneath his first reputation. His ' Duel- 
 list ' is positively dull ; and his ' Gotham,' the 
 imaginary realm of which he feigns himself 
 the sovereign, is calculated to remind us of 
 the proverbial wisdom of its sages. It was 
 justly complained that he became too much an 
 echo of himself, and that before his short 
 literary career was closed, his originality ap- 
 peared to be exhausted." — Campbell's " Spe- 
 cimens," pp. 454-456. See Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; 
 Gilfiilcn's Ed. of "Churchill's Poems." 
 
 MICHAEL BEUCE. 
 
 " We refer our readers to Dr. Mackelvie's 
 well-known and very able ' Life of poor Bruce' 
 for his full story, and for the evidence on 
 which his claim to the ' Cuckoo ' is rested. 
 Apart from external evidence, w^ tlunk that 
 poem more characteristic of Bruce' s genius 
 than of Logan's, and have therefore ranked it 
 under Bruce 's name. 
 
 "Bruce was bom on the 27th of March, 
 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, 
 county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, 
 and Michael was the fifth of a family of eight 
 children. Poor as his parents were, they were 
 intelligent, religious, and most conscientious 
 in the discharge of their duties to their chil- 
 dren. In the summer months Michael was 
 sent out to herd cattle ; and one loves to 
 imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, 
 under a whin-bush, while the storm was blow- 
 ing, — or gazing at the rainbow from the 
 summit of a fence, — or admiring at Loch- 
 leven and its old ruined castle, — or weaving 
 around the form of some little maiden, herding 
 in a neighbouring field — some ' Jeanie Moni- 
 son ' — one of those webs of romantic early 
 love which are beautiful and evanescent as 
 the gossamer, but how exquisitely relished 
 while they last ! Say not, with one of his 
 biographers, that his ' education was retarded 
 by this employment ; ' ho was receiving in 
 these solitary fields a kind of education which 
 no school and no college could furni.sh ; nay, 
 who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging 
 her way from one deep woodland recess to 
 another, or heard her dull, divine monotone 
 coming from the heart of the forest, the germ 
 of that exquisite strain, ' least in the kingdom' 
 of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal 
 in its smallness, was sown in his mind ? In 
 winter he went to school, and profited there 
 so much, that at fifteen (not a very early 
 period, after all, for a Scotch student begin- 
 ning his curriculum — in our day twelve was 
 not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for 
 going to college. And just in time a windfall 
 came across the path of our poet, the mention 
 of which may make many of our readers smile. 
 This was a legacy which was left his father by a 
 relative, amounting to 200 marks, ord811. 2s. 6d. 
 With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce 
 was sent to study at Edinburgh College. 
 Here he became distinguished by his attain- 
 ments, and particularly his taste and poetic 
 powers ; and here, too, he became acquainted 
 with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. 
 After spending three sessions at college, sup- 
 ported by his parents and other friends, he 
 returned to the country, and taught a school 
 at Gairney Bridge (a place famous for the 
 first meeting of the first presbytery of the 
 Seceders), for .£11 of salary. Thence he re- 
 moved to Foresthill, near Alloa, where a damp 
 school-room, poverty, and hard labour in 
 teaching, united to injure his health and 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period— 
 
 depress his spirits. At Foresthill he wrote 
 his poem ' Lochia ven,' which discovers no 
 small descriptive power. Consumption began 
 now to make its appearance, and he returned 
 to the cottage of his parents, where he wrote 
 his ' Elegy on Spring,' in which he refers with 
 dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. 
 On the 5th of July, 1767, this remarkable 
 youth died, aged twenty-one years and three 
 months. His Bible was found on his pillow, 
 marked at the words, Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye 
 not for the dead, neither bemoan him : but 
 weep sore for him that goeth away : for he 
 shall return no more, nor see his native 
 country.' 
 
 " Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards 
 an affecting paper in the ' Mirror,' recording 
 the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. 
 John Logan, in 1770, published his poems. 
 In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal 
 Baird published an edition of the poems for 
 the behoof of Bruce' s mother, then an aged 
 ^vidow. And in 1837, Dr. William Mackelvie, 
 Balgedie, Kinross-shire, published what may 
 be considered the standard Life of this poet, 
 along with a complete edition of his Works. 
 
 "It is impossible from so small a segment 
 of a circle as Bruce' s life describes to infer 
 with any certainty the whole. So far as we 
 can judge from the fragments left, his power 
 ■was rather in the beautiful, than in the sub- 
 lime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, 
 from the words ' Now spring returns ' to the 
 close, form a continuous stream of pensive 
 loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the 
 shadow of death ! Nor let us too severely 
 blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, 
 in the words — 
 
 '• I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of 
 woe, 
 I see the muddy wave, the dreary 
 shore ; ' 
 
 remembering that he was still a mere student, 
 and not recovered from that fine intoxication 
 in which classical literature drenches a young 
 imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 
 ' resting in the hopes of an eternal day.' 
 ' Lochleven ' is the spent echo of the * Sea- 
 sons,' although, as we said before, its descrip- 
 tions possess considerable merit. His ' Last 
 Day ' is more ambitious than successful. If 
 we grant the ' Cuckoo ' to be his, as we are 
 inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to 
 fame, being one of the sweetest little poems 
 in any language. Shakspere would have been 
 proud of the verse — 
 
 * Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 No winter in thy year.' 
 
 Bruce has not, however, it has always ap- 
 peared to us, caught so well as Wordsworth 
 the differentia of the cuckoo, — its invisible. 
 
 shadowy, shifting, supernatural character — 
 heard, but seldom seen — ^its note so limited 
 and almost unearthly : — 
 
 O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering voice ? ' 
 
 How fine this conception of a separated voice 
 — ' The viewless spirit of a lonely sound,' 
 plaining in the woods as if seeking for some 
 incarnation it cannot find, and saddening the 
 spring groves by a note so contradictory to 
 the genius of the season. In reference to the 
 note of the cuckoo we find the following re- 
 marks among the fragments from the common- 
 place book of Dr. Thomas Brown, printed by 
 Dr. Welsh : — ' The name of the cuckoo has 
 generally been considered as a very pure 
 instance of imitative harmon3^ But in giving 
 that name, we have most unjustly defrauded 
 the poor bird of a portion of its very small 
 variety of sound. The second syllable is not 
 a mere echo of the first ; it is the sound re- 
 versed, like the reading of a sotadic line ; and 
 to preserve the strictness of the imitation we 
 should give it the name of Ook-koo.' This is 
 the prose of the cuckoo after its poetry." 
 Such is Gilfillan's eloquent tribute to the 
 genius of Bruce ; we must, however, give the 
 authorship of the "Cuckoo" to Logan, — 
 Gilfillan's " Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. iii., 
 pp. 143-146. See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng, Lit." ; Chambers's " Cj^c. Eng. Lit." ; 
 Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 " John Logan was born in the year 1748. 
 He was the son of a farmer at Soutra, in the 
 parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated 
 for the church at Edinburgh, where he became 
 intimate with Robertson, afterwards the his- 
 torian. So, at least, Campbell asserts ; but 
 he strangely calls him a student of the same 
 standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw 
 light in 1721, and had been a settled minister 
 five years before Logan was boi*n. After 
 finishing his studies he became tutor in the 
 family of Mr. Sinclair of Ulbster, and the late 
 well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his 
 pupils. Wlien licensed to preach, Logan be- 
 came popular, and was in his twenty-fifth 
 year appointed one of the ministers of South 
 Leith. In 1781 he read, in Edinburgh, a 
 course of lectures on the Philosophy of 
 History, and in 1782 he printed one of them, 
 on the Government of Asia. In the same 
 year he published a volume of poems, which 
 were well received. In 1783 he wrote a tragedy 
 called ' Runnymede,' which was, owing to 
 some imagined incendiary matter, prohibited 
 from being acted on the London boards, but 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, 
 and afterwards published. This, along with 
 some alleged irregularities of conduct on the 
 part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, 
 and he was induced to retire on a small 
 annuity. He betook himself to London, where, 
 in conjunction with the Rev. Mr. Thomson — 
 who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in 
 Perthshire, owing to a scandal — he wrote for 
 the ' English Review,' and was employed to 
 defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an 
 able manner, although a well-known story 
 describes him as listening to Sheridan, on the 
 Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaim- 
 ing, after the first hour, ' This is mere decla- 
 mation without proof — after the next two, 
 ' This is a man of extraordinary powers ' — and 
 ere the close of the matchless oration, ' Of all 
 the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is 
 the vilest.' Logan died in the year 1788, in 
 his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His ser- 
 mons were published shortly after his death, 
 and if parts of them are, as is alleged, pilfered 
 from a Swiss divine (George Joachim Zolli- 
 kofer), they have not remained exclusively 
 •with the thief, since no sermons have been 
 so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the 
 elegant orations issued under the name of 
 Logan. 
 
 " We have already declined to enter on the 
 controversy about ' The Cuckoo,' intimating, 
 however, our belief, founded partly upon 
 Logan's unscrupulous character and partly on 
 internal evidence, that it was originally \vritten 
 by Bruce, but probably polished to its present 
 perfection by Logan, whose other writings 
 give us rather the impression of a man of 
 varied accompUshments and excellent taste, 
 than of deep feeling or original genius. If 
 Logan were not the author of ' The Cuckoo,' 
 there was a special baseness connected with 
 the fact, that when Burke sought him out in 
 Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that 
 poem, he owned the soft and false impeach- 
 ment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from 
 the greatest man of the age, which he knew 
 was the rightful due of another." — GilfiUan's 
 "Less-known Brit. Poets," pp. 266-268. 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 "Thomas Warton, born 1728, died 1790, 
 was descended from an ancient family, whose 
 residence was at Beverley, in Yorkshire. One 
 of his ancestors was knighted in the civil 
 Avars, for his adherence to Charles I, ; but by 
 the failure of the same cause, the estate of the 
 family was confiscated, and they were unable 
 to maintain the rank of gentry. The Toryism 
 of the historian of English poetry was, there- 
 fore, hereditary. His father was fellow of 
 Magdalen College, Oxford ; professor of poetry 
 in that university ; and vicar of Basingstoke, 
 
 in Hants, and of Cobham, in Surrey. At the 
 age of sixteen our author was admitted a com- 
 moner of Trinity College, Oxford, of which he 
 continued a member, and an ornament, for 
 forty-seven years. His first poetical appear- 
 ance in print has been traced to five ' Eclogues ' 
 in blank verse ; the scenes of whifih are laid 
 among the shepherds, oppressed by the wars 
 ■in Germany. They appeared in Pearch's 
 ' Supplement to Dodsley's Collection of Fugi- 
 tive Pieces.' Warton disavowed those ' Ec- 
 logues ' in his riper years. They are not dis- 
 creditable to him as the verses of a boy ; but 
 it was a superfluous offering to the public, to 
 subjoin them to his other works, in Mr. 
 Chalmers's edition of the British Poets. His 
 poem, ' The Pleasures of Melancholy,' was 
 written not long after. As the composition of 
 a youth, it is entitled to a very indulgent con- 
 sideration : and perhaps it gives promise of a 
 sensibility, which his subsequent poetry did 
 not fulfil. It was professedly written in his 
 seventeenth, but published in his nineteenth 
 year, so that it must be considered as testify- 
 ing the state of his genius at the latter period ; 
 for until his work had passed through the 
 press, he would continue to improve it. In 
 the year 1749 he published his ' Triumph of 
 Isis,' in answer to Mason's poetical attack on 
 the loyalty of Oxford. The best passage in 
 this piece, beginning with the lines — 
 
 'Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime, 
 Ye towers, that wear the mossy vest of 
 time,' 
 
 discovers that fondness for the beauties of 
 architecture, which was an absolute passion in 
 the breast of Warton. Joseph Warton relates 
 that, at an early period of their youth, his 
 brother and he were taken by their father to 
 see Windsor Castle. Old Dr. Warton com- 
 plained, that whilst the rest of the party ex- 
 pressed delight at the magnificent spectacle, 
 Thomas made no remarks ; but Joseph Warton 
 justly observes, tha,t the silence of his brother 
 was only a proof of the depth of his pleasure ; 
 that he was i-eally absorbed in the enjoyment 
 of the sight; and that his subsequent fondness 
 for ' castle imagery,' he believed, might be 
 traced to the impression which he then re- 
 ceived from Windsor Castle. 
 
 " In 1750 ho took the degree of a master of 
 arts ; and in the following year succeeded to a 
 fellowship. In 1754 he published his ' Obser- 
 vations on Spenser's Faery Queen,' in a single 
 volume, which he afterwards expanded into 
 two volumes, in the edition of 1762. In this 
 work he minutely analyses the Classic and 
 Romantic sources of Spenser's fiction ; and so 
 far enables us to estimate the power of the 
 poet's genius, that we can compare the scat- 
 tered ore of his fanciful materials with their 
 transmuted appearance in the ' Fatfry Queen.' 
 This work, probably, contributed to his ap- 
 pointment to the professorship of poetry, in 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period.—- 
 
 the university, in 1757, which he held, accord- 
 ing to custom, for ten years. While possessed 
 of that chair, he delivered a course of lectures 
 on poetry, in which he introduced his transla- 
 tions from the Greek Anthology, as well as 
 the substance of his remarks on the Bucolic 
 poetry of the Greeks, which were afterwards 
 published in his edition of Theocritus. In 
 1758 he assisted Dr. Johnson in the 'Idler,' 
 with Nos. 33, 93, and 96. About the same 
 time he published, without name or date, ' A 
 Description of the City, College, and Cathedral 
 of Winchester;' and a humorous account of 
 Oxford, intended to burlesque the popular 
 description of that place, entitled, ' A Com- 
 panion to the Guide, or a Guide to the Com- 
 panion.' He also published anonymously, in 
 1758, ' A Selection of Latin Metrical Inscrip- 
 tions.' 
 
 " Warton's clerical profession forms no very 
 prominent part of his history. He had an 
 indistinct and hurried articulation, which was 
 peculiarly unfavourable to his pulpit oratory. 
 His ambition was directed to other objects, 
 than preferment in the church, and he was 
 above solicitation. After having served the 
 curacy of Woodstock for nine years, as well as 
 his avocations would permit, he was appointed, 
 in 1774, to the small living of Kiddington, in 
 Oxfordshire; and, in 1785, to the donative of 
 Hill Farrance, in Somersetshire, by his own 
 college. 
 
 " The great work to which the studies of 
 his life were subservient, was his ' History of 
 English Poetry,' an undertaking which had 
 been successively projected by Pope and Gray. 
 Those writers had suggested the imposing 
 plan of arranging the British poets, not by 
 their chronological succession, but by their 
 different schools. Warton deliberately re- 
 linquished this scheme ; because he felt that it 
 was impracticable, except in a very vague and 
 general manner. Poetry is of too spiritual a 
 nature to admit of its authors being exactly 
 grouped, by a Linntean system of classification. 
 Striking resemblances and distinctions will, no 
 doubt, be found among poets ; but the shades 
 of variety and gradation are so infinite, that 
 to bring every composer within a 5^ven line of 
 resemblance, would require a ne^/r language in 
 the philosophy of taste. Warton, therefore, 
 adopted the simpler idea of tracing our poetry 
 by its chronological progress. The work is 
 certainly provokingly digressive, in many 
 places, and those who have subsequently exa- 
 mined the same subject have often complained 
 of its inaccuracies ; but the chief cause of 
 those inaccuracies was that boldness and ex- 
 tent of research, which makes the work so 
 useful and entertaining. Those who detected 
 his mistakes have been, in no small degree, in- 
 debted to him for their power of detecting them. 
 The first volume of his ' History ' appeared 
 in 1774 ; the second in 1778 ; and the third in 
 1781. Of the foiirth volume only a few sheets 
 were printed ; and the account of our poetry, 
 
 which he meant to have extended to the last 
 century, was continued only to the reign of 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " In the year 1785 he was appointed to the 
 Camden Professorship of History, in which 
 situation he delivered only one inaugural dis- 
 sertation. In the same year, upon the death 
 of Whitehead, he received the laureateship. 
 His odes were subjected to the ridicule of the 
 Eolliad ; but his head filled the laurel with 
 more learning than it had encompassed for 
 a hundred years. 
 
 " In his sixty-second year, after a life of 
 uninterrupted good health, he was attacked 
 by the gout ; went to Bath for a cure, and 
 returned, as he imagined, perfectly recovered ; 
 but his appearance betrayed that his constitu- 
 tion had received a fatal shock. At the close 
 of an evening, which he had spent with more 
 than ordinary cheerfulness, in the common- 
 hall of his college, he was seized with a para- 
 lytic stroke, and expired on the following 
 day. 
 
 " Some amusing eccentricities of his cha- 
 racter are mentioned by the writer of his life 
 (Dr. Mant), which the last editor of the 
 ' British Poets ' blames that biographer for 
 introducing. I am far from joining in this 
 censure. It is a miserable system of biogi-aphy, 
 that would never allow us to smile at the 
 foibles and peculiarities of its subject. The 
 historian of English poetry would sometimes 
 forget his own dignity, so far as to drink ale, 
 and smoke tobacco with men of vulgar condi- 
 tion ; either wishing, as some have gravely 
 alleged, to study undisguised and unlettered 
 human nature, or, which is more probable, to 
 enjoy a heartier laugh, and broader humour 
 than could be found in polite society. He was 
 also passionately fond (not of critical, but) of 
 military reviews, and delighted in martial 
 music. The same strength of association 
 which made him enjoy the sound of ' the spirit- 
 stirring drum,' led him to be a constant and 
 curious explorer of the architectural monu- 
 ments of chivalrous times ; and, during his 
 summer excursions into the country, he always 
 committed to paper the remarks Avhich he had 
 made on ancient buildings. During his visits 
 to his brother. Dr. J. Warton, the reverend 
 professor became an associate and confidant in 
 all the sports of the schoolboys. When engaged 
 with them in some cuHnary occupation, and 
 when alarmed by the sudden approach of the 
 master, he has been known to hide himself in 
 a dark corner of the kitchen ; and has been 
 dragged from thence by the Doctor, who had 
 taken him for some great boy. He also used 
 to help the boys in their exercises, generally 
 putting in as many faults as would disguise 
 the assistance. 
 
 " Every Englishman who values the litera- 
 ture of his country must feel himself obHged 
 to Warton as a poetical antiquary. As a poet, 
 he is ranked by his brother Joseph in the 
 school of Spenser and Milton ; but this classi- 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL 2s^0TICES. 
 
 fication can only be admitted with a full 
 ■understanding of the immense distance between 
 him and his great masters. He had, indeed, 
 * spelt the fabled rhyme ;' he abounds in allu- 
 sions to the romantic subjects of Spenser, and 
 he is a sedulous imitator of the rich lyrical 
 manner of Milton : but of the tenderness and 
 peculiar harmony of Spenser he has caught 
 nothing ; and in his resemblance to Milton, he 
 is the heir of his pliraseology more than his 
 spirit. His imitation of manner, however, is 
 not confined to Milton. His style often ex- 
 hibits a very composite order of poetical archi- 
 tecture. In his verses to Sir Joshua Eeynolds, 
 for instance, he blends the point and succinct- 
 ness of Pope with the richness of the elder 
 and more fanciful school. It is one of his 
 happiest compositions ; and, in this case, the 
 intermixture of styles has no unpleasing effect. 
 In others, he often tastelessly and elaborately 
 unites his affectation of antiquitj', with the 
 case-hardened graces of modern polish. 
 
 " If we judge of him by the character of the 
 majority of his pieces, I believe that fifty out 
 of sixty of them are such, that we should not 
 be anxious to give them a second perusal. 
 From that proportion of his works, I conceive 
 that an unprejudiced reader would pronounce 
 him a florid, unaffecting describer, whose 
 images are plentifully scattered, but without 
 selection or relief. To confine our view, how- 
 ever, to some seven or eight of his happier 
 pieces, we shall find, in these, a considerable 
 degree of graphic power, of fancy, and anima- 
 tion. His ' Verses to Sir Joshua Eeynolds ' 
 are splendid and spirited. There is also a 
 softness and sweetness in his ode entitled 
 ' The Hamlet,' which is the more welcome, for 
 being rare in his productions ;. and his ' Cru- 
 sade ' and ' Grave of Arthur ' have a genuine 
 air of martial and minstrel enthusiasm. Those 
 pieces exhibit, to the best advantage, the most 
 striking feature of his poetical character, whic;h 
 was a fondness for the recollections of chi- 
 valry, and a minute intimacy of imagination 
 ■svith its gorgeous residences, and imposing 
 spectacles. The spirit of chivalry, he may 
 indeed bo said to have revived in the poetry 
 of modern times. His memory was richly 
 stored with all the materials for description 
 that can be got from books ; and he seems not 
 to have been without an original enthusiasm 
 for those objects which excite strong associa- 
 tions of regard and wonder. Whether he 
 would have ever looked with interest on a 
 shepherd's cottage, if he had not found it 
 described by Virgil or Theocritus, may be 
 fairly doubted ; but objects of terror, splen- 
 dour, and magnificence, are evidently con- 
 genial to his fancy. He is very impressive 
 in sketching the appearance of an ancient 
 Gothic castle, in the following lines : 
 
 ' High o'er the trackless heath, at midnight 
 seen. 
 No more the windows, ranged in long 
 array, 
 
 (Where the taU shaft and fretted nook 
 between 
 Thick ivy twines) the taper' d rites 
 betray.' 
 
 His memory was stored with an uncommon 
 portion of that knowledge whicli supplies 
 materials for picturesque description ; and his 
 universal acquaintance with our poets supplied 
 him with expression, so dis to answer the fuU 
 demand of his original ideas. Of his poetic 
 invention, in the fair sense of the word, of his 
 depth of sensibility, or of his powers of reflec- 
 tion, it is not so easy to say anything favour- 
 able." — Campbell's " Specimens," pp. 618-620. 
 See Gilfillan's " Less-kno-wn British Poets." 
 
 JOSEPH WAETON. 
 
 "Joseph Warton, born 1722, died 1800, son 
 to the vicar of Basingstoke, and elder brother 
 to the historian of English poetry, was born 
 in the house of his maternal grandfather, the 
 Eev. Joseph Eichardson, rector of Dunsfold, 
 in Surrey. He was chiefly educated at home 
 by his father. Dr. Warton, till his fourteenth 
 year, when he was admitted on the foundation 
 of Winchester College. He was there the 
 schoolfellow and intimate of Collins, the 
 poet ; and, in conjunction with him and 
 another youth, whose name was Tomkyns, he 
 sent to the ' Gentleman's Magazine ' three 
 pieces of poetry, which were highly com- 
 mended in that miscellany. In 1740, being 
 superannuated, he left Winchester School, 
 and having missed a presentation to New 
 College, Oxford, was entered a commoner at 
 that of Oriel. At the university he composed 
 his two poems, ' The Enthusiast,' and ' The 
 Dying Indian,' and a satirical prose sketch, in 
 imitation of Le Sage, entitled ' Eanelagh,' 
 which his editor, Mr. WooU, has inserted in | 
 the volume that contains his life, letters, and 
 poems. Having taken the degree of bachelor 
 of arts at Oxford, in 1744, he was ordained on 
 I his father's curacy at Basingstoke. At the 
 end of two years, he removed from thence to 
 do duty at Chelsea, where he caught the small- 
 pox. Having left that place, for change of 
 air, he did not return to it, on account of 
 some disagreement with the parishioners, but 
 officiated for a few months at Chawton and 
 Droxford, and then resumed his residence at 
 Basingstoke. In the same year, 174G, he 
 published a volume of his ' Odes,' in the preface 
 to which he expressed a hope that they would 
 be regarded as a fair attempt to bring poetry 
 I back from the moralizing and didactic taste of 
 j the age to the truer channels of fancy and 
 i description. Collins, our author's immortal 
 I contemporary, also published his ' Odes' in the 
 I same month of the same year. He realized, 
 with the hand of genius, that idea of liighly 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 personified and picturesque composition, which 
 Warton contemplated with the eye of taste. 
 But Collins's works were ushered in with 
 no manifesto of a design to regenerate the 
 taste of the age, with no pretensions of 
 erecting a new or recovered standard of ex- 
 cellence. 
 
 " In 1748 our author was presented by the 
 Duke of Bolton to the rectory of Winslade, 
 when he immediately married a lady of that 
 neighbourhood, Miss Daman, to whom he had 
 been for some time attached. He had not 
 been long settled in his living, when he was 
 invited by his patron to accompany him to the 
 south of France. The Duchess of Bolton was 
 then in a confirmed dropsy, and his Grace, 
 anticipating her death, mshed to have a Pro- 
 testant clergyman with him on the Continent, 
 who might marry him, on the first intelligence 
 of his consort's death, to the lady with whom 
 he lived, and who was universally known by 
 the name of Polly Peachum. Dr. Warton 
 complied with this proposal, to which (as his 
 circumstances were narrow) it must be hoped 
 that his poverty consented rather than his 
 will. ' To those ' (says Mr. WooU) ' who have 
 enjoyed the rich and varied treasures of Dr. 
 Warton's conversation, who have been dazzled 
 by the brilliancy of his wit, and instructed by 
 the aciiteness of his understanding, I need 
 not suggest how truly enviable was the jour- 
 ney which his fellow-travellers accomplished 
 through the French provinces to Montauban.' 
 It may be doubted, however, if the French 
 provinces were exactly the scene, where his 
 fellow-travellers were most likely to be in- 
 structed by the acuteness of Dr. Warton's 
 observations ; as he was unable to speak the 
 language of the country, and could have no 
 information from foreigners, except what he 
 could now and then extort from the barbarous 
 Latin of some Irish friar. He was himself 
 so far from being delighted or edified by his 
 pilgrimage, that for private reasons (as his 
 biographer states), and from impatience of 
 being restored to his family, he returned home, 
 without having accomplished the object for 
 which the Duke had taken him abroad. He 
 set out for Bordeaux in a courier's cart ; but 
 being dreadfully jolted in that vehicle, ho 
 quitted it, and, having joined some carriers 
 in Brittany, came home by way of St. Malo. 
 A month after his return to England, the 
 Duchess of Bolton died; and our author, 
 imagining that his patron would, possibly, 
 have the decency to remain a widower for a 
 few weeks, wrote to his Grace, offering to join 
 him immediately. But the Dulje had no 
 mind to delay his nuptials ; he was joined to 
 Polly by a Protestant clergyman, who was 
 found upon the spot ; and our author thus 
 missed the reward of the only action of his 
 life which can be said to throw a blemish on 
 his respectable memory. 
 
 " In the year 1748-9 he had begun, and in 
 1753 he finished and published, an edition of 
 
 Virgil in English and Latin. To this work 
 Warburton contributed a dissertation on the 
 sixth book of the yEneid ; Atterbury furnished 
 a commentary on the character of lapis ; and 
 the laureate Whitehead, another on the shield 
 of iEneas. Many of the notes were taken 
 from the best commentators on Virgil, par- 
 ticularly Catrou and Segrais : some were 
 supplied by Mr. Spence ; and others, relating 
 to the son, chmate, and customs of Italy, by 
 Mr. Holdsworth, who had resided for many 
 years in that country. For the English of 
 the iEneid, ho adopted the translation by 
 Pitt. The life of Virgil, with three essays 
 on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a 
 poetical version of the Eclogues and Georgics, 
 constituted his own part of the work. This 
 translation may, in many instances, be found 
 more faithful and concise than Dryden's ; but 
 it wants that elastic and idiomatic freedom, 
 by which Dryden reconciles us to his faults ; 
 and exliibits rather the diligence of a scholar 
 than the spirit 'of a poet. Dr. Hare wood, in 
 his view of the classics, accuses the Latin 
 text af incon-ectness. Shortly after the ap- 
 pearance of his Virgil, he took a share in the 
 periodical paper ' The Adventurer,' and con- 
 tributed twenty-four numbers, which have 
 been generally esteemed the most valuable in 
 the work. 
 
 "In 1754 he was instituted to the living of 
 Tunworth, on the presentation of the Jervoise 
 family; and in 1755 was elected second master 
 of Winchester School, with the management 
 and advantage of a boarding-house. In the 
 following year Lord Lyttelton, who had sub- 
 mitted a part of his ' History of Henry II.' to 
 his revisal, bestowed a scarf upon him. He 
 found leisure, at this period, to commence his 
 ' Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' 
 which he dedicated to Young, without sub- 
 scribing his name. But he was soon, and it 
 would appear with his own tacit permission, 
 generally pronounced to be its author. 
 Twenty-six years, however, elapsed before he 
 ventured to complete it. Dr. Johnson said, 
 that this was owing to his not having been 
 able to bring the public to be of his opinion 
 as to Pope. Another reason has been assigned 
 for his inactivity. Warburton, the guardian 
 of Pope's fame, was still aHve ; and he was 
 the zealous and useful friend of our author's 
 brother. The prelate died in 1779, and in 
 1782 Dr. Warton published his extended and 
 finished Essay. If the supposition that he 
 abstained from embroihng himself by the 
 question about Pope with Warburton be true, 
 it will at least impress us with an idea of his 
 patience ; for it was no secret that Ruffhead 
 was supplied by Warburton with materials for 
 a life of Pope, in which he attacked Dr. War- 
 ton with abundant severity ; but in which he 
 entangled himself, more than his adversary, in 
 the coarse-spun robes of his special pleading. 
 The Essay, for a time, raised up to him another 
 enemy, to whom his conduct has even an air 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 of submissiveness. In commenting on a line 
 of Pope, he hazarded a remark on Hogarth's 
 propensity to intermix the ludicrous with 
 attempts at the sublime. Hogarth revenge- 
 fully introduced Dr. Warton's works into one 
 of his satirical pieces, and vowed to bear him 
 eternal enmity. Their mutual friends, how- 
 ever, interfered, and the artist was pacified. 
 Dr. Warton, in the next edition, altered his 
 just animadversion on Hogarth into an ill- 
 merited compliment. 
 
 " By delaying to re-publish his Essay on 
 Pope, he ultimately obtained a more dis- 
 passionate hearing from the pubHc for the 
 work in its finished state. In the meantime, 
 he enriched it with additions digested from 
 the reading of half a lifetime. The author of 
 ' The Pursuits of Literatm-e ' has pronounced 
 it a common-place book ; and Eichardson, the 
 novelist, used to call it a literary gossip : but 
 a testimony in its favour, of more authority 
 than any individual opinion, will be found in 
 the popularity with which it continues to be 
 read. It is very entertaining, and abounds 
 with criticism of more research than Addi- 
 son's, of more amenity than Hurd's or War- 
 burton's, and of more insinuating tact than 
 Johnson's. At the same time, while much 
 ingenuity and many truths are scattered over 
 the Essay, it is impossible to admire it as an 
 entire theory, soHd and consistent in all its 
 parts. It is certainly setting out from un- 
 fortunate premises to begin his ' Remarks on 
 Pope ' with grouping Dryden and Addison in 
 the same class of poets ; and to form a scale 
 for estimating poetical genius, which would 
 set Elijah Fenton in a higher sphere than 
 Butler. He places Pope, in the scale of our 
 poets, next to Milton, and above Dryden ; yet 
 he applies to him the exact character which 
 Voltaire gives to the heartless Boileau — that 
 of a writer, ' perhaps, incapable of the sub- 
 lime which elevates, or of the feeling which 
 affects the soul.' With aU this, he tells us, 
 that our poetry and our language are ever- 
 lastingly indebted to Pope : he attributes 
 genuine tenderness to the ' Elegy on an Un- 
 fortunate Lady ; ' a strong degree of passion 
 to the ' Epistle on Eloise ; ' invention and 
 fancy to ' The Eape of the Lock ; ' and a 
 picturesque conception to some parts of 
 ' Windsor Forest,' which he pronounces 
 worthy of the pencil of Eubens or Julio 
 Eomano. There is something like April 
 weather in these transitions. 
 
 " In May, 1766, he was advanced to the 
 head-mastership of Winchester School. In 
 consequence of this promotion, he once more 
 visited Oxford, and proceeded to the degree 
 of bachelor and doctor in divinity. After a 
 union of twenty years, he lost his first wife, 
 by whom he had six children ; but his family 
 and his professional situation requiring a do- 
 mestic partner, he had been only a year a 
 widower, when he married a Miss Nicholas, of 
 Winchester. 
 
 " He now visited London more frequently 
 than before. The circle of his friends, in the 
 metropolis, comprehended all the members of 
 Burke's and Johnson's Literary Club. With 
 Johnson himself he was for a long time on in- 
 timate terms ; but their friendship suffered a 
 breach which was never closed, in ctnasequence 
 of an argument, which took place between 
 them, during an evening spent at the house 
 of Sir Joshua Eeynolds. The concluding 
 words of their conversation are reported, by 
 one who was present, to have been these, 
 Johnson said, ' Sir, I am not accustomed to be 
 contradicted.' Warton replied, ' Better, sir, 
 for yourself and your friends if you were : our 
 respect could not be increased, but our love 
 might.' 
 
 "In 1782 he was indebted to his friend, Dr. 
 Lowth, Bishop of London, for a prebend of St. 
 Paul's, and the living of Thorley, in Hertford- 
 shire, which, after some arrangements, he 
 exchanged for that of Wickham. His eccle- 
 siastical preferments came too late in life to 
 place him in that state of leisure and inde- 
 pendence which might have enabled him to 
 devote lus best years to literature, instead of 
 the drudgery of a school. One great project, 
 which he announced, but never fulfilled, 
 namely, * A General History of Learning,' was, 
 in all probability, prevented by the pressure 
 of his daily occupations. In 1788, through 
 the interest of Lord Shannon, he obtained a 
 prebend of Winchester ; and, through the 
 interest of Lord Malmsbury, was appointed to 
 the rectory of Euston, which he was after- 
 wards allowed to exchange for that of Upham. 
 In 1793 he resigned the fatigues of his master- 
 ship of Winchester; and having received, 
 from the superintendents of the institution, a 
 vote of well-earned thanks, for his long and 
 meritorious services, he went to live at his 
 rectory of Wickham. 
 
 " During his retirement at that place, he 
 was induced, by a liberal offer of the book- 
 sellers, to superintend an edition of Pope. 
 which he published in 1797. It was objected 
 to this edition, that it contained only his 
 ' Essay on Pope,' cut do-wn into notes ; his 
 biographer, however, repels the objection, by 
 alleging that it contains a considerable portion 
 of new matter. In his zeal to present every- 
 thing that covld be traced to the pen of Pope, 
 he introduced two pieces of indelicate humour, 
 ' The Double Mistress,' and the second satire 
 of Horace. For the insertion of those pieces, 
 he received a censure in the ' Pursuits of 
 Literature,' which, considering his grey hairs 
 and services in the literary world, was unbe- 
 coming, and which my individual partiality for 
 Mr. Matthias makes me wish that I had not 
 to record. 
 
 " As a critic, Dr. Warton is distinguished 
 by his love of the fanciful and romantic. He 
 examined our poetry at a period when it ap- 
 peared to him that versified observations on 
 familiar life and manners had usurped the 
 
 39* 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 honours which were exclusively due to the j 
 bold and inventive powers of imagination. ' 
 He conceived, also, that the charm of descrip- | 
 tion in poetry was not sufficiently appreciated ' 
 in his own day : not that the age could be j 
 said to be without descriptive writers ; but j 
 because, as he apprehended, the tyranny of 
 Pope's reputation had placed moral and di- 
 dactic verse in too pre-eminent a light. He 
 therefore strongly urged the principle, ' that 
 the most sohd observations on life, expressed 
 with the utmost -brevity and elegance, are 
 morality, and not poetry.' Without examining 
 how far this principle applies exactly to the 
 character of Pope, whom he himself owns not 
 to have been without pathos and imagination, 
 I think his proposition is so worded, as to be 
 liable to lead to a most unsound distinction 
 between moralitj'- and poetry. If by ' the 
 most solid observations on life ' are meant 
 only those which relate to its prudential 
 management and plain concerns, it is certainly 
 true, that these cannot be made poetical, by 
 the utmost brevity or elegance of expression. 
 It is also true, that even the nobler tenets of 
 morality are comparatively less interesting, in 
 an insulated and didactic shape, than when 
 they are blended with strong imitations of life, 
 where passion, character, and situation bring 
 them deeply home to our attention. Fiction is 
 on this account so far the soul of poetry, that, 
 without its aid as a vehicle, poetry can only 
 give us morality in an abstract and (compara- 
 tively) uninteresting shape. But why does 
 Fiction j^loase us ? surely not because it is 
 false, but because it seems to be true ; because 
 it spreads a wider field, and a more brilliant 
 crowd of objects to our moral perceptions, 
 than reality affords. Morality (in a high 
 sense of the term, and not speaking of it as 
 a dry science) is the essence of poetry. We 
 fly from the injustice of this world to the 
 poetical justice of Fiction, where our sense of 
 right and Avrong is either satisfied, or where 
 our sympathy, at least, reposes Vvdth less 
 disappointment and distraction, than on the 
 characters of life itself. Fiction, we may in- 
 deed be told, carries us into ' a world of gayer 
 tinct and grace,' the lav/s of which are not to be 
 judged by solid observations on the real world. 
 " But this is not the case, for moral truth 
 is still the light of poetry, and fiction is only 
 the refracting atmosphere which diffuses it ; 
 and the laws of moral truth are as essential 
 to poetry, as those of physical truth (Anatomy 
 and Optics, for instance), axe to painting. 
 Allegory, narration, and the drama make their 
 last appeal to the ethics of the human heart. 
 It is therefore unsafe to draw a marked dis- 
 tinction between morality and poetry ; or to 
 speak of ' solid observations on life ' as of 
 things in their nature unpoetical ; for we do 
 meet in poetry with observations on life, which, 
 for the charm of their solid truth, we should 
 exchange Avith reluctance for the most in- 
 genious touches of fancy. 
 
 " The school of the Wartons, considering 
 them as poets, was rather too studioui-;ly prone 
 to description. The doctor, like his brother, 
 certainly so far realized his own ideas of in- 
 spiration, as to burthen his verse with few 
 observations on life which oppress the mind 
 by their solidity. To his brother he is ob- 
 viously inferior in the graxjhic and romantic 
 style of composition, at which he aimed ; but 
 in which, it must nevertheless be o^vned, that 
 in some parts of his ' Ode to Fancy ' he has 
 been pleasingly succcssfid. From the sub- 
 joined specimens, the reader will probably be 
 enabled to judge as favourably of his genius, 
 as from the whole of his poems ; for most of 
 them are short and occasional, and (if I may 
 venture to differ from the opinion of his 
 amiable editor, Mr. Wooll), are by no moans 
 marked Avith originality, The only poem of 
 any length, entitled ' The Enthusiast,' was 
 written at too early a period of his life, to bo 
 a fair object of criticism." — Campbell's " Spe- 
 cimens," pp. 663-7. 
 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 
 
 " This amiable man deserves praise for his 
 character and for his conduct under very 
 peculiar circumstances, much more than for 
 his poetry. He was born at Annan, where 
 his father was a bricklayer, in 1721. "When 
 about six months old, he lost his eyesight by 
 small-pox. His father used to read to him, 
 especially poetry, and through the kindness 
 of friends he acquired some knowledge of 
 the Latin tongue. His father having been 
 accidentally killed when Thomas was nine- 
 teen, it might have fared hard with him, but 
 Dr. Stevenson, an eminent medical man in 
 Edinburgh, who had seen some verses com- 
 posed by the blind youth, took him to the 
 capital, sent him to college to study divinity, 
 and encouraged him to write and to publish 
 poetry. His volume, to which was prefixed 
 an account of the author, by Professor Spcnco 
 of Oxford, attracted much attention. Black- 
 lock was licensed to preach in 1759, and three 
 years afterwards was married to a Miss Jolm- 
 stone of Dumfries, an exemplary but plain- 
 looking lady, whose beauty her husband was 
 wont to praise so warmly that his friends 
 were thankful that his infirmity was never 
 removed, and thought how justly Cupid had 
 been painted blind. He was even, through the 
 influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to 
 the parish of Kirkcudbright, but the parishion- 
 ers opposed his induction on the plea of his 
 want of sight, and, in consideration of a small 
 annuity, he mthdrew his claims. He finally 
 settled down in Edinburgh, where he supported 
 himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as 
 boarders in his house. His chief amusements 
 were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 and correspondence with Bums are too well 
 known to require to be noticed at length here. 
 He published a paper of no small merit in the 
 ' Encyclopaedia Britannica ' on Blindness, and 
 is the author of a work entitled ' Paraclesis ; 
 or, Consolations of Eeligion,' — which surely 
 none require more than the blind. He died of 
 a nervous fever on the 7th of July, 1791, so 
 far fortunate that he did not live to see the 
 ruin of his immortal protege. 
 
 " Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and 
 benevolent being. He was sometimes subject 
 to melancholy — unlike many of the blind, and 
 one especially, whom we name not, but who, 
 still living, bears a striking resemblance to 
 Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of 
 heart, and high-toned piety, but who is cheerful 
 as the day. As to his poetry, it is undoubtedly 
 wonderful, considering the circumstances of 
 its production, if not per se. Dr. Johnson 
 says to Boswell, — ' As Blacklock had the mis- 
 fortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure 
 that the passages in his poems descriptive of 
 visible objects are combinations of what he 
 remembered of the works of other writers who 
 could see. That foolish fellow Spence has 
 laboured to explain philosophically how Black- 
 lock may have done, by his own faculties, what 
 it is impossible he should do. The solution, 
 as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know 
 a man to be so lame that he is absolutely in- 
 capable to move himself, and I find him in a 
 different room from that in which I left him, 
 shall I puzzle myself with idle conjectures that 
 perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown 
 change, all at once become effective ? No, 
 sir ; it is clear how he got into a different room 
 — he was carried.' 
 
 "Perhaps there is a fallacy in this some- 
 what dogmatic statement. Perhaps the blind 
 are not so utterly dark but they may have 
 certain dim simulacra of external objects 
 before their eyes and minds. Apart from this, 
 however, Blacklock' s poetry endures only from 
 its connection with the author's misfortune, 
 and from the fact that through the gloom he 
 groped greatly to find and give the burning 
 hand of the peasant poet the squeeze of a 
 kindred spirit, — kindred, we mean, in feeling 
 and lieart, although very far removed in 
 strength of intellect and genius." — GilfiUan's 
 " Less-known British Poets," vol. iii., pp. 
 279,280. See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." , Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 WILLIAM HAYWAED EOBEETS. 
 
 "William Hayward Eoberts, bom 1745, died 
 1791. He was educated at Eton, and from 
 thence was elected to King's College, Cam- 
 bridge, where he took the degree of master of 
 arts, and of doctor in divinity. From being 
 an under master at Eton he finally rose to be 
 
 provost of the college, in the year 1781. He 
 was also chaplain to the king, and rector of 
 Farnham Eoyal, in Buckinghamshire. In 
 1771 he published, in three parts, ' A Poeti- 
 cal Essay on the Attributes and Providence 
 of the Deity.' Two years afterwards, 'A 
 Poetical Epistle to Christopher A-nstcy, on 
 the English Poets, chiefly those whb had 
 written in blank verse;' and in 1774, his 
 poem of 'Judah Eestored,' a work of no 
 common merit." — Campbell's "Specimens," 
 p. 628. 
 
 THOMAS PENEOSE. 
 
 " Thomas Penrose, bom 1743, died 1779. 
 The history of Penrose displays a dash of 
 warlike adventure, which has seldom en- 
 livened the biography of our poets. He was 
 not led to the profession of arms, like Gas- 
 coigne, by his poverty, or like Quarles, Dave- 
 nant, and Waller, by political circumstances ; 
 but, in a mere fit of juvenile ardour, gave up 
 his studies at Oxford, where he was preparing 
 to become a clergyman, and left the banners 
 of the church for those of the battle. This 
 was in the summer of 1762, when the unfor- 
 tunate expedition against Buenos Ayres sailed 
 under the command of Captain Macnamara. 
 It consisted of three ships : the ' Lord Clive,' 
 of 64 guns ; the ' Ambuscade,' of 40, on board 
 of which Penrose acted as lieutenant of ma- 
 rines ; the ' Gloria,' of 38 ; and some inferior 
 vessels. Preparatory to an attack on Buenos 
 Ayres, it was deemed necessary to begin with 
 the capture of Nova Colonia, and the ships 
 approached closely to the fortress of that 
 settlement. The men were in high spirits ; 
 military music sounded on board ; while thfr 
 new uniforms and polished arms of the- 
 marines gave a splendid appearance to th& 
 scene. Penrose, the night before, had written 
 and despatched to his mistress in England a 
 poetical address, which evinced at once the 
 affection and serenity of his heart, on the eve 
 of danger. The gay preparative was followed 
 by a heavy fire of several hours, at the end of 
 which, Avhen the Spanish batteries were almost 
 silenced, and our countrymen in immediate 
 expectation of seeing the enemy strike his 
 colours, the Lord Clive was found to be on 
 fire ; and the same moment which discovered 
 the flames showed the impossibility of extin- 
 guishing them. A dreadful spectacle was then 
 exhibited. Men who had the instant before 
 assured themselves of wealth and conquest, 
 were seen crowding to the sides of the ship, 
 with the dreadful alternative of perishing by 
 fire or water. The enemy's fire was redoubled 
 at the sight of their calamity. Out of Mac- 
 namara' s crew, of 340 men, only 78 were 
 saved. Penrose escaped with his life on board 
 the ' Ambuscade,' but received a wound in the 
 action ; and the subsequent hardships which 
 
bioCtSAphical notices. 
 
 [^Sl.XTK PeTIK 
 
 he underwent, in a prize-sloop, in wliicli ho 
 was stationed, ruined the strength of his con- 
 stitution. He returned to England ; resumed 
 his studies at Oxford ; and having taken 
 orders, accepted of the curacy of Newbury, in 
 Berkshire, of which his father was the rector. 
 He resided there for nine years, having married 
 the lady already alluded to, whose name was 
 Mary Slocock. A friend at last rescued him 
 from this obscure situation, by presenting him 
 •with the rectory of Beckington and Stander- 
 wick, in Somersetshire, worth about .£500 a 
 year. But he came to his preferment too late 
 to enjoy it. His health having never reco- 
 vered from the shock of his American service, 
 obliged him, as a last remedy, to try the hot 
 wells at Bristol, at which place he expired, in 
 his thirty-sixth year." — Campbell's " Spe- 
 cimens," p. 561. 
 
 SIE JOHN HENEY MOOEE. 
 
 " Sir John Moore, Bart., born 1756, died 
 1780, This interesting and promising young 
 man died of a decline in his twenty-fourth 
 year." — Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 EICHAED JAGO. 
 
 "Eichard Jago, born 1715, died 1781, the 
 author of ' Edge-Hill,' a descriptive poem, 
 was vicar of Snitterfield, near Stratford-on- 
 Avon. Shenstone, who knew him at Oxford, 
 where Jago was a sizar, used to visit him 
 privately, it being thought beneath the dig- 
 nity of a commoner to be intimate Avith a 
 student of that rank, and continued his friend- 
 ship for him through life." — Campbell's 
 " Specimens." 
 
 COLLEY CIBBEE. 
 
 " Colley Cibber, bom in London 1671, died 
 1757, an English poet and play- writer, the son 
 of Gabriel Cibber, the sculptor, served in the 
 army of the prince of Orange at the Eevolu- 
 tion, and afterwards went on the stage ; but 
 not attaining to eminence as an actor, turned 
 his attention to dramatic writing. His first 
 play was ' Love's Last Shift,' which was per- 
 formed in 1695, and met with great applause ; 
 after which he wrote a number of others. His 
 best work is considered to be the ' Careless 
 Husband,' performed in 1704 ; but the ' Non- 
 juror ' brought him the most fame and profit. 
 George L, to whom it was dedicated, pre- 
 sented him Avith ^200, and appointed him to 
 the office of Poet-laureate. His comedies are 
 
 light, airy, and pleasant, but his royal odes 
 possess many faults. He wrote an ' Apology ' 
 for his own life, which is very amusing, as it 
 depicts many of his own foibles and peculiari- 
 ties with considerable candour. — His son 
 Theophilus followed, for a short time, the 
 theatrical profession, and wrote a ballad opera 
 called ' Pattie and Peggy.' Bom 1703, died 
 on his passage to Ireland, 1758." — Beoton's 
 "Diet. Univ. Biog." See AlHbone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 "James Beattie was born in 1735 in the 
 parish of Lawrence Kirk, in Kincardine- 
 shire, Scotland. His father, who rented 
 a small farm in Lawrence Kirk, died when 
 the poet was only seven years old ; but the 
 loss of a protector was happily supplied to 
 him by his elder brother, who kept him at 
 school till he obtained a bursary at the 
 Marischal College, Aberdeen. At that univer- 
 sity he took the degree of master of arts ; 
 and, at nineteen, he entered on the study of 
 divinity, supporting himself in the mean 
 time by teaching a school in the neighbouring 
 parish. Whilst he was in this obscure 
 situation, some pieces of verse, which he 
 transmitted to the Scottish Magazine, gained 
 him a little local celebrity. Mr. Garden, an 
 eminent Scottish lawyer, afterwards Lord 
 Gardenstone, and Lord Monboddo, encouraged 
 him as an ingenious young man, and intro- 
 duced him to the tables of the neighbouring 
 gentry ; an honour not usually extended to a 
 parochial schoolmaster. In 1757, he stood 
 candidate for the place of usher in the high- 
 school of Aberdeen. He was foiled by a com- 
 petitor who surpassed him in the minutia3 of 
 Latin grammar ; but his character as a scholar 
 suffered so little by the disappointment, that 
 at the next vacancy he was called to the place 
 without a trial. He had not been long at this 
 school, when, in 1761, he published a volume 
 of Original Poems and Translations Avhich (it 
 speaks much for the critical clemency of the 
 times) were favourably received, and highly 
 commended in the English Eeviews. So little 
 satisfied was the author himself with those 
 early effusions, that, excepting four, which he 
 admitted to a subsequent edition of his works, 
 he was anxious to have them consigned to 
 oblivion ; and he destroyed every copy of the 
 volume which he could procure. About the 
 age of twenty-six, he obtained the chair of 
 Moral Philosophy in the Marischal College of 
 Aberdeen, a promotion which he must have 
 owed to his general reputation in literature ; 
 but it is singular, that the friend who first 
 proposed to solicit the High Constable of 
 Scotland to obtain this appointment, should 
 have grounded the proposal on the merit of 
 Beattie' s poetry. In the volume already 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 mentioned there can scarcely be said to be a 
 budding promise of genius. 
 
 " Upon his appointment to this professor- 
 ship, which he held for forty years, he imme- 
 diately prepared a course of lectures for the 
 students ; and gradually compiled materials 
 for those prose works, on which his name 
 would rest with considerable reiDutation, if he 
 were not known as a poet. It is true, that 
 he is not a first-rate metaphysician ; and the 
 Scotch, in undervaluing his powers of abstract 
 and close reasoning, have been disposed to 
 give him less credit than he deserves, as an 
 elegant and amusing -writer. But the English, 
 who must be best able to judge of his style, 
 admire it for an ease, familiarity, and an 
 Anglicism that is not to be found even in the 
 correct and polished diction of Blair, His 
 mode of illustrating abstract questions is fan- 
 ciful and interesting. 
 
 "In 1765, he published a poem entitled 
 ' The Judgment of Paris,' which his bio- 
 grapher. Sir Vv^illiam Fori)es, did not think 
 fit to rank among his works. For more 
 obvious reasons Sir William excluded his 
 lines, written in the subsequent year, on the 
 proposal for erecting a monument to Churchill 
 in "Westminster Abbey — Klines which have no 
 beauty or dignity to redeem their bitter ex- 
 pression of hatred. On particular subjects, 
 Eeattie's virtuous indignation was apt to be 
 hj'^sterical. Dr. Reid and Dr. Campbell hated 
 the principles of David Hume as sincerely as 
 the author of the Essay on Truth ; but they 
 never betrayed more than philosophical hos- 
 tility, while Beattie used to speak of the 
 propriety of excluding Hume from civil 
 society. 
 
 "His reception of Gray, when that poet 
 visited Scotland in 1765, shows the enthu- 
 siasm of his literary character in a finer light. 
 Graj^'s mind was not in poetry only, but in 
 many other respects, peculiarly congenial 
 with his OM'u ; and nothing could exceed the 
 cordial and reverential welcome which Beattie 
 gave to his illustrious visitant. In 1770, he 
 published his ' Essay on Truth,' which had a 
 rapid sale, and extensive popularity ; and 
 within a twelvemonth after, the first part of 
 his ' Minstrel.' The poem aiDpeared at first 
 anonymously; but its beauties were imme- 
 diately and justly appreciated. The second 
 part was not published till 1774. When Gray 
 <;riticised the ' Minstrel ' he objected to its 
 
 ) author, that, after many stanzas, the de- 
 f^cription went on and the narrative stopped. 
 Beattie very justly answered to this criticism, 
 
 I that he meant the poem for description, not 
 for incident. But he seems to have forgotten 
 this proper apology, when he mentions in one 
 of his letters his intention of producing Ed\vin, 
 in some subsequent books, in the character of 
 a warhke bard inspiring his countrymen to 
 battle, and contributing to repel their in- 
 vaders. This intention, if he ever seriously 
 •entertained it, might have produced some new 
 
 kind of poem, but would have formed an 
 incongruous counterpart to the piece as it now 
 stands, which, as a picture of still life, and a 
 vehicle of contemplative morality, has a charm 
 that is inconsistent with the bold evolutions 
 of heroic narrative. After having portrayed 
 his young enthusiast with such advantage in 
 a state of visionary quiet, it would have been 
 too violent a transition to have begun in a 
 new book to surround him with dates of time 
 and names of places. The interest which wo 
 attach to Edwin's character, would have been 
 lost in a more ambitious effort to make him 
 a greater or more important, or a more locally 
 defined being. It is the solitary growth of 
 his genius, and his isolated and mystic ab- 
 straction from mankind, that fix our attention 
 on the romantic features of that genius. The 
 simplicity of his fate does not divert us from 
 his mind to his circumstances. A more un- 
 worldly air is given to his character, that 
 instead of being tacked to the fate of kings, 
 he was one ' Who envied not, Vv^ho never 
 thought of kings ; ' and that, instead of min- 
 gling with the troubles which deface the 
 creation, he only existed to make his thoughts 
 the mirror of its beauty and magnificence. 
 Another English critic has blamed Edwin's 
 vision of the fairies as too splendid and arti- 
 ficial for a simple youth ; but there is nothing 
 in the situation ascribed to Edwin, as he lived 
 in minstrel days, that necessarily excluded 
 such materials from his fancy. Had he 
 beheld steam-engines or dock-yards in his 
 sleep, the vision might have been pronounced 
 to be too artificial ; but he might have heard 
 of fairies und their dances, and even of tapers, 
 gold, and gems, from the ballads of his native 
 country. In the second book of the poem 
 there are some fine stanzas ; but he has taken 
 Edwin out of the school of nature, and placed 
 him in his own, that of moral philosophy; 
 and hence a degree of languor is experienced 
 by the reader. 
 
 " Soon after the publication of the ' E=say 
 on Truth,' and of the first part of the ' Min- 
 strel,' he paid his first visit to London. His 
 reception, in the highest literar.y and polite 
 circles, was distinguished and flattering. 
 The university of Oxford conferred on him 
 the degree of doctor of laws, and the sovereign 
 himself, besides honouring him with a per- 
 sonal conference, bestowed on him a pension 
 of ^200 a year. 
 
 " On his return to Scotland, there was a 
 proposal for transferring him to the utiivorsity 
 of Edinburgh, which ho expressed Ms wish to 
 decline, from a fear of those i:)ersonal enemies 
 whom he had excited by Ms Essay on Truth. 
 This motive, if it was his real one, must have 
 been connected with that weakness and irrita- 
 bility on polemical subjects which have been 
 already alluded to. His metaphysical fame 
 perhaps stood higher in Ab-erdeen than in 
 Edinburgh ; but to have dreaded personal 
 hostility in the capital of a religious country, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 amidst thousands of individuals as pious as 
 himself, was a weakness unbecoming the pro- 
 fessed champion of truth. For reasons of 
 delicacy, more creditable to his memory, ho 
 declined a living in the church of England 
 which was offered to him by his friend Dr. 
 Porteus. 
 
 " After this, there is not much incident in 
 his Hfe. He published a volume of his Essays 
 in 1776, and another in 1783 ; and the out- 
 line of his academical lectures in 1790. In 
 the same year, ho edited, at Edinburgh, Addi- 
 son's papers in ' The Spectator,' and wrote a 
 preface for the edition. He wa^^ very unfor- 
 tunate in his family. The mental disorder of 
 his wife, for a long time before it assumed the 
 shape of a decided derangement, broke out in 
 caprices of temper, which disturbed his 
 domestic peace, and almost precluded him 
 from having visitors in his family. The loss 
 of his son, James Hay Beattie, a young man 
 of highly promising talents, who had been 
 conjoined with him in his professorship, was the 
 greatest though not the last calamity of his 
 life. He made an attempt to revive his spirits 
 after that melancholy event, by another 
 journey to England, and some of his letters 
 from thence bespeak a temporary composure 
 and cheerfulness ; but the wound was never 
 healed. Even music, of which he had ahvays 
 been fond, ceased to be agreeable to him, from 
 the lively recollections which it excited of the 
 hours which he had been accustomed to spend 
 in that recreation with his favourite boy. He 
 published the poems of this youth, with a 
 partial eulogy upon his genius, such as might 
 be well excused from a father so" situated. 
 At the end of six years more, his other son, 
 Montague Beattie, was also cut off in the 
 flower of his youth. This misfortune crushed 
 his spirits even to temporary alienation of 
 mind. With his wife in a madhouse, his sons 
 dead, and his own health broken, he might be 
 pardoned for saying, as he looked on the 
 corpse of his last child, ' I have done Avith this 
 world.' Indeed he acted as if he felt so ; for 
 though he performed the duties of his pro- 
 fessorship till within a short time of his 
 death, he applied to no study, enjoyed no 
 society, and answered but few letters of his 
 friends. Yet, amidst the depth of his melan- 
 choly, he would sometimes acquiesce in his 
 childless fate, and exclaim, ' How could I have 
 borne to see their elegant minds mangled with 
 madness ? ' He was struck with a palsy in 
 1799, by repeated attacks of which his life 
 terminated in 1803." — Campbell's "Speci- 
 mens," pp. 687-9. See Dr. Angus's "Handbook 
 of Eng. Lit. " ; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit. " ; Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit. "; Gilfillan's 
 edit, of " Beattie's Poems.'' 
 
 CHEISTOPHER SMART, 
 
 " We hear of ' Single-speech Hamilton.' 
 We have now to say something of ' Single- 
 poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest 
 bursts of devotional and poetical feeling in 
 the English language — the ' Song to David.' 
 This poor unfortunate Avas born at Ship- 
 bourne, Kent, in 1722, His father was 
 steward to Lord Barnard, who after his death 
 continued his patronage to the son, who was 
 then eleveTi years of age. The Duchess of 
 Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, 
 bestowed on Christopher an allowance of £4:0 
 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, 
 Cambridge, in 1739 ; was in 1745 elected a 
 Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 took his 
 degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to 
 display that reckless dissipation which led 
 afterwards to such melancholy consequences. 
 He studied hard, however, at intervals ; wrote 
 poetry both in Latin and English ; produced 
 a comedy called a ' Trip to Cambridge ; or, 
 The Grateful Fair,' which was acted in the 
 hall of Pembroke College ; and, in spite of 
 his A'ices and follies, was x^op^ilar on account 
 of his agreeable manners and amiable dispo- 
 sitions. Having become acquainted with 
 Newberry, the benevolent, red-nosed book- 
 seller commemorated in ' The Vicar of Wake- 
 field,' — for whom he >vrote some trifles, — he 
 married his step- daughter. Miss Carnan, in the 
 year 1753. He now removed to London, and 
 became an author to trade. He wrote a 
 clever satire, entitled ' The Hilliad,' against 
 Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an 
 underhand maimer. He translated the fables 
 of Pha3drus into verse, — Horace into prose 
 ( ' Smart's Horace ' tised to be a great fa- 
 vourite, under the rose, with schoolboys) ; 
 made an indifferent version of the Psalms 
 and Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former 
 period, of Pope's 'Ode on St. Cecilia's Day,' 
 with which that poet professed himself highly 
 pleased. He was employed on a monthly 
 publication called ' The Universal Visitor.' We 
 find Johnson giving the following account of 
 this matter in Bos well's Life: — Old Gardner, 
 the bookseller, employed Eolt and Smart to 
 write a monthly miscellany called ' The Uni- 
 versal Visitor.' There was a formal Avritten 
 contract. They were bound to write nothing 
 else, — they were to have, I think, a third of 
 the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the 
 contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote 
 for some months in ' The Universal Visitor ' 
 for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then 
 knowing the terms on which he was engaged 
 to write, and thinking I was doing him good. 
 I hoped his wits would soon return to him. 
 Mine returned to me, and I wrote in ' The 
 Universal Visitor ' no longer. 
 
 " Smart at last was called to pay the pe- 
 nalty of his blended labour and dissipation. 
 In 1763 ha was shut up in a madhouse. His 
 derangement had exhibited itself in a religious 
 
Fro)u 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 way : he insisted upon people kneeling down 
 along- with him in the street and praying. 
 During his confinement, writing materials 
 were denied him, and he used to write his 
 poetical pieces with a key on the wainscot. 
 Thus ' scrabbling,' like his own hero, on the 
 wall, he produced his immortal ' Song to 
 David.' He became by and by sane ; but, 
 returning to his old habits, got into debt, and 
 died in the King's Bench prison, after a short 
 illness, in 1770. 
 
 " The ' Song to David ' has been well called 
 one of the greatest curiosities of literature. 
 It ranks in this point with the tragedies 
 written by Lee, and the sermons and prayers 
 uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state 
 of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, 
 the thin partition between genius and mad- 
 ness was broken down in thunder, — the 
 thunder of a higher poetry than perhaps they 
 were capable of even conceiving in their saner 
 moments. Lee produced in that state — which 
 was, indeed, nearly his normal one — some 
 glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, 
 monologised and overheard in the madhouse, 
 are said to have transcended all that he 
 preached in his healthier moods. And, as- 
 suredly, the other poems by Smart scarcely fur- 
 nish a point of comparison with the towering 
 and sustained loftiness of some parts of the 
 ' Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness alone, — 
 although the last three stanzas are absolute 
 inspiration, and you see the waters of Castalia 
 tossed by a heavenly wind to the very summit 
 of Parnassus, — but there are innumerable 
 exquisite beauties and subtleties, dropt as if 
 by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of 
 the poem. Witness his description of David's 
 muse, as a 
 
 ' Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, 
 The more than Michal of his bloom, 
 The Abishag of his age.' 
 
 The account of David's object — 
 
 ' To further knowledge, .silence vice, 
 And plant perpetual paradise, 
 
 When God had calmed the world.' 
 
 Of David's Sabbath — 
 
 ' 'Twas then his thoughts self -conquest 
 pruned. 
 And heavenly melancholy tuned, 
 To bless and bear the rest.' 
 
 One of David's themes — 
 
 ' The multitudinous abyss. 
 Where secrecy remains in bliss, 
 And wisdom hides her skill.' 
 
 And, not to multiply instances to repletion, 
 this stanza about gems — 
 
 ' Of gems — their virtue and their price. 
 Which, hid in earth from man's device, 
 
 Their darts of lustre sheath ; 
 The jasper of the master's stamp. 
 The topaz blazing like a lamp. 
 Among the mines beneath.' 
 
 " Incoherence and extravagance we find here 
 and there ; but it is not the flutter of weak- 
 ness, it is the fury of power : from the very 
 stumble of the rushing steed, sparks are kin- 
 dled. And, even as Baretti, when he read 
 the ' Rambler ' in Italj', thought within him- 
 self. If such are the lighter productions of 
 the English mind, what musf~ be the 
 grander and sterner efforts of its genius ? 
 and formed, consequently, a strong desire to 
 visit that country ; so might he have rea- 
 soned. If such poems as ' David ' issue from 
 England's very madhouses, what must be the 
 writings of its saner and nobler poetic souls ? 
 and thus might he, from the parallax of a 
 Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal 
 altitudes of a Shakspere or a Milton. Indeed, 
 there are portions of the ' Song to David,' 
 which a Milton or a Shakspere has never 
 surpassed. The blaze of the meteor often 
 eclipses the light of 
 
 ' The loftiest star of unascended hep ven. 
 Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.' " 
 
 — Gilfillan's "Less-Known Brit. Poets," vol. 
 iii., pp. 151-3. 
 
 EICHARD GLOVER. 
 
 "Richard Glover, born 1712, died 1785, 
 was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in 
 London, and was born in St. Martin' s-lane. 
 Cannon-street. He was educated at the 
 school of Cheam, in Surrej' ; but being in- 
 tended for trade, was never sent to the 
 university. This circumstance did not prevent 
 him from applying assiduously to classical 
 learning ; and he was in the competent, opinion 
 of Dr. Warton, one of the best Greek scholars 
 of his time. This fact is worth mentioning-, 
 as it exhibits hoAV far a determined mind may 
 connect the pursuits, and even distinctions of 
 literature, with an active employment. His 
 first poetical effort was a poem to the memory 
 of Sir Isaac Newton, which was written at 
 the age of sixteen ; and which his friend. 
 Dr. Pemberton, thought fit to j)refix to a 
 'View of the Newtonian Philosophy,' which 
 he published. Dr. Pemberton, who was a 
 man of more science than taste, on this and 
 on some other occasions addressed the public 
 with critical eulogies on the genius of Glover, 
 written with an excess of admiration, which 
 could be pardoned only for its sincerity. It 
 gives us a higher idea of the youthful promises 
 of his mind, to find that the intelligent poet 
 Green had the same prepossession in his 
 favour. Green says of him in the ' Spleen ' : — 
 
 ' But there's a youth, that you can name. 
 Who needs no leading-strings to fame ; 
 Whose quick maturity of brain 
 The birth of Pallas may explain.' 
 
 " At the age of twenty- five he published 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 nine books of his ' Leonidas.' The poem was 
 immediately taken up with ardour by Lord 
 Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, and by 
 all the readers of verse, and leaders of politics, 
 who professed the strongest attachment to 
 liberty. It ran rapidly through three editions, 
 and was publicly extolled by the pen of 
 Fielding, and by the lips of Chatham. Even 
 Swift, in one of his letters from Ireland, drily 
 inquires of Pope, ' Who is this Mr. Glover, 
 who writ " Leonidas," which is reprinting here, 
 and hath great vogue ? ' Overrated as ' Leon- 
 idas ' might be. Glover stands acquitted of all 
 attempts or artifice to promote its popularity 
 by false means. He betrayed no irritation- in 
 the disputes which were raised about its 
 merit ; and his personal character appears as 
 respectable in the ebb as in the flow of his 
 poetical reputation. 
 
 "In the year 1739 he published his poem 
 ' London ; or the Progress of Commerce,' in 
 which, instead of selecting some of those 
 interesting views of the progress of social life 
 and civilization which the subject might have 
 afforded, he confined himself to exciting the 
 national spirit against the Spaniards.. This 
 purpose was better effected by his nearly 
 contemporary ballad of ' Hosier's Ghost.' 
 
 " His talents and politics introduced him to 
 the notice and favour of Frederick, Prince of 
 Wales, whilst he maintained an intimate 
 friendship with the chiefs of the opposition. 
 In the mean time, he pursued the business of 
 a merchant in the city, and was an able 
 auxiliary to his party, by his eloquence at 
 l^ublic meetings, and by his influence with the 
 mercantile body. Such was the confidence in 
 his knowledge and talents, that in 3 743 the 
 merchants of London deputed him to plead, in 
 behalf of their neglected rights, at the bar of 
 the House of Commons, a duty which he ful- 
 filled with great ability. In 1744, he was 
 offered an employment of a very different kind, 
 being left a bequest of ,£500 by the Duchess 
 of Marlborough, on condition of his writing the 
 duke's life, in conjunction with Mallet. He re- 
 nounced this legacy, while Mallet accepted it, 
 but never fulfilled the terms. Glover's rejection 
 of the offer was the more honourable, as it 
 came at a time when his own affairs were so 
 embarrassed as to oblige him to retire from 
 business for several years, and to lead a life of 
 the strictest economy. During his distresses, 
 he is said to have received from the Prince of 
 Wales a present of ^500. In the year 1751, 
 his friends in the city made an attempt to 
 obtain for him the office of city chamberlain ; 
 but he v/as unfortunately not named as a 
 •candidate till the majority of votes had been 
 engaged to Sir Thomas Harrison. The speech 
 which he made to the livery on this occasion 
 did him much honour, both for the liberality 
 with which he spoke of his successful oppo- 
 nent, and for the manly but unassuming 
 manner in which he expressed the consciousness 
 of his own integrity, amidst his private mis- 
 
 fortunes, and asserted the merit of his public 
 conduct as a citizen. The name of Guildhall 
 is certainly not apt to inspire us with high 
 ideas either of oratory or of personal <?yin- 
 pathy; yet there is something in the history of 
 this transaction which increases our respect, 
 not only for Glover, but for the scene itself, in 
 which his eloquence is said to have warmly 
 touched his audience with a feeling of his 
 worth as an individual, of his spirit as a poli- 
 tician, and of his powers as an accomplished 
 speaker. He carried the sentiments and 
 endowments of a polished scholar into the 
 most popular meeting of trading life, and 
 showed that they could be welcomed there. 
 Such men elevate the character of a mercantile 
 country. 
 
 "During his retirement from business, he 
 finished his tragedy of ' Boadicea,' which was 
 brought out at Drury Lane in 1753, and was 
 acted for nine nights, it is said ' successfully,' 
 perhaps a misprint for successively. Boadicea 
 is certainly not a contemptible drama : it has 
 some scenes of tender interest between Venusia 
 and Dumnorix; but the defectiveness of its 
 incidents, and the frenzied character of the 
 British queen, render it upon the whole 
 unpleasing. Beaumont and Fletcher, in their 
 play on the same subject, have left Boadicea, 
 with all her rashness and revengeful disposi- 
 tion, still a heroine ; but Glover makes her a 
 beldam and a fury, whom we could scarcely 
 condemn the Romans for having carted. The 
 disgusting novelty of this impression is at 
 variance with the traditionary regard for her 
 name, from which the mind is unwilling to 
 part. It is told of an eminent portrait-painter, 
 that the picture of each individual which he 
 took had some resemblance to the last sitter : 
 when he painted a comic actress, she resembled 
 a doctor of divinity, because his imagination 
 had not yet been delivered of the doctor. The 
 converse of this seems to have happened to 
 Glover. He anticipated the hideous traits of 
 Medea, when he produced the British queen. 
 With a singular degree of poetical injustice, 
 he leans to the side' of compassion in delinea- 
 ting Medea, a monster of infanticide, and 
 prepossesses us against a high-spirited woman, 
 who avenged the wrongs of her country, and 
 the violation of her daughters. His tragedy 
 of ' Medea ' appeared in 1761 ; and the 
 spirited acting of Mrs. Yates gave it con- 
 siderable effect. 
 
 " In his later years, his circumstances were 
 greatly improved, though we are not informed 
 from what causes. He returned again to 
 public life ; was elected to parliament ; and 
 there distinguished himself, v/henever mer- 
 cantile prosperity was concerned, by his 
 knowledge of commerce, and his attention to 
 its interests. In 1770 he enlarged his ' Leoni- 
 das' from nine to twelve books, and afterward?? 
 wrote its sequel, the * Athenaid,' and a sequel 
 to ' Medea.' The latter was never acted, and 
 the former seldom read. The close of his 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHTCAL ITOTICEg. 
 
 life was spent in retirement from business, 
 but amidst the intimacy of the most eminent 
 scholars of his time. 
 
 " Some contemporary writers, calling them- 
 selves critics, preferred ' Leonidas ' in its day 
 to ' Paradise Lost, ' becaiise it had smobther 
 versification, and fewer hard words of learning. 
 The re-action of popular opinion against a 
 work that has been once over-rated is apt to 
 depress it beneath its just estimation. It is 
 due to ' Leonidas ' to say, that its narrative, 
 descriptions, and imagery, have a general and 
 chaste congruity with the Grecism of its 
 subject. It is far, indeed, from being a vivid 
 or arresting picture of antiquity ; but it has 
 an air of classical taste and propriety in its 
 design ; and it sometimes places the religion 
 and manners of Greece in a pleasing and 
 impressive light. The i)oet's description of 
 Dithyrambus making his way from the cave 
 of (Eta, by a secret ascent, to the temple of 
 the Muses, and bursting, unexpectedly, into the 
 hallowed presence of their priestess Mehssa, 
 is a passage fraught with a considerable 
 degree of the fanciful and beautiful in super- 
 stition. The abode of Oileus is also traced 
 with a suavity of local description, which is 
 not unusual to Glover ; and the speech of 
 Melissa, when she first receives the tidings of 
 her venerable father's death, supports a fine 
 consistency witli the august and poetical 
 character which is ascribed to her. 
 
 'A sigh 
 Broke from her heart, these accents from her 
 
 lips. 
 The full of days and honours through the 
 
 gate 
 Of painless slumber is retired. His tomb 
 Shall stand among his fathers, in the shade 
 Of his own trophies. Placid were his days. 
 Which flow'd through blessings. As a river 
 
 pure. 
 Whose sides are fiow'ry, and whose meadows 
 
 fair; 
 Meets in his course a subterranean void , 
 There dips his silver head, again to rise. 
 And, rising, glide through flowers and meadows 
 
 new; 
 So shall Oileus in those happier fields, 
 Where never gloom of trouble shades the 
 
 mind.' 
 
 "The undeniable fault of the entire poem 
 is, that it wants impetuosity of progress, and 
 that its characters are without warm and 
 interesting individuality. What a great geniu s 
 might have made of the subject, it may be 
 difficidt to pronounce by supposition ; for it is 
 the very character of genius to produce effects 
 which cannot be calculated. But imposing 
 as the names of Leonidas and Thermopylae 
 may appear, the subject which they formed 
 for an epic poem was such, that we cannot 
 wonder at its baffling the powers of Glover. 
 A poet, with such a theme, was furnished 
 indeed with a grand outline of actions and senti- 
 
 ments ; but how difficult was it, after all that 
 books could teach him, to give the close and | 
 veracious appearance of life to characters and 
 manners beheld so remotely on the verge 
 of the horizon of history ! What difficulty to 
 avoid coldness and generality on the one 
 hand, if he delineated his human-bei]i£;s only 
 with the manners which history could authen- 
 ticate ; and to shun grotesqueness and incon- 
 sistency on the other, if he filled up the vague 
 outline of the antique with the particular and 
 familiar traits of modern life ! Neither Fene- 
 lon, with all his genius, nor Barthclemy, with 
 aU his learning, have kept entirely free of this 
 latter fault of incongruity, in modernising the 
 aspect of ancient manners. Tlie characters of 
 Barthelemy, in particular, often remind us of 
 statues in modern clothes. Glover has not 
 fallen into this impurity; but his purity is 
 cold : his heroes are like outlines of Grecian 
 faces, with no distinct or minute physiognomy. 
 They are not so much poetical characters as 
 historical recollections. There are, indeed, 
 some touches of spirit in Artemisia's character, 
 and of pathos in the episode of Teribazus ; 
 but Leonidas is too good a Spartan, and 
 Xerxes too bad a Persian, to be pitied ; and 
 most of the subordinate agents, that fall or 
 triumph in battle, only load our memories 
 with their names. The local descriptions of 
 ' Leonidas,' however, its pure sentiments, and 
 the classical images which it recalls, render it 
 interesting as the monument of an accom- 
 plished and amiable mind." — Campbell's 
 "Specimens," pp. 588-590. See Allibone's 
 "Grit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; Maunder's "Biog. 
 Diet."; Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 EOBEET DODSLEY. 
 
 "Eobert Dodsley, born 1703, died 17G4. 
 It is creditable to the memory of Pope to 
 have been the encourager of this ingenious 
 man, who rose from the situation of a foot- 
 man to be a very eminent bookseller. His 
 plan of republishing ' Old English Plays ' is 
 said to have been suggested to him by the 
 literary amateur Coxeter ; but the execution 
 of it leaves us still indebted to Dodsley' s en- 
 terprise." — Campbell's "Specimens." See Alli- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 SAMUEL BISHOP. 
 
 " Samuel Bishop was bom in 1731, and died 
 in 1795. He was an English clergyman, 
 master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, 
 and am;hor of a volume of Latin pieces, en- 
 titled ' FerioB Poeticac,' and of various other 
 poetical pieces. We give some verses to his 
 wife, from which it appears that he remained 
 an ardent lover long after having become a 
 husband." — Gilfillan's "Less-known Brit. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod. — 
 
 Poets." See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. En^ 
 Lit." ; Campbell's '■ Specimens." 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 "John Bampfylde, born 1754, died 1796, 
 was the younger brother of Sir Charles Bamp- 
 fylde. He was educated at Cambridge, and 
 published his ' Sonnets ' in 1776, when very 
 young. He soon after fell into mental de- 
 rangement, and passed the last years of his 
 life in a private madhouse. After twenty 
 j'cars' confinement he recovered his senses, 
 but not till he was in the last gasp of con- 
 sumption." — Campbell's " Specimens." See 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 SIE WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 " Sir William Jones, an Indian judge and 
 learned Oriental writer, was born in London, 
 1746, and died at Calcutta, 1794. Losing his 
 father in his infancy, his education devolved 
 on his mother, a woman of great virtue and 
 understanding, from whom he learnt the rudi- 
 ments of knowledge, and was then removed 
 to Harrow school, where he made such great 
 progress in his studies, that Dr. Sumner, the 
 master, affirmed that his pupil knew more 
 Greek than himself ; a previous master hav- 
 ing said, ' If Jones were left naked on 
 Salisbury plain, he would nevertheless find the 
 road to fame.' In 1764 he was entered of Uni- 
 versity College, Oxford, where to his classical 
 pursuits he added the study of the Persian and 
 Arabic languages, also the Spanish, Italian, and 
 Portuguese. At the age of nineteen he became 
 tutor to Lord Althorpe, and, during his resi- 
 dence at Wimbledon, in that noble family, he 
 greatly enlarged his acquirements in Oriental 
 literature. In 1769 he made a tour in France, 
 and about the same time undertook, at the 
 request of the king of Denmark, to translate 
 the history of Nadir Shah from Persian into 
 French. In 1770 he entered on the study of 
 the law at the Temple, but continued his ap- 
 plication to Oriental learning and general 
 literature. In 1774 he published his ' Com- 
 mentaries on Asiatic Poetry,' dedicated to the 
 University of Oxford. In 1 783 he obtained the 
 appointment of a judge of the Supreme Court 
 at Calcutta, a post which had been the object 
 of his anxious wishes. The honour of knight- 
 hood was on this occasion conferred on him, 
 and he soon after married a daughter of the 
 bishop of St. Asaph. In April of that year he 
 embarked for India, from which ho was never 
 destined to return. On the voyage hffi active 
 mind projected the establishment of a society 
 in Bengal for the purpose of illustrating Orien- 
 tal antiquities and literature. This scheme he 
 saw carried into effect ; and under his auspices, 
 and by his direction, the society acquired a high 
 
 reputation. The volumes of its ' Transactions' 
 are inestimable, and are enriched by sevearal 
 valuable productions from Sir William's pen. 
 As a judge he was indefatigable and im- 
 partial. He studied the native laws of the 
 country, and became so versed in the Sanscrit 
 and the codes of the Brahmins, as to gain the 
 admiration of the most learned men in that 
 country. In 1799 his works were collected and 
 published in 6 vols., and his life written by 
 Lord Teignmouth, in one volume, 1804, A 
 beautiful monument has been erected to his 
 memory in St. Paul's Cathedral by the East 
 India Company." — Beeton's "Diet. Univ. 
 Biog." See Maunder's " Biog. Diet." ; Shaw's 
 '• Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Chambers' " Cyo. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 FEANCIS FAWKES. 
 
 " Francis Fawkes, born 1721, died 1777, 
 made translations from some of the minor 
 Greek poets (viz. Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and 
 Moschus, Museeus, Theocritus, and Apollonius), 
 and modernised the description of ' May and 
 Winter,' from Gawain Douglas. He was bom 
 in Yorkshire, studied at Cambridge, was curate 
 of Croydon, in Surrey, where he obtained the 
 friendship of Archbishop Herring, and by him 
 was collated to the vicarage of Orpington, in 
 Kent. By the favour of Dr. Plumptre, he 
 exchanged this vicarage for the rectory of 
 Hayes, and was finally made chaplain to the 
 Princess of Wales. He was the friend of 
 Johnson and Warton ; a learned and a jovial 
 parson." — Campbell's " Specimens." See AUi- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 
 
 "William Whitehead, an English poet, was 
 born at Cambridge, 1715, and died 1788. He 
 became secretary and registrar of the order 
 of the Bath, and, in 1757, poet-laureate. 
 Besides his odes and songs, he Avrote ' The 
 Eoman Father,' and 'Creusa,' tragedies ; ' The 
 School for Lovers,' a comedy ; ' A Trip to 
 Scotland,' a farce." — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. 
 Biog." 
 
 DE. JAMES GEAINGEE. 
 
 " This writer possessed some true imagina- 
 tion, although his claim to immortality lies 
 in the narrow compass of one poem — his ' Ode 
 to Solitude.' Little is known of his personal 
 history. He was born in 1721, belonging to 
 a gentleman's family in Cumberland. He 
 studied medicine, and was for some time a 
 surgeon connected with the army. When the 
 peace came, he established liimsolf in London as 
 a medical practitioner. In 1775 ho published 
 his ' Sohtude,' which found many admirers, 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 including Dr. Johnson, who pronounced its 
 opening lines ' very noble.' He afterwards 
 indited several other pieces, wrote a translation 
 of Tibullus, and became one of the critical staff 
 of the Monthly Review. He was unable, how- 
 ever, through aU these labours to secure a 
 competence, and, in 1759, he sought the West 
 Indies. In St. Christopher's he commenced 
 practising as a physician, and married the 
 Governor's daughter, who brought him a 
 fortune. He ^v^ote a poem entitled ' The 
 Sugar-cane.' This was sent over to London 
 in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynolds' 
 table to a literary coterie, who, according to 
 Boswell, all burst out into a laugh when, 
 after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began 
 a new paragraph thus — 
 
 * Now, muse, let's sing of rats.' 
 
 And what increased the ridicule was, that 
 one of the company, slily overlooking the 
 reader, found that the word had been originallj'- 
 ' mice,' but had been changed to rats as more 
 dignified. 
 
 ' ' Boswell goes on to record Johnson's opinion 
 of Grainger. He said, ' He was an agreeable 
 man, a man that would do any good that was 
 in his power.' His translation of Tibullus 
 was very well done, but ' The Sugar-cane, a 
 Poem,' did not please him. ' What could lie 
 make of a Sugar-cane ? one might as well 
 write "The Parsley-bed, a Poem," or "The 
 Cabbage Garden, a Poem." ' Boswell — ' You 
 must then pickle your cabbage with the sal 
 Atticum.' Johnson — ' One could say a great 
 deal about cabbage. The poem might begin 
 with the advantages of civilized society over 
 a rude state, exemplified by the Scotch, who 
 had no cabbages till Oliver Cromwell's soldiers 
 introduced them, and one might thus show 
 how arts are propagated by conquest, as they 
 were by the Roman arms.' Cabbage, by the 
 way, in a metaphorical sense, might furnish a 
 very good subject for a literary satire. 
 
 " Grainger died of the fever of the country 
 in 1767. Bishop Percy corroborates Johnson's 
 character of him as a man. He says, ' He 
 was not only a man of genius and learning, 
 but had many excellent virtues, being one of 
 the most generous, friendly, benevolent men 
 I ever knew.' 
 
 " Grainger in some points reminds us of 
 Dyer. Dyer staked his reputation on ' The 
 Fleece ;' but it is his lesser poem, ' Grongar 
 Hill,' which preserves his name ; that fine 
 effusion has survived the laboured work. And 
 so Grainger's ' Solitude ' has supplanted the 
 stately ' Sugar-cane.' The scenery of the 
 West Indies had to wait till its real poet 
 appeared in the author of ' Paul and Virginia.' 
 Grainger was hardly able to cope with the 
 strange and gorgeous contrasts it presents of 
 cliffs and crags, like those of Iceland, with 
 vegetation rich as that of the fairest parts of 
 India, and of splendid sunshine, with temiriests 
 of such tremendous fury that, but for their 
 
 ! brief continuance, no property oould be secure, 
 I and no life could be safe. 
 I " The commencement of the ' Ode to Soli- 
 I tude ' is fine, but the closing part becomes 
 tedious. In the middle of the poem there is 
 a tumult of personification, some of them 
 felicitous and others forced. _ _^ 
 
 ' Sage Reflection, bent \vith years,' 
 may pass, but 
 
 ' Conscious Virtue, void of fears,' 
 is poor. 
 
 ' Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,' 
 is a picture ; 
 
 ' Retrospect that scans the mind,' 
 is nothing ; 
 
 ' Health that snuffs the morning air,' 
 is a living image ; but what sense is there in 
 
 ' Full-eyed Truth, -vNith bosom bare' ? 
 and how poor his 
 
 ' Laughter in loud peals that breaks,' 
 to Milton's 
 
 ' Laughter holding both his sides' ! 
 The paragraph, however, commencing 
 
 ' With you roses brighter bloom,' 
 and closing Avith 
 
 ' The bournless macrocosm's thine,' 
 
 is very spirited, and, along with the opening 
 lines, proves Grainger a poet." — Gilfillan'a 
 "Less-known British Poets," vol. iii. See 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 JAMES MERRICK. 
 
 " James Merrick, born 1720, died 1769, was 
 a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse, and 
 became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, 
 where Lord North was one of his pupils. He 
 took orders, but owing to incessant pains in 
 the head, could not perform duty. His 
 works are a translation of Tryphiodorus, 
 done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a 
 collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous 
 pieces. — Gilfillan's " Less -known British 
 Poets," vol. iii. 
 
 JOHN SCOTT. 
 
 " This worthy and poetical Quaker, who was 
 the son of a draper in London, was born, in the 
 borough of Southwark, 1730, and died 1783. 
 His father retired to Amwell, in Hertfordshire, 
 when our poet was only ten years old; and this 
 removal, together with the circumstance of his 
 never having been inoculated for the small 
 pox, proved an unfortunate impediment to his 
 education. He was put to a day-school, in 
 the neighbouring town of Ware, where not 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 nMich instruction wa3 to be had ; and from 
 that little he was called away, upon the first 
 alarm of infection. Such indeed was his con- 
 stant apprehension of the disease, that he 
 lived for twenty years within twenty miles of 
 London -without visiting it more than once. 
 About the ago of seventeen, however, he 
 betook himself to reading. His family, from 
 their cast of opinions and society, were not 
 likely to abound either in books or conversa- 
 tion relating to literature ; but he happened 
 to form an acquaintance and friendship with 
 a neighbour of the name of Frogley, a master 
 bricklayer, who, though an uneducated man, 
 was an admirer of poetry, and by his inter- 
 course with this friend he strengthened his 
 literary propensity. His first poetical essays 
 were transmitted to the ' Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine.' In his thirtieth year he published four 
 elegies, which were favourably received. His 
 poems, entitled, ' The Garden,' and ' Amwell,' 
 and his volume of collected poetical pieces, 
 appeared after considerable intervals ; and 
 his ' Critical Essays on tlie English Poets,' 
 two years after his death. These, with his 
 * Eemarks on the Poems of Eowley,' are all 
 that can be called his literary productions. 
 He published also two political tracts, in 
 answer to Dr. Johnson's ' Patriot,' and ' False 
 Alarm.' His critical essays contain some 
 judicious remarks on Denham and Dyer ; but 
 his verbal strictures on Collins and Goldsmith 
 discover a miserable insensibility to the soul 
 of those poets. His own verses are chiefly 
 interesting where they breathe the pacific 
 principles of the Quaker ; while his personal 
 character engages respect, from exhibiting a 
 public spirit and liberal taste beyond the 
 habits of his brethren. He was well informed 
 in the laws of his country ; and, though pre- 
 vented by his tenets from becoming a magis- 
 trate, he made himself useful to the inhabit- 
 ants of Amwell, by his offices of arbitration, 
 and by promoting schemes of local improve- 
 ment. He was constant in his attendance at 
 turnpike meetings, navigation trusts, and com- 
 missions of land-tax. Ware and Hertford 
 were indebted to him for the plan of opening 
 a spacious road between those two towns. 
 His treatises on the highway and parochial 
 laws were the result of long and laudable 
 attention to those subjects. 
 
 " His verses, and his amiable character, 
 gained him by degrees a large circle of literary 
 acquaintance, which included Dr. Johnson, 
 Sir "William Jones, Mrs. Montague, and many 
 other distinguished individuals ; and having 
 submitted to inoculation, in his thirty-sixth 
 year, he was from that period more frequently 
 in London. In his retirement he was fond of 
 gardening, and, in amusing himself with the 
 improvement of his grounds, had excavated a 
 grotto in the side of a hill, which his biogra- 
 pher, Mr. Hoole, writing in 1785, says was 
 still shown as a curiosity in that part of the 
 country. He was twice marj;ied. His first 
 
 wife was the daughter of his friend Frogley. 
 He died at a house in EadcliflF, of a putrid 
 fever, and was interred there in the burying 
 ground of the Friends." — Campbell's "Speci- 
 mens." See GilfiUan's "Less-known British 
 Poets." 
 
 WILLIAM OLDYS. 
 
 " Oldys was born in 1696, and died in 1761, 
 He was a very diligent collector of antiquarian 
 materials, and the author of a Life of Ealeigh. 
 He was intimate with Captain Grose, Burns' 
 friend, who used .to rally him on his inordinate 
 thirst for ale, although, if we believe Burns, 
 it was paralleled by Grose's liking for port.'* 
 — Gilfillan's " Less-known British Poets."" 
 See Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 AUGUSTUS TOPLADY. 
 
 "Augustus Montague Toplady, a zealous 
 advocate for the Calvinism of the Church of 
 England, was born at Farnham, in Surrey, 
 1740, and died 1778. He was educated at 
 Westminster School, and at Trinity College, 
 Dublin, and became vicar of Broad Henbury, 
 in Devonshire. He was a strenuous opponent 
 of Wesley, and brought a large share of meta- 
 physical acuteness into the Calvinistic contro- 
 versy. His works form six volumes." — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 JOSEPH HAET. 
 
 A writer of many beautiful hymns, but of 
 whose life little is known. About 1759. 
 
 HENEY CAEEY. 
 
 " Of Henry Carey, the author of the popular 
 song, ' Sally in our Alley,' we know only that 
 he was a professional musician, composing 
 the air as well as the words of ' Sally,' and 
 that, in 1763, he died by his own hands." — 
 Gilfillan's " Less-known British Poets," vol . 
 iii. See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; 
 Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 PAUL WHITEHEAD. 
 
 "Paul Whitehead, born 1710, died 1774, 
 was the son of a tailor in London ; and, after 
 a slender education, was placed as an appren- 
 tice to a woollen-draper. He afterwards went 
 to the Temple, in order to study law. Several 
 years of his life (it is not quite clear at what 
 period) were spent in the Fleet-prison, owing 
 to a debt which he foolishly contracted, by 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 putting his name to a joint securitj' for ^3000, 
 at the request of his friend Fleetwood, the 
 theatrical manager, who persuaded him that 
 his sisrnature was a mere matter of form. 
 How he obtained his liberation we are not 
 informed. 
 
 " In the year 1735 he married a Miss Anne 
 Dyer, with whom he obtained ten thousand 
 pounds. She was homely in her person, 
 and very weak in intellect ; but Whitehead, 
 it appears, always treated her with respect 
 and tenderness. 
 
 " He became, in the same year, a satirical 
 rhymer against the ministry of Walpole ; and 
 having published his ' State Dunces,' a weak 
 echo of the manner of the 'Dunciad,' he 
 was patronised by the opposition, and parti- 
 cularly by Bubb Doddington. In 1739 he 
 published the ' Manners,' a satire, in which 
 Mr. Chalmers says that he attacks every 
 thing venerable in the constitution. The 
 poem is not worth disputing about ; but it is 
 certainly a mere personal lampoon, and no 
 attack on the constitution. For this invective 
 he was summoned to appear at the bar of the 
 House of Lords, but concealed himself for a 
 time, and the affair was dropped. The threat 
 of prosecuting him, it was suspected, was 
 meant as a hint to Pope, that those who 
 satirised the great might bring themselves 
 into danger ; and Pope (it is pretended) 
 became more cautious. There would seem, 
 however, to be nothing very terrific in the 
 example of a prosecution, that must have been 
 dropped either from clemency or conscious 
 weakness. The ministerial journals took 
 another sort of revenge, by accusing him of 
 irreligion ; and the evidence, which they can- 
 didly and consistently brought to substantiate 
 the charge, was the letter of a student from 
 Cambridge, who had been himself expelled 
 from the university for atheism. 
 
 " In 1744 he published another satire, 
 entitled the ' Gymnasiad,' on the most re- 
 nowned boxers of the day. It had at least 
 the merit of being harmless. 
 
 " By the interest of Lord Despenser, h'^ 
 obtained a place under government, that of 
 deputy treasurer of the chamber ; and, re- 
 tiring to a handsome cottage, which he 
 purchased at Twickenham, he lived in comfoi-t 
 and hospitality, and suffered his small satire 
 and politics to be equally forgotten. Churchill 
 attacked him in a couplet : — 
 
 I (can worse disgrace on manhood 
 fall?) 
 Be born a Whitehead and baptised a Paul.' 
 
 But though a libertine like Churchill, he 
 seems not to have been the worse man of the 
 two. Sir John Hawkins gives him the 
 character of being good-hearted, even to sim- 
 plicity ; and says, that he was esteemed a 
 Twickenham for his kind offices, and for 
 composing quarrels among his neighbours." — 
 Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 "John Cunningham, bom 1729, died 1773, 
 the son of a wine- cooper in Dublin, was a 
 respectable actor, and performed several years 
 in Digges's company, Edinburgh. In his 
 latter years he resided in Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 in the house of a ' generous printer,' "Whose 
 hospitality for some time supported the poet. 
 Cunningham's pieces are full of pastoral 
 simplicity and lyrical melody. He aimed at 
 nothing high and seldom failed." — Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit," vol. ii. See Allibone's " Crit, 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 NATHANIEL COTTON. 
 
 "Nathaniel Cotton, born 1721, died 1788, 
 wrote ' Visions in Verse,' for children, and a 
 volume of poetical ' Miscellanies.' He followed 
 the medical profession in St. Albans, and 
 was distinguished^f or his skill in the treatment 
 of cases of insanity. Cowper, his patient, 
 bears evidence to his ' well-known humanity 
 and sweetness of temper." — Chambers' "Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 122. See Allibone's 
 "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Grimshawe's "Life 
 of Cowper"; Southey's "Life and Works 
 of Cowper." 
 
 CHEISTOPHER ANSTEY. 
 
 " Christopher Anstey, bom 1724, died 1805, 
 was atithor of ' The New Bath Guide,' a light 
 satirical and humorous poem, which appeared 
 in 1766, and set an example in this description 
 of composition, that has since been followed 
 in numerous instances, and with great success. 
 Smollett, in his ' Humphrey Clinker,' published 
 five years later, may be almost said to have 
 reduced the ' New Bath Guide ' to prose. 
 Many of the characters and situations are 
 exactly the same as those of Anstey. This 
 poem seldom rises above the tone of conversa- 
 tion, but is easy, sportive, and entertaining. 
 The fashionable Fribbles of the day, the chat, 
 scandal and amusements of those attending 
 the wells, and the canting hypocrisy of some 
 sectarians, are depicted, sometimes with in- 
 delicacy, but always with force and liveliness. 
 Mr. Anstey was son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, 
 rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, a 
 gentleman who possessed a considerable 
 landed property, which the poet afterwards 
 inherited. He was educated at Eton school, 
 and elected to King's CoUege, Cambridge, and 
 in both places he distinguished himself as a 
 classical scholar. In consequence of his 
 refusal to deliver certain declamations, Anstey 
 quarrelled with the heads of the university, 
 and was denied the usual degree. In the 
 epilogue to the ' New Bath Guide,* He alludes 
 to this circumstance — 
 
BIOaRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod. — 
 
 ' Granta, sweet Granta, were studious of ease, 
 Seven years did I sleep, and then lost my 
 degrees.' 
 He then went into the army, and married 
 Miss Calvert, sister to his friend John Calvert, 
 Esq., of AUbiuyHall, in Hertfordshire, through 
 whose influence he was returned to parliament 
 for the borough of Hertford. Ho was a fre- 
 quent resident in the city of Bath, and a 
 favourite in the fashionable and literary 
 coteries of the place. In 1766 Avas published 
 his celebrated poem, which instantly became 
 popular; He wrote various other pieces — ' A 
 Poem on the Death of the Marquis of Tavistock 
 (1767) ; ' An Election Ball, in Poetical Letters 
 from Mr. Inkle at Bath to his Wife at 
 Gloucester ' ; a ' Paraphrase of the Thirteenth 
 Chapter of the First Epistle to the Corin- 
 thians' ; a satire entitled ' The Priest Dis- 
 sected' ; ' Speculation, or a Defence of 
 Mankind' (1780) ; ' Liberality, or Memoirs of 
 a DoGSijed Macajroni ' (1788) ; ' The Farmer's 
 Daughter, a Poetical Tale ' (1795) ; and 
 various other copies of occasional verses. 
 Anstey also translated Gray's 'Elegy' into 
 Latin verse, and addressed an elegant Latin 
 Ode to Dr. Jenner. While the ' New Bath 
 Guide ' was ' the only thing in fashion,' and 
 relished for its novel and original kind of 
 humour, the other prodactions of Anstey 
 were neglected by the public, and have never 
 been revived. In the enjoyment of his pater- 
 nal estate, the poet, however, was independent 
 of the public support, and he took part in the 
 sports of the field up to his eightieth year. 
 While on a visit to his son-in-law, Mr, Bosan- 
 quct, at Harnage, Wiltshire, ho was taken ill, 
 and died on the 3rd of August, 1805." — Cham- 
 bers' "Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. See Allibone's 
 "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 MRS. THRALE. 
 
 " Mrs. Thrale, afterwards Mrs. Piozzi, born 
 1740, died 1822, whose maiden name was 
 Esther Lynch Salusbury, a native of Bodville, 
 in Carnarvonshire, married Mr. Henry Thrale, 
 the opulent brewer, in whose house Dr. John- 
 son found so frequent a home. She was the 
 authoress of ' The Three Warnings,' which is 
 so good a piece of composition that Johnson 
 has been supposed to have assisted in writing 
 it. After the death of her husband, she mar- 
 ried Piozzi, an Italian music-master, and left 
 England. She wrote several other works, but 
 the one by which she is best known is ' Anec- 
 dotes of Dr. Johnson,' 1786. She spent the 
 latter portion of her life at Clifton, where she 
 died." — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 shire, published anonymously, in 1769, a col- 
 lection of miscellaneous poems, forming a thin 
 quarto, which he had printed at Wolverhamp- 
 ton. One piece was copied by Dodsley into 
 his ' Annual Register,' and from thence has 
 been transi'erred (different persons being as- 
 signed as the author) into almost every 
 periodical and collection of fugitive verses. 
 This poem is entitled ' The Beggar ' (some- 
 times called ' The Beggar's Petition'), and con- 
 tains much pathetic and natural sentiment 
 finely expressed." — Chambers' "Cyc. Eng. 
 Lit.," vol. ii., p. 125. 
 
 THOMAS MOSS. 
 " TiomaB Moss, who died in 1808, minister 
 of Brierlcy Hill, and of Trentham, in Stafford- 
 
 JOHN WESLEY. 
 
 " John Wesley, bom 1703, died 1791, a 
 celebrated English divine, who, with White- 
 field, founded Methodism. He was the son of 
 Samuel Wesley the elder, and was educated at 
 the Charterhouse, whence he removed to 
 Christ Church College, Oxford; but in 1726 
 was chosen fellow of Lincoln College, where } 
 he became an eminent tutor. In 1730 he and j 
 his brother, with a few other students, formed \ 
 themselves into a small society for the purpose 
 of mutual edification in rehgiou;: exercises. 
 They devoted their leisure to visiting the 
 prisons and the sick, took the communion 
 once a week, and fasted upon two out of every 
 seven days. An association thus rigidly oc- 
 cupied with religious duties excited consider- 
 able notice ; and, among other names bestowed 
 upon the members, that of Methodists was 
 applied to them with such success as to sub- 
 sequently become the distinctive appellation 
 of all their followers. Deeming Oxford a 
 sphere not large enough for his labours, 
 Wesley, -svith some others, went to Georgia, 
 in North America, in 1735, with a view of 
 converting the Indians. After a stay there 
 of nearly two years, he returned to England, 
 commenced preaching to open-air meetings, 
 and gathered many followers. The churches 
 being shut against him, he built spacious 
 meeting-houses in London, Bristol, and other 
 places. For some time he was united to 
 George Whitefield ; but differences arising on 
 account of the doctrine of election, which was 
 zealously espoused and preached by the latter, 
 they separated, and the Methodists were de- 
 nominated according to their respective 
 leaders. Wesley was indefatigable in his 
 labours, and was almost continually engaged 
 in travelling over England, Wales, Scotland, 
 and Ireland. No man ever laboured more 
 zealouslj'' or continuously in the cause which 
 he had undertaken. Every moment of his 
 life was devoted to the organization of the 
 great sect of Methodists, and he preserved 
 his influence over it to the last. He published 
 hymns, sermons, political tracts, and con- 
 troversial pieces against the Calvinists and 
 Moravians ; but the complete list of the 
 writings of this extraordinary man is too 
 
From 1727 to 1780,] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 voluminous to be inserted. Two collected 
 editions of his works have been published, 
 the first in 32 vols., and the second in 16 vols. 
 The best biographies of him are those of Coke 
 and More, and Southey. His preaching was 
 extemporaneous, but not vehement. He 
 dwelt much upon practical religion, though he 
 taught his followers to seek inspiration of the 
 Holy Spirit, and to aspire to a state of sinless 
 perfection. ' ' — Beeton' s ' ' Diet. Univ. Biog. ' ' 
 See Southey's " Life of Wesley." 
 
 CHAELES WESLEY. 
 
 "Charles Wesley, born 1708, died 1788, 
 an English divine, and younger brother of the 
 preceding, was one of the first Methodists, 
 and continued a constant preacher among 
 them to his death. He wrote several hymns, 
 and other pious pieces of great excellence." — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." See Southey's 
 " Life of Wesley." 
 
 AAEON HILL. 
 
 " Aaron HiU was bom in 1685, and died in 
 the very minute of the earthquake of 1750, 
 of the shock of which, though speechless, he 
 appeared to be sensible. His life was active, 
 benevolent, and useful : he was the general 
 friend of unfortunate genius, and his schemes 
 for public utility were frustrated only by the 
 narrowTiess of his circumstances. Though 
 his manners were unassuming, his personal 
 dignity was such, that he made Pope fairly 
 ashamed of the attempt to insult him, and 
 obliged the satirist to apologise to him with a 
 mean equivocation." — Campbell's " Speci- 
 mens." See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 GILBEET WEST. 
 
 " Gilbert West, born 1706, died 1755. The 
 translator of Pindar was the son of the Eev. 
 Dr. West, who published an edition of the 
 same classic at Oxford. His mother was 
 sister to Sir Eichard Temple, afterwards Lord 
 Cobham, Though bred at Oxford with a 
 view to the Chvirch, ho embraced the mihtary 
 life for some time, but left it for the employ- 
 ment of Lord Townshend, then secretary of 
 state, with whom he accompanied the King to 
 Hanover. Through this interest he was ap- 
 pointed clerk extraordinary to the Privy 
 CouncQ, a situation which however was not 
 immediately profitable. He married soon 
 after, and retired to Wickham, in Kent, where 
 his residence was often visited by Pitt and 
 Lord Lyttelton. There he wrote his ' Ob- 
 servations on the Eesurrection,' for wliich the 
 Uxiiversity of Oxford made him a Doctor of 
 
 Laws. He succeeded at last to a lucrative 
 clerkship of the Privy Council, and Mr. Pitt 
 made him deputy treasurer of Chelsea Hos- 
 pital ; but this accession to his fortune came 
 but a short time previous to his death, which 
 was occasioned by a stroke of the^palsy." — 
 Campbell's " Specimens." ^ 
 
 ALEXANDEE EOSS. 
 
 " Alexander Eoss, a schoolmaster in Loch- 
 lee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of 
 age, in 1768, published at Aberdeen, by the 
 advice of Dr. Beattie, a volume entitled 
 ' Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess ; a 
 Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which 
 are added a few Songs by the Author.' Eoss 
 was a good descriptive poet, and some of his 
 songs, as ' Woo'd, and Married, and a',' ' The 
 Eock and the Wee Pickle Tow,' are still 
 popular in Scotland. Being chiefly written in 
 the Kincardineshire dialect (which differs in 
 many expressions, and in pronunciation, from 
 the Lowland Scotch of Burns), Eoss is less 
 known out of his native district than he ought 
 to be. Beattie took a warm interest in the 
 ' good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who 
 was independent on ^20 a year ; and to pro- 
 mote the sale of his volume, he addressed a 
 letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to 
 the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remark- 
 able as Beattie' s only attempt in Aberdeen- 
 shire Scotch ; one verse of it is equal to 
 Biirns : — 
 
 ' bonny are our greensward hows, 
 ■ Where through the birks the burnie rows. 
 And the bee bums, and the ox lows, 
 
 And saft winds rustle. 
 And shepherd lads on sunny knowes 
 Blaw the blythe whistle.' 
 
 Eoss died in 1784, at the great age of eighty- 
 six." — Chambers' "Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii, pp, 
 125, 126. 
 
 LADY ANNE BAENAED. 
 
 " Lady Anne Barnard was authoress of 
 ' Auld Eobin Gray,' one of the most perfect, 
 tender, and afi'ecting of all our ballads or tales 
 of humble life. About the year 1771, Lady 
 Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It 
 instantly became popular, but the lady kept 
 the secret of its authorship for the long period 
 of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged 
 it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying 
 the disclosure with a full account of the cir- 
 cumstances under which it was -written. At 
 the same time Lady Anne sent two continua- 
 tions to the ballad, which, like all other con- 
 tinuations (Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted), 
 are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, 
 the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its 
 
 40 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 parts, that no additions could be made without 
 marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady- 
 Anne was daughter of James Lindsay, fifth 
 Earl of Balcarres ; she was born 8th December, 
 1750, married in 1793 to Sir Andrew Barnard, 
 librarian to George III., and died, without 
 issue, on the 8th of May, 1825." — Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 127. See AUi- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 MES. COCKBUEN AND MISS JANE 
 ELLIOT. 
 
 " Here we find two ladies amicably united 
 in the composition of one of Scotland's finest 
 songs, the ' Flowers of the Forest.' Miss 
 Jane Elliot of Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert 
 Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the finest of 
 the two versions. Mrs, Cockburn, the author 
 of the second, was a remarkable person. Her 
 maiden name was Alicia Eutherford, and she 
 was the daughter of Mr. Eutherford of Fer- 
 nilee, in Selkirkshire. She married Mr. 
 Patrick Cockburn, a younger son of Adam 
 Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord Justice-Clerk of 
 Scotland. She became prominent in the 
 literary circles of Edinburgh, and an intimate 
 friend of David Hume, with whom she carried 
 on a long and serious correspondence on 
 religious subjects, in which it is understood 
 the philosopher opened up his whole heart, 
 but which is unfortunately lost. Mrs. Cock- 
 burn, who was bom in 1714, lived to 1794, 
 and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise 
 of Walter Scott. She wrote a great deal, but 
 the ' Flowers of the Forest ' is the only one 
 of her effusions that has been published. A 
 ludicrous story is told of her son, who was a 
 dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, 
 while a large party of savants was assembled 
 in the house ; and locking himself up in the 
 room in which their coats and hats were de- 
 posited, nothing would rouse him; and the 
 company had to depart in the best substitutes 
 they could find for their ordinary habiliments, 
 — Hume (characteristically) in a dreadnought, 
 Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c. — the 
 echoes of the midnight Potterrow resounding 
 to the laughter at their own odd figures. It 
 is believed that Mrs. Cockburn' s song was 
 really occasioned by the bankruptcy of a 
 number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, although 
 she chose to throw the new matter of lamen- 
 tation into the old mould of song." — Gilfillan's 
 "Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. iii. See AUi- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. " 
 
 EOBEET CEAWFOED. 
 
 "Eobert Crawford, author of 'The Bush 
 aboon Traquair,' and the still finer lyric of 
 ' Tweedside,' was the brother of Colonel Craw- 
 ford of Achinames. He assisted Allan 
 
 Eamsay in his ' Tea- Table Miscellany,' and, 
 according to information obtained by Burns, 
 was drowned in coming from France in the 
 year 1733. Crawford had genuine poetical 
 fancy and expression. *The true muse of 
 native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, 
 ' seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural 
 ornaments ; her spirit is in homely love and 
 fireside joy ; tender and simple, like the religion 
 of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping 
 with the character of her people, and the 
 aspect of the soil ; and of this spirit and of 
 this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.' " — 
 Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. p. 128. 
 See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. " 
 
 SIE GILBEET ELLIOT. 
 
 "Sir Gilbert Elliot, author of what Sir 
 Walter Scott calls 'the beautiful pastoral 
 song,' beginning 
 
 ' My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,' 
 
 was father of the first Earl of Minto, and was 
 distinguished as a speaker in parliament. He 
 was, in 1763, treasurer of the navy, and after- 
 wards keeper of the signet in Scotland. He 
 died in 1777. Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, 
 says, that Sir Gilbert Elliot, who had been 
 taught the German flute in France, was the 
 first who introduced that instrument into 
 Scotland, about the year 1725." — Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 129. See Alli- 
 bone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 EOBEET FEEGUSSON. 
 
 " This unfortunate Scottish bard was bom 
 in Edinburgh on the 17th (some say the 5th) 
 of October, 1751. His father, who had been 
 an accountant to the British Linen Company's 
 Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four 
 children. Eoljert spent six years at the 
 grammar schools cl Edinburgh and Dundee, 
 went for a short period to Edinburgh College, 
 and then, having obtained a bursary, to St. 
 Andrews, where he continued till his seven- 
 teenth year. He was at first designed for the 
 ministry of the Scottish Church. He distin- 
 guished himself at college for his mathema- 
 tical knowledge, and became a favourite of 
 Dr. Wilkie, Professor of Natural Philosophy, 
 on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early 
 discovered a passion for poetry, and collected 
 materials for a tragedy on the subject of Sir 
 William Wallace, which he never finished. 
 He once thought of studying medicine, but 
 had neither patience nor funds for the needful 
 preliminary studies. He went away to reside 
 with a rich uncle, named John Forbes, in the 
 north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, 
 j and poor Fergusson unfortunately quarelled ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 and after residing some months in his honse, 
 he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings 
 in his pocket proceeded southwards. He tra- 
 velled on foot, and such was the effect of his 
 vexation and fatigue, that when he reached 
 his mother's house he fell into a severe fit of 
 illness. 
 
 " He became, on his recovery, a copying- 
 clerk in a solicitor's, and afterwards in a 
 sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute 
 to 'Euddiman's Weekly Magazine.' We re- 
 member in boyhood reading some odd volumes 
 of this production, the general matter in which 
 was inconceivably poor, relieved only by Fer- 
 gusson's racy little Scottish poems. His 
 evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, 
 amidst the gay and dissipated youth of the 
 metropolis, to whom he was the ' wit, songster, 
 and mimic' That his convivial powers were 
 extraordinary, is proved by the fact of one of 
 his contemporaries, who survived to be a 
 correspondent of Burns, doubting if even ho 
 equalled the fascination of Fergusson's con- 
 verse. Dissipation gradually stole in upon 
 him, in spite of resolutions dictated by re- 
 morse. In 1773, he collected his poems into 
 a volume, which was warmly received, but 
 brought him, it is beheved, little pecuniary 
 benefit. At last, imder the pressure of poverty, 
 toil, and intemperance, his reason gave way, 
 and he was by a stratagem removed to an 
 asylum. Here, when he found himself and 
 became aware of his situation, he uttered a 
 dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled 
 look around his cell. The history of his con- 
 finement was very similar to that of Nat Lee 
 and Christopher Smart. For instance, a 
 story is told of him which is an exact du- 
 X)licate of one recorded of Lee. He was 
 writing by the light of the moon, when a thin 
 cloud crossed its disc. ' Jupiter, snuff the 
 moon ! ' roared the impatient poet. The 
 cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the 
 light. ' Thou stupid god ! ' he exclaimed, 
 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By and by he 
 became calmer, and had some affecting inter- 
 views with his mother and sister. A removal 
 to his mother's house was even contemplated, 
 but his constitution was exhausted, and on 
 the 16th of October, 1774, poor Fergusson 
 breathed his last. It is interesting to know 
 that the New Testament was his favourite com- 
 panion in his cell. A little after his death 
 arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr. 
 Burnet, who had made a fortune in the East 
 Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and 
 enclosing a remittance of .£100 to defray the 
 expenses of the journey. 
 
 " Thus, in his twenty-fourth year, perished 
 Eobert Fergusson. He was buried in the 
 Canongate churchyard, where Burns after- 
 wards erected a monument to his memory, 
 with an inscription which is familiar to most 
 of our readers. 
 
 "Bums in one of his poems attributes to 
 Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was cer- 
 
 tainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 
 ' pairts ' rather than high genius seems to 
 express his calibre. He can hardly be said 
 to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, 
 such as ' The Farmer's Ingle,' are just lively 
 daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him 
 — there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of 
 them. His ' Ingle-bleeze ' burns low compared 
 to that which in ' The Cottar's Saturday 
 Night ' springs up aloft to heaven, like the 
 tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, 
 too, with Scotch to a degree which renders 
 them too rich for even a Scotchman's taste,, 
 and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an 
 Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best 
 claim to fame arises from the infiuence he 
 exerted on the far higher genius of Bums, 
 who seems, strangely enough, to have pre- 
 ferred him to AUan Eamsay." — Gilfillan's 
 "Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. iii. pp. 206-8. 
 See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 EDWAED THOMPSON. 
 
 " Edward Thompson, bom 1738, died 1786, 
 was a native of Hull, and went to sea so early 
 in life as to be precluded from the advantages 
 of a Kberal education. At the age of nineteen, 
 he acted as lieutenant on board the Jason, in 
 the engagement off Ushant, between Hawke 
 and Conflans. Coming to London, after the 
 peace, he resided, for some time, in Kew-lane, 
 where he wrote some light pieces for the stage, 
 and some licentious poems, the titles of 
 which need not be revived. At the breaking 
 out of the American v/ar, Garrick's interest 
 obtained promotion for him in his own pro- 
 fession ; and he was appointed to the command 
 of the Hyaena frigate, and made his fortune 
 by the single capture of a French East India- 
 man. He was afterwards in Eodney's action, 
 off Cape St. Vincent, and brought home the 
 tidings of the victory. His death was occa- 
 sioned by a fever, which he caught on board 
 the Grampus, while he commanded that 
 vessel, off the coast of Africa. Though a 
 dissolute man, he had the character of an 
 able and humane commander. A few of his 
 sea songs are entitled to remembrance." — 
 Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
 HENTIY HEADLEY. 
 
 "Henry Headley, born 1766, died 1788, 
 whose uncommon talents were lost to the 
 world at the age of twenty-two, was born a": 
 Irstead, in Norfolk. He received his educa- 
 tion at the grammar school of Norwich, under 
 Dr. Parr; and at the age of sixteen was 
 admitted a member of Trinity College, Oxford. 
 There the example of Thomas Warton, the 
 senior of his college, led him to explore the 
 beauties of our elder poets. About the age of 
 
 40* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 rSiXTH Period. — 
 
 twenty he published some pieces of verse, 
 which exhibit no very remarkable promise ; 
 but his ' Select Beauties of the Ancient 
 English Poets,' which appeared in the follow- 
 ing year, were accompanied with critical 
 observations, that showed an unparalleled 
 ripeness of mind for his years. On leaving 
 the university, after a residence of four years, 
 he married, and retired to Matlock, in Derby- 
 shire. His matrimonial choice is said to 
 have been hastily formed, amidst the anguish 
 of disappointment in a previous attachment. 
 But short as his life was, he survived the lady 
 whom he married. 
 
 " The symptoms of consumption having 
 appeared in his constitution, he was advised 
 to try the benefit of a warmer climate ; and 
 he took the resolution of repairing to Lisbon, 
 unattended by a single friend. On landing at 
 Lisbon, far from feeling any relief from the 
 climate, he found himself oppressed by its 
 sultriness ; and in this forlorn state, was on 
 the point of expiring, when Mr. De Vismes, to 
 whom he had received a letter of introduction 
 from the late Mr. Windham conveyed him to 
 his healthful villa, near Cintra, allotted spa- 
 cious apartments for his use, procured for him 
 the ablest medical assistance, and treated 
 him with every kindness and amusement that 
 could console his sickly existence. But his 
 malady proved incurable ; and, returning to 
 England at the end of a few months, he 
 expired at Korwich," — Campbell's "Speci- 
 mens." See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 EDWAED MOOEE. 
 
 " Edward Moore, bom 1712, died 1757, was 
 the son of a dissenting clergyman at Abingdon, 
 in Berkshire, and was bred to the business of 
 a linendraper, which he pursued, however, 
 "both in London and Ireland, with so little 
 success, that he embraced the literary life 
 (according to his own account) more from 
 necessity than inclination. His ' Fables ' (in 
 1744) first brought him into notice. The 
 Eight Honourable Mr. Pelham was one of his 
 earliest friends ; and his ' Trial of Selim ' 
 gained him the friendship of Lord Lyttelton. 
 Of three works which he produced for the 
 stage, his two comedies, the ' Foundling ' and 
 ' Gil Bias,' were unsuccessful ; but he was 
 fully indemnified by the profits and reputation 
 of the ' Gamester.' Moore himseK acknow- 
 ledges that he owed to Garrick many popular 
 passages of his drama ; and Davies, the 
 biographer of Garrick, ascribes to the great 
 actor the whole scene between Lewson and 
 Stukely, in the fourth act; but Davies' s 
 authority is not oracular. About the year 
 
 1751, Lord Lyttelton, in concert withDodsley, 
 projected the paper of the ' World,' of which 
 it was agreed that Moore should enjoy the 
 profits, whether the numbers were written by 
 himself or by volunteer contributors. Lyttel- 
 ton' s interest soon enlisted many accomplished 
 coadjutors, such as Cambridge, Jenyns, Lord 
 Chesterfield, and H. Walpole. Moore himself 
 wrote sixty-one of the papers. In the last 
 number of the ' World ' the conclusion is made 
 to depend on a fictitious incident which had 
 occasioned the death of the author. When the 
 papers were collected into volumes, Moore, who 
 superintended the pubUcation, reaUzed tiiis 
 jocular fiction by his own death, whilst the last 
 number was in the press." — Campbell's 
 " Specimens." 
 
 THOMAS EUSSELL. 
 
 "Thomas Eussell, bom 1762, died 1788, 
 was the son of an attorney at Bridport, and 
 one of Joseph Warton's wonderful boys at 
 Winchester School. He became feUow of 
 New College, Oxford, and died of consumptian 
 at Bristol Hot-WeUs in his twenty-sixth 
 year. 
 
 " His poems were posthumous. The sonnet 
 on Philoctetes is very fine ; and of our young 
 writers, mature rather in genius than in 
 years, Eussell holds no humble place. Mr. 
 Southey has numbered five, and Eussell is 
 among them — Chatterton, Bruce, Eussell, 
 Bampfylde, and Kirke White." — Campbell's 
 " Specimens." 
 
 EAEL NUGENT. 
 
 "Eobert Craggs, afterwards created Lord 
 Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger son of 
 Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Eobert, 
 Lord Trimlestown, and born in 1709. He 
 was, in 1741, elected M.P. for St. Mawes, in 
 Cornwall, and became, in 1747, comptroller to 
 the Prince of Wales' household. He after- 
 wards made peace with the Court, and re- 
 ceived various promotions and marks of favour 
 besides the peerage. In 1739, he published 
 anonymously a volume of poems possessing 
 considerable merit. He was converted from 
 Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on 
 the occasion. Unfortunately, however, he 
 relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a 
 very weak poem, entitled ' Faith,' He died 
 in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, 
 as his ' Ode to Mankind ' proves, Nugent does 
 not stand very high either in the catalogue of 
 Irish patriots or of ' royal and noble authors.' " 
 — Gilfillan's " Less-known Brit. Poets," vol. 
 iii. p. 261. See Campbell's " Specimens." 
 
SIXTH PEEIOD. 
 
 From 1727 to 1780. 
 
 840.— REMORSE. 
 
 Is chance a giiilt, that my disastrous 
 
 heart, 
 For mischief never meant, must ever smart ? 
 Can self-defence be sin ? Ah, plead no more ! 
 What though no purposed malice stained thee 
 
 o'er ? 
 Had heaven befriended thy unhappy side, 
 Thou hadst not been provoked — or thou hadst 
 
 died. 
 Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from 
 
 all 
 On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall ! 
 Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, 
 To me ! through Pity's eye condemned to see. 
 Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his 
 
 fate ; 
 Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too 
 
 late. 
 Young and unthoughtful then ; who knows, 
 
 one day. 
 What ripening virtues might have made their 
 
 way ! 
 He might have lived till folly died in shame, 
 Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. 
 He might perhaps his country's friend have 
 
 l^roved ; 
 Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved ; 
 He might have saved some worth, now doomed 
 
 to fall, 
 And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. 
 
 O fate of late repentance ! always vain : 
 Thy remedies but lull undying pain. 
 Where shall my hope find rest ? No mother's 
 
 care 
 Shielded my infant innocence with prayer : 
 No father's guardian hand my youth main- 
 tained. 
 Called forth my virtues, or from vice re- 
 strained ; 
 Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, 
 First to advance, then screen from future 
 
 harm ? 
 Am I returned from death to live in pain ? 
 Or would imperial pity save in vain ? 
 Distrust it not. "\Vhat blame can mercy find. 
 Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ? 
 Mother, miscalled, farewell — of soul severe, 
 Thi;i sad reflexion yet may force one tear : 
 
 All I was wretched by to you I owed ; 
 Alone from strangers every comfort flowed ! 
 
 Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, 
 And now adopted, who was doomed before, 
 New born, I may a nobler mother claim, 
 But dare not whisper her immortal name ; 
 Supremely lovely, and serenely great. 
 Majestic mother of a kneeling state ; 
 Queen of people's heart, who ne'er before 
 Agreed — yet now with one consent adore ! 
 One contest yet remains in this desire. 
 Who most shall give applause where all 
 admire. 
 
 Richard Savage.— Bom 1698, Died 1743. 
 
 841.— THE WANDERER. 
 
 Yon mansion, made by beaming tapers gay. 
 Drowns the dim night, and counterfeits the 
 
 day; 
 From lumined windows glancing on the eye, 
 Around, athwart, the frisking shadows fly. 
 There midnight riot spreads illusive joys, 
 And fortune, health, and dearer time destroys. 
 Soon death's dark agent to luxuriant ease 
 Shall wake sharp warnings in some fierce 
 
 O man ! thy ' fabric 's like a well-formed 
 
 state ; 
 Thy thoughts, first ranked, were sure designed 
 
 the great ; 
 Passions plebeians are, which faction raise ; 
 Wine, like poured oil, excites the raging 
 
 blaze ; 
 Then giddy anarchy's rude triumphs rise : 
 Then sovereign Reason from her empire flies : 
 That rider once deposed, Avisdom and wit, 
 To noise and folly place and power submit ; 
 Like a frail bark thy weakened mind is tost, 
 Unsteered, unbalanced, till its wealth is lost. 
 The miser-spirit eyes the spendthrift heir. 
 And mourns, too late, efi'ects of sordid care. 
 His treasures fly to cloy each fawning slave. 
 Yet grudge a stone to dignify his grave. 
 For this, low-thoughted craft his life em- 
 ployed ; 
 For this, though wealthy, he no wealth 
 enjoyed ; 
 
Egbert, Blair.] 
 
 THE GEAVE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 For this, he griped the poor, and alms 
 
 denied, 
 Unfriended lived, and unlamented died. 
 Yet smile, grieved shade ! when that unpro- 
 
 sperous store 
 Fast lessens, when gay hours return no 
 
 more; 
 Smile at thy heir, beholding, in his fall, 
 Men once obliged, like him, ungrateful all ! 
 Then thought-inspiring woe his heart shall 
 
 mend. 
 And prove his only wise, unflattering friend. 
 
 Folly exhibits thus unmanly sport, 
 While plotting mischief keeps reserved her 
 
 court. 
 L6 ! from that mount, in blasting sidphur 
 
 broke. 
 Stream flames voluminous, enwrapped with 
 
 smoke ! 
 In chariot-shape they whirl up yonder tower, 
 Lean on its brow, and like destruction loAver ! 
 From the black depth a fiery legion springs ; 
 Each bold bad spectre claps her sounding 
 
 wings : 
 And straight beneath a summoned, traitorous 
 
 band, 
 On horror bent, in dark convention stand : 
 From each fiend's mouth a ruddy vapour 
 
 flows, 
 Glides through the roof, and o'er the council 
 
 glows : 
 The villains, close beneath the infection pent. 
 Feel, all possessed, their rising galls ferment ; 
 And burn with faction, hate, and vengeful 
 
 ire, 
 For rapine, blood, and devastation dire ! 
 But justice marks their ways : she waves in 
 
 air 
 The sword, high-threatening, like a comet's 
 
 glare. 
 While here dark villany herself deceives, 
 There studious honesty our view relieves. 
 A feeble taper from yon lonesome room, 
 Scattering thin rays, just glimmers through 
 
 the gloom. 
 There sits the sapient bard in museful mood, 
 And glows impassioned for his country's 
 
 good! 
 All the bright spirits of the just combined. 
 Inform, fefine, and prompt his towering 
 
 mind ! 
 
 Richard Savage. — Born 1698, Died 1743. 
 
 842.— THE GEAVE. 
 
 Whilst some affect the sun, and some the 
 
 shade, 
 Some flee the city, some the hermitage ; 
 Their aims as various, as the roads they take 
 In journeying through life; — the task be 
 
 mine 
 To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 
 Th' appointed place of rendezvous, whcrj all 
 
 These travellers meet. Thy succours I 
 
 implore. 
 Eternal king ! whose potent arm sustains 
 The keys of hell and death. The Grave — 
 
 dread thing ! 
 Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature, 
 
 appall' d. 
 Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah ! how 
 
 dark 
 Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! 
 Where nought but silence reigns, and night, 
 
 dark night, ''^ 
 Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
 Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound. The sickly 
 
 taper, 
 By glimm'ring through thy low-brow' d misty 
 
 vaults 
 (Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy 
 
 slime), 
 Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
 And only serves to make thy night more 
 
 irksome. 
 Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew. 
 Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell 
 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and 
 
 worms : 
 Where light-heel' d ghosts, and visionary 
 
 shades, 
 Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) 
 Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. 
 No other merriment, duU tree, is thine. 
 
 See yonder haUow'd fane ; — the pious work 
 Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot. 
 And buried 'midst the wreck of things which 
 
 were ; 
 There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
 The wind is up : hark ! how it howls ! Me- 
 
 thinks 
 Till now I never heard a sound so dreary : 
 Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's 
 
 foul bird, 
 Eook'd in the spire, screams loud : the gloomy 
 
 aisles 
 Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds 
 
 of 'scutcheons 
 And tatter' d coats of arms, send back the 
 
 sound 
 Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults. 
 The mansions of the dead. Eoused from 
 
 their slumbers, 
 In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 
 Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen. 
 Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of Night. 
 Again the screech-owl shrieks : ungracious 
 
 sound ! 
 I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run 
 
 chill. 
 Quite round the pile, a row of reverend 
 elms 
 (Coeval near with that) all ragged show, 
 Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift 
 
 half down 
 Their branchless trunks ; others so thin a-top. 
 That scarce two crows could lodge in the 
 same tree. 
 
Fror.i 1727 to 17S0.] 
 
 UNPEEPAEED FOE DEATH. 
 
 [Egbert Blair. 
 
 Strange tilings, the neighbours say, have 
 
 happen' d here : 
 "Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow 
 
 tombs : 
 Dead men have come again, and walk'd 
 
 about ; 
 And the great boll has toll'd, unrung, xm- 
 
 touch'd, 
 (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping, 
 When it draws near to witching time of 
 
 night.) 
 Oft, in the lone churchyard at night I've 
 
 seen, 
 By glimpse of moonshine chequering through 
 
 the trees, 
 The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, 
 "Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. 
 And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones 
 (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er- 
 
 grown). 
 That tell in homely phrase who lie below. 
 Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he 
 
 hears. 
 The sound of something purring at his heels ; 
 Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind 
 
 him, 
 Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows : 
 "Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 
 Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly. 
 That walks at dead of night, or takes his 
 
 stand 
 O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to 
 
 tell !) 
 Evanishes at crowing of the cock. 
 
 Robert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 174C. 
 
 843.— FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 Invidious grave ! — ^how dost thou rend in 
 
 sunder 
 TiTiom love has knit, and sympathy made 
 
 one ! 
 A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; 
 Sweetener of life, and solder of society, 
 I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from 
 
 me 
 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
 Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, 
 And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
 Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend 
 
 and I 
 In some thick wood have wander' d heedless 
 
 on, 
 Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
 Upon the sloping cowslip-cover' d bank, 
 "WTiere the pure limpid stream has slid along 
 In grateful errors through the underwood. 
 Sweet murmuring : methought the shrill- 
 
 tongued thrush 
 Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 Mellow' d his pipe, and soften' d every note : 
 The eglantine smell' d sweeter, and the rose 
 
 Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every 
 
 flower 
 Vied with its fellow plant in luxury 
 Of dress Oh ! then, the longest summer's 
 
 day 
 Seem'd too, too much in haste : still the full 
 
 heart 
 Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness 
 Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed. 
 Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 
 
 Robert Blair.— Bom 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 844.— THE MISEE. 
 
 Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons, 
 "Wlio meanly stole (discreditable shift !) 
 From back, and belly too, their .proper cheer, 
 Eased of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay 
 To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodged, 
 By clamorous appetites no longer teased, 
 Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. 
 But, ah ! where are his rents, his comings- 
 
 in? 
 Ay ! now you've made the rich man poor 
 
 indeed ; 
 Eobb'd of his gods, what has he left behind ? 
 cursed lust of gold ! when for thy sake 
 The fool throws up his interest in both 
 
 worlds ; 
 First starved in this, then damn'd in that to 
 
 come. 
 
 Robert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 845.— UNPEEPAEED FOE DEATH. 
 
 How shocking must thy summons be, O 
 Death ! 
 To him that is at ease in his possessions ; 
 'V\''ho, counting on long years of pleasure 
 
 here, 
 Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come ! 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 Eaves round the walls of her clay tenement, 
 Euns to each avenue, and shrieks for help, 
 But shrieks in vain ! — How wishfully she 
 
 looks 
 On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
 A little longer, yet a little longer. 
 Oh ! might she stay, to wash away her 
 
 stains. 
 And fit her for her passage. — Mournful 
 
 sight ! 
 Her very eyes weep blood ; — and every groan 
 She heaves is big with horror : but the foe, 
 Like a staunch murderer, steady to his 
 
 purpose. 
 Pursues her close through every lane of hfe, 
 Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; 
 Till, forced at last to the tremendousverge, 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. 
 
 Robert Blair.— Bom 1699, Died 1746. 
 
EOBERT BLAIE.] 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 846.— DEATH. 
 
 Sure 'tis a serious tiling to die ! My soul, 
 Wliat a strange moment it must be, when 
 
 near 
 Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in 
 
 view ! 
 That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd 
 To tell what's doing on the other side. 
 Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, 
 And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of 
 
 parting ; 
 For part they must : body and soul must 
 
 part; 
 Fond couple ! link'd more close than wedded 
 
 pair. 
 This wings its way to its Almighty Source, 
 The witness of its actions, now its judge : 
 That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 
 Like a disabled pitcher of no use. 
 
 Rolert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 84;.— THE GEAVE. 
 
 Death's shafts fly thick ! — Here falls the 
 
 village- swain, 
 And there his pamper'd lord ! — The cup goes 
 
 round ; 
 And who so artful as to put it by ? 
 'Tis long since death had the majority ; 
 Yet, strange ! the living lay it not to heart. 
 See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, 
 The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ; 
 Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er 
 
 stole 
 A gentle tear ; with mattock in his hand 
 Digs through whole rows of kindred and 
 
 acquaintance, 
 By far his jimiors. — Scarce a skull's cast 
 
 up, 
 But well he knew its owner, and can tell 
 Some passage of his life. — Thus hand in 
 
 hand 
 The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty 
 
 years ; 
 And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs 
 
 louder. 
 Or clubs a smuttier tale : when drunkards 
 
 meet, 
 None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand 
 More willing to his cup. — Poor v/retch ! he 
 
 minds not. 
 That soon some trusty brother of the trade 
 Shall do for him what he has done for 
 
 thousands. 
 On this side, and on that, men see their 
 
 friends 
 Drop off, like leaves in autumn ; yet launch 
 
 out 
 Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers 
 In the world's hale and undegenerate days 
 Could scarce have leisure for. — Fools that we 
 
 are ! 
 
 Never to think of death and of ourselves 
 At the same time : as if to learn to die 
 Were no concern of ours. — more than 
 
 sottish. 
 For creatures of a dg^, in gamesome mood. 
 To frolic on eternity's dread brink 
 Unapprehensive ; when, for aught we know, 
 The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in 1 
 Think we, or think we not, time hurries on 
 With a resistless, unremitting stream ; 
 Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight 
 
 thief. 
 That slides his hand under the miser's 
 
 pillow. 
 And carries off his prize. — What is this 
 
 world ? 
 What but a spacious burial field unwall'd, 
 Strew' d with death's spoils, the spoUs of 
 
 animals 
 Savage and tame, and full of dead men's 
 
 bones ! 
 The very turf on which we tread once lived ; 
 And we that live must lend our carcases 
 To cover our own offspring : in their turns 
 They too must cover theirs. — 'Tis here all 
 
 meet ! 
 The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor; 
 Men of all climes, that never met before ; 
 And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the 
 
 Christian. 
 Here the proud prince, and favourite yet 
 
 prouder, 
 His sovereign's keeper, and the people's 
 
 scourge. 
 Are huddled out of sight. — Here lie abash' d 
 The great negotiators of the earth, 
 And celebrated masters of the balance, 
 Deep read in stratagems, and %viles of courts. 
 Now vain their treaty skiH : death scorns to 
 
 treat. 
 Here the o'er-loaded slave flings down his 
 
 burden 
 From his gaU'd shoulders ; — and when the 
 
 cruel tyrant, 
 With all his guards and tools of power about 
 
 him. 
 Is meditating new unheard-of hardships, 
 Mocks his short arm, — and, quick as thought, 
 
 escapes 
 Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. 
 Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, 
 The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream 
 (Time out of mind the favourite seats of love), 
 Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down, 
 Unblasted by foul tongue. — Here friends and 
 
 foes 
 Lie close ; unmindful of their former feuds. 
 The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter, 
 Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet, 
 Familiar mingle here, like sister streams 
 That some rude interposing rock had split. 
 Here is the large-limb' d peasant ; — here the 
 
 chHd 
 Of a span long, that never saw the sun, 
 Nor press' d the nipple, strangled in hfe's 
 
 porch. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE EOSE. 
 
 [Dr. Wattsi 
 
 Here is the mother, with her sons and daugh- 
 ters; 
 The barren wife ; the long-demurring maid, 
 Whose lonely unappropriated sweets 
 Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the 
 
 cliff, 
 Not to be come at by the willing hand. 
 Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette. 
 The sober ■VN'idow, and the young green virgin, 
 Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown, 
 Or haK its worth disclosed. Strange medley 
 
 here ! 
 Here garrulous old age winds up his tale ; 
 And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart. 
 Whose every day was made of melody. 
 Hears not the voice of mirth. — The shrill- 
 
 tongiied shrew, 
 Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. 
 Here are the wise, the generous, and the 
 
 brave ; 
 The just, the good, the worthless, the pro- 
 fane ; 
 The downright clown, and perfectly well- 
 bred; 
 The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the 
 
 mean ; 
 The supple statesman, and the patriot stem ; 
 The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of 
 
 time, ' 
 
 With aU the lumber of six thousand years. 
 
 Bolert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 848.— THE DEATH OF A GOOD MAN. 
 
 Sure the last end 
 Of the good man is peace ! — How calm his 
 
 exit! 
 Night dews fall not more gently to the 
 
 ground, 
 Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. 
 Behold him in the evening-tide of life, 
 A life well spent, whose early care it was 
 His riper years should not upbraid his 
 
 green : 
 By unperceived degrees he wears away ; 
 Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 
 High in his faith and hopes, look how he 
 
 reaches 
 After the prize in view ! and, like a bird. 
 That's hampcr'd, struggles hard to get 
 
 away : 
 Whilst the glad gates of sight are vride 
 
 expanded 
 To let new glories in, the first fair fruits 
 Of the fast-coming harvest. — Then, oh then ! 
 Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears. 
 Shrunk to a thing of nought. — Oh ! how he 
 
 longs 
 To have his passport sign'd, and be dis- 
 
 miss'd ! 
 'Tis done ! and now he's happy ! The glad 
 
 soul 
 Has not a wish uncrown'd. 
 
 Robert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 849.— THE EESUEEECTION. 
 
 Even the lag flesh 
 Eests, too, in hope of meeting once again 
 Its better half, never to sunder more. 
 Nor shall it hope in vain : — the time draws 
 
 on, 
 When not a single spot of burial earth, ~ 
 Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, 
 But must give back its long-committed dust 
 Inviolate ! — and faithfully shall these 
 Make up the fuU account ; not the least 
 
 atom 
 Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. 
 Each soul shall have a body ready furnish' d ; 
 And each shall have his own. — Hence, ye 
 
 profane ! 
 Ask not how this can be ? — Sure the same 
 
 power 
 That rear'd the piece at first, and took it 
 
 dovsna. 
 Can reassemble the loose scatter' d parts. 
 And put them as they were, — Almighty God 
 Has done much more; nor is his arm im- 
 pair' d 
 Through length of days : and what he can, he 
 
 wiU: 
 His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. 
 When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumber- 
 ing dust. 
 Not unattentive to the caU, shall wake ; 
 And every joint possess its proper place. 
 With a new elegance of form, unknown 
 To its first state. Nor shall the conscious 
 
 soul 
 Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd. 
 Singling its other half, into its arms 
 Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man 
 That's new come home; and, having long 
 
 been absent, 
 With haste runs over every different room. 
 In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy 
 
 meeting ! 
 Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them 
 
 more. 
 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night ; 
 We make the grave our bed, and then are 
 
 gone. 
 Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird 
 Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely 
 
 brake 
 Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of 
 
 day, 
 Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears 
 
 away. 
 
 Robert Blair.— Born 1699, Died 1746. 
 
 850.— THE EOSE. 
 
 How fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower. 
 
 The glory of April and May ! 
 But the leaves are beginning to fade in an 
 hour, 
 
 And they wither and die in a day. 
 
Dr. Watts.] 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, 
 Above all the flowers of the field ; 
 
 When its leaves are all dead, and its fine 
 colours lost, 
 Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! 
 
 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, 
 Though they bloom and look gay like the 
 rose; 
 But aU our fond care to preserve them is 
 vain, 
 Time kills them as fast as he goes. 
 
 Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my 
 beauty, 
 Since both of them wither and fade ; 
 But gain a good name by well-doing my 
 duty; 
 This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. 
 
 Dr. Watts.— Bom 1G74, Died 1748. 
 
 851.— A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 How fine has the day been, how bright was 
 
 the sun, 
 How lovely and joyful the course that he run, 
 Though he rose in a mist when his race he 
 
 begun. 
 And there followed some droppings of 
 
 rain ! 
 But now the fair traveller 's come to the 
 
 west. 
 His rays are all gold, and his beauties are 
 
 best; 
 He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his 
 
 rest. 
 And foretells a bright rising again. 
 
 Just such is the Christian ; his course he 
 
 begins. 
 Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for 
 
 his sins. 
 And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and 
 
 shines. 
 And travels his heavenly way : 
 But when he comes nearer to finish his race, 
 Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in 
 
 grace. 
 And gives a sure hope at the end of his days. 
 Of rising in brighter array. 
 
 Dr. Watts.— Bom 1674, Died 1748. 
 
 852.— FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 
 
 Say, mighty Love, and teach my song. 
 To whom thy sweetest joys beloflg. 
 
 And who the happy pairs 
 Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, 
 Find blessings twisted with their bands, 
 
 To soften all their cares. 
 
 Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains 
 That thoughtless fly into thy chains, 
 
 As custom leads the way : 
 If there be bliss without design. 
 Ivies and oaks may grow and twine. 
 
 And be as blest as they. 
 
 Not sordid souls of earthly mould, 
 Who drawn by kindred charms of gold 
 
 To dull embraces move : 
 So two rich mountains of Peru 
 May rush to wealthy marriage too. 
 
 And make a world of love. 
 
 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires 
 With wanton flames ; those raging fires 
 
 The purer bliss destroy ; 
 On Etna's top let fui-ies wed. 
 And sheets of lightning dress the bed 
 
 T' improve the burning joy. 
 
 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms 
 None of the melting passions warms. 
 
 Can mingle hearts and hands : 
 Logs of green wood that quench the coals 
 Are married just like Stoic souls, 
 
 With osiers for their bands. 
 
 Not minds of melancholy strain, 
 StiU silent, or that stiU complain. 
 
 Can the dear bondage bless : 
 As well may heavenly concerts spring 
 From two old lutes with ne'er a string. 
 
 Or none besides the bass. 
 
 Nor can the soft enchantments hold 
 Two jarring souls of angry mould, 
 
 The rugged and the keen : 
 Samson's young foxes might as well 
 In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, 
 
 With firebrands tied between. 
 
 Nor let the cruel fetters bind 
 A gentle to a savage mind ; 
 
 For love abhors the sight : 
 Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, 
 For native rage and native fear 
 
 Rise and forbid dehght. 
 
 Two kindest souls alone must meet, 
 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet. 
 
 And feeds their mutual loves : 
 Bright Venus on her rolling throne 
 Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, 
 
 And Cupids yoke the doves. 
 
 Dr. Watts.— Bom 1674, Died 1748. 
 
 853.— THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 When the fierce north wind, with his airy 
 
 forces, 
 Roars up the Baltic to a foamy fury ; 
 And the red lightning, with a storm of hail, 
 
 comes 
 
 Rushing amain down, 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. [Edward Young. 
 
 How the poor sailors stand amazed and 
 
 tremble 
 While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody 
 
 trumpet, 
 Eoars a loud onset to the gaping waters 
 Quick to devour them ! 
 
 Such shall the noise be, and the wild dis- 
 order, 
 If things eternal may be like those earthly. 
 Such the dire terror, when the great Arch- 
 angel 
 
 Shakes the creation ; 
 
 Tears the strong pillars of the vault of 
 
 heaven. 
 Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes : 
 See the graves open and the bones arising — 
 Flames all around them ! 
 
 Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty 
 
 wretches ! 
 Lively bright horror and amazing anguish 
 Stare through their eyelids, while the living 
 
 worm lies 
 
 Gnawing within them. 
 
 Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their 
 
 heart-strings. 
 And the smart tmnges, when the eye beholds 
 
 the 
 Lofty Judge, frowning, and a flood of 
 
 vengeance 
 
 Rolling afore him. 
 
 Stop here, my fancy (all away, ye horrid 
 Doleful ideas) ; come, arise to Jesus ! 
 How he sits God-Kke ; and the saints around 
 him 
 
 Throned, yet adoring. 
 
 O may I sit there, when he comes triumphant 
 Dooming the nations ! then ascend to glory ; 
 While our hosannahs all along the passage 
 Shout the Redeemer. 
 
 Dr. Watts.— Born 1674, Died 1748. 
 
 854.— GOD KNOWN ONLY TO HIMSELF. 
 
 Stand and adore ! how glorious He 
 That dwells in bright eternity ! 
 We gaze and we confound our sight. 
 Plunged in th' abyss of dazzling light. 
 
 Thou sacred One, Almighty Three, 
 Great, everlasting Mystery, 
 What lofty numbers shall we frame 
 Equal to thy tremendous name ? 
 
 Seraphs, the nearest to the throne, 
 Begin to speak the Great Unknown : 
 Attempt the song, wind up your strings 
 To notes untried, and boundless thino:s. 
 
 You, whose capacious powers survey 
 Largely beyond our eyes of clay. 
 Yet what a narrow portion too 
 Is seen or thought or known by you ! 
 
 How flat your highest praises fall 
 Before th' immense Original ! 
 Weak creatures we, that strive in~vairi 
 To reach an uncreated strain. 
 
 Great God ! forgive our feeble lays, 
 Sound out thine OAvn eternal praise ; 
 A song SO vast, a theme so high, 
 Call for the voice that tuned the sky. 
 
 Dr. Watts.— Bom 1674, Died 1748. 
 
 855.— NIGHT. 
 
 These thoughts, O Night ! are thine ; 
 
 From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, 
 
 While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, 
 
 In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her 
 sphere. 
 
 Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamoured 
 less 
 
 Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung. 
 
 Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I 
 sing? ^ 
 
 Immortal silence ! where shall I begin ? 
 
 Where end ? or how steal music from the 
 spheres 
 
 To soothe their goddess ? 
 O majestic Night ! 
 
 Natiire's great ancestor ! Day's elder bom ! 
 
 And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
 
 By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! 
 
 A starry crown thy raven brow adorns. 
 
 An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's 
 loom 
 
 Wrought through, varieties of shape and 
 shade, 
 
 In ample folds of drapery divine,' 
 
 Thy flo^ving mantle form, and, heaven through- 
 out. 
 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train : 
 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs — Nature's most au- 
 gust. 
 
 Inspiring aspect ! — claim a grateful verse ; 
 
 And, like a sable curtain starr'd with gold. 
 
 Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the 
 scene. 
 
 Edward Young. — Bom 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 856.— ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMOR- 
 TALITY. 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he for- 
 sakes : 
 
Edward Young.] ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMOETALITY. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Swift on his down}- pinion flies from woe, 
 And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 
 
 From short (as usual) and disturbed repose 
 I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! 
 Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the 
 
 grave. 
 I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
 Tumultuous ; where my wrecked desponding 
 
 thought 
 From wave to wave of fancied misery 
 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
 Though now restored, 'tis only change of 
 
 pain 
 (A bitter change !) severer for severe : 
 The day too short for my distress ; and 
 
 night, 
 E'en in the zenith of her dark domain. 
 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. 
 
 Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon 
 
 throne. 
 In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
 Silence how dead ! and darkness how pro- 
 found ! 
 Nor e3^e nor list'ning ear an object finds ; 
 Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
 Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled : 
 Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 
 Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters ! 
 
 twins 
 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender 
 
 thought 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve 
 (That column of true majesty in man), 
 Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ; 
 The grave your kingdom : there this frame 
 
 shall fall 
 A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
 But what are ye ? 
 
 Thou, who didst put to flight 
 Primeval Silence, when the morning stars. 
 Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ; 
 Oh Thou ! whose word from solid darkness 
 
 struck 
 That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my 
 
 soul ; 
 My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her 
 
 treasure, 
 As misers to their gold, while others rest. 
 Through this opaque of nature and of 
 
 soul, 
 This double night, transmit one pitjdng ray, 
 To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its 
 
 woe), 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and 
 
 death. 
 And from each scene the noblest truths in- 
 spire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
 Teach my best reason, reason ; my best Avill 
 Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 
 Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured 
 
 On this devoted head, be poured in vain. * * 
 Hov/ poor, how rich, how abject, how 
 
 august. 
 How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
 How passing wonder He who made him 
 
 such ! 
 Who centred in our make such strange 
 
 extremes. 
 From different natures marvellously mixed. 
 Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
 A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt ! 
 Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine ! 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust : 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
 A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, 
 And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger. 
 Thought wanders up and down, surprised, 
 
 And wondering at her own. How reason 
 
 reels ! 
 Oh what a miracle to man is man ! 
 Triumphantly distressed ! what joy ! what 
 
 dread ! 
 Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
 What can preserve my life ! or what destroy ! 
 An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 
 
 grave ; 
 Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
 'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in 
 proof : 
 I While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion 
 I spread, 
 
 What though my soul fantastic measures 
 
 trod 
 O'er fairy fields ; or mourned along the gloom 
 Of silent woods ; or, do"\vn the craggj' steep 
 Hurled headlong, swam with pain the mantled 
 
 pool ; 
 Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow 
 
 winds, 
 With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? 
 Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks 
 her nature 
 i Of subtler essence than the common clod : * * 
 I Even silent night proclaims my soul im- 
 j mortal ! * * 
 
 Why, then, their loss deplore that are not 
 lost ? * * 
 Tliis is the desert, this the solitude : 
 How populous, how vital is the grave I 
 This is creation's melancholy vault. 
 The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; 
 The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
 All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond 
 Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ; 
 How solid all, where change shall be no 
 more I 
 This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 
 ! The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; 
 I Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
 Strong death alone can heave the massy bar. 
 This gross impediment of clay remove. 
 And make us embryos of existence free 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THOUGHTS ON TIME. 
 
 [Edward Youxg. 
 
 From real life ; but little more remote 
 Is he, not yet a candidate for light, 
 The future embryo, slumb'ring in liis sire. 
 Embryos we must be till we burst the shell, 
 Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life. 
 The life of gods, oh transport ! and of man. 
 Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his 
 
 thoughts ; 
 Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
 Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the 
 
 moon, 
 Here pinions all his wishes ; winged by 
 
 heaven 
 To fly at infinite : and reach it there 
 Where seraphs gather immortality, 
 On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
 What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow, 
 In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 
 ^Vhere momentary ages are no more ! 
 Where time, and pain, and chance, and death 
 
 expire ! 
 And is it in the flight of threescore yeaTS 
 To push eternity from human thought, 
 And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 
 A soul immortal, spending aU her fires, 
 Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 
 ThroAvn into tumult, raptured or alarmed. 
 At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
 Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 
 To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 
 
 Edward Young.— Born 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 857.— THOUGHTS ON TIME. 
 
 The bell strikes one. We take no note of 
 
 time 
 But from its loss : to give it then a tongue 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
 I feel the solemn soi»nd. If heard aright. 
 It is the knell of my departed hours. 
 Where are they ? With the years beyond the 
 
 flood. 
 It is the sigrnal that demands despatch : 
 How much is to be done ? My hopes and 
 
 fears 
 Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow 
 
 verge 
 Look down — on what ? A fathomless abyss. 
 A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
 And can eternity belong to me. 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 
 
 O time 1 than gold more sacred ; more a load 
 Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise. 
 What moment granted man without account ? 
 What years are squandered, wisdom's debt 
 
 unpaid ! 
 Our wealth in days all due to that discharge. 
 Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the 
 
 door ; 
 Insidious Death; should his strong hand 
 
 arrest, 
 
 Xo composition sets the prisoner free. 
 Eternity's inexorable chain 
 Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full 
 arrear. 
 
 Youth is not rich in time ; it may be poor ; 
 Part with it as with money, sparing,; paj' 
 No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; 
 And what it's worth, ask death-beds ; they 
 
 can tell. 
 Part with it as with life, reluctant ; big 
 With holy hope of nobler time to come ; 
 Time higher aimed, stiU nearer the great 
 
 mark 
 Of men and angels, virtue more divine. 
 
 On aU important time, through every age. 
 
 Though much, and warm, the wise have 
 urged, the man 
 
 Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. 
 
 "I've lost a day" — the prince who nobly 
 cried, 
 
 Had been an emperor without his crown. 
 
 Of Eome ? say, rather, lord of human race : 
 
 He spoke as if deputed by mankind. 
 
 So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all : 
 
 From the soft whispers of that God in man. 
 
 Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, 
 
 For rescue from the blessings we possess ? 
 
 Time, the supreme ! — Time is eternity ; 
 
 Pregnant with all that makes archangels 
 smile. 
 
 Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth 
 
 A power ethereal, only not adored. 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to nature and himself 
 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man ! 
 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their 
 sports, 
 
 We censure Nature for a span too short ; 
 
 That span too short we tax as tedious, too ; 
 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire, 
 
 To lash the ling'ring moments into speed. 
 
 And whirl us (happy riddance) from our- 
 selves. 
 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides his 
 
 wings. 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age. 
 Behold him when passed by ; what then is 
 
 seen 
 But his broad pinions swifter than the 
 
 winds ? 
 And all mankind, in contradiction strong, 
 Eueful, aghast, cry out on his career. 
 
 We waste, not use our time ; we breathe, not 
 
 live ; 
 Time wasted is existence ; used, is life : 
 And bare existence man, to live ordained, 
 Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight. 
 And why ? siace time was given for use, not 
 
 waste, 
 Enjoined to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars. 
 To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man. 
 Time's use was doomed a pleasure, waste a 
 
 pain, 
 
Edward Young.] 
 
 PROCRASTINATION. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 That man might feel his error if unseen, 
 And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; 
 Not blundering, split on idleness for ease. 
 
 "We push time from us, and Ave wish him 
 
 back; 
 Life we think long and short ; death seek and 
 
 shun. 
 Oh the dark days of vanity ! while 
 Here, how tasteless ! and how terrible when 
 
 gone ! 
 Gone ? they ne'er go ; when past, they haunt 
 
 us still : 
 The spirit walks of every day deceased, 
 And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. 
 Nor death nor life delight us. If time past. 
 And time possessed, both pain us, what can 
 
 please ? 
 That which the Deity to please ordained, 
 Time used. The man who consecrates his 
 
 hours 
 By vigorous effort, and an honest aim, 
 At once he draws the sting of life and death : 
 He walks with nature, and her paths are 
 
 peace. 
 
 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours. 
 And ask them what report they bore to 
 
 heaven. 
 And how they might have borne more welcome 
 
 news. 
 Their answers form what men experience 
 
 call ; 
 If wisdom's friend, her best, if not, worst foe. 
 
 All-sensual man, because untouched, unseen, 
 He looks on time as nothing. Nothing else 
 Is truly man's ; 'tis fortime's. Time's a god. 
 Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipo- 
 tence ? 
 For, or against, what wonders can he do ! 
 And wiU : to stand blank neuter he disdains. 
 Not on those terms was time (heaven's 
 
 stranger!) sent 
 On his important embassy to man. 
 Lorenzo ! no : on the long destined hour, 
 From everlasting ages growing ripe, 
 That memorable hour of wondrous birth, 
 When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent, 
 And big with nature, rising in his might, 
 Called forth creation (for then time was 
 
 bom) 
 By Godhead streaming through a thousand 
 
 worlds ; 
 Not on those terms, from the great days of 
 
 heaven, 
 From old eternity's mysterious orb 
 Was time cut off, and cast beneath the 
 
 skies ; 
 The skies, which watch him in his new 
 
 abode. 
 Measuring his motions by revolving spheres, 
 That horologe machinery divine. 
 Hours, days, and months, and years, his chil- 
 dren play. 
 
 Like numerous wings, around him, as he 
 
 flies ; 
 Or rather, as unequal plumes, they shape 
 His ample pinions, SAvift as darted flame, 
 To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest, 
 And join anew eternity, his sire : 
 In his immutability to nest, 
 When Avorlds that count his circles now, 
 
 unhinged, 
 (Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong 
 
 rush 
 To timeless night and chaos, whence they 
 
 rose. 
 
 But why on time so lavish is my song : 
 
 On this great theme kind Nature keeps a 
 
 school 
 To teach her sons herself. Each night we 
 
 die — 
 Each morn are born aneAV ; each day a life ; 
 And shall we kill each day ? If trifling kills, 
 Sure vice must butcher. O what heaps of 
 
 slain 
 Cry out for vengeance on us ! time destroyed 
 Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. 
 
 Throw years away ? 
 Throw empires, and he blameless : moments 
 
 seize ; 
 Heaven 's on their wing : a moment we may 
 
 wish. 
 When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day 
 
 stand still, 
 Bid him drive back his car and re-impart 
 The period past, re-give the given hour. 
 Lorenzo ! more than miracles we want. 
 Lorenzo ! O for yesterdays to come. 
 
 Edivard Young. — Bom 1681, IKed 1765. 
 
 858.— PROCRASl'INATION. 
 
 Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer : 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 Thus on, tni wisdom is pushed out of life. 
 Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 If not so frequent, woidd not this be strange ? 
 That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger §till. 
 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
 The palm, " That all men are about to live,'* 
 For ever on the brink of being born : 
 All pay themselves the compliment to think 
 They one day shall not drivel, and their pride 
 On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
 At least their own ; their future selves 
 
 applaud ; 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
 Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's 
 
 vails ; 
 That lodged in Fate-'s to wisdom they 
 
 consign ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE ASTEONOMICAL LADY. 
 
 [Edward You kg. 
 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they 
 
 postpone. 
 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 AH promise is poor dilatory man, 
 And that through every stage. When young, 
 
 indeed. 
 In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
 Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
 At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 At fifty chides his infamous delay. 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 In aU the magnanimity of thought 
 Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 
 And why ? because he thinks himseK 
 
 immortal. 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of 
 
 fate 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the 
 
 sudden dread : 
 But their hearts wounded, like the wounded 
 
 air. 
 Soon close ; where past the shaft no trace is 
 
 found. 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains. 
 The jjarted wave no furrow from the keel. 
 So aies in human hearts the thought of 
 
 death : 
 E'en with the tender tear which nature 
 
 sheds 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 
 
 Edward Young.— Bom 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 859.— THE EMPTINESS OF EICHES. 
 
 Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine P 
 Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine ? 
 Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less 
 To make our fortune than our happiness : 
 That happiness which great ones often see, 
 With rage and wonder, in a low degree, 
 Themselves unbless'd. The poor are only 
 
 poor. 
 But what are they who droop amid their 
 
 store ? 
 Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state ; 
 The happy only are the truly great. 
 Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings. 
 And those best satisfied with cheapest things. 
 Could both our Indies buy but one new sense. 
 Our envy would be due to large expense ; 
 Since not, those pomps which to the great 
 
 belong, 
 Are but poor arts to mark them from the 
 
 throng. 
 
 I See how they beg an alms of Flattery : 
 j They languish ! oh, support them with a lie ! 
 A decent competence we fuUy taste ; 
 It strikes our sense, and gives a constant 
 
 feast : 
 
 More we perceive by dint of thought alone ; 
 The rich must labour to possess their own. 
 To feel their great abundance, and request 
 Their humble friends to help them to be 
 
 blest ; 
 To see their treasure, hear their glory told, 
 And aid the wretched impotence of gold^ 
 But some, great souls ! and touch' d with 
 
 warmth divine, 
 Give gold a price, and teach its beams to 
 
 shine ; 
 All hoarded treasures they repute a load. 
 Nor think their wealth their own, till well 
 
 bestow' d. 
 Grand reservoirs of public happiness. 
 Through secret streams dijffusively they bless, 
 And, while their bounties glide, conceal' d 
 
 from view, 
 Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too. 
 
 Edwa/rd Young. — Born 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 860.— THE LOVE OF PRAISE. 
 
 What will not men attempt for sacred 
 
 praise ! 
 The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, 
 Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every 
 
 heart : 
 The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure j 
 The modest shun it, but to make it sure. 
 O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it 
 
 swells ; 
 Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells ; 
 'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, 
 
 pleads. 
 Harangues in senates, squeaks in masque- 
 rades. 
 Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold 
 
 pretence ; 
 There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. 
 It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head. 
 And heaps the plain with mountains of the 
 
 dead : 
 Nor ends with life ; but nods in sable plumes. 
 Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. 
 
 Edward Young.— Born 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 861.— THE ASTRONOMICAL LADY. 
 
 Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love ; 
 Elope from mortal man, and range above. 
 The fair philosopher to Rowley flies. 
 Where in a box the whole creation lies : 
 She sees the planets in their turns advance, 
 And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance I 
 Of Desaguhers she bespeaks fresh air ; 
 And Whiston has engagements vsrith the fair. 
 What vain experiments Sophronia tries ! 
 'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. 
 
Edward Young.] 
 
 THE LANGUID LADY. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 But though to-day this rage of science reigns, 
 (0 fickle sex !) soon end her learned pains. 
 Lo ! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, 
 Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot. 
 
 Edward Young.— Bo')^ 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 862.— THE LANGUID LADY. 
 
 The languid lady next appears in state, . 
 Who was not born to carry her own weight ; 
 She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid 
 To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. 
 Then, if ordain' d to so severe a doom, 
 She, by just stages, journeys round the 
 
 room : 
 But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs 
 To scale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs. 
 My fan ! let others say, who laugh at toil ; 
 Fan ! hood ! glove 1 scarf ! is her laconic 
 
 style ; 
 And that is spoke with such a dying fall. 
 That Betty rather sees, than hears, the call : 
 The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, 
 Piece out th' idea her faint words deny. 
 O listen with attention most profound ! 
 Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. 
 And help, oh help ! her spirits are so dead. 
 One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. 
 If there a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er. 
 She pants ! she sinks away ! and is no more. 
 Let the robust and the gigantic carve, 
 Life is not worth so much, she'd rather 
 
 stan'^e : 
 But chew she must herseK ! ah cruel fate ! 
 That Eosahnda can't by proxy eat. 
 
 Edward Young. — Born 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 863.— THE SWEAEEE. 
 
 Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien ; 
 Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. 
 In fair and open dealing where 's the shame ? 
 What nature dares to give, she dares to 
 
 name. 
 This honest feUow is sincere and plain. 
 And justly gives the jealous husband pain 
 (Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd, 
 If wanton language shows a naked mind.) 
 And now and then, to grace her eloquence, 
 
 An oath supplies the vacancies of sense. 
 
 Hark ! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding 
 air, 
 
 And teach the neighbouring echoes how to 
 swear. 
 
 By Jove is faint, and for the simple swain ; 
 
 She on the Christian system is profane. 
 
 But though the voUey rattles in your ear, 
 
 Believe her dress, she 's not a grenadier. 
 
 If thunder 's awful, how much more our dread, 
 
 When Jove deputes a lady in his stead ? 
 
 A lady ? pardon my mistaken pen, 
 
 A shameless woman is the worst of men. 
 
 Edwa/rd Young.— Bom 1681, Died 1765. 
 
 864.— SHOWEES IN SPEING. 
 
 The north-east spends his rage ; he now, shut 
 
 Tip 
 Within his iron cave, the effusive south 
 Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of 
 
 heaven 
 Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers 
 
 distent. 
 At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
 Scarce staining either, but by swift degrees, 
 In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails 
 Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, 
 Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom ; 
 Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed. 
 Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind. 
 And full of every hope, of every joy. 
 The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the 
 
 breeze 
 Into a perfect calm, that not a breath 
 Is heard to quiver through the closing woods. 
 Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
 Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods diffused 
 In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive 
 
 lapse. 
 Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all. 
 And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
 Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
 The falling verdure. Hushed in short sus- 
 pense. 
 The plumy people streak their wings with oil. 
 To throw the lucid moisture trickling off. 
 And wait the approaching sign, to strike at 
 
 once 
 Into the general choir. Even mountains, 
 
 vales, 
 And forests, seem impatient to demand 
 The promised sweetness. Man superior 
 
 walks 
 Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 
 And looking lively gratitude. At last. 
 The clouds consign their treasures to the 
 
 fields. 
 And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 
 Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow 
 In large effusion o'er the freshen'd world. 
 The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard 
 By such as wander through the forest-walks, 
 Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. 
 
 James Thomson. — Bom 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 S65.— BIEDS PAIEING IN SPEING. 
 
 To the deep woods 
 They haste away, all as their fancy leads. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 [James Thomson. 
 
 Pleasure, or food, or secret safety, prompts ; 
 That nature's great command may be obeyed : 
 Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive 
 Indulged in vain. Sweet to the holly hedge 
 KestUng repair, and to the thicket some ; 
 Some to the rude protection of the thorn 
 Commit their feeble offspring ; the cleft tree 
 Offers its kind concealment to a few. 
 Their food its insects, and its moss their 
 
 nests : 
 Others apart, far in the grassy dale 
 Or roughening waste their humble texture 
 
 weave : 
 But most in woodland solitudes delight, 
 In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks, 
 Steep and divided by a babbling brook. 
 Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long 
 
 day, 
 ■VSTien by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots 
 Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream. 
 They frame the first foundation of their 
 
 domes. 
 Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid. 
 And bound with clay together. Now 'tis 
 
 nought 
 But restless hurry through the busy air, 
 Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow 
 
 sweeps 
 The slimy pool, to build his hanging house 
 Intent : and often from the careless back 
 Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills 
 Steal hair and wool ; and oft, when unob- 
 served, 
 Pluck from the barn a straw ; till soft and 
 
 warm. 
 Clean and complete, their habitation grows. 
 
 As thus the patient dam assiduous sits, 
 Not to be tempted from her tender task 
 Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight, 
 Though the whole loosen' d spring around her 
 
 blows, 
 Her sympathising lover takes his stand 
 High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless 
 
 sings 
 The tedious time away ; or else supplies 
 Her place a moment, w^hile she sudden flits 
 To pick the scanty meal. The appointed 
 
 time 
 With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young, 
 Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, 
 Their brittle bondaere break, and come to 
 
 light ; 
 A helpless family ! demanding food 
 With constant clamom': O what passions 
 
 then, 
 What melting sentiments of kindly care. 
 On the new parent seize ! away they fly 
 Affectionate, and, undesiring, bear 
 The most deliciqjis morsel to their young, 
 Which, equally distributed, again 
 The search begins. Even so a gentle pair. 
 By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous 
 
 mould. 
 And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar 
 
 breast, 
 In some lone cot amid the distant woods, 
 
 Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven, 
 Oft as they, weeping, eye their infant train. 
 Check their own appetites, and give them all. 
 
 Nor toil alone they scorn ; exalting love, 
 By the great Father of the spring inspired. 
 Gives instant courage to the fearful race, 
 And to the simple art. With stealthy-wing, 
 Should some rude foot their woody haunts 
 
 molest. 
 Amid the neighbouring bush they silent drop, 
 And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive 
 The unfeeling schoolboy. Hence around the 
 
 head 
 Of wandering swain the white-winged plover 
 
 wheels 
 Her sounding flight, and then directly on. 
 In long excursion, skims the level lawn 
 To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck 
 
 hence 
 O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless 
 
 Avaste 
 The heath-hen flutters : pious fraud ! to lead 
 The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray. 
 
 James Thomson. — Boru 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 866.— DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 But happy they ! the happiest of their 
 
 kind ! 
 Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings 
 
 blend. 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws. 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, 
 That binds their peace, but harmony itself. 
 Attuning all their jmssions into love ; 
 Where friendship full exerts her softest 
 
 power. 
 Perfect esteem, enliven' d by desire 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing 
 
 will. 
 With boundless confidence : for nought but 
 
 love 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent 
 To bless himself, from sordid parents buys 
 The loathing virgin, in eternal care, 
 Well merited, consume his nights and days ; 
 Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love 
 Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel ; 
 Let Eastern tjTants, from the light of Heaven 
 Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd 
 Of a mere, lifeless, violated form : 
 While those whom love cements in holy 
 
 faith. 
 
 And equal transport, free as Nature live. 
 
 Disdaining fear. What is the world to them, 
 
 Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ! 
 
 Who in each other clasp whatever fair 
 
 High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can 
 
 wish : , . 
 
 41 
 
James Thomson.] 
 
 MUSIDOEA. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Sometliing than beauty dearer, should they 
 
 look 
 Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face ; 
 Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love, 
 The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. 
 Meantime a smiling offspring rises round. 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees, 
 The human blossom blows ; and every day, 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, 
 The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. 
 Then infant reason grows apace, and calls 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind. 
 To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix 
 The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
 Oh, speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear 
 Surprises often, while you look around, 
 And nothing strikes your eye but sights of 
 
 bUss, 
 All various nature pressing on the heart : 
 An elegant sufficiency, content, 
 Eetirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
 Ease and alternate labour, useful life, 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; 
 And thus their moments fly. The seasons 
 
 thus, 
 As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
 Still find them happy ; and consenting Spring 
 Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
 Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; 
 When, after the long vernal day of life, 
 Enamour'd more, as more remembrance 
 
 swells 
 With many a proof of recollected love, 
 Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
 Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where love and bliss immortal 
 
 James Thomson. — Bo7-^i 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 867.— MUSIDOEA. 
 
 Close in the covert of an hazel copse, 
 Where winded into pleasing solitudes 
 Euns out the rambling dale, young Damon 
 
 sat 
 Pensive, and pierced with love's delightful 
 
 pangs. 
 There to the stream that down the distant 
 
 rocks 
 Hoarse-murmuring fell, and plaintive breeze 
 
 that play'd 
 Among the bending willows, falsely he 
 Of Musidora's cruelty complain' d. 
 She felt his flame ; but deep within her 
 
 breast. 
 In bashful coyness, or in maiden Rride, 
 The soft return conceal' d ; save when it stole 
 In sidelong glances from her downcast eye, 
 
 Or from her swelling soul in stifled sighs. 
 Touch' d by the scene, no stranger to his 
 
 vows, 
 He framed a melting lay, to try her heart : 
 And, if an infant passion struggled there, 
 To call that passion forth. Thrice happy 
 
 swain ! 
 A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate 
 Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine. 
 For, lo ! conducted by the laughing Loves, 
 This cool retreat his Musidora sought : 
 Warm in her cheek the sultiy season glow'd ; 
 And, robed in loose array, she came to bathe 
 Her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream. 
 What shall he do ? In sweet confusion lost, 
 And dubious flutterings, he awhile remained : 
 A pure ingenuous elegance of soul, 
 A delicate refinement, known to few, 
 Perplex'd his breast, and urged him to retire : 
 But love forbade. Ye prudes in virtue, 
 
 say, 
 Say, ye severest, what would you have done ? 
 Meantime, this fairer nymph than ever blest 
 Arcadian stream, with timid eye around 
 The banks surveying, stripp'd her beauteous 
 
 limbs. 
 To taste the lucid coolness of the flood. 
 Ah, then ! not Paris on the piny top 
 Of Ida panted stronger, when aside 
 The rival goddesses the veil divine 
 Cast unconfined, and gave him all their 
 
 charms. 
 Than, Damon, thou ; as from the snowy 
 
 leg, 
 And slender foot, th' inverted silk she drew ; 
 As the soft touch dissolved the virgin zone ; 
 And, through the parting robe the alternate 
 
 breast. 
 With youth wild-throbbing, on thy lawless 
 
 gaze 
 In full luxuriance rose. But, desperate 
 
 youth. 
 How durst thou risk the soul-distracting 
 
 view. 
 As from her naked limbs, of glowing white, 
 Harmonious swell' d by Nature's finest hand. 
 In folds loose-floating fell the fainter lawn ; 
 And fair-exposed she stood, shrunk from her- 
 self, 
 With fancy blushing, at the doubtful breeze 
 Alarm' d and starting like the fearful fawn ? 
 Then to the flood she rush'd; the parted 
 
 flood 
 Its lovely guest with closing waves received ; 
 And every beauty softening, every grace 
 Flushing anew, a mellow lustre shed : 
 As shines the lily through the crystal mild ; 
 Or as the rose amid the morning dew. 
 Fresh from Aurora's hand,^ more sweetly 
 
 glows, 
 While thus she wanton' d, now beneath the 
 
 wave 
 But ill-conceal' d; and now with streaming 
 
 locks. 
 That half-embraced her in a humid veil, 
 Eising again, the latent Damon drew 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A SUMMEE EVENING-. 
 
 [James Thomson 
 
 Such maddening draiights of beauty to the 
 
 soul, 
 As for awhile o'erwhelm'd his raptnred 
 
 thought 
 With luxury too daring. Check'd, at last, 
 By love's respectful modesty, he deem'd 
 The theft profane, if aught profane to love 
 Can e'er be deem'd; and, struggling j&'om the 
 
 shade, 
 With headlong hurry fled: but first these 
 
 lines, 
 Traced by his ready pencil, on the bank 
 With trembling hand he threw : " Bathe on, 
 
 my fair, 
 Yet unbeheld, save by the sacred eye 
 Of faithful love : I go to guard thy haunt. 
 To keep from thy recess each vagrant foot. 
 And each licentious eye." With wild sur- 
 prise, 
 As if to marble struck, devoid of sense, 
 A stupid moment motionless she stood : 
 So stands the statue that enchants the world, 
 So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, 
 The mingled beauties of exulting Greece. 
 Recovering, swift she flew to find those robes 
 Which bhssful Eden Icnew not ; and, array 'd 
 In careless haste, th' alarming paper snatch' d. 
 But, when her Damon's well-known hand she 
 
 saw, 
 Her terrors vanish' d, and a softer train 
 Of mixt emotions, hard to be described. 
 Her sudden bosom seized : shame void of guilt, 
 The charming blush of innocence, esteem 
 And admiration of her lover's flame, 
 By modesty exalted : even a sense 
 Of self -approving beaixty stole across 
 Her busy thought. At length, a tender calm 
 Hush'd by degrees the tumult of her soul ; 
 And on the spreading beech, that o'er the 
 
 stream 
 Incumbent hung, she with the sylvan pen 
 Of rural lovers this confession carved. 
 Which soon her Damon kiss'd with weeping 
 
 joy : 
 " Dear youth ! sole judge of what these verses 
 
 mean. 
 By fortune too much favour'd, but by love, 
 Alas ! not favour'd less, be still as now 
 Discreet : the time may come you need not 
 
 fly." 
 
 James Thomscn. — Bom 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 868.— A SUMMEE MOENING. 
 
 With quicken'd step 
 Brown night retires : young day pours in 
 
 apace, 
 And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
 Swell on the sight, and brighten with the 
 
 dawn. 
 
 Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents 
 
 shine ; 
 And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
 Limps awkward; while along the forest 
 
 glade 
 The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze 
 At early passenger. Music awakos~ ~ 
 The native voice of undissembled joy ; 
 And thick around the woodland hj^mns arise. 
 Eoused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd 
 
 leaves 
 His mossy cottage, where with peace he 
 
 dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 His flock, to taste the verdure of the mom. 
 
 James Tliomson. — Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 869.— A SUMMEE EVENING. 
 
 Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees. 
 Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting 
 
 clouds 
 Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train, 
 In all their pomp attend his setting throne. 
 Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And 
 
 now, 
 As if his weary chariot sought the bowers 
 Of Amphitrite, and her tending nymphs, 
 (So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb ; 
 Now half immersed ; and now a golden curve 
 Gives one bright glance, then total dis- 
 appears. 
 Confess'd from yonder slow-extingnish'd 
 
 clouds. 
 All ether softening, sober evening takes 
 Her wonted station in the middle air ; 
 A thousand shadows at her beck. First 
 
 this 
 She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 
 Steals soft behind ; and then a deeper still. 
 In circle following circle, gathers round. 
 To close the face of things. A fresher gale 
 Begins to wave the wood, and stir the 
 
 stream. 
 Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of 
 
 com : 
 While the quail clamours for his running 
 
 mate. 
 Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the 
 
 breeze, 
 A whitening shower of vegetable down 
 Amusive floats. The kind impartial care 
 Of nature nought disdains : thoughtful to 
 
 feed 
 Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year. 
 From field to field the feather' d seeds she 
 
 wings. 
 His folded flock secure, the shepherd home 
 Hies merry-hearted ; and by turns relieves 
 The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; 
 The beauty whom perhaps his -witless heart — 
 
 41* 
 
James Thomson.] 
 
 LAVmiA. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Unknowing what the joy-mix' d anguish 
 
 means — 
 Sincerely loves, by that best language shown 
 Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. 
 Onward they pass o'er many a panting 
 
 height, 
 And valley sunk, and unfrequented ; where 
 At fall of eve the fairy people throng, 
 In various game and revelry, to pass 
 The summer night, as village stories tell. 
 But far about they v/ander from the gx-ave 
 Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged 
 Against his own sad breast to lift the hand 
 Of impious violence. The lonely tower 
 Is also shunn'd ; whose mournful chambers 
 
 hold- 
 So night-struck fancy dreams — the yelling 
 
 ghost. 
 Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge. 
 The glowworm lights his gem ; and through 
 
 the dark 
 A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields 
 The world to night ; not in her winter robe 
 Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array' d 
 In mantle dun. A iaint erroneous ray. 
 Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of 
 
 things. 
 Flings half an imago on the straining eye ; 
 While wav'ring woods, and villages, and 
 
 streams, 
 And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long 
 
 retain' d 
 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming 
 
 scene. 
 Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven 
 Thence weary vision turns ; where, leading 
 
 soft 
 The silent hours of love, with purest ray 
 Sweet Venus shines ; and from her genial 
 
 rise, 
 When daylight sickens till it springs afresh, 
 Unrivall'd reigns, the fairest lamp of night. 
 
 James TJiomson. — Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 870.— LAVmiA. 
 
 The lovely young Lavinia once had friends : 
 And Fortune smiled, deceitful, on her birth. 
 For, in her helpless years deprived of all, 
 Of every stay, save Innocence and Heaven, 
 She, with her widow 'd mother, feeble, old, 
 And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired 
 Among the windings of a woody vale ; 
 By solitude and deep surrounding shades, 
 But more by bashful modesty, conccal'd. 
 Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn 
 Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet 
 From giddy passion and low-minded pride : 
 Almost on Nature's common bounty fed ; 
 Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, 
 Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. 
 Her form was fresher than the morning rose, 
 
 Wlien the dew wets its leaves ; unstain'd and 
 
 pure, 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 
 The modest virtues mingled in her eyes. 
 Still on the ground dejected, darting all 
 Their humid beams into the blooming flowers ; 
 Or when the mournful tale her mother told, 
 Of what her faithless fortune promised once. 
 Thrill' d in her thought, they, like the dewy 
 
 star (• 
 
 Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace 
 Sat fair-proportion' d on her polish'd limbs, 
 Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, 
 Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament. 
 But is when unadorn'd adorn' d the most. 
 Thoughtless of Beauty, she was Beauty's self, 
 Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. 
 As in the hollow breant of Apennine, 
 j Beneath the shelter of encircling hills 
 I A myrtle rises, far from human eye, 
 I And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the 
 j wild ; 
 
 j So flourish' d blooming, and unseen by all, 
 ' The sweet Lavinia; till, at length, compell'd 
 By strong Necessity's supreme command, 
 With smiling patience in her looks, she went 
 To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of 
 
 swains 
 Palemon was, the generous, and the rich ; 
 Who led the rural life in all its joy 
 And elegance, such as Arcadian song 
 Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times ; 
 When tyrant custom had not shackled man, 
 But free to follow nature was the mode. 
 He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes 
 Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train 
 To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye ; 
 Unconscious of her power, and turning quick 
 With unaffected blushes from his gaze : 
 He saw her charming, but he saw not half 
 The charms her downcast modesty conceal' d. 
 That very moment love and chaste desire 
 Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown ; 
 For still the world prevail' d, and its dread 
 
 laugh, 
 WTiich scarce the firm philosopher can scorn. 
 Should his heart own a gleaner in the field : 
 And thus in secret to his soul he sigh'd. 
 " What pity ! that so delicate a form, 
 By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense 
 And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, 
 Should be devoted to the rude embrace 
 Of some indecent clown ! She looks, methinks, 
 Of old Acasto's line ; and to my mind 
 Recalls that patron of my happy life. 
 From whom my liberal foi'tune took its rise ; 
 Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands, 
 And once fair- spreading family, dissolved. 
 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat. 
 Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride. 
 Far from those scenes which knew their better 
 
 days, 
 His aged widow and his daughter Kve, 
 Whom yet my fruitless search could never 
 find. 
 
Fi-om 1727 to 1780.1 
 
 THE HAEVEST STOEM. 
 
 [Jaiies Thomson. 
 
 Eoinantic wish ! would this tho daughter 
 
 were ! ' ' 
 When, strict enquiring, from herself he 
 
 found 
 She was the same, the daughter of his friend, 
 Of bountiful Acasto ; who can speak 
 The mingled passions that surprised his heart. 
 And through his nerves in shivering transport 
 
 ran? 
 Then blazed his smother' d flame, avow'd, and 
 
 bold; 
 And, as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er. 
 Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. 
 Confused, and frighten'd at his sudden tears, 
 Her rising beauties flush' d a higher bloom, 
 As thus Palemon, passionate and just, 
 Pour'd out the pioiis rapture of his soul. 
 
 " And art thou then Acasto' s dear remains ? 
 She, whom my restless gratitude has sought 
 So long in vain ? O Heavens ! the very 
 
 same. 
 The soften'd image of my noble friend. 
 Alive his every look, his every feature. 
 More elegantly touch'd. Si^eter than Spring! 
 Thou sole surviving blossom from the root 
 That nourish'd up my fortune ! say, ah where. 
 In what sequester' d desert, hast thou drawn 
 The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven ? 
 Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair ; 
 Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing 
 
 rain, 
 Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years ? 
 O let me now, into a richer soil, 
 Transplant thee safe ! where vernal suns, and 
 
 showers, 
 Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; 
 And of my garden be the pride and joy ! 
 Ill it befits thee, oh ! it ill befits 
 Acasto' s daughter, his whose open stores. 
 Though vast, were little to his ampler heart, 
 The father of a country, thus to pick 
 The very refuse of those harvest-fields. 
 Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. 
 Then throw that shameful pittance from thy 
 
 hand. 
 But ill applied to such a rugged task ; 
 The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine ; 
 If to the various blessings which thy house 
 Has on me lavish' d, thou wilt add that bliss. 
 That dearest bliss, the power of blessing 
 
 thee!" 
 Here ceased the youth, yet still his speaking 
 
 eye 
 Express' d the sacred triumph of his soul. 
 With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, 
 Above the vtdgar joy divinely raised. 
 Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm 
 Of goodness irresistible, and all 
 In sweet disorder lost, she blush'd consent. 
 The news immediate to her mother brought. 
 While, pierced with anxious thought, she pined 
 
 away 
 The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate ; 
 Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, 
 Joy seized her wither' d veins, and one bright 
 
 cleam 
 
 Of setting life shone on her evening hours : 
 Not less enraptured than the happy pair ; 
 Who flourish' d long in tender bliss, and rear'd 
 A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, 
 And good, the grace of all the country round. 
 
 James Thomson. — Born 1700,--©icdl748. 
 
 871.— THE HAEVEST STOEM. 
 
 Defeating oft tho labours of the year. 
 The sultry south collects a potent blast. 
 At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir 
 Their trembling tops, and a still murmur 
 
 runs 
 Along the soft- inclining fields of corn. 
 But as th' aerial tempest fuller swells. 
 And in one mighty stream, invisible. 
 Immense, the whole excited atmosphere 
 Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world : 
 Strain'd to the root, the stooping forest pours 
 A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 
 High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in. 
 From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, 
 And send it in a torrent do'svn the vale. 
 Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, 
 Through all the sea of hars'est rolling round, 
 The billowy plain floats wide ; nor can evade, 
 Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force ; 
 Or whirl' d in air, or into vacant chaff 
 Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of 
 
 rain, 
 Swept from the black horizon, broad, de- 
 scends 
 In one continuous flood. Still over head 
 The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and 
 
 still 
 Tlio deluge deepens ; till the fields around 
 Lie sunk and flatted, in the sordid wave. 
 Sudden, the ditches swell ; the meadows 
 
 swim. 
 Eed, from the hills, innumerable streams 
 Tumultuous roar ; and high above its banks 
 The river lift ; before whose rushing tide, 
 Herds, flocks, and harvest, cottages, and 
 
 swains, 
 EoU mingled down ; all that the winds had 
 
 spared 
 In one wild moment ruin'd ; the big hopes 
 And well-eam'd treasures of the painful year. 
 Fled to some eminence, the husbandman 
 Helpless beholds the miserable wreck 
 Driving along : his drowning ox at once 
 Descending, with his labours scatter' d round. 
 He sees ; and instant o'er his shivering 
 
 thought 
 Comes Winter unprovided, and a train 
 Of claimant children dear. Ye masters, 
 
 then, 
 Be mindful of the rough laborious hand, 
 That sinks yon soft in elegance and ease ; 
 Be mindful of those limbs in russet clad, 
 
James Thomson.] 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING SCENE. 
 
 [Sixth Pertou. — 
 
 V/liose toil to yours is warmth, and graceful 
 
 pride : 
 And, oh ! be mindful of that sparing board. 
 Which covers yours with luxury profuse. 
 Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense 
 
 rejoice ! 
 Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains 
 And aU-involving winds have swept away. 
 
 James Thomson.— Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 872.— AUTUMN EVENING SCENE. 
 
 But see the fading many-colour' d woods, 
 Shade deepening over shade, the country 
 
 round 
 Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, 
 Of ev'ry hue, from wan declining green 
 To sooty dark. These now the lonesome 
 
 muse, 
 Low whisp'ring, lead into their leaf-stro\vn 
 
 walks, 
 And give the season in its latest view. ' 
 
 Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober 
 
 calm 
 Fleeces unbounded ether : whose least wave 
 Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
 The gentle current : while illumined wide, 
 The dewy- skirted clouds imbibe the sun. 
 And through their lucid veil his soften' d 
 
 force 
 Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the 
 
 time, 
 For those whom virtue and whom nature 
 
 charm, 
 To steal themselves from the degenerate 
 
 crowd. 
 And soar above this little scene of things : 
 To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their 
 
 feet; 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace ; 
 And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. 
 
 Thus solitary, and in pensive guise. 
 Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, 
 And through the sadden'd grove, where scarce 
 
 is heard 
 One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's 
 
 toU. 
 Haply some widow' d songster pours liis 
 
 plaint. 
 Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny 
 
 copse ; 
 While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, 
 And each wild throat, whose artless strains so 
 
 late 
 SweU'd all the music of the swarming shades, 
 Robb'd of their tuneful souls, now shivering 
 
 sit 
 On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock : 
 With not a brightness waving o'er their 
 
 plumes. 
 And nought save chatt'ring discord in their 
 
 note. 
 
 O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye, 
 The gun the music of the coming year 
 Destroy ; and harmless, imsuspecting harm. 
 Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey 
 In mingled murder, flutt'ring on the groimd ! 
 The pale descending year, yet i^leasing 
 
 stiU, 
 A gentler mood inspires ; for now the leaf 
 Incessant rustles from the mournful grove ; 
 Oft startling such as studious walk below, 
 And slowly circles through the waving air. 
 But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs 
 Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams ; 
 Till choked, and matted with the dreary 
 
 shower, 
 The forest walks, at ev'ry rising gale, 
 Eoll Avide the wither' d waste, and whistle 
 
 bleak. 
 Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields ; 
 And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery 
 
 race 
 Their sunii^ robes resign. E'en v»diat re- 
 main' d a. 
 Of stronger fruit|Lfalls from the naked tree ; 
 And woods, fields, gardens, orchards aU 
 
 around, 
 Tlie desolated prospect thrills the soul. 
 
 The western sun withdraws the shorten' d 
 
 day, 
 And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, 
 In her chiU progress, to the ground con- 
 densed 
 The vapour throws. Where creeping waters 
 
 ooze, 
 Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers 
 
 wind. 
 Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along 
 The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the 
 
 moon. 
 Full-orb' d, and breaking through the scatter' d 
 
 clouds, 
 Shows her broad visage in the crimson' d 
 
 east. 
 Turn'd to the sun direct her spotted disk. 
 Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales 
 
 descend. 
 And caverns deep as optic tube descries, 
 A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again. 
 Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. 
 Now through the passing clouds she seems to 
 
 stoop, 
 Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. 
 Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming 
 
 mild 
 O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy 
 
 vale. 
 While rocks and floods reflect the quiv'ring 
 
 gleam ; 
 The whole air whitens with a boundless tide 
 Of silver radiance trembling round the 
 
 world. 
 The lengthen' d night elapsed, the morning 
 
 shines 
 Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright, 
 Unfolding fair the last autumnal day. 
 And now the mounting sun dispels the fog; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 [James Thomson. 
 
 The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam ; 
 And hung on every spray, on every blade 
 Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle 
 round. 
 
 James Thomson.— Bom 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 873.— A WINTER LANDSCAPE. 
 
 Through the hushed air the whit'ning shower 
 
 descends, 
 At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the 
 
 day 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their "svinter robe of purest white : 
 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow 
 
 melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
 Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid 
 
 sun 
 Faint from the west, emits his evening ray ; 
 Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, 
 Is one wide dazzUng waste, that buries wide 
 The works of man. Drooping, the labourer- 
 ox 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then 
 
 demands 
 I The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
 I Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 ' The winnowing store, and claim the little 
 
 boon 
 , ^Vhich Providence assigns them. One alone, 
 j The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted 
 
 man 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
 Against the window beats ; then, brisk, 
 
 alights 
 On the warm hearth ; then hopping o'er the 
 
 floor, 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where 
 
 he is : 
 Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The 
 
 hare, 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 By death in various forms, dark snares and 
 
 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 
 
 Urged on by fearless want. The bleating 
 kine 
 
 Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist'ning 
 earth. 
 
 With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis- 
 persed. 
 
 Dig for the wither' d herb through heaps of 
 snow. * * 
 As thus the snows arise, and foul and 
 fierce 
 
 the dusky spot which fancy 
 
 All winter drives along the darken' d air. 
 In his own loose revolving fields the swain 
 Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, 
 Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes. 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
 Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted 
 
 heaps. 
 Stung with the thoughts of home; the 
 
 thoughts of home 
 Rush on Ms nerves, and call their vigour 
 
 forth 
 In many a vain attempt. How sinks his 
 
 soul ! 
 What black despair, what horror, filla his 
 
 heart ! 
 When for 
 
 feign' d, 
 
 His tufted cottage rising thi'ough the snow, 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste. 
 Far from the track and bless' d abode of man ; 
 While round him night resistless closes fast, 
 And every tempest howling o'er his head. 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 
 Of cover'd pits, vmfathomably deep, 
 A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge 
 Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land 
 
 unknown, 
 What water of the still unfrozen spring. 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom 
 
 boils. 
 These check his fearful steps, and down he 
 
 sinks 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
 Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,- 
 Kis wife, his children, and his friends, un 
 
 seen. 
 In vain for him the ofiicious wife prepares 
 The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm : 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
 Nor wife nor children more shall he behold. 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every 
 
 nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, 
 And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 Lays him along the snows a stiffen' d corse, 
 Stretch'd out, and bleaching on the northern 
 
 blast. 
 
 James Thomson. — Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 874.— A HYMN. 
 
 These, as they change. Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. Tlie rolling year 
 
James Thomson.] 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing 
 
 Spring 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is 
 
 balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest 
 
 smiles ; 
 And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 
 Then comes thy glory in the Summer- 
 months, 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then thy 
 
 Sun 
 Shoots fuU perfection through the swelling 
 
 year : 
 And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder 
 
 speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hoUow-whispering 
 
 gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined. 
 And spreads a common feast for all that 
 
 lives. 
 In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and 
 
 storms 
 Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest 
 
 roll'd. 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Eiding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
 And humblest nature with thy northern 
 
 blast. 
 Mysterious round! what skill, what force 
 
 divine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art. 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious 
 
 gaze, 
 Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty 
 
 hand, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, 
 
 thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the 
 
 Spring : 
 Flings from the Sun direct the flaming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests 
 
 forth; 
 And, as on Earth this grateful change 
 
 revolves, 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 
 Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness 
 
 breathes : 
 Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms : 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving 
 
 pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 Who shake th' astonish' d world, lift high to 
 
 Heaven 
 
 Th' imi^etiTous song, and say from whom you 
 
 rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling 
 
 rills ; 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater 
 
 voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fru.its, and 
 
 flowers. 
 In mingled clouds to him ; whose Sun exalts, 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 
 
 paints. 
 Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's 
 
 heart. 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous Moon. 
 Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth 
 
 I Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
 
 i Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
 
 i Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 
 ; Great source of day ! best image here below 
 
 , Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 
 j From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 
 I On Nature write with every beam his praise. 
 
 } The thunder rolls ; be hush'd the prostrate 
 
 world ; 
 I While cloud to cloud returns the solemn 
 j hymn. 
 
 I Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
 ' Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd 
 
 reigns ; 
 And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
 Burst from the groves ! and when the restless 
 
 day. 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 The listening shades, and teach the night his 
 
 praise. 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of 
 
 all. 
 Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities 
 
 vast. 
 Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
 The long-resounding voice, oft breaking 
 
 clear. 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each. 
 In one united ardour rise to Heaven. 
 Or if you rather chuse the rural shade. 
 And find a fane in every secret grove ; 
 There let tlie shepherd's flute, the virgin's 
 
 lay. 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
 For me, when I forget the darling tlieme. 
 Whether the blossom blows, the Summer- 
 ray 
 
F.'om 1727 to 1780.] BAED'S SONG IN CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. [James Thomso?--. 
 
 Eussets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams ; 
 
 Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; 
 
 Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no 
 
 more, 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heai-t to beat. 
 Should Fate command me to the farthest 
 
 verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous 
 
 climes, 
 Eivers unknown to song : where first the 
 
 Sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to 
 
 me ; 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
 In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
 And where he vital breathes, there must be 
 
 joy. 
 When ev'n at last the solemn hour shall 
 
 come. 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey : there, with new 
 
 powers, 
 Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
 Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself in liim, in Light ineffable ; 
 Come then, expi'cssive Silence, muse his 
 
 praise. 
 
 James Thomson.— Bom 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 
 875.— FEOM THE BAED'S SONG IN THE 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 " It was not by vile loitering in ease 
 
 That Greece obtain' d the brighter i)alm of 
 
 art, 
 That soft yet a,rdent Athens learnt to 
 
 please. 
 To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 
 In all supreme ! complete in every part I 
 It was not thence majestic Eome arose, 
 And o'er the nations shook her conqiiering 
 
 dart : 
 For sluggard's brow the laurel never 
 
 grows ; 
 Eonown is not the child of indolent repose. 
 
 Had unambitious mortals minded nought. 
 
 But in loose joy their time to wear away ; 
 
 Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, 
 
 Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to 
 lay, 
 
 Eude Nature's state had been our state to- 
 day ; 
 
 No cities e'er their towery fronts had 
 raised, 
 
 No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 
 
 With brother-brutes the human race had 
 grazed ; 
 None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honour'd 
 been, none praised. 
 
 Great Homer's song had never fired the 
 
 breast — - 
 
 To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; 
 Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious 
 
 rest. 
 Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds : 
 The wits of modem time had told their 
 
 beads. 
 And monkish legends been their only 
 
 strains ; 
 Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in 
 
 weeds. 
 Our Shakspeare stroll' d and laugh' d with 
 
 Warwick swains, 
 Ne had my master Spenser charm' d his 
 MuUa's plains. 
 
 Dumb too had been the sage historic 
 
 Muse, 
 And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame ; 
 Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 
 Tlirough the dark depth of time their vivid 
 
 flame. 
 Had all been lost with such as have no 
 
 name. 
 Who then had scorn' d his ease for others' 
 
 good? 
 Who then had toil'd rapacious men to 
 
 tame ? 
 Who in the public breach devoted stood. 
 And for his country's cause been prodigal of 
 blood ? 
 
 But should your hearts to fame unfeeling 
 
 be. 
 If right I read, you pleasure all require : 
 Then hear how best may be obtain' d this 
 
 fee, 
 How best enjoy'd this nature's wide desire. 
 Toil, and be glad ! let Industry inspire 
 Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyaiit 
 
 breath ! 
 Who does not act is dead ; absorpt entire 
 In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : 
 O leaden-hearted men, to be in love with 
 death ' 
 
 Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of 
 
 Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go 
 
 amiss ? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given ! 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
 Behold the ^vretch, who slugs his life away, 
 Soon swallow' d in disease's sad abyss ; 
 While he whom toil has braced, or manly 
 
 play, 
 Has light as air each limb, each thought as 
 clear as day. 
 
James Thomson.] 
 
 ODE. 
 
 [Sixth Period.— 
 
 O, who can speak the \dgorous joy of 
 
 health ? 
 Unclogg'd the body, tmobscured the mind : 
 The morning- rises gay, with pleasing 
 
 stealth, 
 The temperate evening falls serene and 
 
 kind. 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness 
 
 find. 
 See! how the younglings frisk along the 
 
 meads, 
 As May comes on, and wakes the balmy 
 
 wind; 
 Eampant with life, their joy all joy 
 
 Yet what but high-strung health this dancing 
 pleasaunce breeds ? " 
 
 . James Thomson. — Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 876.— ODE. 
 
 O Nightingale, best poet of the grove, 
 
 That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to 
 thee, 
 
 Blest in the full possession of thy love : 
 
 O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to 
 
 'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate : 
 I love a maid who all my bosom charms. 
 
 Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ; 
 Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms. 
 
 You, happy birds ! by nature's simple laws 
 Lead your soft lives, sustain' d by Nature's 
 fare; 
 
 You dwell wherever roving fancy draws. 
 And love and song is all your pleasing care : 
 
 But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride. 
 Dare not be blest lest envious tongues 
 should blame : 
 And hence, in vain I languish for my bride ; 
 mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless 
 flame. 
 
 James Thomson. — Born 1700, Bicd 1748. 
 
 877.— HYMN ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude, 
 Companion of the wise and good, 
 But, from whose holy, piercing eye, 
 The herd of fools and villains fly. 
 
 Oh ! how I love with thee to walk. 
 And listen to thy whisper' d talk. 
 Which innocence and truth imparts. 
 And melts the most obdurate hearts. 
 
 A thousand shapes yoix wear with ease, 
 And stiU in every shape you please. 
 Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, 
 A lono philosopher you seem ; 
 Now quick from hill to vale you fly, 
 And now you sweep the vaulted sky ; 
 A shepherd next, you haunt the plain. 
 And warble forth your oaten strain. 
 A lover now, with all the grace 
 Of that sweet passion in your face ; 
 Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume 
 The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom, 
 As, with her Musidora, she 
 (Her Musidora fond of thee) 
 Amid the long withdrawing vale, 
 Awakes the rivall'd nightingale. 
 
 Thine is the balmy breath of morn. 
 Just as the dew-bent rose is born ; 
 And while meridian fervours beat. 
 Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ; 
 But chief, when evening scenes decay, 
 And the faint landscape swims away, 
 Thine is the doubtful soft decline, 
 And that best hour of musing thine. 
 
 Descending angels bless thy train, 
 The virtues of the sage, and swain ; 
 Plain Innocence, in white array' d, 
 Before thee lifts her fearless head : 
 Ecligion's beams around thee shine, 
 And cheer thy glooms with light divine : 
 About thee sports sweet Liberty ; 
 And rapt Urania sings to thee. 
 
 Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell I 
 And in thy deep recesses dwell ; 
 Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, 
 When Meditation has her fill, 
 I just may cast my careless eyes 
 Whe?e London's spiry turrets rise, 
 Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain. 
 Then shield me in the woods again. 
 
 Janics Thomson.— Born 1700, Died 1748. 
 
 878.— THE HAPPY MAN. 
 
 He's not the Happ3^ Man to whom is given 
 A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven ; 
 Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise. 
 And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes ; 
 Whose table flows with hospitable cheer. 
 And all the various bounty of the year ; 
 Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe 
 
 the spring. 
 Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests 
 
 sing; 
 For whom the cooling shade in Summer 
 
 twines, 
 \Vhile his fuU cellars give their generous 
 
 wines ; 
 From whose wide fields unbounded Autuum 
 
 pours 
 A golden tide into liis swelling stores ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 GRONGAR HILL. 
 
 [John Dyer. 
 
 VvTiose winter laughs ; for whom the liberal 
 
 gales 
 Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce 
 
 sails; 
 "When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure 
 
 serves ; 
 While youth, and health, and vigour string 
 
 his nerves. 
 Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combined. 
 Can make the Happy Man, -without the 
 
 mind ; 
 Where Judgment sits clear-sighted, and 
 
 surveys 
 The chain of Reason with unerring gaze ; 
 Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening 
 
 eyes. 
 His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ; 
 Where social Love exerts her soft command. 
 And plays the passions mth a tender hand, 
 "Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, 
 And all the moral harmony of life. 
 
 James Thomson. — Born 1700, DlcO. 1748. 
 
 S79.— RULE BRITANNIA. 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command. 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 
 This was the charter of the land. 
 
 And guardian angels sung the strain : 
 
 Rule Britannia, Britannia rvdes the waves ! 
 Britons never shall be slaves. 
 
 Tlie nations not so blest as thee, 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 
 Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 Rule Britannia, &c. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies, 
 Serv'es but to root thy native oak. 
 Rule Britannia, &c. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 
 
 All their attempts to bend thee dowoi 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 
 And work their woe and thy renown. 
 Rule Britannia, &c. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities -shall with commerce shine ; 
 All shall be subject to the main. 
 And every shore it circles thine. 
 Rule Britannia, &c. 
 
 The Muses, still with freedom found. 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
 
 Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 Rule Britannia, &c. 
 
 Ja)n<?s Tliomson. — Born 1700, Bied 1748. 
 
 880.— GRONGAR HILL. 
 
 Silent nymph, mth curious eye, 
 
 Who, the purple evening, lie 
 
 On the mountain's lonely van, 
 
 Beyond the noise of busy man ; 
 
 Painting fair the form of things, — — 
 
 Wliile the yellow linnet sings ; 
 
 Or the tuneful nightingale 
 
 Charms the forest with her tale ; 
 
 Come, with all thy various hues. 
 
 Come and aid thy sister Muse ; 
 
 Now, while Phoebus riding high. 
 
 Gives lustre to the land and sky ! 
 
 Grongar HiR invites my song. 
 
 Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 
 
 Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
 
 Grongar, in v.'hose silent shade. 
 
 For the modest Muses made ; 
 
 So oft I have, the evening still, 
 
 At the fountain of a rill. 
 
 Sate upon a flowery bed. 
 
 With my hand beneath my head ; 
 
 While stray' d my eyes o'er Towy's flood. 
 
 Over mead and over wood. 
 
 From house to house, from hill to hiU, 
 
 Till Contemplation had her fiU. 
 
 About his chequer' d sides I wind. 
 And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
 And groves, and grottoes where I lay. 
 And vistas shooting beams of day : 
 Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
 As circles on a smooth canal : 
 The mountains round, unhappy fate ; 
 Sooner or later of all height. 
 Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
 And lessen as the others rise : 
 StiU the prospect wider spreads, 
 Adds a thousand woods and meada ; 
 Still it -widens, -widens still. 
 And sinks the newly-risen hill. 
 
 Now, I gain the mountain's brow, 
 What a landscape lies below ! 
 No clouds, no vapours intervene ; 
 But the gay, the open scene 
 Does the face of Nature show. 
 In all the hues of Heaven's bow ! 
 And, swelling to embrace the light, 
 Spreads around beneath the sight. 
 
 Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
 Proudly towering in the skies ! 
 Rushing from the woods, the spires 
 Seem from hence ascending fires ! 
 Half his beams Apollo sheds 
 On the yellow mountain-heads I 
 Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
 And glitters on the broken rocks ! 
 
 Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
 Beautiful in various dyes : 
 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
 The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
 The slender fir that taper gi-ows. 
 The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. 
 And beyond the purple grove, 
 Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 
 
William Hamilton.] 
 
 THE BEAES OF YAEEOW. 
 
 Sixth Period.— 
 
 Gaudy as the opening dawn, 
 Lies a long and level lawn, 
 On which a dark hill, steep and high. 
 Holds and charms the wandering eye ! 
 Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, 
 His sides are clothed with waving wood. 
 And ancient towers crown his brow, 
 That cast an awful look below ; 
 Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
 And with her arms from falling keeps ; 
 So both a safety from the wind 
 On mutual dependence find. 
 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
 'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
 And there the fox securely feeds ; 
 And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
 Conceal' d in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
 While, ever and anon, there falls 
 Huge heajis of hoary moulder'd walls. 
 Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low, 
 And level lays the lofty brow, 
 Has seen this broken pile complete, 
 Big with the vanity of state ; 
 But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
 A little rule, a little sway, 
 A sun-beam in a winter's day, 
 Is all the proud and mighty have 
 Between, the cradle and the grave. 
 
 And see the rivers how they run, 
 Through woods and meads, in shade and Bxm, 
 Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
 Wave succeeding wave, they go 
 A various journey to the deep, 
 Like human life, to endless sleep I 
 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
 To instruct our wandering thought ; 
 Thus she dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our cares away. 
 
 Ever charming, ever new, 
 When will the landscape tire the view ! 
 The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
 The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
 The mndy summit, wild and high, 
 Eoughly rushing on the sky ! 
 The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower. 
 The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
 The town and village, dome and farm. 
 Each give each a double charm. 
 As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 
 
 See on the mountain's southern side, 
 Where the prospect opens wide, 
 Where the evening gilds the tide ; 
 How close and small the hedges lie ! 
 "What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
 A step methinks may pass the stream, 
 So little distant dangers seem ; 
 So we mistake the Future's face, 
 Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass ; 
 As yon summits soft and fair, 
 Clad in colours of the air. 
 Which to those who journey near, 
 Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
 Still we tread the same coarse way. 
 The present 's still a cloudy day. 
 
 O may I with myself agree, 
 And never covet what I see ; 
 
 Content me with an humble shade, 
 My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
 For, while our wishes wildly roll, 
 We banish quiet from the soul : 
 'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
 And misers gather wealth and care. 
 
 Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, 
 As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 
 While the wanton zephyr sings, 
 And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
 While the waters murmur deep ; 
 While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
 While the birds unbounded fly, 
 And with music fill the sky, 
 Now, e'en now, my joys run high. 
 
 Be full, ye courts ; be great who ■will 
 Search for Peace with all your skill : 
 Open wide the lofty door, 
 Seek her on the marble floor. 
 In vain you search, she is not there ; 
 In vain ye search the domes of Care ! 
 Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 
 On the meads, and mountain-heads. 
 Along with Pleasure, close allied, 
 Ever by each other's side : 
 And often, by the murmuring rill, 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
 Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 
 
 John Dyc-.—Bonv 1700, Died 1758. 
 
 88 1. —THE BEAES OF YAEEOW. 
 
 A. Busk ye, bu.sk ye, my bonny bonny bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, 
 And think nae mair on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ? 
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 
 
 A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, 
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride ? 
 Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
 
 And why dare ye nae mair Aveil be seen, 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? 
 
 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun 
 she weep, 
 
 Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, 
 And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, 
 
 Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 For she has tint her lover lover dear. 
 Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, 
 
 And I hae slain the comeliest swain 
 
 That e'er poued birks on the Braes ot 
 Yarrow. 
 
From 11 27 to 1780.] 
 
 THE BEAES OF YAEROW. 
 
 [William Hamilton. 
 
 VThj runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, 
 red ? 
 Why on thy braes heard the voice of 
 sorrow ? 
 And why yon melancholious weeds 
 Hxing on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 
 
 Wliat 's yonder floats on the rueful rueful 
 flude ? 
 What 's yonder floats ? O dule and sor- 
 row I 
 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 
 Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow, 
 
 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in 
 tears, 
 
 His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, 
 And wi'ap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
 
 And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Then build, then buUd, ye sisters sisters sad, 
 Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, 
 
 And weep around in waeful wise, 
 
 His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, 
 My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 
 
 The fatal spear that pierced liis breast, 
 
 His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Did I not warn thee not to lue, 
 
 And warn from fight, but to my sorrow ; 
 O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm 
 
 Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 
 grows the grass, 
 
 Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. 
 
 Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet 
 flows Tweed, 
 
 As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
 As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 
 
 The apple frae the rock as mellow. 
 
 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love. 
 In flowery bands thou him didst fetter ; 
 
 Thoiagh he was fair and weil beloved again. 
 Than me he never lued thee better. 
 
 Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow. 
 
 Busk ye, and luc nie on the banks of Tweed, 
 And think nac mair on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride. 
 How can I busk a winsome marrow. 
 
 How lue him on the banks of Tweed, 
 
 That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 O Yarrow fields ! may never never rain, 
 Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 
 
 For there was basely slain my love, 
 My love, as he had not been a lover. 
 
 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green. 
 His purple vest, 'twas my ain sowing. 
 
 Ah ! wretched me ! I little little kenn'd 
 He was in these to meet his ruin. 
 
 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white 
 steed, _ 
 
 Unheediiul of my dule and sorrow. 
 But e'er the to-faU. of the night 
 
 He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day ; 
 
 I sang, my voice the woods returning, 
 But lang ere night the spear was flown 
 
 That slew my love, and left me mourning. 
 
 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, 
 But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear. 
 
 How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo 
 me? 
 
 My happy sisters may be may be proud ; 
 
 With cruel and ungentle scoffin, 
 May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes 
 
 My lover nail'd in his coffin. 
 
 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid. 
 And strive with threatening words to move 
 me. 
 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear, 
 
 How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 
 
 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, 
 V\^ith bridal sheets my body cover, 
 
 Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 
 Let in the expected husband lover. 
 
 But who the expected husband husband is ? 
 
 His hands, methinks, are bathed in 
 slaughter. 
 Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon. 
 
 Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 
 
 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him dovv n, 
 O lay his cold head on my pillow ; 
 
 Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, 
 
 And crown my careful head with willow. 
 
 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best 
 beloved, 
 
 O could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
 Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, 
 
 No youth lay ever there before thee. 
 
 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely j'outh, 
 Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter. 
 
 And he all night between my breasts, 
 No youth shall ever lie there after. 
 
 Eetum, return, O mournful mournful bride. 
 Return and dry thy useless sorrow : 
 
 Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, 
 
 He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 William Hamilton. — Born 1704, B!cd 1754. 
 
1 William Hamilton.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 882.— SONG. 
 
 Ye sliepliGrds of this pleasant vale, 
 
 Where Yarrow streams along-, 
 Forsake your rural toils, and join 
 
 In my triumphant song. 
 
 She grants, she yields ; one heavenly smile 
 
 Atones her long* delays, 
 One happy minute crowns the pains 
 
 Of many suffering' days. 
 
 Eai?e, raise the victor notes of joy. 
 
 These suffering days are o'er ; 
 Love satiates now his boundless wish 
 
 From beauty's boundless store : 
 
 No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears. 
 
 This rising calm destroy ; 
 Now every prospect smiles around, 
 
 All op'ning into joy. 
 
 The sun with double lustre shone 
 
 That dear consenting hour, 
 Brighten' d each hill, and o'er each vale 
 
 New colour' d every flower : 
 
 The gales their gentle sighs withheld. 
 
 No leaf was seen to move, 
 The hovering songsters round were mute, 
 
 And wonder hush'd the grove. 
 
 The hills and dales no more resound 
 
 The lambkin's tender cry ; 
 Without one murmur Yarrow stole 
 
 In dimpling silence by : 
 
 All nature seem'd in stUl repose 
 
 Her voice alone to hear, 
 That gently roll'd the tuneful wave. 
 
 She spoke and bless' d my ear. 
 
 Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy 
 , You fondly fancy mine ; 
 Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast. 
 Love renders wholly thine : 
 
 The woods struck up to the soft gale. 
 
 The leaves were seen to move, 
 The feather'd choir resumed their voice, 
 
 And wonder fill'd the grove ; 
 
 The hills and dales again resound 
 
 The lambkins' tender cry. 
 With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd 
 
 The song of triumph by ; 
 
 Above, beneath, around, all on 
 
 Was verdure, beauty, song ; 
 I snatch' d her to my trembling breast, 
 
 All natxire joy'd along, 
 
 William Hamilton.—Born 1704, Died 1754. 
 
 Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate, 
 
 When doom'd to love and doom'd to lan- 
 guish. 
 To bear the scornful fa,ir one's hate, 
 
 Nor dare disclose his anguish ! 
 Yet eager looks and dying sighs 
 
 My secret soul discover, 
 ■Wliile rapture, trembling through mine eyes. 
 
 Reveals how much I love her. 
 The tender glance, the reddening cheek, 
 
 O'erspread with rising blushes, 
 A thousand various ways they speak 
 
 A thousand various wishes. 
 
 For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair. 
 
 Those languid eyes so sweotiy smiling, 
 That artless blush and modest air. 
 
 So fatally beguiling ; 
 Thy every look, and every grace. 
 
 So chai'm, whene'er I view thee, 
 TUl death o'ertake me in the chase, 
 
 Still will my hopes pursue thee. 
 Then, when my tedious hours are i)ast, 
 
 Be this last blessing given. 
 Low at thy feet to breathe my last. 
 
 And die in sight of heaven. 
 
 William Hamilton. — Born 1704, IHed 1754. 
 
 884.— LONDON. 
 
 Though grief and fondness in my breast 
 
 rebel. 
 When injured Thales bids the town farewell ; 
 Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice 
 
 commend, 
 I praise the hermit, but regret the friend. 
 Who now resolves, from vice and London 
 
 far, 
 To breathe in distant fields a purer air ; 
 And fix'd on Cambria's' solitary shore. 
 Give to St. David one true Briton more. 
 For who would leave, unbribed, Hibemia's 
 
 land, 
 Or change the rocks of Scotland for the 
 
 Strand ? 
 There none are swept by sudden fate away. 
 But all, whom hunger spares, with age 
 
 decay : 
 Here malice, rapine, accident conspire, 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; 
 Their ambush here relentless rufiians lay. 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey ; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head. 
 And here a female atheist talks you dead. 
 ■WTiile Thales waits the wherry that con- 
 tains 
 Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 
 
I'rom 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 [SAMUEii Johnson. 
 
 On Thames' s banks, in silent thought we 
 
 stood, 
 Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver 
 
 flood: 
 Struck mth the seat that gave Eliza birth. 
 We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth ; 
 In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, 
 And call Britannia's glories back to view; 
 Behold her cross triumphant on the main, 
 The guard of commerce, and the dread of 
 
 Spain, 
 Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd, 
 Or English honour grew a standing jest. 
 
 A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, 
 And for a moment lull the sense of woe. 
 At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, 
 Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town : 
 " Since worth," he cries, " in these degenerate 
 
 days. 
 Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise ; 
 In those cursed walls, devote to vice and 
 
 gain, 
 Since unrewarded science toils in vain ; 
 Since hope but soothes to double my distress, 
 And every moment leaves my little less ; 
 While yet my steady steps no staff sustains. 
 And life stUl vigorous revels in my veins ; 
 Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier 
 
 place, 
 Where honesty and sense are no disgrace ; 
 Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers 
 
 play, 
 Some peaceful vale with Nature's painting 
 
 gay; 
 Where once the harass'd Briton found repose. 
 And safe in poverty defied his foes ; 
 Some secret cell, ye powers indulgent, give. 
 
 Let live here, for has leam'd to live. 
 
 Here let those reign whom pensions can 
 
 incite 
 To vote a patriot black, a courtier white ; 
 Explain their country's dear-bought rights 
 
 away. 
 And plead for pirates in the face of day ; 
 With slavish tenets taint oiu* poison'd youth, 
 And lend a lie the confidence of triith. 
 Let such raise palaces, and manors buy, 
 Collect a tax, or farm a lottery ; 
 With warbling eunuchs fill a licensed stage, 
 And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 
 
 " Heroes, proceed ! what bounds your pride 
 
 shall hold? 
 "WTiat check restrain your thirst of power and 
 
 gold? 
 Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthrown, 
 Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your 
 
 own. 
 To such a gfroaning nation's spoils are given, 
 When public crimes inflame the wrath of 
 
 Heaven : 
 But what, my friend, what hope remains for 
 
 me. 
 Who start at theft, and blush at perjury ? 
 Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he 
 
 sing, 
 To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing ; 
 
 A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear. 
 And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer : 
 Despise a fool in half his pension dress' d, 
 And strive in vain to laugh at H y's 
 
 jest. 
 " Others, with softer smiles and subtler 
 
 art, — _ 
 
 Can sap the priaiciples, or taint the heart ; 
 With more address a lover's note convey. 
 Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. 
 Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic 
 
 tongue 
 Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 
 Spum'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, 
 Live unregarded, unlamented die. 
 
 "For what but social giiilt the friend 
 
 endears ? 
 Who shares Orgiho's crimes, his fortunes 
 
 shares. 
 But thou, should tempting villany pi'esent 
 All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers 
 
 spent. 
 Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful 
 
 eye. 
 Nor sell for gold what gold ceuld never buy, 
 The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, 
 Unstdlied fame, and conscience ever gay. 
 "The cheated nation's happy favourites, 
 
 Mark whom the great caress, who frown on 
 
 me ! 
 London ! the needy viUain's general homo, 
 The common sewer of Paris and of Eome, 
 With eager thirst, by folly or by fate. 
 Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. 
 Forgive my transports on a theme lil e this, 
 I cannot bear a French metropolis. 
 
 " Illustrious Edward ! from the realms of 
 
 day, 
 The land of heroes and of saints survey ! 
 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, 
 The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace ; 
 But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty 
 
 show. 
 Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau ; 
 Sense, freedom, piety, refined away, 
 Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. 
 "All that at homo no more can beg or 
 
 steal, 
 Or like a gibbet better than a wheel ; 
 Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the 
 
 comrt. 
 Their air, their dress, their politics import ; 
 Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay. 
 On Britain's fond credulity they prey. 
 No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, 
 They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a 
 
 clap : 
 All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, 
 And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. 
 
 " Ah I what avails it that, from slavery far, 
 I drew the breath of life in English air ; 
 W^as early taught a Briton's right to prize, 
 And lisp the tale of Henry's victories ; 
 If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain. 
 And flattery subdues when arms are vain ? 
 
Samuel Johnson.] 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 Sixth Period. — 
 
 "Studious to please, and ready to submit, 
 The supple Gaul wJis born a parasite : 
 Still to his interest true, where'er he goes, 
 Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue be- 
 stows : 
 In every face a thousand graces shine. 
 From every tongue flows harmony divine. 
 These arts in vain our rugged natives tiy. 
 Strain out with faltering diffidence a lie, 
 And gain a kick for awkward flattery, 
 
 " Besides, with justice, this discerning age 
 Admires their wondrous talents for the 
 
 stage : 
 Well may they venture on the mimic' s art, 
 Who play from morn to night a borrow' d 
 
 part: 
 Practised their master's notions to embrace, 
 Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face ! 
 With every wild absurdity complj', 
 And view each object -with another's eye ; 
 To shake with laughter ere the jest they 
 
 hear. 
 To pour at will the counterfeited tear ; 
 And, as their patron hints the cold or heat, 
 To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. 
 How, when competitors like these contend. 
 Can surly Vii-tue hope to fix a friend ? 
 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile. 
 And lie without a blush, without a smile ; 
 Exalt each trifle, every vice adore. 
 Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a 
 
 whore ; 
 Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 
 He gropes his breeches -with a monarch's air ! 
 " For arts like these preferr'd, admired, 
 
 cares s'd. 
 They first invade your table, then your 
 
 breast ; 
 Explore your secrets with insidious art, 
 Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the 
 
 heart ; 
 Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay, 
 Commence your lords, and govern or betray. 
 " By numbers here, from shame or censure 
 
 free, 
 All crimes are safe but hated poverty : 
 This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
 This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
 The sober trader at a tatter' d cloak 
 Wakes from his dream, and labours for a 
 
 joke; 
 With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, 
 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
 Of all the griefs that harass the distress' d. 
 Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; 
 Fate never wounds more deep the generous 
 
 heart 
 Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. 
 " Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor. 
 No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore ? 
 No secret island in the boundless main ? 
 No peaceful desert yet un claim' d by Spain ? 
 Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore. 
 And bear Oppression's insolence no more. 
 This mournful truth is everywhere confess' d : 
 Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed : 
 
 But here more slow, where all are slaves to 
 
 gold, 
 Where looks are merchandise, and smOes are 
 
 sold : 
 Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 
 The groom retails the favours of his lord. 
 " But hark ! the aff'rightcd crowd's tumxil- 
 
 tuous cries 
 Roll through the street, and thunder to the 
 
 skies : 
 Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth 
 
 and power. 
 Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower, 
 Aghast you start, and scarce with aching 
 
 sight 
 Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous 
 
 light ; 
 Swift from pursuing horrors take your way. 
 And leave your little all to flames a prey ; 
 Then through the world a wretched vagTant 
 
 roam, 
 For where can starving Merit find a home ? 
 In vain your mournful narrative disclose, 
 While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 
 " Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth 
 
 confound. 
 And spread his flaming palace on the ground. 
 Swift o'er the land the dismal I'umour flues. 
 And public mournings pacify the skies ; 
 The laureate tribe in servile verse relate 
 How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate ; 
 With well-feign' d gratitude the pension' d band 
 Refund the plunder of the beggar' d land. 
 See ! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come. 
 And crowd with sudden wealth the rising 
 
 dome ; 
 The price of boroughs and of souls restore, 
 And raise his treasures higher than before : 
 Now bless' d with all the baubles of the great. 
 The polish' d marble, and the shining plate, 
 Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire, 
 And hopes from angry Heaven another fire. 
 " Couldst thou resign the park and play 
 
 content, 
 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent ; 
 There mightst thou find some elegant retreat. 
 Some hireling senator's deserted seat, 
 And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling 
 
 land, 
 For less than rent the dungeons of the 
 
 Strand ; 
 There prune thy walks, support thy drooping 
 
 flowers. 
 Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers : 
 And while thy beds a cheap repast afford. 
 Despise the dainties of a venal lord : 
 There every bush with nature's music rings, 
 There every breeze bears health upon its 
 
 wings ; 
 On all thy hours security shall smile. 
 And bless thine evening walk and morning 
 
 toil. 
 " Prepare for death, if here at night you 
 
 roam ; 
 And sign your will, before you sup from 
 
 home. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 [Samuel Johnson. 
 
 Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, 
 Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man ; 
 Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast, 
 Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. 
 
 '• Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, 
 Lords of the street, and terrors of the way ; 
 Flush' d as they are with folly, youth, and 
 
 wine, 
 Their prudent insults to the poor confine ; 
 Afar they mark the flambeau's bright ap- 
 proach. 
 And shun the shining train and golden coach. 
 '' In vain, these dangers pass'd, your doors 
 you close, 
 And hope the balmy blessings of repose : 
 Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, 
 The midnight murderer bursts the faithless 
 
 bar; 
 Invades the sacred hour of silent rest. 
 And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast. 
 " Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn 
 die, 
 With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. 
 Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band, 
 Whose ways and means support the sinking 
 
 land ; 
 Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring. 
 To rig another convoy for the king. 
 
 "A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign, 
 Could half the nation's criminals contain ; 
 Fair Justice then, without constraint adored. 
 Held liigh the steady scale, but sheathed the 
 
 sword ; I 
 
 No spies were paid, no special juries known ; | 
 Bless'd age ! but ah ! how different from our j 
 own! ! 
 
 " Much could I add, — ^but see the boat at j 
 hand, 
 The tide retiring, calls me from the land : 
 Farev/cU 1 — When youth, and health, and for- 
 tune spent, 
 Thou fiiost for refuge to the wilds of Kent ; 
 And, tired like me Avith follies and with crimes, 
 In angry numbers wani'st succeeding times ; 
 Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his 
 
 aid, 
 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade ; 
 In virtue's cause once more exert his rage, 
 Thy satire point, and animate thy page." 
 
 SamuelJohnson. — Born 1709, Died 1784. 
 
 SS5.— THE VANITY OP HUMAN 
 WISHES. 
 
 Let observation, with extensive view. 
 Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
 Kemark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
 And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
 Then say how hope and fear, desire and 
 
 hate, 
 O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of 
 
 fate. 
 
 Wliere wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous 
 
 pride, 
 To chase the dreary paths, without a guide. 
 As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, 
 Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 
 How rarely reason guides the stubbpmjihoice, 
 Eules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant 
 
 voice ; 
 How nations sink by darling schemes op- 
 press' d. 
 When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
 Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afiiictive dart. 
 Each gift of nature and each grace of art : 
 With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
 With fatal sweetness elocution flows, 
 Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful 
 
 breath. 
 And restless fire precipitates on death. 
 
 But, scarce observed, the knowing and the 
 bold 
 Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 
 Wide wasting pest ! that rages unconfined. 
 And crowds with ci'imes the records of man- 
 kind ; 
 For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws. 
 For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
 Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety 
 
 buys. 
 The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 
 Let history tell where rival kings com- 
 mand, 
 And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
 When statutes glean the refuse of the sword. 
 How much more safe the vassal than the 
 
 lord ; 
 Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of 
 
 power. 
 And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, 
 Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers 
 
 sound. 
 Though confiscation's vultures hover round. 
 
 The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
 Walks the wild heath and sings his toil 
 
 away. 
 Docs envy seize thee ? crush th' upbraiding 
 
 joy, 
 Increase his riches, and his peace destroy. 
 Now fears in dire vicissitude invade. 
 The rustling brake alarms, and qniv'ring 
 
 shade. 
 Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, 
 One shows the plunder, and one hides the 
 thief. 
 Yet still one gen'ral cry the sides assails, 
 And gain and grandeur load the tainted 
 
 gales ; 
 Few know the toiling statesman's fear or 
 
 care, 
 The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 
 
 Once more, Democritus, arise on earth. 
 With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth. 
 See motley life in modern trappings dress' d, 
 And feed with varied fools the eternal jest : 
 Thou who couldst laugh, where want en- 
 chain' d caprice. 
 Toil crush' d conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
 
 42 
 
Samuei* Jchnson.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 [Sixth Pehiod. 
 
 Where wealth unloved without a mourner 
 
 died; 
 And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
 Where ne'er was known the form of mock 
 
 debate, 
 Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
 Where change of fav' rites made no change of 
 
 laws, 
 And senates heard before they judged a 
 
 cause ; 
 How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish 
 
 tribe, 
 Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing 
 
 gibe! 
 Attentive truth and nature to descry, 
 And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
 To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, 
 The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe : 
 All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, 
 Whose joys are cai:seless, or whose griefs are 
 
 vain. 
 Such was the scorn that fiU'd the sage's 
 
 mind, 
 Ecnew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind ; 
 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
 Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry prayer. 
 Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's 
 
 gate, 
 Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; 
 Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call, 
 They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fa.ll. 
 On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, 
 Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their 
 
 end. 
 Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's 
 
 door 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
 From ev'ry room descends the painted face. 
 That hung the bright palladium of the place ; 
 And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
 To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
 For now no more we trace in ev'ry line 
 Heroic worth, benevolence divine : 
 The form distorted justifies the fall, 
 And detestation rids the indignant wall. 
 
 But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
 Sign her. foe's doom, or guard her favoiuite's 
 
 zeal ? 
 Through Freedom's sons no more remon- 
 strance rings, 
 Degrading nobles and controlling Idngs ; 
 Our supple tribes repress their patriot 
 
 throats, 
 And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
 With weekly libels and septeimial ale. 
 Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 
 
 In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers 
 
 consign, 
 Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, 
 Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour 
 
 flows, 
 His smik alone security bestows : 
 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tower. 
 Claim leads to claim, and power advance,^ 
 
 power : 
 Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
 And rights submitted left him none to seize : 
 At length his sov'reign frowns — the train of 
 
 state 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to 
 
 hate. 
 Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
 His suppliants scorn him, and his followers 
 
 fly; 
 
 Now drops at once the pride of av/ful state. 
 The golden canopy, the gUtt'ring plate. 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board. 
 The liv'riod army, and the menial lord. 
 AYith ago, Avith cares, with maladies op- 
 press' d. 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remember' d folly stings, 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of 
 
 kings. 
 Speak thou whose thoughts at humble 
 
 peace repine, 
 Shall Wolsey' s wealth with Wolsey' s end bo 
 
 thine ? 
 Or livest thou now, with safer pride content. 
 The wisest justice on the banks of Trent ? 
 For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
 On weak foundations raise the enormous 
 
 weight ? 
 Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
 With louder ruin to the gulfs below ? 
 
 What gave great Villiers to the assassin's 
 
 knife, 
 And fix'd disease on Harloy's closing life ? 
 What murder' d Went worth, and what exiled 
 
 Hyde, 
 By kings protected, and to kings allied ? 
 What but their wish indulged in courts to 
 
 shine, 
 And power too great to keep or to resign ? 
 When first the coUege rolls receive his 
 
 name, 
 The young enthusiast quits his ease for 
 
 fame ; 
 Ercsistless burns the fever of renown, 
 Caught from the strong contagion of ihS 
 
 gown : 
 O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, 
 And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his 
 
 head. 
 Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious 
 
 youth. 
 And Virtue g^ard thee to the throne of 
 
 Truth! 
 Yet shoidd thy soul indulge the gen'rous 
 
 heat 
 Till captive Science yields her last retreat ; 
 Should reason guide thee with her brightest 
 
 ray. 
 And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight. 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 Shoidd tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, 
 And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 [Samuel Johnson. 
 
 Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
 Nor claim the triumph of a letter' d heart ; 
 Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
 Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
 Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
 Nor think the doom of man reversed for 
 
 thee : 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine 
 
 eyes. 
 And pause awhile from letters to be wisb ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
 See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend. 
 Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 
 
 Nor deem, when Learning her last prize 
 
 bestows. 
 The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes ;. 
 See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despised or 
 
 awed, 
 Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
 From meaner minds though smaller fines 
 
 content, 
 The plunder'd palace, or sequester' d rent, 
 Mark'd out by dangerous parts, he meets the 
 
 shock. 
 And fatpi Learning leads him to the block : 
 Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep. 
 But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and 
 
 The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
 The ravish' d standard, and the captive foe, 
 TliG senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous 
 
 tale, 
 With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
 Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl' d, 
 For such the steady Soman shook the world ; 
 For such in distant lands the Britons shine, 
 And stain v.'ith blood the Danube or the 
 
 Ivhine ; 
 This power has praise, that virtue scarce can 
 
 warm 
 Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
 Yet reason frowns on war's ujiequal game. 
 Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 
 And mortgaged states their grandsires' 
 
 wreaths regret. 
 From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
 Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right 
 
 convey 
 To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 
 
 On what foundation stands the warrior's 
 
 pride, 
 Hov/ just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 
 
 decide ; 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
 No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the 
 
 field; 
 Dohold surrounding kings their powers com- 
 bine, 
 And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms 
 
 in vain ; 
 "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till 
 
 nought remain, 
 On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 And all be mine beneath the polar* sky." 
 The march begins in miUtary state, 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait ^ 
 Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
 And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 
 He comes, nor want nor cold his coui'se 
 
 delay ; — 
 Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day : 
 The vanquish' d hero leaves his broken bands. 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 Condemn' d a needy supplicant to wait. 
 While ladies interpose, and slaves -debate. 
 But did not chance at length her error mend ? 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 He left the name, at which the world grew 
 
 pale, 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 All times their scenes of pompous woes 
 
 afford, 
 From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
 In gay hostility and barb'rous pride, 
 V/ith half mankind embattled at his side, 
 Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, 
 And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 
 Attendant Flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, 
 Till counted myriads soothe his pride no 
 
 more ; 
 Fresh praise is tried tUl madness fires his 
 
 mind. 
 The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; 
 New powers are claim' d, new powers are still 
 
 bestow' d. 
 Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ; 
 The daring Greeks deride the martial show. 
 And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; 
 Th' insidted sea with humbler thought he 
 
 gains, 
 A single skiff to speed his flight remains ; 
 Th' encumber' d oar scarce leaves the dreaded 
 
 coast 
 Through purple billows and a floating host. 
 
 The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour. 
 Tries the dread summits of Caesarcan power. 
 With unexpected legions bursts away. 
 And sees defenceless realms receive his sway : 
 Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful 
 
 charms, 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in 
 
 arms ; 
 From hni to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
 Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of 
 
 praise ; 
 The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, 
 With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war ; 
 The bafl3ed prince, in honour's flatt'ring 
 
 bloom 
 Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom ; 
 
 /2* 
 
Samuel Johnson.] 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 His foes' derision and his subjects' blame, 
 And steals to death from anguish and from 
 
 shame. 
 "Enlarge my life with multitude of days ! " 
 In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant 
 
 . prays : 
 Hides from himself its state, and shuns to 
 
 know. 
 That life protracted is protracted woe. 
 Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
 And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
 In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons 
 
 pour. 
 The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flower ; 
 With Kstless eyes the dotard views the store. 
 He views, and wonders that they please no 
 
 more ; 
 NoAV paU the tasteless meats, and joyless 
 
 wines, 
 And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
 Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing 
 
 strain, 
 Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 
 No sounds, alas ! would touch the impervious 
 
 ear, 
 Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus 
 
 near ; 
 Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend. 
 Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 
 But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, 
 Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
 The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, 
 Perplex the fawning niece and pamper' d 
 
 guest. 
 While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring 
 
 last 
 
 And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear : 
 The watchful guests still hint the 
 
 offence ; 
 The daughter's petulance, the son's expense, 
 Improve his heady rage with treach'rous 
 
 skiU, 
 And mould his passions till they make his 
 
 wiU. 
 Unnumbered maladies his joints invade, 
 Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 
 But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains, 
 And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 
 He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 
 
 hands. 
 His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 
 Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 
 Unlocks his gold, o-nd counts it till he dies. 
 
 But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime 
 Bless with an age exempt from scorn or 
 
 crime ; 
 An age that melts with unperceived decay, 
 And glides in modest innocence away ; 
 Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, 
 Wliose night congratulating conscience cheers ; 
 The general fav'rite as the general friend : 
 Such age there is, and who shall wish its 
 
 end? 
 Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune 
 
 flings, 
 To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 
 
 New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
 A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
 Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
 Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear ; 
 Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
 Still drops some joy from with'ring life 
 
 away ; 
 New forms arise, and different views engage, 
 Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage, 
 Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
 And bids afilicted worth retire to peace. 
 But few there are whom hours like these 
 
 await, 
 "Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. 
 From Lydia's monarch should the search 
 
 descend. 
 By Solon caution' d to regard his end. 
 In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
 Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
 From Marlb'rough's eyes the stream;? of 
 
 dotage flow. 
 And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. 
 
 The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
 Begs for each birth the fortune of a face ; 
 Yet Vane could tell Avhat ills from beautj'- 
 
 spring ; 
 And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a 
 
 king. 
 Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes. 
 Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
 Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 
 By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; 
 Who fro"vvn with vanity, who smile with art. 
 And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 
 What care, what rules, your heedless charms 
 
 shall save. 
 Each nymph your rival, and each youth your 
 
 slave ? 
 Against your fame with fondness hate com- 
 bines. 
 The rival batters, and the lover mines. 
 With distant voice neglected Virtue caUs, 
 Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 
 
 faUs ; 
 Tired with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry 
 
 reign. 
 And Pride and Prudence take her seat in 
 
 vain. 
 In crowd at once, where none the pass 
 
 defend, 
 The harmless freedom, and the private 
 
 friend. 
 The guardians jTield, by force sviperior plied : 
 To Int'rest, Prudence ; and to Flatt'ry, 
 
 Pride. 
 Here beauty falls, betray'd, despised, dis- 
 tress' d, 
 And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest. 
 
 Where then shall Hope and Fear their 
 
 objects find ? 
 Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant 
 
 mind? 
 Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
 EoU darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
 Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
 No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ODE TO PITY 
 
 [William Collt??s, 
 
 Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
 
 Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem religion 
 
 vain. 
 Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
 But leave to Heav'n the measure and the 
 
 choice : 
 Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar 
 The secret ambush of a specious pray'r ; 
 Implore his aid, in his decisions rest. 
 Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 
 Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, 
 And strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
 Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind. 
 Obedient i^assions, and a will resign'd ; 
 For love, which scarce collective man can 
 
 fiU; 
 For patience, sov' reign o'er transmuted ill ; 
 For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
 Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 
 These goods for man the laws of Heav'n 
 
 ordain, 
 These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r 
 
 to gain ; 
 With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 
 And makes the happiness she does not find. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. — Born 1709, Died 1784. 
 
 His virtues walk'd their narrow round, 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure th' Eternal Master found 
 The single talent well employ'd. 
 
 The busy day, the peaceful night, 
 
 Unfelt, uncounted, ghded by ; 
 His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then with no throbs of fiery pain. 
 
 No cold gradations of decay. 
 Death broke at once the vital chain. 
 
 And forced his soul the nearest way. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. — Born 1709. Died 1784. 
 
 886.- 
 
 -ON THE DEATH OF DE. EOBEET 
 LEVETT. 
 
 1782. 
 
 Condenm'd to Hope's delusive mine, 
 As on we toil from day to day. 
 
 By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 
 Our social comforts drop away. 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year, 
 See Levett to the grave descend, 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere. 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fiUs affection's eye. 
 
 Obscurely ^visc and coarsely kind ; 
 
 Nor, letter' d arrogance, deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefined. 
 
 When fainting Nature call'd for aid. 
 And hovering Death prepared the blow. 
 
 His vigorous remedy display'd 
 
 The power of art without the show. 
 
 In Misery's darkest cavern known. 
 His useful care was ever nigh, 
 
 Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan ^ 
 And lonely want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mock'd by chiU dela.y. 
 No petty gain disdain'd by pride ; 
 
 The modest wants of every day 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 887.— ODE TO PITY. 
 
 thou, the friend of man assign' d 
 With balmy hands his wounds to bind, 
 
 And charm his frantic woe : 
 When first Distress, with dagger keen, 
 Broke forth to waste his destined scene, 
 
 His wild unsated foe ! 
 
 By Pella's bard, a magic name. 
 
 By all the griefs his thought could frame, 
 
 Eeceive my humble rite : 
 Long, Pity, let the nations view 
 Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue, 
 
 And eyes of dewy light ! 
 
 But wherefore need I wander wide 
 To old Ilissus' distant side. 
 
 Deserted stream, and mitte ? 
 Wild Arun too has heard thy strains, 
 And Echo, 'midst my native plains, 
 
 Been soothed by Pity's lute. 
 
 There first the wren thy myrtles shed • 
 On gentlest Otway's infant head. 
 
 To him thy cell was shown ; 
 And while he sung the female heart. 
 With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art, 
 
 Thy turtles mix'd their own. 
 
 Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid. 
 E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid. 
 
 Thy temple's pride design : 
 Its southern site, its truth complete, 
 Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat 
 
 In all who view the shrine. 
 
 There Picture's toil shall well relate 
 How Chance, or hard involving Fate, 
 
 O'er mortal bliss prevail : 
 The buskin' d Muse shall near her stand, 
 And sighing prompt her tender hand, 
 
 With each disastrous tale. 
 
 There let me oft, retired by day. 
 In dreams of passion melt away, 
 
William Collins,] 
 
 ODE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 Allow' d -with thoc to dwell : 
 There waste the mournful lamp of night, 
 Till, Virgin, thou again delight 
 
 To hear a British shell ! 
 
 William Collins.— Born 1720, Died 1756, 
 
 888.— ODE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE "XEAR 1746. 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
 Bj all their country's wishes blest ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Eeturns to deck their hallow' d mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
 There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair, . 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 William Collins. — Born 1720, Died 1756. 
 
 889.— ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest 
 ear, 
 
 Like thy own solemn springs, 
 Thy springs, and dying gales ; 
 
 O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair' d 
 
 Sun 
 Sits in yon western tint, whose cloudy skirts. 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 
 • O'erhang his wavy bed : 
 
 Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed 
 
 bat. 
 With short shrill shriek fiits by on leathern 
 wing; 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 
 Now teach me, maid composed. 
 To breathe some soften' d strain, 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy 
 
 darkening vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stiUness suit ; 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial loved return ! 
 
 For when thy folding-star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
 
 Who slept in buds the day, 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows 
 
 with sedge, 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier 
 stiU, 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some Avild and heathy 
 
 scene ; 
 Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, 
 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
 Or, if chill bhistering winds, or driving rain, 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 
 That from the mountain's side, 
 Views wilds, and swelling floods, 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered 
 
 spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er 
 all 
 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 The gradual dusky veil. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 
 
 wont, 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
 Eve ! 
 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 Beneath thy lingering light ; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 
 leaves ; 
 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 
 Affrights thy shrinking train, 
 And rudely rends thy robes ; 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet iTile, 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling 
 Peace, 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own. 
 And love thy favourite name ! 
 
 William Collins.— Born 1720, Died 1756. 
 
 Sgo.— TO THE PASSIONS. 
 
 Wlien Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung. 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Throng' d around her magic cell. 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting, 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined , 
 Till once, 'tis said, when aU were fired, 
 Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 I From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatch' d her instrument?; of sound ; 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
 Each (for Madness ruled the hour^ 
 Would prove liis own expressive power. 
 
Fi-om 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 TO THE PASSIONS. 
 
 [William Collins. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill k) try, 
 Amid the chords bewilder' d laid, 
 
 And back recoil'd, he knew not why. 
 E'en at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rnsh'd ; his eyes on fire, 
 In lightning's own'd his secret stings : 
 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woeful measures wan Despair 
 Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 
 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 
 Wha,t was thy delighted measure ? 
 
 Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
 hail I 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 
 She call'd on Echo still, through all the song ; 
 
 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every 
 
 close, 
 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her 
 
 golden hair. 
 And longer had she sung ; — but, with a frown, 
 
 Revenge impatient rose : 
 He thrcAV his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, 
 down ; 
 And with a withering look, 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so fuU of woe ! 
 And, ever and anon, he beat 
 The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause 
 between, 
 Dejected Pity, at his side. 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild uu alter' d mien. 
 While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd 
 bursting from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ; 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
 Of differing themes the veering song Avas 
 mix'd ; 
 And now it courted Love, now raving call'd 
 on Hato. 
 
 With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, 
 Pale Melancholy sate retired, 
 And, from her wild sequester'd seat. 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive 
 soul: 
 And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
 BublDling runnels join'd the sound ; 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled 
 measure stole, 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond 
 delay, 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of Peace, and lonely musing, 
 In hoUow murmurs died away. 
 
 But O ! how alter' d was its sprightlier 
 
 tone. 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
 hue, 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
 rung, - - 
 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad 
 
 known ! 
 The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste- 
 eyed Queen, 
 SatjTS and Sylvan Boys Avere seen, 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
 
 And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen 
 spear. 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 He, with viny crown advancing, 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol. 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 
 best ; 
 They would have thought who heard the 
 
 strain 
 They saw, in Tempo's vale, her native 
 
 maids. 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 
 WhUe, as his flying fingers kiss'd the 
 
 strings. 
 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic 
 
 round : 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zcne un- 
 bound; 
 And he, amidst his frolic play. 
 As if he would the charming air repay, 
 Shook thousand odours from his de^vy 
 wings. 
 
 O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
 "^Vhy, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
 As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
 You learn' d an all-commanding pov/er, 
 Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd, 
 Can well recall what then it heard ; 
 Where is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
 Arise, as in that elder time. 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders, in that god -like age, 
 Fill thy recording sister's page — 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail. 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
 Than all which charms this lajrgard age ; 
 E'en all at once together found, 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
 O bid our vain endeavour cease ; 
 Revive the just designs of Greece : 
 Return in all thy simple state ! 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
 William. Collins. — Born 1720, Died 1756. 
 
"William Collins.] 
 
 DIEGE IN CYMBELINE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 891.— DIEGE IN CYMBELINE. 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 
 
 And rifle all the breathing Spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 
 
 But shepherd lads assemble here, 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No wither' d witch shall here be seen ; 
 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew : 
 The female Fays shall haunt the green, 
 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! 
 
 The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 
 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
 With hoary moss and gather'd flowers. 
 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds, and beating rain, 
 In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; 
 
 Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 
 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; 
 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore ; 
 
 For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved till life can charm no more. 
 
 And mourn' d till Pity's self be dead. 
 
 William Collins.— Born 1720, Died 175G. 
 
 I Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
 ! Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering 
 i near ? 
 
 I With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, 
 And joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 I But thou, lorn stream, whoso sullen tide 
 { No sedge-crown' d sisters now attend, 
 Now waft me from the green hill's side. 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend i 
 
 And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 
 
 Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view \ 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade. 
 
 Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 
 
 The genial meads assign'd to bless 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 
 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, 
 With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 
 
 " Oh 1 vales and wild woods," shall he say, 
 " In yonder grave your Druid lies ! " 
 
 William Collins. — Bom 1720, Died 1758. 
 
 892.- 
 
 -ODE ON THE DEATH OP 
 THOMSON. 
 
 In yonder grave a Druid lies, 
 
 Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise. 
 
 To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
 His airy harp shall now be laid, 
 
 That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds. 
 May love through life the soothing shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
 And, while its sounds at distance'swell, 
 
 Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 
 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 
 
 Eemembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 
 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar 
 To bid the gentle spirit rest ! 
 
 And oft, as Ease and Health retire 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
 The friend shall view yon whitening spire 
 
 And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 
 
 But thou, who own'st that earthy bed. 
 Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; 
 
 Or, tears, which Love and Pity shed. 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 
 
 893.— THE SCHOOL-MISTEESS. 
 
 Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 
 To think how modest Worth neglected 
 
 lies 
 While partial Fame doth with her blasts 
 
 adorn 
 Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis- 
 guise ; 
 Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise : 
 Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
 To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, 
 Such as I oft have chaunced to esj)y. 
 Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscuiity. 
 
 In every village mark'd Avith little spire, 
 Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to 
 
 Fame, 
 There dwells in lowly shed, and mean 
 
 attire, 
 A matron old, whom we School-mistress 
 
 name ; 
 Who boasts unruly brats vnth birch to 
 
 tame ; 
 They grievcn sore, in piteous durance 
 
 pent. 
 Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
 And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely 
 
 shent. 
 
 And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
 Which Learning near her little dome did 
 
 stowo ; 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
 Though now so wdde its waving branches 
 
 flow; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 [Shenstone. 
 
 And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that 
 
 blew, 
 But their limbs shudder' d and their pulse 
 
 beat low ; 
 And as they look'd they found their horrour 
 
 grew, 
 And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 
 
 view. 
 
 So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 
 A Ufeless phantom near a garden placed ; 
 So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 
 Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 
 They start, they stare, they wheel, they 
 
 look aghast ; 
 Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 
 May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
 iSTe superstition clog his dance of joy, 
 Ke vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 
 
 Near to this dome is found a patch so 
 gi-eeu. 
 
 On which the tribe their gambols do dis- 
 play ; 
 
 And at the door imprisoning-board is seen. 
 
 Lest weakly wights of smaller size should 
 stray ; 
 
 Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
 
 The noises intermixed, which thence re- 
 sound, 
 
 Do Learning's httle tenement betray ; 
 
 ^Vhere sits the dame, disguised in look 
 profound, 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her 
 wheel around. 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 
 Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 
 Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe. 
 As is the hare-bell that adorns the field : 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she docs 
 
 wield 
 Tway birchen sprays ; >%'ith anxious fear 
 
 entwined, 
 "With dark distrust, and sad repentance fiU'd; 
 And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction 
 
 join'd. 
 And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement 
 
 unkind. 
 
 Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet 
 
 pourtray'd. 
 The childish faces of old Eol's train ; 
 Libs, Notus, Auster : these in frowns 
 
 array'd. 
 How then would faro or Earth, or Sky, or 
 
 Main, 
 Were the stern god to give his slaves the 
 
 rein? 
 And were not she rebellious breasts to 
 
 quell. 
 And were not she her statutes to maintain. 
 The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the 
 
 ceU, 
 Where comely peace of mind, and decent order 
 
 dwell. 
 
 j A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 
 
 ! thrown ; 
 
 I A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
 
 i 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 
 
 'Twas her own country bred the flock so 
 
 j fair ! 
 
 I 'Twas her own labour did the fleece 
 
 i prepare ; 
 
 j And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 
 
 ! around, 
 
 I Through pious awe, did term it passing 
 
 i rare ; 
 
 j For they in gaping wonderment abound, 
 
 i And think, no doubt, she been the gi'eatest 
 
 j %vight on ground. 
 
 Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
 Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 
 Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt for- 
 sooth, 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
 Yet these she challenged, these she held 
 
 right dear : 
 No would esteem him act as mought 
 
 behove, 
 Who should not honour' d eld with these 
 I revere : 
 
 j For never title yet so mean could prove, 
 j But there was eke a mind which did that 
 j title love. 
 
 I One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
 
 j The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
 
 ! Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, 
 
 ; Into her school, begii't with cliickens, came ! 
 
 j Such favour did her past deportment 
 
 ! claim : 
 
 { And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground 
 
 i Fragment of bread, she would collect the 
 
 i same ; 
 
 I For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- 
 
 I pound, 
 
 \ What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb 
 
 j she found. 
 
 Herbs too she knew, and well of each could 
 
 I speak 
 
 j That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew : 
 
 ] Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 
 
 i streak ; 
 
 But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, 
 Of grey renown, within those borders grew : 
 The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
 Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue ; 
 The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
 
 I And more I fain would sing, disdaining hero 
 
 j to rhyme. 
 
 ! Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 
 
 That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 
 j around ; 
 
 And pungent radish, biting infants' tongue ; 
 
 And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's 
 j wound ; 
 
 And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posio 
 found : 
 
Shenstone.] 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 [Sixth Period.— 
 
 And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
 Shall be, ere-\vhile, in arid bundles bound, 
 To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, 
 And cro\vn her kerchiefs clean, -svith mickle 
 rare perfume. 
 
 And here trim rosemarine, that whilom 
 
 crown' d 
 The daintiest garden of the proudest peer ; 
 Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 
 A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 
 Where edged with gold its glittering sldrts 
 
 appear, 
 Oh wassel days ! O customs meet and 
 
 well ! 
 Ere this was banish' d from its lofty sphere : 
 Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
 Nor ever would she more with thane and 
 
 lordling dwell. 
 
 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent 
 
 eve. 
 Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did 
 
 mete. 
 If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did 
 
 cleave, 
 But in her garden found a summer- seat : 
 Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
 How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
 While taunting foe-men did a song entreat, 
 All, for the nonce, untuning every string, 
 Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had 
 
 they to sing. 
 
 For she was just, and friend to virtuous 
 
 lore. 
 And pass'd much time in truly virtuous 
 
 deed ; 
 And in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore 
 The times, when Truth by Popish rage did 
 
 bleed ; 
 And tortuous death was true Devotion's 
 
 meed ; 
 And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, 
 That nould on wooden image place her 
 
 creed ; 
 And lawny saints in smouldering flames did 
 
 burn : 
 Ah ! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should 
 
 e'er return. 
 
 In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
 
 By the sharp tooth of cankering eld de- 
 faced, 
 
 Ir which, when he receives his diadem, 
 
 Our sovereign prince and liefest Uege is 
 placed. 
 
 The matron sate ; and some with rank she 
 graced, 
 
 (The source of children's and of courtiers' 
 pride !) 
 edress'd affronts, for vile affronts there 
 
 ^pass'd; 
 
 And wam'd them not the fretful to deride, 
 But love each other dear, whatever them 
 betide. 
 
 Eight well she knew each temper to 
 
 descry ; 
 To thwart tlie proud, and the submiss to 
 
 raise ; 
 Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 
 And some entice ^^-ith pittance small of 
 
 praise, 
 And other some with baleful sprig she 
 
 'frays : 
 E'en absent, she the reins of power dotli 
 
 hold. 
 While with quaint arts the giddy crowd 
 
 she sways : 
 Forewarn' d, if little bird their pranks 
 
 behold, 
 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene 
 
 unfold. 
 
 Lo now with state she utters the command ! 
 Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
 Their books of stature small they take in 
 
 hand, 
 Which with pellucid horn secured are, 
 To save from finger wet the letters fair : 
 The work so gay that on their back is 
 
 seen, 
 St. George's high achievements does 
 
 declare ; 
 On which thilk Avight that has y-gazing 
 
 been, 
 Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I 
 
 ween ! 
 
 Ah luckless he, and bom beneath the 
 
 beam 
 Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write : 
 As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, 
 Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, 
 Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
 For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
 To loose the brogues, the stripling's late 
 
 delight ! 
 And down they drop ; appears liis dainty 
 
 skin. 
 Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin. 
 
 O ruthful scene ! when from a nook 
 
 obscure, 
 His little sister doth his peril see : 
 All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 
 She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 
 She meditates a prayer to set him free : 
 Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 
 (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) ■ 
 To her sad grief that swells in either eye. 
 And wings her so that all for pity she could 
 
 dj^e. 
 
 No longer can she now her shrieks com- 
 mand ; 
 
 And ha,rdly she forbears, through awful 
 fear. 
 
 To rushen forth, and, -with presumptuous 
 hand, 
 
 To stay harsh Justice in its mid career. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MISTEESS. 
 
 [Shenstone. 
 
 I 
 
 On thee she calls, on thee her paxent dear ! 
 (Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful 
 
 blow ! ) 
 She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
 And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; 
 And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 
 
 But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may- 
 trace ? 
 
 Or what device his loud laments explain ? 
 
 The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 
 
 The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 
 
 The plenteous shower that does his cheek 
 distain ? 
 
 When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 
 
 Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
 
 Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
 And, through the thatch, his cries each falling 
 stroke proclaim. 
 
 The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
 Attend and conn their tasks with mickle 
 
 care : 
 By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, 
 And, from their fellows' hateful wounds, 
 
 beware ; 
 Knowing, I Avist, how each the same may 
 
 share ; 
 Till fear has taught them a performance 
 
 meet, 
 And to the well-known chest the dame 
 
 repair ; 
 "Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth 
 
 them greet, 
 And ginger-bread y-rare ; now ccrtes, doubly 
 
 sweet ! 
 
 See to their seats they hye ^vith merr}^ glee. 
 And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
 All but the wight of bum y-galled, he 
 Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, 
 
 and chair ; 
 (This hand in mouth y-fixed, that rends his 
 
 hair ; ) 
 And eke with snubs profound, and heaving 
 
 breast, 
 Convulsions intermitting ! does declare 
 His grievous wrong ; his dame's unjust 
 
 behest ; 
 And scorns her offer' d love and shuns to be 
 
 caress' d. 
 
 His face besprent with liquid crystal 
 
 shines, 
 His blooming face that seems, a purple 
 
 flower, 
 Which low to earth its drooping head de- 
 
 cUnes, 
 All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower. 
 O the hard bosoms of despotic power ! 
 All, all, but she, the author of his shame, 
 All, all, but she, regret tliis mournful hour : 
 Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower 
 
 shall claim. 
 If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
 
 fame. 
 
 Behind some door, in melancholy thought, 
 Mindless of food, he, drear}' caitiff ! pines, 
 ■Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, 
 But to the -wind all merriment resigns ; 
 And deems it shame, if he to peace I 
 
 inclines : 
 And many a sullen look ascance is^sent, 
 Which for his dame's annoyance he 
 
 designs ; 
 And still the more to pleasure him she's 
 
 bent. 
 The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past 
 
 resent. 
 
 Ah mc ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 
 
 But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, 
 
 Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment 
 see, 
 
 Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler 
 fires : 
 
 Ah ! better far than aU the Muses' lyres, 
 
 All coward arts, is Valour's generous 
 heat ; 
 
 The firm fixt breast wliich fit and right re- 
 quires, 
 
 Like Vernon's patriot soul ! more justly 
 great 
 Thi-^n Craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false 
 Deceit. 
 
 Yet mu'sed with skOl, what dazzling fruits 
 
 appear ! 
 E'en now sagacious Foresight points to 
 
 show 
 A little bench of heedless bishops here, 
 And there a chancellor in embryo, 
 Or bard sublime, if bard maj'' e'er be so. 
 As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er 
 
 shall die ! 
 Though now he crawl along the ground so 
 
 low, 
 Nor weeting how the Muse should soar en 
 
 high, 
 Wisheth, poor starveling elf ! his paper kite 
 
 may fly. 
 
 And this perhaps, who, censuring the 
 
 design, 
 Low lays the house vdiich that of cards 
 
 doth build. 
 Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fate incline, 
 And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 
 And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; 
 And, sour'd by age, profound he shall 
 
 appear. 
 As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd 
 Surveys mine work ; and levels many a 
 
 sneer. 
 And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What 
 
 stuff is here?" 
 
 But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle 
 
 skie, 
 And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; 
 And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
 And now the grassy cirque han cover' d o'er 
 
Shenstone.] 
 
 A PASTOEAL BALLAD. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 TVith boisterous revel- rout and wild uproar ; 
 A thousand v.'ays in wanton rings they run, 
 Heaven shield their shoi-t-lived pastimes, "I 
 
 implore ! 
 For well may Freedom erst so dearly won, 
 Appear to British elf more gladsome than the 
 Sun. 
 
 Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy yovir sportive 
 
 trade, 
 And chase gay flics, and cull the fairest 
 
 flowers ; 
 For when my bones in grass-groen sods are 
 
 laid. 
 For never may ye taste more careless hours 
 In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. 
 O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
 But most in courts where proud Ambition 
 
 towers ; 
 Deluded wight ! who weens fair Peace can 
 
 spring 
 Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of 
 
 king. 
 
 See in each sprite some various bent 
 
 appear ! 
 These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
 Those sauntering on the green, with jocund 
 
 leer 
 Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
 Some builden fragile tenements of clfj' ; 
 Some to the standing lake their courses 
 
 bend. 
 With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to 
 
 play; 
 Thilk to the huxtcr's savory cottage tend, 
 In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite 
 
 to spend. 
 
 Here, as each season yields a different 
 
 store, 
 Each season's stores in order ranged 
 
 been; 
 Apples vnth cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er. 
 Galling full sore the unmoney'd wight, are 
 
 seen ; 
 And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; 
 And here of lovely dye, the Catherine pear. 
 Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 
 O may no wight e'er penny less come there, 
 Lost smit with ardent love he pine with hope- 
 less care ! 
 
 See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
 "With thread so white in tempting posies 
 
 tied. 
 Scattering like blooming maid their glances 
 
 round, 
 "With pampcr'd look draw little eyes aside ; 
 And must be bought, though i)enury 
 
 betide. 
 The plum all azure and the nut all brown, 
 And here each season do those cakes abide, 
 "VMiose honour' d names the inventive city 
 
 own, 
 Kendering through Britain's isle Salopia's 
 
 praises known ; 
 
 Admired Salopia I that with venial pride 
 Fyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 
 
 wave. 
 Famed for her loyal cares in perils try'd, 
 Her daughters lovely, and her striplings 
 
 brave : 
 Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 
 
 grave 
 "Whoso heart did first these dulcet catos 
 
 display ! 
 A motive fair to Learning's imps ho gave, 
 "Who cheerless o'er her darkling region 
 
 stray ; 
 Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on 
 
 their way. 
 
 Shenstonc. — Bornl7l4-, Died 1763. 
 
 894.— A PASTOEAL BALLAD, 
 
 Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, 
 
 Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; 
 Should Corydon's happen to stray, 
 
 Oh ! call the poor wanderers home. 
 Allow mo to muse and to sigh. 
 
 Nor talk of the change that ye And ; 
 None once was so -svatchful as I ; 
 
 I have left my dear Phyllis behind. 
 
 Now I know what it is, to have strove 
 
 With the torture of doubt and desire ; 
 What it is to admire and to love, 
 
 And to leave her we love and admire. 
 Ah ! lead forth my flock in the mom. 
 
 And the damps of each evening repel ; 
 Alas ! I am faint and forlorn : 
 
 — I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. 
 
 Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look, 
 
 I never once dreamt of my vine : 
 May I lose both my pipe and my crook. 
 
 If I knew of a kid that was mine ! 
 I prized ev'ry hour that went by, 
 
 Beyond all that had pleased me before : 
 But now they are past, and I sigh ; 
 
 And I grieve that I prized them no more. 
 
 But why do I languish in vain ; 
 
 Why wander thus pensively here ? 
 Oh ! why did I come from the plain, 
 
 "Whore I fed on the smiles of my dear ? 
 They teU me, my favourite maid. 
 
 The pride of that valley, is flown ; 
 Alas ! where with her I have stray'd, 
 
 I could wander with pleasure, alone. 
 
 When forced the fair nymph to forego, 
 
 What anguish I felt at my heart ! 
 Yet I thought — but it might not be so — 
 
 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. 
 She gazed, as I slowly withdrew ; 
 
 My path I could hardly discern ; 
 So sweetly she bade me adieu, 
 
 I thought that she bade me return. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD. 
 
 [Shenstone. 
 
 The pilgrim that journeys all day 
 
 To visit some far distant shrine, 
 If he bear but a rehque away, 
 
 Is happy, nor heard to repine. 
 Thus widely removed from the fair, 
 
 Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, 
 Soft Hope is tlie relique I bear. 
 
 And my solace wherever I go. 
 
 My banks they are furnish'd with bees. 
 
 Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
 My grottoes are shaded with trees. 
 
 And my hills are white over with sheep. 
 I seldom have met with a loss, 
 
 Such health do my fountains bestow : 
 My fountains all border'd with moss. 
 
 Where the harebells and violets grow. 
 
 Not a pine in my grove is there seen. 
 
 But with tendrils of woodbine is bound : 
 Xot a beech's more beautiful green. 
 
 But a sweet-brier entwines it around. 
 Not my fields, in the prime of the year. 
 
 More charms than my cattle unfold ; 
 Not a brook that is limpid and clear, 
 
 But it glitters with fishes of gold. 
 
 One would think she might like to retire 
 To the bower I have labour'd to rear ; 
 
 Not a shrub that I heard her admire. 
 But I hasted and planted it there, 
 
 how sudden the jessamine strove 
 With the lilac to render it gay ! 
 
 Already it calls for my love, 
 
 To prune the wild branches away. 
 
 From the plains, from the woodlands and 
 groves. 
 
 What strains of wild melody flow ! 
 How the nightingales warble their loves 
 
 From thickets of roses that blow ! 
 And when her bright form shall appear, 
 
 Each bird shall harmoniously join 
 In a concert so soft and so clear, 
 
 As — she may not be fond to resign. 
 
 1 have found out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 I have found where the wood -pigeons 
 breed : 
 But let me that plunder forbear, 
 
 She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. 
 For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, 
 
 Who would rob a poor bird of its young : 
 And I loved her the more when I heard 
 
 Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 
 
 I have heard her with sweetness unfold 
 
 How that pity was due to — a dove : 
 That it ever attended the bold ; 
 
 And she call'd it the sister of love. 
 But her words such a pleasure convey. 
 
 So much I her accents adore, 
 Let her speak, and whatever she say, 
 
 Metliinks I should love her the more. 
 
 Can a bosom so gentle remain 
 
 Unmoved when her Corydon sighs ? 
 Will a nymph that is fond of the plain. 
 
 These plains and this vaUey despise ? 
 Dear regions of silence and shade ! 
 
 Soft scenes of contentment and ease ? 
 Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, 
 
 If aught, in her absence, could pleaser 
 
 But where does my Phyllida stray ? 
 
 And where are her grots and her bowers ? 
 Are the gToves and the valleys as gay. 
 
 And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? 
 The groves may perhaps be as fair. 
 
 And the f ace^ of the valleys as fine ; 
 The swains may in manners compare, 
 
 But their love is not equal to mine. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Why will you my passion reprove ? 
 
 Why term it a folly to grieve ? 
 Ere I show you the charms of my love. 
 
 She's fairer than you can believe. 
 With her mien she enamours the brave ; 
 
 With her wit she engages the free ; 
 With her modesty pleases the grave ; 
 
 She is everyway pleasing to me. 
 
 you that have been of her train. 
 Come and join in my amorous lays ; 
 
 1 could lay down my life for the swain. 
 
 That will sing but a song in her praise. 
 Wlien he sings, may the nymphs of the 
 town 
 
 Come trooping, and listen the while ; 
 Nay on him let not Phyllida frown ; 
 
 — But I cannot allow her to smile. 
 
 For when Paridel tries in the dance 
 
 Any favour with Phyllis to find, 
 how, with one trivial glance, 
 
 Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! 
 In ringlets he dresses his hair, 
 
 And his crook is bestudded around ; 
 And his pipe — oh my Phyllis, beware 
 
 Of a magic there is in the sound. 
 
 'Tis his with mock passion to glow, 
 
 'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, 
 How her face is as bright as the snow, 
 
 And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. 
 How the nightingales labour the strain. 
 
 With the notes of his charmer to vie ; 
 How they vary their accents in vain, 
 
 Repine at her triumphs, and die. 
 
 To the grove or the garden he strays, 
 
 And pillages every sweet ; 
 Then, suiting the vrreath to his lays, 
 
 He throws it at Phyllis' s feet. 
 " Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair, 
 
 More sweet than the jessamine's flower ! 
 What are pinks in a morn to compare ? 
 
 What is eglantine after a shower ? 
 
Shenstone.] 
 
 ODE TO MEMORY. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Then the lily bo longer is white ; 
 
 The rose is deprived of its bloom ; 
 Then the violets die with despite, 
 
 And the woodbines ^ive up their perfume- 
 Thus glide the soft numbers along, 
 
 And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; 
 Yet I never should envy the song, 
 
 Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. 
 
 Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, 
 
 So Phyllis the trophy despise : 
 Let his forehead with laurels be crown' d, 
 
 So they shine not in Phyllis' s eyes. 
 The language that flows from the heart, 
 
 Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ; 
 Yet may she beware of his art, 
 
 Or sure I must envy the song. 
 
 Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, 
 
 And take no more heed of my sheep ; 
 They have nothing to do but to stray ; 
 
 I have nothing to do but to weep. 
 Yet do not my folly reprove ; 
 
 She was fair — and my passion begun ; 
 She smiled — and I could not but love ; 
 
 She is faithless — and I am undone. 
 
 Perhaps I was void of all thought : 
 
 Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
 That a nymph so complete would be sought, 
 
 By a swain more engaging than me. 
 Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; 
 
 It banishes wisdom the while ; 
 And the lip of the nymph we admire 
 
 Seems for ever adorn' d with a smile. 
 
 She is faithless, and I am undone ; 
 
 Ye that witness the woes I endure, 
 Let reason instruct you to shun 
 
 What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
 Beware how you loiter in vain 
 
 Amid nymphs of a higher degree : 
 It is not for me to explain 
 
 How fair, and how fickle they be. 
 
 Alas ! from the day that v;e met, 
 
 "What hope of an end to my woes ? 
 When I cannot endure to forget 
 
 The glance that undid my repose. 
 Yet time may diminish the pain : 
 
 Tlie flower, and the shrub, and the tree, 
 "SVluch I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, 
 
 In time may have comfort for me. 
 
 The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 
 
 The sound of a murmuring stream, 
 The peace which from solitude flov/s. 
 
 Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
 High transports are sho'svn to the sight, 
 
 But wo are not to find them our own ; 
 Fate never bestow'd such delight. 
 
 As I with my Phyllis had known. 
 
 ye woods, spread your branches apace ; 
 To your deepest recesses I fly ; 
 
 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; 
 
 I would vanish from every eye. 
 Yet my reed shall resound through the grove 
 
 With the same sad complaint it begun ; 
 How she smiled — and I could not but love ; 
 
 Was faithless — and I am undone ! 
 
 Shensto7ie—Boml7U, IXed 1763. 
 
 895.— ODE TO MEMOEY. 
 
 O memory ! celestial maid ! 
 
 Who glean' st the flowerets cropt by 
 Time; 
 And, sufi"ering not a loaf to fade, 
 
 Preservest the blossoms of our prime ; 
 Bring, bring those moments to my mind 
 When life was new, and Lesbia kind. 
 
 And bring that garland to my sight, 
 
 With which my favour'd crook she bound ; 
 
 And bring that wreath of roses bright 
 Which then my festive temples crown' d ; 
 
 And to my raptured ear convey 
 
 The gentle things she deign' d to say. 
 
 And sketch with care the Muse's bower, 
 
 Where Isis rolls her silver tide ; 
 Nor yet omit one reed or flower 
 
 That shines on Cher well's verdant side ; 
 If so thou may'st those hours prolong, 
 When polish'd Lj'con join'd my song. 
 
 The song it 'vails not to recite — 
 
 But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams. 
 
 Those banks and streams appear' d more 
 bright 
 Than other banks, than other streams : 
 
 Or, by thy softening pencil shown. 
 
 Assume thy beauties not their own ! 
 
 And paint that sweetly vacant scene, 
 When, all beneath the poplar bough. 
 
 My spirits light, my soul serene, 
 
 I breathed in verse one cordial vow : 
 
 That nothing should my soul inspire, 
 
 But friendship warm, and love entire. 
 
 Dull to the sense of new delight, 
 
 On thee the drooping Muse attends ; 
 
 As some fond lover, robb'd of sight. 
 On thy expressive power depends ; 
 
 Nor would exchange thy glowing lines. 
 
 To live the lord of all that shines. 
 
 But let me chase those vows away 
 Which at ambition's shrine I made ; 
 
 Nor ever let thy skill display 
 
 Those anxious moments, ill repaid : 
 
 Oh ! from my breast that season raze. 
 
 And bring my childhood in its place. 
 
! From 1727 to 1780.J WILLIAM AND MAEGAEET. [David Mallet. 
 
 Bring me the beUs, the rattle bring, 
 
 Her bloom was like the springing flower, 
 
 And bring the hobby I bestrode ; 
 
 That sips the silver dew ; 
 
 When, pleased, in many a sportive ring-, 
 
 The rose was budded in her cheek, 
 
 Around the room I jovial rode : 
 
 Just opening to the view. 
 
 Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu, 
 
 But love had, like the canker-worm. 
 
 And bring the whistle that I blew. 
 
 Consumed her early prime ; 
 
 Then will I muse, and pensive say, 
 
 The rose grew pale, and left her «heok — 
 
 Why did not these enjoyments last ; 
 
 She died before her time. 
 
 How sweetly wasted I the day, 
 
 Awake ! she cried, thy true love calls, 
 
 While innocence allow' d to waste ! 
 
 Come from her midnight grave : 
 
 Ambition's toils alike are vain, 
 
 Now let thy pity hear the maid 
 
 But ah ! for pleasure yield us pain. 
 
 Thy love refused to save. 
 
 : Shenstonc.—Born 1714, Died 17G3. 
 
 This is the dark and dreary hour 
 
 
 WTien injured ghosts complain ; 
 
 1 
 
 When yawning graves give up their dead, 
 
 
 To haunt the faithless swain. 
 
 
 Bethink thee, WilHam, of thy fault, 
 
 896.— T\TJITTEN AT AN INN AT 
 
 Thy pledge and broken oath ! 
 
 HENLEY. 
 
 And give me back my maiden-vow. 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 
 
 And give me back my troth. 
 
 From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
 
 Why did you promise love to me, 
 
 Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
 
 And not that promise keep ? 
 
 Thn.Ti the low cot or humble inn. 
 
 Why did you swear my eyes were bright, 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
 
 Yet leave those eyes to weep ? 
 
 And every health which I begin 
 
 How could you say my face was fair, 
 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne : 
 
 And yet that face forsake ? 
 
 Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 
 
 How could you win my virgin heart, 
 
 
 Yet leave that heart to break ? 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate. 
 
 
 I fly from falsehood's specious grin; 
 
 Why did you say my lip was sweet, 
 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate, 
 
 And made the scarlet pale ? 
 
 And choose my lodgings at an inn. 
 
 And why did I, young witless maid ! 
 
 
 Believe the flattering tale ? 
 
 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 
 
 
 Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 
 
 That face, alas ! no more is fair, 
 
 It buys what courts have not in store, 
 
 Those lips no longer red : 
 
 It buys me freedom at an inn. 
 
 Dark are my eyes, now closed in death. 
 
 
 And every charm is fled. 
 
 Whoe'er has traveU'd life's dull round, 
 
 
 Where'er his stages may have been, 
 
 The hungry worm my sister is ; 
 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 
 This winding-sheet I wear : 
 
 The wa-rmest welcome at an inn. 
 
 And cold and weary lasts our night, 
 
 1 
 
 Till that last morn appear. 
 
 Shenstone.—Born 1714, IHed 1763. 1 
 
 
 
 But hark ! the cock has warned me hence ; 
 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Come see, false man, how low she lies, 
 
 ' 
 
 
 Who died for love of you. 
 
 897._WILLLA.M AND MAEGAEET. 
 
 The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled 
 
 'Twas at the silent solemn hour. 
 
 With beams of rosy red : 
 
 When night and morning meet ; 
 
 Pale William quaked in every limb. 
 
 In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. 
 
 And raving left his bed. 
 
 And stood at William's feet. 
 
 He hied him to the fatal place 
 
 Her face was like an April mom 
 
 Clad in a wintry cloud ; 
 And clay-cold was her lily hand 
 
 Where Margaret's body lay ; 
 And stretched him on the green-grass turf 
 That wrapt her breathless clay. 
 
 That held her sable shroud. 
 
 And thrice he called on Margaret's name, 
 
 So shall the fairest face appear 
 When youth and years are flown : 
 
 And thrice he wept full sore ; 
 Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 
 
 Such is the robe that kings must wear, 
 
 And word spake never more ! 
 
 When death has reft their crown. 
 
 1 
 
 David Mallet— Born 1700, Died 17o5» 
 
David Mallet.] EDWIN AND EMMA. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 898.— EDWIN AND EMMA. 
 
 His cheek, where health -with beauty 
 
 Far in the windings of a vale, 
 
 glowed. 
 
 Fast by a sheltering wood, 
 The safe retreat of health and peace, 
 
 A deadly pale o'ercast ; 
 
 So fades the fresh rose in its prime, 
 
 A humble cottage stood. 
 
 Before the northern blast. 
 
 There beauteous Emma flouiished fair, 
 
 The parents now, with late remorse, 
 
 Beneath a mother's eye ; 
 
 Hung o'er his dying bed ; 
 
 Whose only wish on earth was now 
 
 And wearied Heaven with fruitless vows. 
 
 To see her blest, and die. 
 
 And fruitless sorrows shed. 
 
 The softest blush that nature spreads 
 
 'Tis past ! he cried, but, if j^our souls 
 
 Gave colour to her cheek ; 
 
 Sweet mercy yet can move. 
 
 Such orient colour smiles through heaven, 
 
 Let these dim eyes once more behold 
 
 When vernal mornings break. 
 
 What they must ever love ! 
 
 Nor let the pride of great ones scorn 
 
 She came ; his cold hand softly touched, 
 
 This charmer of the plains : 
 
 And bathed with many a tear : 
 
 That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze. 
 
 Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale, 
 
 To paint our lily deigns. 
 
 So morning dews appear. 
 
 Long had she filled each youth with love, 
 
 But oh ! his sister's jealous care. 
 
 Each maiden with despair ; 
 
 A cruel sister she ! j 
 
 And though by all a wonder owned, 
 
 Forbade what Emma came to say j 
 
 Yet knew not she was fair: 
 
 " My Edwin, live for mo ! " 
 
 Till Edwin came, the pride of swain's. 
 
 Now homeward as she hopeless wept, 
 
 A soul devoid of art ; 
 
 The churchyard path along. 
 
 And from whose eye, serenely mild, 
 
 The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed \ 
 
 Shone forth the feeling heart. 
 
 Her lover's funeral song. j 
 
 A mutual flame was quickly caught, 
 
 Amid the falling gloom of night, 
 
 Was quickly too revealed ; 
 
 Her startling fancy found 
 
 For neither bosom lodged a wish 
 
 In every bush his hovering shade. 
 
 That virtue keeps concealed. 
 
 His groan in every sound. 
 
 What happy hours of home-felt bliss 
 
 Did love on both bestow ! 
 But bliss too mighty long to last, 
 
 Alone, appalled, thus had she passed 
 
 The visionary vale — 
 When lo ! the death-bell smote her ear, 
 
 Where fortune proves a foe. 
 
 Sad sounding in the gale ! 
 
 His sister, who, like envy formed, 
 
 Like her in mischief joyed. 
 To work them harm, with wicked skill, 
 
 Each darker art employed. 
 
 Just then she reached, with trembling step, 
 
 Her aged mother's door : 
 " He's gone ! " she cried, " and I shall see 
 
 That angel face no more. 
 
 The father, too, a sordid man, 
 Who love nor pity knew. 
 
 I feel, I feel this ])reaking heart 
 
 Was all unfeeling as the clod 
 From whence his riches grew. 
 
 Beat high against my side ! " 
 From her white arm down sunk her head — 
 
 
 She shivered, sighed, and died. 
 
 Long had he seen their secret flame. 
 And seen it long unmoved ; 
 
 David Mallet— Born 1700, Dial 1765. 
 
 Then with a father's frown at last 
 
 
 Had sternly disapproved. 
 
 
 
 In Edwin's gentle heart, a war 
 
 
 Of differing passions strove : 
 
 899.— SONG. 
 
 His heart, that durst not disobey. 
 
 
 Yet could not cease to love. 
 
 The smiling morn, the breathing spring. 
 
 
 Invite the tuneful birds to sing. 
 
 Denied her sight, he oft behind 
 
 And while they warble from each spray, 
 
 1 The spreading hawthorn crept, 
 
 Love melts the universal lay. 
 
 To snatch a glance, to mark the spot 
 
 Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 
 
 Where Emma walked and wept. 
 
 Like them improve the hour that flies, 
 
 Oft, too, on Stanmore's Avintry waste 
 Beneath the moonhght shade, 
 
 And in soft raptures waste the day 
 Among the shades of Endcrmay. 
 
 In sighs to pour his soften'd soul, 
 
 1 For soon the winter of the year, 
 
 The midnight mourner strayed. 
 
 j And age, life's winter, will appear ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] TENDENCIES OF SOUL TOWAEDS THE INFINITE. [Akenside. 
 
 At this, thy living bloom will fade, 
 As that will strip the vernal shade. 
 Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, 
 The feather' d songsters love no more; 
 And when they droop, and we decay, 
 Adieu the shades of Endermay. 
 
 Davicl Mallet— Bom 1700, Died 1765. 
 
 900.— A FUNERAL HYMN. 
 
 Ye midnight Shades ! o'er Nature spread 
 
 Dumb silence of the dreary hour ; 
 
 In honour of the approaching dead 
 
 Around your awful terrors pour. 
 
 Yes, pour around 
 
 On this pale ground, 
 
 Thro' all this deep surrounding gloom. 
 
 The sober thought. 
 
 The tear untaught, 
 
 Those meetest mourners at a tomb. 
 
 Lo ! as the surpUced train draw near 
 
 To this last mansion of mankind. 
 
 The slow sad bell, the sable bier, 
 
 In holy musings wrapt the mind ! 
 
 And while their beam, 
 
 "With trembling stream. 
 
 Attending tapers faintly dart. 
 
 Each mould'ring bone. 
 
 Each sculptui'ed stone, 
 
 Strikes mute instruction to the heart. 
 
 Now let the sacred organ blow 
 
 With solemn pause and sounding slow ; 
 
 Now let the voice due measure keep. 
 
 In strains that sigh and words that weep, 
 
 Till all the vocal current blended roll, 
 
 Not to depress but lift the soaring soul. 
 
 To lift it in the Maker's praise 
 
 "Who first inform'd our frame with breath, 
 
 And after some few stormy days 
 
 Now gracious gives us o'er to death. 
 
 No king of fears 
 
 In him appears 
 
 ■V\^ho shuts the scene of human woes ; 
 
 Beneath his shade 
 
 Securely laid 
 
 The dead alone find trae repose. 
 
 Then while we mingle dust with dust, 
 
 To One supremely good and wise 
 
 Eaise hallelujahs, God is just. 
 
 And man most happy when he dies. 
 
 His winter past. 
 
 Fair Spring at last 
 
 Receives him on her flow'ry shore, 
 
 "Where pleasure's rose 
 
 Immortal blows. 
 
 And sin and sorrow are no more. 
 
 David Mallet— Born 1700, Died 1765. 
 
 901.— TENDENCIES OF THE SOUL 
 TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 
 
 Say, why was man so eminently raised 
 Amid the vast creation ; why ordain' d 
 Through life and death to dart his piercing 
 
 eye, - _ 
 
 With thoughts beyond the limit of his 
 
 frame ; 
 But that the Omnipotent might send him 
 
 forth 
 In sight of mortal and immortal powers. 
 As on a boundless theatre, to run 
 The great career of justice ; to exalt 
 His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 
 To chase each partial purpose from his 
 
 breast : 
 And through the mists of passion and of sense, 
 And through the tossing tide of chance and 
 
 pain, 
 To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice 
 Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent 
 Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, 
 The applauding smile of Heaven ? Else 
 
 wherefore burns 
 In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, 
 That breathes from day to day sublimer 
 
 things. 
 And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the 
 
 mind, 
 With such resistless ardour, to embrace 
 Majestic forms ; impatient to be free. 
 Spurning the gross control of wilful might ; 
 Proud of the strong contention of her toUs ; 
 Proud to be daring ? Who but rather turns 
 To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view. 
 Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame ? 
 Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring 
 
 eye 
 Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey 
 Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave 
 Through mountains, plains ; through empires 
 
 black with shade 
 And continents of sand ; will turn his gaze 
 To mark the windings of a scanty rill 
 That murmurs at his feet? The high-born 
 
 soul 
 Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
 Beneath its native quarry. Tired of Earth 
 And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
 Through fields of air; pursues the flying 
 
 storm ; 
 Rides on the voUey'd lightning through the 
 
 heavens ; 
 Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern 
 
 blast. 
 Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she 
 
 soars 
 The blue profound, and hovering round tho 
 
 Sun, 
 Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
 Of hght ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
 Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
 The fated rounds of Time. Thence far 
 
 effused 
 She darts her swiftness up the long career 
 
 43 
 
Akenside.] 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 rSixTH Period. 
 
 Of devious comets; through its burning 
 
 signs 
 Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
 Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, 
 Whose blended light, as with a milky zone. 
 Invest the orient. Now amazed she views 
 The empyreal waste, where happy spirits 
 
 hold, 
 Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm 
 
 abode ; 
 And fields of radiance, whose unfading light 
 Has travell'd the profound six thousand 
 
 years, 
 Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
 Even on the barriers of the world nntired 
 She meditates the eternal depth below ; 
 TiU half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
 She plunges ; soon o'erwhelm'd and swaUow'd 
 
 up 
 In that immense of being. There her hopes 
 Eest at the fated goal. For from the birth 
 Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, 
 That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
 Not in the fading echoes of EenoAvn, 
 Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery 
 
 lap. 
 The soul should find enjoyment: but from 
 
 these 
 Turning disdainful to an equal good. 
 Through aU the ascent of things enlarge her 
 
 view, 
 Till every bound at length should disappear. 
 And infinite perfection close the scene. 
 
 Ahenside.—Born 1721, IHed 1770. 
 
 902.~TASTE. 
 
 What then is taste, but these internal 
 
 powers 
 Active, and strong, and feelingly alive 
 To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense 
 Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust 
 From things deformed or disarranged, or 
 
 gross 
 In species ? This, nor gems nor stores of 
 
 gold, 
 Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow ; 
 But God alone, when first his active hand 
 Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
 He, mighty parent, wise and just in all. 
 Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven. 
 Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the 
 
 swain 
 Who journeys homeward from a summer 
 
 day's 
 Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils 
 And due repose, he loiters to behold 
 The sunshine gleaming, as through amber 
 
 clouds, 
 O'er all the v/estem sky ; full soon, T ween. 
 His rude expression and untutored airs, 
 Beyond the power of language, will unfold 
 
 The form of beauty smiling at his heart, 
 How lovely! how commanding! But though 
 
 heaven 
 In every breast hath sown these early seeds 
 Of love and admiration, yet in vain, 
 Without fair culture's kind parental aid. 
 Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, 
 And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope 
 The tender plant should rear its blooming 
 
 head, 
 Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 
 Nor j'-et will every soil with equal stores 
 Eepay the tiller's labour ; or attend 
 His will, obsequious, whether to produce 
 The olive or the laurel. Different minds 
 Incline to different objects : one pursues 
 The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 
 Another sighs for harmony, and grace, 
 And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning 
 
 fires 
 The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the 
 
 ground ; 
 When furious whirlwinds rend the howling 
 
 air. 
 And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, 
 Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky, 
 Amid the mighty uproar, while below 
 The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad 
 From some high cliff superior, and enjoys 
 The elemental war. But Waller longs 
 All on the margin of some flowery stream 
 To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 
 Of plantain shades, and to the Hstening deer 
 The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain 
 Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day : 
 Consenting zephyr sighs ; the weeping rill 
 Joins in his plaint, melodious j mute the 
 
 groves ; 
 And hiU. and dale with aU their echoes 
 
 mourn. 
 Such and so various are the tastes of men. 
 O blest of heaven ! whom not the languid 
 
 songs 
 Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 
 Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 
 Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave 
 Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the 
 
 store 
 Of nature fair imagination culls 
 To charm the enliven' d soul ! What though 
 
 not all 
 Of mortal offspring can attain the heights 
 Of envied life ; though only few possess 
 Patrician treasures or imperial state ; 
 Yet nature's care, to all her children just. 
 With richer treasures and an ampler state. 
 Endows at large whatever happy man 
 Will deign to use them. His the city's 
 
 pomp, 
 The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns 
 The princely dome, the column and the arch, 
 The breathing marbles and the sculptured 
 
 gold, 
 Bej'ond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
 His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the 
 
 spring 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CURIO. 
 
 [Akenside. 
 
 Distils her clews, and from the silken gem 
 Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him the liand 
 Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 
 "With blooming gold and blushes like the 
 
 morn. 
 Each passing hour sheds tribute from her 
 
 wings ; 
 And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
 And loves unfelt attract him. Xot a breeze 
 Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
 The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain 
 From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
 Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 
 Fresh pleasiu-e, unreproved. Nor thence par- 
 takes 
 Fresh pleasiu*e only .- for the attentive mind, 
 By this harmonious action on her poAvers, 
 Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 
 In outward things to meditate the charm 
 Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 
 To find a kindred order, to exert 
 Witliin herself this elegance of love, 
 This fair inspired dehght : her tempered 
 
 powers 
 Eefine at length, and every passion wears 
 A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 
 But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze 
 On nature's form, where, negligent of all 
 These lesser graces, she assumes the poi-t 
 Of that eternal majesty that weighed 
 The world's foundations; if to these the 
 
 mind 
 Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far 
 Will be the change, and nobler. Would the 
 
 forms 
 Of servile custom cramp her generous power ; 
 Would sordid policies, the barbarous gTOwth 
 Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down 
 To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ? 
 Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the wiads 
 And rolling waves, the sun's im wearied 
 
 course, 
 The elements and seasons : all declare 
 For what the eternal Maker has ordained 
 The powers of man : we feel within ourselves 
 His energy divine : he tells the heart. 
 He meant, he made us to behold and love 
 What he beholds and loves, the general orb 
 Of life and being ; to be great like him, 
 Beneficent and active. Thus the men 
 Whom nature's works can charm, with God 
 
 himself 
 Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day. 
 With his conceptions, act upon his plan, 
 And form to liis, the relish of their souls. 
 
 AJcennde.—Born 1721, Died 1770. 
 
 903.— AN EPISTLE TO CUEIO. 
 
 Thrice has the spring behold thy faded fame, 
 And the fourth winter rises on thy shame, 
 Since I exulting gi-asp'd the votive shell, 
 In sounds of triumph all thy praise to toll ; 
 
 Bless'd could my skill through ages make thee 
 
 shine, 
 And pr*ud to mix my memory with thine. 
 But now the cause that waked my song 
 
 before, 
 W^ith praise, with triumph, crowns the toil 
 
 no more. ~ 
 
 If to the glorious man whose faithful cares. 
 Nor quell' d by malice, nor relax' d by years. 
 Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate, 
 And dragg'd at length Corruption to her 
 
 fate ; 
 If every tongue its large applauses owed. 
 And well-earn' d laurels every Muse bestow'd; 
 If public Justice urged the high reward, 
 And Freedom smiled on the devoted bard ; 
 Say then, to him whose levity or lust 
 Laid all a people's generous hopes in dust ; 
 Who taught Ambition firmer heights of 
 
 power. 
 And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour ; 
 Does not each tongue its execrations owe ? 
 Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame 
 
 bestow, 
 And public Justice sanctify th' award. 
 And Freedom's hand protect the impartial 
 
 bard ? 
 Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name, 
 Long watch' d thy virtue like a dying flame, 
 Hung o'er each glimmering spark with anxious 
 
 eyes, 
 And %vish'd and hoped the light again would 
 
 rise. 
 But since thy guilt still more entire appears, 
 Since no art hides, no supposition clears ; 
 Since vengeful Slander now too sinks her 
 
 blast. 
 And the first rage of party hate is past ; 
 Calm as the judge of truth, at length I come 
 To weigh thy merits, and pronounce thy 
 
 doom : 
 So may my trust from all reproach be free ; 
 And Earth and Time confirm the fair decree. 
 There are who say they view'd without 
 amaze 
 The sad reverse of all thy former praise : 
 That through the pageants of a patriot's name. 
 They pierced the foulness of thy secret aim ; 
 Or deem'd thy arm exalted but to throw 
 The public thunder on a private foe. 
 But I, whose soul consented to thy cause, 
 Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause. 
 Who saw the spirits of each glorious age 
 Move in thy bosom, and direct thy rage ; 
 I scorn' d the ungenerous gloss of slavish 
 
 minds, 
 The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre 
 
 blinds. 
 Spite of the learned in the waj's of vice. 
 And all who prove that each man has his 
 
 price, 
 I still believed thy end was just and free ; 
 And yet, even yet, believe it — spite of thee. 
 Even though thy mouth impure has dared 
 
 disclaim, 
 Urged by the wretched impotence of shame, 
 
 4^ii 
 
Akenside.] 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CUEIO. 
 
 rSixTH Period. — 
 
 Whatever filial cares thy zeal had paid 
 
 To laws infirm, and liberty decayed ; 
 
 Has begg'd Ambition to forgive the Ihow ; 
 
 Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe ; 
 
 Has boasted in thy country's awful ear, 
 
 Her gross delusion when she held thee dear ; 
 
 How tame she foUow'd thy tempestuous 
 
 call, 
 And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted 
 
 all— 
 Eise from your sad abodes, ye cursed of old 
 For laws subverted, and for cities sold ! 
 Paint all the noblest trophies of your guilt. 
 The oaths you perjured, and the blood you 
 
 spilt ; 
 Yet must you one untempted vileness own, 
 One dreadful palm reserved for him alone ; 
 With studied arts his country's praise to 
 
 spurn, 
 To be^ the infamy he did not earn, 
 To challenge hate when honour was his due. 
 And plead his crimes where all his virtue 
 
 knew. 
 Do robes of state the guarded heart enclose 
 From each fair feeling human nature knows ? 
 Can pompous titles stun the enchanted ear 
 To all that reason, all that sense would 
 
 hear ? 
 Else couldst thou e'er desert thy sacred post, 
 In such unthankful baseness to be lost ? 
 Else couldst thou wed the emptiness of vice, 
 jLiid yield thy glories at an idiot's price ? 
 
 "VATien they who, loud for liberty and laws. 
 In doubtful times had fought their country's 
 
 cause, 
 When now of conquest and dominion sure, 
 They sought alone to hold their fruits 
 
 secure ; 
 When taught by these, Oppression hid the 
 
 face, 
 To leave Corruption stronger in her place, 
 By silent spells to work the public fate, 
 And taint the vitals of the passive state. 
 Till healing Wisdom should avail no more. 
 And Freedom loathe to tread the poison' d 
 
 shore ; 
 Then, like some guardian god that flies to 
 
 save 
 The weary pilgrim from an instant grave, 
 Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful 
 
 snake 
 Steals near and nearer through the peaceful 
 
 brake ; 
 Then Curio rose to ward the public woe. 
 To wake the heedless, and incite the slow, 
 Against Corruption Liberty to arm. 
 And ([uell the enchantress by a mightier 
 
 charm. 
 Swift o'er the land the fair contagion flew, 
 And with thy country's hopes thy honours 
 
 grew. 
 Thee, patriot, the patrician roof confess'd ; 
 Thy powerful voice the rescued merchant 
 
 bless' d ; 
 Of thee with awe the rural hearth resounds ; 
 The bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns ; 
 
 Touch'd in the sighing shade with manlier 
 
 fires. 
 To trace thy steps the love-sick youth 
 
 aspires ; 
 The learn' d recluse, who oft amazed had 
 
 read 
 Of Grecian heroes, Eoman patriots dead. 
 With new amazement hears a living name 
 Pretend to share in such forgotten fame ; 
 And he who, scorning courts and courtly 
 
 ways, 
 Left the tame track of these dejected days, 
 The life of nobler ages to renew 
 In virtues sacred from a monarch's view, 
 Eoused by thy labours from the bless'd 
 
 retreat, 
 Where social ease and public passions meet, 
 Again ascending treads the civil scene. 
 To act and be a man, as thou hadst been. 
 
 Thus by degrees thy cause superior grew. 
 And the great end appear' d at last in view : 
 We heard the people in thy hopes rejoice, 
 We saw the senate bending to thy voice ; 
 The friends of freedom haU'd the approaching 
 
 reign 
 Of laws for which our fathers bled in vain ; 
 While venal Faction, struck with new dis- 
 may, 
 Shrunk at their frown, and self-abandon'd 
 
 lay. 
 Waked in the shock the public Genius rose, 
 Abash' d and keener from his long repose ; 
 Sublime in ancient pride, he raised the spear 
 Wliich slaves and tyrants long were wont to 
 
 fear; 
 The city felt his call : from man to man, 
 From street to street, the glorious horror 
 
 ran ; 
 Each crowded haunt was stirr'd beneath his 
 
 power. 
 And,' murmuring, challenged the deciding 
 
 hour. 
 Lo ! the deciding hour at last appears ; 
 The hour of every freeman's hopes and 
 
 fears ! 
 Thou, Genius ! guardian of the Eoman name, 
 O ever prompt tyrannic rage to tame ! 
 Instruct the mighty moments as they roll, 
 And guide each movement steady to the 
 
 goal. 
 Ye spirits by whose providential art 
 Succeeding motives turn the changeful heart, 
 Keep, keep the best m view to Curio's mind. 
 And watch his fancy, and his passions bind ! 
 Ye shades immortal, who by Freedom led. 
 Or in the field or on the scaffold bled. 
 Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye, 
 And view the crown of all your labours nigh. 
 See Freedom mounting her eternal throne ! 
 The sword submitted, and the laws her 
 
 own: 
 See ! public Power chastised beneath her 
 
 stands, 
 With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands ! 
 See private Life by wisest arts reclaim'd ! 
 See ardent youth to noblest manners framed ! 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CUEIO. 
 
 [Akenside. 
 
 See us acquire whate'er was sought by you, 
 If Curio, onl}'^ Curio will be true. 
 
 'Twas then — O shame ! O trust how ill 
 
 repaid ! 
 O Latium, oft by faithless sons betray'd ! — 
 'Twas then — What frenzy on thy reason 
 
 stole ? 
 What spells unsinew'd thy determined 
 
 soul ? — 
 Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved, 
 The man so great, so honour' d, so beloved. 
 This patient slave by tinsel chains allured, 
 This wretched suitor for a boon abjured, 
 This Curio, hated and despised by all, 
 WTio fell himself to work his country's fall ? 
 
 O lost, alike to action and repose ! 
 Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes ! 
 ^ With all that conscious, undissembled pride. 
 Sold to the insults of a foe defied ! 
 With all that habit of familiar fame, 
 Doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in 
 
 shame ! 
 The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art 
 To act a statesman's dull, exploded part. 
 Renounce the praise no longer in thy power, 
 Display thy virtue, though without a dower, 
 Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind. 
 And shut thy eyes that others may be 
 
 blind.— 
 Forgive me, Romans, that I bear to smile. 
 When shameless mouths your majesty defile. 
 Paint you a thoughtless, frantic, headlong 
 
 drew, 
 And cast their own impieties on you. 
 For witness, Freedom, to whose sacred 
 
 power 
 My soul was vow'd from reason's earliest 
 
 hour. 
 How have I stood exulting, to survey 
 My country's virtues, opening in thy ray ! 
 How with the sons of every foreign shore 
 The more I match' d them, honour'd hers the 
 
 more! 
 O race erect ! whose native strength of soul. 
 Which kings, nor priests, nor sordid laws 
 
 control. 
 Bursts the tame round of animal affairs, 
 And seeks a nobler centre for its cares ; 
 Intent the laws of life to comprehend, 
 And fix dominion's limits by its end. 
 "V^^io, bold and equal in their love or hate, 
 By conscious reason judging every state. 
 The man forget not, though in rags he lies. 
 And know the mortal through a crown's 
 
 disguise : 
 Thence prompt alike with witty scorn to 
 
 view 
 Fastidious Grandeur lift his solemn brow, 
 Or, all awake at pity's soft command. 
 Bend the mild ear, and stretch the gracious 
 
 hand: 
 Thence large of heart, from envy far re- 
 moved. 
 When pubhc toils to virtue stand approved, 
 Not the young lover fonder to admire. 
 Not more indulgent the delighted sire ; 
 
 Yet high and jealous of their free-born 
 
 name. 
 Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying 
 
 flame. 
 Where'er Oppression works her wanton 
 
 sway. 
 Proud to confront, and dreadful to repay. ~ 
 But if to purchase Curio's sage applause, 
 My country must v/ith him renounce her 
 
 cause. 
 Quit with a slave the path a patriot trod. 
 Bow the meek knee, and kiss the regal rod ; 
 Then still, ye powers, instruct his tongue to 
 
 rail. 
 Nor let his zeal, nor let his subject fail : 
 Else, ere he change the style, bear me away 
 To where the Gracchi, where the Bruti 
 
 stay ! 
 O long revered, and late resign'd to shame ! 
 If this uncourtly page thy notice claim 
 When the loud cares of business are with- 
 drawn. 
 Nor well-dress'd beggars round thy footsteps 
 
 fawn ; 
 In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour. 
 When Truth exerts her unresisted power, 
 Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's 
 
 glare. 
 Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions 
 
 bare ; 
 Then turn thy eyes on that important scene. 
 And ask thyself — lif all be well within. 
 Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of 
 
 soul. 
 Which labour could not stop, nor fear con- 
 trol ? 
 WTiere the known dignity, the stamp of 
 
 awe, 
 Wliich, half-abash' d, the proud and venal 
 
 saw? 
 Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause ? 
 Where the delightful taste of just applause ? 
 WTiere the strong reason, the commanding 
 
 tongue. 
 On which the senate flred or trembling hung ? 
 All vanish'd, all are sold — and in their room. 
 Couch' d in thy bosom's deep, distracted 
 
 gloom. 
 See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur 
 
 dwell, 
 Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell ! 
 To her in chains thy dignity was led ; 
 At her polluted shrine thy honour bled ; 
 With blasted weeds thy awful brow she 
 
 crown' d. 
 Thy powerful tongue with poison' d philters 
 
 bound. 
 That baffled Reason straight indignant flew. 
 And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew : 
 For now no longer Truth supports thy cause ; 
 No longer Glory prompts thee to applause ; 
 No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast. 
 With all her conscious majesty confess'd, 
 Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty 
 
 flame. 
 To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame, 
 
Akenside.] 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO CUEIO. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 And where she sees the catching glimpses 
 I roll, 
 
 ! Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the 
 I soul; 
 
 But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill, 
 
 And formal passions mock thy struggling 
 wiU; 
 
 Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain, 
 
 And reach impatient at a nobler strain, 
 
 Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth 
 
 Shoot through thy breast, and stab the ge- 
 nerous birth. 
 
 Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy 
 toss'd, 
 
 And all the tenor of thy reason lost. 
 
 Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear ; 
 
 While some with pity, some with laughter 
 hear. — 
 
 Can art, alas ! or genius, guide the head. 
 
 Where truth and freedom from the heart are 
 fled? 
 
 Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke. 
 
 When the prime function of the soul is 
 broke ? 
 But come, unhappy man ! thy fates im- 
 pend ; 
 
 Come, quit thy friends, if yet thou hast a 
 friend ; 
 
 Turn from the poor rewards of guilt like 
 thine, 
 
 Eenounce thy titles, and thy robes resign ; 
 
 For see the hand of Destiny display'd 
 
 To shut thee from the joys thou hast be- 
 tray' d ! 
 
 See the dire fame of Infamy arise ! 
 
 Dark as the grave, and spacious as the 
 skies ; 
 
 Where, from the first of time, thy kindred 
 train. 
 
 The chiefs and princes of the unjust remain. 
 
 Eternal barriers guard the pathless road 
 
 To warn the wanderer of the cursed abode ; 
 
 But prone as whirlwinds scour the assive'p 
 sky, 
 
 The heights surmounted, down the steep they 
 
 fly. 
 
 There, black with frowns, relentless Time 
 
 awaits, 
 And goads their footsteps to the guilty 
 
 gates ; 
 And still he asks them of their unknown 
 
 aims, 
 Evolves their secrets, and their guilt pro- 
 claims ; 
 And still his hands despoil them on the road 
 Of each vain wreath, by lying bards bestow'd. 
 Break their proud marbles, crush their festal 
 
 cars. 
 And rend the lawless trophies of their wars. 
 At last the gates his potent voice obey ; 
 Fierce to their dark abode he drives his 
 
 prey ; 
 Where, ever arm'd with adamantine chains, 
 The watchful demon o'er her vassals reigns. 
 O'er mighty names and giant-powers of lust. 
 The great, the sage, the happy, and august. 
 
 No gleam of hope their baleful mansion 
 
 cheers. 
 No sound of honour hails their unbless'd 
 
 ears ; 
 But dire reproaches from the friend be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 The childless sire and violated maid ; 
 But vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced, 
 From towns enslaved, and continents laid 
 
 waste ; 
 But long posterity's united groan, 
 And the sad charge of horrors not their own, 
 For ever through the trembling space resound, 
 And sink each impious forehead to the 
 
 ground. 
 Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest, 
 Give way, do homage to a mightier guest ! 
 Ye daring spirits of the Eoman race. 
 See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface ! — 
 Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising 
 
 bends, 
 And hardy Cinna from his throne attends : 
 " He comes," they cry, "to whom the fates 
 
 assign' d 
 With surer arts to work what we design'd. 
 From year to year the stubborn herd to sway, 
 Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage 
 
 obey; 
 Till own'd their guide, and trusted with their 
 
 power. 
 He mock'd their hopes in one decisive hour ; 
 Then, tired and yielding, led them to the 
 
 chain. 
 And quench' d the spirit we provoked in 
 
 vain." 
 But thou. Supreme, by whose eternal hands 
 Fair Liberty's heroic empire stands ; 
 Whose tlumders the rebellious deep control. 
 And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul, 
 Oh ! turn this dreadful omen far away : 
 On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay : 
 Relume her sacred fire so near suppress'd, 
 And fix her shrine in every Roman breast : 
 Though bold Corruption boast around the 
 
 land, 
 " Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand ! " 
 Though bolder now she urge the accursed 
 
 claim. 
 Gay with her trophies raised on Curio's 
 
 shame ; 
 Yet some there are who scorn her impious 
 
 mirth. 
 Who know what conscience and a heart are 
 
 worth. — 
 O friend and father of the human mind, 
 "Whose art for noblest ends our frame 
 
 design'd ! 
 If I, though fated to the studious shade 
 Which party-strife, nor anxious power invade, 
 If I aspire in public virtue's cause. 
 To guide the Muses by sublimer laws, 
 Do thou her own authority impart. 
 And give my numbers entrance to the heart. 
 Perhaps the verse might rouse her sraother'd 
 
 flame. 
 And snatch the fainting patriot back to fame ; 
 
 4 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE PEOGEESS OF LOVE. 
 
 [LoED Lyttelton. 
 
 Perhaps by worthy thoughts of human kind, 
 To worthy deeds exalt the conscious mind ; 
 Or dash Corruption in her proud career, 
 And teach her slaves that Vice was born to 
 fear. 
 
 Akenside. — Born 1721, Died 1770. 
 
 904.-'THE PEOGEESS OF LOVE. 
 
 Pope, to whose reed beneath the beachen 
 
 shade 
 The nymphs of Thames a pleased attention 
 
 paid; 
 While yet thy Muse, content with humbler 
 
 praise, 
 Warbled in Windsor's grove her sylvan lays ; 
 Though now, sublimely borne on Homer's 
 
 wing. 
 Of glorious wars and godlike chiefs she sing : 
 Wilt thou with me revisit once again 
 The crystal fountain, and the flowery plain ? 
 Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate 
 The various changes of a lover's state ; 
 And, while each turn of passion I pursue, 
 Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true ? 
 
 To the green margin of a lonely wood, 
 Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver 
 
 flood, 
 Young Damon came, unknowing where he 
 
 stray' d, 
 FuU of the image of his beauteous maid : 
 His flock, far off, unfed, untended, lay, 
 To every savage a defenceless prey ; 
 No sense of interest could their master move, 
 And every care seem'd trifling now but love. 
 Awhile in pensive silence he remain'd, 
 But, though his voice was mute, his looks 
 
 complain' d ; 
 At length the thoughts, within his bosom 
 
 pent, 
 Forced his unwilling tongue to give them 
 
 vent. 
 " Ye nymphs," he cried, " ye Dryads, who 
 
 so long 
 Have favour'd Damon, and inspired his 
 
 song ; 
 For whom, retired, I shun the gay resorts 
 Of sportful cities, and of pompous courts ; 
 In vain I bid the restless world adieu. 
 To seek tranquillity and peace with you. 
 Though wild Ambition and destructive Eage 
 No factions here can form, no wars can 
 
 wage : 
 Though Envy frov»'ns not on your humble 
 
 shades. 
 Nor Calumny your innocence invades : 
 Yet cruel Love, that troubler of the breast, 
 Too often violates your boasted rest ; 
 With inbred storms disturbs your calm 
 
 retreat. 
 And taints with bitterness each rural sweet. 
 
 " Ah, luckless day ! when first with fond 
 
 surprise 
 On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes ! 
 Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost, 
 Then reason, liberty, at once were lost : 
 And every wish, and thought, and care, was 
 
 gone, — - 
 
 But what my heart employ'd on her alone. 
 Then too she smile'd : can smiles our peace 
 
 destroy. 
 Those lovely children of Content and Joy ? 
 How can soft pleasure and tormenting woe 
 From the same spring at the same moment 
 
 flow? 
 Unhappy boy ! these vain inquiries cease, 
 Thought could not guard, nor will restore, thy 
 
 peace : 
 Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure. 
 And soothe the pain thou know'st not how to 
 
 cure. 
 Come, flattering Memory ! and tell my heart 
 How kind she was, and with what pleasing 
 
 art 
 She strove its fondest wishes to obtain. 
 Confirm her power, and faster bind my chain. 
 If on the green we danced, a mirthful band, 
 To me alone she gave her willing hand ; 
 Her partial taste, if e'er I touch' d the lyre, 
 Still in my song found something to admire, 
 By none but her my crook with flowers waa 
 
 crown' d, 
 By none but her my brows with ivy bound : 
 The world, that Damon was her choice, be- 
 lieved. 
 The world, alas ! like Damon, was deceived. 
 When last I saw her, and declared my fire 
 In words as soft as passion could inspire. 
 Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew, 
 Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieu. 
 The frighted hind, who sees his ripen' d corn 
 Up from the roots by sudden tempests torn. 
 Whose fairest hopes dostroy'd and blasted 
 
 lie. 
 Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I. 
 Ah, how have I deserved, inhuman maid, 
 To have my faithful service thus repaid ? 
 Were all the marks of kindness I received 
 But dreams of joy, that charm' d me and 
 
 deceived ? 
 Or did you only nurse my growing love, 
 That with more pain I might your hatred 
 
 prove ? 
 Sore guilty treachery no place could find 
 In such a gentle, such a generous mind : 
 A maid brought up the woods and wilds 
 
 among 
 Could ne'er have learnt the art of courts so 
 
 young : 
 No ; let me rather think her anger feign'd, 
 Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd ; 
 'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain. 
 And her heart suffer 'd when she gave me 
 
 pain." 
 Pleased with this flattering thought, the 
 
 love-sick boy 
 Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy ; 
 
Lord Lyttelton.] 
 
 TO THE EEVEEEND DE. AYSCOUGH. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 Back to his flock more cheerful he return' d, 
 When now the setting Sun more fiercely 
 
 burn'd, 
 Blue vapours rose along the mazy rills, 
 And light's last blushes tinged the distant 
 
 hnis. 
 
 Lord, Lyttelton.—JBorn 1709, Died 1773. 
 
 905.— TO THE EEVEEEND 
 DE. AYSCOUGH. 
 
 Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away ? 
 What pleasing study cheats the tedious day ? 
 Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore 
 Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore. 
 Where virtue, by the charms of wit refined. 
 At once exalts and polishes the mind ? 
 How different from our modern guilty art, 
 Which pleases only to corrupt the heart ; 
 Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn. 
 And teach to honour what we ought to. scorn ! 
 Dost thou in sage historians joy to see 
 How Eoman greatness rose with liberty : 
 How the same hands that tyrants durst 
 
 control 
 Their empire stretch' d from Atlas to the 
 
 Pole; 
 TiU wealth and conquest into slaves refined 
 The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? 
 Dost thou in letter' d Greece each charm 
 
 admire, 
 Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could 
 
 inspire ; 
 Yet in her troubled state see all the woes, 
 And all the crimes, that giddy Faction 
 
 knows ; 
 Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold. 
 Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold. 
 She sunk beneath a mitigated doom. 
 The slave and tutoress of protecting Eome ? 
 Does calm Philosophy her aid impart, 
 To guide the passions, and to mend the 
 
 heart ? 
 Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the 
 
 end 
 To which alone the wise their studies bend ; 
 For which alone by Nature were design'd 
 The i)owers of thought — to benefit mankind ? 
 Not, like a cloister' d drone, to read and doze, 
 In undeserving, undeserved repose ; 
 But reason's influence to diffuse ; to clear 
 Th' enlighten' d world of every gloomy fear ; 
 Dispel the mists of error, and unbind 
 Those pedant chains that clog the free-born 
 
 mind. 
 Happy who thus his leisure can employ ! 
 He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy ; 
 Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear, 
 Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care ; 
 Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain 
 Those Avho still float on the tempestuous 
 
 main. 
 
 So Locke the days of studious quiet spent ; 
 So Boyle in wisdom found divine content ; 
 So Cambray, worthj' of a happier doom, 
 The virtuous slave of Louis and of Eome. 
 Good Wor'ster thus supports his drooping 
 
 age, 
 Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage ; 
 He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defied. 
 Firm and intrepid on his country's side, 
 Her boldest champion then, and now her 
 
 mildest guide ! 
 O generous warmth ! O sanctity divine ! 
 To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine : 
 Learn from his life the duties of the gown ; 
 Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown ; 
 Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great, 
 Nor raise the church a rival to the state : 
 To error mild, to vice alone severe, 
 Seek not to spread the law of love by fear. 
 The priest who plagues the world can never 
 
 mend : 
 No foe to man was e'er to God a friend. 
 Let reason and let virtue faith maintain : 
 All force but theirs is impious, weak, and 
 
 vain. 
 Me other cares in other climes engage. 
 Cares that become my birth, and suit my 
 
 age ; 
 In various knowledge to improve my youth, 
 And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth ; 
 By foreign arts domestic faults to mend, 
 Enlarge my notions, and my views extend ; 
 The useful science of the world to know. 
 Which books can never teach, or pedants 
 
 show. 
 A nation here I pity and admire. 
 Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire. 
 Yet taught, by custom's force and bigot fear. 
 To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they 
 
 bear : 
 Whose nobles, born to cringe and to com- 
 mand 
 (In courts a mean, in camps a generous 
 
 band), 
 From each low tool of power content receive 
 Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe 
 
 give. 
 Whose people (vain in want, in bondage 
 
 blest ; 
 Though plunder' d, gay; industrious, though 
 
 opprest) 
 With happy follies rise above their fate. 
 The jest and envy of each wiser state. 
 
 Yet here the Muses deign' d awhile to sport 
 In the short sunshme of a favouring court : 
 Here Boileau, strong in sense and sharp in 
 
 wit. 
 Who, from the ancients, like the ancients 
 
 writ, 
 Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame. 
 By flattering incense to his master's fame. 
 Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excell'd 
 Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld ; 
 By keen, yet decent, satire skill' d to please, 
 With morals mirth uniting, strength with 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] TO THE MEMOEY OF LADY LYTTELTON. [Lord Lyttelton. 
 
 Now, charm' d, I hear the bold Corneille in- 
 spire 
 
 Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and 
 fire! 
 
 Now sweet Eacine, with milder influence, 
 move 
 
 The soften'd heart to pity and to love. 
 With mingled pain and pleasure, I survey 
 
 The pompous works of arbitrary sway ; 
 
 Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects' 
 store, 
 
 Eaised on the ruins of th' opprest and 
 poor, 
 
 Where e'en mute walls are taught to flatter 
 state, 
 
 And painted triumphs stylo Ambition 
 
 GREAT 
 
 With more delight those pleasing shades I 
 
 view, 
 Where Conde from an envious court with- 
 drew ; 
 Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and 
 
 pride, 
 (Sure judge how empty all, who all had 
 
 tried ! ) 
 Beneath Ms palms the weary chief reposed, 
 And life's great scene in quiet virtue closed. 
 With shame that other fam'd retreat I 
 
 see. 
 Adorn' d by art, disgraced by luxury : 
 Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour, 
 In the wild riot of unbounded power ; 
 AVhere feverish debauch and impious love 
 Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove. 
 With these amusements is thy friend de- 
 
 tain'd. 
 Pleased and instructed in a foreign land ; 
 Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind 
 From present joys to dearer left behind. 
 O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat ! 
 At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat ; 
 At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns. 
 And aU my country on my soul returns. 
 When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous 
 
 grain 
 No power can ravish from th' industrious 
 
 swain ? 
 When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth 
 That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth ? 
 When, in the shade of laws, that long have 
 
 stood, 
 Propt by their care, or strengthen' d by their 
 
 blood. 
 Of fairless independence wisely vain. 
 The proudest slave of Bourbon's race dis- 
 dain ? 
 Yet, oh ! what doubt, what sad presaging 
 
 voice, 
 Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice ; 
 Bids me contemplate every state around. 
 From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound ; 
 Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see : 
 And tells me, " These, like England, once 
 
 were free ! " 
 
 Lord Lyttelton.— Bo^-n 1709, Died 1773. 
 
 906. 
 
 -TO THE MEMOEY OF THE FIEST 
 LADY LYTTELTON. 
 
 At length escaped from every human eye. 
 
 From every duty, every care, 
 That in my mournful thoughts might claim a 
 
 share, 
 Or force my tears their flowing sfrenm to 
 
 dry; 
 Beneath the gloom of this embowering 
 
 shade. 
 This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, 
 I now may give my burden' d heart relief, 
 
 And pour forth all my stores of grief ; 
 Of grief surpassing every other woe, 
 Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love 
 
 Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, 
 
 Exceeds the vulgar joys that move 
 Our gross desires, inelegant and low. 
 
 Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills. 
 
 Ye high o'ershadowing hills, 
 Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, 
 
 Oft have you my Lucy seen ! 
 But never shall you now behold her more : 
 
 Nor will she now with fond delight 
 And taste refined your rural charms 
 
 explore. 
 Closed are those beauteous eyes in endless 
 
 night, 
 Those beauteous eyes where beaming used to 
 
 shine 
 Eeason's pure light and Virtue's spark 
 
 divine. 
 
 Oft would the Dryads of these woods 
 rejoice 
 To hear her heavenly voice ; 
 For her despising, when she deign'd to 
 sing, 
 The sweetest songsters of the spring : 
 The woodlark and the linnet pleased no 
 more ; 
 The nightingale was mute, 
 And every shepherd's flute 
 Was cast in silent scorn away. 
 While all attended to her sweeter lay. 
 Ye larks and linnets, now resume your 
 song. 
 And thou, melodious Philomel, 
 Again thy plaintive story tell ; 
 For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, 
 VvTiose music could alone your warbling notes 
 excel. 
 
 In vain I look around 
 O'er aU the well-known ground. 
 My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; 
 Where oft we used to walk, 
 Where oft in tender talk 
 We saw the summer Sun go down the sky ; 
 Nor by yon fountain's side, 
 Nor where its waters glide 
 Along the valley, can she now be found : 
 In all the wide-stretch' d prospect's amplo 
 bound 
 
LoKD Lyttelton.] to the MEMORY OF LADY L^TTELTON. [Sixth Period. 
 
 No more my mournful eye 
 
 "Whate'er your ancient sages taught, 
 
 Can aught of her espy, 
 
 Your ancient bards sublimely thought, 
 
 But the sad sacred earth where her dear 
 
 And bade her raptured breast with all your 
 
 relics lie. 
 
 spirit glow ? 
 
 shades of Hagley, where is now your 
 
 Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, 
 
 boast ? 
 
 Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain, 
 
 Your bright inhabitant is lost. 
 
 Nor in the Thespian valleys did you 
 
 You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts 
 
 play; 
 
 Where female vanity might wish to shine, 
 
 Nor then on Mincio's bank 
 
 The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. 
 
 Beset with osiers dank. 
 
 Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye : 
 
 Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle 
 
 To your sequester' d dales 
 
 stream. 
 
 And flower-embroider' d vales 
 
 Nor where through hanging woods 
 
 From an admiring world she chose to fly : 
 
 Steep Anio pours his floods. 
 
 With Nature there retired, and Nature's 
 
 Nor yet where Meles or Ilissus stray. 
 
 God, 
 
 Ill does it now beseem, 
 
 The silent paths of wisdom trod, 
 
 That, of your guardian care bereft. 
 
 And banish' d every passion from her breast, 
 
 To dire disease and death your darling should 
 
 But those, the gentlest and the best, 
 
 be left. 
 
 Whose holy flames with energy divine 
 
 
 The virtuous heart enliven and improve, 
 
 Now what avails it that in early bloom, 
 
 The conjugal and the maternal love. 
 
 When light fantastic toys 
 
 
 Are aU her sex's joys. 
 
 Sweet babes, who, like the little playful 
 
 With you she search' d the wit of Greece 
 
 fawns, 
 
 and Eome ; 
 
 Were wont to trip along these verdant 
 
 And aU that in her latter days 
 
 la-wns 
 
 To emulate her ancient praise 
 
 By your delighted mother's side. 
 
 Italia' s happy genius could produce; 
 
 Who now your infant steps shall guide ? 
 
 Or what the GalHc fire 
 
 Ah ! where is now the hand whose tender 
 
 Bright sparkling could inspire, 
 
 care 
 
 By all the Graces temper'd and refined ; 
 
 To every virtue would have form'd your 
 
 Or what in Britain's isle. 
 
 youth. 
 
 Most favour'd with your smile. 
 
 And strew' d with flowers the thorny ways 
 
 The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd 
 
 of trath ? 
 
 To full perfection have conspired to raise ? 
 
 loss beyond repair ! 
 
 Ah ! what is now the use 
 
 wretched father ! left alone. 
 
 Of aU these treasures that enrich'd her 
 
 To weep their dire misfortune, and thy 
 
 mind. 
 
 own ! 
 
 To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now 
 
 How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd 
 
 consign'd. 
 
 with woe, 
 
 
 And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, 
 
 At least, ye Nine, her spotless name 
 
 Perform the duties that you doubly owe ! 
 
 'T is yours from death to save. 
 
 Now she, alas ! is gone. 
 
 And in the temple of immortal Fame 
 
 From folly and from vice their helpless age 
 
 With golden characters her worth engrave. 
 
 to save ? 
 
 Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come. 
 
 
 And strew with choicest flowers her 
 
 Where were ye, Muses, when relentless 
 
 hallow' d tomb : 
 
 Fate 
 
 But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, , 
 
 From these fond arms your fair disciple 
 
 With accents sweet and sad. 
 
 tore ; 
 
 Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's 
 
 From these fond arms, that va-inly 
 
 urn 
 
 strove 
 
 Unhappy Petrarch caU'd to mourn ; . 
 
 With hapless ineffectual love 
 
 come, and to this fairer Laura pay 
 
 To guard her bosom from the mortal 
 
 A more impassion' d tear, a more pathetic 
 
 blow ? 
 
 lay. 
 
 Could not your favouring power, 
 
 
 Aonian maids, 
 
 Tell how each beauty of her mind and face 
 
 Could not, alas I your power prolong her 
 
 Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar 
 
 date. 
 
 grace ! 
 
 For whom so oft in these inspiring 
 
 How eloquent in every look 
 
 shades, 
 
 Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly 
 
 Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains 
 
 spoke ! 
 
 hoar, 
 
 Tell how her manners, by the world refined, 
 
 You open'd all your sacred store, 
 
 Left all the taint of modish vice behind. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] TO THE MEMOEY OP LADY LYTTELTOK ' [Lord Lyttelton. 
 
 And made each charm of polish' d courts 
 
 agree 
 With ca»did Truth's simplicity, 
 And uncorrupted Innocence ! 
 Tell how to more than manly sense 
 She join'd the softening influence 
 Of more than female tenderness : 
 How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and 
 
 joy, 
 Which oft the care of others' good destroy, 
 Her kindly-melting heart. 
 To every want and every woe. 
 To guilt itself when in distress. 
 The balm of pity would impart. 
 And all relief that bounty could bestow ! 
 Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life 
 Beneath the bloody knife, 
 Her gentle tears would fall, 
 Tears from sweet Virtue's soiurce, benevolent 
 to all. 
 
 Not only good and kind. 
 But strong and elevated was her mind : 
 
 A spirit that with noble pride 
 
 Could look superior down 
 
 On Fortune's smile or fro-wn ; 
 That could without regret or pain 
 To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice 
 Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize ; 
 That, injured or offended, never tried 
 Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, 
 But by magnanimous disdain. 
 A wit that, temperately bright. 
 
 With inoffensive light 
 
 All pleasing shone ; nor ever past 
 The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober 
 
 hand, 
 
 And sweet Benevolence's mild command, ; 
 And bashful Modesty, before it cast. j 
 
 A prudence undeceiving, undeceived, j 
 
 That nor too little nor too much believed, 
 That scorn' d unjust Suspicion's coward 
 
 fear, 
 And without weakness knew to be sincere. 
 Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, j 
 Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise. 
 
 In life's and glory's freshest bloom, 
 Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to 
 the tomb. 
 
 So, where the silent streams of Liris glide. 
 In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, 
 When now the wintry tempests all are 
 
 fled, 
 And genial Summer breathes her gentle 
 
 gale, 
 The verdant orange lifts its beauteous 
 
 head : j 
 
 Erom every branch the balmj'- flowerets [ 
 
 rise, i 
 
 On every bough the golden fruits are j 
 
 seen ; j 
 
 With odours sweet it fills the smiling i 
 
 skies, 
 The wood-nymphs tend, and th' Idalian 
 
 queen. | 
 
 But, in the midst of all its blooming 
 
 pride, 
 A sudden blast from Apenninus blows. 
 Cold with perpetual snows : 
 The tender blighted plant shrinks up italeaves, 
 and dies. 
 
 Arise, O Petrarch, from th' ElysTan bowers, 
 With never-fading myrtles twined, 
 And fragrant with ambrosial flowers, 
 Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd ; 
 Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre, 
 
 Tuned, by thy skilful hand. 
 To the soft notes of elegant desire. 
 
 With which o'er many a land 
 Was spread the fame of thy disastrous 
 love; 
 To me resign the vocal shell, 
 And teach my sorrows to relate 
 Their melancholy tale so well. 
 As may ev'n things inanimate, 
 Eough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to 
 pity move. 
 
 What were, alas ! thy woes compared to 
 
 mine? 
 To thee thy mistress in the blissful 
 band 
 Of Hymen never gave her hand ; 
 The joys of wedded love were never 
 thine : 
 In thy domestic care 
 She never bore a share. 
 Nor with endearing art 
 Would heal thy wounded heart 
 Of every secret grief that fester' d there : 
 Nor did her fond affection on the bed 
 Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid 
 
 head 
 Whole nights on her unwearied arm 
 sustain. 
 And charm away the sense of pain : 
 Nor did she crown your mutual flame 
 With pledges dear, and with a father's tender 
 name. 
 
 O best of wives ! O dearer far to me 
 Than when thy virgin charms 
 Were yielded to my arms. 
 How can my soul endure the loss of 
 
 thee? 
 How in the world, to me a desert gTown, 
 
 Abandon' d and alone. 
 Without my sweet companion can I 
 live? 
 Without thy lovely smile, 
 The dear reward of every virtuous toil, 
 What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition 
 
 give ? 
 Ev'n the delightful sense of weU-earn'd 
 praise, 
 Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts 
 could raise. 
 
 For my distracted mind 
 What succour can I find ? 
 
Gray.] 
 
 A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 On whom for consolation shall I call ? 
 Support me, every friend ; 
 Your kind assistance lend, 
 To bear the weight of this oppressive 
 woe. 
 Alas ! each friend of mine, 
 My dear departed love, so much was 
 
 thine, 
 That none has any comfort to bestow. 
 My books, the best relief 
 In every other grief, 
 Are now with your idea sadden' d aU : 
 Each favourite author we together read 
 My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of 
 Lucy dead. 
 
 We were the happiest pair of human 
 
 kind : 
 The rolUng year its varying course per- 
 form' d. 
 And back return' d again ; 
 Another and another smiling came. 
 And saw our happiness unchanged remain : 
 
 Still in her golden chain 
 Harmonious Concord did our wishes 
 bind : 
 Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. 
 O fatal, fatal stroke. 
 That all this pleasing fabric Love had 
 raised 
 Of rare felicity, 
 On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy 
 
 gazed. 
 And every scheme of bliss our hearts had 
 
 form'd, 
 "With soothing hope, for many a future 
 day, 
 In one sad moment broke ! — 
 Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs 
 
 stay; 
 Nor dare the all- wise Disposer to arraign. 
 
 Or against his supreme decree 
 - With impious grief complain. 
 That all thy full-blown joys at once 
 should fade, 
 Was his most righteous will — and be that 
 wiU obey'd. 
 
 Would thy fond love his grace to her 
 
 control, 
 And in these low abodes of sin and pain 
 
 Her pure exalted soul 
 Unjustly for thy partial good detain ? 
 No — rather strive thy grovelling mind to 
 raise 
 Up to that unclouded blaze. 
 That heavenly radiance of eternal light. 
 In which enthroned she now with pity 
 
 sees 
 How frail, how insecure, how slight, 
 
 Is every mortal bhss ; 
 Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees 
 Beyond the bounds of this imperfect 
 state. 
 Whose fleeting joys so soon must end. 
 It does not to its sovereign good ascend. 
 
 Rise then, my soul, with hope elate. 
 And seek those regions of serene delight, 
 Whose peaceful path and ever^open gate 
 No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall 
 
 miss. 
 There death himself thy Lucy shall restore, 
 Tliere yield up all his power ne'er to divide 
 you more. 
 
 Lord Lyttelton. — Born 1709, Died 1773. 
 
 907.— ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 OF ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 
 
 That crown the watery glade. 
 Where grateful science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey ; 
 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers 
 among 
 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 His silver- winding way ! 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood stray' d', 
 
 A stranger yet to pain : 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 As, waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race, 
 Disporting on thy margent green, 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace, 
 "Wlio foremost now delight to cleave 
 I With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 
 The captive linnet which inthral ? 
 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 
 
 While some on earnest business bent 
 
 Their murmuring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty ; 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign. 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 
 StUl as they run, they look behind ; 
 
 They hear a voice in every Avind, 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed. 
 
 Less pleasing when possess'd ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed. 
 
 The sunshine of the breast. 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 
 Wild wit, invention ever new. 
 
rm»i 1727^0 1780.] 
 
 THE BAED. 
 
 [Gray. 
 
 And lively cheer of vigour born ; 
 
 Tiie thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, » 
 
 That fly the approach of morn. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom, 
 
 The little victims play ; 
 No sense have they of ills to come. 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day ; 
 Yet see how all around 'em wait 
 The ministers of human fate, 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train. 
 
 Ah ! show them where in ambush stand, 
 
 To seize their prey, the murth'rous band ; 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind. 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth. 
 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 
 Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
 And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, 
 That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen. 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen : 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
 That every labouring sinew strains, 
 Those in the deepei vitals rage : 
 
 Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 And slow-consuming Age. 
 
 To each his suff'erings : all are men, 
 
 Condemn' d alike to groan ; 
 The tender for another's pain, 
 
 The unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
 Since sorrow never comos too late, 
 And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 
 No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
 'Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain. 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain. 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and 
 alone. 
 
 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 
 Virtue, his darling child, design^, - 
 To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 
 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged nurse, thy rigid lore 
 i With patience many a year she bore : 
 i What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
 ! And from her own she learn' d to melt at 
 
 ' others' woe. 
 
 I 
 
 j Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
 j Self -pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
 
 j Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 I And leave us leisure to be good. 
 
 j Light they disperse, and with them go 
 
 j The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 
 
 ! By vain Prosperity received, 
 
 ! To her they vow their truth, and are again 
 believed. 
 
 ; Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, 
 
 i Immersed in rapturous thought profound. 
 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 
 With leaden eye, that lovdfe the ground. 
 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
 
 Warm Charity, the general friend, 
 
 With Justice, to herself severe, 
 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing 
 j tear. 
 
 ; Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 { Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand I 
 ; Not in thy gorgon terrors clad, 
 i Nor circled with the vengeful band 
 (As by the impious thou art seen). 
 With thundering voice, and threatening mien. 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 
 
 Thy form benign, oh goddess ! wear. 
 
 Thy milder influence impart. 
 Thy philosophic train be there. 
 
 To soften, not to wound, my heart.. 
 The generous spark extinct revive ; 
 Teach me to love and to forgive ; 
 Exact my own defects to scan. 
 What others are, to feel, and know myself a 
 man. 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
 908.— HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power. 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 
 Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour, 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 
 909.— THE BARD. 
 
 " Ruin seize thee, rathless king, 
 Confusion on thy banners' wait ; 
 
 Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing. 
 They mock the air with idle state. 
 
 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 
 
 Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall a■^•'^.^.l 
 
THE BAED. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 
 From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's 
 
 tears ! " 
 Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested 
 
 pride 
 Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 
 As down the steep of Snowdon's shag^ side 
 He wound with toilsome march his long 
 
 arraj'. 
 Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless 
 
 trance ; 
 "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and coucli'd 
 
 his quivering lance. 
 
 On a rock, whose haughty brow 
 
 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
 Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
 
 With haggard eyes the poet stood 
 (Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
 Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air ) ; 
 And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 
 Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
 " Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave. 
 
 Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
 O'er thee, oh king ! their hundred arms thej'' 
 wave, 
 
 E«venge on thee in hoarser murmurs 
 breathe ; 
 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day. 
 To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's 
 lay. 
 
 Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
 
 That hushed the stormy main : 
 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 
 
 Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
 Modred, whose magic song 
 Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped 
 
 head. 
 On dreary Arvon's shore they lie. 
 
 Smear' d with gore, and ghastly pale : 
 
 Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; 
 The famish' d eagle screams, and passes by. 
 Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 
 
 Dear as the light that visits these sad 
 eyes. 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
 heart, 
 
 Ye died amidst your dying countrj^'s cries — 
 No more I Aveep. They do not sleep. 
 
 On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
 I see them sit ; they linger yet. 
 
 Avengers of their native land : 
 With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of 
 thy line." 
 
 " Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
 The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 
 Give ample room, and verge enough 
 
 The characters of hell to trace. 
 Mark the year, and mark the night, 
 When Severn shall re-echo with affright, 
 The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof 
 
 that ring. 
 Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
 
 She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
 That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled 
 toiate. 
 From thee be bom, who o'er thy country- 
 hangs 
 The scourge of heaven ! What terrors 
 round liim wait ! 
 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined. 
 And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude be- 
 hind. 
 
 Mighty victor, mighty lord, 
 
 Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
 No pitjdng heart, no eye afford 
 A tear to grace his obsequies. 
 Is the sable warrior fled ? 
 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
 The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were 
 
 bom ? 
 Gone to salute the rising mom. 
 Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr 
 blows. 
 While proudly riding o'er the azure realm. 
 In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 
 
 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 
 helm ; 
 Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 
 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his 
 evening prey. 
 
 Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
 
 The rich repast prepare ; 
 Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
 
 Close by the regal chair 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 A baleful smile ui)on their baffled guest. 
 Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
 
 Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 
 
 Long years of havoc urge their destined 
 course. 
 And through the kindred squadrons mow their 
 
 way. 
 Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. 
 
 With many a foul and midnight murder 
 fed, 
 Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame. 
 
 And spare the meek tisurper's holy head I 
 Above, below, the rose of snow. 
 Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
 The bristled boar in infant gore 
 
 Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
 Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed 
 
 loom. 
 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
 doom. 
 
 ' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
 
 (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). 
 Half of thy heart we consecrate 
 (The web is wove. The work is done).' 
 Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
 Leave mo unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn ; 
 In yon bright tract, that fires the western 
 
 skies. 
 They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] ELi^GY YvKiTTEN IN A COUNTRY CHIJECHYAED. 
 
 [Geay. 
 
 But oh ! what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's 
 height 
 Descending slow, their glittering skirts 
 unroll ? 
 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ; 
 
 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
 No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
 All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue 
 hail! 
 
 Girt with many a baron bold, 
 
 SubHme their staiTy fronts they rear ; 
 
 And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, 
 In bearded majesty appear. 
 
 In the midst a form divine ! 
 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-linc ; 
 
 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
 
 Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
 
 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
 
 What strains of vocal transport round her 
 play ! 
 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ! 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 
 Bright rapture calls, and soaring as she 
 sings. 
 
 Waves in the eye of Heaven her many- 
 coloured wings. 
 
 The verse adorn again 
 
 Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
 And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. 
 
 In buskined measures move 
 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
 With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 A voice as of the cherub-choir, 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
 
 And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
 That, lost in long futurity, expire. 
 Fond, impious man, think' st thou yon san- 
 guine cloud, 
 
 Raised by thy breath, has quench' d the orb 
 of day ? 
 To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
 
 And warms the nations Avith redoubled ray. 
 Enough for me : with joy I see 
 
 The different doom our Fates assign, 
 ^e thine Despair, and sceptred Care ; 
 
 To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
 He spoke, and headlong from the mountain' s 
 
 height, 
 Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 
 night. 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
 910.— ELEGY WEITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
 
 The lo-wing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
 way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to 
 me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
 sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
 flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
 folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled to^\^r, 
 The moping owl does to the moon com- 
 plain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
 shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a moulder- 
 ing heap. 
 Each in his narrow ceU for ever laid. 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 The swallow twittering from the straw- 
 built shed, 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
 bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
 burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 
 share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
 broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 
 gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour. : — 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, unpute to these the 
 fault. 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
 raise, 
 Wliere through the long-draANTi aisle and 
 fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of 
 praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
 breath ? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
 Death ? 
 
Gbay.J 
 
 ELEGY WEITTEN IN A COUNTEY CHUECHYAED. [Sixth Peeiod.- 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial 
 fire: 
 Hands that the rod of empire might hare 
 sway'd, 
 Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre : 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Eich with the spoils of time did ne'er 
 unroll ; 
 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene. 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless 
 breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's 
 blood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to com- 
 mand, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their grooving virtues, but their crimes 
 confined ; 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
 throne. 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
 hide, 
 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool sequester' d vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
 way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 deck'd. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the un- 
 letter'd muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey. 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er lesign'd. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 
 Even from the tomb the voice of nature 
 cries, 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd 
 dead. 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale 
 relate ; 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 "Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
 dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 
 high. 
 His listless length at noontide would he 
 stretch. 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would 
 rove; 
 Now drooping, wofu^l, wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with" care, or cross'd in hopeless 
 love. 
 
 One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
 Along the heatii and near his favourite 
 tree ; 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. . 
 
 The next, with dirges due in sad array, 
 
 Slow through the churchway path we saw 
 him borne ; 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the 
 lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
 thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame un- 
 known ; 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble 
 birth. 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere. 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, 
 He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all ho wish'd) 
 a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread 
 abode 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose). 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 AN ODE FEOM CAEACTACUS. 
 
 [Mason. 
 
 911.— ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The attic warbler pours her throat, 
 Eesponsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 The untaught harmony of Spring : 
 "While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
 Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gather'd fragrance fling. 
 
 Wliere'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade ; 
 "Where'er the rude and moss-grown beach 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade. 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care : 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows I 
 The insect youth are on the wing. 
 Eager to taste the honey' d spring, 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some Hghtly o'er the current skim, 
 Some show their gaily-gilded trim 
 
 Quick glancing to the Sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter through life's little day, 
 
 In Fortune's varying colours drest : 
 Brush' d by the hand of rough Mischance ; 
 Or chill' d by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 
 The sportive kind reply ; 
 " Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
 
 No painted plumage to display : 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown : 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 
 
 We frolic while 't is May." 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
 912.— ON VICISSITUDE. 
 
 Now the golden morn aloft 
 Waves her dew-bespangled wing. 
 With vermil cheek, and whisper soft, 
 She woos the tardy spring : 
 
 Till April starts and calls around 
 The sleeping fragrance from the ground ; 
 And lightly o'er the living scene 
 Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 
 
 New-born flocks, in rustic dance, - _ 
 Frisking ply their feeble feet ; 
 Forgetful of their wint'ry trance 
 The birds his presence greet : 
 But chief the sky-lark warbles high 
 His trembling thrilling ecstacy; 
 And, lessening from the dazzled sight, 
 Melts into air and liquid light. 
 
 Yesterday the sullen year 
 Saw the snowy whirlwind fly ; 
 Mute was the music of the air, 
 The herd stood drooping by : 
 Their raptures now that wildly flow, 
 No yesterday, nor morrow know ; 
 'Tis man alone that joy descries 
 With forward and reverted eyes. 
 
 Smiles on past misfortune's brow, 
 Soft reflection's hand can trace ; 
 And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw 
 A melancholy grace : 
 While hope prolongs our happier hour ; 
 Or deepest shades that dimly lower 
 And blacken round our weary way, 
 Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 
 
 Still, where rosy pleasure leads. 
 See a kindred grief pursue ; 
 Behind the steps that misery treads 
 Approaching comfort view : 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow. 
 Chastised by sabler tints of woe ; 
 And blended form, with artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 See the wretch, that long has tost 
 On the thorny bed of pain, 
 At length repair his vigour lost. 
 And breathe, and walk again : 
 The meanest floweret of the vale, 
 The simplest note that swells the gale. 
 The common sun, the air, the skies. 
 To him are opening Paradise. 
 
 Humble Quiet builds her cell 
 Near the course where pleasure flows ; 
 She eyes the clear crystalline well, 
 And tastes it as it goes. 
 
 * # # 
 
 Gray.— Born 1716, Died 1771. 
 
 913.— AN ODE FEOM CAEACTACUS. 
 
 Mona on Snowdon calls : 
 Hear, thou king of mountains, hear ; 
 Hark, she speaks from all her strings : 
 Hark, her loudest echo rings ; 
 King of mountains, bend thine ear : 
 
 44 
 
Mason.] 
 
 ODE TO MEMOEY. 
 
 [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Send thy spirits, send them soon, 
 
 Now, when midnight and the moon 
 Meet upon thy front of snow ; 
 
 See their gold and ebon rod. 
 
 Where the sober sisters nod. 
 And greet in whispers sage and slow. 
 Snowdon, mark ! 'tis magic's hour. 
 Now the mutter' d spell hath power ; 
 Power to rend thy ribs of rock, 
 And burst thy base with thunder's shock : 
 But to thee no ruder spell 
 Shall Mona use, than those that dwell 
 In music's secret cells, and lie 
 Steep' d in the stream of harmony. 
 
 Snowdon has heard the strain : 
 Hark, amid the wondering grove 
 
 Other harpings answer clear, 
 
 Other voices meet our ear, 
 Pinions flutter, shadows move, 
 
 Busy murmurs hum around, 
 
 Bustling vestments brush the ground ; 
 Bound and round, and round they go. 
 
 Through the twilight, through the shade, 
 
 Mount the oak's majestic head, 
 And gild the tufted mistletoe. 
 Cease, ye glittering race of light, 
 Close your wings, and check your flight ; 
 Here, arranged in order due. 
 Spread your robes of saffron hue ; 
 For lo ! with more than mortal fire, 
 Mighty Mador smites the lyre : 
 Hark, he sweeps the master-strings ; 
 Listen all 
 
 Mason. — Born 1725, Died 1797. 
 
 914.— ODE TO MEMOEY. 
 
 Mother of "Wisdom ! thou, Avhose sway 
 
 The throng' d ideal hosts obey ; 
 
 Who bidd'st their ranks, now vanish, now 
 appear, 
 
 Flame in the van, or darken in the rear ; 
 Accept this votive verse. Thy reign 
 Nor place can fix, nor power restrain. 
 
 All, all is thine. For thee the ear, and eye, 
 
 Bove through the realms of grace, and 
 harmony : 
 The senses thee spontaneous serve. 
 That wake, and thrill through ev'ry 
 
 Else vainly soft, loved Philomel ! would 
 
 flow 
 The soothing sadness of thy warbled woe : 
 Else vainly sweet yon woodbine shade 
 With clouds of fragrance fill the glade ; 
 Vainly, the cygnet spread her downy plume, 
 The vine gush nectar, and the virgin bloom. 
 But swift to thee, alive and warm, 
 Devolves each tributary charm : 
 See modest Nature bring her simple stores, 
 Luxuriant Art exhaust her plastic powers ; 
 
 While every flower in Fancy's clime, 
 
 Each gem of old heroic time, 
 Cull'd by the hand of the industrious Muse, 
 Around thy shrine their blended beams 
 diffuse. 
 
 Hail, Mem'ry ! hail. Behold, I lead 
 To that high shrine the sacred maid : 
 Thy daughter she, the empress of the lyre, 
 The first, the fairest, of Aonia's quire. 
 
 She comes, and lo, thy realms expand ! 
 She takes her delegated stand 
 Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous 
 
 train 
 Displays the awful wonders of her reign. 
 There throned supreme in native state, 
 If Sirius flame with fainting heat. 
 She calls ; ideal groves their shade extend, 
 The cool gale breathes, the silent showers 
 descend. 
 Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round. 
 Disrobe the trees, and chill the ground, 
 She, mild magician, waves her potent wand. 
 And ready summers wake at her command. 
 See, visionary suns arise 
 Through silver clouds and azure skies ; 
 See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams ; 
 Through shadowy brakes light glance the 
 sparkling beams : 
 While, near the secret moss-grown cave, 
 That stands beside the crj'stal wave. 
 Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, 
 Mimics the feather' d chorus o'er her head. 
 
 Eise, hallow'd Milton ! rise, and say. 
 How, at thy gloomy close of day, 
 How, when " deprest by age, beset with 
 
 wrongs : " 
 When " fall'n on evil days and evil tongues ; " 
 When darkness, brooding on thy sight, 
 Exil'd the sov'reign lamp of light ; 
 Say, what could then one cheering hope 
 
 diffuse ? 
 What friends were thine, save Mem'ry and 
 the Muse ? 
 Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth 
 Caught from the stores of ancient truth : 
 Hence all thy classic wand'rings could ex- 
 plore. 
 When rapture led thee to the Latian shore ; 
 Each scene, that Tiber's banks supplied; 
 Each grace, that played on Arno's side ; 
 The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that 
 
 fly.: 
 The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky ; 
 Were still thine own ; thy ample mind 
 Each charm received, retain' d, combined. 
 And thence " the nightly visitant," that 
 
 came 
 To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame, 
 Eecall'd the long-lost beams of grace. 
 That whilom shot from Nature's face, 
 When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast 
 Spread with his own right hand Perfection's 
 gorgeous vest. 
 
 Mason. — Born 1725, Died 1797. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 915.— EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN 
 THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds 
 dear: 
 Take that best gift which heaven so lately 
 gave : 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling 
 care 
 Her faded form ; she bow'd to taste the 
 wave, 
 And died ! Does youth, does beauty, read the 
 line? 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
 Even from the grave thou shalt have power 
 to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free ; 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 
 ('Twas even to thee) yet the dread path 
 once trod. 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 
 And bids " the pure in heart behold their 
 God." 
 
 • 
 Mason. — Bom 1725, IHed 1797. 
 
 916.— EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 
 
 " Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way. 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 With fainting steps and slow ; 
 
 Where wilds immeasurably spread, 
 Seem lengthening as I go." 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 
 For yonder phantom only flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 Here, to the houseless child of want, 
 
 My door is open still : 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good wiU. 
 
 Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 No flocks that range the valley free. 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them. 
 
 But from the mountain's grassy side, 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 His gentle accents fell ; - __ _ 
 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure. 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire. 
 
 To take their evening rest. 
 The hermit trimm'd his little fire. 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gaily press'd and smiled j 
 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth. 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 
 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart, 
 To soothe the stranger's woe : 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the hermit spied, 
 With answering care opprest : 
 
 " And whence, tmhappy youth," he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 From better habitations spurn' d. 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 And what is friendship but a name : 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ! 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep ! 
 
 And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modem fair-one's jest , 
 On earth imseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex," he said : 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray' d. ^^^ 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 EETALIATION. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view, 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bri?:;ht, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast. 
 
 Alternate spread alarms ; 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 " And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried, 
 
 " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
 But let a maid thy pity share. 
 Whom love has taught to stray : 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 
 
 Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bov/'d, 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 In humblest, simplest habit clad. 
 No wealth nor power had he : 
 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had ; 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could naught of purity display, 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 The dew, the blossoms of the tree. 
 With charms inconstant shine : 
 
 Their charms were his ; but, woe to me, 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch' d my heart, 
 
 I triumph' d in his pain. 
 
 Till quite dejected with my scorn. 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a sohtude forlorn. 
 
 In secret, where he died ! 
 
 But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 And well my life shall pay : 
 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die : 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for him will I-" 
 
 " Forbid it. Heaven ! " the hermit cried, 
 
 And clasp' d her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one tnrn'd to chide : 
 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest ! 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear. 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Kestored to love and thee. 
 
 Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life — my all that's mine ? 
 
 No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
 Goldsmith.— Born 1728, Died 1774. 
 
 9 1 7.— EETALIATION. 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast 
 
 was united. 
 If our landlord supplies us with beef and with 
 
 fish. 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings 
 
 the best dish : 
 Our dean shall be ven'son, just fresh from the 
 
 plains ; 
 Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish 
 
 of brains ; 
 Our WiU shall be wild fovd, of excellent 
 
 flavour : 
 And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the 
 
 savour : 
 Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall 
 
 obtain ; 
 And Douglas is pudding, substantial and 
 
 plain : 
 Our Garrick's a salad ; for in him Vv'e sec 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
 That Eidge is anchovy, and Eeynolds is 
 
 lamb ; 
 That Hickey 's a capon ; and, by the same 
 
 rule, 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the 
 
 last? 
 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm 
 
 able. 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my 
 
 head. 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the 
 dead. 
 H6re lies the good dean, re-united to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom 
 with mirth : 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 EETALIATIOX. 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
 At least in six weeks I could not find them 
 
 out; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be de- 
 nied 'em, 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 
 
 'em. 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius 
 
 was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too 
 
 much; 
 "Who, bom for the universe, narrow'd his 
 
 mind. 
 And to party gave up what was meant for 
 
 mankind ; 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet strain- 
 ing his throat 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him 
 
 a vote ; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on 
 
 refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought 
 
 of dining ; 
 Though equal to all things, for all things 
 
 unfit ; 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 
 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge dis- 
 obedient ; 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the 
 
 expedient. 
 In short, 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in 
 
 place, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a 
 
 razor. 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was 
 
 a mint. 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good 
 
 that was in 't ; 
 The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
 His conduct still right, with his argument 
 
 wrong ; 
 Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove 
 
 home ; 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had 
 
 none; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults 
 
 were his own. 
 Here Hes honest Eichard, whose fate I must 
 
 sigh at ; 
 Alas I that such frolic should now be so 
 
 quiet : 
 What spirits were his 1 what wit and what 
 
 whim, 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a 
 
 Hmb! 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the 
 
 ball! 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at 
 
 all! 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 That we wish'd him full ten times a day at 
 
 old Nick ; 
 , But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 I A.s often we wish'd to have Dick back 
 
 again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his 
 
 parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of 
 
 hearts : 
 A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they 
 
 are. — 
 
 His gallants are all faultless, his womdh 
 
 divine. 
 And Comedy wonders at being so fine : 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out. 
 Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows 
 
 proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their faiKngs, alone, 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their 
 
 own. 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
 Or wherefore his characters thus -vvithout 
 
 fault ? 
 Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them 
 
 few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to 
 
 relax. 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of 
 
 quacks : 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking 
 
 divines, 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your 
 
 tyrant reclines : 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne ; 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own : 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 Our Dodds shaU be pious, our Kenricks shall 
 
 lecture ; 
 Macpherson write bombast, and call it a 
 
 style ; 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall 
 
 compile ; 
 New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall 
 
 cross over. 
 No countryman living their tricks to dis- 
 cover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat 
 
 in the dark. 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe him who 
 
 can, 
 Aij abridgement of all that was pleasant in 
 
 man : 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ! 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent 
 
 heart, 
 The man had his failings — a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he 
 
 spread. 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural 
 
 red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 'T was only that when he was off he was 
 
 acting. 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 THE TRAVELLED. 
 
 [Sixth Period.— 
 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his 
 
 way, 
 Ho turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly 
 
 sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and 
 
 trick : 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his 
 
 pack. 
 For he knew when he pleased he could wliistle 
 
 them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow' d what 
 
 came. 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for 
 
 fame; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to 
 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly 
 
 steering. 
 When they judged without skill he was still 
 
 hard of hearing ; 
 When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Cor- 
 
 reggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 
 
 GoUsraith.—Bo-ni 1728, Died 1774. 
 
 Who pepper' d the highest was surest to 
 
 please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our 
 
 mind, 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so 
 
 grave, 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got 
 
 and you gave ! 
 How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that 
 
 you raised. 
 While he was be-Roscius'd, and yon were be- 
 
 praised ! 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his 
 
 skill 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will : 
 Old Shakspere receive him with praise and 
 
 with love, 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys 
 
 above. 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant 
 
 creature. 
 And slander itself must allow Mm good- 
 nature : 
 He cherish' d lus friend, and be relish'd a 
 
 bumper : 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a 
 
 thumper. 
 Perhaps yoii may ask if the man v, a 
 
 miser ? 
 I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, , 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
 Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and 
 
 burn ye, — 
 He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my 
 
 mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand. 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and 
 
 bland ; 
 Still bom to improve us in every part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; 
 
 918.— THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ! 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the 
 
 door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
 My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : 
 Still to my brother turns with ceaseless 
 
 pain. 
 And drags at each remove a length'ning 
 
 chain. 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints at- 
 tend ; 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests 
 
 retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning 
 
 fire; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty 
 
 crown'd. 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never 
 
 fail. 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to 
 
 share. 
 My prime of life in wand' ring spent and 
 
 care ; 
 Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the 
 
 view; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and 
 
 skies. 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And placed on high above the storm's career. 
 Look downward where a hundred realms 
 
 appear ; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler 
 
 pride. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE TRAVELLEE. 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 "V^lien thus creation's charms around com- 
 bine, 
 Amidst the store, should thankless pride 
 
 repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That g-ood which makes each humbler bosom . 
 
 vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glitt'ring towns, ynth wealth and splen- 
 dour crown' d, 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion 
 
 round, 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry 
 
 vale, 
 For me your tributary stores combine ; 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is 
 
 mine. 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it 
 
 o'er, 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting 
 
 still ; 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. 
 Pleased with each good that Heav'n to man 
 
 supplies ; 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 And oft I Avish, amidst the scene to find 
 Some spot to real happiness consign' d, 
 Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at 
 
 rest, 
 May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 
 But where to find that happiest spot 
 
 below. 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his 
 
 own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
 The naked Negro, panting at the Line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy 
 
 wine. 
 Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave, 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they 
 
 gave. 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we 
 
 roam. 
 His first, best country, ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries wo compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share. 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom 
 
 find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind : 
 As diff 'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n 
 To diff' rent nations, makes their blessings 
 
 ev'n. 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
 Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's clifi' as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 
 And though the rocky-crested summits 
 
 frown. 
 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of 
 
 down. 
 From art more various are the blessings 
 
 sent ; 
 Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content : 
 Yet these each other's pow'r ^o ^strong 
 
 contest. 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, content- 
 ment fails ; 
 And honour sinks where commerce long 
 
 prevails. 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing 
 
 prone. 
 Conforms and models life to that alone : 
 Each to the favourite happiness attends. 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 Till, carried to excess in each domain. 
 This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer 
 
 eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it 
 
 lies : 
 Here for awhile, my proper cares resign' d, 
 Here lot me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast. 
 That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry 
 
 blast. 
 Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends : 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's 
 
 side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mould'ring tops 
 
 between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found. 
 That proudly rise or humbly court the 
 
 ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied 
 
 year; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal hves, that blossom but to die ; 
 These here disporting own the kindred soil. 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 "While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling 
 
 land. 
 But small the bliss that sense alone 
 
 bestows. 
 And sensual bKss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles 
 
 here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners 
 
 reign; 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, 
 
 vain; 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet un- 
 true ; 
 And ev'n in penance planning sins anew. 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 THE TRAVELLEE. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod. — 
 
 All evils here contaminate the mind, 
 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 
 For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the 
 
 date, 
 When commerce proudly flourish' d thro' the 
 
 state ; 
 At her command the palace learnt to rise, 
 Again the long- f all' n cokimn sought the 
 
 skies ; 
 The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature 
 
 warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human 
 
 form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display' d her 
 
 sail ; 
 Wliile nought remain'd of all that riches 
 
 gave. 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a 
 
 slave : 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless 
 
 skill, 
 Its former strengtlx was but plethoric ill= 
 Yet still the loss of wealth is here sup- 
 plied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former 
 
 pride ; 
 Erom these the feeble heart and long-fall'n 
 
 mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : 
 Processions form'd for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares be- 
 guiled. 
 The sports of children satisfy the child : 
 Each nobler aim, represt by long control. 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
 As in those domes, where Cesars once bore 
 
 sway. 
 Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
 The shelter- seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
 And, wond'ring man could want the larger 
 
 pile, 
 Exidts, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 My soul, turn from them, turn we to 
 
 survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
 Where the bleak SavIss their stormy mansions 
 
 tread. 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
 No product here the barren hills afford 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his 
 
 sword : 
 No vernal blooms their torjDid rocks array, 
 But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May : 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms 
 
 invest. 
 Yet still, e'en here content can spread a 
 
 charm, 
 Eedress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' 
 
 small. 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head. 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet 
 
 deal, 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful at morn, he wakes ' from short 
 
 repose, 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he 
 
 goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls tho finny deep, 
 Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the 
 
 steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark 
 
 the way. 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round 
 
 surveys 
 His children's looks, that brighten at the 
 
 blaze ; 
 While his loved partner, boastful of lier 
 
 hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
 And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those hiUs, that round his mansion 
 
 rise. 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
 And dear that liill which lifts him to the 
 
 storms ; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's 
 
 breast. 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's 
 
 roar. 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 Such are the charms to barren states 
 
 assign' d : 
 Their wants but few, their -wishes all confined: 
 Yet let them only share the praises due. 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are biit 
 
 few ; 
 For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest • 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science 
 
 flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures 
 
 cloy. 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
 Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to 
 
 flame. 
 Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the 
 
 frame. 
 Their level life is but a mould' ring fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong 
 
 desire ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE TEAVELLEE. 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high, festival of once a j^ear, 
 In -svild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely 
 
 flow ; 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but 
 
 low; 
 Tor, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run ; 
 And love's and friendship's finely pointed 
 
 dart 
 Falls blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's 
 
 breast 
 May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest : 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm 
 
 the way, 
 These, far dispersed, on tim'rous pinions 
 
 fly, 
 
 To ?port and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners 
 
 reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright 
 
 domain : 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 
 
 please, 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring 
 
 Loire ! 
 AVhere shading elms along the margin 
 
 gi-ew. 
 And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr 
 
 flew : 
 And haply, though my harsh touch, fait' ring 
 
 stiU, 
 But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dariber's 
 
 skill ; 
 Yet would the village praise my wond'rous 
 
 pow'r. 
 And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
 Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children thro' the mirthful 
 
 maze ; 
 And the gay grandsire, skiU'd in gestic 
 
 lore. 
 Has fnsk'd beneath the burthen of three- 
 score. 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms 
 
 display, 
 Thus idly busy roUs their world away : 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind 
 
 endear, 
 For honour forms the social temper here : 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts, in splendid trafiic, round the land : 
 From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 And aU are taught an avarice of praise ; 
 They please, are pleased, they give to get 
 
 esteem. 
 Tin, seeming blest, they grow to what they 
 
 seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their foUies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly 
 
 sought. 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry'art, 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools 
 
 impart ; 
 Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper 
 
 lace ; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a 
 
 year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion 
 
 draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the 
 
 land, 
 And. sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift t he tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry 
 
 roar, 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 
 While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath liim 
 
 smile : 
 The slow canal, the yeUow-blossom'd vaJe, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding saU, 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected 
 
 soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil. 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that; 
 
 springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure 
 
 brings. 
 Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth 
 
 imparts 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud 
 
 appear. 
 E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
 Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 
 And, calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the 
 
 storm. 
 Heav'ns ! how unlike their Belgic sires of 
 
 old ! 
 Eough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each 
 
 brow ; 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 THE TEAVELLEE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her 
 
 wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western 
 
 spring ; 
 Wliere lawns extend that scorn Arcadian 
 
 pride. 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspis 
 
 glide ; 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind ; 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her 
 
 state, 
 With daring aims irregularly great ; 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
 Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
 By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's 
 
 hand, 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 True to imagined right, above control ; 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to 
 
 scan. 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
 
 here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and 
 
 endear ; 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
 But foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; 
 That independence Britons prize too high. 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the socisd 
 
 tie; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life 
 
 unknown ; 
 Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
 Eeprest ambition struggles round her shore ; 
 Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels. 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties 
 
 decay. 
 As duty, love, and honour, fail to sway. 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and 
 
 law, 
 Still gather strength, and force un-\villing 
 
 awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
 Till time may come, when, stript of all her 
 
 charms. 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of 
 
 arms, 
 "Where noble stems transmit the patriot 
 
 flame. 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for 
 
 fame. 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd 
 
 die. 
 Yet think not. thus when freedom's ills I 
 
 state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
 
 Ye pow'rs of truth, that bid my soul 
 
 aspire, 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to 
 
 feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flow'r, ahke undone 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring 
 
 sun; 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime 
 
 endure ! 
 I only would repress them to secure ; 
 For just experience tells, in ev'ry soil. 
 That those who think must govern those that 
 
 toil; 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can 
 
 reach 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportion' d 
 
 grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 Oh then how blind to all that truth 
 
 requires. 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
 Except tv^hen fast approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the 
 
 throne, 
 Contracting regal pow'r to stretch their 
 
 own ; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the 
 
 law; 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations 
 
 roam. 
 Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at 
 
 'home ; 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
 Tear oft' reserve, and bare my swelling 
 
 heart ; 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I &j from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful 
 
 hour, 
 "When first ambition struck at regal pow'r ; 
 And thus, polluting honour in its source, 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double 
 
 force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled 
 
 shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 
 Like flaring tapers bright' ning as they 
 
 waste ? 
 Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
 Lead stem Depopulation in her train. 
 And over fields where scatter' d hamlets 
 
 rose. 
 In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
 Have wo not seen, at Pleasure's lordly 
 
 call, 
 The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
 
Froui 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 [GOLDSMITE. 
 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy 
 
 train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps 
 
 around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thund'ring soiind ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim 
 
 strays 
 Thro' tangled forests, and thro' dangerous 
 
 ways ; 
 Where beasts with man divided empire 
 
 claim, 
 And the bro^vn Indian marks with murd'rous 
 
 aim ; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise, 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
 Casts a long look v,-licre England's glories 
 
 shine. 
 And bids his bosom sjonpathize with mine. 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
 Why have I stray'd from pleasure and 
 
 repose, 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In ev'ry government, though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings or tja-ant laws restrain, 
 How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or 
 
 cure! 
 Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 With secret course, which no loud storms 
 
 annoy. 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of 
 
 steel, 
 j To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our 
 
 own. 
 
 Goldsmith.— Born 1728, Died 1774. 
 
 919.— THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer' d the lab' ring 
 
 swain, 
 Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting Summer's ling'ring blooms de- 
 
 lay'd : 
 Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease. 
 Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could 
 
 please : 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene I 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 The decent church that topt the neig-hb'ring 
 
 hill, . 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the 
 
 shade, 
 For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
 How often have I bless' d the coming day, 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading 
 
 tree : 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey' d ; 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round ; 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter' d round the 
 
 place ; 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
 The matron's glance that would those looks 
 
 reprove : 
 Those were thy charms, sVeet village ! sports 
 
 like these. 
 In sweet succession, taught e'en toil to 
 
 These round thy bow'rs their cheerful in- 
 fluence shed, 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms 
 are fled. 
 Sweet smiKng village, loveliest of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
 drawn ; 
 Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain. 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But choked with sedges works its weary 
 
 way; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
 And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. 
 Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long gi-ass o'ertops the mould'ring 
 
 wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 
 
 hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
 Princes and lords may flourish or may fade : 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has 
 
 made : 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroy'd can never be supplied. 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs 
 began. 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its 
 
 man; 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome 
 
 store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no 
 more : 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 l'Sixth Period. — 
 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 But times are alter' d; trade's unfeeling 
 train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied, 
 And every pang that foUy pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask' d but little room, 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 
 
 scene. 
 Lived in each look, and brighten' d all the 
 
 green ; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd 
 
 grounds. 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 "Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 
 
 grew, 
 Eemembrance wakes ^vith all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 
 pain. 
 In all my wand'rings round this world of 
 care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my 
 
 share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
 Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting, by repose : 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd 
 
 skill, 
 Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns 
 
 pursue. 
 Pants to. the place from whence at first she 
 
 flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
 How blQst is he who crowns, in shades like 
 
 these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations 
 
 try. 
 And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dang' reus 
 
 deep ; 
 No surly porter stands, in guilty state. 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects bright' ning to the last, 
 His heav'n commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's 
 
 close. 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
 The mingling notes came soften'd from 
 
 below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their 
 
 young ; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just Jet loose from 
 
 school : 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the 
 
 whisp'ring wind. 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 
 
 mind; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And fiU'd each pause the nightingale had 
 
 made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 
 All but yon widow' d, solitary thing, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 
 
 bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses 
 
 spread. 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 
 
 morn: 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 
 smiled. 
 And still where many a garden flow'r grows 
 
 wild. 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
 close. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change 
 
 his place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r. 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant 
 
 train, 
 He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their 
 
 pain ; 
 The long remember'd beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged 
 
 breast ; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims 
 
 allow' d ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
 Wept o'er liis wounds, or, tales of sorrow 
 
 done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields 
 
 were won. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE DESEETED VILLAGE. 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 Pleased with Ms guests, the good man learn' d 
 
 to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the -wretched was his pride, 
 And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call, 
 He watch' d and wept, he pray'd and felt, for 
 
 all; 
 Vnd, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the 
 
 skies. 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrov/, gtdlt, and pain, by turns dis- 
 may' d, 
 The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the strugghng soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 
 
 raise, 
 And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd 
 
 praise. 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail' d with double 
 
 sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to 
 
 pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
 Ev'n children follow' d, with endearing wile, 
 iVnd pluck' d his gown, to share the good man's 
 
 smile ; 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 
 Tkeir welfare pleased him, and their cares 
 
 distrest : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were 
 
 giv'n, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in 
 
 Heav'n. 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
 
 storm, 
 Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon stragghng fence that skirts the 
 
 way, 
 With blossom' d furze unprofitably gay. 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill' d to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school : 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him weU, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to 
 
 trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh' d with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too ; 
 
 Lands ho could measure, terms and tides 
 
 presage, 
 And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For ev'u though vanquish' d he could argue 
 
 still ; 
 Wliile words of learned length, and th^nd' ring 
 
 sound. 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
 
 grew 
 That one small head should carry all ho 
 
 knew. 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 
 
 high. 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing 
 
 eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
 
 inspired, 
 Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil 
 
 retired, 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks 
 
 profound. 
 And news much older than their ale went 
 
 round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
 The white- wash' d wall, the nicely sanded 
 
 floor. 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the 
 
 door ; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of 
 
 goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill' d the 
 
 day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, 
 
 gay; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten' d in a row. 
 Vain transitory splendours ) could not all 
 Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's 
 
 heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's 
 
 tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall 
 
 clear. 
 Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to 
 
 hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half wilhng to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes : let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
 
Goldsmith. 1 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-bom 
 
 sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 
 In these, ere trifiers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who 
 
 survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's 
 
 decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits 
 
 stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 
 
 ore, , 
 
 And shouting FoUy hails them from her 
 
 shore ; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish 
 
 abound. 
 And rich men flock from all the world 
 
 around. 
 Yet count our gains. Tliis wealth is but a 
 
 name 
 That leaves our useful product still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and 
 
 pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended 
 
 bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hoTinds ; 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their 
 
 growth; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies : 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
 While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all. 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair i^pmale, unadom'd and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her 
 
 reign. 
 Slights ev'ry borrow' d charm that dress sup- 
 plies. 
 Nor shates with art the triumph of her 
 
 eyes ; 
 But when those charms are past, for charms 
 
 are frail, 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray' d, 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd; 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 Wliile, scourged by famine, from the smiling 
 
 land 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to 
 
 save, 
 The coimtry blooms — a garden and a grave ! 
 
 Where, " then, ah ! where shall poverty 
 reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray' d. 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth 
 
 divide, 
 And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
 If to the city sped — What waits him 
 there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 I To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 I To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 i To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
 I Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe, 
 I Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 I There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 I Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp 
 I display, 
 
 1 There the black gibbet glooms beside the 
 j way; 
 
 I The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 
 I reign, 
 
 ! Here, richly dock'd, admits the gorgeous 
 : train ; 
 
 I Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 
 ! square, 
 
 ! The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes Hke these no troubles e'er annoy I 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts? — ^Ah, turn 
 
 thine eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female 
 
 lies : 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 
 
 thorn ; 
 Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue, fled, 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
 And, pinch' d with cold, and shrinking from 
 
 the show'r, 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless 
 
 hour. 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 She left her wheel and robes of country 
 brown. 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
 train. 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 j E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little 
 bread! 
 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes 
 
 between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 
 
 go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far diff'rent there from aR that charni'd 
 
 before. 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward 
 
 ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable dav ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.1 
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON". 
 
 [Goldsmith. 
 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to 
 
 sing-, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance 
 
 crown'd, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death 
 
 around : 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to 
 
 wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers waiii their hapless 
 
 prey, 
 And savage men more murd'rous still than 
 
 they; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 MingHng the ravaged landscape with the 
 
 Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene. 
 The cooling brook, the grassy- vested green, 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter' d thefts of harmless love. 
 Good Heav'n ! what sorrows gloom'd that 
 
 parting day. 
 That call'd them from their native walks 
 
 away ; 
 When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, 
 Himg round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd 
 
 their last. 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in 
 
 vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western 
 
 main ; 
 And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
 Eetum'd and wept, and still return' d to 
 
 weep. 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' 
 
 woe ; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter lovelier in her tears, 
 The fond companion of his helpless years. 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her 
 
 woes. 
 And bless' d the cot where ev'ry pleasure 
 
 rose ; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many 
 
 a tear. 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly 
 
 dear ; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend 
 
 relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heav'n' s decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for 
 
 thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness 
 
 grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
 At ev'ry draught more large and large thoy 
 
 grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part 
 
 unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 
 
 round. 
 E'en now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the bus'ness of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring- h«re I 
 
 stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the 
 
 sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the 
 
 strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithfxil love. 
 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ! 
 Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest 
 
 fame. 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and -decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my soHtary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found' st me poor at first, and keep'st 
 
 me so; 
 Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well ; 
 Farewell ! and ! where'er thy voice be 
 
 tried, 
 On Tomo's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
 And slighted truth with thy persuq-sive strain, 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him that states, of native strength 
 
 possest. 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift 
 
 decay. 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 Goldsmith.— Born 1728, Died 1774. 
 
 920.— THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or 
 
 fatter 
 Never ranged in a forest, or smoked on a 
 
 platter ; 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to 
 
 study. 
 The fat was so white, and the lean was so 
 
 ruddy : 
 
Goldsmith.] 
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce 
 
 help regretting 
 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; 
 I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it 
 
 in view, 
 To be shown to my friends as a piece of 
 
 virtu : 
 As in some Irish house^, where things are 
 
 so-so. 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a 
 
 show : 
 But, for eating a rasher of what they take 
 
 pride in, 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is 
 
 fried in. 
 But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you 
 
 pronounce. 
 This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ; 
 Well ! suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may 
 
 try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to 
 
 fly- 
 But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in 
 
 my turn. 
 It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. 
 
 Burn. 
 To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the 
 
 haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and 
 
 staunch. 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Eeynolds undrest, 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis- 
 pose; 
 Twas a neck and a breast that might rival 
 
 Monroe's : 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled 
 
 again, 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, 
 
 and the when. 
 There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and 
 
 H— ff, 
 I think they love venison — I know they love 
 
 beef. 
 There's my countryman Higgins — Oh ! let 
 
 him alone 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
 But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat. 
 Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ; 
 Such dainties to them their health it might 
 
 hurt, 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a 
 
 shirt. 
 While thus I debated, in reverie center' d, 
 An acquaintance, a friend, as he call'd him- 
 self, enter' d ; 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and 
 
 me. 
 " What have we got here P — why, this is good 
 
 eating ! 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " 
 " Why, whose should it be ? " cried I with a 
 
 flounce, 
 "1 get these things often ; " but that was a 
 
 bounce ; 
 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle 
 
 the nation, 
 Are pleased to be kind ; but I hate ostenta- 
 tion." 
 "If that be the case then," cried he, very 
 gay, 
 "I'm glad I have taken this house in my 
 
 way. 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on't — precisely at three : 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits 
 
 will be there ; 
 My acquaintance is slight or I'd ask my Lord 
 
 Clare. 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
 We wanted this venison to make out a 
 
 dinner ! 
 Wliat say you — a pasty, it shall and it must. 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile- 
 end ; 
 No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear 
 
 friend!" 
 Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like 
 
 the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables foUow'd behind. 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my 
 shelf, * 
 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself," 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentle- 
 man hasty. 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison 
 
 pasty. 
 Were things that I never dishked in my life, 
 Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty 
 
 his wife. 
 So next day in due splendour to make my 
 
 approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 
 When come to the place where we all were 
 to dine, 
 (A chair-lumber' d closet just twelve feet by 
 
 nine), 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me 
 
 quite dumb, 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would 
 
 not come ; 
 "For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally 
 
 fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with 
 
 Thrale ; 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the 
 
 party, 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as 
 
 hearty. 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
 They're both of them merry, and authors like 
 
 you; 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the 
 
 , Scourge ; 
 Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to 
 
 Pan urge." 
 While thus he described them by trade and 
 
 by name, 
 They cnter'd, and dinner was served as they 
 came. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 [Smollet': 
 
 At the top a fried liver and bacon were 
 
 seen, 
 At the bottom was tripe in a swinging 
 
 tureen ; 
 At the sides there were spinage and pudding 
 
 made hot ; 
 In the middle a place where the pasty — was 
 
 not. 
 Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter 
 
 aversion. 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a 
 
 Persian ; 
 So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound. 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily 
 
 round : 
 But what vex'd me most, was that d 'd 
 
 Scottish rogue. 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, 
 
 and his brogue : 
 And, " Madam," quoth he, '"may this bit be 
 
 my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
 Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be 
 
 curst. 
 But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to 
 
 burst." 
 "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his cho- 
 colate cheek, 
 " I could dine on this tripe seven days in a 
 
 I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 
 But your friend there, the doctor, eats 
 
 nothing at all," 
 " — ho ! " quoth my friend, "he'll come on 
 
 in a trice, 
 He's keeping a comer for something that's 
 
 nice : 
 There's a pasty " — " A pasty ! " repeated the 
 
 Jew; 
 " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too," 
 " What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! " re-echoed 
 
 the Scot ; 
 " Though splitting, I'll stOl keep a comer for 
 
 that," 
 " We'll all keep a comer," the lady cried out ; 
 " We'll all keep a comer," was echoed about. 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty 
 
 delay' d, 
 With looks that quite petrified enter' d the 
 
 maid: 
 A visage so sad and so pale with affright, 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by 
 
 night. 
 But we quickly found out, for who could 
 
 mistake her ? 
 That she came with some terrible news from 
 
 the baker : 
 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
 And now that I think on't, the story may 
 
 stop. 
 To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour 
 
 misplaced, 
 To send such good verses to one of your 
 
 taste ; 
 
 You've got an odd something — a kind of dis- 
 cerning — 
 
 A relish — a taste — sicken' d over by learning ; 
 
 At least, it's your temper, as very well 
 known, 
 
 That you think very slightly of aU that 's your 
 own : — - 
 
 So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
 
 You may make a mistake, and think sKghtly 
 of this. 
 
 Goldsmith.^Born 1728, Died 1774. 
 
 921.— ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 Thy spirit. Independence, let me share, 
 Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye ; 
 Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
 
 sky. 
 Deep in the frozen regions of the north, 
 A goddess violated brought thee forth. 
 Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime 
 Hath bleach' d the tyrant's cheek in every 
 
 varying clime. 
 What time the iron-hearted Gaul, 
 With frantic superstition for his guide, 
 Arm'd with the dagger and the paU, 
 The sons of Woden to the field defied : 
 The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood. 
 In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow ; 
 And red the stream began to flow : 
 The vanquish' d were baptized with blood ,' 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 The Saxon prince in horror fled. 
 From altars stain' d with human gore, 
 And Liberty his routed legions led 
 In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. 
 There in a cave asleep she lay, 
 Lull'd by the hoarse-resounding main, 
 "When a bold savage pass'd that waj--, 
 Impell'd by destiny, his name Disdain. 
 Of ample front the portly chief appear'd : 
 The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest ; 
 The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard, 
 And his broad shoulders braved the furious 
 
 blast. 
 He stopt, he gazed, his bosom glow'd, 
 And deeply felt the impression of her charms : 
 He seized the advantage Fate allow'd, 
 And straight compress' d her in his vigorous 
 
 arms. 
 
 The curlew scream' d, the tritons blew 
 
 Their shells to celebrate the ravish' d rite 
 
 Old Time exulted as he flew : 
 
 And Independence saw the light. 
 
 4d 
 
j SlMOLLETT.] 
 
 ODE TO LEVEN- WATER. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 The light he saw in Albion's happy plains, 
 Where under cover of a flowering thorn, 
 While Philomel renew' d her warbled strains, 
 The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was 
 
 born — 
 The mountain Dryads seized with joy, 
 The smiling infant to their charge con- 
 sign' d; 
 The Doric muse caress'd the favourite boy : 
 The hermit Wisdom stored his opening 
 
 mind. 
 As rolling years matured his age, 
 He flourish' d bold and sinewy as his sire ; 
 While the mild passions in his breast assuage 
 The fiercer flames of his maternal fire. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Accomplish'd thus, he Aving'd his way, 
 
 And zealous roved from pole to pole. 
 
 The rolls of right eternal to display. 
 
 And warm with patriot thought the aspiring 
 
 soul. 
 On desert isles 'twas he that raised 
 Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave, 
 Where Tyranny beheld amazed 
 Eair Freedom's temple, where he mark'd her 
 
 grave. 
 He steel' d the blunt Batavian's arms 
 To burst the Iberian's double chain ; 
 And cities rear'd, and planted farms. 
 Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide 
 
 domain. 
 He, with the generous rustics, sate 
 On Uri's rocks in close divan; 
 And wing'd that arrow sure as fate. 
 Which ascertain' d the sacred rights of man. 
 
 Arabia's scorching sands he cross' d, 
 
 Where blasted nature pants supine, 
 
 Conductor of her tribes adust, 
 
 To Freedom's adamantine shrine ; 
 
 And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast ! 
 
 He snatch'd from under fell Oppression's 
 
 wing, 
 And taught amidst the dreary waste, 
 The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing. 
 He virtue finds, like precious ore, 
 Diffused through every baser mould ; 
 Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore, 
 And turns the dross of Corsica to gold : 
 He, guardian genius, taught my youth 
 Pomp's tinsel livery to despise : 
 My lips by him chastised to tnxth, 
 JNe'er paid that homage which my heart 
 
 denies. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Those sculptured halls my feet shaU never 
 
 tread, 
 Where varnish' d vice and vanity combined 
 To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, 
 And forgo vile shackles for the free-born 
 
 mind. 
 
 While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, 
 And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow ; 
 And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears, 
 Full often vv^reathed around the miscreant's 
 
 brow : 
 Where ever-dimpling falsehood, pert and vain, 
 Presents her cup of stale profession's froth ; 
 And pale disease, with all his bloated train. 
 Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. 
 
 In Fortune's car behold that minion ride. 
 With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd, 
 So moves the sumpter-mule in harness' d 
 
 pride, 
 That bears the treasure which he cannot 
 
 taste. 
 For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, 
 And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling 
 
 string ; 
 Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure 
 
 lay, 
 And jingling bells fantastic folly ring : 
 Disquiet, doubt, and dread, shall intervene ; 
 And Nature, still to all her feelings just,' 
 In vengeance hang a damp on every scene. 
 Shook from the baleful pinions of disgust. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts. 
 By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or 
 
 ceU; 
 Where the poised lark his evening ditty 
 
 chaunts, 
 And health, and peace, and contemplation 
 
 dwell. 
 There, study shall with solitude recline, 
 And friendship pledge me to his fellow- 
 swains. 
 And toil and temperance sedately twine 
 The slender cord that fluttering life sustains : 
 And fearless poverty shall guard the door. 
 And taste rmspoil'd the frugal table spread. 
 And industry supply the humble store. 
 And sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed ; 
 "White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite. 
 Shall chase far off the goblins of the night ; 
 And Independence o'er the day preside. 
 Propitious power ! my patron and my pride. 
 
 Smollett— Born 1721, Died 1771. 
 
 922.— ODE TO LEVEN- WATER. 
 
 On Leven's banks, while free to rove, 
 And tune the rural pipe to love, 
 I envied not the happiest swain 
 That over trod the Arcadian plain. 
 
 Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
 My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 CHOICE OF A RUEAL SITUATION. 
 
 [John Armsteonq. 
 
 No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
 No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
 That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
 With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread ; 
 While, hgfhtly poised, the scaly brood 
 In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
 The springing trout in speckled pride, 
 The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
 The ruthless pike, intent on war. 
 The silver eel, and mottled par. 
 Devolving from thy parent lake, 
 A charming maze thy waters make, 
 By bowers of birch, and groves of pine. 
 And edges flower'd mth eglantine. 
 Still on thy banks so gaily green, 
 May numerous herds and flocks be seen : 
 And lasses chanting o'er the pail, 
 And shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 And ancient faith that knows no guile, 
 And industry embrown' d with toil ; 
 And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
 The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 
 
 Smollett— Born 1721, Died 1771. 
 
 923.— THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
 Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
 Thy sons, for valour long renown'd. 
 Lie slaughter' d on their native ground ; 
 Thy hospitable roofs no more 
 Invite the stranger to the door ; 
 In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
 The monuments of cruelty. 
 
 The wretched owner sees afar 
 His all become the prey of war ; 
 Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
 Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
 Thy swains are famish' d on the rocks 
 Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; 
 Thy ra\ish'd virgins shriek in vain ; 
 Thy infants perish on the plain. 
 
 What boots it, then, in every clime. 
 Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
 Thy martial glory, crown' d with praise. 
 Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ? 
 Thy towering spirit now is broke, 
 Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
 What foreign arms could never quell, 
 By civil rage and rancour fell. 
 
 The rural pipe and merry lay 
 No more shall cheer the happy day : 
 No social scenes of gay delight 
 Beguile the dreary winter night : 
 No strains but those of sorrow flow. 
 And nought be heard but sounds of woe, 
 While the pale phantoms of the slain 
 GHde nightly o'er the silent plain. 
 
 Oh ! baneful cause, oh ! fatal morn. 
 Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 
 
 The sons against their fathers stood. 
 The parent shed his children's blood. 
 Yet, when the rage of battle ceased. 
 The victor's soul was not appeased : 
 The naked and forlorn must feel 
 Devouring flames and murdering steel ! 
 
 The pious mother, doom'd to death, 
 
 Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, 
 
 The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
 
 Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
 
 Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
 
 She views the shades of night descend : 
 
 And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, 
 
 Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 
 
 While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
 And unimpair'd remembrance reigns. 
 Resentment of my country's fate 
 Witliin my fiKal breast shaU beat ; 
 And, spite of her insulting foe. 
 My sympathising verse shall flow : 
 " Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
 Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." 
 
 Smollett.— Born 1721, IHed 1771. 
 
 924.— CHOICE OF A RURAL SITUATION 
 AND DESCRIPTION OF THE AGUE. 
 
 Ye who amid this feverish world would wear 
 A body free of pain, of cares a mind ; 
 Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air ; 
 Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke 
 And volatile corruption, from the dead, 
 The dying, sick'ning, and the living world 
 Exhaled, to sully heaven's transparent dome 
 With dim mortality. It is not air 
 That from a thousand lungs reeks back to 
 
 thine. 
 Sated with exhalations rank and fell, 
 The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw 
 Of nature ; when from shape and texture she 
 Relapses into fighting elements : 
 It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass 
 Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things. 
 Much moisture hurts ; but here a sordid bath. 
 With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more 
 The sohd frame than simple moisture can. 
 Besides, immured in many a sullen bay 
 That never felt the freshness of the breeze, 
 This slumb'rjng deep remains, and ranker 
 
 grows 
 With sickly rest : and (though the lungs 
 
 abhor 
 To drink the dun fuliginous abyss) 
 I Did not the acid vigour of the mine, 
 RoU'd from so many thundering chimneys, 
 
 tame 
 The putrid steams that overswarm the sky ; 
 This caustic venom would perhaps corrode 
 Those tender cells that draw the vital air. 
 In vain with all the unctuous rills bcdew'd ; 
 
 45* 
 
John Abmstrong.] A HIGH SITUATION ON THE SEA-COAST. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn 
 In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin 
 Imbibed, would poison the balsamic blood, 
 And rouse the heart to every fever's rage. 
 While yet you breathe, away; the rural 
 
 wilds 
 Invite ; the mountains call you, and the vales ; 
 The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial 
 
 breeze 
 That fans the ever-undulating sky ; 
 A kindly sky ! whose fost'ring power regales 
 Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign. 
 Find then some woodland scene where nature 
 
 smiles 
 Benign, where all her honest children thrive. 
 To us there wants not many a happy seat ! 
 Look round the smiling land, such numbers 
 
 rise 
 We hardly fix, bewilder' d in our choice. 
 See where enthroned in adamantine state. 
 Proud of lier bards, imperial Windsor sits ; 
 Where choose thy seat in some aspiring grove 
 East by the slowly- winding Thames ; or where 
 Broader she laves fair Richmond's green re- 
 treats, 
 (Richmond that sees a hundred villas rise 
 Rural or gay). O ! from the summer's rage 
 O ! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides 
 Umbrageous Ham ! — But if the busy town 
 Attract thee still to toil for power or gold. 
 Sweetly thou mayst thy vacant hours possess 
 In Hampstead, courted by the western wind ; 
 Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood ; 
 Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds 
 Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd. 
 Green rise the Kentish hills in cheerful air ; 
 But on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads 
 Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering 
 
 feet. 
 For on a rustic throne of dewy turf. 
 With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, 
 Quartana there presides ; a meagre fiend 
 Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force 
 Compress' d the slothful Naiad of the Fens. 
 From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest 
 With fev'rish blasts subdues the sick'ning 
 
 land: 
 Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest, 
 Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains 
 That sting the burden'd brows, fatigue the 
 
 loins, 
 And rack the joints, and every torpid limb ; 
 Then parching heat succeeds, till copiops 
 
 sweats 
 O'erflow : a short relief from former iUs. 
 Beneath repeated shocks the wretches pine ; 
 The vigour sinks, the habit melts away : 
 The cheerful, pure, and animated bloom 
 Dies from the face, with squalid atrophy 
 Devour'd, in sallow melancholy clad. 
 And oft the sorceress, in her sated wrath, 
 Resigns them to the furies of her train : 
 The bloated Hydrops, and the yellow fiend 
 Tinged with her own accumulated gall. 
 
 John Armstrong. — Bom 1709, Died 1779. 
 
 925.— RECOMMENDATION OF A HIGH 
 SITUATION ON THE SEA-COAST. 
 
 Meantime, the moist malignity to shun 
 
 Of burthen' d skies ; mark where the dry 
 
 champaign 
 Swells into cheerful hills : where marjoram 
 And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the 
 
 air ; 
 And where the cynorrhodon with the rose 
 For fragrance vies ; for in the thirsty soil 
 Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes. 
 There bid thy roofs high on the basking 
 
 steep 
 Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires. 
 And let them see the winter mom arise, 
 The summer evening blushing in the west : 
 While with umbrageous oaks the ridge 
 
 behind 
 O'erhung, defends you from the blust'ring 
 
 north. 
 And bleak aflBiction of the peevish east. 
 Oh ! when the growling -winds contend, and 
 
 all 
 The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm ; 
 To sink in warm repose, and hear the din 
 Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights 
 Above the luxury of vulgar sleep. 
 The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser 
 
 strain 
 Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks, 
 Will nightly lull you to ambrosial rest. 
 To please the fancy is no trifling good, 
 "Where health^is studied ; for whatever moves 
 The mind -with calm delight, promotes the 
 
 just 
 And natural movements of th' harmonious 
 
 frame. 
 Besides, the sportive brook for ever shakes 
 The trembling air; that floats from hill to 
 
 hUl, 
 From vale to mountain, with incessant 
 
 change 
 Of purest element, refreshing still 
 Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. 
 Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds 
 High on the breezy ridge, whose lofty sides 
 Th' ethereal deep -with endless billows chafes. 
 His purer mansion nor contagious years 
 Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy. 
 
 John Armstrong. — Born 1709, Died 1779. 
 
 926.— ANGLING. 
 
 But if the breatliless chase o'er hill and dale 
 Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue, 
 Not less delightful, the prolific stream 
 Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er 
 A stony channel rolls its rapid maze. 
 Swarms with the silver fry : such through the 
 bounds 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] PESTILENCE OF FIFTEENTH CENTUEY. [John Armstrong. 
 
 Of pastoral Stafford runs the brawiing 
 
 Trent ; 
 Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; 
 
 such 
 The Esk, o'erhung with woods ; and such the 
 
 stream 
 On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air ; 
 Liddel, till now, except in Doric lays, 
 Tuned to her murmurs by her love-sick 
 
 swains 
 Unknown in song, though not a purer stream, 
 Through meads more flowery, or more ro- 
 mantic groves, 
 EoUs towards the western main. Hail, sacred 
 
 flood! 
 May stiU thy hospitable swains be blest 
 In rural innocence, thy mountains still 
 Teem with the fleecy race, thy tuneful woods 
 For ever flourish, and thy vales look gay 
 With painted meadows and the golden grain ; 
 Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was 
 
 new. 
 Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with 
 
 toys, 
 In thy transparent eddies have I laved ; 
 Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks. 
 With the weU-imitated fly to hook 
 The eager trout, and with the slender line 
 And j^elding rod soHcit to the shore 
 The struggling panting prey, while vernal 
 
 clouds 
 And tepid gales obscured the ruffled pool, 
 And from the deeps called forth the wanton 
 
 swarms. 
 Form'd on the Samian school, or those of 
 Ind, 
 There are who think these pastimes scarce 
 
 humane ; 
 Yet in my mind (and not relentless I) 
 His hfe is pure that wears no fouler stains. 
 
 John Armstrong. — Born 1709, Died 1779. 
 
 927.— PESTILENCE OF THE | 
 
 FIFTEENTH CENTUEY. | 
 
 Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent 1 
 
 Their ancient rage at Bos worth's purple j 
 
 field ; I 
 
 While, for which tyrant England should | 
 
 receive, i 
 
 Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd, J 
 
 And daily horrors ; till the fates were drunk i 
 
 With kindred blood by kindred hands pro- ■ 
 
 fused : I 
 
 Another plague of more gigantic arm i 
 
 Arose, a monster never known before i 
 
 Eear'd from Cocytus its portentous head ; j 
 
 This rapid fury not, like other pests, j 
 
 Pursued a gradual course, but in a day [ 
 
 Eush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish' d j 
 
 isle, I 
 
 And strew' d with sudden carcases the land. i 
 
 First through the shoulders, or whatever 
 
 part 
 Was seized the first, a fervid vapour spnmg ; 
 With rash combustion thence, the quivering 
 
 spark 
 Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ; 
 And soon the surface caught the~sp3:eading 
 
 fires. 
 Through all the yielding pores the melted 
 
 blood 
 Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought 
 
 assuaged 
 The torrid heat within, nor aught relieved 
 The stomach's anguish. With incessant 
 
 toil, 
 Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain. 
 They toss'd from side to side. In vain the 
 
 stream 
 Ean full and clear, they burnt, and thirsted 
 
 still. 
 The restless arteries with rapid blood 
 Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pan- 
 
 tingly 
 The breath was fetch' d, and with huge labour- 
 
 ings heaved. 
 At last a heavy pain oppress' d the head, 
 A wild delirium came : their weeping friends 
 Were strangers now, and this no home of 
 
 theirs. 
 Harass'd with toil on toil, the sinking powers 
 Lay prostrate and o'erthrown ; a ponderous 
 
 sleep 
 Wrapt all the senses up : they slept and 
 
 died. 
 In some a gentle horror crept at first 
 O'er all the limbs ; the sluices of the skin 
 Withheld their moisture, till by art provoked 
 The sweats o'erflow'd, but in a clammy 
 
 tide; 
 Now free and copious, now restrain' d and 
 
 slow; 
 Of tinctures various, as the temperature 
 Had mix'd the blood, and rank with fetid 
 
 streams : 
 As if the pent-up humours by delay 
 Were grown more fell, more putrid, and 
 
 maUgn. 
 Here lay their hopes (though little hope re- 
 main' d), 
 With full effusion of perpetual sweats 
 To drive the venom out. And here the fates 
 Were kind, that long they linger' d not in 
 
 pain. 
 For, who survived the sun's diurnal race, 
 Eose from the dreary gates of hell redeera'd ; 
 Some the sixth hour oppress' d, and some the 
 
 third. 
 Of many thousands, few untainted 'scaped ; 
 Of those infected, fewer 'scaped alive ; 
 Of those who lived, some felt a second blow ; 
 And whom the second spared, a third 
 
 destroy' d. 
 Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to 
 
 shun 
 The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful 
 
 land 
 
MiGKLE.] 
 
 CUMNOK HALL. 
 
 [Sixth Peeiod. — 
 
 The infected city pour'd her hurrjing 
 
 swarms : 
 Eoused by the flames that fired her scats 
 
 around, 
 The infected country rush'd into the town. 
 Some sad at home, and in the desert some 
 Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind. 
 In vain ; where'er they fled, the fates 
 
 pursued. 
 Others, with hopes more specious, cross' d the 
 
 main, 
 To seek protection in far distant skies ; 
 But none they found. It seem'd the general 
 
 air. 
 From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, 
 Was then at enmity with English blood ; 
 For but the race of England all were safe 
 In foreign climes ; nor did this fury taste 
 The foreign blood which England then con- 
 tain' d. 
 "Where should they fly ? The circumambient 
 
 heaven 
 Involved them still, and every breeze was 
 
 bane : 
 Where find relief ? The salutary art 
 Was mute, and, startled at the new disease. 
 In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave. 
 To heaven, with suppliant rites, they sent 
 
 their prayers ; 
 Heaven heard them not. Of every hope 
 
 deprived. 
 Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued 
 With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear, 
 Passive they sank beneath the weighty blow. 
 Nothing but lamentable sounds were heard. 
 Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of 
 
 death. 
 Infectious horror ran from face to face. 
 And pale despair. 'Twas aU the business 
 
 then 
 To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. 
 In heaps they fell ; and oft the bed, they 
 
 say, 
 The sickening, dying, and the dead contain'd. 
 
 John Armstrong. — Born 1709, Died 1779. 
 
 928.— CUMNOE HALL. 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall, 
 The moon (sweet regent of the sky) 
 
 Snver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now nought was heard beneath the skies 
 (The sounds of busy life were still), 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love 
 That thou so oft hast sworn to me, 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove. 
 Immured in shameful privity ? 
 
 No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, 
 
 Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
 But be she alive, or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern Earl 's the same to thee. 
 
 Not so the usage I received 
 
 When happy in my father's hall ; 
 
 No faithless husband then me grieved, 
 No chilling fears did me appal. 
 
 I rose up with the cheerful morn, 
 
 No lark so blithe, no flower inore gay ; 
 
 And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
 So merrily sung the live-long day. 
 
 If that my beauty is but small. 
 Among court ladies all despised. 
 
 Why didst thou rend it from that hall 
 Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized ? 
 
 And when you first to me made suit. 
 How fair I was, you oft would say ! 
 
 And, proud of conquest, pluck' d the fruit, 
 Then left the blossom to decay. 
 
 Yes ! now neglected and despised, 
 The rose is pale, the lily 's dead ; 
 
 But he that once their charms so prized. 
 Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 
 
 For know, when sickening grief doth prey. 
 And tender love 's repaid with scorn, 
 
 The sweetest beauty will decay : 
 
 What floweret can endure the storm ? 
 
 At court, I'm told, is Beauty's throne. 
 Where every lady 's passing rare, 
 
 That eastern flowers, that shame the sun. 
 Are not so glowing, not so fair. 
 
 Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
 Where roses and where lilies vie. 
 
 To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
 Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 
 
 'Mong rural beauties I was one ; 
 
 Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; 
 Some country swain might me have won. 
 
 And thought my passing beauty rare. 
 
 But, Leicester (or I much am wrong). 
 It is not beauty lures thy vows ; 
 
 Rather ambition's gilded crown 
 
 Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 
 
 Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 (The injured surely may repine). 
 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid. 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine ? 
 
 Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 And, oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
 
 "Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
 
 Then leave me to mourn the live-long day i 
 
 The village maidens of the plain 
 
 Salute me lowly as they go : 
 Envious they mark my silken train, 
 
 Nor think a countess can have woe. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE MAEINEE'S WIFE. 
 
 [MlCKLE. 
 
 The simple nymplis ! they little know 
 How far more happy 's their estate ; 
 
 To smile for joy, than sigh for woe ; 
 To be content, than to be great. 
 
 How far less bless'd am I than them. 
 Daily to pine and waste with care ! 
 
 Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 
 Divided, feels the chilling air. 
 
 Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy 
 The humble charms of solitude ; 
 
 Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
 By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. 
 
 Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
 The village death-bell smote my ear ; 
 
 They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say, 
 ' Countess, prepare — thy end is near.' 
 
 And now, while happy peasants sleep, 
 Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
 
 No one to soothe me as I weep, 
 Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 
 
 My spirits flag, my hopes decay : 
 
 Still that dread death-beU smites my ear ; 
 
 And many a body seems to say, 
 
 ' Countess, prepare — thy end is near.' " 
 
 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved 
 I In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appear' d, 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear. 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And many a cry of mortal fear, 
 
 Tlie death-bell thrice was heard to ring, 
 An aerial voice was heard to call, 
 
 And thrice the raven fiapp'd his wing 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The mastiff howl'd at village door, 
 The oaks were shatter' d on the green ; 
 
 Woe was the hour, for never more 
 That hapless Countes^ e'er was seen. 
 
 And in that manor, now no more 
 Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball ; 
 
 For ever since that dreary hour 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The village maids, with fearful glance. 
 Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; 
 
 Nor ever lead the merrj^ dance 
 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Full many a traveller has sigh'd, 
 And pensive wept the Countess' fall, 
 
 As wandering onwards they've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Mickle.—Born 1734, Died 17J 
 
 929.— THE MAEINEE'S WIFE. 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 
 
 And are ye sure he's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Make haste, lay hy yoiu- wheel ; . 
 Is this a time to spin a thread, 
 
 When Colin 's at the door ? — _ 
 
 Eeach down my cloak, I'U to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our g-udeman 's awa. 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet. 
 
 My bishop's satin govm ; 
 For I maun tell the baillie's wife 
 
 That Colin 's in the town. 
 My Turkey slippers maun gae on. 
 
 My stockings pearly blue ; 
 It's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 Eise, lass, and mak a clean fireside. 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gie little Kate her button gown 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes^ 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 
 For he's been lang awa. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 
 
 Been fed this month and mair ; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about». 
 
 That CoUn weel may fare ; 
 And mak our table neat and clean. 
 
 Let everything look braw, 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared 
 
 When he was far awa ? 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. 
 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in't 
 
 As he comes up the stair. 
 And shall I see his face again ? 
 
 And shall I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet ! 
 
 The cauld blasts o' the winter wind. 
 
 That thirled through my heart, 
 They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe. 
 
 Till death we'll never part ; 
 But what puts parting in my head ? 
 
 It may be far awa ! 
 The present moment is our ain. 
 
 The neist we never saw. 
 
 Since Colin' s weel, and weel content^ 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave ; 
 And gin I live to keep him sae, 
 
 I'm blest aboon the lave. 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 
Dr. Langhoene.] COUNTEY JUSTICES AND THEIE DUTIES. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck at a' ; 
 There's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudeman 's awa. 
 
 Mickle.^Bom 1734, I}ied 17! 
 
 930- 
 
 -COUNTEY JUSTICES AND THEIE 
 DUTIES. 
 
 The social laws from insult to protect, 
 
 To cherish peace, to cultivate respect ; 
 
 The rich from wanton cruelty restrain. 
 
 To smooth the bed of penury and pain ; 
 
 The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, 
 
 The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft 
 
 explore ; 
 The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by 
 
 art. 
 To aid, and bring her rover to her heart ; 
 Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell. 
 Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, 
 Wrest from revenge the meditated harm : 
 I For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm ; 
 I For this the rural magistrate, of yore. 
 
 Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. 
 Oft, where old Air in conscious glory- 
 sails. 
 On silver waves that flow through smiling 
 
 vales ; 
 In Harewood's groves, where long my youth 
 
 was laid. 
 Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade ; 
 With many a group of antique columns 
 
 crown' d. 
 In Gothic guise such mansion have I found. 
 Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern 
 race,. 
 Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, 
 Of the more manly structures here ye view ; 
 They rose for greatness that ye never knew ! 
 Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my 
 
 spleen 
 With Yenus and the Graces on your green ! 
 Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth. 
 Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth. 
 The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, 
 Eise on your mounts, and perch upon your 
 
 books ! 
 But spare my Venus, spare each sister 
 
 Grace, 
 Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face ! 
 Ye royal architects, whose antic taste 
 Would lay the realms of sense and nature 
 
 waste ; 
 Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, 
 That folly only points each other way ; 
 Here, though your eye no coiurtly creature 
 
 sees. 
 Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the 
 
 trees ; 
 Yet let not too severe a censure fall 
 On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. 
 
 For though no sight your childish fancy 
 meets. 
 Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets ; 
 Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a 
 
 tan. 
 
 And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail ; 
 Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown. 
 The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone ; 
 And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, 
 Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting 
 
 gods. 
 Long have these mighty monsters known 
 
 disgrace. 
 Yet still some trophies hold their ancient 
 
 place ; 
 Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase 
 
 rears 
 The field-day triumphs of two hundred 
 
 years. 
 Th' enormous antlers here recall the day 
 That saw the forest monarch forced away ; 
 Who, many a flood, and many a mountain 
 
 pass'd. 
 Not finding those, nor deeming these tho 
 
 last. 
 O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to 
 
 fly, 
 
 Long ere the death-drop fiU'd his failing 
 eye! 
 Here famed for cunning, and in crimes 
 grown old, 
 Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. 
 Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight 
 
 cheer. 
 The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer. 
 And tells his old, traditionary tale. 
 Though known to every tenant of the vale. 
 Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, 
 Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are 
 
 spread ! 
 Some ox, Marshall, for a board like thine. 
 Where the vast master with the vast sirloin 
 Vied in round magnitude — Eespect I bear 
 To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. 
 
 These, and such antique tokens that record 
 The manly spirit, and the bounteous board. 
 Me more delight than all the gewgaw train. 
 The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, 
 More than all Asia's marmosets to view, 
 Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. 
 Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast 
 thou stray' d, 
 By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, 
 And seen with honest, antiquated air 
 In the plain hall the magistratial chair ? 
 There Herbert sat — The love of human kind. 
 Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, 
 In the free eye the featured soul display' d. 
 Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting 
 
 shade : 
 Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, 
 Would still some drops from Pity's fountain 
 
 draw. 
 Bend o'er her um with many a gen' reus fear, 
 Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's 
 tear ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] AN APPEAL FOR THE INDUSTRIOUS POOR. [Dr. Laitghoene. 
 
 Fair equity, and reason scorning art, 
 And all the sober virtues of the heart — 
 These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail 
 Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. 
 
 Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan : 
 Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. 
 
 He whom the mighty master of this ball 
 "We fondly deem, or farcically call. 
 To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, 
 Holds but a mansion crush' d before the moth. 
 
 Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, 
 Bom but to err, and erring to bewail, 
 Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, 
 And give to life one human weakness more ? 
 
 Still mark if vice or nature prompts the 
 deed; 
 Still mark the strong temptation and the 
 
 need: 
 On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, 
 At least more lenient let thy justice fall. 
 
 For him, who, lost to every hope of life, 
 Has long with fortune held unequal strife, 
 Known to no human love, no human care. 
 The friendless, homeless object of despair ; 
 For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, 
 Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. 
 Alike, if foUy or misfortune brought 
 Those last of woes his evil daj's have wrought ; 
 Believe with social mercy and with me, 
 FoUy 's misfortune in the first degree. 
 
 Perhaps on some inhospitable shore 
 The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore ; 
 Who then, no more by golden prospects led, 
 Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. 
 Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain. 
 Perhaps that parent mourn' d her soldier 
 
 slain ; 
 Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
 The big drops mingling with the milk he 
 
 drew. 
 Gave the sad presage of his future years, 
 The child of misery, baptized in tears I 
 
 Dr. LangJiorne. — Bom- 1735, Died 1779. 
 
 931.— GIPSIES. 
 
 The gipsy race my pity rarely move ; 
 Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. 
 Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, 
 
 more ; 
 Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. 
 
 For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves 
 The tawny father with his offspring roves ; 
 When summer suns lead slow the sultry day. 
 In mossy caves, where welling waters play, 
 Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, 
 With this in ragged luxury they lie. 
 Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain 
 The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again ; 
 Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall. 
 For their prophetic mother's mantle call. 
 
 Far other cares that wand'ring mother 
 
 wait, 
 The mouth, and oft the minister of fate ! 
 From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade, 
 Of future fortune, flies the village maid. 
 Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, 
 And rusty halfpence purchase hopes sti gold. 
 But, ah ! ye maids, beware the gipsy's 
 
 lures ! 
 She opens not the womb of time, but yours. 
 Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, 
 Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has 
 
 sung ! 
 The parson's maid — sore cause had she to 
 
 rue 
 The gipsy's tongue ; the parson's daughter 
 
 too. 
 Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to 
 
 know 
 What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's 
 
 beau, 
 Meant by those glances which at church he 
 
 stole. 
 Her father nodding to the psalm's slow 
 
 drawl ; 
 Long had she sigh'd ; at length a prophet 
 
 came. 
 By many a sure prediction known to fame. 
 To Marian known, and all she told, for true : 
 She knew the future, for the past she knew. 
 
 Dr. Langhorne. — Born 1735, Died 1779. 
 
 932.— AN APPEAL FOE THE 
 INDUSTRIOUS POOR. 
 
 But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign. 
 Descend to duties meaner crowns disdain ; 
 That worst excrescency of power forego, 
 That pride of kings, humanity's first foe. 
 
 Let age no longer toil with feeble strife, 
 Worn by long service in the war of life ; 
 Nor leave the head, that time hath whiten'd, 
 
 bare 
 To the rude insults of the searching air ; 
 Nor bid the knee, by labour harden'd, bend, 
 thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's 
 friend ! 
 If, when from heaven severer seasons fall. 
 Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering 
 
 wall. 
 Each face the picture of a winter day. 
 More strong than Teniers' pencil could por- 
 tray; 
 If then to thee resort the shivering train, 
 Of cruel days, and cruel man complain. 
 Say to thy heart (remembering him who said), 
 " These people come from far, and have no 
 bread." 
 Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to 
 hear ; 
 The voice of want is sacred to thy ear. 
 
Dr. Langhoeke.] MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE. [Sixth Pekiod.— 
 
 He where no fees his sordid pen invite, 
 Sports with their tears, too indolent to write ; 
 Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain 
 To hear more helpless animals complain. 
 But chief thy notice shall one monster 
 
 claim, 
 A monster furnish' d with a human frame, 
 The parish officer ! — though verse disdain 
 Terms that deform the splendour of the 
 
 strain ; 
 It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe 
 On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer ; 
 The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust. 
 Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust ! 
 When the poor hind, with length of years 
 
 decay'd. 
 Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade, 
 Forgot the service of his abler days. 
 His profitable toil, and honest praise, 
 Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty 
 
 bread. 
 This slave, whose board his former labours 
 
 spread ? 
 When harvest's burning suns and sickening 
 
 air 
 From labour's unbraced hand the grasp' d hook 
 
 tear. 
 Where shall the helpless family be fed. 
 That vainly languish for a father's bread ? 
 See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care, 
 To the proud farmer fearfully repair ; 
 Soon to be sent with insolence away, 
 Referr'd to vestries, and a distant day ! 
 fteferr'd — to perish ! — Is my verse severe ? 
 Unfriendly to the human character ? 
 Ah ! to this sigh of sad experience trust : 
 The truth is rigid, but the tale is just. 
 
 If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, 
 Think not that patience were a virtue here. 
 His low-bom pride with honest rage control ; 
 Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile 
 
 soul. 
 But, hapless ! oft through fear of future 
 
 woe. 
 And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe. 
 Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, 
 The last extremes of penury they bear. 
 
 Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office 
 
 higher, 
 To something more than magistrate aspire ? 
 And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, 
 Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind ? 
 The game I start courageously pursue ! 
 Adieu to fear ! to insolence adieu ! 
 And first we'll range this mountain's stormy 
 
 side. 
 Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof 
 
 deride, 
 As meet no more the wintry blast to bear. 
 And all the wild hostilities of air. 
 — That roof have I remember' d many a year ; 
 It once gave refuge to a hunted deer — 
 Here, in those days, we found an aged 
 
 pair ; — 
 But time imtenants — ha ! what secst thou 
 
 there ? 
 
 " Horror ! — ^by Heaven, extended on a bed 
 Of naked fern, two human creatures dead ! 
 Embracing as alive ! — ah, no ! — no life ! 
 Cold, breathless ! " 
 
 'Tis the shepherd and his wife. 
 I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold 
 What speaks more strongly than the story 
 
 told. 
 They died through want — 
 
 " By every power I swear, 
 If the -svretch treads the earth, or breathes the 
 
 air. 
 Through whose default of duty, or design, 
 These victims fell, he dies." 
 
 They fell by thine. 
 " Infernal ! — Mine I — by — " 
 
 Swear on no pretence : 
 A swearing justice wants both grace and 
 
 Dr. Langliornc. — Born 1735, Died 1779. 
 
 933.— MERCY SHOULD HAVE 
 MITIGATED JUSTICE. 
 
 Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care, 
 Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer : 
 Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, 
 Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress. 
 Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, 
 Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have 
 
 torn? 
 While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's 
 
 eye, 
 A few seem straggling in the evening sky ! 
 Not many suns have hasten' d down the day. 
 Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their 
 
 way. 
 Since there, a scene that stain' d their sacred 
 
 Hght 
 With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight : 
 A babe just born that signs of life exprest, 
 Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. 
 The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued. 
 He had no time to waste, yet stood and 
 
 view'd ; • 
 
 To the next cot the trembling infant bore, 
 And gave a part of what he stole before ; 
 Nor known to him the wretches were, nor 
 
 dear. 
 He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear. 
 
 Far other treatment she who breathless laj'. 
 Found from a viler animal of prey. 
 
 Worn with long toil on many a painful 
 
 road, 
 That toil increased by nature's growing load, 
 When evening brought the friendly hour of 
 
 rest. 
 And all the mother throng' d about her breast, 
 The ruffian officer opposed her stay, 
 And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 OWEN OF CAEEON. 
 
 [Dr. Langhoene, 
 
 So far beyond the town's last limits drove, 
 That to return -were hopeless, had she strove, 
 Abandon' d there — with famine, pain and cold, 
 And angtdsh, she expired — the rest I've told. 
 
 " Now let me swear. For by my soul's last 
 sigh, 
 That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." 
 
 Too late ! — his life the generous robber 
 paid, 
 Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd ! 
 No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear. 
 No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; 
 No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol. 
 Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his 
 tale. 
 
 Dr. Langhorne. — Born 1735, Died 1779. 
 
 934.— A FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY 
 OF lEWAN. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale, 
 My infant years where Fancy led. 
 
 And soothed me with the western gale, 
 Her wild dreams waving roimd my head, 
 
 While the blithe blackbird told his tale. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 The primrose on the valley's side. 
 
 The green thyme on the mountain's head, 
 
 The wanton rose, the daisy pied, 
 
 The wilding's blossom blushing red ; 
 
 No longer I their sweets inhale. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 How oft, within yon vacant shade. 
 Has evening closed my careless eye ! 
 
 How oft along those banks I've stray'd. 
 And watch'd the wave that wander'd by ; 
 
 Full long their loss shall I bewail. 
 
 Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale ! 
 
 Yet still, within yon vacant grove, 
 To mark the close of parting day ; 
 
 Along yon flowery banks to rove, 
 
 And watch the wave that winds away 3 
 
 Fair Fancy sure shaU never fail. 
 
 Though far from these and Irwan's vale. 
 
 Dr. Langhorne. — Born 1735, Died 1779. 
 
 935-— OWEN OF CAERON. 
 I. 
 
 On Carron's side the primrose pale. 
 Why does it wear a purple hue ? 
 
 Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, 
 
 Why stream your eyes with pity's dew ? 
 
 'Tis aU with gentle Owen's blood 
 
 That purple grows the primrose pale ; 
 
 That pity pours the tender flood 
 From each fair eye in Marlivale. 
 
 The evening star sat in his eye. 
 
 The sun his golden tresses gave, — - 
 The north's pure morn her orient dye, 
 
 To him who rests in yonder grave ! 
 
 Beneath no high, historic stone. 
 Though nobly born, is Owen laid ; 
 
 Stretch' d on the greenwood's lap alone, 
 He sleeps beneath the waving shade. 
 
 There many a flowery race hath sprung, 
 And fled before the mountain gale, 
 
 Since first hia simple dirge he sung ; 
 Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 
 
 Yet still, when May with fragrant feet 
 Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, 
 
 That dirge I hear so simply sweet 
 Far echo'd from each evening fold. 
 
 'Twas in the pride of William's day. 
 
 When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, 
 
 That Moray's earl, with mighty sway. 
 Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill. 
 
 And far for him their fruitful store 
 The fairer plains of Carron spread ; 
 
 In fortune rich, in offspring poor. 
 An only daughter croAvn'd his bed. 
 
 Oh ! write not poor — the wealth that fiows 
 In waves of gold round India's throne, 
 
 All in her shining breast that glows. 
 
 To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone. 
 
 For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd. 
 The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave. 
 
 And smoother Italy applied. 
 
 And many an English baron brave. 
 
 In vain by foreign arts assail'd, 
 
 No foreign loves her breast beguile, 
 
 And England's honest valour fail'd. 
 Paid with a cold, but courteous smile. 
 
 Ah ! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, 
 
 That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd. 
 
 Thy breath, the violet of the vale. 
 Thy voice, the music of the shade ! 
 
 " Ah ! woe to thee, that Ellen's love 
 Alone to thy soft tale would yield ! 
 
 For soon those gentle arms shall prove 
 The conflict of a ruder field." 
 
 'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke, 
 And cast a rueful glance behind, 
 
 As from her dim wood-glen she broke. 
 And mounted on the moaning wind. 
 
Db. Langhoene.] 
 
 OWEN OF CAEEON. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 She spoke and vanish' cl — :nore unmoved 
 Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest, 
 
 The valiant youth by Ellen loved, 
 With aught that fear or fate suggest. 
 
 For love, methinks, hath power to raise 
 The soul beyond a vulgar state ; 
 
 Th' unconquer'd banners he displays 
 Control our fears and fix our fat«. 
 
 'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, 
 Of clouds that wander' d west away, 
 
 Twilight with gentle hand did weave 
 Her fairy robe of night and day ; 
 
 When all the mountain gales were still, 
 And the waves slept against the shore, 
 
 And the sun, sunk beneath the hill, 
 Left his last smile on Lammermore ; 
 
 Led by those waking dreams of thought 
 That warm the young unpractised breast. 
 
 Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, 
 
 And Carron murmur' d near, and soothed her 
 into rest. 
 
 There is some kind and courtly sprite 
 That o'er the realm of fancy reigns, 
 
 Throws sunshine on the mask of night, 
 And smiles at slumber's powerless chains; 
 
 'Tis told, and I believe the tale. 
 
 At this soft hour that sprite was there, 
 
 And spread with fairer flowers the vale, 
 And fiil'd with sweeter sounds the air. 
 
 A bower he framed (for he could frame 
 What long might weary mortal wight : 
 
 Swift as the lightning's rapid flame 
 Darts on the unsuspecting sight). 
 
 Such bower he framed with magic hand. 
 As well that wizard bard hath Avove, 
 
 In scenes where fair Armida's wand 
 Waved all the witcheries of love : 
 
 Yet was it wrought in simple show ; 
 
 Nor Indian mines nor orient shores 
 Had lent their glories here to glow, 
 
 Or yielded here their shining stores. 
 
 All round a poplar's trembling arms 
 
 The wild rose wound her damask flower ; 
 
 The woodbine lent her spicy charms, 
 That loves to weave the lover's bower. 
 
 The ash, that courts the mountain-air, 
 In all her painted blooms array' d. 
 
 The wilding's blossom blushing fair, 
 Combined to form the flowery shade. 
 
 With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, 
 The cowslip's sAveet, reclining head, 
 
 The violet of sky-woven vest. 
 
 Was all the fairy ground bespread. 
 
 But who is he, whose locks so fair 
 Adown his manly shoulders flow ? 
 
 Beside him lies the hunter's spear. 
 Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. 
 
 He bends to EUen — (gentle sprite ! 
 
 Thy sweet seductive arts forbear). 
 He courts her arms with fond delight, 
 
 And instant vanishes in air. 
 
 Hast thou not found at early dawn 
 
 Some soft ideas melt away. 
 If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn, 
 
 The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray ? 
 
 Hast thou not some fair object seen, 
 And, when the fleeting form was past, 
 
 Still on thy memory found its mien. 
 And felt the fond idea last ? 
 
 Thou hast — and oft the pictured view, 
 Seen in some vision counted vain, 
 
 Has struck thy wond'ring eye anew. 
 And brought the long-lost dream again. 
 
 With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear. 
 With locks adown his shoulder spread. 
 
 Young Nithisdale is ranging near — 
 
 He's ranging near yon mountain's head. 
 
 Scarce had one pale moon pass'd away. 
 
 And fiil'd her silver urn again, 
 When in the devious chase to stray. 
 
 Afar from all his woodland train, 
 
 To Carron* s banks his fate consign'd; 
 
 And, all to shun the fervid hour, 
 He sought some friendly shade to find. 
 
 And found the visionary bower. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Led by the golden star of love, 
 Sweet EUen took her wonted way, 
 
 And in the deep defending grove 
 
 Sought refuge from the fervid day — 
 
 Oh ! — who is he whose ringlets fair 
 Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, 
 
 Eeclined to rest — whose sunny hair 
 
 Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow? 
 
 'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest, 
 
 (Ah me ! that sprites can fate control !) 
 
 That Hves still imaged on her breast. 
 That lives still pictured in her soul. 
 
 As when some gentle spirit fled 
 
 From earth to breathe Elysian air, 
 
 And, in the train whom we call dead. 
 Perceives its long-loved partner there ; 
 
 Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er, 
 
 Eesistless, o'er its airy frame. 
 To find its future fate restore 
 
 The object of its former flame : 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 OWEN OF CAEROIN. 
 
 [Dr. Langhorne. 
 
 So Ellen stood — less power to move 
 
 Had he, who, bound in slumber's chain, 
 
 Seem'd hap'ly o'er his hills to rove, 
 And wind his woodland chase again. 
 
 She stood, but trembled — mingled fear, 
 And fond delight, and melting love, 
 
 Seized all her soul ; she came not near, 
 She came not near that fated grove. 
 
 She strives to fly — from -wTizard's wand 
 As well might powerless captive fly — 
 
 The neviT-cropt flower falls from her hand- 
 Ah ! fall not with that flower to die ! 
 
 Hast thou not seen some azure gleam 
 Smile in the morning's orient eye, 
 
 And skirt the reddening cloud's soft beam 
 What time the sun was hasting nigh ? 
 
 Thou hast — and thou canst fancy well 
 As any Muse that meets thine ear, 
 
 The soul-set eye of Nithisdale, 
 
 When, waked, it fix'd on Ellen near. 
 
 Silent they gazed — that silence broke : 
 " Hail, goddess of these groves (he cried). 
 
 let me wear thy gentle yoke ! 
 O let me in thy ser\4ce bide ! 
 
 For thee I'll climb the mountains steep, 
 Unwearied chase the destined prey ; 
 
 For thee I'll pierce the wild wood deep, 
 And part the sprays that vex thy way. 
 
 For thee" — " O stranger, cease," she said, 
 And swift away, like Daphne, flew ; 
 
 But Daphne's flight was not delay'd 
 By aught that to her bosom grew. 
 
 'Twas Atalanta's golden fruit, 
 
 The fond idea that confined 
 Fair Ellen's steps, and bless' d his suit, 
 
 Who was not far, not far behind. 
 
 O love ! within those golden vales, 
 
 Those genial airs where thou wast born, 
 
 Where nature, listening thy soft tales. 
 Leans on the rosy breast of mom ; 
 
 WTiere the sweet smiles, the graces dwell. 
 And tender sighs the heart remove. 
 
 In silent eloquence to tell 
 
 Thy tale, soul-subduing love ! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore should grim rage be nigh, 
 And dark distrust, with changeful face, 
 
 And jealousy's reverted eye 
 
 Be near thy fair, thy favour' d place ? 
 
 Earl Barnard was of high degree, 
 And lord of many a lowland hind : 
 
 And long for Ellen love had he, 
 Had love, but not of gentle kind. 
 
 From Moray's halls her absent hour 
 He watch'd with alia miser's care ; 
 
 The wide domain, the princely dower 
 Made Ellen more than Ellen fair. 
 
 Ah wretch ! to think the liberal soul 
 May thus with fair affection part T - 
 
 Though Lothian's vales thy sway control, 
 Know, Lothian is not worth one heart. 
 
 Studious he marks her absent hour. 
 And, winding far where Carron flows. 
 
 Sudden he sees the fated bower. 
 
 And red rage on his dark brow glows. 
 
 For who is he ? — 'Tis Nithisdale ! 
 
 And that fair form with arm reclined 
 On his ?— 'Tis Ellen of the vale, 
 
 'Tis she (0 powers of vengeance !) kind. 
 
 Should he that vengeance swift pursue ? 
 
 No — that would all his hopes destroy ; 
 Moray would vanish from his view, 
 
 And rob him of a miser's joy. 
 
 Unseen to Moray's halls he hies — 
 He calls his slaves, his ruffian band, 
 
 And, " Haste to yonder groves," he cries, 
 " And ambush' d lie by Carron' s strand. 
 
 What time ye mark from bower or glen 
 
 A gentle lady take her way. 
 To difctance due, and far from ken. 
 
 Allow her length of time to stray. 
 
 Then ransack straight that range of groves — 
 With hunter's spear, and vest of green, 
 
 If chance a rosy stripKng roves, — 
 Ye well can aim your arrows keen." 
 
 And now the ruffian slaves are nigh. 
 And Ellen takes her homeward way : 
 
 Though stay'd by many a tender sigh, 
 She can no longer, longer stay. 
 
 Pensive, against yon poplar pale 
 The lover leans his gentle heart, 
 
 Eevolving manj a tender tale. 
 
 And wond'ring still how they could part. 
 
 Three arrows pierced the desert air. 
 Ere yet his tender dreams depart; 
 
 And one struck deep his forehead fair, 
 And one went through his gentle heart. 
 
 Love's waking dream is lost in sleep — 
 Ho lies beneath yon poplar pale ; 
 
 Ah ! could we marvel ye should weep, 
 Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 
 
 When all the mountain gales were stiU, 
 And the wave slept against the shore. 
 
 And the sun, sunk beneath the hill, 
 Left his last smile on Lammermore ; 
 
Dr. Langhokne.] 
 
 OWEN OF CAEEOX. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Sweet Ellen takes her wonted way 
 Along the fairy-featured vale : 
 
 Bright o'er his wave does Carron play, 
 And soon she'U meet her Nithisdale. 
 
 She'U meet him soon — for, at her sight. 
 Swift as the mountain deer he sped ; 
 
 The evening shades will sink in night — 
 Where art thou, loitering lover, fled ? 
 
 O ! she will chide thy trifling stay, 
 
 E'en now the soft reproach she frames ; 
 
 " Can lovers brook such long delay ? 
 Lovers that boast of ardent flames ! " 
 
 He comes not — weary with the chase. 
 Soft slumber o'er his eyelids throws 
 
 Her veil — we'll steal one dear embrace, 
 We'U gently steal on his repose. 
 
 This is the bower — we'll softly tread — • 
 He sleeps beneath yon poplar pale — 
 
 Lover, if e'er thy heart has bled. 
 Thy heart will far forego my tale ! 
 
 Ellen is not in princely bower. 
 
 She's not in Moray's splendid train ; 
 
 Their mistress dear, at midnight hour, 
 Her weeping maidens seek in vain. 
 
 Her pillow swells not deep with down ; 
 
 For her no balms their sweets exhale : 
 Her limbs are on the pale turf thrown, 
 
 Press' d by her lovely cheek as pale. 
 
 On that fair cheek, that flowing hair, 
 The broom its yellow leaf hath shed. 
 
 And the chill mountain's early air 
 
 Blows wildly o'er her beauteous head. 
 
 As the soft star of orient day. 
 
 When clouds involve his rosy light, 
 
 Darts through the gloom a transient ray, 
 And leaves the world once more to night ; 
 
 Eeturning life illumes her eye. 
 
 And slow its languid orb unfolds, — 
 
 What are those bloody arrows nigh ? 
 Sure, bloody arrows she beholds ! 
 
 What was that form so ghastly pale. 
 That low beneath the poplar lay ? — 
 
 'Twas some poor youth — " Ah, Nithisdale ! 
 She said, and silent sunk away. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The mom is on the mountains spread, 
 The woodlark triUs his liquid strain — 
 
 Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead ? 
 Give the set eye its soul again ? 
 
 A shepherd of that gentler mind 
 Which nature not profusely yields, 
 
 Seeks in these lonely shades to find 
 Some wanderer from his little fields. 
 
 Aghast he stands — and simple fear 
 O'er all his paly visage glides — 
 
 " Ah me ! what means this misery here ? 
 What fate this lady fair betides ? " 
 
 He bears her to his friendly home, 
 
 When life, he finds, has but retired : — 
 
 With haste he frames the lover's tomb, 
 For his is quite, is quite expired ! 
 
 " O hide me in thy humble bower," 
 Eeturning late to life, she said ; 
 
 " I'll bind thy crook with many a flower ; 
 With many a, rosy wreath thy head. 
 
 Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove, 
 
 And, if my love asleep is laid, 
 Oh ! wake him not ; but softly move 
 
 Some pillow to that gentle head. 
 
 Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain. 
 Thou know'st the sun-rise o'er the sea — 
 
 But oh ! no lamb in all thy train 
 Was e'er so mild, so mild as he." 
 
 " His head is on the wood-moss laid ; 
 
 I did not wake his slumber deep — 
 Sweet sing the redbreast o'er the shade — 
 
 Why, gentle lady, would you weep ? " 
 
 As flowers that fade in burning day, 
 At evening find the dew-drop dear, 
 
 But fiercer feel the noontide ray. 
 When soften' d by the nightly tear ; 
 
 Eeturning in the flowing tear, 
 
 This lovely flower, more sweet than they. 
 Found her fair soul, and, wand' ring near, 
 
 The stranger, reason, cross' d her way. 
 
 Found her fair soul — Ah ! so to find 
 Was but more dreadful grief to know ! 
 
 Ah I sure the privilege of mind 
 Cannot be worth the wish of woe ! 
 
 On melancholy's silent urn 
 
 A softer shade of sorrow falls, 
 But Ellen can no more return, 
 
 No more return to Moray's halls. 
 
 Beneath the low and lonely shade 
 The slow-consuming hour she'll weep. 
 
 Till nature seeks her last left aid 
 In the sad sombrous arms of sleep. 
 
 " These jewels, all unmeet for me, 
 
 Shalt thou," she said, "good shepherd, take : 
 These gems will purchase gold for thee. 
 
 And these be thine for Ellen's sake. 
 
 So fail thou not, at eve or mom. 
 
 The rosemary's pale bough to bring — 
 
 Thou know'st where I was found forlorn — 
 Where thou hast heard the redbreast sing. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 OWEN OF CAEEON. 
 
 [Dr. Langhoene. 
 
 Heedful I'll tend thy flocks tlie while, 
 Or aid thy shepherdess's care, 
 
 For I will share her humble toil, 
 And I her friendly roof wiU share." 
 
 And now two lonesome years are past 
 
 In luxury of lonely pain — 
 The lovely mourner, found at last. 
 
 To Moray's halls is borne again. 
 
 Yet has she left one object dear, 
 
 That wears love's sunny eye of joy — 
 
 Is Nithisdale reviving here ? 
 Or is it but a shepherd's boy ? 
 
 By Carron's side, a shepherd's boy, 
 
 He binds his vale-flowers with the reed 
 
 He wears love's sunny eye of joy. 
 And birth he little seems to heed. 
 
 But ah I no more his infant sleep 
 Closes beneath a mother's smile. 
 
 Who, only when it closed, would weep, 
 And yield to tender woe the while. 
 
 No more, with fond attention dear. 
 She seeks th' unspoken wish to find ; 
 
 No more shall she, with pleasure's tear, 
 See the soul waxing into miad. 
 
 Does nature bear a tyrant's breast ? 
 
 Is she the friend of stem cortrol ? 
 Wears she the despot's purple vest ? 
 
 Or fetters she the free-born soul ? 
 
 Where, worst of tyrants, is thy claim 
 In chains thy children's breasts to bind? 
 
 Gavest thou the Promethean flame ? 
 The incommunicable mind ? 
 
 Thy offspring are great nature's — free, 
 And of her fair dominion heirs ; 
 
 Each privilege she gives to thee ; 
 Know, that each privilege is theirs. 
 
 They have thy feature, wear thine eye, 
 Perhaps some feelings of thy heart ; 
 
 And wilt thou their loved hearts deny 
 To act their fair, their proper part ? 
 
 The lord of Lothian's fertile vale, 
 Ill-fated Ellen, claims thy hand ; 
 
 Thou know'st not that thy Nithisdale 
 Was low laid by his ruffian band. 
 
 And Moray, with nnfather'd eyes, 
 Fix'd on fair Lothian's fertile dale. 
 
 Attends his human sacrifice. 
 
 Without the Grecian painter's veil. 
 
 O married love ! thy bard shall own. 
 Where two congenial souls unite, 
 
 Thy golden chain inlaid with down. 
 
 Thy lamp w ith heaven' s own splendour bright . 
 
 But of no radiant star of love, 
 
 O Hymen ! smile on thy fair rite, _ 
 
 Thy chain a wretched weight shall prove, 
 Thy lamp a sad sepulchral light. 
 
 And now has time's slow wandering wing 
 Borne many a year unmark'd with speed — 
 
 Where is the boy by Carron's spring, 
 
 Who bound his vale-flowers with the reed ? 
 
 Ah me 1 those flowers he binds no more ; 
 
 No early charm returns again ; 
 The parent, nature, keeps in store 
 
 Her best joys for her little train. 
 
 No longer heed the sunbeam bright 
 That plays on Carron's breast he can, 
 
 Eeason has lent her quiv'ring light, 
 And shown the chequer' d field of man. 
 
 As the first human heir of earth 
 With pensive eye himself survey'd, 
 
 And, all unconscious of his birth. 
 Sat thoughtful oft in Eden's shade ; 
 
 In pensive thought so Owen stray' d 
 Wild Carron's lonely woods among, 
 
 And once within their greenest glade. 
 He fondly framed his simple song : 
 
 " Why is this crook adorn' d with gold ? 
 Why am I tales of ladies told ? 
 Why does no labour me employ. 
 If I am but a shepherd's boy ? 
 
 A silken vest like mine so green 
 In shepherd's hut I have not seen — 
 Why should I in such vesture joy. 
 If I am but a shepherd's boy ? 
 
 I know it is no shepherd's art 
 His written meaning to impart — 
 They teach me sure an idle toy. 
 If I am but a shepherd's boy. 
 
 This bracelet bright that binds my arm- 
 It could not come from shepherd's farm 
 It only would that arm annoy. 
 If I were but a shepherd's boy. 
 
 And O thou silent picture fair, 
 That lovest to smile upon me there, 
 O say, and fill my heart with joy. 
 That I am not a shepherd's boy." 
 
 Ah, lovely youth ! thy tender lay 
 May not thy gentle life prolong : 
 
 Seest thou yon nightingale a prey ? 
 
 The fierce hawk hovering o'er his song ? 
 
Dr. Langhobne.] 
 
 OWEN or CAEEON. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 His little heart is large with love : 
 He sweetly hails his evening star ; 
 
 And fate's more pointed arrows move, 
 Insidious, from his eye afar. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The shepherdess, whose kindly care 
 
 Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath, 
 
 Must now their silent mansions share, 
 Whom time leads calmly down to death. 
 
 " O tell me, parent if thou art, 
 What is this lovely picture dear ? 
 
 Why wounds its mournful eye my heart ? 
 Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear ? 
 
 " Ah, youth ! to leave thee loth am I, 
 Though I be not thy parent dear ; 
 
 And wouldst thou wish, or ere I die, 
 The story of thy birth to hear ? 
 
 But it will make thee much bewail, 
 And it will make thy fair eye swell — " 
 
 She said, and told the woesome tale, 
 As sooth as shepherdess might tell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The heart that sorrow doom'd to share 
 Has worn the frequent seal of woe, 
 
 Its sad impressions learns to bear, 
 And finds full oft its ruin slow. 
 
 But when that zeal is first imprest. 
 
 When the young heart its pain shall try, 
 
 From the soft, yielding, trembling breast, 
 Oft seems the startled soul to fly : 
 
 Yet fled not Owen's — wild amaze 
 In paleness clothed, and lifted hands. 
 
 And horror's dread unmeaning gaze, 
 Mark the poor statue as it stands. 
 
 The simple guardian of his life 
 
 Look'd wistful for the tear to glide ; 
 
 But, when she saw his tearless strife, 
 Silent, she lent him one and died. 
 
 " No, I am not a shepherd's boy," 
 Awaking from his dream, he said : 
 
 " Ah, wh^re is now the promised joy 
 Of this r — for ever, ever fled ! 
 
 picture dear ! — for her loved sake 
 How fondly could my heart bewail ! 
 
 My friendly shepherdess, O wake, 
 And teU me more of this sad tale. 
 
 O teD. me more of this sad tale — 
 No ; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep ! 
 
 And I will go to Lothian's vale, 
 
 And more than all her waters weep." 
 
 XXVI. 
 Owen to Lothian's vale is fled — 
 
 Earl Barnard's lofty towers appear — 
 « O ! art thou there ? " the full heart said, 
 
 " I art thou there, my parent dear ? " 
 
 Yes, she is there : from idle state 
 Oft has she stole her hour to weep ; 
 
 Think how she "by thy cradle sat," 
 And how she " fondly saw thee sleep.' 
 
 Now tries his trembling hand to frame 
 Full man}"- a tender line of love ; 
 
 And still he blots the parent's name, 
 For that, he fears, might fatal prove. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 O'er a fair fountain's smiling side 
 
 Reclined a dim toiver, clad with moss, 
 
 Where every bird was wont to bide, 
 That languish' d for its partner's loss. 
 
 This scene he chose, this scene assign' d 
 A parent's first embrace to wait, 
 
 And many a soft fear fill'd his mind, 
 Anxious for his fond letter's fate. 
 
 The hand that bore those lines of love, 
 The well-informing bracelet bore — 
 
 Ah ! may they not unprosperous prove ! 
 Ah ! safely pass yon dangerous door ! 
 
 " She comes not ; — can she then delay ? " 
 Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tear — 
 
 " Whatever filial love could say, 
 To her I said, and call'd her dear. 
 
 She comes — Oh ! no — encircled round, 
 'Tis some rude chief with many a spear. 
 
 My hapless tale that earl has found — 
 Ah me ! my heart ! — for her I fear.'* 
 
 His tender tale that earl had read. 
 Or ere it reach' d his lady's eye ; 
 
 His dark brow wears a cloud of red, 
 In rage he deems a rival nigh. 
 
 'Tis o'er — those locks that waved in gold, 
 That waved adown those cheeks so fair, 
 
 Wreathed in the gloomy tyrant's hold, 
 Hang from the sever' d head in air ! 
 
 That streaming head he joys to bear 
 In horrid guise to Lothian's halls ! 
 
 Bids his grim rufiians place it there, 
 Erect upon the frowning walls. 
 
 The fatal tokens forth he drew — 
 
 " Know'st thou those — Ellen of the vale 
 
 The pictured bracelet soon she knew. 
 And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. 
 
 The trembling victim straight he led. 
 Ere yet her soul's first fear was o'er : 
 
 He pointed to the ghastly head — 
 She s^w — and sunk to rise no more. 
 
 I>r. Langlioime. — Born 1735, Died 1779. 
 
Fro:n 1727 to 1780.] O. NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME. [Dr. Thomas Perct. 
 
 936.— A LAWYEE'S FAEEWELL TO HIS 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 As, by some tyrant's stem command, 
 
 A wretch forsakes his native land. 
 
 In foreign climes condemn' d to roam 
 
 An endless exile from his home ; 
 
 Pensive he treads the destined way, 
 
 And dreads to go ; nor dares to stay ; 
 
 TiU on some neighbouring mountain's brow 
 
 He stops, and turns his eyes below ; 
 
 There, melting at the well-known view, 
 
 Drops a last tear, and bids adieu : 
 
 So I, thus doom'd from thee to part, 
 
 Gay queen of fancy and of art, 
 
 Eeluctant move, with doubtful mind, 
 
 Oft stop, and often look behind. 
 
 Companion of my tender age. 
 
 Serenely gay, and sweetly sage. 
 
 How blithesome we were wont to rove, 
 
 By verdant hill or shady grove, 
 
 Where fervent bees, with humming voice, 
 
 Around the honied oak rejoice, 
 
 And aged elms, with awful bend. 
 
 In long cathedral walks extend ! 
 
 Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods, 
 
 Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods, 
 
 How blest my days, my thoughts how free, 
 
 In sweet society with thee ! 
 
 Then all was joyous, all was young, 
 
 And years unheeded roU'd along : 
 
 But now the pleasing dream is o'er, 
 
 These scenes must charm me now no more ; 
 
 Lost to the fields, and torn from you — 
 
 Farewell ! — a long, a last adieu. 
 
 Me wranghng courts, and stubborn law. 
 
 To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw : 
 
 There selfish faction rules the day. 
 
 And pride and avarice throng the way ! 
 
 Diseases taint the murky air, 
 
 And midnight conflagrations glare ; 
 
 Loose Eevelry, and Eiot bold. 
 
 In frighted streets their orgies hold ; 
 
 Or, where in silence all is drown' d, 
 
 Fell Murder walks his lonely round ; 
 
 No room for peace, no room for you ; 
 
 Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu ! 
 
 Shakspere, no more thy sylvan son, 
 
 Nor all the art of Addison, 
 
 Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's 
 
 ease. 
 Nor Milton's mighty self must please : 
 Instead of these, a formal band 
 In furs and coifs around me stand ; 
 With sounds uncouth and accents dry, 
 That grate the soul of harmony. 
 Each pedant sage unlocks his store 
 Of mystic, dark, discordant lore. 
 And points with tottering hand the ways 
 That lead me to the thorny maze. 
 There, in a winding close retreat, 
 Is justice doom'd to fix her seat ; 
 There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, 
 She keeps the wondering world in awe ; 
 And there, from vulgar sight retired, 
 Like eastern queen, is more admired. 
 
 Oh let me pierce the secret shade 
 Where dwells the venerable maid ! 
 There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 
 The guardian of Britannia's law ; 
 Unfold with joy her sacred page. 
 The united boast of many an age ; 
 
 Where, mix'd, yet imiform, appears 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years. ~ 
 
 In that pure spring the bottom view, 
 Clear, deep, and regularly true ; 
 And other doctrines thence imbibe 
 Than lurk within the sordid scribe ; 
 Observe how parts with parts unite 
 In one harmonious rule of right ; 
 See countless wheels distinctly tend 
 By various laws to one great end ; 
 While mighty Alfred's piercing soul 
 Pervades and regulates the whole. 
 Then Avelcome business, welcome strife, 
 Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, 
 The visage wan, the pore-bhnd sight, 
 The toil by day, the lamp at night. 
 The tedious forms, the solemn prate. 
 The pert dispute, the dull debate, 
 The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, 
 For thee, fair Justice, welcome all ! 
 Thus, though my noon of life be past, 
 Yet let my setting sun, at last, 
 Find out the still, the rural cell. 
 Where sage retirement loves to dwell ! 
 There let me taste the homefelt bliss 
 Of innocence and inward peace ; 
 Untainted by the guilty bribe, 
 Uncursed amid the harpy tribe ; 
 No orphan's cry to wound my ear ; 
 My honour and my conscience clear. 
 Thus may I calmly meet my end, 
 Thus to the grave in peace descend. 
 
 Sir William Blackstone. — 
 Born 1723, Died 1780. 
 
 937- 
 
 -O, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG 
 WI' ME. 
 
 0, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me. 
 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
 
 The lowly cot and russet gown ? 
 Nae langer drest in silken sheen, 
 
 Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare, 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 0, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa. 
 
 Wilt thou not cast a look behind ? 
 Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw, 
 
 Nor shrink before the vnnter wind ? 
 can that soft and gentle mien 
 
 Severest hardships learn to bear, 
 Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 46 
 
Dr. Thomas Pekct.] 
 
 THE FEIAE OF OEDERS GRAY. 
 
 [Sixth Psjiiod.— 
 
 0, Nanny, canst thou love so true, 
 
 Through perils keen wi' me to gae ? 
 Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, 
 
 To share with liim the pang of wae ? 
 Say, should disease or pain befall, 
 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
 Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall. 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And when at last thy love shall die, 
 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 
 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
 And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay 
 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear ? 
 Nor then regret those scenes so gay. 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Br. Thomas Percy.— Born 1728, Bied 1811. 
 
 938.— THE FEIAE OF OEDEES GEAY. 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 
 
 Walk'd forth to tell his beads, 
 And he met with a lady fair, 
 
 Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! 
 
 I pray thee tell to me, 
 If ever at yon holy shrine 
 
 My true love thou didst see." 
 
 " And how should I know your true love 
 
 From many another one ? " 
 " Oh ! by his cockle hat and stai3F, 
 
 And by his sandal shoon : 
 
 But chiefly by his face and mien, 
 
 That were so fair to view. 
 His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd. 
 
 And eyes of lovely blue." 
 
 " O lady, he is dead and gone ! 
 
 Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
 At his head a green grass turf, 
 
 And at his heels a stone. 
 
 Within these holy cloisters long 
 
 He languish'd, and he died, 
 Lamenting of a lady's love, 
 
 And 'plaining of her pride. 
 
 Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
 
 Six proper youths and taU ; 
 And many a tear bedew' d his grave 
 
 Within yon kirkyard wall." 
 
 *' And art thou dead, thou gentle youth — 
 
 And art thou dead and gone ? 
 And didst thou die for love of me ? 
 
 Break, cruel heart of stone ! " 
 
 " weep not, lady, weep not so, 
 
 Some ghostly comfort seek : 
 Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 
 
 Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 
 
 " O do not, do not, holy friar. 
 
 My sorrow now reprove ; 
 For I have lost the sweetest youth 
 
 That e'er won lady's love. 
 
 And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 
 
 I'll evermore weep and sigh ; 
 For thee I only -svish'd to live, 
 
 For thee I wish to die." 
 
 " Weep no more, lady, weep no more ; 
 
 Thy sorrow is in vain : 
 For violets pluck' d, the sweetest shower 
 
 Will ne'er make grow again. 
 
 Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 
 
 Why then should sorrow last ? 
 Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 
 
 Grieve not for what is past." 
 
 " O say not so, thou holy friar ! 
 
 I pray thee say not so ; 
 For since my true love died for me, 
 
 'Tis meet my tears should flow. 
 
 And will he never come again — 
 
 Will he ne'er come again ? 
 Ah, no ! he is dead, and laid in his grave. 
 
 For ever to remain. 
 
 His cheek was redder than the rose — 
 
 The comeliest youth was he ; 
 But he is dead and laid in his grave, 
 
 Alas ! and woe is me." 
 
 " Sigh 710 more, lady, sigh no more, 
 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot on sea, and one on land, 
 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 
 
 And left thee sad and heavy ; 
 For young men ever were fickle found, 
 
 Since summer trees were leafy." 
 
 " Now say not so, thou holy friar, 
 
 I pray thee say not so ; 
 My love he had the truest heart — 
 
 O he was ever true ! 
 
 And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth 
 
 And didst thou die for me ? 
 Then farewell home ; for evermore 
 
 A pilgrim I will be. 
 
 But first upon my true love's grave 
 
 My weary limbs I'll lay. 
 And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf 
 
 That wraps his breathless clay," 
 
 " Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while 
 
 Beneath this cloister wall ; 
 The cold wind through the hawthorn blows. 
 
 And drizzly rain doth fall." 
 
 " O stay me not, thou holy friar, 
 
 O stay me not, I pray ; 
 No drizzly rain that falls on me 
 
 Can wash my fault away." 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 SPEING. 
 
 [Chatterton. 
 
 " Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 
 
 And dry those pearly tears ; 
 For see, beneath this gown of gray, 
 
 Thy own true love appears. 
 
 Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 
 
 These holy weeds I sought ; 
 And here, amid these lonely walls. 
 
 To end my days I thought. 
 
 But haply, for my year of grace 
 
 Is not yet pass'd away, 
 Might I still hope to win thy love, 
 
 No longer would I stay." 
 
 " Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
 
 Once more unto my heart ; 
 For since I've found thee, lovely youth, 
 
 We never more will part." 
 
 Dr. Tliomas Percy.— Bom 1728, Died. 1811. 
 
 939.— THE CAVE. 
 
 The wind is up, the field is bare, 
 Some hermit lead me to his cell, 
 
 "Where Contemplation, lonely fair. 
 
 With bless'd content has chose to dwell. 
 
 Behold ! it opens to my sight. 
 
 Dark in the rock, beside the flood ; 
 
 Dry fern around obstructs the light ; 
 The winds above it move the wood. 
 
 Eioflected in the lake, I see 
 
 The do\vnward mountains and the skies, 
 The flying bii'd, the waving tree. 
 The goat^ that on the hill arise. 
 
 The gray-cloak' d herd drives on the cow, 
 The slow-paced fowler walks the heath ; 
 
 A freckled pointer scours the brow ; 
 A musing shepherd stands beneath. 
 
 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, 
 
 The woodman lifts liis axe on high ; 
 
 The hills re-echo to the stroke ; 
 I see — I see the shivers fly ! 
 
 Some rural maid, with apron full. 
 Brings fuel to the homely flame ; 
 
 I see the smoky columns roU, 
 
 And, through the chinky hut, the beam. 
 
 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss. 
 Two well-met hunters talk at ease ; 
 
 Three panting dogs beside repose ; 
 
 One bleeding deer is stretch' d on grass. 
 
 A lake at distance spreads to sight. 
 Skirted with shady forests round ; 
 
 In midst, an island's rocky height 
 Sustains a ruin, once renown'd. 
 
 One tree bends o'er the naked walls ; 
 
 Two broad-wing'd eagles hover jjigh ; 
 By intervals a fragment falls, 
 
 As blows the blast along the sky. 
 
 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide 
 With labouring oars along the flood ; _ 
 
 An angler, bending o'er the tide, 
 
 Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. 
 
 Beside the flood, belieath the rocks, 
 On grassy bank, two lovers lean ; 
 
 Bend on each other amorous looks. 
 And seem to laugh and kiss between. 
 
 The wind is rustling in the oak ; 
 
 They seem to hear the tread of feet ; 
 They start, they rise, look round the rock ; 
 
 Again they smile, again they meet. 
 
 But see ! the grey mist from the lake 
 
 Ascends upon the shady hills ; 
 Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, 
 
 Eain beats around a hundred rills. 
 
 To Damon's homely hut I fly ; 
 
 I see it smoking on the plain ; 
 When storms are past and fair the sky, 
 
 I'll often seek my cave again. 
 
 James Macpherson. — Born 1738, Died 1796. 
 
 940.— MOENING. 
 
 Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been 
 dight. 
 From the red east he flitted with his 
 train ; 
 The Houris draw away the gate of Night, 
 
 Her sable tapestry was rent in twain : 
 The dancing streaks bedecked heaven's plain. 
 And on the dew did smile with skimmering 
 eye, 
 Like gouts of blood which do black armour 
 stain. 
 Shining upon the bourn which standeth by ; 
 The soldier stood upon the hiUis side. 
 Like young enleaved trees which in a forest 
 bide. 
 
 Chatterton. — Born 1752, Died 1770. 
 
 941.— SPRING. 
 
 The budding floweret blushes at the light. 
 The meads be sprinkled with the yellow 
 hue, 
 In daisied mantles is the mountain dight. 
 The fresh young cowshp bendeth with the 
 dew; 
 The trees enleafed, into heaven straight, 
 
 46* 
 
Chatterton.] 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din 
 
 is brought. 
 The evening comes, and brings the dews 
 along, 
 The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, 
 Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, 
 Young ivy round the door-post doth en- 
 twine ; 
 I lay me on the grass, yet to my will 
 Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something 
 still. 
 
 Chatterton.— Born 1752, Died 1770. 
 
 942.— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 This truth of old was sorrow's friend — 
 " Times at the worst will surely mend." 
 The difficulty 's then to know 
 How long Oppression's clock can go ; 
 "When Britain's sons may cease to sigh, 
 And hope that their redemption 's nigh. 
 
 When vile Corruption's brazen face 
 At council-board shall take her place ; 
 And lords-commissioners resort 
 To welcome her at Britain's court ; 
 Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, 
 For your redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 See Pension's harbour, large and clear. 
 Defended by St. Stephen's pier ! 
 The entrance safe, by current led. 
 
 Tiding round G 's jetty head ; 
 
 Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, 
 For your redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 When civil power shall snore at ease ; 
 While soldiers fire — to keep the peace ; 
 When murders sanctuary find. 
 And petticoats can Justice blind ; 
 Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, 
 For your redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail. 
 Free as the wind that fills her sail. 
 Wlien she complains of vile restraint, 
 And Power is deaf to her complaint ; 
 Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, 
 For your redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies, 
 Mark'd by the priest for sacrifice, 
 And doom'd a victim for the sins 
 Of half the outs and all the ins ; 
 Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, 
 For your redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 When time shall bring your wish about, 
 Or, seven-years' lease, you sold, is out ; 
 No future contract to fulfil ; 
 Your tenants holding at your will ; 
 Raise up your heads ! your right demand- 
 For your redemption 's in your hand. 
 
 Then is your time to strike the blow, 
 And let the slaves of Mammon know, 
 Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn. 
 And die as free as they were born. 
 Virtue again shall take her seat. 
 And your redemption stand complete. 
 
 Chatterton. — Bom 1752, Died 1770. 
 
 943. — BRISTOW TRAGEDY, OR THE 
 DEATH OP SIR CHARLES 
 BAWDIN. 
 
 The feather'd songster chanticleer 
 
 Had wound his bugle-horn, 
 And told the early villager 
 
 The coming of the mom : 
 
 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 
 
 Of light eclipse the gray. 
 And heard the raven's croaking throat 
 
 Proclaim the fated day. 
 
 " Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for by the God 
 
 That sits enthroned on high ! 
 Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, 
 
 To-day shall surely die." 
 
 Then with a jug of nappy ale 
 
 His knights did on him wait ; 
 " Go tell the traitor, that to-day 
 
 He leaves this mortal state." 
 
 Sir Canterlone then bended low. 
 
 With heart brimful of woe ; 
 He journey' d to the castle-gato, 
 
 And to Sir Charles did go. 
 
 But when he came, his children twain, 
 
 And eke his loving wife, 
 With briny tears did wet the floor, 
 
 For good Sir Cliarles's life. 
 
 " Oh good Sir Charles ! " said Canterlone, 
 
 " Bad tidings I do bring." 
 " Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles ; 
 
 " What says the traitor king ? " 
 
 " I grieve to tell : before yon sun 
 
 Does from the welkin fly. 
 He hath upon his honour sworn, 
 
 That thou shalt surely die." 
 
 " We all must die," said brave Sir Charles ; 
 
 " Of that I'm not afraid ; 
 What boots to live a little space ? 
 
 Thank Jesus, I'm prepared. 
 
 But tell thy king, for mine he 's not, 
 
 I'd sooner die to-day. 
 Than live his slave, as many are, 
 
 Though I should live for aye." 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] BRISTOW TRAGEDY. [Chatterton. 
 
 Then Canterlone he did go out, 
 To tell the mayor straight 
 
 To get all things in readiness 
 For good Sir Charles's fate. 
 
 By Mary, and all saints in heaven, 
 This sun shall be his last ! " 
 
 Then Can3mge dropp'd a briny tear, 
 And from the presence pass'd. 
 
 Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, 
 
 And fell down on his knee ; 
 " I'm come," quoth he, " unto your grace, 
 
 To move your clemency." 
 
 With heart brimful of gnawing grief. 
 He to Sir Charles did go, "~~ — — 
 
 And sat him down upon a stool, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 " Then," quoth the king, " your tale speak out, 
 You have been much our friend ; 
 
 Whatever your request may be, 
 We wiU to it attend." 
 
 " We all must die," said brave Sir Charles ; 
 
 " What boots it how or when ? 
 Death is the sure, the certain fate, 
 
 Of all we mortal men. 
 
 " My noble liege ! all my request 
 
 Is for a noble knight, 
 Who, though mayhap he has done wrong. 
 
 He thought it still was right. 
 
 Say why, my friend, thy honest soul 
 
 Runs over at thine eye ; 
 Is it for my most welcome doom 
 • That thou dost child-like cry ? " 
 
 He has a spouse and children twain ; 
 
 All ruin'd are for aye. 
 If that you are resolved to let 
 
 Charles Bawdin die to-day." 
 
 Saith godly Canynge, " I do weep, 
 That thou so soon must die. 
 
 And leave thy sons and helpless wife ; 
 'Tis this that wets mine eye." 
 
 " Speak not of such a traitor vile," 
 
 The king in fury said ; 
 " Before the evening star doth shine, 
 
 Bawdin shall lose his head : 
 
 " Then dry the tears that out thine eye 
 
 From godly fountains spring ; f 
 
 Death I despise, and all the power I 
 Of Edward, traitor-king. | 
 
 Justice does loudly for him call, 
 And ho shall have his meed : 
 
 Speak, Mr. Canynge ! what thing else 
 At present do you need ? " 
 
 When through the tyrant's welcome means 
 
 I shall resign my life. 
 The God I serve wiU soon provide 
 
 For both my sons and wife. 
 
 " My noble liege ! " good Canynge said, 
 
 " Leave justice to our God, 
 And lay the iron rule aside ; 
 
 Be thine the olive rod. 
 
 Before I saw the lightsome sun, 
 This was appointed me ; 
 
 Shall mortal man repine or grudge 
 What God ordains to be ? 
 
 Was God to search our hearts and reins. 
 The best were sinners great ; 
 
 Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 
 In all this mortal state. 
 
 How oft in battle have I stood, 
 When thousands died around ; 
 
 When smoking streams of crimson blood 
 Imbrued the fatten'd ground. 
 
 Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
 'Twill fix thy crown fuU sure ; 
 
 From race to race thy family 
 All sovereigns shall endure : 
 
 How did I know that every dart 
 
 That cut the airy way. 
 Might not find passage to my heart. 
 
 And close mine eyes for aye ? 
 
 But if with blood and slaughter thou 
 
 Begin thy infant reign, 
 Thy crown upon thy children's brows 
 
 Will never long remain." 
 
 And shall I now, for fear of death. 
 Look wan and be dismay'd ? 
 
 No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; 
 Be all the man display'd. 
 
 " Canynge, away ! this traitor vile 
 Has scorn'd my power and me ; 
 
 How canst thou then for such a man 
 Entreat my clemency ? " 
 
 Ah, godlike Henry ! God forefend, 
 And guard thee and thy son. 
 
 If 'tis his will ; but if 'tis not, 
 Why, then his will be done. 
 
 " My noble liege ! the truly brave 
 Will valorous actions prize ; 
 
 Respect a brave and noble mind. 
 Although in enemies." 
 
 My honest friend, my fault has been 
 To serve God and my prince ; 
 
 And that I no time-server am. 
 My death will soon convince. 
 
 " Canynge, away ! By God in heaven 
 
 That did me being give, 
 I will not taste a bit of bread 
 
 Whilst this Sir Charles doth live ! 
 
 In London city was I born, 
 Of parents of great note ; 
 
 My father did a noble arms 
 Emblazon on his coat : 
 
Chatterton.] BEISTOW TRAGEDY. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 I make no doubt but he is gone 
 Where soon I hope to go, 
 
 IMiere we for ever shall be blest, 
 From out the reach of woe. 
 
 Saith Canynge, " 'Tis a goodly thing 
 
 To be prepared to die ; 
 And from this world of pain and grief 
 
 To God in heaven to fly." 
 
 He taught me justice and the laws 
 
 With pity to unite ; 
 And eke he taught me how to know 
 
 The wrong cause from the right : 
 
 And now the bell began to toll. 
 
 And clarions to sound ; 
 Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 
 
 A-prancing on the ground. 
 
 He taught me Avith a prudent hand 
 To feed the hungry poor, 
 
 Nor let my servants drive away 
 The hungry from my door : 
 
 And just before the officers 
 His loving wife came in. 
 
 Weeping unfeigned tears of woe 
 With loud and dismal din. 
 
 And none can say but all my life 
 
 I have his wordis kept ; 
 And summ'd the actions of the day 
 
 Each night before I slept. 
 
 " Sweet Florence ! now I pray forbear, 
 
 In quiet let me die ; 
 Pray God that every Christian soul 
 
 May look on death as I. 
 
 I have a spouse, go ask of her 
 
 If I defiled her bed ? 
 I have a king, and none can lay 
 
 Black treason on my head. 
 
 Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? 
 
 They wash my soul away, 
 And almost make me wish for life, , 
 
 With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 
 
 In Lent, and on the holy eve, 
 From flesh I did refrain ; 
 
 W^hy should I then appear dismay' d 
 To leave this world of pain ? 
 
 'Tis but a journey I shall go 
 
 Unto the land of bliss ; 
 Now, as a proof of husband's love 
 
 Eeceive this holy kiss." 
 
 INo, hapless Henry ! I rejoice 
 I shall not see thy death ; 
 
 Most wUlingly in thy just cause 
 Do I resign my breath. 
 
 Then Florence, faltering in her say, 
 Trembling these wordis spoke ■-. 
 
 " Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! 
 My heart is well nigh broke. 
 
 Oh, fickle people ! ruin'd land ! 
 
 Thou wilt ken peace no moe ; 
 While Eichard's sons exalt themselves, 
 
 Thy brooks with blood will flow. 
 
 Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go 
 
 Without thy loving wife ? 
 The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, 
 
 It eke shall end my life." 
 
 Say, were ye tired of godly peace. 
 And godly Henry's reign, 
 
 That you did chop your easy days 
 For those of blood and pain ? 
 
 And now the officers came in 
 To bring Sir Charles away, 
 
 Who turned to his loving wife, 
 And thus to her did say : 
 
 What though I on a sledge be drawn. 
 
 And mangled by a hind, 
 I do defy the traitor's power, 
 
 He cannot harm my mind ; 
 
 " I go to life, and not to death. 
 
 Trust thou in God above. 
 And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, 
 
 And in their hearts him love. 
 
 WTiat though, uphoisted on a pole, 
 
 My limbs shall rot in air, 
 And no rich monument of brass 
 
 Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 
 
 Teach them to run the noble race 
 
 That I their father run, 
 Florence ! should death thee take — adieu ! 
 
 Ye officers lead on." 
 
 Yet in the holy book above, 
 Which time can't eat away, 
 
 There with the servants of the Lord 
 My name shall live for aye. 
 
 Then Florence raved as any mad. 
 
 And did her tresses tear ; 
 " Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life ! " 
 
 Sir Charles then dropp'd a tear. 
 
 Then welcome death ! for life eteme 
 
 I leave this mortal life : 
 Farewell, vain world, and all that 's dear. 
 
 My sons and loving wife ! 
 
 Till tired out with raving loud, 
 
 She fell upon the floor ; 
 Sir Charles exerted all his might. 
 
 And march' d from out the door. 
 
 Now death as welcome to me comes 
 As e'er the month of May ; 
 
 Nor would I even wish to live, 
 With my dear wife to stay." 
 
 Upon a sledge he mounted then, 
 With looks full bravo and sweet ; 
 
 Looks that enshone no more concern 
 Than any in the street. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BEISTOW TEAGEDY. 
 
 [Chatterton 
 
 Before liim went the council-men, 
 
 In scarlet robes and gold, 
 And tassels spangling in the sun, 
 
 Much glorious to' behold : 
 
 The friars of Saint Augtistine next 
 
 Appeared to the sight, 
 All clad in homely russet weeds. 
 
 Of godly monkish plight : 
 
 In different parts a godly psalm 
 Most sweetly they did chant ; 
 
 Behind their back srx minstrels came, 
 "Who tuned the strange bataunt. 
 
 Then five- and- twenty archers came ; 
 
 Each one the bow did bend, 
 Erom rescue of King Henry's friends 
 
 Sir Charles for to defend. 
 
 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 
 Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde. 
 
 By two black steeds in trappings white, 
 With plumes upon their head. 
 
 Behind him five and twenty more 
 Of archers strong and stout, 
 
 With bended bow each one in hand. 
 Marched in goodly rout. 
 
 Saint James's friars marched next, 
 Each one his part did chant ; 
 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came, 
 AVho tuned the strange bataunt. 
 
 Then came the mayor and aldermen. 
 
 In cloth of scarlet deck'd ; 
 And their attending men each one. 
 
 Like eastern princes trick'd. 
 
 And after them a multitude 
 
 Of citizens did throng ; 
 The windows were all full of heads. 
 
 As he did pass along. 
 
 And when he came to the high cross, 
 Sir Charles did turn and say, 
 
 *' O Thou that savest man from sin. 
 Wash my soul clean this day." 
 
 At the great minster window sat 
 
 The king in mickle state, 
 To see Charles Bawdin go along 
 
 To his most welcome fate. 
 
 Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough. 
 That Edward he might hear, 
 
 The brave Sir Charles he did stand up. 
 And thus his words declare : 
 
 " Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile I 
 
 Exposed to infamy ; 
 But be assured, disloyal man, 
 
 I'm greater now than thee. 
 
 By foul proceedings, murder, blood. 
 Thou woarest now a crown ; 
 
 And hast appointed me to die 
 By powpr not thine own. 
 
 Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; 
 
 I have been dead till now. 
 And soon shall live to wear a crown 
 
 For aye upon my brow ; 
 
 Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, 
 Shalt rule this fickle land, _ _ 
 
 To let them know how wide the rule 
 'Twixt king and tyrant hand. 
 
 Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! 
 
 Shall fall on thy own head " — 
 From out of hearing of the king 
 
 Departed then the sledde. 
 
 King Edward's soul rush'd to his face, 
 
 He tum'd his head away, 
 And to his brother Gloucester 
 
 He thus did speak and say t 
 
 " To him that so-much-dreaded death 
 
 No ghastly terrors bring ; 
 Behold the man ! he spake the truth ; 
 
 He 's greater than a king ! " 
 
 " So let him die ! " Duke Eichard said ; 
 
 " And may each one our foes 
 Bend down their necks to bloody axe, 
 
 And feed the carrion crows." 
 
 And now the horses gently drew 
 
 Sir Charles up the high hill ; 
 The axe did glister in the sun. 
 
 His precious blood to spill. 
 
 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go. 
 
 As up a gilded car 
 Of victory, by valorous chiefs 
 
 Gain'd in the bloody war. 
 
 And to the people he did say : 
 
 " Behold you see me die. 
 For serving loyally my king, 
 
 My king most rightfully. 
 
 As long as Edward rules this land, 
 
 No quiet you -will know ; 
 Your sons and husbands shall be slain, 
 
 And brooks with blood shall flow. 
 
 You leave your good and lawful king, 
 
 When in adversity ; 
 Like me, unto the true cause stick, 
 
 And for the true cause die." 
 
 Then he, with priests, upon his knees, 
 
 A prayer to God did make. 
 Beseeching him unto himself 
 
 His parting soul to take. 
 
 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head 
 
 Most seemly on the block ; 
 Which from his body fair at once 
 
 The able headsman stroke : 
 
 And out the blood began to flow. 
 And round the scaffold twine ; 
 
 And tears, enough to wash 't away, 
 Did flow from each man's eyne. 
 
Chatterton.] 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod. 
 
 The bloody axe his body fair 
 
 Into four partis cut ; 
 And every part, and eke his head, 
 
 Upon a pole was put. 
 
 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, 
 
 One on the minster-tower, 
 And one from off the castle-gate 
 
 The crowen did devour. 
 
 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, 
 
 A dreary spectacle ; 
 His head was placed on the high cross, 
 
 In high street most noble. 
 
 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : 
 
 God prosper long our king, 
 And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, 
 
 In heaven God's mercy sing. 
 
 Chatterton.— Bom 1752, Died 1770. 
 
 944.— THE MINSTEEL'S SONG IN ELLA. 
 
 ! sing unto my roundelay ; 
 
 O ! drop the briny tear with me ; 
 Dance no more at holiday, 
 Like a running river be j 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night, 
 White his neck as summer snow, 
 Euddy his face as the morning light, 
 Cold he lies in the grave below : 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, 
 
 Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
 Oh ! he lies by the willow tree. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Hark ! the raven flaps his wing, 
 
 In the brier' d dell below ; 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing, 
 To the nightmares as they go. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 AU under the willow tree. 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
 
 Whiter is my true-love's shroud ; 
 Whiter than the morning sky, 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the wiUow tree. 
 
 Here, upon my true-love's grave. 
 
 Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
 Nor one holy saint to save 
 All the sorrows of a maid. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 With my hands I'll bind the briers, 
 
 Eound his holy cors to gre ; 
 Elfin-fairy, light your fires. 
 Here my body still shall be. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Come with acorn ciip and thorn. 
 
 Drain my heart's blood aU away j 
 Life and all its good I scorn, 
 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Water-witches, cro-svned with reytes. 
 
 Bear me to your deadly tide. 
 I die — I come — my true-love waits. 
 
 Thus the damsel spake, and died. 
 
 Chatterton.— Born 1752, Bied 1770. 
 
 945- 
 
 -CHAEACTEE OF THE SHIP'S 
 OFFICEES. 
 
 O'er the gay vessel, and her daring band. 
 Experienced Albert held the chief command : 
 Though train' d in boisterous elements, hi& 
 
 mind 
 Was yet by soft humanity refined. 
 Each joy of wedded love at home he knew ; 
 Abroad confess'd the father of his crew ! 
 Brave, liberal, just, the calm domestic scene 
 Had o'er his temper breathed a gay serene. 
 Him science taught by mystic lore to trace 
 The planets wheeling in eternal race ; 
 To mark the ship in floating balance held, 
 By earth attracted and by seas repell'd ; 
 Or point her devious track, through climes^ 
 
 unknown. 
 That leads to every shore and every zone. 
 He saw the moon through heaven's blue con- 
 cave glide. 
 And into motion charm th' expanding tide ; 
 While earth impetuous round her axle rolls, 
 Exalts her watery zone, and sinks the poles. 
 Light and attraction, from their genial source, 
 He saw still wandering with diminish'd force ; 
 While on the margin of dechning day, 
 Night's shadowy cone reluctant melts away. — 
 Inured to peril, with uuoonquer'd soul. 
 The chief beheld tempestuous ocean's roll ; 
 His genius, ever for the event prepared, 
 Eose with the storm, and aU its dangers 
 shared. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] CHARACTER OF THE SHIP'S OFFICERS. 
 
 [Falconer. 
 
 The second powers and office Rodmond 
 
 bore : 
 A hardy son of England's furthest shore. 
 Where blea-k Northumbria pours her savage 
 
 train 
 In sable squadrons o'er the northern main ; 
 That, with her pitchy entrails stored, resort, 
 A sooty tribe I to fair Augusta's port. 
 Where'er in ambush lurk the fatal sands, 
 They claim the danger; proud of skilful 
 
 bands ; 
 For while with darkling course their vessels 
 
 sweep 
 The winding shore, or plough the faithless 
 
 deep, 
 O'er bar and shelf the watery path they 
 
 sound, 
 With dexterous arm ; sagacious of the ground : 
 Fearless they combat ev'ry hostile wind, 
 Wheeling in mazy tracks with course inclined. 
 Expert to moor, where terrors line the road ; 
 Or win the anchor from its dark abode : 
 But drooping and relax' d in climes afar, 
 Tumultuous and undisciplined in war. 
 SiTch Rodmond was ; by learning unrefined, 
 That oft enlightens to corrupt the mind : 
 Boisterous of manners ; train' d in early youth 
 To scenes that shame the conscious cheek of 
 
 truth ; 
 To scenes that nature's struggling voice 
 
 control, 
 And freeze compassion rising in the soul ! 
 Where the grim hell-hounds, prowling round 
 
 the shore. 
 With foul intent the stranded bark explore — 
 Deaf to the voice of woe, her decks they 
 
 board. 
 While tardy justice slumbers o'er her sword — 
 Th' indignant Muse, severely taught to feel. 
 Shrinks from a theme she blushes to reveal ! 
 Too oft example, arm'd with poisons fell. 
 Pollutes the shrine where mercy loves to 
 
 dwell : 
 Thus Rodmond, train'd by this unhallow'd 
 
 crew, 
 The sacred social passions never knew : 
 Unskill'd to argue ; in dispute yet loud ; 
 Bold without caution ; without honours proud ; 
 In art unschool'd, each veteran rule he prized, 
 And all improvement haughtily despised : 
 Yet though full oft to future perils blind. 
 With skill superior glow'd his daring mind. 
 Through snares of death the reeling bark to 
 
 guide, 
 When midnight shades involve the raging 
 
 tide. 
 To Rodmond next, in order of command, 
 Succeeds the youngest of our naval band. 
 But what avails it to record a name 
 That courts no rank among the sons of 
 
 fame ? 
 While yet a stripling, oft, with fond alarms, 
 His bosom danced to nature's boundless 
 
 charms ; 
 On him fair science dawn'd in happier hour. 
 Awakening into bloom young fancy's flower ; 
 
 But frowning fortune with untimely blast 
 The blossom wither'd, and the dawn o'ercast. 
 Forlorn of heart, and by severe decree 
 Condemn' d reluctant to the faithless sed. 
 With long farewell he left the laurel grove, 
 Where science and the tuneful sisters rove. — 
 Hither he wander'd, anxious to explore 
 Antiquities of nations now no more ; 
 To penetrate each distant realm unknown. 
 And range excursive o'er th' untravell'd zone. 
 In vain ! — for rude adversity's command, 
 Still on the margin of each famous land, 
 With unrelenting ire his steps opposed, 
 And every gate of hope against him closed. 
 Permit my verse, ye bless' d Pierian train. 
 To call Arion this ill-fated swain ! 
 For, like that bard unhappy, on his head 
 Malignant stars their hostile influence shed. 
 Both, in lamenting numbers, o'er the deep, 
 With conscious anguish taught the harp to 
 
 weep ; 
 And both the raging surge in safety bore 
 Amid destruction panting to the shore. 
 This last our tragic story from the wave 
 Of dark oblivion haply yet may save ; 
 With genuine sympathy may yet complain, 
 While sad remembrance bleeds at ev'ry vein. 
 
 Such were the pilots; tutor' d to divine 
 Th' untravell'd course by geometric line ; 
 Train'd to command, and range the various 
 
 sail, 
 Whose various force conforms to every 
 
 gale. — 
 Charged with the commerce, hither also came 
 A gallant youth, Palemon was his name ; 
 A father's stem resentment doom'd to prove, 
 He came, the victim of unhappy love ! 
 His heart for Albert's beauteous daughter 
 
 bled; 
 For her a secret flame his bosom fed. 
 Nor let the wretched slaves of folly scorn 
 This genuine passion, nature's eldest bom ! 
 'Twas his with lasting anguish to complain, 
 While blooming Anna mourn' d the cause in 
 
 vain. 
 Graceful of form, by nature taught to 
 
 please, 
 Of power to melt the female breast with «ase. 
 To her Palemon told his tender tale. 
 Soft as the voice of summer's evening gale. 
 O'erjoy'd, he saw her lovely eyes relent ; 
 The blushing maiden smiled with sweet con- 
 sent. 
 Oft in the mazes of a neighbouring grove. 
 Unheard, they breathed alternate vows of love : 
 By fond society their passion grew. 
 Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew. 
 In evil hour th' ofiicious tongue of fame 
 Betray' d the secret of their mutual flame. 
 With grief and anger struggling in his breast, 
 Palemon' s father heard the tale confest. 
 Long had he listen' d with suspicion's ear. 
 And leam'd, sagacious, this event to fear. 
 Too well, fair youth! thy liberal heart he 
 
 knew ; 
 A heart to nature's warm impressions true ! 
 
Falconer. 
 
 THE SHIP DEPAETING FEOM THE HAVEN. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Full oft his -wisdom strove, witli fruitless 
 
 toil, 
 With avarice to pollute that generous soil : 
 That soil impregnated with nobler seed, 
 Refused the culture of so rank a weed. 
 Elate with wealth, in active commerce won, 
 And basking in the smile of fortune's sun. 
 With scorn the parent eyed the lowly shade 
 That veil'd the beauties of this charming 
 
 maid. 
 Indignant he rebuked th' enamour'd boy, 
 The flattering promise of his future joy: 
 He soothed and menaced, anxious to reclaim 
 This hopeless passion, or divert its aim : 
 Oft led the youth whore circling joys delight 
 The ravish'd sense, or beauty charms the 
 
 sight. 
 With all her powers enchanting music fail'd. 
 And pleasure's syren voice no more prevail'd. 
 The merchant, kindling then with proud dis- 
 dain. 
 In look and voice assumed a harsher strain. 
 In absence now his only hope remain' d ; 
 And such the stern decree his will ordain' d. 
 Deep anguish, while Palemon heard his doom, 
 Drew o'er his lovely face a saddening gloom. 
 In vain with bitter sorrow he repined. 
 No tender pity touch' d that sordid mind ; 
 To thee, brave Albert, was the charge con- 
 sign' d. 
 The stately ship, forsaking England's shore. 
 To regions far remote Palemon bore. 
 Incapable of change, th' unhappy youth 
 Still loved fair Anna with eternal truth : 
 From clime to clime an exile doom'd to roam. 
 His heart still panted for its secret home. 
 
 Falconer.— Bom 1730, Died 1769. 
 
 946.— THE SHIP DEPAETING FEOM 
 THE HAVEN. 
 
 The sun's bright orb, declining all serene, 
 Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland 
 
 scene. 
 Creation smiles around ; on every spray 
 The warbling birds exalt their evening lay. 
 Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train 
 Join the deep chorus of the lo\\'ing plain : 
 The golden Hme and orange there were seen, 
 On fragrant branches of perpetual green. 
 The crystal streams, that velvet meadows 
 
 lave. 
 To the green ocean roll with chiding wave. 
 The glassy ocean hush'd forgets to roar, 
 But trembling murmurs on the shindy shore : 
 And lo ! his surface, lovely to behold ! 
 Glows in the west, a sea of living gold ! 
 While aU above, a thousand liveries gay 
 The skies with pomp ineffable array. 
 Arabian sweets perfume the happy plains : 
 Above, beneath, around enchantment reigns ! 
 While yet the shades, on time's eternal scale. 
 With long vibration deepen o'er the vale ; 
 
 While yet the songsters of the vocal grove 
 With dying numbers tune the soul to love ; 
 With joyful eyes th' attentive master sees 
 Th' auspicious omens of an eastern breeze. — 
 Now radiant Vesper leads the starry train, 
 And night slow dra^rs her veil o'er land and 
 
 main; 
 Round the charged bowl the sailors form a 
 
 ring; 
 By turns recount the wondrous tale or sing ; 
 As love or battle, hardships of the main. 
 Or genial wine awake their homely strain : 
 Then some the watch of night alternate keep. 
 The rest lie buried in oblivious sleep. 
 
 Deep midnight now involves the livid skies, 
 While infant breezes from the shore arise. 
 The waning moon, behind a wat'ry shroud, 
 Pale-glimmer'd o'er the long-protracted cloud. 
 A mighty ring around her silver throne. 
 With parting meteors cross'd, portentous 
 
 shone. 
 This in the troubled sky fall oft prevails ; 
 Oft deem'd a signal of tempestuous gales. — 
 While young Arion sleeps, before his sight 
 Tumultuous swim the visions of the night. 
 Now blooming Anna, with her happy swain, 
 Approach' d the sacred hymeneal fane : 
 Anon tremendous lightnings flash between ; 
 And funeral pomp and weeping loves are 
 
 seen ! 
 Now with Palemon up a rocky steep. 
 Whose summit trembles o'er the roaring 
 
 deep. 
 With painful step he climb' d ; while far above 
 Sweet Anna charm'd them with the voice of 
 
 love. 
 Then sudden from the slippery height they 
 
 fell. 
 While dreadful yawn'd beneath the jaws of 
 
 hell— 
 Amid this fearful trance, a thundering sound 
 He hears — and thrice the hollow decks re- 
 bound. 
 Upstarting from Ids couch on deck he 
 
 sprung ; 
 Thrice vnth shrjll note the boatswain's whistle 
 
 rung. 
 " All hands unmoor ! " proclaims a boisterous 
 
 cry: 
 " All hands unmoor !" the cavern rocks reply. 
 Roused from repose aloft the sailors swarm, 
 And with their levers soon the windlass arm. 
 The order given, up-springing Avith a bound 
 They lodge the bars, and wheel their engine 
 
 round : 
 At every turn the clanging pauls resound. 
 Uptorn reluctant from its oozy cave, 
 The ponderous anchor rises o'er the wave. 
 Along their slippery masts the yards ascend, 
 And high in air the canvas wings extend : 
 Redoubling cords the lofty canvas guide, 
 And through inextricable mazes glide. 
 The lunar rays with long reflection gleam, 
 To light the vessel o'er the silver stream : 
 Along the glassy plain serene she glides, 
 While azure radiance trembles on her sides. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 DISTEESS OF THE VESSEL. 
 
 [Falconer. 
 
 From east to nortli the transient breezes 
 
 play ; 
 And in the Egyptian quarter soon decay. 
 A calm ensues; they dread th' adjacent 
 
 shore ; 
 The boats with rowers arm'd are sent before : 
 With cordage fasten' d to the lofty prow, 
 Aloof to sea the stately ship they tow. 
 The nervous crew their sweeping oars extend ; 
 And pealing shouts the shore of Candia rend. 
 Success attends their skill : the danger's o'er : 
 The port is doubled and beheld no more. 
 Now morn, her lamp pale glimmering on the 
 
 sight, ^ 
 
 Scatter' d before her van reluctant night. * jj- 
 She comes not in refulgent pomp array'd, 
 But sternly frowning, w^rapt in sullen shade. 
 Above incumbent vapours, Ida's height, 
 Tremendous rock ! emerges on the sight. 
 North-east the guardian isle of Standia lies. 
 And westward Freschin's woody capes arise. 
 With winning postures now the wanton 
 
 sails 
 Spread all their snares to charm th' inconstant 
 
 gales. 
 The swelling stu'n sails now their wings 
 
 extend, 
 Then stay-sails sidelong to the breeze ascend : 
 While all to court the wandering breeze are 
 
 placed ; 
 With yards now thwai-ting, now obliquely 
 
 braced. 
 The dim horizon lowering vapours shrond, 
 And blot the sun yet struggling in the 
 
 cloud : 
 Through the wide atmosphere condensed with 
 
 haze, 
 His glaring orb emits a sanguine blaze. 
 The pilots now their rules of art apply. 
 The mystic needle's devious aim to try. 
 The compass placed to catch the rising ray, 
 The quadrant's shadows studious they survey. 
 Along the arch the gradual index slides, 
 While Phoebus down the vertic circle glides, 
 Now, seen on ocean's utmost verge to s^vim, 
 He sweeps it vibrant with his nether limb. 
 Their sage experience thus explores the 
 
 height 
 And polar distance of the source of light : 
 Then through the cMliads' triple maze they 
 
 trace 
 Th' analogy that proves the magnet's place. 
 The wayward steel, to truth thus reconciled, 
 No more the attentive pilot's eye beguiled. 
 The natives, while the ship departs the 
 
 land. 
 Ashore with admiration gazing stand. 
 Majestically slow, before the breeze. 
 In silent pomp she marches on the seas. 
 Her milk-white bottom casts a softer gleam, 
 "While trembling through the green translucent 
 
 stream. 
 The wales, that close above in contrast shone, 
 Clasp the long fabric with a je'tty zone, 
 Britannia, riding awful on the prow. 
 Gazed o'er the vassal- wave that roU'd below : 
 
 "^Vhere'er she moved the vassal- waves were 
 
 seen 
 To yield obseqtiious, a,nd confess their queen. 
 Th' imperial trident graced her dexter-hand, 
 Of power to rule the surge, like Moses' wand, 
 Th' eternal empire of the main to keep, 
 And guide her squadrons o'er the trembling 
 
 deep. 
 Her left propitious bore a mystic shield, 
 Around whose margin rolls the wat'ry field. 
 There her bold genius, in his floating car, 
 O'er the wild billow hurls the storm of war — 
 And lo ! the beasts, that oft with jealous rage 
 In bloody combat met, from age to age, 
 Tamed into union, yoked in friendship's chain, 
 Draw his proud chariot round the vanquish'd 
 
 main. 
 From the broad margin to the centre grew 
 Shelves, rocks, and whirlpools, hideous to the 
 
 view ! — 
 Th' immortal shield from Neptune she re- 
 ceived. 
 When first her head above the waters heaved. 
 Loose floated o'er her limbs an azure vest ; 
 A figured scutcheon glitter' d on her breast ; 
 There, from one parent soil, for ever young. 
 The blooming rose and hardy thistle sprung. 
 Around her head an oaken wreath was seen, 
 Inwove with laurels of unfading green. 
 Such was the sculptured prow from van to 
 
 rear, 
 Th' artillery fro-\vn'd, a black tremendous 
 
 tier! 
 Embalm'd with orient gum above the wave. 
 The swelling sides a yoUow radiance gave. 
 * # * * 
 
 High o'er the poop, the flattering winds 
 
 unfurl' d 
 Th' imperial flag that rules the wat'ry world. 
 Deep-blushing armours aU the tops invest ; 
 And warlike trophies either quarter drest : 
 Then tower'd the masts, the canvas swell'd on 
 
 high, 
 And waving streamers floated in the sky. 
 Thus the rich vessel moves in trim array, 
 Like some fair virgin on her bridal day ; 
 Thus like a swan she cleaves the wat'ry plain, 
 The pride and wonder of the jEgean main I 
 
 Falconer.—Born 1730, Died 1769. 
 
 947.— DISTEESS OF THE VESSEL. 
 
 No season this for counsel or delay ! 
 Too soon th' eventful moments haste away ! 
 Here perseverance, with each help of art, 
 Must join the boldest efforts of the heart. 
 These only now their misery can relieve ; 
 These only now a dawn of safety give ! 
 While o'er the quivering deck from van to 
 
 rear, 
 Broad surges roll in terrible career. 
 
Falconek.] 
 
 COUNCIL OF THE 0FFICEE3. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Kodmond, Arion, and a chosen crew, 
 This office in the face of death pursue. 
 The wheel' d artillery o'er the deck to guide, 
 Eodmond descending claim'd the weather-side. 
 Fearless of heart, the chief his orders gave ; 
 Fronting the rude assaults of every wave. 
 Like some strong watch-tower nodding o'er 
 
 the deep. 
 Whose rocky base the foaming waters sweep, 
 Untamed he stood ; the stern aerial war, 
 Had mark'd his honest face with many a 
 
 scar. — 
 Meanwhile Arion, traversing the waist. 
 The cordage of the leeward guns unbraced, 
 And pointed crows beneath the metal placed. 
 Watching the roll, their forelocks they with- 
 drew. 
 And from their beds the reeling cannon threw. 
 Then, from the windward battlements un- 
 bound, 
 Eodmond's associates wheel th' artillery 
 
 round ; 
 Pointed with iron fangs, their bars beguile 
 The ponderous arms across the steep defile ; 
 Then, hurl'd from sounding hinges o'er the 
 
 side, 
 Thundering they pliuige into the flashing tide. 
 
 Falconer.— Bom 1730, Died 1769. 
 
 948.— COUNCIL OF THE OFFICEES. 
 
 Again the chief th' instructive draught ex- 
 tends, 
 And o'er the figured plane attentive bends ! 
 To him the motion of each orb was known. 
 That wheels around the sun's refulgent 
 
 throne ; 
 But here, alas, his science nought avails ! 
 Art droops unequal, and experience fails. 
 The different traverses since twilight made, 
 He on the hydrographic circle laid ; 
 Then the broad angle of lee-way explored, 
 As swept across the graduated chord. 
 Her place discover' d by the rules of art, 
 Unusual terrors shook the master's heart; 
 When Falconera's rugged isle he found 
 Within her drift, with shelves, and breakers 
 
 bound ; 
 For if on those destructive shallows tost, 
 The helpless bark mth all her crew are 
 
 lost : 
 As fatal still appears, that danger o'er. 
 The steep St. George and rocky Gardalor. 
 With him the pilots of their hopeless state 
 In mournful consultation now debate. 
 Not more perplexing doubts her chiefs 
 
 appal 
 When some proud city verges to her fall ; 
 While ruin glares around, and pale affright 
 Convenes her councils in the dead of night — 
 No blazon' d trophies o'er their concave 
 
 spread, 
 Nor storied pillars raised aloft the head ; 
 
 But here the queen of shade around them 
 
 threw 
 Her dragon- wing, disastrous to the view !- 
 Dire was the scene, with whirlwind, hail, and 
 
 shower ; 
 Black melancholy ruled the fearful hour ! 
 Beneath tremendous roll'd the flashing tide, 
 Where fa.te on every biUow seem'd to ride — 
 Inclosed with ills, by peril unsubdued. 
 Great in distress the master-seaman stood : 
 Skill'd to command, deliberate to advise ; 
 Expert in action, and in council wise ; 
 Thus to his partners, by the crew unheard. 
 The dictates of his soul the chief referr'd : 
 Ye faithful mates, who all my troubles 
 
 share. 
 Approved companions of your master's care ! 
 To you, alas ! 'twere fruitless now to tell 
 Our sad distress, already known too well ! 
 This morn ^nth favouring gales the port we 
 
 left. 
 Though now of every flattering hope bereft : 
 No skill- nor long experience could forecast 
 Th' unseen approach of this destructive blast. 
 These seas, where storms at various seasons 
 
 blow, 
 No reigning winds nor certain omens know, 
 The hour, th' occasion, all your skill de- 
 mands ; 
 A leaky ship embay'd by dangerous lands. 
 Our bark no transient jeopardy surrounds ; 
 Groaning she lies beneath unnumber'd wounds, 
 'Tis'ours the doubtful remedy to find ; 
 To shun the invy of the seas and wind. 
 For in this hollow swell, with labour sore. 
 Her flank can bear the bursting floods no 
 
 more ; 
 Yet this or other ills she must endure ; 
 A dire disease, and desperate is the cure ! 
 Thus two expedients offer'd to your choice. 
 Alone require your counsel and your voice. 
 These only in our power are left to try : 
 To perish here, or from the storm to fly. 
 The doubtful balance in my judgment cast, 
 For various reasons I prefer the last. 
 'Tis true, the vessel and her costly freight, 
 To me consign' d, my orders only wait ; 
 Yet, since the charge of every life is mine, 
 To equal votes our counsels I resign ; 
 Forbid it, Heaven, that in this dreadful hour 
 I claim the dangerous reins of purblind 
 
 power ! 
 But should we now resolve to bear away, 
 Our hopeless state can suffer no delay. 
 Nor can we, thus bereft of every sail. 
 Attempt to steer obliquely on the gale ; 
 For then, if broaching sideward to the sea, 
 Our dropsied ship may founder by the lee ; 
 No more obedient to the pilot's power, 
 Th' o'erwhelming wave may soon her frame 
 
 devour. 
 He said ; the listening mates vath fix'd 
 
 regard 
 And silent reverence his opinion heard. 
 Important was the question in debate. 
 And o'er their counsels hung impending fate. 
 
From 1727 io 1780.] 
 
 COUNCIL OF THE OFFICEES. 
 
 [Falconer. 
 
 Eodmond, in many a scene of peril tried, 
 Had oft the master's happier skill descried. 
 Yet now, the hour, the scene, the occasion 
 
 known, 
 Perhaps with equal right preferr'd his own. 
 Of long experience in the naval art, 
 Blunt was his speech, and naked was his 
 
 heart ; 
 Alike to him each climate and each blast • 
 The first in danger, in retreat the last : 
 Sagacious balancing th' opposed events, 
 From Albert his opinion thus dissents. 
 
 Too true the perils of the present hour, 
 Where toils exceeding toUs our strength 
 
 o'erpower ! 
 Yet whither can we turn, what road pursue. 
 With death before still opening on the view ? 
 Our bark, 'tis true, no shelter here can find, 
 Sore shattered by the ruffian seas and wind. 
 Yet with what hope of refuge can we flee. 
 Chased by this tempest and outrageous sea ? 
 For while its violence the tempest keeps. 
 Bereft of every sail we roam the deeps : 
 At random driven, to present death we 
 
 haste ; 
 And one short hour perhaps may be our 
 
 last. 
 In vain the gulf of Corinth, on our lee. 
 Now opens to her ports a passage free ; 
 Since, if before the blast the vessel flies, 
 FuU in her track unnumber'd dangers rise. 
 Here Falconera spreads her lurking snares ; 
 There distant Greece her rugged shelf s 
 
 prepares. 
 Should onco her bottom strike that rocky 
 
 shore, 
 The splitting bark that instant were no 
 
 more ; 
 Nor she alone, but with her all the crew 
 Beyond relief were doom'd to perish too. 
 Thus if to scud too rashly we consent, 
 Too late in fatal hour we may repent. 
 Then of our purpose this appears the scope, 
 To weigh the danger with the doubtful hope. 
 Though sorely buffeted by every sea, 
 Our hull unbroken long may try a-lee. 
 The crew, though harass' d long with toils 
 
 severe, 
 Still at their pumps perceive no hazards 
 
 near, 
 Shall we, incautious, then the danger teU, 
 At once their courage and their hope to 
 
 queU? 
 Prudence forbids ! — This southern tempest 
 
 soon 
 May change its quarter with the changing 
 
 moon : 
 Its rage, thoug-h terrible, may soon subside, 
 Nor into mountains lash th' unruly tide. 
 These leaks shall then decrease; the sails 
 
 once more 
 Direct our course to some relieving shore. — 
 Thus while he spoke, around from man to 
 
 man 
 At either pump a hollow murmur ran. 
 
 For while the vessel, through unnumber'd 
 
 chinks. 
 Above, below, th' invading waters drinks, 
 Sounding her depth they eyed the wetted 
 
 scale, 
 And lo ! the leaks o'er all their powers 
 
 prevail. 
 Yet in their post, by terrors unsubdued, - 
 They with redoubling force their task pur- 
 sued. 
 And now the senior pilot seem'd to wait 
 Arion's voice to close the dark debate. 
 Though many a bitter storm, with peril 
 
 fraught. 
 In Neptune's school the wandering stripling 
 
 taught, 
 Not twice nine summers yet matured his 
 
 thought. 
 So oft he bled by fortune's cruel dart, 
 It fell at last innoxious on his heart. 
 His mind still shunning care with secret 
 
 hate, 
 In patient indolence resign'd to fate. 
 But now the horrors that around him roll. 
 Thus roused to action his rekindling soul. 
 
 With fix'd attention, pondering in my mind 
 The dark distresses on each side combined : 
 While here we linger in the pass of fate, 
 I see no moment left for sad debate. 
 For, some decision if we wish to form. 
 Ere yet our vessel sink beneath the storm, 
 Her shatter' d state and yon desponding crew 
 At once suggest what measures to pursue. 
 The labouring hull already seems half-fill'd 
 With waters through a hundred leaks dis- 
 
 tiU'd; 
 As in a dropsy, wallowing with her freight, 
 Half-drown' d she lies, a dead inactive weight ; 
 Thus drench' d by every wave, her riven 
 
 deck 
 Stripp'd and defenceless, floats a naked 
 
 wreck ; 
 Her wounded flanks no longer can sustain 
 These fell invasions of the bursting main. 
 At every pitch, the o'erwhelming biUows 
 
 bend 
 Beneath their load, the quivering bowsprit- 
 end. 
 A fearful warning ! since the masts on high 
 On that support with trembling hope rely. 
 At either pump our seamen pant for breath, 
 In dark dismay anticipating death. 
 Stai all our powers th' increasing leak defy : 
 We sink at sea, no shore, no haven nigh. 
 One dawn of hope yet breaks athwart the 
 
 gloom, 
 To light and save us from the watery tomb. 
 That bids us shun the death impending here ; 
 Fly from the following blast, and shoreward 
 
 steer. 
 'Tis urged indeed, the fury of the gale 
 Precludes the help of every guiding sail ; 
 And driven before it on the watery waste, 
 To rocky shores and scenes of death we 
 haste, 
 
Falconer.] 
 
 COUNCIL OF THE OFFICERS. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 But haply Falconera we may shun ; 
 And far to Grecian coasts is yet the run : 
 Less harass'd then, our scudding- ship may 
 
 bear 
 Th' assaulting surge repell'd upon her rear ; 
 Even then the wearied storms as soon shall 
 
 die, 
 Or less torment the groaning pines on high. 
 Should we at last be driven by dire decree 
 Too near the fatal margin of the sea. 
 The hull dismasted there a while may ride, 
 "With lengthen' d cables, on the raging tide. 
 Perhaps kind Heaven, with interposing 
 
 power, 
 May curb the tempest ere that dreadful 
 
 hour. 
 But here ingulf' d and foundering while we 
 
 stay. 
 Fate hovers o'er and marks us for her prey. 
 He said : — Palemon saw, with grief of 
 heart. 
 The storm prevailing o'er the pilot's art ; 
 In silent terror and distress involved, 
 He heard their last alternative resolved. 
 High beat his bosom ; with such fear subdued, 
 Beneath the gloom of seme enchanted wood. 
 Oft in old time the wandering swain explored 
 The midnight wizards' breathing rites ab- 
 
 horr'd ; 
 Trembling approach' d their incantations fell, 
 And, chill'd with horror, heard the songs of 
 
 heU. 
 Arion saw, with secret anguish moved. 
 The deep affliction of the friend he loved ; 
 And, all awake to friendship's genial heat, 
 His bosom felt consenting tumults beat. 
 Alas ! no season this for tender love ; 
 
 Far hence the music of the myrtle grove ! 
 
 With comfort's soothing voice, from hope 
 
 deceived, 
 Palemon' s drooping spirit he revived, 
 For consolation oft, with healing art, 
 Eetunes the jarring numbers of the heart. — 
 Now had the pilots all the events revolved, 
 And on their final refuge thus resolved ; 
 When, like the faithful shepherd, who beholds 
 Some prowling wolf approach his fleecy 
 
 folds. 
 To the brave crew, whom racking doubts 
 
 perplex. 
 The dreadful purpose Albert thus directs : 
 
 Unhappy partners in a wayward fate ! 
 Whose gallant spirits now are known too 
 
 late ; 
 Ye ! who unmoved behold this angry storm 
 With terrors all the rolling deep deform ; 
 Who, patient in adversity, still bear 
 The firmest front when greatest ills are 
 
 near! 
 The truth, though grievous, I must now 
 
 reveal, 
 That long in vain I purposed to conceal. 
 Ingulf'd, all helps of art we vainly try, 
 To weather leeward shores, alas ! too nigh. 
 Our crazy bark no longer can abide 
 The seas that thunder o'er her batter'd side ; 
 
 And, while the leaks a fatal warning give. 
 That in this raging sea she cannot live. 
 One only refuge from despair we find ; 
 At once to wear and scud before the Avind. 
 Perhaps even then to ruin we may steer ; 
 For broken shores beneath our lee appear ; 
 But that 's remote, and instant death is here ; 
 Yet there, by Heaven's assistance wo may 
 
 gain 
 Some creek or inlet of the Grecian main ; 
 Or, shelter' d by some rock, at anchor ride, 
 Till with abating rage the blast subside. 
 
 But if, determined by the will of Heaven, 
 Our helpless bark at last ashore is driven, 
 These counsels foUow'd, from the wat'ry 
 
 grave 
 Our floating sailors in the surf- may save. 
 
 And first let all our a-xes be secured, 
 To cut the masts and rigging from aboard. 
 Then to the quarters bind each plank and 
 
 oar. 
 To float between the vessel and the shore. 
 The longest cordage too must be convey' d 
 On deck, and to the weather rails belay' d. 
 So they who haply reach alive the land, 
 Th' extended lines may fasten on the strand. 
 Whene'er loud thundering on the leeward 
 
 shore, 
 While yet aloof we hear the breakers roar, 
 Thus for the terrible event prepared. 
 Brace fore and aft to starboard every yard. 
 So shall our masts SAvim lighter on tho 
 
 wave, 
 And from the broken rocks our seamen 
 
 save. 
 Then westward ttirn the stem, that every 
 
 mast 
 May shoreward fall, when from the vessel 
 
 cast. — 
 When o'er her side once more the billows 
 
 bound, 
 Ascend the rigging till she strikes the ground : 
 And when you hear aloft the alarming shock 
 That strikes her bottom on some pointed 
 
 rock, 
 The boldest of our sailors must descend. 
 The dangerous business of the deck to tend ; 
 Then each, secured by some convenient cord, 
 Should cut the shrouds and rigging from the 
 
 board. 
 Let the broad axes next assail each mast ! 
 And booms, and oars, and rafts to leeward 
 
 cast. 
 Thus, while the cordage stretch' d ashore may 
 
 guide 
 Our brave companions through the swelling 
 
 tide, 
 Tliis floating lumber shall sustain them o'er 
 The rocky shelves, in safety to the shore. 
 But as your firmest succoiu*, till the last, 
 O cling securely on each faithful mast ! 
 Though great the ^danger, and the task 
 
 severe. 
 Yet bow not to the tyranny of fear ! 
 If once that slavish yoke your spirits quell, 
 Adieu to hope ! to life itself farewell ! 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE VESSEL GOING TO PIECES. 
 
 [Falconer. 
 
 I know among you some full oft have 
 
 view'd, 
 With murd'ring weapons arm'd, a lawless 
 
 brood, 
 On England's vile inhuman shore who stand, 
 The foul reproach and scandal of our land ! 
 To rob the wanderers wreck' d upon the 
 
 strand. 
 These, while their savage office they pursue, 
 Oft wound to death the helpless plunder'd 
 
 crew, 
 Who, 'scaped from every horror of the main, 
 Implored their mercy, but implored in vain. 
 But dread not this ! — a crime to Greece un- 
 known. 
 Such blood-hounds all her circling shores 
 
 disown : 
 Her sons, by barbarous tyranny oppress'd, 
 Can share affliction with the wretch distress'd: 
 Their hearts, by cruel fate inured to grief, 
 Oft to the friendless stranger yield relief. 
 W^ith conscious horror struck, the naval 
 
 band 
 Detested for a while their native land : 
 They cursed the sleeping vengeance of the 
 
 laws, 
 That thus forgot her guardian sailors' cause. 
 Meanwhile the master's voice again they 
 
 heard, 
 Whom, as with filial duty, all revered. 
 
 No more remains — but now a trusty band 
 Must ever at the pump industrious stand ; 
 And while with us the rest attend to wear, 
 Two skilful seamen to the hehn repair ! — 
 Source of life ! our refuge and our stay ! 
 Whoso voice the warring elements obey, 
 On thy supremo assistance we rely ; 
 Thy mercy supplicate, if doom'd to die ! 
 Perhaps this storm is sent, with healing 
 
 breath, 
 From neighbouring shores to scourge disease 
 
 and death ! 
 'Tis ours on thine unerring laws to trust : 
 With thee, great Lord ! " whatever is, is 
 just." 
 
 William Falconer.— Born 1730, Died 1769. 
 
 949.— THE VESSEL GOING TO PIECES. 
 
 And now, lash'd on by destiny severe. 
 
 With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew 
 
 near ! 
 The ship hangs hovering on the verge of 
 
 death. 
 Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar 
 
 beneath ! 
 In vain, alas ! the sacred shades of yore 
 Would arm the mind with philosophic lore ; 
 In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, 
 To smile serene amid the pangs of death. 
 Even Zeno's self, and Epictetus old, 
 This fell abyss had shudder'd to behold. 
 
 Had Socrates, for godhke virtue famed, 
 And wisest of the sons of men proclaimed, 
 Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress. 
 His soul had trembled to its last recess ! — 
 O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above, 
 This last tremendous shock of fate to prove ; 
 The tottering frame of reason yet sustain ! 
 Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! - 
 
 In vain the cords and axes were prepared, 
 For now th' audacious seas insult the yard ; 
 High o'er the ship they throw a horrid 
 
 shade. 
 And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 
 Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
 Her shatter' d top haK-buried in the skies, 
 Then headlong plunging thunders on the 
 
 ground, 
 Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps 
 
 resound ! 
 Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels. 
 And quivering with the wound, in torment 
 
 reels. 
 So reels, convulsed with agonising throes. 
 The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's 
 
 blows. — 
 Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 
 Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock ! 
 Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
 The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes 
 In wild depair, while yet another stroke, 
 With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak : 
 Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
 The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
 At length asunder torn her frame divides, 
 And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 
 
 As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast 
 
 hung. 
 Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung : 
 Some, struggling, on a broken crag were 
 
 cast. 
 And there by oozy tangles grappled fast : 
 Awhile they bore th' o'erwhelming biUows' 
 
 rage, 
 Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; 
 Till all benumb' d and feeble they forego 
 Their slippery hold, and sink to shades 
 
 below. 
 Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous 
 
 thrown 
 On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
 Three with Palemon 'on their skill depend, 
 And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- 
 scend. 
 Now on the mountain- wave on high they ride. 
 Then downward plunge beneath th' involving 
 
 tide; 
 Till one, who seems in agony to strive. 
 The whirhng breakers heave on shore alive ; 
 The rest a speedier end of anguish knew. 
 And press'd the stony beach, a hfeless crew ! 
 
 Next, unhappy chief ! th' eternal doom 
 Of Heaven decreed thee to the briny tomb ! 
 What scenes of misery torment thy view ! 
 What painful' struggles of thy dying crew! 
 
RoBEET Lloyd.] 
 
 THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 Thy perish' d hopes all buried in the flood, 
 O'erspread with corses ! red with human 
 
 blood ! 
 So pierced -svith anguish hoary Priam gazed, 
 When Troy's imperial domes in ruin blazed ; 
 "While he, severest sorrow doom'd to feel, 
 Expired beneath the victor's murdering steel. 
 Thus with his helpless partners till the last, 
 Sad refuge ! Albert hugs the floating mast ; 
 His soul could yet sustain the mortal blow, 
 But droops, alas ! beneath superior woe : 
 For now soft nature's sympathetic chain 
 Tugs at his yearning heart with i)owerful 
 
 strain ; 
 His faithful wife for ever doom'd to mourn 
 For him, alas ! who never shall return ; 
 To black adversity's approach exposed, 
 "With want and hardships unforeseen inclosed : 
 His lovely daughter left without a friend, 
 Her innocence to succour and defend ; 
 By youth and indigence set forth a prey 
 To lawless guilt, that flatters to betray — 
 While these reflections rack his feeling mind, 
 Eodmond, who hung beside, his grasp re- 
 sign' d ; 
 And, as the tumbling waters o'er him roU'd, 
 His out-stretch' d arms the master's legs 
 
 enfold. — 
 Sad Albert feels the dissolution near. 
 And strives in vain his fetter'd limbs to clear ; 
 For death bids every clincliing joint adhere. 
 All-faint, to Heaven he throws his dying 
 
 eyes, 
 And, " protect my wife and child ! " he 
 
 cries : 
 The gushing streams roU back th' unfinish'd 
 
 sound ! 
 He gasps ! he dies ! and tumbles to the 
 
 ground ! 
 
 WilUain Falconer. — Born 1730, Died 1769. 
 
 950.— THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. 
 
 The harlot muse, so passing gay, 
 Bewitches only to betray. 
 Though for a while vnth. easy air 
 She smooths the rugged brow of care, 
 And laps the mind in flowery dreams, 
 With Fancy's transitory gleams ; 
 Fond of the nothings ahe bestows, 
 We wake at last to real woes. 
 Through every age, in every place, 
 Consider well the poet's case ; 
 By turns protected and caress'd, 
 Defamed, dependent, and distress'd, 
 The joke of wits, the bane of slaves, 
 The curse of fools, the butt of knaves ; 
 Too proiid to stoop for servile ends. 
 To lacquey rogues or flatter friends ; 
 With prodigality to give, 
 Too careless of the means to live ; 
 The bubble fame intent to gain, 
 And yet too lazy to maintain ; 
 
 He quits the world he never prized. 
 Pitied by few, by more despised, 
 And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes, 
 Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. 
 
 glorious trade ! for ^vit 's a trade, 
 Where men are ruin'd more than made ! 
 Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, 
 The shabby Otway, Dryden gray, 
 Those tuneful servants of the Nine 
 (Not that I blend their names with mine), 
 Repeat their lives, their works, their fame, 
 And teach the world some useful shame. 
 
 Robert Lloyd.^Born 1733, Died 1764. 
 
 951.— WRETCHEDNESS OF A SCHOOL- 
 USHER. 
 
 Were I at once empower' d to show 
 My utmost vengeance on my foe. 
 To punish with extremest rigour, 
 I could inflict no penance bigger, 
 Than, using him as learning's tool, 
 To make him usher of a school. 
 For, not to dwell upon the toil 
 Of working on a barren soil. 
 And labouring with incessant pains, 
 To cultivate a blockhead's brains. 
 The duties there but ill befit 
 The love of letters, arts, or wit. 
 
 For one, it hurts me to the soul, 
 To brook confinement or control ; 
 Still to be pinion'd down to teach 
 The syntax and the parts of speech ; 
 Or, what perhaps is drudgery worse, 
 The links, and points, and rules of verse ; 
 To deal out authors by retail. 
 Like penny pots of Oxford ale ; 
 Oh, 'tis a service irksome more. 
 Than tugging at the slavish oar ! 
 Yet such his task, a dismal truth. 
 Who watches o'er the bent of youth, 
 And while a paltry stipend earning, 
 He sows the richest seeds of learning, 
 And till tlieir minds with proper care, 
 And sees them their due produce bear ; 
 No joys, alas ! his toil beguile. 
 His oivn lies fallow all the while. 
 " Yet still he 's on the road," you say, 
 " Of learning." Why, perhaps he may. 
 But turns like horses in a mill, 
 Nor getting on, nor standing still; 
 For little way his learning reaches. 
 Who reads no more than what he teaches. 
 Robert Lloyd.— Born 1733, Died 1764. 
 
 952.— REMORSE. 
 
 Look back ! a thought which borders on 
 
 despair, 
 Which human nature must, yet cannot bear. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 CHAEACTER OF A FRIBBLE. 
 
 [Churchtt- 
 
 'Tis not the babbling of a busy world, 
 "Where praise or censure are at random 
 
 hurl'd, 
 "Which can the meanest of my thoughts 
 
 control, 
 Or shako one settled purpose of my soul ; 
 Free and at large might their wild curses 
 
 roam, 
 If all, if all, alas ! were well at home. 
 No ; 'tis the tale, which angry conscience 
 
 tells. 
 When she with more than tragic horror 
 
 swells 
 Each circumstance of guilt ; when stern but 
 
 true. 
 She brings bad actions forth into review, 
 And, like the dread handwriting on the wall. 
 Bids late remorse awake at reason's call; 
 Arm'd at all points, bids scorpion vengeance 
 
 pass, 
 And to the mind holds up reflection's glass — 
 The mind which starting heaves the heart- 
 felt groan, 
 And hates that form she knows to be her 
 
 own. 
 
 Churchill— Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 953.— SMOLLETT. 
 
 Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, 
 The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean ? 
 WTiat had I done that angry heaven should 
 
 send 
 The bitterest foe where most I wished a 
 
 friend ? 
 Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy 
 
 name. 
 And hail'd the honours of thy matchless 
 
 fame. 
 For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, 
 So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound ; 
 From Livy's temples tear the historic crown, 
 "Wliich with more justice blooms upon thine 
 
 own. 
 Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb. 
 But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb. 
 Whoever read the Regicide but swore 
 The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before ? 
 Others for plots and underplots may call. 
 Here 's the right method — have no plot at all ! 
 
 Churchill— Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 954- 
 
 -HOGARTH. 
 
 In walks of humour, in that cast of style. 
 Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us 
 
 smile; 
 iU comedy, his natural road to fame. 
 Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 
 
 Where a beginning, middle, and an end 
 Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend. 
 Each made for each, as bodies for their soul. 
 So as to form one true and perfect whole, 
 Where a plain story to the eye is told. 
 Which we conceive the moment we behold, 
 Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engage 
 Unrivall'd praise to the most distant age. 
 
 Chii,rchill—Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 955.— ON THE POVERTY OF POETS. 
 
 What is't to us, if taxes rise or fall ? 
 Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all. 
 Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal. 
 Lament those hardships which we cannot feel. 
 His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he 
 
 please. 
 But must I bellow too, who sit at ease ? 
 By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow 
 Free as the Kght and air some years ago. 
 No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains 
 To tax our labours and excise our brains. 
 Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings 
 
 bear ; 
 No tribute 's laid on castles in the air ! 
 
 Churchill— Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 956.— CHARACTER OF A FRIBBLE. 
 
 With that low cunning, which in fools 
 
 supplies. 
 And amply too, the place of being wise. 
 Which Naturij, kind, indulgent parent, gave 
 To qualify the blockhead for a knave ; 
 With that smooth falsehood, whose appear- 
 ance charms, 
 
 i And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms, 
 I Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, 
 I By vilest means pursues the vilest ends, 
 I Wears friendship's mask for purposes of 
 I spite. 
 
 Fawns in the day, and butchers in the 
 
 night ; 
 With that malignant envy, which turns pale, 
 And sickens, even if a friend prevail, 
 Which merit and success pursues with hate. 
 And damns the worth it cannot imitate ; 
 With the cold caution of a coward's spleen. 
 Which fears not guilt, but ahvays seeks a 
 
 screen. 
 Which keeps this maxim ever in her view — 
 What 's basely done, should be done safely 
 
 too ; 
 With that dull, rooted, callous impudence. 
 Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense, 
 Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's 
 
 47 
 
 She blunder'd on some virtue unawares 
 
jHURCHILL.l 
 
 QUIN, TOM SHEEIDAN, AND GAEEICK. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 With all these blessings, which we seldom 
 
 find 
 Lavish' d by nature on one happy mind, 
 A motley figure, of the fribble tribe, 
 Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen 
 
 describe. 
 Came simp'ring on : to ascertain whose sex 
 Twelve sage impannel'd matrons would per- 
 plex. 
 Nor male, nor female, neither and yet both ; 
 Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth ; 
 A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait ; 
 Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate ; 
 Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make, 
 Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake 
 Its tender form, and savage motion spread 
 O'er its pale cheeks the horrid manly red. 
 
 Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase, 
 Of genius and of taste, of play'rs and plays ; 
 Much too of writings, which itself had wrote, 
 Of special merit, though of little note ; 
 For fate, in a strange humour, had decreed 
 That what it wrote, none but itself should 
 
 read ; 
 Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws, 
 Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause, 
 Then with a self-complacent jutting air. 
 It smiled, it smirk' d, it wriggled to the chair ; 
 And, with an awkward briskness not its own, 
 Looking around, and perking on the throne. 
 Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage 
 
 dame. 
 Known but to few, or only known by name. 
 Plain Common Sense, appear'd, by nature 
 
 there 
 Appointed, with plain truth, to guard the 
 
 chair. 
 The pageant saw, and blasted with her 
 
 frown, 
 To its first state of nothing melted down. 
 Nor shall the Muse (for even there the 
 
 pride 
 Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) — 
 Nor shall the Muse (should fate ordain her 
 
 rhymes, 
 Fond, pleasing thought ! to live in after 
 
 times) 
 With such a trifler's name her pages blot ; 
 Known be the character, the thing forgot ; 
 Let it, to disappoint each future aim. 
 Live without sex, and die without a name ! 
 
 Churchill.— Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 957- — CHAEACTEES OF QUIN, TOM 
 SHEEIDAN, AND GAEEICK. 
 
 Qnin, from afar, lured by the scent «f fame, 
 A stage leviathan, put in his claim, 
 Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, 
 Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his 
 
 For how should moderns, mushrooms of the 
 
 day. 
 Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to 
 
 play ? 
 Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial 
 
 tongue. 
 Extol the times when they themselves were 
 
 young ; 
 Who having lost all relish for the stage. 
 See not their own defects, but lash the age, 
 Eeceived with joyful murmurs of applause 
 Their darling chief, and lined his favourite 
 
 cause. 
 Far be it from the candid Muse to tread 
 Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead. 
 But, just to living merit, she maintains, 
 And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius 
 
 reigns ; 
 Ancients in vain endeavour to excel. 
 Happily praised, if they could act as well. 
 But though prescription's force we disallow, 
 Nor to antiquity submissive bow ; 
 Though we deny imaginary grace. 
 Founded on accidents of time and place ; 
 Yet real worth of every growth shall bear 
 Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee 
 
 there. 
 His words bore sterling weight, nervous 
 
 and strong 
 In manly tides of sense they roll' d along. 
 Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence 
 To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense. 
 No actor ever greater heights could reach 
 In all the labour' d artifice of speech. 
 
 Speech ! Is that all ? — And shall an actor 
 
 found 
 A universal fame on partial ground ? 
 Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, 
 And, in six months, my dog shall howl by 
 
 note. 
 I laugh at those, who when the stage they 
 
 tread. 
 Neglect the heart to compliment the head ; 
 With strict propriety their care 's confined 
 To . weigh out words, while passion halts 
 
 behind. 
 To syllable-dissectors they appeal. 
 Allow them accent, cadence, — fools may 
 
 feel; 
 But, spite of all the criticising elves. 
 Those who would make us feel, must fool 
 
 themselves. 
 His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, 
 Proclaim' d the sullen habit of his soul. 
 Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage. 
 Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rago. 
 When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears. 
 Or Eowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers. 
 With the same cast of features he is seen 
 To chide the libertine, and court the queen. 
 From the tame scene, which without passion 
 
 flows. 
 With just desert his reputation rose : 
 Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly 
 
 plan. 
 He was, at once, the actor and the man. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] QUIN, TOM SHERIDAN, AND GAERICK. 
 
 [Churchill. 
 
 In Brute he shone uneqnall'd : all agree 
 Garrick 's not half so great a brute as he. 
 When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to 
 
 ■vacw, 
 With equal praise the actor labour'd too ; 
 For still you'll find, trace passions to their 
 
 root, 
 Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the 
 
 bmte. 
 In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, 
 He could not, for a moment, sink the man ; 
 In whate'er cast his character was laid, 
 Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd. 
 Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in : 
 Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff — still 'twas Quin, 
 Next follows Sheridan — a doubtful name, 
 As yet unsettled in the rank of fame. 
 This, fondly lavish in his praises grown, 
 Gives him all merit ; that allows him none. 
 Between them both we'U steer the middle 
 
 course. 
 Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force. 
 
 Just his conceptions, natural and great : 
 His feelings strong, his words enforced with 
 
 weight. 
 Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him 
 
 speak, 
 Envy would drive the colour from his cheek : 
 But step-dame nature, niggard of her grace. 
 Denied the social powers of voice and face. 
 Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye, 
 Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie ; 
 In vain the wonders of his skill are tried 
 To form distinctions nature hath denied. 
 His voice no touch of harmony admits, 
 Irregularly deep and shrill by fits : 
 The two extremes appear like man and wife. 
 Coupled together for the sake of strife. 
 
 His action 's always strong, but sometimes 
 
 such, 
 That candour must declare he acts too 
 
 much, 
 "Why must impatience fall three paces back ? 
 Why paces three return to the attack ? 
 WTiy is the right-leg too forbid to stir, 
 Unless in motion semicircular ? 
 Why must the hero with the nailor vie. 
 And hurl the close-clench' d fist at nose or 
 
 eye ? 
 In royal John, with Philip angry grown, 
 I thought he would have knock' d poor Davies 
 
 down. 
 Inhuman tyrant ! was it not a shame. 
 To fright a king so harmless and so tame ? 
 But spite of all defects, his glories rise ; 
 And art, by judgment form'd, with nature 
 
 vies : 
 Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's 
 
 soul, 
 Wliilst in his own contending passions roll ; 
 View the whole scene, with critic judgment 
 
 scan. 
 And then deny him merit if you can. 
 WTiere he falls short, 'tis nature's fault 
 
 alone ; 
 Wlaere he succeeds, the merit 's all his own. 
 
 Last Garrick came. — Behind him throng a 
 train 
 Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 
 
 One finds out — " He 's of stature somewhat 
 low — 
 Your hero always should be tall, you know. — 
 True nat'ral greatness all consists in height." 
 Produce your voucher, critic. — " Sergeant 
 Kite." 
 Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
 By which he makes his way to shallow 
 
 hearts ; 
 Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause — 
 " Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause." 
 For me, by nature form'd to judge with 
 phlegm, 
 I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
 The best things carried to excess are wrong : 
 The start may be too frequent, pause too 
 
 long; 
 But, only used in proper time and place. 
 Severest judgment must allow them grace. 
 If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan. 
 Just in the way that monkeys mimic man. 
 Their copied scene with mangled arts dis- 
 grace. 
 And pause and start with the same vacant 
 
 face. 
 We join the critic laugh; those tricks wo 
 
 scorn, 
 WhicM spoil the scenes they mean them to 
 
 adorn. 
 But when, from nature's pure and genuine 
 
 source. 
 These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous 
 
 force, 
 When in the features all the soul 's por- 
 
 tray'd. 
 And passions, such as Garrick' s, are dis- 
 play' d. 
 To me they seem from quickest feelings 
 
 caught : 
 Each start is nature ; and each pause is 
 thought. 
 Wlien reason yields to passion's wild 
 alarm?. 
 And the whole state of man is up in arms ; 
 What but a critic could condemn the play'r, 
 For pausing here, when cool sense pauses 
 
 there ? 
 Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I 
 
 trace. 
 And mark it strongly flaming to the face ; 
 Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man ; 
 I can't catch words, and pity those who 
 can. 
 Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured 
 brain 
 Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; 
 The gods — a kindness I with thanks must 
 
 pay- 
 Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay : 
 Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen 
 
 diseased, 
 A poor dull creature, still with nature 
 pleased; 
 
 47* 
 
Churchill.] 
 
 FEOM THE PR0I»HECY OF FAMINE. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, 
 
 And, pleased with nature, must be pleased 
 
 with thee. 
 Now might I tell, how silence reign'd 
 
 throughout. 
 And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout ! 
 How ev'ry claimant, tortured with desire, 
 Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire : 
 Eut, loose to fame, the Muse more simply 
 
 acts, 
 Eejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. 
 The judges, as the several i3arties came. 
 With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd 
 
 each claim, 
 And, in their sentence happily agreed, 
 In name of both, great Shakspearo thus 
 
 decreed : 
 "If manly sense; iT nature link'd with 
 
 art ; 
 If thorough knowledge of the human heart ; 
 If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfined ; 
 If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd ; 
 If strong expression, and strange pow'rs 
 
 which lie 
 Within the magic circle of the eye ; 
 If feelings which few hearts, like his, can 
 
 know. 
 And which no face so well as his can show ; 
 Deserve the pref'rence; — Garrick, take the 
 
 chair ; 
 Nor quit it — till thou place an equal there." 
 
 Churclnll—Bom 1731, Died 17G4. 
 
 958.— FROM THE PROPHECY OF 
 FAMINE. 
 
 Two boys, whose birth beyond all q-cestion 
 
 springs 
 From great and glorious, though forgotten, 
 
 kings, . 
 Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred 
 On the same bleak and barren mountain's 
 
 head, 
 By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks 
 To spin out life, and starve themselves and 
 
 flocks. 
 Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in 
 
 mist, 
 The mountain's top with usual dulness 
 
 kiss'd. 
 Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose ; 
 Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no 
 
 clothes, 
 Where, from their youth, inured to winter 
 
 Dress and her vain refinements they despise. 
 Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to 
 crown 
 Yv^ith freckles spotted flamed the golden 
 
 down. 
 With mickle art could on the bagpipes play. 
 E'en from the rising to the setting day ; 
 
 Sawney as long without remorse could bawl 
 Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal. 
 Oft at his strains, all natural though rude. 
 The Highland lass forgot her want of food, 
 And whilst she scratch' d her lover into rest, 
 Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's 
 
 breast. 
 Far as the eye could reach, no tree was 
 
 seen, 
 Earth, clad in russet, scorn' d the lively 
 
 green. 
 The plague of locusts they secure defy, 
 For in three hours a grasshopper must die. 
 No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts 
 
 there. 
 But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 
 No birds, except as birds of passage, flew, 
 No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. 
 No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear. 
 Were seen to ghde, or heard to warble here. 
 Rebellion's spring, which through the counti-y 
 
 ran, 
 Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady 
 
 clan. 
 No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white 
 
 rose. 
 Which on the tenth of June by instinct 
 
 blows. 
 By instinct blows at morn, and, when the 
 
 shades 
 Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 
 
 One, and but ojie i3oor solitary cave. 
 Too sparing of her favours, nature gave ; 
 That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride !) 
 Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. 
 Their snares without entangling briers 
 
 spread, 
 And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's 
 
 head. 
 Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose, 
 Thistles now held more precious than the 
 
 rose. 
 AU creatures which, on nature's earliest 
 
 plan. 
 Were form'd to loathe, and to be loathed by 
 
 man. 
 Which owed their birth to nastiness and 
 
 spite, 
 Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight, 
 Creatures, which when admitted in the ark, 
 Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the 
 
 dark. 
 Found place within : marking her noisome 
 
 road 
 With poison's trail, here crawl' d the bloated 
 
 toad ; 
 Their webs were spread of more than common 
 
 size. 
 And half-starved spiders prey'd on half- 
 starved flies ; 
 In quest of food, efts strove in vain to 
 
 crawl ; 
 Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy 
 
 wall; 
 The cave around with hissing serpents rung ; 
 On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ^ROM THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE. 
 
 [Churchill 
 
 And Famine, by lier children always known, 
 As proud as poor, hero fix'd her native 
 
 throne. 
 Here — for tlio sullen sky was overcast, 
 And summer shrunk beneath a v/int'ry blast, 
 A native blast which, arni'd with hail and 
 
 rain, 
 Beat unrelenting- on the naked swain — 
 The boys for shelter made ; behind, the 
 
 sheep, 
 Of which those shepherds every day take 
 
 keep. 
 Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude. 
 On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food. 
 Joch. Sith to this cave by tempest we're 
 
 confined. 
 And within ken our flocks, under the wind, 
 Safe from the pelting of this perdous storm, 
 Are laid among yon thistles, dry and warm, 
 What, Sawney, if by shepherd's art we try- 
 To mock the rigour of this cruel sky ? 
 What if we tune some merry roundelay ? 
 Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey 
 
 play. 
 Sav:. Ah, Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis. 
 To think of songs at such a time as this. 
 Sooner shall herbage crown' these barren 
 
 rocks, 
 Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged 
 
 flocks. 
 Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the 
 
 south. 
 And we forget to live from hand to mouth. 
 Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart 
 The songs of gladness with an aching heart. 
 Joch. Still have I known thee for a silly 
 
 swain : 
 Of things past help, what boots it to com- 
 plain ? 
 Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's 
 
 ^pite ; 
 No sky is heavy, if the heart be light : 
 Patience is sorrow's salvo ; v/hat can't be 
 
 cured. 
 So Donald right areeds, must be endured. 
 Saw. Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey 
 
 now; 
 How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood ? 
 
 how, 
 When with a foreign loon she stole away, 
 Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's 
 
 lay? 
 WTiere was thy boasted wisdom then, when I 
 Applied those proverbs, which you now 
 
 apply ? 
 Jock. O she was bonny ! All the Highlands 
 
 round 
 Was there a rival to my Maggy found ? 
 More precious (though that precious is to 
 
 all) 
 Then the rare med'cine which we brimstone 
 
 call, 
 Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, 
 Which in I know not what far country grows, 
 Was Maggy unto me ; dear do I rue, 
 A lass so fair should ever prove untrue. 
 
 Saiv. Whether with pipe or song to charm 
 
 the ear, 
 Through all the land did Jamie find a peer ? 
 Cursed be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, 
 And in the shepherd's calendar forgot. 
 That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain, 
 In evil hour forsook the peaceful piain^ 
 Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, 
 Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, 
 
 dead. 
 Jock. Full sorely may we all lament that 
 
 day ; 
 For all were losers in the deadly fray, 
 Five brothers had I on the Sco-fctish plains, 
 Well dost thou know were none more hopeful 
 
 swains : 
 Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's 
 
 pride. 
 Two in the field, and three on gibbets died : 
 Ah ! silly swains, to follow -war's alarms ! 
 Ah ! what hath shepherds' life to do with 
 
 arms! 
 Saw. Mention it not — There saw I stran- 
 gers clad 
 In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid. 
 Saw the Ferrara too, our nation's pride. 
 Unwilling grace the awkward -victor's side. 
 There fell our choicest youth, and from that 
 
 day 
 Mote never Sa-wney tune the merry lay ; 
 Bless'd those which fell ! cursed those which 
 
 still sur-vive, 
 To mourn fifteen renew' d in forty-five. 
 Thus plain'd the boys when from her throne 
 
 of turf. 
 With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with 
 
 scurf. 
 Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted 
 
 well, 
 Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could 
 
 quell. 
 Pale Famine rear'd the head ; her eager 
 
 eyes, 
 Where hunger ev'n to madness seem'd to 
 
 rise. 
 Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of 
 
 heart, 
 Strain' d to get loose, and from their orbs to 
 
 start ; 
 Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk 
 
 ceU, 
 Where wretchedness and horror loved to 
 
 dwell ; 
 With double rows of useless teeth supplied, 
 Her mouth from ear to ear, extended wide. 
 Which, when for want of food her entrails 
 
 pined, 
 She oped, and, cursing, swaUow'd nought but 
 
 wind ; 
 All shrivell'd was her skin, and here and 
 
 there 
 Making theic way by force, her bones lay 
 
 bare : 
 Such filthy sight to hide from human -view. 
 O'er her foul limbs a tatter' d plaid she 
 threw. 
 
Michael Bsuce.] 
 
 A ETJEAL SCENE. 
 
 [Sixth Peeiod. — 
 
 Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing 
 
 swains, 
 And from a parent hear what Jove ordains ! 
 
 Pent in this barren corner of the isle, 
 Where partial fortune never deign' d to smile ; 
 Like Nature's bastards, reaping for our 
 
 share 
 What was rejected by the lawful heir ; 
 Unknown amongst the nations of the earth, 
 Or only known to raise contempt and mirth ; 
 Long free, because the race of Roman braves 
 Thought it not worth their while to make us 
 
 slaves. 
 Then into bondage by that nation brought, 
 Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought ; 
 Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and 
 
 stiU, 
 The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will ; 
 Consider'd as the refuse of mankind, 
 A mass till the last moment left behind. 
 Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay. 
 Whether to stamp with life, or throw away ; 
 Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this 
 
 nook. 
 But never enter' d in creation's book ; 
 Branded as traitors, who for love of gold 
 Would sell their God, as once their king they 
 
 sold ; 
 Long have we borne this mighty weight of 
 
 ill. 
 These vile injurious taunts, and bear them 
 
 still. 
 But times of happier note are now at hand, 
 And the f uU promise of a better land : 
 There, like the sons of Israel, having trod, 
 For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God, 
 A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains, 
 Where milk with honey flows, and plenty 
 
 reigns. 
 With some few natives join'd, some pliant 
 
 few. 
 Who worship int'rest, and our track pursue, 
 There shall we, though the wretched people 
 
 grieve, 
 Eavage at large, nor ask the owner's leave. 
 For us, the earth shall bring forth her in- 
 crease ; 
 For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece ; 
 Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our 
 
 own, 
 And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown ; 
 For our advantage shall their harvests grow. 
 And Scotsmen reap what they disdain' d to 
 
 sow ; 
 For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill ; 
 For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil ; 
 When to our wishes nature cannot rise. 
 Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh sup- 
 plies. 
 His brawny arm shall drudging labour 
 
 strain, 
 And for our pleasure suffer daily pain ; 
 Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs, 
 Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours ; 
 For us, the oak shall from his native steep 
 Descend and fearless travel through the deep ; 
 
 The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd. 
 Shall waft the treasures of each distant 
 
 world ; 
 For us, sublimer heights shall science reach. 
 For us their statesmen plot, their churchmen 
 
 preach ; 
 Their noblest limbs of counsel we'll disjoint, 
 And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint ; 
 Devouring War, imprison' d in the north. 
 Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth. 
 And when, his chariot wheels with thunder 
 
 hung. 
 Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue, 
 Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and 
 
 Fear, 
 And Desolation stalking in the rear, 
 Eevenge, by Justice guided, in his train, 
 He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain, 
 Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey. 
 And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give 
 
 way. 
 
 Churchill.— Born 1731, Died 1764. 
 
 959.— A EUEAL SCENE. 
 
 Now sober Industry, illustrious power ! 
 Hath raised the peaceful cottage, calm abode 
 Of innocence and joy : now, sweating, guides 
 The shining ploughshare ; tames the stubborn 
 
 ■ soil; 
 Leads the long drain along the unfertile 
 
 marsh ; 
 Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom. 
 The haunt of flocks ; and clothes the barren 
 
 heath 
 With waving harvests and the golden grain. 
 Fair from his hand behold the village ♦rise. 
 In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees ! 
 Above whose aged tops the joyful swains. 
 At even-tide descending from the hill. 
 With eye enamour' d, mark the many wreaths 
 Of pillar' d smoke, high curling to the clouds. 
 The streets resound with Labour's various 
 
 voice, 
 Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green. 
 Young blooming boys, and girls with golden 
 
 hair. 
 Trip, nimble-footed, wanton in their play, 
 The village hope. All in a reverend row. 
 Their gray-hair' d grandsires, sitting in the 
 
 sun, 
 Before the gate, and leaning on the staft', 
 The well-remember' d stories of their youth 
 Eecount, and shake their aged locks with joj'. 
 
 How fair a prospect rises to the eye, 
 Wliere Beauty vies in all her vernal forms, 
 For ever pleasant, and for ever new ! 
 Swells the exulting thought, expands the 
 
 soul. 
 Drowning each ruder care : a blooming train 
 Of bright ideas rushes on the mind, 
 Imagination rouses at the scene; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 [Michael Beuce. 
 
 And backward, through the gloom of ages 
 
 pa-st, 
 Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen, 
 Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs, 
 The mazy dance conducting on the green. 
 Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales 
 Thine, gentle Leven ! Green on either hand 
 Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough, 
 With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice 
 With all the riches of the golden year. 
 Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side. 
 Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy fl£>cks, 
 Feed undisturb'd, and fill the echoing air 
 With music, grateful to the master's ear. 
 The traveller stops, and gazes round and 
 
 round 
 O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart 
 With mirth and music. Even the mendicant, 
 Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone, 
 Sole sitting, suns him in the public way. 
 Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings. 
 
 3Iichael Bruce.— Bom 1746, Died 1767. 
 
 960.— HAPPINESS OF A COUNTEY LIFE. 
 
 How blest the man who, in these peaceful 
 
 plains, 
 Ploughs his paternal field ; far from the noise, 
 The care, and bustle of a busy world ! 
 All in the sacred, sweet, sequester' d vale 
 Of solitude, the secret primrose-path 
 Of rural life, he dwells ; and with him dwells 
 Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade, 
 And all the graces of the golden age. 
 Such is Agricola, the wise, the good ; 
 By nature formed for the calm retreat. 
 The silent path of life. Learned, but not 
 
 fraught 
 With self-importance, as the starched fool, 
 Who challenges respect by solemn face, 
 By studied accent and high-sounding phrase. 
 Enamour' d of the shade, but not morose. 
 Politeness, raised in courts by frigid rules. 
 With him spontaneous grows. Not books 
 
 alone, 
 But man his study, and the better part ; 
 To tread the ways of virtue, and to act 
 The various scenes of Hfe with God's applause. 
 Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale, 
 With blooming sallows and the leafy twine 
 Of verdant alders fenced, his dweUing stands 
 Complete in rural elegance. The door. 
 By which the poor or pilgrim never pass'd, 
 Still open, speaks the master's bounteous 
 
 heart. 
 There, O how sweet ! amid the fragrant 
 
 shrubs, 
 At evening cool to sit ; while, on their boughs. 
 The nested songsters twitter o'er their young ; 
 And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks 
 The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lake, 
 Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge 
 
 Of western cloud ; wliile converse sweet de- 
 ceives 
 The stealing foot of time ! Or where the 
 
 ground, 
 Mounded irregular, points out the graves 
 Of our forefathers, and the hallow' d fane. 
 Where swains assembling worship, _ let us 
 
 walk. 
 In softly-soothing melancholy thought, 
 As night's seraphic bard, immortal Young, 
 Or sweet- complaining Gray; there see the 
 
 goal 
 Of human life, where drooping, faint, and 
 
 tired. 
 Oft miss'd the prize, the weary racer rests. 
 
 Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds 
 And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground ! 
 Far from his friends he stray' d, recording- 
 
 thus 
 The dear remembrance of his native fields, 
 To cheer the tedious night ; while slow disease 
 Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts 
 Of dark December shook his humble cot. 
 
 Michael Bruce.— Born 1746, Died 1767. 
 
 961.— ELEGY. 
 
 'Tis past : the iron north has spent his rage ; 
 
 Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening- 
 day; 
 The stormy bowlings of the winds assuage, 
 
 And warm o'er ether western breezes play. 
 
 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source. 
 From southern climes, beneath another sky. 
 
 The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: 
 Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. 
 
 Far to the north grim Winter draws his train. 
 To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore ; 
 
 Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign i 
 Where whirlwinds madden, and where tem- 
 pests roar. 
 
 Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant 
 ground 
 
 Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, 
 Again puts forth her flowers ; and all around 
 
 Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. 
 
 Behold ! the trees new deck their wither' d 
 boughs ; 
 Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane. 
 The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ; 
 
 The blooming hawthorn variegates the 
 scene. 
 
 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen. 
 Puts on the robe she neither sew'd nor spun; 
 
 The birds on ground, or on the branches 
 green. 
 Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. 
 
John Logan.J 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, 
 From her low nest the tufted lark up- 
 springs ; 
 And, cheerful singing, np the air she steers ; 
 Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet 
 she sings. 
 
 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden 
 blooms 
 That fiU the air with fragrance all around, 
 The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes. 
 While o'er the wild his broken notes 
 resound. 
 
 While the sun journeys down the western 
 sky, 
 Along the green sward, marked with Eoman 
 mound, 
 Beneath the blithsome shepherd's watchful 
 eye. 
 The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk 
 around. 
 
 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, 
 Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, 
 
 Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, 
 And follow Nature up to Nature's God. 
 
 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws ; 
 
 Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind ; 
 Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty 
 cause, 
 
 And left the wondering multitude behind. 
 
 Thus Ashley gather' d academic bays ; 
 
 Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll. 
 Taught them to sing the great Creator's 
 praise, 
 And bear their poet's name from pole to 
 pole. 
 
 Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn ; 
 My frequent foot the blooming wild hath 
 worn; . 
 Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, 
 And gather' d health from aU the gales of 
 mom. 
 
 And, even when winter chill' d the aged 
 year, 
 I wander' d lonely o'er the hoary plain : 
 Though frosty Boreas wam'd me to forbear, 
 Boreas, with all his tempests, warn'd in 
 vain. 
 
 Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless' d my 
 
 days ; 
 I fear'd no loss, my mind was all my store; 
 No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease ; 
 , Heaven gave content and health — I ask'd 
 
 no more. 
 
 Now, Spring returns : but not to me returns 
 The vernal joy my better years have kno^vn ; 
 
 Dim in my breast hfe's dying taper burns, 
 And all the joys of life with health are 
 flown. 
 
 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, 
 Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 
 
 Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined. 
 And count the silent moments as they pass : 
 
 The winged moments, whose unstajang speed 
 No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; 
 Whose flight shall shortly count me with the 
 dead. 
 And lay me down in peace with them at 
 rest. 
 
 Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate ; 
 And morning dreams, as poets tell, are 
 true. 
 Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark 
 gate, 
 And bid the realms of light and life adieu. 
 
 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 
 
 I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore. 
 The sluggish streams that slowly creep below. 
 
 Which mortals visit, and return no more. 
 
 Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful 
 plains ! 
 Enough for me the churchyard's lonely 
 mound. 
 Where melancholy with still silence reigns, 
 And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless 
 ground. 
 
 There let me wander at the shut of eve. 
 When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's 
 eyes : 
 The world and all its busy follies leave. 
 
 And talk with W^isdom where my Daphnis 
 lies. 
 
 There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay. 
 When death shall shut these v/eary aching 
 eyes; 
 Eest in the hopes of an eternal day. 
 
 Till the long night is gone, and the last 
 morn arise. 
 
 Michael Bruce. — Born 1746, Died 17G7. 
 
 962.— TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
 
 Thou messenger of Spring ! 
 Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat. 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 WTiat time the daisy decks the green, 
 Thy certain voice we hear ; 
 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 Or mark the rolling year ? 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flowers, 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
Frovi 1727 to 17S0.] A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 [John Logan 
 
 The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 
 
 To ptdl the primroso gay, 
 Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 
 An annual guest in other lands, 
 
 Another Spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 
 I Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 
 Thou hast no sorrow in tljy song, 
 No Winter in thy year ! 
 
 O could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 
 
 We'd make, with joyful wing, 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 Companions of the Spring. 
 
 John Logan. — Born 1743, Died 178S. 
 
 963. -"V^TIITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE 
 COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 'Tis past ! no more the Summer blooms ! 
 
 Ascending in the rear. 
 Behold congenial Autumn comes, 
 
 The sabbath of the year ! 
 What time thy* holy whispers breathe, 
 The pensive evening shade beneath, 
 
 And twilight consecrates the floods ; 
 While nature strips her garment gay, 
 And wears the vesture of decay, 
 O let me wander through the sounding 
 woods ! 
 
 Ah ! weU-laio\vn streams ! — ah ! wonted 
 groves. 
 
 Still pictured in my mind ! 
 Oh I sacred scene of youthful loves, 
 
 "VVliose image lives behind ! 
 While sad I ponder on the past, 
 The joys that must no longer last ; 
 
 The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier, 
 The dying music of the grove. 
 And the last elegies of love, 
 Dissolve the soul, and drav/ the tender tear ! 
 
 Alas ! the hospitable hall, 
 
 V/here youth and friendship play'd, 
 Wide to the winds a ruin'd wall 
 
 Projects a death-like shade ! 
 The charm is vanish' d from the vales ; 
 No voice vath virgin- whisper hails 
 
 A stranger to his native bowers : 
 No more Arcadian mountains bloom, 
 Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume ; 
 The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers 1 
 
 Companions of the youthful scone, 
 
 Endear' d from earliest days ! 
 With whom I sported on the green, 
 
 Or roved the woodland maze ! 
 
 Long-exiled from your native cKme, 
 Or by the thunder-stroke of time 
 
 Snatch'd to the shadows of despair ; 
 I hear your voices in the wind, 
 Your forms in every walk I find ; 
 I stretch my arms : ye vanish into air ! 
 
 My steps, when innocent and young. 
 
 These fairy paths pursued ; 
 And wandering o'er the wild, I sung 
 
 My fancies to the wood. 
 I moum'd the linnet-lover's fate, 
 Or turtle from her murder' d mate, 
 
 Condemn'd the widow'd hours to wail: 
 Or while the mournful vision rose, 
 I sought to weep for imaged woes. 
 Nor real life believed a tragic tale ! 
 
 Alas I misfortune's cloud unkind 
 
 May summer soon o'ercast ! 
 And cruel fate's untimely wind 
 
 All human beauty blast ! 
 The wrath of nature smites our bowers. 
 And promised fruits and cherish' d flowers. 
 
 The hopes of life in embryo sweeps ; 
 Pale o'er the ruins of his prime. 
 And desolate before his time. 
 In silence sad the mourner walks and 
 weeps ! 
 
 Eelentless power ! whose fated stroke 
 
 O'er wretched man prevails ! 
 Ha ! love's eternal chain is broke. 
 
 And friendship's covenant fails. 
 Upbraiding forms ! a moment's ease — 
 O memory ! how shall I appease 
 
 The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost ? 
 What charm can bind the gushing eye, 
 What voice console the incessant sigh, 
 And everlasting longings for the lost ? 
 
 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood 
 
 That hides me in its gloom. 
 While lost in melancholy mood 
 
 I muse upon the tomb. 
 Their chequer' d leaves the branches shod ; 
 Whirling in eddies o'er my head. 
 
 They sadly sigh that Winter 's near : 
 The warning voice I hear behind, 
 That shakes the wood without a wind, 
 And solemn sounds the death-bell of the 
 year. 
 
 Nor will I court Lethean stream.s. 
 
 The sorrowing sense to steep ; 
 Nor drink oblivion of the themes 
 
 On which I love to weep. 
 Belated oft by fabled rill, 
 tVTiile nightly o'er the hallow' d hill 
 
 Aerial music seems to mourn ; 
 I'll listen Autumn's closing strain ; 
 Then woo the walks of youth again, 
 And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely 
 urn ! 
 
 John Logan. — Born 1748, Died 1788. 
 
John Logan,] 
 
 COMPLAINT OF NATURE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 964.— COMPLAINT OF NATUEE. 
 
 Few are thy days and full of woe, 
 
 O man of woman bom ! 
 Thy doom is written, dust thou art, 
 
 And shalt to dust return. 
 
 Determined arc the days that fly 
 Successive o'er thy head ; 
 
 The number' d hour is on the wing- 
 That lays thee with the dead. 
 
 Alas ! the little day of life 
 
 Is shorter than a span ; 
 Yet black with thousand hidden ills 
 
 To miserable man. 
 
 Gay is thy morning-, flattering hope 
 
 Thy sprightly step attends ; 
 But soon the tempest howls behind, 
 
 And the dark night descends. 
 
 Before its splendid hour the cloud 
 Comes o'er the beam of light; 
 
 A pilgrim in a weary land, 
 Man tarries but a night. 
 
 Behold ! sad emblem of thy state, 
 The flowers that paint the field ; 
 
 Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, 
 And boughs and blossoms yield. 
 
 When chill the blast of Winter blows. 
 
 Away the Summer flies, 
 And flowers resign their siinny robes. 
 
 And all their beauty dies. 
 
 Nipt by the year the forest fades ; 
 
 And shaking to the wind, 
 The leaves toss to and fro, and streak 
 
 The wilderness behind. 
 
 The Winter past, reviving -flowers 
 
 Anew shall paint the plain, 
 The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, 
 
 And flourish green again. 
 
 But man departs this earthly scene, 
 
 Ah ! never to return ! 
 No second Spring shall e'er revive 
 
 The ashes of the urn. 
 
 The inexorable doors of death 
 
 What hand can e'er unfold ? 
 Who from the cerements of the tomb 
 
 Can raise the human mould ? 
 
 The mighty flood that rolls along 
 
 Its torrents to the main, • 
 
 The waters lost can ne'er recall 
 From that abyss again. 
 
 The days, the years, the ages, dark 
 
 Descending down to night, 
 Can never, never be redeem' d 
 
 Back to the gates of light. 
 
 So man departs the living scene. 
 
 To night's perpetual gloom ; 
 The voice of morning ne'er shall break 
 
 The slumbers of the tomb. 
 
 Where are our fathers ? Whither gone 
 
 The mighty men of old ? 
 " The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, 
 
 In sacred books enroll' d ? — 
 
 Gone to the resting-jjlace of man. 
 
 The everlasting home. 
 Where ages past have gone before, 
 
 Where future ages come." 
 
 Thus nature pour'd the wail of woe. 
 
 And urged her earnest cry ; 
 Her voice, in agony extreme. 
 
 Ascended to the sky. 
 
 The Almighty heard : then from his throne 
 
 In majesty he rose ; 
 And from the heaven, that open'd wide, 
 
 His voice in mercy flows. 
 
 "When mortal man resigns his breath, 
 
 And falls a clod of clay. 
 The soul immortal wings its flight 
 
 To never-setting day. 
 
 Prepared of old for wicked men 
 
 The bod of torment lies ; 
 The just shall enter into blies 
 
 Immortal in the skies," 
 
 John Logan.— Bom 1748, Died 178S. 
 
 965.— THE HAMLET.— AN ODE. 
 
 The hinds how blest, who, ne'er beguiled 
 To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild, 
 Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, 
 For splendid care, and guilty gain ! 
 
 When morning's twilight-tinctured beam 
 Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, 
 They rove abroad in ether blue. 
 To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ; 
 The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, 
 That nodding shades a craggy dell. 
 
 Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, 
 Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear : 
 On green untrodden banks they view 
 The hyacinth's neglected hue'. 
 In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds. 
 They spy the squirrel's airy bounds , 
 And startle from her ashen spray. 
 Across the glen, the screaming jay ; 
 Each native charm their steps explore 
 Of Solitude's sequester' d store. 
 
 For them the moon with cloudless ray 
 Mounts to illume their homeward way : 
 Their weary spirits to relieve. 
 The meadows incense breathe at eve. 
 
From 1727 to 17S0.] 
 
 INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 [Thomas Warton. | 
 
 No riot mars the simple faro, . 
 
 That o'er a glimmering hearth they share; 
 
 But when the curfew's measured roar 
 
 Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, 
 
 Has echoed from the distant town, 
 
 They wish no beds of cygnet-down, 
 
 No trophied canopies, to close 
 
 Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 
 
 Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
 Of health around the clay-built room, 
 Or through the primrosed coppice stray. 
 Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 
 Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, 
 Or drive afield the tardy kine ; 
 Or hasten from the sultry hUl, 
 To loiter at the shady rill ; 
 Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, 
 To rob the raven's ancient nest. 
 
 Their humble porch with honied flowers, 
 The curling woodbine's shade embowers; 
 From the smaU garden's thy my mound 
 Their bees in busy swarms resound : 
 Nor fell disease before his time, 
 Hastes to consume life's golden prime : 
 But when their temples long have wore 
 The silver crown of tresses hoar ; 
 As studious still calm peace to keep. 
 Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 
 
 TJwmas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 966.— ON REVISITING THE RIVER 
 LODDON. 
 
 Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run 
 Since first I trod thy banks with alders 
 
 croAvn'd, 
 And thought my way was all through fairy 
 
 ground, 
 Beneath the azure sky and golden sun — 
 When first my muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
 AVhile pensive memory traces back the round 
 Which fills the varied interval between ; 
 Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the 
 
 scene. 
 Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns so 
 
 pure. 
 No more return to cheer my evening road ! 
 Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure. 
 Nor useless, aU my vacant days have flow'd 
 From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime 
 
 mature, 
 Nor with the muse's laurel unbestow'd. 
 
 Thomas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 967.— WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF 
 DUGD ALE'S MONASTICON. 
 
 Deem not devoid of elegance the sage. 
 By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguded, 
 Of painful pedantry the poring child. 
 
 Who turns of these proud domes the historic 
 
 page, 
 Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 
 Think' st thou the warbling muses never 
 
 smiled 
 On his lone hours ? Ingenious views engage 
 His thoughts on themes unclassic wisely 
 
 styled, 
 Intent. While cloister' d piety displays 
 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 
 New manners, and the pomp of elder days, 
 Whence cuUs the pensive bard his pictured 
 
 stores. 
 Not rough nor barren are the winding ways 
 Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. 
 
 Thomas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 968.— SONNET. 
 
 WKITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON KOUSE. 
 
 From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic 
 
 Art 
 Decks with a magic hand the dazcling 
 
 bowers, 
 Its living hues where the warm pencil pours. 
 And breathing forms from the rude marble 
 
 start, 
 How to life's humbler scene can I depart ! 
 My breast all glowing from those gorgeous 
 
 towers, 
 In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ! 
 Vain the complaint : for Fancy can impart 
 (To Fate superior and to Fortune's doom) 
 Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall : 
 She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, 
 Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall ; 
 Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty 
 
 bloom. 
 And in bright trophies clothe the twilight 
 
 wall. 
 
 Thomas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 969.— INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 Beneath this stony roof reclined, 
 I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 
 And while, to shade my lowly cave. 
 Embowering elms their umbrage wave ; 
 And whUe the maple dish is mine, 
 The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine ; 
 I scorn the gay licentious crowd. 
 Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 
 
 Within my limits lone and still 
 The blackbird pipes in artless trill ; 
 Fast by my couch, congenial guest. 
 The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 
 From busy scenes, and brighter skies, 
 To lurk with innocence, she flies ; 
 Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 
 Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 
 
Thomas Warton." 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 At mom I take my custom'd round, 
 To mark how buds yon slirubby mound ; 
 And every opening primrose count, 
 That trimly paints my blooming mount : 
 Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, 
 That grace my gloomy solitude, 
 I teach in winding wreaths to stray 
 Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 
 
 At eve, within yon studious nook, 
 
 I ope my brass-embossed book, 
 
 Portray'd with many a holy deed 
 
 Of martyrs, crown' d with heaveidy meed : 
 
 Tiien, as my taper waxes dim, 
 
 Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn ; 
 
 And, at the close, the gleams behold 
 
 Of parting wings bedropp'd vath gold. 
 
 While such pure joys my bliss create, 
 Who but would smile at guilty state ? 
 Who but would -R-ish his holy lot 
 In calm Oblivion's humble grot ? 
 Who but would cast his pomp away, 
 To take my staff, and amice gray ; 
 And to the world's tumultuous stage 
 Prefer the blameless hermitage ? 
 
 Thomas Warton.—Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 970.— THE SUICIDE. 
 
 Beneath the beech, whose branches bare, 
 Smit with the lightning's livid glare, 
 
 O'erhang the craggy road, 
 And whistle hollow as they wave ; 
 Within a solitary grave, 
 A Slayer of himself holds his accursed abode. 
 
 Lower'd'the grim mom, in murky dyes 
 Damp mists involved the scowling skies, 
 
 And dimm'd the struggling day ; 
 As by the brook, that lingering laves 
 Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves. 
 Full of the dark resolve he took his sullen 
 way. 
 
 I mark'd his desultory pace, 
 
 His gestures strange, and varying face, 
 
 With manj^ a mutter'd soimd ; 
 And ah ! too late, aghast I view'd 
 The reeking blade, the hand imbrued : 
 He fell, and groaning, grasp' d in agony the 
 ground. 
 
 Full many a melancholy night 
 
 He watch' d the slow return of light ; 
 
 And sought the pov/ers of sleep. 
 To spread a momentary calm 
 O'er his sad couch, and in the balm 
 Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to 
 steep. 
 
 Full oft, unknomng and unknown. 
 He wore his endless noons alone, 
 
 Amid th' autumnal wood : 
 Oft was he wont, in hasty fit. 
 Abrupt the social board to quit. 
 And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling 
 flood. 
 
 Beck'ning the wretch to torments new, 
 Despair, for ever in his viev/, 
 
 A spectre pale, appear' d ; 
 While, as the shades of eve arose, 
 And brought the day's unwelcome close, 
 More horrible and huge her giant- shape she 
 rear'd. 
 
 " Is thjs," mistaken Scorn will cry. 
 " Is this the youth, whose genius high 
 
 Could build the genuine rhyme ? 
 Whose bosom mild the favouring Muse 
 Had stored with all her ample views. 
 Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sub- 
 lime ? " 
 
 Ah ! from the Muse that bosom mild 
 By treacherous magic was beguiled. 
 
 To strike the deathful blow : 
 She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind 
 With many a feeling too refined, 
 And roused to livelier pangs his wakeful sense 
 of woe. 
 
 Though doom'd hard penury to prove. 
 And the sharp stings of hopeless love ; 
 
 To griefs congenial prone. 
 More wounds than Nature gave ho knew, 
 While Misery's form his fancy drew 
 In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its o^vn. 
 
 Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb 
 The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom 
 
 To drop its deadly dew : 
 Nor oh ! forbid the twisted thorn, 
 That rudely binds his turf forlorn. 
 With Spring's green swelling buds to vegetate 
 anew. 
 
 What though no marble-piled bust 
 Adorn his desolated dust, 
 
 With speaking sculpture wrought ? 
 Pity shall woo the weeping Nine, 
 To build a visionary shrine, 
 Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions 
 brought. 
 
 What though refused each chanted rite ? 
 Hero viewless mourners shall delight 
 
 To touch the shadowy shell : 
 And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom 
 Of Laura, lost in early bloom, 
 In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring 
 his knell. 
 
 To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade. 
 This votive dirge sad duty paid. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ODE SENT TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Thomas Warton. 
 
 Within an ivied nook : 
 Sudden the half- sunk orb of day 
 More radiant shot its parting- ray, 
 And thus a cherub-voice my charm' d attention 
 took. 
 
 " Forbear, fond Bard, thy partial praise ; 
 Nor thus for guilt in specious laja 
 
 The wreath of glory twine : 
 In vain with hues of gorgeous glow 
 Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow. 
 Unless Truth's matron-hand the fioating folds 
 confine. 
 
 Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, 
 Permits through life at large to rove 
 
 The tribes of hell-born Woe : 
 Yet the same Power that wisely sends 
 Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends 
 Eeligion's golden shield to break th' embattled 
 foe. 
 
 Her aid divine had lull'd to rest 
 
 Yon foul self-murderer's throbbing breast. 
 
 And stay'd the rising storm : 
 Had bade the sun of hope appear 
 To gild his darken' d hemisphere, 
 And give the wonted bloom to Nature's blasted 
 form. 
 
 Vain man ! 'tis Heaven's prerogative 
 To take, what first it deign' d to give, 
 
 Thy tributary breath : 
 In awful expectation placed, 
 Await thy doom, nor impious haste 
 To pluck from God's right hand his instru- 
 ments of death." 
 
 Thomas Warton. — Bom 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 971.— ODE SENT TO A FEIEND ON HIS 
 LEAVING A FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Ah, mourn, thou loved I'ctreat ! No more 
 Shall classic steps thy scenes explore ! 
 When morn's pale rays but faintly peep 
 O'er yonder oa.k-crown'd airy steep. 
 Who now shall climb its brows to view 
 The length of landscape, ever new, 
 Wiiere Summer flings, in careless pride, 
 Her varied vesture far and wide ? 
 "Who mark, beneath, each village-charm, 
 Or grange, or elm-encircled farm ; 
 The flinty dovecot's crowded roof, 
 Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof ; 
 The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall 
 Darkens the long-deserted hall ; 
 The veteran beech, that on the plain 
 Collects at eve the playful train ; 
 The cot that smokes with early fire. 
 The low-roof 'd fane's embosom'd spire? 
 
 Who now shall indolently stray 
 Through the deep forest's tangled way ; 
 Pleased at his custom' d tasli to find 
 The v.'ell-known hoary-tressed hind, 
 
 That toils with feeble hands to glean 
 
 Of v.'ither'd boughs his pittance mean ? 
 
 Who mid thy nooks of harel sit, 
 
 Lost in some melancholy fit, 
 
 And listening to the raven's croak, 
 
 The distant flail, the falling oak ? 
 
 Who, through the sunshine and the showery 
 
 Descry the rainbow-painted tower F* ""^ 
 
 Who, wandering at return of May, 
 
 Catch the first cuckoo's vernal la,y ? 
 
 Who, musing waste the summer hour. 
 
 Where high o'er-arching trees embower 
 
 The grassy lane so rarely paced, 
 
 With azure flowerets idly graced ? 
 
 Unnoticed now, at twilight's dawn. 
 
 Returning reapers cross the la^vn ; 
 
 Nor fond attention loves to note 
 
 The wether's bell from folds remote : 
 
 While, own'd by no poetic eye, 
 
 Thy pensive evenings shade the sky. 
 
 For, lo ! the Bard who rapture found 
 In every rural sight or sound ; 
 Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste. 
 No charm of genuine nature pass'd ; 
 Who felt the Muse's purest fires, — 
 Far from thy favour' d haunt retires : 
 "Who peopled all thy vocal bowers 
 With shadowy shapes and airy powers. 
 
 Behold, a dread repose resumes, 
 As erst, thy sad scquester'd glooms I 
 From the deep dell, where shaggy roots 
 Fringe the rough brink ^vith wreathed shoots 
 Th' unwilling Genius flies forlorn, 
 His primrose chaplet rudely torn. 
 With hollow shriek the Nymphs forsake 
 The pathless copse and hedgerow brake : 
 Where the delved mountain's headlong side 
 Its chalky entrails opens wide. 
 On the gi'een summit, ambush'd high, 
 No longer Echo loves to He. 
 No peai'l-crown'd maids, with wity lock. 
 Rise beck'ning from the reedy brook. 
 Around the glow-worm's glimmering bank, 
 No fairies run in fiery rank ; 
 Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread, 
 The violet's unprinted head. 
 But Fancy, from the thickets bro"\vn. 
 The glades that wear a conscious frown, 
 The forest-oaks, that, pale and lone, 
 Nod to the blast with hoarser tone. 
 Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls, 
 Her bright ideal offspring calls. 
 
 So by some sage enchanter's spell 
 (As old Arabian fablers tell). 
 Amid the solitary wild. 
 Luxuriant gardens gaily smiled ; 
 From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd, 
 With golden fruit the branches beam'd ; 
 Fair forms, in every wondrous wood, 
 Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood ; 
 And oft, retreating from the view, 
 Betray'd, at distance, beauties new : 
 While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers 
 Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers. 
 If bound on service new to go, 
 The master of the maq-ic show, 
 
Thomas Warton,] 
 
 A PANEGTEIC ON OXFOED ALE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 His transitory charm withdrew, 
 
 Away th' illusive landscape flew : 
 
 Dun clouds obscured the groves of gold, 
 
 Blue lightning smote the blooming mould : 
 
 In visionary glory rear'd, 
 
 The gorgeous castle disappear' d ; 
 
 And a bare heath's unfruitful plain 
 
 Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain. 
 
 TJiomas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 972.— A PANEGYEIC ON OXFOED ALE. 
 
 Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, 
 Hail, Juice benignant ! O'er the costly cups 
 Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught. 
 Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful 
 
 night ; 
 My sober evening let the tankard bless. 
 With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg 
 
 frauglit, 
 While the rich draught with oft-repeated 
 
 whiffs 
 Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast ! 
 Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys 
 Of lawless Bacchus reign ; but o'er my soul 
 A calm Lethean creeps ; in drowsy trance 
 Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion 
 
 wraps 
 My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod 
 Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had 
 
 shed 
 Its opiate influence. What though sore 
 
 ills 
 Oppress, dire want of chill- dispelling coals 
 Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight's 
 
 gleam 
 Haply remaining), heart-rejoicing Ale 
 Cheers the sad scene, and every want sup- 
 plies. 
 Meantime, not mindless of the daily task 
 Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves 
 Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate ; 
 While Ale inspires, and lends its kindred aid, 
 The thought-perplexing labour to pursue, 
 Sweet Helicon of Logic ! But if friends 
 Congenial call me from the toilsome page, 
 To Pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt, 
 Where, Ale, thy votaries in full resort 
 Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair 
 Of monumental oak and antique mould, 
 That long has stood the rage of conquering 
 
 years 
 Inviolate (nor in more ample chair 
 Smokes rosy Justice, when th' important 
 
 cause, 
 Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape. 
 In all the majesty of paunch he tries). 
 Studious of ease, and provident, I place 
 My gladsome limbs ; while in repeated round 
 Eeturns replenish' d the successive cup, 
 
 And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy : 
 While haply, to relieve the lingering hours 
 In innocent delight, amusive Putt 
 On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play 
 The vain vicissitudes of fortune shows. 
 Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me dis- 
 turbs. 
 Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden 
 
 fear ; 
 While on the wonted door, expressive mark, 
 The frequent penny stands described to view, 
 In snowy characters and graceful row, — 
 
 Hail, Ticking ! surest guardian of distress ! 
 Beneath thy shelter, penniless I quaff 
 The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless 
 
 heart 
 New oysters cried ; — though much the Poet's 
 
 friend. 
 Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain. 
 Accept this tribute of poetic praise ! 
 
 Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms 
 Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof 
 Of Pot-house snug to visit : -wiser he 
 The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house 
 Of James or Juggins, where the grateful 
 
 breath 
 Of loathed tobacco ne'er diffused its balm ; 
 But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd 
 
 polite, 
 Wliile steams around the fragrant Indian 
 
 bowl, 
 Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale : 
 In vain — the Proctor's voice arrests their 
 
 joys ; 
 Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess ! 
 Nor less by day delightful is thy draught, 
 All-powerful Ale ! whose sorrow-soothing 
 
 sweets 
 Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon. 
 When tatter' d stockings ask my mending 
 
 hand 
 Not unexperienced ; while the tedious toil 
 Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain 
 Each mom regale on nerve-relaxing tea. 
 Companion meet of languor-loving nymph : 
 Be mine each morn with eager appetite 
 And hunger undissembled, to repair 
 To friendly buttery ; there on smoking crust 
 And foaming Ale to banquet unrestrain'd, 
 Material breakfast ! Thus in ancient days 
 Our ancestors robust with liberal cups 
 Usher' d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons 
 Of modern times : nor eVer had the might 
 Of Briton's brave decay' d, had thus they 
 
 fed. 
 With British Ale improving British worth. 
 
 With Ale irriguous, undismay'd I hear 
 The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome 
 Importunate : whether the plaintive voice 
 Of Laundress shrill awake my startled ear ; 
 Or Barber spruce with supple look intrude ; 
 Or Tailor with obsequious bow advance ; 
 Or Groom invade me Avith defying front 
 And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds 
 (Whene'er or Phoebus shone with kindlier 
 
 beams, 
 
1727 to 1780. 
 
 THE PEOGEESS OF DISCONTENT. 
 
 [Thomas Warton. 
 
 Or luckier chance the borrow' d boots sup- 
 plied) 
 Had panted oft beneath my goring steel. 
 In vain they plead or threat : all-powerful 
 
 Ale 
 Excuses new supplies, and each descends 
 With joyless pace, and debt-despairijig 
 
 looks : 
 Even Spacey with indignant brow retires, 
 Fiercest of duns ! and conquer'd quits the 
 
 field. 
 Why did the gods such various blessings 
 
 pour 
 On hapless mortals, from their grateful 
 
 hands 
 So soon the short-lived bounty to recall ? — 
 Thus while, improvident of futm*e iE, 
 I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroU'd, 
 And thoughtless riot in unlicensed bliss ; 
 Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent !) 
 Th' unpitj-ing Bursar's cross-affixing hand 
 Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad 
 
 career. 
 Nor now the friendly Pot-house longer yields 
 A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the 
 
 skies ; 
 Nor Sheppard, barbarous matron, longer 
 
 gives 
 The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more. 
 Thus Adam, exiled from the beauteous 
 
 scenes 
 Of Eden, grieved, no more in fragrant bower 
 On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and 
 
 vale 
 No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot ; 
 But all forlorn, the dreary wilderness 
 And unrejoicing solitudes to trace : 
 Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay 
 
 resounds 
 The Splendid Shilling's praise, in nightly 
 
 gloom 
 Of lonesome garret, pined for cheerful 
 
 Ale; 
 Wliose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue. 
 Mean follower : like him with honest love 
 Of Ale divine inspired, and love of song. 
 But long may bounteous Heaven with watch- 
 ful care 
 Avert his hapless lot ! Enough for me 
 That, burning with congenial flame, I dared 
 His guiding steps at distance to pursue. 
 And sing his favourite theme in kindred 
 
 strains. 
 
 Thomas Warton. — Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 973---THE PEOGEESS OF DISCONTENT. 
 
 When now mature in classic knowledge. 
 The joyful youth is sent to college, 
 His father comes, a vicar plain. 
 At Oxford bred — in Anna's reign, 
 
 ! And thus, in form of humble suitor, 
 
 j Bowing accosts a reverend tutor : 
 " Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine, 
 And this my eldest son of nine ; 
 My wife's ambition and my own 
 Was that this child should wear a govra. ; 
 I'll warrant that his good behaviour 
 Will justify your future favour ; 
 And, for his parts, to tell the truth, 
 
 j My son 's a very forward youth ; 
 Has Horace aU by heart — you'd wonder — 
 And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder. 
 If you'd examine — and admit him, 
 A scholarship would nicely fit Mm ; 
 That he succeeds 'tis ten to one ; 
 Your vote and interest, sir !" — 'Tis done. 
 
 Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated, 
 Are with a scholarship completed : 
 A scholarship but half maintains, 
 And college rules are heavy chains : 
 In garret dark he smokes and puns ; 
 A prey to discipline and duns ; 
 And now, intent on new designs. 
 Sighs for a fellowship — and fines. 
 
 When nine full tedious winters past, 
 That utmost wish is crown' d at last : 
 But the rich prize no sooner got. 
 Again he quarrels with his lot : 
 " These fellowships are pretty things, 
 We live indeed like petty kings : 
 But who can bear to waste his whole age 
 Amid the dulness of a college, 
 Debarr'd the common joys of life. 
 And that prime bhss — a loving wife ! 
 O ! what's a table richly spread. 
 Without a woman at its head ? 
 Would some snug benefice but fall, 
 Ye feasts, ye dinners ! farewell all ! 
 To offices I'd bid adieu, 
 Of Dean, Vice-Pross — of Bursar too ; 
 Come, joys that rural quiet yields, 
 Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields ! " 
 
 Too fond of freedom and of ease 
 A Patron's vanity to please. 
 Long time he watches, and by stealth. 
 Each frail Incumbent's doubtful health ; 
 At length, and in his fortieth year, 
 A living drops — two hundred clear ! 
 With breast elate beyond expression. 
 He hurries down to take possession, 
 With rapture views the sweet retreat — 
 " What a convenient house ! how neat 1 
 For fuel here 's sufficient wood : 
 Pray God the cellars may be good ! 
 The garden — that must be new plann'd — 
 Shall these old-fashion' d yew-trees stand ? 
 O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise 
 The flowery shrub of thousand dyes : — 
 Yon wall, that feels the southern ray, 
 Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay : 
 While thick beneath its aspect warm 
 O'er well-ranged hives the bees shall swarm, 
 From which, ere long, of golden gleam 
 Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream : 
 This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, 
 We'U alter to a modern privy : 
 
Joseph Warton.] 
 
 TO FANCY, 
 
 [Sixth Peric 
 
 Up yon green slope, of hazels trim, 
 An avenue so cool and dim 
 Shall to an arboui*, at the end, 
 In spite of gout, entice a friend. 
 My predecessor loved devotion — 
 But of a garden had no notion." 
 
 Continuing this fantastic farce on, 
 He now commences country parson. 
 To make his character entire, 
 He weds — a Cousin of the Squire ; 
 Not over weighty in the purse. 
 But many Doctors have done worse : 
 And though she boasts no charms divine, 
 Yet she can carve, and make birch wine. 
 
 Thus fix'd, content he taps his barrel, 
 Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel ; 
 Finds his Church- wardens have discerning 
 Both in good liquor and good learning ; 
 With tithes his barns replete he sees, 
 And chuckles o'er his surpHce fees ; 
 Studies to find Qut latent dues. 
 And regulates the state of pews ; 
 Rides a sleek mare with purple housing, 
 To share the monthly club's carousing; 
 Of Oxford pranks facetious tells, 
 And — but on Sundays — hears no bells ; 
 Sends presents of his choicest fruit, 
 And prunes himself each sapless shoot ; 
 Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear 
 The earliest melons of the year ; 
 Thinks alteration charming work is, 
 Keeps bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys ; 
 Builds in his copse a favourite bench. 
 And stores the pond with carp and tench. — 
 
 But, ah ! too soon his thoughtless breast 
 By cares domestic is opprest ; 
 And a third butcher's bill, and brewing, 
 Threaten inevitable ruin : 
 For children fresh expenses yet, 
 And Dicky now for school is fit. 
 " Why did I sell my college life," 
 He cries, "for benefice and wife ? 
 Return, ye days, when endless pleasure 
 I found in reading, or in leisure ! 
 When calm around the common-room 
 I pufi'd my daily pipe's perfume ! 
 Rode for a stomach, and inspected. 
 At annual bottlings, corks selected : 
 And dined untax'd, untroubled, under 
 The portrait of our pious Founder ! 
 When impositions were supplied 
 To light my pipe — or soothe my pride — 
 No cares were then for forward peas, 
 A yearly-longing wife to please ; 
 My thoughts no christening dinners crost, 
 No children cried for butter'd toast ; 
 And every night I went to bed. 
 Without a Modus in my head ! " 
 
 Oh ! trifling head, and tickle heart ! 
 Chagrin' d at whatsoe'er thou art ; 
 A dupe to follies yet untried. 
 And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd ! 
 Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases. 
 And in pursuit alone it pleases. 
 
 Thomas Warton.— Born 1728, Died 1790. 
 
 974.— TO FANCY. 
 
 O parent of each lovely muse ! 
 Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, 
 O'er all my artless songs preside, 
 My footsteps to thy temple guide, 
 To offer at thy turf -built shrine 
 In golden cups no costly wine. 
 No murder' d fatling of the flock, 
 But flowers and honey from the rock. 
 
 O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, 
 With buskin' d leg, and bosom bare. 
 Thy waist with myrtle girdle bound, 
 Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, 
 Waving in thy snowy hand 
 An all-commanding magic wand. 
 Of power to bid fresh gardens grow 
 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, 
 Whose rapid wings thy flight convey 
 Through air, and over earth and sea, 
 While the various landscape lies 
 Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes ! 
 O lover of the desert, hail ! 
 Say in what deep and pathless vale, 
 Or on what hoary mountain's side, 
 'Midst falls of water, you reside ; 
 'Midst broken rocks a rugged scene, 
 With green and grassy dales between ; 
 'Midst forests dark of aged oak. 
 Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke 
 Where never human heart appear'd, 
 Nor e'er one strav.r-roof 'd cot was rear'd, 
 Where Nature seem'd to sit alone. 
 Majestic on a craggy throne ; 
 Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell. 
 To thy unknown sequester' d cell. 
 Where woodbines cluster round the door, 
 Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, 
 And on whose top a hawthorn blows. 
 Amid Avhose thickly- woven boughs 
 Some nightingale still builds her nest, 
 Each evening warbling thee to rest ; 
 Then lay me by the haunted stream, 
 Rapt in some wild poetic dream. 
 In converse while methinks I rove 
 With Spenser through a fairy grove ; 
 Till suddenly awaked, I hear 
 Strange whisper' d music in my ear. 
 And my glad soul in bliss is drown 'd 
 By the sweetly- soothing sound ! 
 
 Me, goddess, by the right hand lead, 
 Sometimes through the yellow mead. 
 Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort. 
 And Venus keeps her festive court ; 
 Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet. 
 And lightly trip with nimble feet, 
 Nodding their lily-crowned heads. 
 Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads ; 
 Where Echo walks steep hills among. 
 Listening to the shepherd's song. 
 
 Yet not these flowery fields of joy 
 Can long mj^ pensive mind employ ; 
 Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly. 
 To meet the matron Melancholy, 
 Goddess of the tearful eye, 
 That loves to fold her arms and sigh ! 
 
From 1727 fo 1780.] 
 
 ODE TO AURORA. 
 
 [Thos. Blacklock. 
 
 Let us with silent footsteps go 
 To cliarnels and the house of woe, 
 To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, 
 Where each sad night some virgin comes, 
 With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, 
 Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek ; 
 Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, 
 WTiere to avoid cold winter's showers, 
 The naked beggar shivering lies, 
 Whilst whistling tempests round her rise, 
 And trembles lest the tottering wall 
 Should on her sleeping infants fall. 
 
 Xow let us louder strike the lyre. 
 For my heart glows with martial fire ; 
 T feel, I feel, with sudden heat, 
 My big tumultuous bosom beat ! 
 The trumpet's clangours pierce mine ear, 
 A thousand widows' shrieks I hear ; 
 " Give me another horse," I cry, 
 Lo ! the base Gallic squadrons fly. 
 Whence is this rage ? What spirit, say. 
 To battle hurries me away ? 
 •Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, 
 Transports me to the thickest war, 
 There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, 
 Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; 
 Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed 
 Tramples the dying and the dead ; 
 Where giant Terror stalks around. 
 With sullen joy surveys the ground, 
 And, pointing to the ensanguined field. 
 Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield ! 
 
 O ! guide me from this horrid scene 
 To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, 
 Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun 
 The fervours of the mid-day sun ! 
 The pangs of absence, O ! remove, 
 For thou canst place me near my love, 
 Canst fold in visionary bliss, 
 And let me think I steal a Idss. 
 
 When young-eyed Spring profusely throws 
 From her green lap the pink and rose ; 
 When the soft turtle of the dale 
 To Summer tells her tender tale : 
 When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, 
 And staias with wine his jolly cheeks ; 
 When Winter, like poor pOgrim old, 
 Shakes his silver beard with cold ; 
 At every season let my ear 
 Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. 
 
 Joseph Warton. — Born 1722, Died 1800. 
 
 975.— FLOWERS. 
 
 Let long-lived pansies here their scents 
 
 bestow, 
 The violet languish, and the roses glow ; 
 In yellow glory let the crocus shine, 
 Narcissus here his love-sick head recline : 
 Here hyacinths in purple sweetness rise, 
 And tulips tinged with beauty's fairest dyes. 
 
 Thos. BlacUock.Sorn 1721, Died 1791. 
 
 976.— TERRORS OF A GUILTY 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Cursed with unnumber'd groundless fears, 
 How pale yon shivering wretch appears ! 
 For him the daylight shines in vain. 
 For him the fields no joys contain ; — — 
 Nature's whole charms to him are lost, 
 Nq more the woods their music boast ; 
 No more the meads their vernal bloom, 
 No more the gales their rich perfume : 
 Impending mists deform the sky. 
 And beauty withers in his eye. 
 In hopes his terrors to elude, 
 By day he mingles with the crowd. 
 Yet finds his soul to fears a prey. 
 In busy crowds and open day. 
 If night his lonely walks surprise. 
 What horrid visions round him rise '. 
 The blasted oak which meets his way, 
 Shown by the meteor's sudden ray. 
 The midnight murderer's lone retreat 
 Felt heaven's avengeful bolt of late ; 
 The clashing chain, the groan profound, 
 Loud from yon ruin'd tower resound ; 
 And now the spot he seems to tread, 
 Where some self- slaughter' d corse was laid , 
 He feels fix'd earth beneath him bend. 
 Deep murmurs from her caves ascend ; 
 Till all his soul, by fancy sway'd. 
 Sees livid phantoms crowd the shade. 
 
 TJios. Blacklock.—Born 1721, Died 1791. 
 
 977.— ODE TO AURORA. 
 
 ON HIS wipe's birthday. 
 
 Of time and nature eldest born, 
 
 Emerge, thou rosy-finger' d morn ; 
 
 Emerge, in purest dress array' d, 
 
 And chase from heaven night's envious shade, 
 
 That I once more may pleased survey. 
 
 And hail Mehssa's natal day. 
 
 Of time and nature eldest bom. 
 Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn ; 
 In order at the eastern gate 
 The hours to draw thy chariot wait ; 
 Whilst Zephyr, on his balmy wings. 
 Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, 
 With odours sweet to strew thy way, 
 And grace the bland revolving day. 
 
 But, as thou lead'st the radiant sphere, 
 That gilds its birth and marks the year, 
 And as his stronger glories rise. 
 Diffused around the expanded skies, 
 Till clothed with beams serenely bright, 
 AU heaven's vast concave flames with light ; 
 
 So when through life's protracted day 
 Melissa still pursues her way, 
 Her virtues with thy splendour vie, 
 Increasing to the mental eye ; 
 
 48 
 
Thos. Blacklock.J 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Though less conspicuous, not less dear, 
 
 Long may they Bion's prospect cheer ; 
 
 So shall his heart no more repine, 
 
 Bless'd with her rays, though robb'd of thine. 
 
 Tlios. Blackloclc.—Bom 1721, Died 1791. 
 
 978.— THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. 
 
 While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, 
 And touch each feature with a trembling 
 
 hand; 
 Deign, lovely self ! with art and nature's 
 
 pride. 
 To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. 
 
 Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind ; 
 How vast a crowd by self, like me, are 
 
 blind ! 
 By self the fop in magic colours shown. 
 Though scorn' d by every eye, delights his 
 
 own: 
 When age and wrinkles seize the conqu'ring 
 
 maid, 
 Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering 
 
 shade. 
 Then, wonder-working self ! begin the lay ; 
 Thy charms to others as to me display. 
 
 Straight is my person, but of little size ; 
 Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my 
 
 eyes : 
 My youthful down is, like my talents, rare ; 
 Politely distant stands each single hair. 
 My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear ; 
 So smooth a child may listen without fear ; 
 Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling 
 
 lays. 
 To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton 
 
 My form so fine, so regular, so new, 
 My port so manly, and so fresh my hue ; 
 Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing 
 
 say, 
 *' See, see Memento Mori cross the way." 
 The ravish'd Proserpine at last, we know. 
 Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau ; 
 But, thanks to nature ! none from me need 
 
 fly; 
 One heart the devil could wound — so cannot I. 
 Yet, though my person fearless may be 
 
 seen. 
 There is some danger in my graceful mien : 
 For, as some vessel toss'd by wind and 
 
 tide, 
 Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to 
 
 side; 
 Tn just vibration thus I always move • 
 This who can view and not be forced to 
 
 love? 
 Hail ! charming self ! by whose propitious 
 
 aid 
 My form in all its glory stands display' d : 
 Be present still ; with inspiration kind, 
 Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. 
 
 Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd. 
 Conscious of wit I never yet possess' d. 
 To strong desires my heart an easy prey, 
 Oft feels their force, but never owns their 
 
 sway. 
 This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe ; 
 The next, I wonder why I should do so. 
 Though poor, the rich I view with careless 
 
 eye; 
 Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. 
 I ne'er for satire torture common sense ; 
 Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. 
 Harmless I Hve, unknowing and unknown ; 
 Wish weU to aU, and yet do good to none. 
 Unmerited contempt I hate to bear ; 
 Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. 
 Dishonest flames my bosom never fire ; 
 The bad I pity, and the good admire ; 
 Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, 
 And scribble — not for pudding, but for 
 
 praise. 
 These careless lines, if any virgin hears. 
 Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years. 
 She may consent a generous flame to own ; 
 And I no longer sigh the nights alone. 
 But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice. 
 Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or 
 
 mice ; 
 Cry, " Save us heaven ! a spectre, not a 
 
 man ! " 
 Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan. ; 
 If I my tender overture repeat ; 
 Oh ! may my vows her kind reception meet 1 
 May she new graces on my form bestow. 
 And with tall honours dignify my brow ! 
 
 Thos. BlacUock.—Bom 1721, Died 1791. 
 
 979.— BELSHAZZAR AND DANIEL. 
 
 Now Morn, with rosy-colour'd finger, raised 
 The sable paU, which provident Night had 
 
 thrown 
 O'er mortals, and their works, when every 
 
 street, 
 Straight or transverse, that towards Eu- 
 phrates turns 
 Its sloping path, resounds with festive shouts, 
 And teems with busy multitudes, which 
 
 press 
 With zeal impetuous to the towering fane 
 Of Bel, Chaldaean Jove ; surpassing far 
 That Doric temple, which the Elean chiefs 
 Raised to their thunderer from the spoils of 
 
 war. 
 Or that Ionic, where the Ephesian bow'd 
 To Dian, queen of heaven. Eight towers 
 
 arise. 
 Each above each, immeasurable height, 
 A monument at once of eastern pride 
 And slavish superstition. Round, a scale 
 Of circling steps entwines the conic pile ; 
 And at the bottom on vast hinges grate 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 BELSHAZZAE AND DANIEL. 
 
 [W. H. Roberts 
 
 Four brazen gates, towards the four winds of 
 
 heaven 
 Placed in the solid square. Hither at once 
 Come flocking all the sons of Babylon, 
 Chalda3an or Assyrian ; but retire 
 With humblest awe, while through their mar- 
 shall' d ranks 
 Stalks proud Belshazzar. From his shoulders 
 
 flows 
 A robe, twice steep'd in rich Sidonian hues, 
 "Whose skirts, embroider'd with meand'ring 
 
 gold, • 
 Sweep o'er the marble pavement. Eound liis 
 
 neck 
 A broad chain glitters, set with richest gems. 
 Ruby, and amethyst. The priests come 
 
 next, 
 With knives and lancets arm'd ; two thousand 
 
 sheep 
 And twice two thousand lambs stand bleating 
 
 round. 
 Their hungry god's repast : six loaded wains 
 With wine, and frankincense, and finest 
 
 flour, 
 Move slowly. Then advance a gallant band. 
 Provincial rulers, counsellors and chiefs. 
 Judges and princes : from their essenced 
 
 hair 
 Steam rich perfumes, exhaled from flower or 
 
 herb, 
 Assyrian spices : last, the common train 
 Of humbler citizens. A linen vest 
 Enfolds their limbs ; o'er which a robe of 
 
 wool 
 Is clasp'd, while yet a third hangs white as 
 
 snow. 
 Even to their sandaU'd feet : a signet each. 
 Each bears a polish'd staff, on whose smooth 
 
 top 
 In bold relief some well-car^-ed emblem 
 
 stands, 
 Bird, fruit, or flower. ^ Determined, though 
 
 dismay'd, 
 Judaea's mourning prisoners close the rear. 
 
 And now the unfolded gates on every side 
 Admit the splendid train, and to their eyes 
 A scene of rich magnificence display. 
 Censers, and cups, and vases, nicely wrought 
 In gold, with pearls and glittering gems 
 
 inlaid. 
 The furniture of Baal. An altar stands 
 Of vast dimensions near the central stone, 
 On which the god's high-priest strews frank- 
 incense. 
 In weight a thousand talents. There he 
 
 drags 
 The struggling elders of the flock; wliile 
 
 near. 
 Stretch' d on a smaller plate of unmix' d gold. 
 Bleed the reluctant lambs. The ascending 
 
 smoke, 
 Impregnate with perfumes, fills all the air. 
 These rites perform'd, his votaries all 
 advance 
 Wliero stands their idol; to compare with 
 whom 
 
 That earth-bom crew, which scaled the walls 
 
 of heaven 
 Or that vast champion of Philistia's host. 
 Whom in the vale of Elah David slew 
 Unarm'd, were 'minish'd to a span. In 
 
 height 
 Twice twenty feet he rises from the ground ; 
 And every massy limb, and every joint. 
 Is carved in due proportion. Not one mine. 
 Though branching out in many a vein of 
 
 gold. 
 Sufficed for , this huge column. Him the 
 
 priests 
 Had swept, and burnish' d, and perfumed with 
 
 oils. 
 Essential odours. Now the sign is given. 
 And forthwith strains of mixed melody 
 Proclaim their molten thunderer; comet, 
 
 flute, 
 Harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, unite 
 In loud triumphal hymn, and all at once 
 The King, the nations, and the languages 
 Fall prostrate on the ground. But not a 
 
 head, 
 But not one head in all thy faithful bands, 
 O Judah, bows. As when the full-orb'd 
 
 moon. 
 What time the reaper chants his harvest 
 
 Rises behind some horizontal hill, 
 
 Flaming with reddest fire; still, as she 
 
 moves. 
 The tints all soften, and a yellower light 
 Gleams through the ridges of a purple cloud : 
 At length, when midnight holds her silent 
 
 reign, 
 Changed to a silver white, she holds her 
 
 lamp 
 O'er the belated traveller ; so thy face, 
 Belshazzar, from the crimson glow of rage, 
 Shifting through all the various hues between. 
 Settles into a wan and bloodless pale. 
 Thine eyeballs glare with fire. " Now by great 
 
 Bel," 
 Incensed, exclaims the monarch, " soon as 
 
 mom 
 Again shall dawn, my vengeance shall be 
 
 pour'd 
 On every head of their detested race." 
 
 He spake, and left the fane with hasty 
 
 step. 
 Indignant. Him a thousand lords attend. 
 The minions of his court. And now the}'- 
 
 reach 
 The stately palace. In a spacious hall, 
 From whose high roof seven sparkling lustres 
 
 hang. 
 Round the perpetual board high sofas ranged 
 Receive the gallant chiefs. The floor is 
 
 spread 
 With carpets, work'd in Babylonia's looms, 
 Exquisite art ; rich vessels carved in gold, 
 In silver, and in ivory, beam with gems. 
 'Midst these is placed whate'er of massy 
 
 plate, 
 Or holy ornament, Nebassar brought .^^ 
 
W. H. EOBEJRTS.] 
 
 BELSHAZZAE AND DANIEL. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 From Sion'a ransack'd temple ; lamps, and 
 
 cups, 
 And bowls, now sparkling with the richest 
 
 growth 
 Of Eastern vineyards. On the table smokes 
 All that can rouse the languid appetite. 
 Barbaric luxury. Soft minstrels round 
 Chant songs of triumph to symphonious 
 
 harps. 
 Propt on a golden couch Belshazzar lies. 
 While on each side fair slaves of Syrian 
 
 race 
 By turns solicit with some amorous tale 
 The monarch's melting heart. " Fill me," he 
 
 cries, 
 " That largest bowl, -with which the Jewish 
 
 slaves 
 Once deck'd the altar of their vanquish' d 
 
 God. 
 Never again shall this capacious gold 
 Eeceive their victim's blood. Henceforth the 
 
 kings 
 Of Babylon, oft as this feast returns. 
 Shall crown it with rich ■svine, nectarious 
 
 draught. 
 Fill high the foaming goblet;- rise, my 
 
 friends ; 
 And as I quaff the cup, with loud acclaim 
 Thrice hail to Bel." They rose ; when all at 
 
 once 
 Such sound was heard, as when the roaring 
 
 winds 
 Burst from their cave, and with impetuous 
 
 rage 
 Sweep o'er the Caspian or the Chronian 
 
 O'er the devoted walls the gate of heaven 
 Thunder' d, a hideous peal ; and, lo ! a 
 
 cloud 
 Came darkening all the banquet, whence 
 
 appear' d 
 A hand (if hand it were, or airy form. 
 Compound of light and shade) on the adverse 
 
 wall 
 Tracing strange characters. Belshazzar saw. 
 And trembled : from his lips the goblet fell : 
 He look'd again ; perhaps it was a dream ; 
 Thrice, four times did he look; and every 
 
 time 
 Still plainer did the mystic lines appear. 
 Indelible. Forthwith he summons all 
 The wise ChaldaBans, who by night consult 
 The starry signs, and in each planet read 
 The dark decrees of fate. Silent they stand ; 
 Vain are their boasted charms. With eager 
 
 step 
 Merodach's royal widow hastes to cheer 
 Her trembUng son. " O king, for over live ; 
 Why droops thy sovl ? " she cries ; " what 
 
 though this herd 
 Of sage magicians own their vanquish'd art, 
 Know'st thou not Daniel ? In his heart 
 
 resides 
 The spirit of holy Gods ; 'twas he who told 
 Thy father strange events, and terrible ; 
 Nor did Nebassar honour one like him 
 
 Through all his spacious kingdom. He shall 
 
 soon 
 Dispel thy doubts, and all thy fears ally," 
 She spake, and with obeisance low retired, 
 " Then be it so ; haste, Arioch, lead him 
 
 here," 
 Belshazzar cries ; "if he interpret right. 
 Even though my soul in just abhorrence 
 
 holds 
 His hated race, I will revoke their doom. 
 And shower rich honours on their prophet's 
 
 head." 
 Nor long he waited, when with graceful 
 
 step. 
 And awe-commanding eye, solemn and slow. 
 As conscious of superior dignity, 
 Daniel advanced. Time o'er his hoary hair . 
 Had shed his white snows. Behind him 
 
 stream'd 
 A mantle, ensign of prophetic powers, 
 Like that with which inspired Elisha smote 
 The parting waters, what time on the bank 
 Of Jordan from the clouds a fiery car 
 Descended, and by flaming coursers drawn 
 Bore the sage Ti^bite to celestial climes, 
 Maugre the gates of death. A wand he 
 
 bore — 
 That wand by whose mysterious properties 
 The shepherd of Horeb call'd the refluent 
 
 waves 
 O'er Pharaoh and his host, with which he 
 
 struck 
 The barren flint, when from the riven cliff 
 Gush'd streams, and water'd all the thirsty 
 
 tribes 
 Of murmuring Israel. Through many an age 
 Within the temple's unapproached veil. 
 Fast by the rod, wliich bloom' d o'er Aaron's 
 
 name, 
 Still did the holy relic rest secure. 
 At length, when Babylonia's arms prevail' d, 
 Seraiah saved it from the flaming shrine. 
 With aU the sacred wardrobe of the priest, 
 And bore it safe to Eiblah. Dying there. 
 The priest bequeathed the sacred legacy 
 To Daniel. He, when summon'd to explain. 
 As now, God's dark decrees, in his right 
 
 hand 
 Brandish' d the mystic emblem. " Art thoa 
 
 he, 
 Art thou that Daniel, whom Nebassar 
 
 brought 
 From Salem, whom the vanquish'd tribes 
 
 adore. 
 In wisdom excellent ? Look there, look, 
 
 there ; 
 Eead but those lines," the affrighted monarch 
 
 cries, 
 "And clothed in scarlet wear this golden 
 
 chain. 
 The third great ruler of my spacious realm. 
 He spake, and thus the reverend seer 
 
 replied : 
 "Thy promises, and threats, presumptuous 
 
 king. 
 My soul alike despises ; yet, so wills 
 
From 1727 to 1780.1 
 
 THE JEWS' RETUEN TO JERUSALEM. 
 
 [W. H Roberts. 
 
 That spirit, who darts his radiance on my 
 
 mind 
 (Hear thou, and tremble), will I speak the 
 
 words 
 Which he shall dictate. ' Number' d is thy 
 
 realm, 
 And finish' d : in the balance art thou weigh' d, 
 Where God hath found thee wanting : to the 
 
 Medes 
 And Persians thy divided realm is given.' 
 Thus saith the LfOrd ; and thus those words 
 
 import. 
 Graven by his high behest. See'st thou this 
 
 wand? 
 Ne'er has it borne, since first it left the 
 
 trunk, 
 Or bud or blossom : all its shielding rind 
 The sharp steel stripp'd, and to dry winds 
 
 exposed 
 Tlie vegetative sap ; even so thy race 
 Shall perish : from thy barren stock shall 
 
 rise • 
 
 Nor prince nor ruler; and that glittering 
 
 crown. 
 Won by thy valiant fathers, whose long line 
 In thee, degenerate monarch, soon must 
 
 end, 
 Shall dart its lustre round a stranger's 
 
 brow." 
 " Prophet of evils ! darest thou pour on me 
 Thy threats ill-ominous, and judgments dark ? " 
 Incensed the monarch cries : " Hence to thy 
 
 tribes : 
 Teach them obedience to their sovpreign's will. 
 Or I will break that wand, and rend in twain 
 The mantle of thy God. — Or if these marks 
 Thou wilt erase from that accursed wall, 
 Take half my realm." He spake, and fix'd 
 
 his eyes 
 Wild staring on the mystic characters : 
 His rage all sunk at once ; his fear return' d 
 Tenfold ; when thus the man of God began : 
 
 "Go to the shady vales of Palaestino, 
 Vain prince, or Syrian Lebanon, and tear 
 The palms and cedars from their native 
 
 mould 
 Uprooted ; then return, and break this rod. 
 Believe me, far more arduous were the task : 
 For it was harden' d in the streams of 
 
 heaven ; 
 And though not dedicate to sorcerers' arts 
 By magic incantation, and strange spells ; 
 Yet such a potent virtue doth reside 
 In every part, that not the united force 
 Of all thy kingdom can one Hne, one grain, 
 Of measure, or of solid weight impair. 
 Wilt thou that I revoke thy destined fate ? 
 Devoted prince, I cannot. Hell beneath 
 Is moved to meet thee. See the mighty 
 
 dead, 
 The kings, that sat on golden thrones, ap- 
 proach. 
 The chief ones of the earth. ' Lucifer, 
 Son of the morning, thou that vaunting 
 
 saidst, 
 " I will ascend the heavens ; I will exalt 
 
 My throne above th^ stars of God; the 
 
 clouds 
 Shall roll beneath my feet," art thou too 
 
 weak 
 As we ? art thou become like unto us ? 
 Where now is all thy pomp ? where the sweet 
 
 sound 
 Of viol, and of harp ? ' with curious eye 
 Tracing thy mangled corse, the rescued sons 
 Of Solyma shall say, ' Is this the man 
 That shook the pillars of the trembling earth, 
 That made the world a desert ? ' aU the 
 
 kings. 
 Each in his house entomb' d, in glory rest. 
 While unlamented lie thy naked limbs. 
 The sport of dogs and vultures. In that day 
 Shall these imperial towers, this haughty 
 
 queen. 
 That in the midst of waters sits secure, 
 Fall prostrate on the ground. Ill-ominous 
 
 birds 
 Shall o'er th' unwholesome marshes scream for 
 
 food ; 
 And hissing serpents by sulphureous pools 
 Conceal their filthy brood. The traveller 
 In vain shall ask where stood Assyria's pride : 
 No trace shall guide his dubious steps ; nor 
 
 sage. 
 Versed in historic lore, shall mark the site 
 Of desolated Babylon." Thus spake 
 The seer, and with majestic step retired. 
 
 W. H. Boherts.—Bom 1745, Died 1791. 
 
 980. — THE JEWS' RETURN TO 
 JERUSALEM. 
 
 Now dawns the mom, and on mount Olivet 
 The hoar-frost melts before the rising sun, 
 Which summons to their daily toil the world 
 Of beasts, of men ; and all that wings the air. 
 And all that swims the level of the lake, 
 Or creeps the ground, bid universal hail 
 To day's bright regent. But the tribes were 
 
 roused. 
 Impatient even of rest, ere yet the stars 
 Withdrew their feeble light. Through every 
 
 street 
 They bend their way : some Ananiah leads, 
 Some Phanuel, or what elders else were 
 
 driven 
 In early youth from Sion. Not a spot 
 Remains unvisited ; each stone, each beam, 
 Seems sacred. As in legendary tale. 
 Led by magician's hand some hero treads 
 Enchanted ground, and hears, or thinks he 
 
 hears. 
 Aerial voices, or with secret dread 
 Sees unembodied shades, by fancy form'd, 
 Flit through the gloom; so rescued Judah 
 
 walk'd. 
 Amid the majesty of Salem's dust, 
 
Thos. Penrose.] 
 
 THE HELMETS. 
 
 [Sixth Pekiod.- 
 
 With reverential awe, Howbeit they soon 
 Eemove the mouldering ruins ; soon they 
 
 clear 
 The obstructed paths, and every mansion 
 
 raise, 
 By force or time impair' d. Then Jeshua 
 
 rose 
 With all his priests ; nor thou, Zorobabel, 
 Soul of the tribes, wast absent. To the God 
 Of Jacob, oft as morn and eve returns, 
 A new-built altar smokes. Nor do they not 
 Observe the feast, memorial of that age 
 When Israel dwelt in tents ; the Sabbath 
 
 too, 
 New moons, and every ritual ordinance, 
 Eirst-fruits, and paschal lamb, and rams, and 
 
 goats. 
 Offerings of sin and peace. Nor yet was 
 
 laid 
 The temple's new foundation. Com and 
 
 wine, 
 Sweet balm and oil, they mete with liberal 
 
 hand 
 To Tyrian and Sidonian. To the sea 
 Of Joppa down they heave their stately trees 
 Erom Syrian Lebanon. And now they 
 
 square 
 Huge blocks of marble, and with ancient 
 
 rites 
 Anoint the corner-stone. Around the priests. 
 The Levites and the sons of Asaph stand 
 With trumpets and with cymbals. Jeshua 
 
 first, 
 Adom'd in robes pontifical, conducts 
 The sacred ceremony. An ephod rich 
 Purple, and blue, comes mantling o'er his 
 
 arms, 
 Clasp'd with smooth studs, round whose 
 
 meand'ring hem 
 A girdle twines its folds : to this by chains 
 Of gold is link'd a breastplate : costly gems, 
 Jasper and diamond, sapphire and amethyst. 
 Unite their hues ; twelve stones, memorial 
 
 apt 
 Of Judah's ancient tribes. A mitre decks 
 His head, and on the top a golden crown 
 Graven, like a signet, by no vulgar hand. 
 Proclaims him priest of God. Symphonious 
 
 hymns 
 Are mix'd with instrumental melody, 
 And Judah's joyful shouts. But down thy 
 
 cheeks, 
 Ananiah, from thine aged eye, 
 O Phanuel, drops a tear ; for ye have seen 
 The house of Solomon in all its pride. 
 And ill can brook this change. Nor ye alone, 
 But every ancient wept. Loud shrieks of 
 
 grief, 
 Mix'd with the voice of joy, are heard beyond 
 The hills of Salem. Even from Gibeon's 
 
 walls 
 The astonish' d peasant turns a listening 
 
 ear. 
 And Jordan's shepherds catch the distant 
 
 sound. 
 W. H. Roberts.— Born 1745, Died 1791. 
 
 981.— THE HELMETS. 
 
 A FRAGMENT, 
 
 — 'Twas midnight — every mortal eye was 
 
 closed 
 Through the whole mansion — save an antique 
 
 crone's. 
 That o'er the dying embers faintly watch' d 
 The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death) 
 Of a sick boteler. — Above indeed. 
 In a drear gallery (lighted by one lamp 
 Whose wick the poor departing Seneschal 
 Did closely imitate) paced slow and sad 
 The village curate, waiting late to shrive 
 The penitent when 'wake. Scarce show'd the 
 
 ray 
 To fancy's eye, the portray' d characters 
 That graced the wall — On this and t'other 
 
 side 
 Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair, 
 In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group 
 Of helms and targets? gauntlets, maces 
 
 strong, 
 And horses' furniture — brave monuments 
 Of ancient chivalry. — Through the stain' d 
 
 pane 
 Low gleam' d the moon — not bright — but of 
 
 such power 
 As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over 
 
 head, 
 Full mischief -fraught ; — from these in many a 
 
 peal 
 Growl' d the near thunder — flash' d the frequent 
 
 blaze 
 Of lightning blue. — \Vhile round the fretted 
 
 dome 
 The wind sung surly : with unusual clank 
 The armour shook tremendous : — On a couch 
 Placed in the oriel sunk the churchman 
 
 down : 
 For who, alone, at that dread hour of night, 
 
 Could bear portentous prodigy ? • 
 
 "I hear it," cries the proudly gilded 
 
 casque 
 (Fill'd by the soul of one who erst took joy 
 In slaught'rous deeds), " I hear amidst the 
 
 gale 
 The hostile spirit shouting — once — once 
 
 more 
 In the thick harvest of the spears we'll 
 
 shine — 
 There will be work anon." 
 
 I'm 'waken'd too,' 
 
 Replied the sable helmet (tenanted 
 
 By a like inmate), " Hark ! — I hear the voice 
 
 Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling 
 
 range 
 Yon summit (crown' d with ruin'd battlements 
 The fruits of civil discord), to the din 
 The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile, 
 All join their yell — the song is war and 
 
 death — 
 
 There will be work anon." • 
 
 " Call armourers, ho ! 
 
 Furbish my vizor — close my rivets up — 
 I brook no dallying " 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 SQNG. 
 
 [Sir John H. Moore. 
 
 " Soft, my hasty friend," 
 
 Said the black beaver, " Neither of us twain 
 Shall share the bloody toil — War-worn am I, 
 Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate 
 To my once master, — since unsought, unused, 
 Pensile I'm fix'd — ^yet too your gaudy pride 
 Has nought to boast, — the fashion of the fight 
 Has thrown your guilt and shady plumes 
 
 aside 
 For modem foppery ; — still do not frown, 
 Nor lower indignantly your steely brows, 
 We've comfort left enough — The bookman's 
 
 lore 
 Shall trace our sometime merit ; — ^in the eye 
 Of antiquary taste we long shall shine : 
 And as the scholar marks our rugged front, 
 He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt : 
 Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers, 
 He'll venerate their shell. — Yet, more than 
 
 this, 
 From our inactive station we shall hear 
 The groans of butcher' d brothers, shrieking 
 
 plaints 
 Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic 
 
 howls ; 
 Already hovering o'er the threaten' d lands 
 The famish' d raven snufFs the promised feast. 
 And hoarselier croaks for blood — 'twill flow." 
 
 " Forbid it. Heaven ! 
 
 O shield my suffering country ! — Shield it," 
 
 pray'd 
 The agonising priest. 
 
 Thos. Pem-ose.—Born 1743, Died 1779. 
 
 982.— THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 
 
 Faintly bray'd the battle's roar 
 Distant down the hollow wind ; 
 
 Panting Terror fled before. 
 
 Wounds and death were left behind. 
 
 The war-fiend cursed the sunken day. 
 That check' d his fierce pursuit too soon 
 
 While, scarcely lighting to the prey. 
 Low hung, and lour'd the bloody moon. 
 
 The field, so late the hero's pride. 
 
 Was now with various carnage spread ; 
 
 And floated with a crimson tide, 
 
 That drench'd the dying and the dead. 
 
 O'er the sad scene of dreariest view, 
 Abandon' d all to horrors wild, 
 
 With frantic step Maria flew, 
 Maria, Sorrow's early child; 
 
 By duty led, for every vein 
 
 Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame ; 
 With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main 
 
 She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came. 
 
 For well she thought, a friend so dear 
 In darkest hours might joy impart ; 
 
 Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer. 
 Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart. 
 
 Though look'd for long — in chill affright 
 (The torrent bursting from her eye) 
 
 She heard the signal for the fight — 
 While her soul trembled in a sigh — 
 
 She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast. 
 Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay ; 
 
 His manly heart the charm confess' d — 
 Then broke the charm, — and rush'd away. 
 
 Too soon in few — ^but deadly words, 
 Some fljdng straggler breathed to tell, 
 
 That in the foremost strife of swords 
 The young, the gallant Edgar fell. 
 
 She press'd to hear — she caught the tale — 
 At every sound her blood congeal' d ; — 
 
 With terror bold — with terror pale, 
 She sprung to search the fatal field. 
 
 O'er the sad scene in dire amaze 
 
 She went — with courage not her own — 
 
 On many a corpse she cast her gaze — 
 And turn'd her ear to many a groan. 
 
 Drear anguish urged her to press 
 
 Full many a hand, as wild she moum'd ; — 
 — Of comfort glad the drear caress 
 
 The damp, chill, dying hand return'd. 
 
 Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled — 
 When late pale Edgar's form she found, 
 
 Half -buried with the hostile dead. 
 
 And gored with many a grisly wound. 
 
 She knew — she sunk — the night-bird scream' d 
 — The moon withdrew her troubled light, 
 
 And left the fair, — though fall'n she seem'd — 
 To worse than death — and deepest night. 
 
 Thos. Penrose.— Bom 1743, Died 1779. 
 
 983.— L'AMOUE TIMIDE. 
 
 If in that breast, so good, so pure. 
 
 Compassion ever loved to dwell, 
 Pity the sorrows I endure ; 
 
 The cause I must not, dare not tell. 
 
 The grief that on my quiet preys. 
 
 That rends my heart, that checks my 
 tongue, 
 I fear will last me all my days, 
 
 But feel it will not last me long. 
 
 Sir John H. Moore.— Born 1756, Died 1780. 
 
 984.— SONG. 
 
 Cease to blame my melancholy, 
 
 Though with sighs and folded arms 
 I muse with silence on her charms ; 
 
 Censure not — I know 'tis follv. 
 
EiCHAED Jago.] LABOUE and GENIUS. [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, 
 
 Damon perceives, with ravish'd eyes. 
 
 Such delights I find in grief, 
 
 The beautiful enchantment rise. 
 
 That, could heaven afford relief, 
 
 Sees sweetly blended shade and light ; 
 
 My fond heart would scorn the blessing. 
 
 Sees every part with each unite ; 
 
 Sir Joh-.i H. Moore.— Born 1756, Died 1780. 
 
 Sees each, as he directs, assume 
 A livelier dye, or deeper gloom : 
 
 
 So fashion' d by the painter's skill. 
 New forms the glowing canvas fill : 
 
 
 
 So to the summer's sun the rose 
 
 9S5.— T.AT50UE AND GENIUS; OE, THE 
 
 And jessamin their charms disclose. 
 
 MILL-STEEAM AND THE CASCADE. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 
 Not distant far below, a mill 
 
 # * * * 
 
 Was built upon a neighb'ring rill : 
 
 Betwixt two sloping verdant hills 
 
 Whose pent-up stream, whene'er let loose. 
 
 A current pour'd its careless rills. 
 
 Impell'd a wheel, close at its sluice. 
 
 Which unambitious crept along, 
 
 So strongly, that by friction's power. 
 
 With weeds and matted grass o'erhung. 
 
 'Twould grind the firmest grain to flour. 
 
 Till Eural Genius, on a day. 
 
 Or, by a correspondence new. 
 
 Chancing along its banks to stray, 
 
 With hammers, and their clatt'ring crew, 
 
 Eemark'd, with penetrating look, 
 
 Would so bestir her active stumps, 
 
 The latent merits of the brook, 
 
 On iron blocks, though arrant lumps. 
 
 Much grieved to see such talents hid, 
 
 That in a trice she'd manage matters, 
 
 And thus the dull by-standers chid. 
 
 To make 'em all as smooth as platters. 
 
 How blind is man's incurious race 
 
 Or slit a bar to rods quite taper, 
 
 The scope of nature's plans to trace ? 
 
 With as much ease as you'd cut paper. 
 
 How do ye mangle half her charms,- 
 
 For, though the lever gave the blow. 
 
 And fright her hourly with alarms ? 
 
 Yet it was lifted from below ; 
 
 Disfigure now her swelling mounds. 
 
 And would for ever have lain still, 
 
 And now contract her spacious bounds ? 
 
 But for the bustling of the rill ; 
 
 Fritter her fairest lawns to alleys. 
 
 Who, from her stately pool or ocean. 
 
 Bare her green hills, and hide her valleys ? 
 
 Put all the v/heels and logs in motion ; 
 
 Confine her streams with rule and line, 
 
 Things in their nature very quiet, 
 
 And counteract her whole design ? 
 
 Though making all this noise and riot. 
 
 Neglecting, where she points the way. 
 
 This stream that could in toil excel. 
 
 Her easy dictates to obey ? 
 
 Began with foolish pride to swell : 
 
 To bring her hidden worth to sight, 
 
 Piqued at her neighbour's reputation. 
 
 And place her charms in fairest light ? 
 
 And thus express' d her indignation : 
 
 * # r # 
 
 " Madam ! methinks you're vastly proud. 
 
 He said : and to his favourite son 
 
 You wasn't used to talk so loud. 
 
 Consign'd the task, and wiil'd it done. 
 
 Nor cut such capers in your pace, 
 
 Damon his counsel wisely weigh' d. 
 
 Marry ! what antics, what grimace ! 
 
 And carefully the scene survey'd. 
 
 For shame ! don't give yourself such aii-s, 
 
 And, though it seems he said but little. 
 
 In flaunting dovm those hideous stairs. 
 
 He took his meaning to a tittle. 
 
 Nor put yourself in such a flutter. 
 
 And first, his purpose to befriend, 
 
 Whate'er you do, you dirty gutter ! 
 
 A bank he raised at th' upper end : 
 
 I'd have you know, you upstart minx ! 
 
 Compact and close its outward side, 
 
 Ere you were form'd, with all your sinks. 
 
 To stay and swell the gathering tide : 
 
 A lake I was, compared with which, 
 
 But on its inner, rough and tall. 
 
 Your stream i« but a paltry ditch : 
 
 A ragged cliff, a rocky wall. 
 
 And still, on honest labour bent, 
 
 The channel next he oped to view, 
 
 I ne'er a single flash misspent. 
 
 And from its course the rubbish drew. 
 
 And yet no folks of high degree 
 
 Enlarged it now, and now with line 
 
 Would e'er vouchsafe to visit me, 
 
 Oblique .pursued his fair design. 
 
 As in their coaches by they rattle, 
 
 Preparing here the mazy way. 
 
 Forsooth ! to hear your idle prattle. 
 
 And there the fall for sportive play ; 
 
 Though half the business of my flooding 
 
 The precipice abrupt and steep, 
 
 Is to provide them cakes and pudding : 
 
 The pebbled road, and cavern deep ; 
 
 Or furnish stuff for many a trinket. 
 
 The rooty seat, where best to view 
 
 Which, though so fine, you scarce would 
 
 The fairy scene, at distance due. 
 
 think it. 
 
 He last invoked the dryads' aid, 
 
 When Boulton's skiU has fix'd their beauty. 
 
 And fringed the borders round with shade. 
 
 To my rough toil first owed their duty. 
 
 Tapestry, by Nature's fingers wove. 
 
 But I'm plain Goody of the mill, 
 
 No mimic, but a real grove : 
 
 And you are — Madam Cascadille ! " 
 
 Part hiding, part admitting day. 
 
 "Dear Coz," replied the beauteous torrent. 
 
 The scene to grace the future play. 
 
 " Pray do not discompose your current. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 YAEIETY. 
 
 [W. Whitehead. 
 
 That we all from one fountain j&ow, 
 Hath been agreed on long ago. 
 Varying our talents and our tides, 
 As chance or education guides. 
 That I have either note, or namej 
 I owe to him who gives me fame. 
 Who teaches all our kind to flow, 
 Or gaUy swift, or gravely slow. 
 Now in the lake, mth glassj"" face, 
 Now moving light, with dimpled grace, 
 Now gleaming from the rocky height, 
 Now, in rough eddies, foaming white. 
 Nor envy me the gay, or great. 
 That visit my obscure retreat. 
 None wonders that a clown can dig. 
 But 'tis some art to dance a jig. 
 Your talents are employ'd for use. 
 Mine to give pleasure, and amuse. 
 And though, dear Coz, no folks of taste 
 Their idle hours with you will waste, 
 Yet many a grist comes to your mill, 
 "\Miich helps 3'our master's bags to fill. 
 While I, with all my notes and trilling, 
 For Damon never got a shilling. 
 Then, gentle Coz, forbear your clamours, 
 Enjoy your hoppers, and your hammers : 
 We gain our ends by different ways. 
 And you get bread, and I get — praise." 
 
 Richa/rd Jago. — Born 1715, Died 1781. 
 
 986.— VARIETY. 
 
 A gentle maid, of rural breeding, 
 By Nature first, and then by reading. 
 Was fill'd with all those soft sensations 
 Which we restrain in near relations, 
 Lest future husbands should be jealous, 
 And think their wives too fond of fellows. 
 
 The morning sun beheld her rove 
 A mnnph, or goddess of the grove ! 
 At eve she paced the dewy lawn. 
 And call'd each clown she saw, a faun ! 
 Then, scudding homeward, lock'd her door, 
 And turn'd some copious volume o'er. 
 For much she read; and chiefly those 
 Great authors, who in verse, or prose, 
 Or something betwixt both, unwind 
 The secret springs which move the mind. 
 These much she read; and thought she 
 
 knew 
 The human heart's minutest clue ; 
 Yet shrewd observers still declare 
 (To show how shrewd observers are). 
 Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, 
 And novels, in profusion, came. 
 Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, 
 She only read the heart's romance. 
 
 The world, no doubt, was well enough 
 To smooth the manners of the rough ; 
 Might please the giddy and the vain. 
 Those tinsell'd slaves of folly's train : 
 
 But, for her part, the truest taste 
 She found was in retirement placed, 
 "V\Tiere, as in verse it sweetly flows, 
 " On every thorn instruction grows." 
 Not that she wish'd to " be alone," 
 As some affected prudes have done ; 
 She knew it was decreed on high 
 We should "increase and multiply;" 
 And therefore, if kind Fate would grant 
 Her fondest wish, her only want, 
 A cottage with the man she loved 
 Was what her gentle heart approved ; 
 In some delightful solitude 
 Where step profane might ne'er intrude ; 
 But Hymen guard the sacred ground. 
 And virtuous Cupids hover round. 
 Not such as flutter on a fan 
 Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, 
 (Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses. 
 And hold their fingers to their noses). 
 But simp'ring, mild, and innocent. 
 As angels on a monument. 
 
 Fate heard her pray'r : a lover came. 
 Who felt, like her, th' innoxious flame ; 
 One who had trod, as well as she, 
 The flow'ry paths of poesy ; 
 Had warm'd himself with Milton's heat, 
 Could ev'ry line of Pope repeat. 
 Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, 
 " The lover's hopes," " the lover's pains." 
 
 Attentive to the charmer's tongue, 
 With him she thought no evening long j 
 With him she saunter' d half the day ; 
 And sometimes, in a laughing way. 
 Ran o'er the catalogue by rote 
 Of who might marry, and who not ; 
 " Consider, sir, we're near relations — " 
 "I hope so in our inclinations." — 
 In short, she look'd, she blush'd consent ; 
 He grasp'd her hand, to church they went; 
 And ev'ry matron that was there, 
 
 With tongue so voluble and supple, 
 Said for her part, she must declare, 
 
 She never saw a finer couple. 
 O Halcyon days ! 'Twas Nature's reign, 
 'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain. 
 The fields assumed unusual bloom. 
 And ev'ry zephyr breathed perfume. 
 The laughing sun with genial beams 
 Danced lightly on th' exulting streams ; 
 And the pale regent of the night, 
 In dewy softness shed delight. 
 'Twas transport not to be exprest ; 
 
 'Twas Paradise ! But mark the rest. 
 
 Two smiling springs had waked the flow'rs 
 That paint the meads, or fringe the bow'rs 
 (Ye lovers, lend your wond'ring ears, 
 Who count by months, and not by years). 
 Two smiling springs had chaplets wove 
 To crown their solitude, and love : 
 When lo, they find, they can't tell how. 
 Their walks are not so pleasant now. 
 The seasons sure were changed ; the place 
 Had, somehow, got a diff'rent face. 
 Some blast had struck the cheerful scene ; 
 The lawns, the woods, were not so green. 
 
W. Whitehead.] 
 
 VAEIETY. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 The purling rill, which murmur' d by, 
 And once was liquid harmony, 
 Became a sluggish, reedy pool : 
 The days grew hot, the ev'nings cool. 
 The moon, with all the starry reign, 
 Were melancholy's silent train. 
 And then the tedious winter night — 
 They could not read by candle-light. 
 
 Full oft, unknowing why they did. 
 They call'd in adventitious aid. 
 A faithful, fav'rite dog ('twas thus 
 With Tobit and Telemachus) 
 Amused their steps ; and for a while 
 They view'd his gambols with a smile. 
 The kitten, too, was comical, 
 She play'd so oddly with her tail. 
 Or in the glass was pleased to find 
 Another cat, and peep'd behind. 
 
 A courteous neighbour at the door 
 Was deem'd intrusive noise no more. 
 For rural visits, now and then, 
 Are right, as men must live with men. 
 Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, 
 
 A new recruit, a dear delight ! 
 Made many a heavy hour go down, 
 
 At morn, at noon, at eve, at night : - 
 Sure they could hear her jokes for ever. 
 She was so sprightly, and so clever ! 
 
 Yet neighbours were not quite the thing ; 
 What joy, alas ! could converse bring 
 With awkward creatures bred at home — 
 The dog grew dull, or troublesome. 
 The cat had spoil' d the kitten's merit. 
 And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. 
 And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, 
 Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. 
 — " And then, my dear, I can't abide 
 This always sauntering side by side." 
 " Enough ! " he cries, " the reason 's plain : 
 For causes never rack your brain. 
 Our neighbours are like other folks. 
 Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, 
 Are still delightful, still would please. 
 Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. 
 Look round, with an impartial eye, 
 On yonder fields, on yonder sky; 
 The azure cope, the flow'rs below. 
 With all their wonted colours glow. 
 The rill still murmurs ; and the moon 
 Shines, as she did, a softer sun. 
 No change has made the seasons fail, 
 No comet brush'd us with his tail. 
 The scene 's the same, the sam3 the 
 
 weather — 
 We live, my dear, too much together." 
 
 Agreed, A rich old uncle dies, 
 And added wealth the means supplies. 
 With eager haste to town they flew, 
 Where all must please, for all was new. 
 
 But here, by strict poetic laws, 
 Description claims its proper pause. 
 
 The rosy mom had raised her head 
 From old Tithonus' saffron bed ; 
 And embryo sunbeams from the east. 
 Half-choked, were struggling through the 
 mist. 
 
 When forth advanced the gilded chaise ; 
 The village crowded round to gaze. 
 The pert postilion, now promoted 
 From driving plough, and neatly booted. 
 His jacket, cap, and baldric on 
 (As greater folks than he have done), 
 Look'd round ; and, -with a coxcomb air, 
 Smack' d loud his lash. The happy pair 
 Bow'd graceful, from a sep'rate door, 
 And Jenny, from the stool before. 
 
 Eoll SAvift, ye wheels ! to willing eyes 
 New objects ev'ry moment rise. 
 Each carriage passing on the road, 
 From the broad waggon's pond'rous load 
 To the light car, where mounted high 
 The giddy driver seems to fly, 
 Were themes for harmless satire fit. 
 And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. 
 Whate'er occurr'd, 'twas all delightful, 
 No* noise was harsh, no danger frightful. 
 The dash and splash through thick and thin, 
 The hair-breadth 'scapes, the bustling inn 
 (Where well-bred landlords were so ready 
 To welcome in the 'squire and lady), 
 Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, 
 Determined to be pleased, and please. 
 
 Now nearer town, and all agog. 
 They know dear London by its fog. 
 Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, 
 Leave Hounslow's dang'rous heath behind. 
 Through Brentford win a passage free 
 By roaring " Wilkes and Liberty ! " 
 At Knightsbridge bless the short'ning way 
 (Where Bays' s troops in ambush lay), 
 O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide 
 (With palaces to grace its side). 
 Till Bond-street with its lamps a-blaze 
 Concludes the journey of three days. 
 
 Why should we paint, in tedious song, 
 How ev'ry day, and all day long. 
 They drove at first with curious haste 
 Through Lud's vast town ; or, as they pass'd 
 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs 
 Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, 
 Describe how strong their wonder grew 
 At buildings — and at builders too ? 
 
 Scarce less astonishment arose 
 At architects more fair than those — 
 Who built as high, as widely spread 
 Th' enormous loads that clothed their head. 
 For British dames new follies love. 
 And, if they can't invent, improve. 
 Some with erect pagodas vie. 
 Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry. 
 Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest. 
 Convolved, contorted, and compress'd ; 
 With intermingling trees, and flowers. 
 And com, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, 
 Stage above stage the turrets run, 
 Like pendent groves of Babylon, 
 Till nodding from the topmost wall 
 Otranto's plumes envelop all ! 
 Whilst the black ewes, who own'd the hair. 
 Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, 
 Unconscious that their tails perfume. 
 In scented curls, the drawing-room. 
 
■ - i 
 From 1727 to 1780.] VAElKi'i^. [W. Whitehead. j 
 
 When Night her murky pinions spread, 
 
 Devised new systems of delight, 
 
 And sober folks retire to bed, 
 
 A-bed all day, and up all night, 
 
 To ev'ry public place they flew, 
 
 In different circles reign' d supreme. 
 
 Where Jenny told them who was who. 
 
 Wives copied her, and husbands him ; 
 
 Money was always at command, 
 
 Tin so divinely life ran on, 
 
 And tripp'd with pleasure hand in hand. 
 
 So separate, so quite Ion-ton, 
 
 ]\Ioney was equipage, was show, 
 
 That, meeting in a public place, ~^ - 
 
 Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho ; 
 
 They scarcely knew each other's face. 
 
 The passe-partout through every vein 
 
 At last they met, by his desire, 
 
 Of dissipation's hydra reign. 
 
 A tSte-d-tete across the fire ; 
 
 London, thou prolific source, 
 
 Look'd in each other's face awhile, 
 
 Parent of vice, and foUy's nurse ! 
 
 With half a tear, and half a smile. 
 
 Fruitful as Nile thy copious springs 
 
 The ruddy health, which wont to grace 
 
 Spawn hourly births, — and all with stings : 
 
 With manly glow his rural face. 
 
 But happiest far the he, or she, 
 
 Now scarce retain' d its faintest streak; 
 
 I know not which, that livelier dunce 
 
 So sallow was his leathern cheek. 
 
 Who first' contrived the coterie. 
 
 She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, 
 
 To crush domestic bliss at once. 
 
 With rouge had striven in vain to hide 
 
 Then grinn'd, no doubt, amidst the dames, 
 
 What once was beauty, and repair 
 
 As Nero fiddled to the names. 
 
 The rapine of the midnight air. 
 
 Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak 
 
 Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. 
 
 With reverence, though in numbers weak ; 
 
 Both wish'd to speak, both hung the head. 
 
 Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, 
 
 At length it burst. " 'Tis time," he cries, 
 
 We spare the follies for the pile. 
 
 " When tired of folly, to be wise. 
 
 Flounced, furbelow 'd, and trick' d for show, 
 
 Are you too tired ? " — then check'd a groan. 
 
 With lamps above, and lamps below, 
 
 She wept consent, and he went on. 
 
 Thy charms even modern taste defied, 
 
 " How delicate the married life ! 
 
 They could not spoil thee, though they tried. 
 
 You love your husband, I my wife ! 
 
 Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings 
 
 Not even satiety could tame, 
 
 Must sweep thee off with vulgar things ! 
 
 Nor dissipation quench the flame. 
 
 Let architects of humbler name 
 
 " True to the bias of our kind, 
 
 On frail materials build their fame. 
 
 'Tis happiness we wish to find. 
 
 Their noblest works the world might want, 
 
 In rural scenes retired we sought 
 
 Wyatt should build in adamant. 
 
 In vain the dear, delicious draught. 
 
 But what are these to scenes which lie 
 
 Though blest with love's indulgent store, 
 
 Secreted from the vulgar eye, 
 
 We found we v^anted something more. 
 
 And baffle all the powers of song ? — 
 
 'Twas company, 'twas friends to share 
 
 A brazen throat, an iron tongue 
 
 The bliss we languish'd to declare. 
 
 (Which poets wish for, when at length 
 
 'Twas social converse, change of scene, 
 
 Their subject soars above their strength) 
 
 To soothe the sullen hour of spleen ; 
 
 Would shun the task. Our humbler Muso 
 
 Shoi-t absences to wake desire. 
 
 (Who only reads the public news, 
 
 And sweet regrets to fan the fire. 
 
 And idly utters what she gleans 
 
 " We left the lonesome place ; and found, 
 
 From chronicles and magazines). 
 
 In dissipation's giddy round, 
 
 Recoiling, feels her feeble fires, 
 
 A thousand novelties to wake 
 
 And blushing to her shades retires. 
 
 The springs of life and not to break. 
 
 Alas ! she knows not how to treat 
 
 As, from the nest not wandering far, 
 
 The finer follies of the great, 
 
 In light excursions through the air, 
 
 Where even, Democritus, thy sneer 
 
 The feather'd tena.nts of the grove 
 
 Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. 
 
 Around in mazy circles move 
 
 Suffice it that by just degrees 
 
 (Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, 
 
 They reach' d all heights, and rose with ease 
 
 Or taste the blossom on the bough). 
 
 (For beauty wins its way, uncall'd, 
 
 We sported freely with the rest ; 
 
 And ready dupes are ne'er black-ball' d). 
 
 And still, returning to the nest, 
 
 Each gambling dame she knew, and he 
 
 In easy mirth we chatted o'er 
 
 Knew every shark of quality ; ' 
 
 The trifles of the day before. 
 
 From the grave cautious few who live 
 
 " Behold us now, dissolving quite 
 
 On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, 
 
 In the full ocean of delight ; 
 
 To the light train who mimic France, 
 
 In pleasures every hour employ, 
 
 And the soft sons of nonchalance. 
 
 Immersed in all the world calls joy; 
 
 While Jenny, now no more of use, 
 
 Our affluence easing the expense 
 
 Excuse succeeding to excuse. 
 
 Of splendour and magnificence ; 
 
 Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew 
 
 Our company, the exalted set ' 
 
 To shilling whist, and chicken loo. 
 
 Of all that 's gay, and all that 's great : 
 
 Advanced to fashion's wavering head. 
 
 Nor happy yet !— and where 's the wonder ?— 
 
 They now, where once they foUow'd, led. 
 
 We live, my dear, too much asunder." 
 
Mrs. Greville.] 
 
 PEAYEE FOE INDIFFEEENCE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 The moral of my tale is this, 
 Variety's the soul of bliss ; 
 But such variety alone 
 As makes our home the more our ovrii. 
 As from the heart's impelhng power 
 The Life-blood pours its genial store ; 
 Though taking each a various waj', 
 The active streams meandering play 
 Through every artery, every vein, 
 All to the heart return again ; 
 From thence resume their new career, 
 But still return and centre there : 
 So real happiness below- 
 Must from the heart sincerely flow ; 
 Nor, listening to the syren's song. 
 Must stray too far, or rest too long. 
 All human pleasures thither tend ; 
 Must there begin, and there must end ; 
 Must there recruit their languid force, 
 And gain fresh vigour from their source. 
 
 W. Whitehead.— Born 1715, Died 178c 
 
 987.— PEAYEE FOE INDIFFEEENCE. 
 
 Oft I've implored the gods in vain, 
 And pray'd till I've been weary : 
 
 For once I'll seek my msh to gain 
 Of Oberon the fairy. 
 
 Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 
 
 Wlio livest in woods unseen ; 
 And oft by Cynthia's silver light 
 
 Trip'st gaily o'er the green. 
 
 If e'er thy pit3dng heart was moved 
 
 As ancient stories tell ; 
 And for th' Athenian maid who loved, 
 
 Thou sought'st a wond'rous speU. 
 
 ! deign -once more t' exert thy power ! 
 Haply some herb or tree. 
 
 Sovereign as juice from western flower, 
 Conceals a balm for me. 
 
 1 ask no kind return in love, 
 
 No tempting charm to please ; 
 Far from the heart such gifts remove, 
 That sighs for peace and ease ! 
 
 Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know. 
 
 That like the needle true, 
 Turns at the touch of joy or woe, 
 
 But, turning, trembles too. 
 
 Far as distress the soul can wound, 
 
 'Tis pain in each degree ; 
 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound — 
 
 Beyond — is agony ; 
 
 TJhon take this treacherous sense of mine, 
 Wliich dooms me still to smart ; 
 
 Which pleasure can to pain refine. 
 To pain nev/ pangs impart. 
 
 ! haste to shed the sovereign balm. 
 
 My shatter' d nerves new-string ; 
 And for my guest, serenely calm. 
 
 The nymph Indifference bring ! 
 
 At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 
 
 See Expectation fly ! 
 And Disappointment in the rear. 
 
 That blasts the purposed joy. 
 
 The tears, which Pity taught to flow, 
 
 My eyes shall then diso-wu ; 
 The heart, that throbb'd at others' woe. 
 
 Shall then scarce feel its own. 
 
 The wounds, which now each moment bleed. 
 
 Each moment then shaU close ; 
 And' tranquil days shall still succeed * 
 
 To nights of sweet repose. 
 
 O fairy-elf ! but grant me this, 
 
 This one kind comfort send ! 
 And so may never-fading bliss 
 
 Thy flowery paths attend ! 
 
 So may the glow-worm's glimmering light 
 
 Thy tiny footsteps lead 
 To some new region of delight, 
 
 UnknoAvn to mortal tread ! 
 
 And be thy acorn- goblet fill'd 
 
 With heaven's ambrosial dew, 
 From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, 
 
 That shed fresh sweets for you. 
 
 And what of life remains for me, 
 
 I'll pass in sober ease ; 
 Half -pleased, contented will I be, 
 
 Content — but haK to please. 
 
 Mrs. Greville. — About 1753. 
 
 988.— OPENING OF THE MINSTEEL. 
 
 Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines 
 
 afar; 
 Ah ! who can tell how many a soul subhme 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 And waged mth Fortune an eternal war ; 
 Check' d by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's 
 
 frown, 
 And poverty's unconquerable bar. 
 In life's low vale remote has pined alone. 
 Then dropp'd into the grave, unpitied and 
 
 unknown ! 
 
 And yet the languor of inglorious day 
 
 Not equally oppressive is to all ; 
 
 Him, "who ne'er Hston'd to the voice of praise, 
 
 The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
 
 There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's caU, 
 
 Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump 
 
 of Fame ; 
 Supremely blest, if to their portion fall 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 OPENING OF THE MINSTREL. 
 
 [Beattie. 
 
 Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher 
 
 aim 
 Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines 
 
 proclaim. 
 
 The rolls of fame I will not now explore ; 
 Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, 
 How forth the Minstrel fared in days of 
 
 yore. 
 Eight glad of heart, though homely in 
 
 array; 
 His waving locks and beard aU hoary gray ; 
 While from his bending shoulder decent 
 
 hung 
 His harp, the sole companion of his way, 
 Which to the whistling wind responsive rung : 
 And ever as he went some merry lay he 
 
 sung. 
 
 Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of 
 
 pride. 
 That a poor villager inspires my strain ; 
 With thee let Pageantry and Power abide ; 
 The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign ; 
 Where through wild groves at eve the lonely 
 
 swain 
 Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's 
 
 charms. 
 They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain ; 
 The parasite their influence never warms. 
 Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold 
 
 alarms. 
 
 Though richest hues the peacock's plumes 
 
 adorn. 
 Yet horror screams from his discordant 
 
 throat. 
 Eise, sons of harmony, and hail the mom. 
 While warbling larks on russet pinions float : 
 Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote. 
 Where the gray linnets carol from the hill, 
 O let them ne'er, with artificial note, 
 To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, 
 But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander 
 
 where they wiU. 
 
 Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; 
 Nor was perfection made for man below. 
 Yet all her -schemes with nicest art are 
 
 plann'd. 
 Good counteracting iU, and gladness wo. 
 With gold and gems if Chilian mountains 
 
 glow ; 
 If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise ; 
 There plague and poison, lust and rapine 
 
 grow ; 
 Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the 
 
 skies. 
 And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in 
 
 the eyes. 
 
 Then grieve not thou, to whom the indulgent 
 
 Muse 
 Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 
 Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
 The imperial banquet and the rich attire. 
 
 Know thine own worth, and reverence the 
 
 lyre. 
 Wilt thou debase the heart which God 
 
 refined ? 
 No; let thy heaven-taught soul to Heaven 
 
 aspire. 
 To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd ; 
 Ambition's grovelling crew for ~ever left 
 
 behind. 
 
 Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul, 
 
 In each fine sense so exqmsitely keen. 
 
 On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, 
 
 Stung with disease, and stupified with 
 
 spleen ; 
 Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, 
 Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to 
 
 hide 
 (The mansion then no more of joy serene), 
 Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide, 
 And impotent desire, and disappointed 
 
 pride ? 
 
 how canst thou renounce the boundless 
 
 store 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary- 
 yields ! 
 The* warbling woodland, the resounding 
 
 shore, 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds. 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom 
 
 shields. 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
 how canst thou renounce, and hope to bo 
 forgiven ? 
 
 There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
 A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree, 
 Wliose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might 
 
 dwell, 
 Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
 But he, I ween, was of the north countrie ; 
 A nation famed for song, and beauty's 
 
 charms ; 
 Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, though free ; 
 Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
 Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 
 
 The shepherd- swain, of whom I mention 
 
 made, 
 On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ; 
 The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never 
 
 sway'd ; 
 An honest heart was almost all his stock ; 
 His drink the living water from the rock ; 
 The milky dams supplied his- board, and lent 
 Their kindly fleece to baffle \vinter's shock ; 
 And he, though oft with dust and cweat 
 
 besprent, 
 Did guide and guard their wanderings, where- 
 
 so'er they went. 
 
 Beattie.— Bom 1735, Died 1803. 
 
Beattie.] 
 
 MOENING LANDSCAPE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 989.— MOENING LANDSCAPE. 
 
 Even now liis eyes with smiles of rapture 
 
 glow, 
 As on he wanders through the scenes of 
 
 morn, 
 "Where the fresh flowers in living lustre 
 
 blow, 
 Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns 
 
 adorn, 
 A thousand notes of joy on every breeze are 
 
 borne. 
 
 But who the melodies of morn can teU ? 
 The wild brook babbling down the mountain 
 
 side ; 
 The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple 
 
 bell; 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 The hum of bees, the hnnet's lay of love, 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal 
 
 grove. 
 
 The cottage- curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
 Crown' d with her pail the tripping mUkinaid 
 
 sings ; 
 The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, 
 
 hark! 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon 
 
 rings; 
 Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd 
 
 springs ; 
 Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy 
 
 hour; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring 
 
 wings ; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd 
 
 bower. 
 And shrQl lark carols clear from her aerial 
 
 tower. 
 
 Beattie.— Born 1735, Died 1803. 
 
 990.— LIFE AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 O ye wild groves, where is now your 
 
 blooin ? — 
 (The Muse interprets thus his tender 
 
 thought :) 
 Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy 
 
 gloom. 
 Of late so grateful in the hour of drought ? 
 Why do the birds, that song and rapture 
 
 brought 
 To all your bowers, their mansions now for- 
 sake? 
 Ah ! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought ? 
 For now the storm howls mournful through 
 
 the brake, 
 And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless 
 
 flake. 
 
 Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and 
 
 cool, 
 And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty 
 
 crown' d ? 
 Ah! see, the unsightly slime, and sluggish 
 
 pool. 
 Have all the solitary vale embrown' d ; 
 Fled each fair form, and mute each melting 
 
 sound, 
 The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray. 
 And hark : the river, bursting every mound, 
 Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful 
 
 sway 
 Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd 
 
 rocks away. 
 
 Yet such the destiny of all on earth : 
 
 So flourishes and fades majestic man. 
 
 Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, 
 
 And fostering gales a while the nursling fan. 
 
 smile, ye heavens, serene ; ye mildews wan, 
 
 Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy 
 
 prime. 
 Nor lessen of his life the little span. 
 Borne on the swift, though silent wings of 
 
 Time, 
 Old age comes on apace to ravage all the 
 
 clime. 
 
 And be it so. Let those deplore their doom 
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn ; 
 But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, 
 Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they 
 
 mourn. 
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more 
 
 return ? 
 Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed ? 
 Soon shall the Orient with new lustre burn. 
 And Spring shall soon « her vital influence 
 
 shed, 
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the 
 
 mead. 
 
 Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
 When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
 Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
 Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
 
 live? 
 Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
 With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
 No : Heaven's immortal spring shall yet 
 
 arrive, 
 And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
 Bright through the eternal year of Love's 
 
 triumphant reign. 
 
 Beattie.— Born 1735, Died 1803. 
 
 99 1 .—RETIREMENT. 
 
 When in the crimson cloud of even 
 The lingering light decays, 
 And Hesper on the front of heaven 
 His glittering gem displays ; 
 
From 1727 to 17S0.1 
 
 THE HEEMIT. 
 
 [Beattie. 
 
 Deep in the silent vale, unseen, 
 Beside a lulling- stream, 
 A pensive youth, of placid mien, 
 Indulged this tender theme. 
 
 " Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled 
 
 High o'er the glimmering dale ; 
 
 Ye woods, along whose windings wild 
 
 Murmurs the solemn gale : 
 
 Where Melancholy strays forlorn, 
 
 And Woe retires to weep. 
 
 What time the wan moon's yellow horn 
 
 Gleams on the western deep : 
 
 To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 
 
 Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 
 
 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, 
 
 To your retreats I fly. 
 
 Deep in your most sequester' d bower 
 
 Let me at last recline, 
 
 Where Solitude, mild, modest power, 
 
 Leans on her ivied shrine. 
 
 How shall I woo thee, matchless fair ? 
 
 Thy heavenly smile how win ? 
 
 Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, 
 
 And stills the storm within. 
 
 O wilt thou to thy favourite grove 
 
 Thine ardent votary bring. 
 
 And bless his hours, and bid them move 
 
 Serene, on silent wing ? 
 
 Oft let Eemembrance soothe his mind 
 
 With dreams of former days. 
 
 When in the lap of Peace reclined 
 
 He framed his infant lays ; 
 
 When Fancy roved at large, nor Care 
 
 Nor cold Distrust alarm' d. 
 
 Nor Envy, with malignant glare, 
 
 His simple youth had harm'd. 
 
 'Twaa then, O Solitude ! to thee 
 
 His early vows were paid, 
 
 From heart sincere, and warm, and free, 
 
 Devoted to the shade. 
 
 Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy 
 
 In stormy paths to roam, 
 
 Remote from all congenial joy ! — 
 
 O take the wanderer home. 
 
 Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, 
 Thy charms my only theme ; 
 My haunt the hoUow cliff, whose pine 
 Waves o'er the gloomy stream. 
 Whence the scared owl on pinions gray 
 Breaks frojm the rustling boughs. 
 And down the lone vale sails away 
 To more profound repose. 
 
 O, while to thee the woodland pours 
 Its wildly warbling song. 
 And balmy from the bank of flowers 
 The zephyr breathes along ; 
 Let no rude sound invade from far, 
 No vagrant foot be nigh. 
 No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 
 Flash on the startled eye. 
 
 But if some pilgrim through the glade 
 
 Thy hallow'd bowers explore, 
 
 O guard from harm his hoary head, 
 
 And listen to his lore ; 
 
 For he of joys divine shaU tell. 
 
 That wean from earthly wo, 
 
 And triumph o'er the mighty speU 
 
 That chains his heart below. 
 
 For me, no more the path invites 
 
 Ambition loves to tread ; 
 
 No more I climb those toilsome heights, 
 
 By guileful Hope misled ; 
 
 Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more 
 
 To Mirth's enlivening strain; 
 
 For present pleasure soon is o'er, 
 
 And all the past is vain." 
 
 Beattie.—Bom 1735, Died 1803. 
 
 992.— THE HEEMIT. 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is 
 
 stm, 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 
 
 prove. 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the 
 
 hill. 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the 
 
 grove : 
 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 
 Wtile his harp rung symphonious, a hermit 
 
 began : 
 No more with himself or with nature at war. 
 He thought as a sage, though he felt as a 
 
 man. 
 
 " Ah ! why, aU abandon' d to darkness and 
 
 wo. 
 Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral : 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay. 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee 
 
 to mourn ; 
 soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 
 
 away : 
 Full quickly they pass — but they never 
 
 return. 
 
 Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 
 
 The moon half extinguish' d her crescent dis- 
 plays : 
 
 But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 
 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her 
 blaze. 
 
 EoU on, thou fair orb, and with gladness 
 pursue 
 
 The path that conducts thee to splendour 
 again ; 
 
 But man's faded glory what change shall 
 renew ? 
 
 Ah fool I to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
Beattie.] 
 
 ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no 
 
 more ; 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for 
 
 you ; 
 For morn is approaching, your charms to 
 
 restore. 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
 
 with dew : 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering 
 
 urn! 
 O when shall it dawn on the night of the 
 
 grave ! 
 
 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science be- 
 
 tray'd, 
 That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to 
 
 blind ; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade 
 
 onward to shade, 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 ' pity, great Father of Light,' then I 
 
 cried, 
 ' Thy creature, who fain would not wander 
 
 from thee ; 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only 
 
 canst free ! ' 
 
 And darkness and doubt are now flying away, 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
 See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph 
 
 descending. 
 And Nature all glowing in Eden's first 
 
 bloom ! 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses 
 
 are blending. 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 
 
 Beattie.— Born 1735, Died 1803. 
 
 993.— ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 Peace, heaven-descended maid ! whose 
 
 powerful voice 
 From ancient darkness call'd the mom, 
 Of jarring elements composed the noise ; 
 When Chaos, from his old dominion torn. 
 With all his bollo-s\'ing throng. 
 Far, far was hurl'd the void abyss along ; 
 And all the bright angelic choir 
 To loftiest raptures tune the heavenly 
 
 lyre, 
 Pour'd in loud symphony the impetuous 
 
 strain ; 
 And every fiery orb and planet sung. 
 And wide through night's dark desolate 
 
 domain 
 Rebounding long and deep the lays triumphant 
 
 rang. 
 
 Oh, whither art thou fled, Saturnian 
 
 reign ? 
 EoU round again, majestic Years ! 
 To break fell Tyranny's corroding chain, 
 From Woe's wan cheek to wipe the bitter 
 
 tears. 
 Ye Years, again roll round ! 
 Hark, from afar what loud tumultuous 
 
 sound, 
 Yv^hile echoes sweep the winding vales, 
 Swells full along the plains, and loads the 
 
 Murder deep-roused, with the \vild whirl- 
 wind's haste 
 
 And roar of tempest, from her cavern 
 springs : 
 
 Her tangled serpents girds around her 
 waist. 
 Smiles ghastly stern, and shakes her gore- 
 distiUing wings. 
 
 Fierce up the yielding skies 
 
 The shouts redoubling rise : 
 
 Earth shudders at the dreadful sound, 
 
 And all is listening, trembUng round. 
 
 Torrents, that from yon promontory's 
 
 head 
 Dash'd furious down in desperate cascade, 
 Heard from afar amid the lonely night. 
 That oft have led the wanderer right, 
 Are silent at the noise. 
 The mighty ocean's more majestic voice, 
 Drown' d in superior din, is heard no 
 
 more; 
 The surge in silence sweeps along the foamy 
 
 shore. 
 
 The bloody banner streaming in the air, 
 Seen on yon sky-mix'd mountain's brow, 
 The mingling multitudes, the madding car. 
 Pouring impetuous on the plain below, 
 War's dreadful lord proclaim. 
 Bursts out by frequent fits the expansive 
 
 flame. 
 Whirl'd in tempestuous eddies flies 
 The surging smoke o'er all the darken'd 
 
 skies. 
 The cheerful face of heaven no more is 
 
 seen, 
 Fades the morn's vivid blush to deadly 
 
 pale : 
 The bat flits transient o'er the dusky 
 
 green, 
 Night's shrieking birds along the sullen 
 
 twilight sail. 
 
 Involved in fire-streak'd gloom the car 
 
 comes on. 
 The mangled steeds grim Terror guides. 
 His forehead writhed to a relentless frown, 
 Aloft the angry Power of Battles rides : 
 Grasp'd in his mighty hand 
 A mace tremendous desolates the land ; 
 Thunders the turret down the steep. 
 The mountain shrinks before its wasteful 
 
 sweep ; 
 
Frovi 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 [Beattie. 
 
 Chill horror the dissolving limbs invades, 
 Smit by the blasting lightning of his 
 
 eyes ; 
 A bloated paleness beauty's bloom o'er- 
 
 spreads, 
 Fades every flowery field, and every verdure 
 
 dies. 
 
 How startled Frenzy stares, 
 Bristling her ragged hairs ! 
 Revenge the gory fragment gnaws ; 
 See, with her griping vulture-claws 
 Imprinted deep, she rends the opening 
 
 wound ! 
 Hatred her torch blue-streaming tosses 
 
 round ; 
 The shrieks of agony and clang of arms 
 Re-echo to the fierce alarms 
 Her trump terrific blows. 
 Disparting from behind, the clouds disclose 
 Of kingly gesture a gigantic form, 
 That with his scourge sublime directs the 
 
 whirling storm. 
 
 Ambition, outside fair I within more foul 
 Than fellest fiend from Tartarus sprung. 
 In caverns hatch'd, where the fierce torrents 
 
 roU 
 Of Phlegethon, the burning banks along. 
 Yon naked waste survey : 
 Where late was heard the flute's mellifluous 
 
 lay; 
 Where late the rosy-bosom'd Hours 
 In loose array danced lightly o'er the 
 
 flowers ; 
 Where late the shepherd told his tender 
 
 tale; 
 And, waked by the soft-murmuring breeze 
 
 of morn, 
 The voice of cheerful labour fill'd the dale ; 
 And dove-eyed Plenty smiled, and waved her 
 
 liberal horn. 
 
 Yon ruins sable from the wasting flame 
 But mark the once resplendent dome ; 
 The frequent corse obstructs the sullen 
 
 stream. 
 And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan 
 
 gloom. 
 How sadly silent all ! 
 Save where outstretch'd beneath yon 
 
 hanging wall 
 Pale Famine moans with feeble breath. 
 And Torture yeUs, and grinds her bloody 
 
 teeth— 
 Though vain the muse, and every melting 
 
 lay. 
 To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse ! 
 Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the 
 
 way, 
 I see, I see the Years begin their mighty 
 
 course. 
 
 What scenes of glory rise 
 
 Before my dazzled eyes ! 
 
 Young Zephyrs wave their wanton wings. 
 
 And melody celestial rings : 
 
 It 
 
 Along the lilied lawn the nymphs advance, 
 
 Flush' d with love's bloom, and range the 
 sprightly dance : 
 
 The gladsome shepherds on the mountain- 
 side. 
 
 Array 'd in all their rural pride, 
 
 Exalt the festive note. 
 
 Inviting Echo from her inmost ^ot^^ 
 
 But ah ! the landscape glows with fainter 
 Hght, 
 
 darkens, smms, and flies for ever from 
 my sight. 
 
 Illusions vain ! Can sacred Peace reside. 
 Where sordid gold the breast alarms, 
 Where cruelty inflames the eye of Pride, 
 I And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's 
 
 arms? 
 Ambition ! these are thine ; 
 These from the soul erase the form divine ; 
 These quench the animating fire 
 That warms the bosom with sublime desire. 
 Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel. 
 Hate rides tremendous on the o'erwhelming 
 
 brow, 
 And midnight Eancour grasps the cruel 
 
 steel. 
 Blaze the funereal flames, and sound the 
 
 shrieks of Woe. 
 
 From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat, 
 What region brightens in thy smile. 
 Creative Peace, and underneath thy feet 
 Sees sullen flowers adorn the rugged soil ? 
 In bleak Siberia blows. 
 Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy 
 
 rose ? 
 Waved over by thy magic wand. 
 Does life inform fell Libya's burning 
 
 sand? 
 Or does some isle thy parting flight detain. 
 Where roves the Indian through primeval 
 
 shades. 
 Haunts the pure pleasures of the woodland 
 
 reign, 
 j And led by Reason's ray the path of Nature 
 
 treads ? 
 
 On Cuba's utmost steep. 
 
 Far leaning o'er the deep. 
 
 The Goddess' pensive form was seen. 
 
 Her robe of Nature's varied green 
 
 Waved on the gale ; grief dimm'd her 
 
 radiant eyes, 
 Her swelling bosom heaved %vith boding 
 
 sighs : 
 She eyed the main ; where, gaining on the 
 
 view. 
 Emerging from the ethereal blue, 
 'Midst the dread pomp of war 
 Gleam'd the Iberian streamer from afar. 
 She saw ; and, on refulgent pinions borne. 
 Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled 
 
 with the morn. 
 
 Beattie.— Born 173^ 
 
 Died 1803. 
 49 
 
Chb. Smart.] 
 
 SONG TO DAVID. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 994.— SONG TO DAVID. 
 
 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, 
 With harp of high, majestic tone, 
 
 To praise the King of kings : 
 And voice of heaven, ascending swell, 
 Which, while its deeper notes excel, 
 
 Clear as a clarion rings : 
 
 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, 
 And charm the cherubs to the post 
 
 Of gratitude in throngs ; 
 To keep the days on Zion's mount, 
 And send the year to his account. 
 
 With dances and with songs : 
 
 O servant of God's holiest charge. 
 The minister of praise at large. 
 
 Which thou mayst now receive ; 
 From thy blest mansion hail and hear. 
 From topmost eminence appear 
 
 To this the wreath I weave. 
 
 Gteat, valiant, pious, good, and clean, 
 Sublime, contemplative, serene, 
 
 Strong; constant, pleasant, wise ! 
 Bright effluence of exceeding grace ; . 
 Best man ! the swiftness and the race, 
 
 The peril and the prize ! 
 
 Great — from the lustre of his crown. 
 From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, 
 
 Which is the people's' voice ; 
 For all the host, from rear to van, 
 Applauded and embraced the man — 
 
 The man of God's own choice. 
 
 Valiant — ^the word, and up he rose ; 
 The fight — he triumph' d o'er the foes 
 
 Whom God's just laws abhor ; 
 And, arm'd in gallant faith, he took 
 Against the boaster, from the brook, 
 
 The weapons of the war. 
 
 Pious — magnificent and grand, 
 'Twas he the famous temple plann'd 
 
 (The seraph in his soul) : 
 Foremost to give the Lord his dues, 
 Foremost to bless the welcome news, 
 
 And foremost to condole. 
 
 Good — from Jehudah's genuine vein, 
 From God's best nature, good in grain. 
 
 His aspect and his heart : 
 To pity, to forgive, to save. 
 Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, 
 
 And Shimei's blunted dart. 
 
 Clean— if perpetual prayer be pure, 
 And love, which could itself inure 
 
 To fasting and to fear — 
 Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, 
 To smite the lyre, the dance complete, 
 
 To play the sword and spear. 
 
 Sublime — invention ever young. 
 Of vast conception, towering tongue^ 
 To God tho eternal theme ; 
 
 Notes from yon exaltations caught, 
 UnrivaU'd royalty of thought. 
 O'er meaner strains supreme. 
 
 Contemplative — on God to fix 
 His musings, and above the six 
 
 The Sabbath-day he blest ; 
 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned. 
 And heavenly melancholy tuned, 
 
 To bless and bear the rest. 
 
 Serene — to sow the seeds of peace, 
 Eemembering when he watch' d the fleece. 
 
 How sweetly Kidron purl'd — 
 To further knowledge, silence vice. 
 And plant perpetual paradise. 
 
 When God had calm'd the world. 
 
 Strong — in the Lord, who could defy 
 Satan, and all his powers that lie 
 
 In sempiternal night ; 
 And hell, and horror, and despair 
 Were as the lion and the bear 
 
 To his undaunted might. 
 
 Constant— in love to God, the Truth, 
 Age, manhood, infancy, and youth — 
 
 To Jonathan his friend 
 Constant, beyond the verge of death ; 
 And Ziba and Mephibosheth, 
 
 His endless fame attend. 
 
 Pleasant — and various as the year ; 
 Man, soul, and angel without peer. 
 
 Priest, champion, sage, and boy ; 
 In armour, or in ephod clad. 
 His pomp, his piety was glad ; 
 
 Majestic was his joy. 
 
 Wise — in recovery from his fall, 
 Whence rose his eminence o'er all, 
 
 Of all the most reviled ; 
 The light of Israel in his ways. 
 Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, 
 
 And counsel to his child. 
 
 His muse, bright angel of his verse, 
 Gives balm for aU the thorns that pierce, 
 
 For all the pangs that rage ; 
 Blest light, still gaining on the gloom. 
 The more than Michal of his bloom, 
 
 The Abishag of his age. 
 
 He sang of God — the mighty source 
 Of all things — the stupendous force 
 
 On which all strength depends ; 
 From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes. 
 All period, power, and enterprise 
 
 Commences, reigns, and ends. 
 
 Angels — ^their ministry and meed. 
 Which to and fro with blessings speed, 
 
 Or with their citterns wait ; 
 Where Michael, with his millions, bows, 
 Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, 
 
 The cherub and her mate. 
 
Prom 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 SONG TO DAVID. 
 
 [Chr. Smart. 
 
 Of man — the semblance and effect 
 Of God and love — ^the saint elect 
 
 For infinite applause — 
 To rule the land, and briny broad, 
 To be laborious in his laud, 
 
 And heroes in his cause. 
 
 The world — the clustering spheres he made, 
 The glorious hght, the soothing shade, 
 
 Dale, champaign, grove, and hill ; 
 The multitudinous abyss, 
 Where secrecy remains in bliss, 
 
 And wisdom hides her skill. 
 
 Trees, plants, and flowers— of virtuous root 
 Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, 
 
 Choice gums and precious balm ; 
 Bless yo the nosegay in the vale. 
 And with the sweetness of the gale 
 
 Enrich the thankfvd psalm. 
 
 Of fowl — e'en every beak and wing 
 V^Tiich cheer the winter, hail the spring, 
 
 That live in peace, or prey ; 
 They that make music, or that mock, 
 The quail, the brave domestic cock, 
 
 The raven, swan, and jay. 
 
 Of fishes — every size and shape. 
 Which nature frames of light escape. 
 
 Devouring man to shun : 
 The shells are in the wealthy deep. 
 The shoals upon the surface leap, 
 
 And love the glancing sun. 
 
 Of beasts — ^the beaver plods his task ; 
 While the sleek tigers roll and bask. 
 
 Nor yet the shades arouse ; 
 Her cave the mining coney scoops ; 
 Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, 
 
 The kids exxdt and browse. 
 
 Of gems — their virtue and their price, 
 Wliich, hid in earth from man's device. 
 
 Their darts of lustre sheath ; 
 The jasper of the master's stamp, 
 The topaz blazing like a lamp, 
 
 Among the mines beneath. 
 
 Blest was the tenderness he felt, 
 When to liis graceful harp he knelt, 
 
 And did for audience call ; 
 When Satan with his hand he quell'd, 
 And in serene suspense he held 
 
 The frantic throes of Saul. 
 
 His furious foes no more malign' d 
 As he such melody divined. 
 
 And sense and soul detain' d ; 
 Now striking strong, now soothing soft, 
 He sent the godly sounds aloft, 
 
 Or in dehght refrain' d. 
 
 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, 
 From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, 
 
 As blush to blush she stood ; 
 And chose herself the queen, and gave 
 Her utmost from her heart — " so brave. 
 
 And plays his hymns so good." 
 
 The pillars of the Lord are seven. 
 
 Which stand from earth to topmost heaven ; 
 
 His wisdom drew the plan ; 
 His Word accomplish' d the design, 
 From brightest gem to deepest mine. 
 
 From Christ enthroned to man. 
 
 Alpha, the cause of causes, first " — 
 In station, fountain, whence the burst 
 
 Of light and blaze of day ; 
 Whence bold attempt, and brave advance. 
 Have motion, life, and ordinance, 
 
 And heaven itself its stay. 
 
 Gamma supports the glorious arch 
 On which angelic legions march. 
 
 And is with sapphires paved ; 
 Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift. 
 And thence the painted folds that lift 
 
 The crimson veil, are waved. 
 
 Eta with living sculpture breathes. 
 With verdant carvings, flowery wreaths 
 
 Of never- wasting bloom ; 
 In strong relief his goodly base 
 All instruments of labour grace. 
 
 The trowel, spade, and loom. 
 
 Next Theta stands to the supreme — 
 Who form'd in number, sign, and scheme, 
 
 The illustrious hghts that are ; 
 And one address' d his saffron robe, 
 And one, clad in a silver globe, 
 
 Held rule with every star. 
 
 Iota 's tuned to choral hymns 
 
 Of those that fly, while he that swims 
 
 In thankful safety lurks ; 
 And foot, and chapitre, and niche, 
 The various histories enrich 
 
 Of God's recorded works. 
 
 Sigma presents the social droves 
 With him that solitary roves. 
 
 And man of all the chief ; 
 Fair on whose face, and stately frame, 
 Did God impress his hallow' d name. 
 
 For ocular belief. 
 
 Omega ! greatest and the best. 
 Stands sacred to the day of rest, 
 
 For gratitude and thought ; 
 Which bless' d the world upon his pole, 
 And gave the universe his goal, 
 
 And closed th' infernal draught. 
 
 David, scholar of the Lord ! 
 Such is thy science, whence reward. 
 
 And infinite degree ; 
 O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe ! 
 God's harp thy symbol, and thy type 
 
 The lion and the bee ! 
 
 There is but One who ne'er rebell'd. 
 But One by passion unimpell'd. 
 
 By pleasures unenticed ; 
 He from himself his semblance sent. 
 Grand object of his own content. 
 
 And saw the God in Christ. aq^ 
 
Chb. Smabt.] song to DAVli). [Sixth Period.— 
 
 Tell them, I Am, Jehovah said 
 
 To Moses ; while earth heard in dread. 
 
 And, smitten to the heart, 
 At once above, beneath, around. 
 All nature, -without voice ©r sound, 
 
 EepHed, Lord, Thou Art. 
 
 Praise above all — for praise prevails ; 
 Heap up the measure, load the scales. 
 
 And good to goodness add : 
 The generous soul her Saviour aids, 
 But peevish obloquy degrades ; 
 
 The Lord is great and glad. 
 
 Thou art — to give and to confirm, 
 For each his talent and his term ; 
 
 AU flesh thy bounties share : 
 Thou Shalt not call thy brother fool ; 
 The porches of the Christian school 
 
 Are meekness, peace, and prayer. 
 
 For Adoration aU the ranks 
 
 Of angels yield eternal thanks, ! 
 
 And David in the midst ; \ 
 With God's good poor, which, last and least I 
 In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, ! 
 
 blessed bridegroom, bidst. \ 
 
 Open and naked of offence, 
 
 Man 's made of mercy, soul, and sense : 
 
 God arm'd the snail and wilk ; 
 Be good to him that pulls thy plough ; 
 Due food and care, due rest allow 
 
 For her that yields thee milk. 
 
 For Adoration seasons change, 
 
 And order, truth, and beauty range, { 
 Adjust, attract, and fill : i 
 
 The grass the polyanthus checks ; 
 
 And polish'd porphyry reflects. 
 By the descending rill. 
 
 Eise up before the hoary head. 
 
 And God's benign commandment dread, 
 
 Which says thou shalt not die : 
 " Not as I will, but as thou wilt," 
 Pray'd He, whose conscience knew no guilt ; 
 
 With whose bless' d pattern vie. 
 
 Eich almonds colour to the prime 
 
 For Adoration ; tendrils climb, 
 
 And fruit-trees pledge their gems ; 
 And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest. 
 Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, 
 And bell-flowers bow their stems. 
 
 Use all thy passions ! — love is thine. 
 And joy and jealousy divine ; 
 
 Thine hope's eternal fort, 
 And care thy leisure to disturb, 
 With fear concupiscence to curb. 
 
 And rapture to transport. 
 
 With vinous syrup cedars spout ; 
 From rocks pure honey gushing out. 
 
 For Adoration springs : 
 All scenes of painting crowd the map 
 Of nature ; to the mermaid's pap 
 
 The scaled infant clings. 
 
 Act simply, as occasion asks ; 
 
 Put mellow wine in season' d casks ; 
 
 Till not with ass and bull : 
 Eemember thy baptismal bond ; 
 Keep from commixtures foul and fond. 
 
 Nor work thy flax with wool. 
 
 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs 
 Eun rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs. 
 
 And lizards feed the moss ; 
 For Adoration beasts embark. 
 While waves upholding Halcyon's ark 
 
 No longer roar and toss. 
 
 Distribute ; pay the Lord his tithe, 
 
 And make the widow's heart-strings blithe ; 
 
 Eesort with those that weep : 
 As you from all and each expect, 
 For all and each thy love direct. 
 
 And render as you reap. 
 
 While Israel sits beneath his fig. 
 With coral root and amber sprig 
 
 The wean'd adventurer sports ; 
 "Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves. 
 For Adoration 'mong the leaves 
 
 The gale his peace reports. 
 
 The slander and its bearer spurn. 
 And propagating praise sojourn 
 
 To make thy welcome last ; 
 Turn from old Adam to the New : 
 By hope futurity pursue : 
 
 Look upwards to the past. 
 
 Increasing days their reign exalt, 
 Nor in the pink and mottled vault 
 
 The opposing spirits tilt ; 
 And by the coasting reader spied, 
 The silverlings and crusions glide 
 
 For Adoration gUt. 
 
 Control thine eye, salute success. 
 Honour the wiser, happier bless. 
 
 And for thy neighbour feel ; 
 Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, 
 Work emulation up to heaven 
 
 By knowledge and by zeal. 
 
 For Adoration ripening canes, 
 And cocoa's purest milk detains 
 
 The western pilgrim's staff; | 
 Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed. 
 And vines with oranges disposed, 
 
 Embower the social laugh. 
 
 David, highest in the list 
 
 Of worthies, on God's ways insist, 
 
 The genuine word repeat ! 
 Yain are the documents of men. 
 And vain the flourish of the pen 
 
 That keeps the fool's conceit. 
 
 Now labour his reward receives. 
 For Adoration counts his sheaves 
 
 To peace, her bounteous prince ; 
 The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, 
 And apples of ten thousand tribes. 
 
 And quick peculiar quince. 
 
 I 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 SONG TO DAVID. 
 
 [Chr. Smart. 
 
 The wealthy crops of whitening rice 
 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, 
 
 For Adoration grow ; 
 And, marshall'd in the fenced land, 
 The peaches and pomegranates stand, 
 
 Where wild carnations blow. 
 
 The laurels with the winter strive ; 
 The crocus burnishes alive 
 
 Upon the snow-clad earth : 
 For Adoration myrtles stay 
 To keep the garden from dismay, 
 
 And bless the sight from dearth. 
 
 The pheasant shows his pompous neck ; 
 And ermine, jealous of a speck, 
 
 With fear eludes offence : 
 The sable, with his glossy pride, 
 For Adoration is descried, 
 
 Wliere frosts the wave condense. 
 
 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, 
 And holy thorn, their trim renew ; 
 
 The squirrel hoards his nuts : 
 All creatures batten o'er their stores, 
 And careful nature all her doors 
 
 For Adoration shuts. 
 
 For Adoration, David's Psalms 
 Lift up the heart to deeds of alms ; 
 
 And he, who kneels and chants. 
 Prevails his passions to control. 
 Finds meat and medicine to the soul. 
 
 Which for translation pants. 
 
 For Adoration, beyond match, 
 The scholar bulfirich aims to catch 
 
 The soft flute's ivory touch ; 
 And, careless, on the hazel spray 
 The daring redbreast keeps at bay 
 
 The damsel's greedy clutch. 
 
 For Adoration, in the skies, 
 The Lord's philosopher espies 
 
 The dog, the ram, and rose ; 
 The planet's ring, Orion's sword; 
 Nor is his greatness less adored 
 
 In the vile worm that glows. 
 
 For Adoration, on the strings 
 
 The western breezes work their wings. 
 
 The captive ear to soothe — 
 Hark ! 'tis a voice — how still, and small — 
 That makes the cataracts to fall, 
 
 Pr bids the sea be smooth ! 
 
 For Adoration, incense comes 
 From bezoar, and Arabian gums, 
 
 And from the civet's fur : 
 But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, 
 Far better is the breath of saints 
 
 Than galbanum or myrrh. 
 
 I For Adoration, from the down 
 
 1 Of damsons to the anana's crown, 
 I God sends to tempt the taste ; 
 
 1 And while the luscious zest invites 
 
 j The sense, that in the scene delights, 
 ) Commands desire be chaste. 
 
 For Adoration, all the paths 
 Of grace are open, aU the baths 
 
 Of purity refresh ; 
 And all the rays of glory beam 
 To deck the man of God's esteem, 
 
 Who triumphs o'er the flesh. 
 
 For Adoration, in the dome 
 
 Of Christ, the sparrows find a home ; 
 
 And on his olives perch : 
 The swaUow also dwells with thee, 
 O man of God's humility, 
 
 Within his Saviour's Church. 
 
 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes. 
 And drops upon the leafy limes ; 
 
 Sweet Hermon's fragrant air : 
 Sweet is the lily's silver bell. 
 And sweet the wakeful tapers smell 
 
 That watch for early prayer. 
 
 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, 
 Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence ; 
 
 Sweet when the lost arrive : 
 Sweet the musician's ardour beats. 
 While his vague mind 's in quest of sweets. 
 
 The choicest flowers to hive. 
 
 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, 
 The language of thy turtle-dove, 
 
 Pair'd to thy swelling chord ; 
 Sweeter, with every grace endued. 
 The glory of thy gratitude, 
 
 Eespired unto the Lord. 
 
 Strong is the horse upon his speed ; 
 Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, 
 
 Which makes at once his game : 
 Strong the tall ostrich on the ground ; 
 Strong through the turbulent profound 
 
 Shoots Xiphias to his aim. 
 
 Strong is the lion — ^like a coal 
 His eyeball — like a bastion's mole 
 
 His chest against the foes : 
 Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, 
 Strong against tide the enormous whale 
 
 Emerges as he goes. 
 
 But stronger still in earth and air. 
 And in the sea the man of prayer, 
 
 And far beneath the tide : 
 And in the seat to faith assign'd, 
 Where ask is have, where seek is find, 
 
 Where knock is open wide. 
 
 Beauteous the fleet before the gale ; 
 Beauteous the multitudes in mail, 
 
 Rank'd arms, and crested heads ; 
 Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. 
 Walk, water, meditated wild, 
 
 And all the bloomy beds. 
 
 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn ; 
 And beauteous when the veil 's withdrawn. 
 
 The virgin to her spouse : 
 Beauteous the temple, deck'd and fill'd. 
 When to the heaven of heavens they build 
 
 Their heart-directed vovrs. 
 
Chr. Smart.] 
 
 FEOM A TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, 
 The Shepherd King upon his knees, 
 
 For his momentous trust ; 
 With wish of infinite conceit. 
 For man, beast, mute, the small and great, 
 
 And prostrate dust to dust. 
 
 Precious the bounteous widow's mite ; 
 And precious, for extreme delight, 
 
 The largess from the churl : 
 Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, 
 And alba's blest imperial rays, 
 
 And pure cerulean pearl. 
 
 Precious the penitential tear ; 
 And precious is the sigh sincere, 
 
 Acceptable to God : 
 And precious are the winning flowers. 
 In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, 
 
 Bound on the hallow' d sod. 
 
 More precious that diviner part 
 
 Of David, e'en the Lord's own heart, 
 
 Great, beautiful, and new : 
 In all things where it was intent, 
 In all extremes, in each event, 
 
 Proof — answering true to true. 
 
 Glorious the sun in mid career ; 
 Glorious the assembled fires appear ; 
 
 Glorious the comet's train : 
 Glorious the trumpet and alarm ; 
 Glorious the Almighty's stretch' d-out arm, 
 
 Glorious the enraptured main : 
 
 Glorious the northern lights astream ; 
 Glorious the song, when God 's the theme ; 
 
 Glorious the thunder's roar : 
 Glorious hosannah from the den ; 
 Glorious the catholic amen ; 
 
 Glorious the martyr's gore : 
 
 Glorious — more glorious is the crown 
 Of Him that brought salvation down, 
 
 By meekness call'd thy Son ; 
 Thou that stupendous truth believed. 
 And now the matchless deed's achieved, 
 
 Determined, Dared, and Done. 
 
 Christopher Smart— Born 1722, Died 1770. 
 
 995- 
 
 -FROM A TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE, 
 OR THE GRATEFUL FAIR. 
 
 Sure such a wretch as I was never bom. 
 By all the world deserted and forlorn : 
 This bitter-sweet, this honey-gall to prove. 
 And all the oil and vinegar of love ; 
 Pride, love, and reason, will not let me rest. 
 But make a devilish bustle in my breast. 
 To wed with Fizgig, pride, pride, pride denies. 
 Put on a Spanish padlock, reason cries ; 
 But tender, gentle love, with every wish 
 complies. 
 
 Pride, love, and reason, fight till they are 
 
 cloy'd, 
 And each by each in mutual wounds 
 
 destroy'd. 
 Thus when a barber and a collier fight, 
 The barber beats the luckless collier — white ; 
 The dusty collier heaves his ponderous sack, 
 And, big with vengeance, beats the barber — 
 
 . black. 
 In comes the brick-dust man, with grime 
 
 o'er spread. 
 And beats the collier and the barber — red ; 
 Black, red, and white, in various clouds are 
 
 toss'd, 
 And in the dust they raise the combatants are 
 
 lost. 
 Christopher Smart— Born 1722, Died 1770. 
 
 996.— ODE. 
 
 Imperial bird, who wont to soar 
 
 Hi^ o'er the rolling cloud, 
 Where Hyperborean mountains hoar 
 
 Their heads in ether shroud ; — 
 Thou servant of almighty Jove, 
 Who, free and swift as thought, couldst rove 
 
 To the bleak north's extremest goal ; — 
 Thou, who magnanimous couldst bear 
 The sovereign thunderer's arms in air. 
 
 And shake thy native pole ! 
 
 O, cruel fate ! what barbarous hand, 
 
 What more than Gothic ire, 
 At some fierce tyrant's dread command, 
 
 To check thy daring fire 
 Has placed thee in this servile cell, 
 Where discipline and dulness dwell, 
 
 Where genius ne'er was seen to roam ; 
 Where every selfish soul's at rest. 
 Nor ever quits the carnal breast. 
 
 But lurks and sneaks at home ! 
 
 Though dimm'd thine eye, and clipt thy wing, 
 
 So grov'ling ! once so great ; 
 The grief -inspired Muse shall sing 
 
 In tenderest lays thy fate. 
 What time by thee scholastic pride 
 Takes his precise pedantic stride. 
 
 Nor on thy mis'ry casts a care, 
 The stream of love ne'er from his heart 
 Flows out, to act fair pity's part ; ' 
 
 But stinks, and stagnates there. 
 
 Yet useful stiU, hold to the throng — 
 
 Hold the reflecting glass, — 
 That not untutor'd at thy wrong 
 
 The passenger may pass ! 
 Thou type of wit and sense confined, 
 Cramp'd by th' oppressors of the mind. 
 
 Who study downward on the ground ; 
 Type of the fall of Greece and Rome ; 
 While more than mathematic gloom 
 
 Envelops all around. 
 
 Christopher Smart. — Bom 1722, Died 1770. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ADMIRAL HOSIEE'S GHOST. 
 
 [EicHARD Glover. 
 
 997.— A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 Silver Phoebe spreads 
 A light, reposing on the quiet lake, 
 Save where the snowy rival of her hue. 
 The gliding swan, behind him leaves a trail 
 In luminous vibration. Lo ! an isle 
 Swells on the surface. Marble structures 
 
 there 
 New gloss of beauty borrow from the moon 
 To deck the shore. Now silence gently yields 
 To measured strokes of oars. The orange 
 
 groves, 
 n rich profusion round the* fertile verge, 
 impart to fanning breezes fresh perfumes 
 Exhaustless, visiting the scene with sweets, 
 \\Tiich soften even Briareus ; but the son 
 Of Gobryas, heavy with devouring care, 
 Uncharm'd, unheeding sits. 
 
 Bicha/rd Glover.— Bom 1712, Died 1785. 
 
 998.— THE AEMIES AT SALAMIS. 
 
 O sun ! thou o'er Athenian towers, 
 The citadel and fanes in ruin huge. 
 Dost, rising now, illuminate a scene 
 More new, more wondrous to thy piercing 
 
 eye 
 Than ever time disclosed. Phaleron's wave 
 Presents three thousand barks in pendants 
 
 rich ; 
 Spectators, clustering like Hymettian bees. 
 Hang on the burden' d shrouds, the bending 
 
 yards. 
 The reelhig masts ; the whole Cecropian 
 
 strand. 
 Far as Eleusis, seat of mystic rites. 
 Is throng'd with millions, male and female 
 
 race. 
 Of Asia and of Libya, rank'd on foot, 
 On horses, camels, cars. JEgaleos tall, 
 Half down his long declivity, where spreads 
 A mossy level, on a throne of gold, 
 Displays the king, environ' d by his court. 
 In oriental pomp ; the hill behind 
 By warriors cover'd, like some trophy huge. 
 Ascends in varied arms and banners clad ; 
 Below the monarch's feet th' immortal guard, 
 Line under line, erect their gaudy spears ; 
 The arrangement, shelving downward to the 
 
 beach, 
 Is edged by chosen horse. With blazing steel 
 Of Attic arms encircled, from the deep 
 Psyttalia lifts her surface to the sight, 
 Like Ariadn e's heaven-bespangling crown, 
 A wreath of stars ; beyond, in dread array. 
 The Grecian fleet , four hundred galleys, fill 
 The Saiaminian Straits ; barbarian prows 
 In two divisions point to either mouth 
 Six hundred brazen beaks of tofeer-like ships, 
 Unwieldy b ulks ; the gently- swelling soil 
 Of Salamis, rich island, bounds the view. 
 
 Along her silver-sanded verge array'd, 
 The men-at-arms exalt their naval spears, 
 Of length terrific. All the tender sex, 
 Eank'd by Timothea, from a green ascent. 
 Look down in beauteous order on their 
 
 sires, 
 'Their husbands, lovers, brothers, sons, pre- 
 pared ~* — 
 To mount the roUing deck. The younger 
 
 dames 
 In bridal robes are clad ; the matrons sage. 
 In solemn raiment, worn on sacred days ; 
 But white in vesture. Like their maiden 
 
 breasts. 
 Where Zephyr plays, uplifting with his 
 
 breath 
 The loosely waving folds, a chosen line 
 Of Attic graces in the front is placed ; 
 From each fair head the tresses fall, en- 
 twined 
 With newly-gather'd flowerets ; chaplets gay 
 The snowy hand sustains ; the native curls, 
 O'ershading half, augment their powerful 
 
 charms ; 
 While Venus, temper'd by Minerva, fills 
 Their eyes with ardour, pointing every glance 
 To animate, not soften. From on high 
 Her large controlling orbs Timothea rolls, 
 Surpassing all in stature, not unlike 
 In majesty of shape the wife of Jove, 
 Presiding o'er the empyreal fair. 
 
 Richard Glover. — Bom 1712, Died 1785. 
 
 999.— ADMIEAL HOSIER'S GHOST. 
 
 As near Porto-Bello lying 
 
 On the gently swelling flood, 
 At midnight with streamers flying, 
 
 Our triumphant navy rode : 
 There while Vernon sat all-glorious 
 
 From the Spaniards' late defeat ; 
 And his crews, with shouts victorious, 
 
 Drank success to England's fleet : 
 
 On a sudden, shrilly sounding, 
 
 Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; 
 Then, each heart with fear confounding, 
 
 A sad troop of ghosts appear'd, 
 All in dreary hammocks shrouded, 
 
 Which for winding-sheets they wore. 
 And with looks by sorrow clouded, 
 
 Frowning on that hostile shore. 
 
 On them gleam' d the moon's wan lustre, 
 
 When the shade of Hosier brave 
 His pale bands was seen to muster. 
 
 Rising from their wat'ry grave : 
 O'er the glimm'ring wave he hied him. 
 
 Where the Burford rear'd her sail, 
 With three thousand ghosts beside him, 
 
 And in groans did Vernon hail. 
 
Robert Dodsley.] 
 
 SONG— THE PAETING KISS. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 " Heed, O heed, our fatal story, 
 
 I am Hosier's injured ghost, 
 You, who now have purchased glory 
 
 At this place where I was lost ; 
 Though in Porto-BeUo's ruin 
 
 You now triumph free from fears, 
 When you think on our undoing. 
 
 You will mix your joy with tears. 
 
 See these mournful spectres, sweeping 
 
 Ghastly o'er this hated wave, 
 "V^Tiose wan cheeks are stain' d with weeping 
 
 These were English captains brave •• 
 Mark those numbers pale and horrid, 
 
 Those were once my sailors bold, 
 Lo ! each hangs his drooping forehead, 
 
 "While his dismal tale is told. 
 
 I, by twenty sail attended, 
 
 Did the Spanish town affright : 
 Nothing then its wealth defended 
 
 But my orders not to fight : 
 O ! that in this rolling ocean 
 
 I had cast them with disdain, 
 And obey'd my heart's warm motion, 
 
 To have quell' d the pride of Spain. 
 
 For resistance I could fear none, 
 
 But with twenty ships had done 
 What thou, brave and happy Vernon, 
 
 Hast achieved with six alone. 
 Then the Bastimentos never 
 
 Had our foul dishonour seen, 
 Nor the sea the sad receiver 
 
 Of this gallant train had been. 
 
 Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying. 
 
 And her galleons leading home. 
 Though condemn' d for disobeying, 
 
 I had met a traitor's doom ; 
 To have fall'n, my country crying 
 
 He has play'd an English part, 
 Had been better far than dying 
 
 Of a grieved and broken heart. 
 
 Unrepining at thy glory. 
 
 Thy successful arms we hail ; 
 But remember our sad story. 
 
 And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. 
 Sent in this foul clime to languish. 
 
 Think what thousands fell in vain. 
 Wasted with disease and anguish. 
 
 Not in glorious battle slain. 
 
 Hence, with all my train attending 
 
 From their oozy tombs below, 
 Through the hoary foam ascending. 
 
 Here I feed my constant woe : 
 Here the Bastimentos viewing. 
 
 We recall our shameful doom. 
 And our plaintive cries renewing. 
 
 Wander through the midnight gloom. 
 
 O'er these waves for ever mourning 
 Shall we roam deprived of rest. 
 
 If to Britain's shores returning, 
 You neglect my just request. 
 
 After this proud foe subduing,- 
 
 When your patriot friends you see, 
 
 Think on vengeance for my ruin, 
 And for England shamed in me." 
 
 Richard Glover. — Born 171.2, Died 1785 
 
 1000.— SONG— THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 One kind wish before we part. 
 
 Drop a tear, and bid adieu : 
 Though we sever, my fond heart, 
 
 Till we meet, shall pant for you. 
 
 Yet, yet weep not so, my love. 
 Let me kiss that falling tear ; 
 
 Though my body must remove, 
 All my soul will still be here. 
 
 All my soul, and all my heart, 
 
 And every wish shall pant for you ; 
 
 One kind kiss, then, ere we part. 
 Drop a tear, and bid adieu. 
 
 Robert Dodsley.—Born 1703, Died 1764. 
 
 looi.— SONG. 
 
 Man 's a poor deluded bubble, 
 
 Wand'ring in a mist of lies, 
 Seeing false, or seeing double ; 
 
 Who would trust to such weak eyes ? 
 
 Yet presuming on his senses. 
 
 On he goes, most wondrous wise ; 
 
 Doubts of truth, believes pretences ; 
 Lost in error, lives and dies. 
 
 Robert Dodsley.—Born 1703, Died 1764. 
 
 I002.— TO MRS. BISHOP. 
 
 WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE, 
 
 " A knife," dear girl, *' cuts love," they say ! 
 
 Mere modish love, perhaps it may — 
 
 — For any tool, of any kind. 
 
 Can separate what was never join'd. 
 
 The knife, that cuts our love in two. 
 Will have much tougher work to do ; 
 Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, 
 Down to the vulgar size of merit ; 
 To level yours, with modern taste, 
 Must cut a world of sense to waste ; 
 And from your single beauty's store. 
 Clip, what would dizen out a score. 
 
 That self-same blade from me must sever 
 Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever : 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] EPIGRAM. [Samuel Bishop. 
 
 All memory of endearments past, 
 
 1 
 1004.— EPIGRAM. 
 
 All hope of comforts long to last ; — 
 
 
 All that makes fourteen years Avith you, 
 
 QUOD PETIS, HIC EST. 
 
 j A summer — and a short one too ; — 
 
 
 1 All that affection feels and fears, 
 
 No plate had John and Joan to hoard. 
 
 When hours without you seem like years. 
 
 Plain folk, in humble plight ; 
 
 
 One only tankard crown'd their board. 
 
 Till that be done (and I'd as soon 
 
 And that was fiU'd each night ;-^ - 
 
 Believe this knife will chip the moon), 
 
 
 Accept my present, undeterr-d, 
 
 Along whose inner bottom sketch' d. 
 
 And leave their proverbs to the herd. 
 
 In pride of chubby grace, 
 Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd 
 
 If in a kiss — delicious treat ! — 
 
 A baby Angel's face. 
 
 Your lips acknowledge the receipt, 
 Love, fond of such substantial fare, 
 
 John swallow' d first a moderate sup ; 
 
 And proud to play the glutton there, 
 AH thoughts of cutting will disdain, 
 Save only — " cut and come again." 
 
 XJUb OVdiU. WclS llUli ilKO tj OllU , 
 
 For when her lips once touch'd the cup, 
 She swill'd, till all was gone. 
 
 Samuel Bishop.— Born 1731, Died 1795. 
 
 John often urged her to drink fair ; 
 
 
 But she ne'er changed a jot ; 
 
 
 She loved to see the Angel there, 
 And therefore drain' d the pot. 
 
 
 1003.— TO THE SAME. 
 
 Wlien John found all remonstrance vain, 
 
 Another card he play'd ; 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OP HER WEDDING- 
 
 And where the Angel stood so plain. 
 
 DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, 
 
 He got a Devil portray' d. — 
 
 WITH A RING. 
 
 
 
 Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail, 
 
 " Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " — 
 
 Yet Joan as stoutly quaff' d ; 
 
 So, fourteen years ago, I said. 
 
 And ever, when she seized her ale, 
 
 Behold another ring !— " for what ? " 
 
 She clear'd it at a draught.— 
 
 " To wed thee o'er again ? " — Why not ? 
 
 
 
 John stared, with wonder petrified ; 
 
 With that first ring I married youth, 
 
 His hair stood on his pate ; 
 
 Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; 
 
 And " why dost guzzle now," he cried. 
 
 Taste long admired, sense long revered, 
 
 " At this enormous rate ? " — 
 
 And all my Molly then appear'd. 
 
 
 
 " Oh ! John," she said, " am I to blame ? 
 
 If she, by merit since disclosed. 
 
 I can't in conscience stop : 
 
 Prove twice the woman I supposed. 
 
 For sure 'twould be a burning shame. 
 
 I plead that double merit now. 
 
 To leave the Devil a drop ! " 
 
 To justify a double vow. 
 
 
 
 Samuel Bishop. — Bom 1731, Died 1795. 
 
 Here then to-day (with faith as sure, 
 
 
 With ardour as intense, as pure. 
 
 
 As when, amidst the rites divine. 
 
 
 I took thy troth, and plighted mine). 
 
 
 To thee, sweet girl, my second ring 
 A token and a pledge I bring : 
 
 1005.— EPIGRAM. 
 
 With this I wed, tiU death us part. 
 
 SPLENDEAT USU. 
 
 Thy riper virtues to my heart ; 
 
 
 Those virtues, which before untried. 
 
 See ! stretch' d on nature's couch of grass, 
 
 The wife has added to the bride : 
 
 The foot-sore traveller lies ! 
 
 Those virtues, whose progressive claim. 
 
 Vast treasures let the great amass ; 
 
 Endearing wedlock's very name, 
 
 A leathern pouch and burning-glass 
 
 My soul enjoys, my song approves. 
 
 For aU his wants suflBce. 
 
 For conscience' sake, as well as love's. 
 
 
 
 For him the sun its power displays 
 
 And why ? — They show me every hour 
 
 In either hemisphere ; 
 
 Honour's high thought, Affection's power, 
 
 Pours on Virginia's coast its blaze, 
 
 Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, 
 
 Tobacco for his pipe to raise ; 
 
 And teach me all things — but repentance. 
 
 And shines to light it — here 1 
 
 Samuel Bishop.— Born 1731, Died 1795. 
 
 Samuel Bishop.— Born 1731 Died 1795. 
 
SAMTJBIi BiSHOr.] 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 1006.— EPIGRAM. 
 
 QUOCUNQUE MODO REM. 
 
 A veteran gambler, in a tempest caught, 
 Once in his life a church's shelter sought ; 
 Where many a hint, pathetically grave, 
 On life's precarious lot, the preacher gave. 
 The sermon ended, and the storm all spent, 
 Home trudged old Cog-die, reasoning as he 
 
 went ; 
 *' Strict truth," quoth he, " this reverend 
 
 sage declared ; 
 I feel conviction — and will be prepared — 
 Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals 
 
 away, 
 Give credit for a bet, beyond a day ! " 
 
 Samuel Bisliop. — Bom 1731, Died 1795. 
 
 1007.— SONNET. 
 
 As when, to one, who long hath watch' d the 
 
 mom 
 Advancing, slow forewarns th' approach of 
 
 day 
 (What time the young and fiow'ry-kirtled 
 
 May 
 Decks the green hedge, and dewy grass 
 
 unshorn 
 With cowslips pale, and many a whitening 
 
 thorn) ; 
 And now the sun comes forth, with level 
 
 ray 
 Gilding the high-wood top, and mountain 
 
 gray; 
 And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins 
 
 adorn ; 
 The rivers glisten to the dancing beam, 
 
 Th' awaken' d birds begin their amorous 
 
 strain. 
 And hiU and vale with joy and fragrance 
 
 teem.; 
 Such is the sight of thee ; thy wish'd return 
 To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to 
 
 mourn. 
 That long have watch' d for light, and wept 
 
 in vain ! 
 
 John Bampfylde.^Bom 1754, Died 1796. 
 
 1008.— SONNET. 
 
 TO THE REDBREAST. 
 
 When that the fields put on their gay 
 attire. 
 Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's brim, 
 Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert 
 dim ; 
 But when pale Winter lights the social 
 fire. 
 And meads with slime are sprent and ways 
 with mire, 
 
 Thou charm' st us with thy soft and solemn 
 
 hymn. 
 From battlement, or barn, or hay- stack 
 trim ; 
 And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire, 
 
 Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch 
 The pittance due to thy well- warbled song : 
 Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely 
 hatch, 
 Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic 
 throng, 
 And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful 
 thatch, 
 Full many a tale have told and ditty long. 
 
 John Bampfylde. — Born 1754, Died 1796. 
 
 1009.— SONNET. • 
 
 ON A WET SUMMER. 
 
 All ye, who far from town, in rural hall, 
 Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant 
 
 field. 
 Enjoying all the sunny day did yield. 
 
 With me the change lament, in irksome 
 thrall. 
 By rains incessant held ; for now no call 
 From early swain invites my hand to wield 
 The scythe ; in parlour dim I sit conceal' d. 
 And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass 
 faU; 
 Or 'neath my window view the wistful train 
 Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad 
 leaves 
 Shelter no more. — Mute is the mournful 
 plain. 
 Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch. 
 And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his 
 hatch. 
 Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves. 
 
 John Bampfylde.—Born 1754, Died 1796. 
 
 loic— SONNET. 
 
 Cold is the senseless heart that never strove 
 With the mild tumult of a real flame; 
 Eugged the breast that beauty cannot tame, 
 Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to 
 love 
 The pathless vale, the long forsaken 
 grove, 
 The rocky cave that bears the fair one's 
 
 name, 
 With ivy mantled o'er — For empty fame, 
 Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove 
 In search of plunder far to western clime. 
 
 Give me to waste the hours in amorous 
 play 
 With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the 
 rhyme 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 TETEASTIC— FROM THE PERSIAN. 
 
 [Sir W. Jones. 
 
 Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, 
 And all that prodigality of charms 
 
 Form'd to enslave my heart and grace 
 my lay. 
 
 John Banvpfylde. — Boi'n 1754, Died 1796. 
 
 loii.— AN ODE, IN IMITATION OF 
 ALC^US. 
 
 What constitutes a state ? 
 Not high-raised battlement or labour' d 
 mound, 
 Thick wall or moated gate ; 
 Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
 crown' d ; 
 Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, 
 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies 
 ride ; 
 Not starr'd and spangled courts, 
 "Where low-brow' d baseness wafts perfume to 
 pride. 
 No : men, high-minded men, 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued 
 
 In forest, brake, or den. 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 
 
 Men who their duties know. 
 But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
 maintain. 
 Prevent the long-aim' d blow. 
 And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
 chain : 
 These constitute a state. 
 And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, 
 
 O'er thrones and globes elate 
 Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill; 
 
 Smit by her sacred frown, 
 The fiend Discretion hke a vapour sinks, 
 
 And e'en the aU-dazzling Crown 
 Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
 shrinks. 
 
 Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
 Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore ! 
 
 No more shall Freedom smile ? 
 Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 
 
 Since all must life resign. 
 Those sweet rewards, which decorate the 
 brave, 
 
 'Tis folly* to decline. 
 And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 
 
 Sir W. Jones.— Bom 1746, Died 1794. 
 
 IOI2.— A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. 
 
 Sweet maid, if thou would' st charm my sight, 
 And bid these arms thy neck enfold j 
 That rosy cheek, that lily hand. 
 Would give thy poet more delight 
 Than all Bocara's vaunted gold. 
 Than all the gems of Samarcand. 
 
 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow. 
 And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
 Whate'er the frowning zealots say : 
 Tell them, their Eden cannot show 
 A stream so clear as Rocnabad, 
 A bower so sweet as Mosellay. 
 
 O ! when these fair perfidious maids. 
 Whose eyes our secret haunts infest. 
 Their dear destructive charms display, 
 Each glance my tender breast invades. 
 And robs my wounded soul of rest, 
 As Tartars seize their destined prey. 
 
 In vain with love our bosoms glow : 
 Can all our tears, can all our sighs. 
 New lustre to those charms impart ? 
 Can cheeks, where living roses blow, 
 Where nature spreads her richest dyes, 
 Require the borrow' d gloss of art ? 
 
 Speak not of fate : ah ! change the theme, 
 And talk of odours, talk of wine. 
 Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 
 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis aU a dream ; 
 To love and joy thy thoughts confine, 
 Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 
 
 Beauty has such resistless power. 
 That even the chaste Egyptian dame 
 Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy : 
 For her how fatal was the hour, 
 When to the banks of Nilus came 
 A youth so lovely and so coy ! 
 
 But ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
 (Youth should attend when those advise 
 Whom long experience renders sage) : 
 While music charms the ravish' d ear; 
 While sparkling cups delight our eyes, 
 Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. 
 
 What cruel answer have I heard ? 
 And yet, by heaven, I love thee still : 
 Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? 
 Yet say, how feU that bitter word 
 From lips which streams of sweetness fill, 
 Which nought but drops of honey sip ? 
 
 Go boldly forth, my simple lay. 
 Whose accents flow with artless ease, 
 Like orient pearls at random strung : 
 Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; 
 But oh ! far sweeter, if they please 
 The nymph for whom these notes are sung ! 
 
 Sir W. Jones. — Born 1746, Died 1794. 
 
 1013.— TETRASTIC. 
 
 PROM THE PERSIAN. 
 
 On parent knees, a naked new-bom child. 
 Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee 
 
 smiled ; 
 So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep. 
 Calm thou mayst smile, while all around thee 
 
 weep. 
 
 Sir W. Jones.— Born 1746, Died 1794. 
 
Francis Fawkes.] 
 
 THE BROWN JUG. 
 
 [Sixth Period.— t- 
 
 1014.— THE BEOWN JUG. 
 
 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams 
 
 with mild ale 
 (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the 
 
 vale), 
 Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul, 
 As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl ; 
 In bousing about 'twas Ids praise to excel, 
 And among joUy topers he bore off the bell. 
 
 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease, 
 In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you 
 
 With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows 
 
 away, 
 And with honest old stingo was soaking his 
 
 clay, 
 His breath-doors of life on a sudden were 
 
 shut, 
 And he died fuU as big as a Dorchester butt. 
 
 His body when long in the ground it had lain, 
 And time into clay had resolved it again, 
 A potter found out in its coverts so snug. 
 And with part of fat Toby he form'd this 
 
 brown jug ; 
 Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and 
 
 mild ale, 
 So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the 
 
 vale ! 
 
 Francis FaxoUs.—Born 1721, Died 1777. 
 
 1 01 5. —ODE TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 O Solitude, romantic maid I 
 Whether by nodding towers you tread. 
 Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, 
 Or hover o'er the yaAvning tomb. 
 Or climb the Andes' clifted side, 
 Or by the Nile's coy source abide, 
 Or starting from your half-year's sleep, 
 From Hecla view the tha-sving deep. 
 Or, at the purple dawn of day, 
 Tadmor's marble wastes survey. 
 You, recluse, again, I woo. 
 And again your steps pursue. 
 
 Plumed Conceit himself survejdng, 
 Folly with her shadow playing. 
 Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, 
 Bloated empiric, puff'd Pretence, 
 Noise that through a trumpet speaks, 
 Laughter in loud peals that breaks, 
 Intrusion with a fopling's face 
 (Ignorant of time and place), 
 Sparks of fire Dissension bloAving, 
 Ductile, court-bred Flatterj^ bowing, 
 Eestraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, 
 Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, 
 Ambition's buskins, steep' d in blood. 
 Fly thy presence, Solitude. 
 
 Sage Seflection, bent with years, 
 Conscious Virtue void of fears, 
 Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, 
 Meditation's piercing ej^e, 
 Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, 
 Retrospect that scans the mind. 
 Wrapt earth-gazing Eeverie, 
 Blushing artless Modesty, 
 Health that snuffs the morning air, 
 Full-eyed Truth with bosom bare, 
 Inspiration, Nature's child, 
 Seek the solitary wild. 
 
 You, with the tragic muse retired. 
 
 The wise Euripides inspired ; 
 
 You taught the sadly-pleasing air 
 
 That Athens saved from ruins bare. 
 
 You gave the Cean's tears to flow, 
 
 And unlock' d the springs of woe ; 
 
 You penn'd what exiled Naso thought, 
 
 And pour'd the melancholy note. 
 
 With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you stray'd, 
 
 When death snatch'd his long-loved maid 
 
 You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, 
 
 Ye strew'd with flowers her virgin urn. 
 
 And late in Hagley you were seen, 
 
 With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien ; 
 
 Hymen his yellow vestment tore, 
 
 And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. 
 
 But chief your own the solemn lay 
 
 That wept Narcissa young and gay ; 
 
 Darkness clapp'd her sable wing, 
 
 While you touch' d the mournful string ; 
 
 Anguish left the pathless wild, 
 
 Grim-faced Melancholy smiled. 
 
 Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn. 
 
 The starry host put back the dawn ; 
 
 Aside their harps even seraphs flung 
 
 To hear thy sweet Complaint, Young ! 
 
 Wlien all nature 's hush'd asleep, 
 
 Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep. 
 
 Soft you leave your cavern' d den. 
 
 And wander o'er the works of men ; 
 
 But when Phosphor brings the dawn 
 
 By her dappled coursers drawn, 
 
 Again you to the wild retreat 
 
 And the early huntsman meet. 
 
 Where, as you pensive pace along, 
 
 You catch the distant shepherd's song. 
 
 Or brush from herbs the pearly dew. 
 
 Or the rising primrose view. 
 
 Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, 
 
 You mount, and nature with you sings. 
 
 But when mid-day fervours glow. 
 
 To upland airy shades you go. 
 
 Where never sunburnt woodman came, 
 
 Nor sportsman chased the timid game ; 
 
 And there beneath an oak reclined, 
 
 With drowsy waterfalls behind, 
 
 You sink to rest. 
 
 Till the tuneful bird of night, 
 
 From the neighbouring poplar's height. 
 
 Wake you with her solemn strain, 
 
 And teach i^leased Echo to complain. 
 
 With you roses brighter bloom, 
 Sweeter every sweet perfume ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 [James Merrick. 
 
 Purer every fountain flows, 
 Stronger every wildling grows. 
 Let those toil for gold who please, 
 Or for fame renounce their ease. 
 What is fame ? an empty bubble. 
 Gold ? a transient shining trouble. 
 Let them for their country bleed, 
 What was Sidney's, Ealeigh's meed ? 
 Man 's not worth a moment's pain, 
 Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. 
 Then let me, sequester'd fair, 
 To your sibyl grot repair ; 
 On yon hanging cliff it stands, 
 Scoop'd by nature's salvage hands. 
 Bosom' d in the gloomy shade 
 Of cypress not with age decay'd. 
 Where the owl still-hooting sits, 
 Where the bat incessant flits. 
 There in loftier strains I'U sing 
 Whence the changing seasons spring ; 
 Tell how storms deform the skies. 
 Whence the waves subside and rise ; 
 Trace the comet's blazing tail, 
 Weigh the planets in a scale ; 
 Bend, great God, before thy shrine, — 
 The boumless macrocosm 's thine. * * 
 
 Dr. Granger.— Bom 1721, IXed 1766. 
 
 ioi6.— THE CHAMELEON. 
 
 Oft has it been my lot to mark 
 A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
 With eyes that hardly served at most 
 To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
 Yet round the world the blade has been. 
 To see whatever could be seen. 
 Eeturning from his finish'd tour, 
 Grown ten times perter than before ; 
 Whatever word you chance to drop. 
 The travell'd fool your mouth will stop : 
 " Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
 I've seen — and sure I ought to know." 
 So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
 And acquiesce in his decision. 
 
 Two travellers of such a cast, 
 As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
 And on their way, in friendly chat. 
 Now talk'd of this, and then of that ; 
 Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
 Of the Chameleon's form and nature. 
 "A stranger animal," cries one, 
 *' Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
 A lizard's body lean and long, 
 A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
 Its foot with triple claw disjoin' d ; 
 And what a length of tail behind ! 
 How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
 AVho ever saw so fine a blue ? " 
 
 *' Hold there," the other quick replies, 
 *' 'Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, 
 
 As late with open mouth it lay. 
 And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; 
 Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
 And saw it eat the air for food." 
 
 "I've seen it, sir, as well as you, • 
 And must again afiirm it blue ; 
 At leisure I the beast survey' d 
 Extended in the cooling shade." — _ 
 
 " 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I asaare 
 
 ye." 
 
 " Green ! " cries the other in a fury : 
 " Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ? " 
 " 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies ; 
 " For if they always serve you thus, 
 You'U find them but of little use." 
 
 So high at last the contest rose. 
 From words they almost came to blows : 
 When luckily came by a third ; 
 To him the question they referr;'d ; 
 And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew. 
 Whether the thing was green or blue. 
 
 "Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your 
 pother ; 
 The creature 's neither one nor t'other. 
 I caught the animal last night. 
 And view'd it o'er by candle-light ; 
 I mark'd it wxll, 'twas black as jet — 
 You stare — but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
 And can produce it." — " Pray, sir, do ; 
 I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
 " And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen 
 The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 
 " WeU, then, at once to ease the doubt," 
 Ercplies the man, " I'll turn him out ; 
 And when before your eyes I've set him, 
 If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 
 
 He said ; and full before their sight 
 Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. 
 Both stared; the man look'd wondrous 
 
 wise — 
 " My children," the Chameleon cries 
 , (Then first the creature found a tongue), 
 " You all are right, and all are wrong -. 
 When next you talk of what you view, 
 Think others see as well as you : 
 Nor wonder if you find that none 
 Prefers your eye-sight to his own." 
 
 James Merrick.— Born 1720, Died 1769. 
 
 1017.— THE WISH. 
 
 How short is life's uncertain space ! 
 
 Alas ! how quickly done ! 
 How swift the wild precarious chase ! 
 And yet how difiicult the race ! 
 
 How very hard to run ! 
 
 Youth stops at first its wilful ears 
 
 To wisdom's prudent voice ; 
 Till now arrived to riper years. 
 Experienced age, worn out with cares, 
 Eepents its earlier choice. 
 
John Scott.] 
 
 THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 What thongli its prospects now appear 
 
 So pleasing" and refined ? 
 Tet groundless hope, and anxious fear, 
 By turns the busy moments share, 
 
 And prey upon the mind. 
 
 Since then false joys our fancy cheat 
 
 With hopes of real bliss ; 
 Ye guardian powers that rule my fate, 
 The only wish that I create 
 
 Is all comprised in this : — 
 
 May I, through life's uncertain tide, 
 
 Be stni from pain exempt ! 
 May all my wants be still supplied. 
 My state too low t' admit of pride, 
 
 And yet above contempt ! 
 
 But should your providence divine 
 
 A greater bliss intend ; 
 May aU those blessings you design 
 (If e'er those blessings shall be mine), 
 
 Be centred in a friend ! 
 
 James Merrick.— Born 1720, Died 1769. 
 
 1018.— THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. 
 
 There's grandeur in this sounding storm. 
 That drives the hurrying clouds along 
 That on each other seem to throng, 
 And mix in many a varied form ; 
 While, bursting now and then between, 
 The moon's dim misty orb is seen, 
 And casts faint glimpses on the green. 
 
 Beneath the blast the forests bend. 
 And thick the branchy ruin lies. 
 And wide the shower of foHage flies ; 
 The lake's black waves in tumult blend, 
 Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, 
 And foaming on the rocky shore, 
 Whose caverns echo to their roar. 
 
 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, 
 And swift along the past it strays, 
 And much of strange event surveys, 
 What history's faithful tongue has taught. 
 Or fancy form'd, whose plastic skill 
 The page with fabled change can fill 
 Of Ul to good, or good to ill. 
 
 But can my soul the scene enjoy, 
 That rends another's breast with pain ? 
 hapless he, who, near the main, 
 Now sees its billowy rage destroy ! 
 Beholds the foundering bark descend, 
 Nor knows but what its fate may end 
 The moments of his dearest friend 1 
 
 John Scott— Bom 1730, Died 1783. 
 
 1019.— ODE ON HEARING THE pEUM. 
 
 I hate that drum's discordant sound, 
 Parading round, and round, and round : 
 
 To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, 
 And lures from cities and from fields. 
 To sell their liberty for charms 
 Of tawdry lace, and glitt'ring arms ; 
 And when ambition's voice commands. 
 To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. 
 
 I hate that drum's discordant sound. 
 Parading round, and round, and round : 
 To me it talks of ravaged plains. 
 And burning towns, and ruin'd swains, 
 And mangled limbs, and dying groans. 
 And widows' tears, and orphans' moans ; 
 And all that misery's hand bestows, 
 To fill the catalogue of human woes. 
 
 John Scott— Born 1730, Died 1783 
 
 1020.--ODE ON PRIVATEERING. 
 
 How custom steels the human breast 
 To deeds that nature's thoughts detest ! 
 How custom consecrates to fame 
 What reason else would give to shame ! 
 Eair spring supplies the favouring gale. 
 The naval plunderer spreads his sail. 
 And ploughing wide the wat'ry way. 
 Explores with anxious eyes his prey. 
 
 The man he never saw before. 
 The man who him no quarrel bore, 
 He meets, and avarice prompts the fight ; 
 And rage enjoys the dreadful sight 
 Of decks with streaming crimson dyed. 
 And wretches struggling in the tide, 
 Or 'midst th' explosion's horrid glare. 
 Dispersed with quivering limbs in air. 
 
 The merchant now on foreign shores 
 His captured wealth in vain deplores ; 
 Quits his fair home, mournful change ! 
 For the dark prison's scanty range ; 
 By plenty's hand so lately fed. 
 Depends on casual alms for bread ; 
 And with a father's anguish torn. 
 Sees his poor offspring left forlorn. 
 
 And yet, such man's misjudging mind, 
 For all this injury to his kind, 
 The prosperous robber's native plain 
 Shall bid him welcome home again ; 
 His name the song of every street, 
 His acts the theme of all we meet. 
 And oft the artist's skill shall place 
 To pubHe view his pictured face ! 
 
 If glory thus bo eam'd, for me 
 My object glory ne'er shall be ; 
 No, first in Cambria's loneliest dale 
 Be mine to hear the shepherd's tale ! 
 No, first on Scotia's bleakest hiU 
 Be mine the stubborn soil to till ! 
 Remote from wealth, to dwell alone, 
 And die, to guilty praise unknown ! 
 
 John Scott.— Bom 1730, Died 17G3. 
 
Fro^ 1727 *o 1780.] THE FIRESIDE. [Nathaniel Cotton. 
 
 I02I.— SONG, 
 
 1023.— CONTENT, A PASTORAL. 
 
 
 O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, 
 
 MADE EXTEMPORE BY A GENTLEMAN, OCCA- 
 
 and bare, 
 
 SIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF HIS 
 
 As wilder' d and wearied I roam. 
 
 CUP OF ALE. 
 
 A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly. 
 
 And leads me o'er lawns to her home. 
 
 .Drink with me, and drink as I ; 
 
 YeUow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage 
 
 Freely welcome to my cup, 
 
 had crowned. 
 
 Could' st thou sip and sip it up. 
 
 Green rushes were strew'd on her floor. 
 
 Make the most of life you may, 
 
 Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly 
 
 Life is short, and wears away. 
 
 round. 
 
 
 And deck'd the aod seats at her door. 
 
 Both alike are mine and thine, 
 
 
 Hastening qxiick to their decline : 
 
 We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast. 
 
 Thine' s a summer, mine no more, 
 
 Fresh fruits, and she cull'd me the best ; 
 
 Though repeated to threescore ; , 
 
 While thrown from my guard by some glances 
 
 Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
 
 she cast, 
 
 WiU appear as short as one. 
 
 Love slily stole into my breast ! 
 
 
 I told my soft wishes ; she sweetly replied 
 
 William Oldys.—Born 1696, Died 1761. 
 
 (Ye virgins, her voice was divine I), 
 
 
 I've rich ones rejected, and great ones 
 
 
 denied. 
 
 
 But take me fond shepherd — I'm thine. 
 
 
 Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek. 
 
 1022.— SONG.— MAT-EVE, OR KATE OF 
 
 So simple, yet sweet were her charms ! 
 
 ABERDEEN. 
 
 I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her 
 
 
 cheek, 
 
 The silver moon's enamour'd beam, 
 
 And lock'd the loved maid in my arms. 
 
 Steals softly through the night, 
 
 Now jocund together we tend a few sheep. 
 
 To wanton with the winding stream. 
 
 And if, by yon prattler, the stream, 
 
 And kiss reflected light. 
 
 Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep. 
 
 To beds of state go, balmy sleep 
 
 Her image still softens my dream. 
 
 ('Tis where you've seldom been), 
 
 
 May's vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills. 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 DeKghted with pastoral views. 
 
 
 Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet 
 
 Upon the green the virgins wait, 
 
 distils, 
 
 In rosy chaplets gay. 
 
 And point out new themes for my muse. 
 
 Till mom unbars her golden gate, 
 
 To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, 
 
 And gives the promised May. 
 
 The damsel's of humble descent ; 
 
 Methinks I hear the maids declare, 
 
 The cottager Peace is well-known for her 
 
 The promised May, when seen. 
 
 sire. 
 
 Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 
 
 And shepherds have named her Content. 
 
 As Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 
 
 John Cunningham. — Bom 1729, Died 1773. 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
 
 
 We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
 The nested birds shall raise their throats, 
 
 
 
 And hail the maid I love. 
 
 
 And see — the matin lark mistakes, 
 
 1024.— THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 He quits the tufted green : 
 Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning brPfl,kR, 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. 
 
 The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 
 
 
 In folly's ma,7:e advance ; 
 
 Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove, 
 lake them the jocund dance we'U lead, 
 
 Though singularity and pride 
 Be called our choice, we'll step aside. 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 
 From the gay world we'll oft retire 
 
 For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; 
 
 To our own family and fire. 
 
 She claims a virgin queen ; 
 
 Where love our hours employs *, 
 
 And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, 
 
 No noisy neighbour enters here ; 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Nor intermeddling stranger near, 
 
 John Cunningham,— Born 1729, Died 1773. 
 
 To spoil our heartfelt joys. 
 
Christopher Anstet.] 
 
 A PUBLIC BEEAKFAST. 
 
 [Sixth Piraic^.- 
 
 If solid happiness we prize, 
 Within our breast this jewel lies ; 
 
 And they are fools who roam : 
 The world has nothing to bestow ; 
 From our own selves our joys must flow, 
 
 And that dear hut — our home. 
 
 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, 
 When with impatient wing she left 
 
 That safe retreat, the ark ; 
 Giving her vain excursion o'er, 
 The disappointed bird once more 
 
 Explored the sacred bark. 
 
 Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 
 We, who improve his golden hours, 
 
 By sweet experience know, 
 That marriage, rightly understood. 
 Gives to the tender and the good 
 
 A paradise below. 
 
 Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
 If tutored right, they'll prove a spring 
 
 Whence pleasures ever rise : 
 We'll form their minds, with studious care, 
 To all that's manly, good, and fair, 
 
 And train them for the skies. 
 
 While they our wisest hours engage. 
 They'll joy our youth, support our age, 
 
 And crown our hoary hairs : 
 They'll grow in virtue every day ; 
 And thus our fondest loves repay, 
 
 And recompense our cares. 
 
 No borrow'd joys, they're all our own, 
 While to the world we live unknown. 
 
 Or by the world forgot : 
 Monarchs ! we envy not your state ; 
 We look with pity on the great. 
 
 And bless our humbler lot. 
 
 Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
 But then how little do we need ! 
 
 For nature's calls are few : 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 To want no more than may suffice, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 
 We'll therefore relish vnth coEtent 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 
 
 Nor aim beyond our power ; 
 For, if our stock be very small, 
 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
 To be resigned when ills betide. 
 Patient when favours are denied, 
 
 And pleased with favours given ; 
 Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; 
 This is that incense of the heart, 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 
 
 We'll ask no long protracted treat. 
 Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 
 
 But when our feast is o'er, 
 Grateful from table we'll arise. 
 Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes 
 
 The relics of our store. 
 
 Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go j 
 Its chequered paths of joy and wo 
 
 With cautious steps we'U tread ; 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
 Without a trouble or a fear. 
 
 And mingle with the dead : 
 
 While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
 Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath ; 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
 Like a kind angel, whisper peace, 
 
 And smooth the bed of death. 
 
 Nathaniel Cotton. — Bom 1721, Died 1788. 
 
 1025.--A PUBLIC BEEAKFAST. 
 
 What blessings attend, my dear mother, all 
 
 those 
 Who to crouds of admirers their persons 
 
 expose ! 
 Do the gods such a noble ambition inspire ; 
 Or gods do we make of each ardent desire ? 
 generous passion ! "tis yours to afford 
 The splendid assembly, the plentiful boatrd ; 
 To thee do I owe such a breakfast this morn, 
 As I ne'er saw before, since the hour I was 
 
 born; 
 'Twas you made my Lord Eaggamuffenn come 
 
 here, 
 Who they say has been lately created a Peer ; 
 And to-day with extreme complaisance and 
 
 respect ask'd 
 All the people at Bath to a general breakfast. 
 
 You've heard of my Lady Bunbutter, no 
 
 doubt. 
 How she loves an assembly, fandango, or rout ; 
 No lady in London is half so expert 
 At a snug private party, her friends to divert ; 
 But they say that of late she's gro-^vn sick 
 
 of the town. 
 And often to Bath condescends to come down. 
 Her Ladyship's favourite house is the Bear : 
 Her chariot, and servants, and horses are there; 
 My Lady declares that retiring is good, 
 As all with a separate maintenance should ; 
 For when you have put out the conjugal fire, 
 'Tis time for all sensible folk to retire ; 
 If Hymen no longer his fingers will scorch, 
 Little Cupid for others can whip in his torch, 
 So pert is he groAvn, since the custom began 
 To be married and parted as quick as you can. 
 
 Now my Lord had the honour of coming 
 down post. 
 To pay his respects to so famous a toast ; 
 In hopes he her Ladyship's favour might win. 
 By playing the part of a host at an inn. 
 I'm sure he 's a person of great resolution, 
 Tho' delicate neryes, and a weak consti- 
 tution ; 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A PUBLIC BEEAKFAST. 
 
 [Chkistofhee Anstet. 
 
 Fcr he caxried us all to a place cross the 
 river, 
 
 And vow'd that the rooms were too hot for 
 his liver ; 
 
 He said it would greatly our pleasure pro- 
 mote, 
 
 If we all for Spring-Gardens set out in a 
 boat : 
 
 I never as yet could his reason explain, 
 
 Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the 
 rain ; 
 
 For sure such confusion was never yet 
 known : 
 
 Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal 
 blown ; 
 
 While his Lordship, embroider' d, and pow- 
 der'd all o'er, 
 
 W^as bowing, and handing the ladies a-shore ; 
 
 How the Misses did huddle and scuddle, and 
 run. 
 
 One would think to be wet must be very good 
 fun ; 
 
 For by waggling their tails, they aU seem'd 
 to take pains 
 
 To moisten their pinions like ducks when it 
 rains ; 
 
 And 'twas pretty to see how, like birds of a 
 feather, 
 
 The people of quality flock' d all together ; 
 
 All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond. 
 
 Just the same as those animals are in a 
 pond. 
 
 You've read all their names in the news I 
 suppose, 
 
 But, for fear you have not, take the list as it 
 goes : — 
 
 There was Lady Greasewrister, 
 And Madam Van-Twister, 
 Her Ladyship's sister. 
 Lord Cram, and Lord Vulter, 
 Sir Brandish O'Culter, 
 With Marshal Carouzer, 
 And Old Lady Mouzer ; 
 
 And the great Hanoverian Baron Pans- 
 mow zer ; 
 
 Besides many others, who all in the rain 
 went, 
 
 On purpose to honour this grand entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 The company made a most brilliant appear- 
 ance, 
 
 And ate bread and butter with great perse- 
 verance ; 
 
 All the chocolate, too, that my Lord set 
 before 'em, 
 
 The ladies dispatch' d with the utmost de- 
 corum. 
 
 Soft musical numbers were heard all around. 
 
 The horns and the clarions echoing sound : — 
 Sweet were the strains, as od'rous gales 
 
 that blow 
 O'er fragrant banks where pinks and roses 
 grow. 
 
 The Peer was quite ravish' d, while close to 
 his side 
 
 Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride ! 
 
 Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture sur- 
 vey' d 
 
 All the powerful charms she so nobly dis- 
 play'd. 
 
 As when at the feast of the great Alexander, 
 
 Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander, 
 
 Breath' d heavenly measures : — 
 
 The prince was in pain. 
 
 And could not contain, 
 T\Tiile Thais was sitting beside him ; 
 
 But, before all his peers, 
 
 Was for shaking the spheres, 
 Such goods the kind gods did provide him. 
 
 Grew bolder and bolder, 
 
 And cock'd up his shoulder. 
 Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon, 
 
 Till at length quite opprest. 
 
 He sunk on her breast, 
 And lay there as dead as a salmon. 
 
 O had I a voice that was stronger than 
 
 steel, 
 With twice fifty tongues to express what I 
 
 feel. 
 And as many good mouths, yet I never could 
 
 utter 
 All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bun- 
 butter ! 
 So pohte all the time, that he ne'er touch'd 
 
 a bit, 
 Wliile she ate up his rolls and applauded his 
 
 wit; 
 For they tell me that men of true taste, when 
 
 they treat, 
 Should talk a great deal, but they never 
 
 should eat ; 
 And if that be the fashion, I never will give 
 Any grand entertainment as long as I live : 
 For I'm of opinion 'tis proper to chear 
 The stomach and bowels, as well as the ear. 
 Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel 
 Eegale like the breakfast I saw on the table : 
 I freely will own I the muffins preferr'd 
 To all the genteel conversation I heard. 
 E'en tho' I'd the honour of sitting between 
 My Lady Stuff-damask, and Peggy Moreen, 
 Who both flew to Bath in the London 
 
 machine. 
 Cries Peggy, " This place is enchantingly 
 
 pretty ; 
 We never can see such a thin'g in the city : 
 You may spend all your life-time in Cateaton 
 
 street, 
 And never so civil a gentleman meet ; 
 You may talk what you please, you may 
 
 search London through. 
 You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac s 
 
 too, 
 And I'll give you my head if you find such a 
 
 host, 
 For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast : 
 How he welcomes at once all the world and 
 
 his wife, 
 And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his 
 
 hfe ! "— 
 
 50 
 
Mrs. Thrale.] 
 
 THE THEEE WAENINGS. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 " These horns," cries my Lady, "so tickle one's 
 
 ear, 
 Lard ! what would I give that Sir Simon was 
 
 here ! 
 To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shaU 
 
 go. 
 For I find here are folks one may venture to 
 
 know; 
 Sir Simon would gladly his Lordship attend, 
 And my Lord would be pleased with so 
 
 chearful a friend." 
 
 So when we had wasted more bread at a 
 breakfast 
 
 Than the poor of our parish have ate for this 
 week past, 
 
 I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng 
 
 Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling 
 along ; 
 
 For his Lordship was pleased that the com- 
 pany now 
 
 To my Lady Bunbutter should curt'sey and 
 bow ; 
 
 And my Lady was pleased, too, and seem'd 
 vastly proud 
 
 At once to receive aU the thanks of a croud ; 
 
 And when, like Chaldeans, we all had-ador'd 
 
 This beautiful image set up by my Lord, 
 
 Some few insignificant folk went away, 
 
 Just to follow th' employments and calls of 
 the day ; 
 
 But those who knew better their time how to 
 spend. 
 
 The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend. 
 
 Miss Clunch and Sir Toby perform' d a Co- 
 tillon, 
 
 Just the same as our Susan and Bob the , 
 postillion ; 
 
 All the while her mamma was expressing her 
 joy, 
 
 That her daughter the morning so well could 
 employ. 
 
 — Now why should the muse, my dear 
 
 mother, relate 
 The misfortunes that faU. to the lot of the 
 
 great! 
 As homeward we came — 'tis with sorrow 
 
 you'll hear 
 What a dreadful disaster attended the peer : 
 For whether some envious god had decreed 
 That a Naiad should long to ennoble her 
 
 breed ; 
 Or whether his Lordship was charm' d to 
 
 behold 
 His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old ; 
 In handing old Lady Bumfidget and daughter, 
 • This obsequious Lord tumbled into the water ; 
 But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to 
 
 the boat. 
 And I left all the ladies a' cleaning his 
 
 coat. — 
 
 Thus the feast was concluded, as far as I 
 „ " hear, 
 
 To the great satisfaction of all that were 
 there. 
 
 O may he give breakfasts as long as he stays, 
 For I ne'er ate a better in all my bom days. 
 In haste I conclude, &c. &c. &c. _ 
 
 Christopher Anstey. — Born 1724, Died 1805. 
 
 1026.— THE THEEE WARNINGS. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 
 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that in our latter stages. 
 When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages. 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 This great affection, to believe. 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail. 
 Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were gay, 
 On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, 
 Death called aside the jocund groom 
 With him into another room, 
 And looking grave — " You must," says he, 
 " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 
 " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
 With you ! " the hapless husband cried ; 
 " Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
 Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
 My thoughts on other matters go ; 
 This is my wedding-day, you know." 
 
 What more he urged I have not heard. 
 
 His reasons could not well be stronger ; 
 So death the poor delinquent spared, 
 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look. 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
 " Neighbour," he said, " farewell ! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
 And farther, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name, 
 To give you time for preparatwn, 
 And fit you for your future station. 
 Three several warnings you shall have, 
 Before you're summoned to the grave ; 
 WUling for once I'll quit my prey. 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve ; 
 In hopes you'll have no more to say ; 
 But, when I call again this way. 
 
 Well pleased the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he lived, how wise, how well, 
 How roundly he pursued his course, 
 And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, 
 
 The willing muse shall teU : 
 He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
 Nor once perceived his growing old, 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near : 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few, 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 THE BEGGAE. 
 
 [Thomas Moss. 
 
 He pass'd his hours in peace. 
 But while he view'd his wealth increase, 
 While thus along life's dusty road 
 The beaten track content he trod, 
 Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
 Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 And now, one night, in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone he sate, 
 The unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half-kUled with anger and surprise, 
 " So soon returned ! " Old Dodson cries. 
 " So soon d'ye call it ? " Death replies ; 
 " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 
 
 Since I was here before 
 'Tis six-and- thirty years at least, i 
 
 And you are now fourscore." 
 
 " So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; 
 " To spare the aged would be kind : 
 However, see your search be legal ; 
 And your authority — is 't regal ? 
 Else you are come on a fool's errand, 
 With but a secretary's warrant. 
 IBeside, you promised me Three Warnings, 
 Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; 
 But for that loss of time and ease, 
 I can recover damages." 
 
 *' I know," cries Death, " that at the best 
 I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least ; 
 I little thought you'd stOl be able 
 To stump about your farm and stable : 
 Your years have run to a great length ; 
 I wish you joy, though, of your strength ! " 
 
 " Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast ! 
 I have been lame these four j^ears past." 
 
 " And no great wonder," Death replies : 
 " However, you still keep your eyes ; 
 And sure to see one's loves and friends. 
 For legs and arms would make amends." 
 
 " Perhaps," says Dodson, " so it might, 
 But latterly I've lost my sight." 
 
 " This is a shocking tale, 'tis true ; 
 But still there's comfort left for you : 
 Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
 I warrant you hear all the news.' ' 
 
 " There's none," cries he ; " and if there 
 were, 
 I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
 
 "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
 " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
 
 If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 
 
 You've had your Three sufficient Warn- 
 ings ; 
 So come along, no more we'll part ; " 
 He said, and touched him with his dart. 
 And now Old Dodson, turning pale, 
 Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 
 
 ilfrs. Thrale.—Born 1740, Died 1822. 
 
 1027.— THE BEGGAE. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to 
 your door. 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
 Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your 
 store. 
 
 These tattered clothes my poverty bespeajc, 
 These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen' d 
 years ; 
 
 And many a furrow in my grief -worn cheek 
 Has been the channel to a stream of tears. 
 
 Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 
 With tempting aspect drew me from my 
 road. 
 
 For plenty there a residence has found, 
 And grandeur a magnificent abode. 
 
 (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! ) 
 Here craving for a morsel of their bread, 
 
 A pampered menial forced me from the door, 
 To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 
 
 Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome. 
 
 Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the 
 cold ! 
 
 Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, 
 For I am poor and miserably old. 
 
 Should I reveal the source of every grief, 
 If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 
 
 Your hands would not withhold the kind 
 rehef. 
 And tears of pity could not be repress'd. 
 
 Heaven sends misfortunes — why should wo 
 repine ? 
 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state 
 you see : 
 And your condition may be soon Hke mine, 
 The child of sorrow and of misery. 
 
 A little farm was my paternal lot, 
 
 Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the 
 morn; 
 But ah ! oppression forced me from my cot ; 
 
 My cattle died, and blighted was my com. 
 
 My daughter — once the comfort of my age ! 
 
 Lured by a villain from her native home, 
 Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage. 
 
 And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. 
 
 My tender wife — sweet soother of my care ! 
 
 Struck with sad anguish at the stern 
 decree. 
 Fell — lingering fell, a victim to despair. 
 
 And left the world to wretchedness and me. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! 
 
 Whose trembling hmbs have borne him to 
 your door. 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
 Oh ! give relief, and Heaven wiU bless your 
 store. 
 
 Thomas Moss. — About 1798. 
 50* 
 
William Crawfued.] THE BUSH ABOON TEAQUAIE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 1028.— THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAJR. 
 
 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, 
 
 I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
 Though, thus I languish, thus complain, 
 
 Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 
 My vows and sighs, like silent air. 
 
 Unheeded never move her ; 
 At the bonny bush aboou Traquair, 
 
 'Twas there I first did love her. 
 
 That day she smiled, and made me glad, 
 
 No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 
 I thought myself the luckiest lad. 
 
 So sweetly there to find her. 
 . I tried to soothe my amorous flame 
 
 In words that I thought tender ; 
 If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 
 
 I meant not to offend her. 
 
 Yet now she scornful flees the plain, 
 
 The fields we then frequented ; 
 If e'er we meet, she shows disdain, 
 
 She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
 The bonny bush bloom' d fair in May, 
 
 Its sweets I'll aye remember ; 
 But now her frowns make it decay. 
 
 It fades as in December. 
 
 Te rural powers, who hear my strains. 
 
 Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? 
 Oh ! make her partner in my pains. 
 
 Then let her smiles relieve me. 
 If not, my love wiU turn despair. 
 
 My passion no more tender, 
 I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 
 
 To lonely wilds I'll wander. 
 
 Wm. Crawfurd.—Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?). 
 
 . 1029.— TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ! 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
 Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, 
 
 Both nature and fancy exceed. 
 Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
 Not Tweed gliding gently through those. 
 
 Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 
 
 The warblers are heard in the grove. 
 
 The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 
 The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove. 
 
 With music enchant every bush. 
 Gome, let us go forth to the mead, 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring ; 
 We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
 
 And love while the feather' d folks sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? 
 Do they never carelessly stray, 
 
 While happily she lies asleep ? 
 
 Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest j 
 Kind nature indulging my bliss, 
 
 To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 
 I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel. 
 
 No beauty with her may compare : 
 Love's graces around her do dwell ; 
 
 She's fairest where thousands are fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, 
 
 Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
 Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay 
 
 Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 
 
 Wm. Craivfurd.—Born 1700 {?), Died 1750 (?). 
 
 1030.— ON MRS. A. H., AT A CONCERT. 
 
 Look where my dear Hamilla smiles, 
 
 Haniilla ! heavenly charmer ; 
 See how with all their arts and wiles 
 
 The Loves and Graces arm her. 
 A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks, 
 
 Fair seats of youthful pleasures : 
 There Love in smiling language speaks, 
 
 There spreads his rosy treasures. 
 
 O fairest maid, I own thy power, 
 
 I gaze, I sigh, and languisTi, 
 Yet ever, ever will adore. 
 
 And triumph in my anguish. 
 But ease, charmer, ease my care, 
 
 And let my torments move thee ; 
 As thou art fairest of the fair. 
 
 So I the dearest love thee. 
 
 Wm. Craxofurd.—Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?). 
 
 103 1. —VERSES WRITTEN WHEN ALONE 
 IN AN INN AT SOUTHAMPTON. 
 
 Twenty lost years have stolen their hours 
 
 away, 
 Since in this inn, even in this room, I lay : 
 How changed ! what then was rapture, fire, 
 
 and air, 
 Seems now sad silence all and blank despair ! 
 Is it that youth paints every view too bright, 
 And, life advancing, fancy fades her light .^ 
 Ah, no ! — nor yet is day so far decKned, 
 Nor can time's creeping coldness reach the 
 
 mind. 
 'Tis that I miss the inspirer of that youth ; 
 Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul 
 
 was truth. 
 Her, from whose pain I never wish'd relief. 
 And for whose pleasure I could smile at 
 
 grief. 
 Prospects that, view'd with her, inspired 
 
 before, 
 Now seen without her can delight no more. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] ALLEGORICAL DESCRIPTION OF VERTU. 
 
 [Gilbert West. 
 
 Death snatcli'd my joys, by cutting off her 
 
 share, 
 But left her griefs to multiply my care. 
 
 Pensive and cold this room in each changed 
 
 part 
 I view, and, shock' d, from cv'ry object start : 
 There hung the watch that, beating hours 
 
 from day, 
 Told its SAveet ownei's lessening life away. 
 There her dear diamond taught the sash my 
 
 name ; 
 'Tis goiie ! frail image of love, life, and fame. 
 That glass she dress;' d at, keeps her form no 
 
 more; 
 Not one dear footstep tunes th' unconscious 
 
 floor. 
 There sat she — ^yet those chairs no sense 
 
 retain, 
 And busy recollection smarts in vain. 
 Sullen and dim, what faded scenes are here ! 
 I wonder, and retract a starting tear, 
 Gaze in attentive doubt — with anguish swell. 
 And 'o'er and o'er on each weigh'd object 
 
 dwell. 
 Then to the window rush, gay views invite, 
 And tempt idea to permit delight. 
 But unimpressive, all in sorrow drown'd, 
 One void forgetful desert glooms around. 
 Oh life ! — deceitful lure of lost desires ! 
 How short thy period, yet how fierce thy 
 
 fires ! 
 Scarce can a passion start (we change so 
 
 fast), 
 Ere new lights strike us, and the old are 
 
 past. 
 Schemes following schemes, so long life's 
 
 taste explore. 
 That eve we learn to live, we live no more. 
 Who then can think — yet sigh, to part with 
 
 breath, 
 Or shun the healing hand of friendly death ? 
 Guilt, penitence, and wrongs, and pain, and 
 
 strife. 
 Form the whole heap'd amount, thou flatterer, 
 
 life! 
 Is it for this, that toss'd 'twixt hope and fear. 
 Peace, by new shipwrecks, numbers each 
 
 now year ? 
 Oh take me, death ! indulge desired repose, 
 And draw thy silent curtain round my woes. 
 Yet hold — one tender pang revokes that 
 
 pray'r, 
 Still there remains one claim to tax my care. 
 Gone though she is, she left her soul behind. 
 In four dear transcripts of her copied mind. 
 They chain me down to hfe, new task supply. 
 And leave me not at leisure yet to die ! 
 Busied for them I yet forego release, 
 And teach my wearied heart to wait for 
 
 peace. 
 But when their day breaks broad, I welcome 
 
 night. 
 Smile at discharge from care, and shut out 
 light. 
 
 Aaro7i Hill— Born 1685, Died 1750. 
 
 1032.— ALLEGORICAL DESCRIPTION OF 
 VERTU. 
 
 So on he passed, till he comen hath 
 To a small river, that full slow did glide, 
 As it uneath mote find its wat'ry path 
 For stones and rubbish, that 3id ^choak 
 
 its tide. 
 So lay the mouldering piles on every side, 
 Seem'd there a goodly city once had been, 
 Albeit now fallen were her royal pride, 
 Yet mote her ancient greatness still be 
 seen, 
 Still from her ruins proved the world's im- 
 perial queen. 
 
 For the rich spoil of all the continents, 
 The boast of art and nature there was 
 
 brought, 
 Corinthian brass, Egyptian monuments. 
 With hieroglyphic sculptures all inwrought, 
 And Parian marbles, by Greek artists 
 
 taught 
 To counterfeit the forms of heroes old. 
 And set before the eye of sober thought 
 Lycurgus, Homer, and Alcides bold. * 
 All these and many more that may not here 
 
 be told. 
 
 There in the middest of a ruin'd pile. 
 That seem'd a theatre of circuit vast. 
 Where thousands might be seated, he ere- 
 
 while 
 Discover' d hath an uncouth trophy placed ; 
 Seem'd a huge heap of stone together cast 
 In nice disorder and wild symmetry. 
 Urns, broken friezes, statues half defaced. 
 And pedestals with antique imagery 
 Emboss'd, and pillars huge of costly porphyry. 
 
 Aloft on this strange basis was ypight 
 With girlonds gay adorn' d a golden chair, 
 In which aye smiling with self -bred delight, 
 In careless pride reclin'd a lady fair. 
 And to soft music lent her idle ear ; 
 The which with pleasure so did her enthral. 
 That for aught else she had but httle 
 
 care. 
 For wealth, or fame, or honour feminal. 
 Or gentle love, sole king of pleasures natural. 
 
 Als by her side in richest robes array'd, 
 An eunuch sate, of visage pale and dead 
 Unseemly paramour for royal maid ! 
 Yet him she courted oft and honour'd, 
 And oft would by her place in princely 
 
 sted, 
 Though from the dregs of earth he springen 
 
 were. 
 And oft with regal crowns she deck'd his 
 
 head, 
 And oft, to soothe her vain and foolish 
 
 ear, 
 She bade him the great names of mighty 
 
 Kesars bear. 
 
Collet Gibber.] 
 
 SONG— THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Tliereto herself a pompous title bore, 
 For she was vain of her great ancestry, 
 But vainer still of that prodigious store 
 Of arts and learning, which she vaunts to 
 
 lie 
 In the rich archives of her treasury. 
 These she to strangers oftentimes would 
 
 show, 
 With grave demean and solemn vanity, 
 Then proudly claim as to her merit due, 
 The venerable praise and title of Yertu. 
 
 Vertu she was yclept, and held her court 
 With outward shows of pomp and 
 
 majesty. 
 To which natheless few others did resort, 
 But men of base and vulgar industry, 
 Or such perdy as of them cozen' d be. 
 Mimes, fiddlers, pipers, eunuchs squeaking 
 
 fine, 
 Painters and builders, sons of masonry, 
 Who well could measure with the rule and 
 
 line, 
 And all the orders five right craftily define. 
 
 But^ther skill of cunning architect,' 
 
 How to contrive the house for dwelling 
 
 best, 
 With self-sufficient scorn they wont neg- 
 lect, 
 As corresponding with their purpose 
 
 least ; 
 And herein be they copied of the rest, 
 Who aye pretending love of science fair. 
 And generous purpose to adorn the breast 
 With liberal arts, to Vertu's court repair, 
 Yet nought but tunes and names and coins 
 away do bear. 
 
 For long, to visit her once-honour'd seat 
 
 The studious sons of learning have for- 
 bore : 
 
 Who whilom thither ran with pilgrim feet. 
 
 Her venerable reliques to adore. 
 
 And load their bosom with the sacred 
 store. 
 
 Whereof the world large treasure yet 
 enjoys. 
 
 But sithence she declined from wisdom's 
 lore. 
 
 They left her to display her pompous 
 toys 
 To virtuosi vain and wonder-gaping boys. 
 
 Gilbert West— Bom 1706, Died 1755. 
 
 You talk of wond'rous things you see, 
 You say the sun shines bright ; 
 
 I feel him warm, but how can he 
 Or make it day or night ? 
 
 My day or night myself I make, 
 
 Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
 And could I ever keep awake, 
 
 With me 'twere always day. 
 
 With heavy sighs I often hear 
 You mourn my hapless woe ; , 
 
 But sure with patience I can bear 
 A lo^ I ne'er can know. 
 
 Then let not what I cannot have 
 
 My cheer of mind destroy ; 
 Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
 
 Although a poor blind boy. 
 
 Colley Cihher.—Born 1671, Died 1757. 
 
 '1033.— SONG— THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 O say ! what is that thing call'd light, 
 Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 
 
 What are the blessings of the sight ? 
 O tell your poor blind boy ! 
 
 1034.— THE HAPPY MAERIAGE. 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what .joys have 
 
 1 known, 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my 
 
 own ! 
 So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
 That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 
 
 j Through walks grown with woodbines, as 
 ^ often we stray. 
 Around us our boys and girls frolic and 
 
 play: 
 How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones 
 
 see. 
 And borrow their looks from my Jessy and 
 me. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, ofttimos am I seen, 
 In revels all day with the nymphs on the 
 
 green: 
 Though painful my absence, my doubts she 
 
 beguiles, 
 And meets me at night with complacence and 
 
 smiles. 
 
 What though on her cheeks the rose loses its 
 
 hue. 
 Her wit and good humour bloom all the year 
 
 through ; 
 Time still, as ho files, adds increase to her 
 
 truth, 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from 
 
 her youth. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to 
 
 ensnare. 
 And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous 
 
 fair ; 
 In search of true pleasure, how vainly you 
 
 roam ! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 Edward Moore.^-Bom 1712, Died 1757. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIEE. [Cuthbert Shaw. 
 
 I035._SALLY IN OUE ALLEY. 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart, 
 
 There's none like pretty Sally; 
 She ic the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land, 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally : 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets. 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em 
 Her mother she sells laces long, 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em : 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my work 
 
 (I love her so sincerely). 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely : 
 But let him bang his belly full, 
 
 I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that's in the week, 
 
 I dearly love but one day ; 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and Monday ; 
 For then I'm dress'd all in my best, 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 
 And often am I blamed. 
 Because I leave him in the lurch. 
 
 As soon as text is named : 
 I leave the church in sermon time. 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Henry Carey, — Died 1743. 
 
 1036. — FEOM «A MONODY TO 
 MEMOEY OF HIS WIFE." 
 
 THE 
 
 * * * Where'er I turn my eyes, 
 
 Some sad memento of my loss appears ; 
 i fly the fated house — suppress my sighs. 
 Resolved to dry my unavailing tears : 
 
 But, ah ! in vain — no change of time or 
 
 place 
 The memory can efface 
 Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air. 
 Now lost ; and nought remains but anguish 
 and despair. 
 
 Where were the delegates of Heaven, oh 
 
 where ! 
 Appointed virtue's children safe to keep ! 
 Had innocence or virtue been their care, 
 
 She had not died, nor had I lived to weep : 
 Moved by my tears, and by her patience 
 
 moved, 
 
 To see her force the endearing smile. 
 
 My sorrows to beguUe, 
 When torture's keenest rage she proved ; 
 Sure they had warded that untimely dart, 
 Which broke her thread of life, and rent a 
 
 husband's heart. 
 
 How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour. 
 
 When, feehng death's resistless power. 
 
 My hand she press' d wet with her falling 
 
 tears. 
 And thus, in falt'ring accents, spoke her 
 
 fears : 
 "Ah, my loved lord, the transient scene is 
 
 o'er. 
 And we must part (alas !) to meet no more ! 
 But, oh ! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear, 
 If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravish'd 
 
 ear. 
 If from my lov'd embrace my heart to gain. 
 Proud friends have froAvn'd, and fortune 
 
 smiled in vain ; 
 If it has been my sole endeavour still 
 To act in all obsequious to thy will ; 
 To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know. 
 Then only truly blest when thou wert so : 
 If I have doated with that fond excess. 
 Nor love could add, nor fortune make it 
 
 less; 
 If this I've done, and more — oh, then be kind 
 To the dear lovely babe I leave behind ! 
 When time my once-loved memory shall 
 
 efface, 
 Some happier maid may take thy Emma's 
 
 place, 
 With envious eyes thy partial fondness see, 
 And hate it for the love thou bore to me : 
 My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears. 
 But one word more (I cannot bear thy tears) : 
 Promise and I will trust thy faithful 
 
 vow 
 
 (Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true) 
 
 That to some distant spot thou wilt remove 
 This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love, 
 Where safe thy blandishments it may par- 
 take. 
 And, oh ! be tender for its mother's sake 
 
 Wilt thou ? 
 
 I know thou wilt — sad silence speaks assent ; 
 And in that pleasing hope thy Emma dies 
 
 content." 
 
 I, who with more than manly strength have 
 bore 
 The various iUs imposed by cruel fate, 
 Sustain the firmness of my soul no more — 
 
 But sink beneath the weight : 
 Just Heaven (I cried), from memory's earliest 
 day 
 
CuTHBERT Shaw.] MONODY TO THE MEMOEY OF HIS WIFE. . [Sixth Period. 
 
 No comfort has thy wretched suppliant 
 known, 
 Misfortune still with unrelenting sway 
 Has claim'd me for her own. 
 
 But O in pity to my grief, restore 
 
 This only source of bliss ; I ask — I ask no 
 
 more — 
 Vain hope — th' irrevocable doom is past, 
 
 Even now she looks — she sighs her last 
 
 Vainly I strive to stay her fleeting breath, 
 And with rebellious heart protest against her 
 death. 
 
 Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the 
 
 blow, 
 Some saving truth thy roving soul to 
 
 teach ; 
 To wean thy heart from grovelling views 
 
 below, 
 And point out bliss beyond misfortune's 
 
 reach ; 
 To show that all the flattering schemes of 
 
 joy, 
 Which towering hope so fondly builds in 
 
 air, 
 
 One fatal moment can destroy. 
 And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair. 
 Then, O ! with pious fortitude sustain 
 Thy present loss — haply, thy future gain ; 
 
 Nor let thy Emma die in vain ; 
 Time shall administer its wonted balm. 
 And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing 
 
 calm. 
 
 Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate 
 
 Caught and imprison' d in a lonely cage, 
 Tom from its native fields, and dearer mate. 
 
 Flutters a while and spends its little rage : 
 But, finding all its efforts weak and vain, 
 
 No more it pants and rages for the plain ; 
 Moping a while, in sullen mood 
 
 Droops the sweet mourner — but, ere long. 
 Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, 
 
 And meditates the song : 
 Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, 
 
 And with its plaintive warblings saddens 
 all the place. 
 
 Forgive me, Heaven — ^yet — yet the tears will 
 flow, 
 To think how soon my scene of bliss is 
 past ! 
 My budding joys just promising to blow, 
 All nipt and wither' d by one envious 
 blast ! 
 My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, 
 Move heavily along ; 
 
 Where's now the sprightly jest, the 
 jocund song ? 
 Time creeps unconscious of delight : 
 How shall I cheat the tedious day ? 
 And O the joyless night ! 
 
 Wliere shall I rest my weary head ? 
 
 How shall I find repose on a sad widow' d 
 bed? 
 
 Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed. 
 Who now with anxious haste shall bring 
 relief, 
 With lenient hand support my drooping head, 
 
 Assuage my pains and mitigate my grief ? 
 Should worldly business call away, 
 
 Who now shall in my absence fondly 
 mourn, 
 Count every minute of the loit'ring day, 
 
 Impatient for my quick return ? 
 Should aught my bosom discompose. 
 Who now "svith sweet complacent air 
 ShaU smooth the rugged brow of care, 
 And soften all my woes ? 
 
 Too faithful memory Cease, O cease 
 
 How shall I e'er regain my peace ? 
 (0 to forget her !) — but how vain each art, 
 Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my 
 heart. 
 
 And thou, my little cherub, left behind, 
 
 To hear a father's plaints, to share his 
 
 woes. 
 When reason's dawn informs thy infant 
 
 mind. 
 And thy sweet lisping tongue shall ask the 
 
 cause, 
 How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er, 
 When twining round my knees I trace 
 Thy mother' s smile upon thy face ? 
 How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore 
 Sad memory of my joys — ah ! now no more ! 
 By blessings once enjoy'd now more dis- 
 
 tress'd. 
 More beggar by the riches once possess'd. 
 
 My little darling ! dearer to me grown 
 
 By aU the tears thou'st caused — (0 strange 
 
 to hear !) 
 Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own. 
 Thy cradle purchased with thy mother's 
 
 bier ! 
 
 Who now shall seek, with fond delight. 
 
 Thy infant steps to guide aright 1 
 
 She who with doating eyes would gaze 
 
 . On all thy little artless ways, 
 
 By all thy soft endearments blest, 
 And clasp thee oft with transport to her 
 
 breast, 
 
 Alas ! is gone — yet shalt thou prove 
 
 A father's dearest tend'rest love ; 
 And O, sweet senseless smiler (envied state !), 
 As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate. 
 
 When years thy judgment shall mature, 
 And reason shows those ills it cannot cure, 
 
 Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, 
 For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth 
 (Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth), 
 
 And be the comfort of my age P 
 When sick and languishing I lie, 
 Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply ? 
 
i 
 
 From 1727 to 1780.] SONG. [Edward Thompson. 
 
 And oft as to tliy list'ning ear 
 
 1038.— THE SAILOR'S FAEEWETT., 
 
 Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell, 
 
 
 Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear, 
 
 The topsails shiver in the wind. 
 
 Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell ? 
 
 The sliip she casts to sea ; 
 
 Then, fondly stealing to thy father's side, 
 
 But yet my soul, my heart, my mind. 
 
 ~SVhene'er thou seest the soft distress, 
 
 Are, Mary, moor'd by thee : 
 
 Which I would vn.inly seek to hide, 
 
 For though thy sailor's bound afar. 
 
 Say, wilt thou strive to make it less ? 
 
 StiU love shall be his leading star. — — 
 
 To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ. 
 And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of 
 
 Should landmen flatter when we're sailed, 
 doubt their artful tales ; 
 
 joy? 
 
 No gaUant sailor ever fail'd. 
 
 Cuthhert 8haiv.—Born 1738, Died 1771. 
 
 If Cupid fiU'd his saUs : 
 
 
 Thou art the compass of my soul. 
 
 
 Which steers my heart from pole to pole. 
 Sirens in ev'ry port we meet, 
 
 
 1037.— HUNTING SONG. 
 
 More fell than rocks and waves ; 
 But sailors of the British fleet 
 
 The sun from the east tips the mountains 
 
 Are lovers, and not slaves : 
 
 with gold ; 
 
 No foes our courage shall subdue. 
 
 The meadows aU spangled with dew-drops 
 
 Although we've left our hearts with you. 
 
 behold ! 
 
 
 Hear! the lark's early matin proclaims the 
 
 These are our cares ; but if you're kind. 
 
 new day, 
 
 We'll scorn the dashing main. 
 
 And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our 
 
 The rocks, the billows, and the wind. 
 
 delay. 
 
 The powers of France and Spain. 
 
 
 Now Britain's glory rests wi+Jh you. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Our sails are full— sweet girls, adieu ! 
 
 With the sports of the field there's no 
 
 Edward Thompson. — Bom 1738, Died 1786. 
 
 pleasure can vie. 
 
 
 While jocund we follow the hounds in full 
 cry. 
 
 Let the drudge of the to^vn make riches his 
 sport J 
 
 
 1039— .SONG. 
 
 The slave of the state hunt the smiles of a 
 
 Behold upon the swelling wave, 
 
 court : 
 
 With streaming pendants gay. 
 
 No care and ambition our pastime annoy. 
 
 Our gaUant ship invites the brav 
 
 But innocence still gives a zest to our joy. 
 
 While glory leads the way ; 
 
 With the sports, &g. 
 
 And a cruising we will go. 
 
 Mankind are all hunters in various degree ; 
 
 Whene'er Monsieur comes in view. 
 
 The priest hunts a living — the lawyer a fee. 
 
 From India richly fraught. 
 
 The doctor a patient — the courtier a place. 
 
 To gain the prize we're firm and true. 
 
 Though often, like us, he's flung out in the 
 
 And fire as quick as thought. 
 
 chase. 
 
 
 With the sports, &c. 
 
 With hearts of oak we ply each gxui. 
 
 
 Nor fear the least dismay ; 
 
 The cit hunts a plumb — while the soldier 
 
 We either take, or sink, or burn. 
 
 hunts fame, 
 
 Or make them run away. 
 
 The poet a din Tier — the patriot a name ; 
 
 
 And the practised coquette, though she seems 
 
 The lovely maids of Britain's isle 
 
 to refuse. 
 
 We sailors ne'er despise ; 
 
 In spite of her airs, still her lover pursues. 
 
 Our courage rises with each smile. 
 
 With the sports, &c. 
 
 For them we take each prize. 
 
 Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and 
 
 The wind sets fair, the vessel's trim. 
 
 wealth ; 
 
 Then let us boldly go ; 
 
 All the blessing we ask is the blessing of 
 
 Old Neptune guides us while we swim. 
 
 health, 
 
 To check the haughty foe. 
 
 With hound and with horn through the wood- 
 
 
 lands to roam, 
 
 United let each Briton join, 
 
 And, when tired abroad, find contentment at 
 
 Courageously advance, 
 
 home. 
 
 We'll bafile every vain design. 
 
 With the sports, &c. 
 
 And check the pride of France. 
 
 Paul WliUehead.—Born 1710, Died 1774. 
 
 Edward Thompson.— Born 1738, Died 1786. 
 
Edward Thompson.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 1040. 
 
 -SONG. 
 
 Loose every sail to the breeze, 
 The course of my vessel improve ; 
 
 I've done with the toils of the seas, 
 Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love. 
 
 Since Emma is true as she's fair. 
 My griefs I fling all to the wind : 
 
 'Tis a pleasing return for my care. 
 My mistress is constant and kind. 
 
 My sails are aU fill'd to my dear ; 
 
 What tropic bird swifter can move ? 
 "Who, cruel, shall hold his career 
 
 That returns to the nest of his love ! 
 
 Hoist every sail to the breeze. 
 
 Come, shipmates, and join in the song ; 
 Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, 
 
 To the gale that may drive her along. 
 
 Mward Thompson.— Born 1738, Died 1786. 
 
 1041.— FEOM HIS "INVOCATION TO 
 MELANCHOLY." 
 
 Child of the potent spell and nimble eye. 
 Young Fancy, oft in rainbow vest array'd, 
 Points to new scenes that in succession pass 
 Across the wondrous mirror that she bears. 
 And bids thy unsated soul and wand' ring eye 
 A wider range o'er all her prospects take ; 
 Lo, at her call. New Zealand's wastes arise ! 
 Casting their shadows far along the main, 
 Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty. 
 No human foot hath trod since time began ; 
 Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells, 
 Save when the watching sailor startled hears, 
 Far from his native land at darksome night. 
 The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's 
 
 voice, 
 That skim their trackless flight on lonely 
 
 wing, 
 Through the bleak regions of a nameless 
 
 main : 
 Here danger stalks, and drin ts with glutted 
 
 ear 
 The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh, 
 Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way, 
 Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile, 
 To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din, . 
 That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen 
 
 sound : 
 Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows, 
 His Umbs, of giant form, in vesture clad 
 Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow. 
 The same he wore a thousand years ago. 
 That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the 
 
 day. 
 'Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st 
 
 entranced 
 Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes, 
 
 That know no zephyr pure, or temperate 
 
 gale, 
 By baneful Tigris banks, where, oft they say. 
 As late in sullen march for prey he prowlsr, 
 The tawny lion sees his shadow' d form. 
 At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam. 
 On the broad surface of the dark deep wave •, 
 Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger 
 Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze, 
 And oft with silent anguish thinks in vain 
 On Europe's milder air and silver springs. 
 Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding 
 
 fear 
 With ghastly visions "ivild, and train un- 
 
 blesa'd 
 Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night. 
 Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace. 
 With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand,. 
 Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing. 
 Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair. 
 Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue, 
 The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he 
 
 sits 
 And notes their secret lapse with shaking 
 
 head. 
 See, see, with tearless glance they mark his 
 
 fall, 
 And close his beamless eye, who, trembling. 
 
 meets 
 A late repentance, and an early grave. 
 
 With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well 
 
 pleased. 
 Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease. 
 From aU the duU buffoonery of life. 
 Thy sacred influence grateful may I own ; 
 Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb. 
 Quit thee and all thy charms with many a 
 
 tear. 
 On Omole, or cold Soracte's top. 
 Singing defiance to the threat'ning storm. 
 Thus the lone bird, in winter's rudest hour, 
 Hid in some cavern, shrouda its ruffled 
 
 plumes, 
 And throu^ the long, long night, regardless 
 
 hears 
 The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing 
 
 rain. 
 
 Henry Headley.—Born 1766, Died 1788. 
 
 1042.— SONNET TO VALCLUSA. 
 
 What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be 
 
 fled, 
 That woo'd his fair in thy sequester' d bowers. 
 Long loved her living, long bemoan' d her 
 
 dead, 
 And hung her visionary shrine with flowers ! 
 What though no more he teach thy shades to 
 
 mourn 
 The hapless chances that to love belong. 
 As erst when drooping o'er her tvirf forlorn, 
 He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 ODE TO MANKIND. 
 
 [Earl Nugent. 
 
 Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale, 
 
 Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic 
 
 gloom. 
 Yet still soft music breathes in every gale, 
 Still undecay'd the fairy garlands bloom, 
 Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, 
 StiU Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's 
 
 tomb. 
 
 Thomas Russell— Born 1762, Died 1788. 
 
 1043.— SONNET, SUPPOSED TO BE 
 WEITTEN AT LEMNOS. 
 
 On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright 
 The cautious pilot, ten revolving years 
 Great Paeon's son, unwonted erst to tears, 
 Wept o'er his wound : alike each rolling light 
 Of heaven he watch'd, and blamed its linger- 
 ing flight : 
 By day the sea-mew, screaming round his 
 
 cave. 
 Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding 
 
 wave. 
 And savage howlings chased his dreams by 
 
 night. 
 Hope still was his ; in each low breeze that 
 
 sigh'd 
 Through liis rude grot, he heard a coming 
 
 oar; 
 In each white cloud a coming sail he spied ; 
 Nor seldom Hsten'd to the fancied roar 
 Of (Eta's torrents, or the hoarser tide 
 That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic 
 
 shore. 
 
 Thomas Russell. — Bom 1762, Died 1788. 
 
 1044.— ODE TO MANKIND. 
 
 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream- 
 Is there on earth a power supreme, 
 
 The delegate of heaven, 
 To whom an uncontroU'd command. 
 In every realm or sea and land. 
 
 By special grace is given ? 
 
 Then say, what signs this god proclaim ? 
 Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, 
 
 A throne his hallow 'd shrine ? 
 The borrow' d pomp, the arm'd array, 
 Want, fear, and impotence, betray 
 
 Strange proofs of power divine ! 
 
 If service due from human kind, 
 To men in slothful ease reclined, 
 
 Can form a sov' reign's claim : 
 Hail, monarchs ! ye, whom heaven ordains, 
 Our toils unshared, to share our gains. 
 
 Ye idiots, blind and lame ! 
 
 Superior virtue, wisdom, might, 
 Create and mark the ruler's right, 
 
 So reason must conclude : 
 Then thine it is, to whom belong 
 The wis«, the virtuous, and the strong, 
 
 Thrice sacred multitude ! 
 
 In thee, vast All ! are these contain' d, 
 Fcr thee are those, thy parts ordain'd, 
 
 So nature's systems roll : 
 The sceptre 's thine, if such there be ; 
 If none there is, then thou art free, 
 
 Great monarch ! mighty whole ! 
 
 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause 
 On faith, prescription, force, or laws. 
 
 An host's or senate's voice ! 
 His voice affirms thy stronger due. 
 Who, for the many made the few, 
 
 And gave the species choice. 
 
 Unsanctified by thy command, 
 Unown'd by thee, the sceptred hand 
 
 The trembling slave may bind ; 
 But loose from nature's moral ties, 
 The oath by force imposed belies 
 
 The unassenting mind. 
 
 Thy will 's thy rule, thy good its end ; 
 You punish only to defend 
 
 What parent nature gave : 
 And he who dares her gifts invade. 
 By nature'^ oldest law is made 
 
 Thy victim or thy slave. 
 
 Thus reason founds the just degree 
 On universal liberty. 
 
 Not private rights resign'd : 
 Through various nature's wide extent. 
 No private beings e'er were meant 
 
 To hurt the general kind. 
 
 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, 
 Th' oppressor's wrongs, the pilf 'rer's gains, 
 
 Thy injured weal impair. 
 Thy Avarmest passions soon subside, 
 Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride. 
 
 Thy temper' d counsels share. 
 
 Each instance of thy vengeful rage, 
 Collected from each clime and age. 
 
 Though malice swell the sum, 
 Would seem a spotless scanty scroll. 
 Compared with Marius' bloody roll, 
 
 Or Sylla's hippodrome. 
 
 But thine has been imputed blame. 
 The unworthy few assume thy name. 
 
 The rabble weak and loud ; 
 Or those who on thy ruins feast. 
 The lord, the lawyer, and the priest ; 
 
 A more ignoble crowd. 
 
 Avails it thee, if one devours. 
 
 Or lesser spoilers share his powers, 
 
 While both thy claim oppose ? 
 Monsters who wore thy sullied crown. 
 Tyrants who pull'd those monsters down. 
 
 Alike to thee were foes. 
 
Alex. Ross.1 
 
 WOO'D, AT^D MAERIED, AND A'. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 Far other shone fair Freedom's band, 
 Far other was th' immortal stand, 
 
 When Hampden fought for thee : 
 They snatch' d from rapine's gripe thy spoils, 
 The fruits and prize of glorious toils, 
 
 Of arts and industry. 
 
 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage. 
 On thee fierce frowns th' historian's page, 
 
 A false apostate train : 
 Tears stream ad own the martyr's tomb ; 
 Unpitied in their harder doom, 
 
 Thy thousands strow the plain. 
 
 These had no charms to please the sense. 
 No gi'aceful port, no eloquence, 
 
 To win the Muse's throng : 
 Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie 
 But Cffisar's fate o'ercasts the sky, • 
 
 And Nature mourns his wrong. 
 
 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade ; 
 Thy friends afford a timid aid. 
 
 And yield up half the right. 
 E'en Locke beams forth a mingled ray, 
 Afraid to pour the flood of day 
 
 On man's too feeble sight. 
 
 Hence are the motley systems framed, 
 Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd ; 
 
 Distinctions weak and vain. 
 Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd ; 
 For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd, 
 
 Her powers and rights remain. 
 
 While law the royal agent moves, 
 The instrument thy choice approves. 
 
 We bow through him to you. 
 But change, or cease the inspiring choice, 
 The sov'reign sinks a private voice, 
 
 Alike in one, or few ! 
 
 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart 
 Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, 
 
 And only dares betray, 
 With reptile wiles, alas ! prevail, 
 Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, 
 
 To pilfer power away ? 
 
 O ! shall the bought, and buying tribe, 
 The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, 
 
 A people's claims enjoy ? 
 So Indian murd'rers hope to gain 
 The powers and virtues of the slain. 
 
 Of wretches they destroy. 
 
 " Avert it. Heaven ! you love the brave, 
 You hate the treach'rous, willing slave. 
 
 The self -devoted head ; 
 Nor shall an hireling's voice convey 
 That sacred prize to lawless sway, 
 
 For which a nation bled." 
 
 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource ! 
 Directing reason, active force. 
 
 Propitious heaven bestows. 
 But ne'er shall flame the fiund'ring sky, 
 To aid the trembling herd that fly 
 
 Before their weaker foes. 
 
 In names there dwell no magic charms, 
 The British virtues, British arms 
 
 Unloosed our fathers' band : 
 Say, Greece and Eome ! if these should fail. 
 What names, what ancestors avail. 
 
 To save a sinking land ? 
 
 Far, far from us such ills shall be, 
 Mankind shall boast one nation free. 
 
 One monarch truly great : 
 Whose title speaks a people's choice, 
 Whose sovereign will a people's voice. 
 
 Whose strength a prosp'rous state. 
 
 Earl Nugent— Born 1709, Died 1788. 
 
 1045.— WOO'D, AND MAEEIED, AND A'. 
 
 The bride cam' out o' the byre, 
 
 And, O, as she dighted her cheeks ! 
 Sirs, I'm to be married the night, 
 
 And have neither blankets nor sheets ; 
 Have neither blankets nor sheets. 
 
 Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 
 The bride that has a' thing to borrow, 
 Has e'en right muckle ado. 
 Woo'd, and married, and a', 
 
 Married, and woo'd, and a' ! 
 And was she nae very weel off. 
 
 That was woo'd, and married, and a' r 
 
 Out spake the bride's father, 
 
 As he cam' in frae the pleugh : 
 O, hand your tongue, my dochter, 
 
 And ye'se get gear eneugh ; 
 The stirk stands i' the tether. 
 
 And our braw bawsint yade, 
 Will carry ye hame your corn — 
 
 What wad ye be at, ye jade ? 
 
 Out spake the bride's mither. 
 
 What deil needs a' this pride ? 
 I had nae a plack in my pouch 
 
 That night I was a bride ; 
 My gown was Knsy-woolsy, 
 
 And ne'er a sark ava ; 
 And ye hae ribbons and buskins, 
 
 Mae than ane or twa. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 Out spake the bride's brither. 
 
 As he cam' in wi' the kye : 
 Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye. 
 
 Had he kent ye as weel as I ; 
 For ye' re baith proud and saucy. 
 
 And no for a poor man's wife ; 
 Gin I canna get a better, 
 
 I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life. 
 
 * # # « 
 
 Alex. Ross.— Born 1698, Died 1784. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.]' 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOEEST. 
 
 [Miss Jane Elliot. 
 
 1046.— MAEY'S DEE AM. 
 
 The moon had climb' d the highest liill 
 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 
 Her silver ligh'j on tower and tree ; 
 "WTien Mary laid her down to sleep. 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 
 When, soft and low, a voice was heard. 
 
 Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head, to ask who there might be, 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 
 
 With visage pale, and hollow ee. 
 *' O Mary dear, cold is toy clay ; 
 
 It Ues beneath a stormy sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 We toss'd upon the raging main ; 
 And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 Even then, when horror chill'd my blood, 
 
 My heart was fill'd with love for thee : 
 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 O maiden dear, thyself prepare ; 
 
 We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
 Where love is free from doubt and care, 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more ! " 
 Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled. 
 
 No more of Sandy could she see ; 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 Alex. Ross.—Bo'n 1698, J}ied 1784. 
 
 1047.— AULD EOBIN GEAT. 
 
 "WTien the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 
 
 at hame. 
 And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my 
 
 ee, 
 When my gudeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for 
 
 his bride ; 
 But saving a croun, he had naething else 
 
 beside ; 
 To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed 
 
 to sea ; 
 And the croun and the pund were baith for 
 
 me. 
 
 He hadna been awa a week but only twa. 
 When my mother she fell sick, and the cow 
 
 was stown awa ; 
 My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at 
 
 the sea. 
 And auld Eobin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 
 
 My father couldna work, and my mother 
 
 couldna spin : 
 I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I 
 
 couldna win ; 
 Auld Eob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' 
 
 tears in his ee. 
 Said, " Jennie, for their sakes. Oh, marry 
 
 me I " - - 
 
 My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie 
 
 back ; 
 But the wind it blew high, and the ship it 
 
 was a wreck ; 
 The ship it was a wreck — why didna Jamie 
 
 dee ? 
 Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 
 
 My father argued sair : my mother didna 
 
 But she lookit in my face till my heart was 
 
 like to break ; 
 Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart 
 
 was ill the sea ; 
 And auld Eobin Gray was gudeman to me. 
 
 I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
 When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 
 I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna tliink 
 
 it he. 
 Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry 
 
 thee." 
 
 Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we 
 
 say; 
 We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 
 
 away : 
 I wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to 
 
 dee ; 
 And why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
 I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a 
 
 sin ; 
 But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 
 For auld Eobin Gray is kind unto me. 
 
 Lady Anne Barnard. — Bom 1750, Died 1825. 
 
 1048.— THE FLOWEES OF THE 
 FOEEST. 
 
 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,- 
 Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green 
 loaning — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads 
 are scorning. 
 The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; 
 Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and 
 . sabbing, 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. 
 
Mrs. Cockburn.] 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOEEST. 
 
 [Sixth Period.- 
 
 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are 
 jeering, 
 The bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and 
 gray ; 
 At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae 
 Seeching — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are 
 roaming, 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to 
 play; 
 But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
 dearie — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 Dnle and wae for the order, sent our lads to 
 the Border ! 
 The Enghsh, for ance, by guile wan the 
 day; 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye 
 the foremost. 
 The prime o' our land, are cauld in the 
 clay. 
 
 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe- 
 milking. 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 Miss Jcme Elliot. — About 1740. 
 
 1049.— THE FLOWEES OF THE 
 FOEEST. 
 
 I've seen the smiling 
 
 Of Fortune beguiling ; 
 I've felt all its favours, and found its decay : 
 
 Sweet was its blessing. 
 
 Kind its caressing ; 
 But now 'tis fled — fled far away. 
 
 I've seen the forest 
 
 Adorned the foremost 
 With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and 
 gay ; 
 
 Sae bonnie was their blooming ! 
 
 Their scent the air perfuming ! 
 But now they are wither' d and weedeu away. 
 
 I've seen the morning 
 With gold the hills adorning, 
 And loud tempest storming before the mid- 
 day. 
 I've seen Tweed's sHver streams, 
 Shining in the sunny beams. 
 Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his 
 way. 
 
 Oh, fickle Fortune, 
 
 Why this cruel sporting ? 
 Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 
 
 Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, 
 
 Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
 For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. Cockburn.— Born 1679, Died 1749. 
 
 1050.— TUIiLOCHGORUM. 
 
 Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, 
 And lay your disputes all aside ; 
 What signifies 't for folks to chide 
 
 For what 's been done before them ? 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree, 
 "Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree 
 
 To drop their Whigmegmorum. 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree 
 To spend this night with mirth and glee, 
 And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me 
 
 The reel of Tullochgorum. 
 
 O, Tullochgorum 's my delight ; 
 
 It gars us a' in ane unite ; 
 
 And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 
 
 In conscience I abhor him. 
 Blithe and merry we 's be a'. 
 Blithe and merry, blithe and merry. 
 Blithe and merry we 's be a', 
 
 And mak' a cheerfu' quorum. 
 Blithe and merry we's be a'. 
 As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
 And dance, till we be like to fa', 
 
 The reel of Tullochgorum, 
 
 There need na be sae great a phrase 
 Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ; 
 I wadna gie our ain strathspeys 
 
 For half a himdred score o' 'em. 
 They're douff and dowie at the best, 
 Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, 
 They're douff and dowie at the best, 
 
 Wi' a' their variorums. 
 They're douff and dowie at the best. 
 Their allegros, and a' the rest. 
 They canna please a Highland taste, 
 
 Compared wi' Tullochgorum. , 
 
 Let warldly minds themselves oppress 
 Wi' fear of want, and double cess, 
 And sullen sots themselves distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum. 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
 
 Like auld Philosophorum ? 
 Shall wc sae sour and sulky sit, 
 Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. 
 And canna rise to shake a fit 
 
 At the reel of Tullochgorum ? 
 
Frcy.n 1'727 to 1780.] 
 
 BRAID CLAITH. 
 
 [EoBT. Fejjgusson. 
 
 May choicest blessings still attend 
 Each honest-hearted open friend ; 
 And calm and quiet be his end, 
 
 And a' that's good watch o'er him ! 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 
 And dainties, a great store o' 'em ! 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Unstain'd by any vicious blot ; 
 And may he never want a groat, 
 
 That's fond of Tullochgorum. 
 
 But for the discontented fool, 
 Who wants to be oppression's tool, 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 
 
 And discontent devour him ! 
 May dool and sorrow be hy? chance, 
 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 
 And nane say, Wae's me for 'im ! 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 And a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Whate'er he be that winna dance 
 
 The reel of Tullochgorum ! 
 
 John Skinner. — Born 1721, Died 1807. 
 
 1051.— AMYNTA. 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep- 
 hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I 
 
 forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of 
 love. 
 Oh, what had my youth with ambition to 
 
 do? 
 Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my 
 
 vow? 
 Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook 
 
 restore. 
 And I'll wander from love and Amynta no 
 more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from 
 
 love ! 
 Oh, fool ! to imagine that aught could 
 
 subdue 
 A love so well-founded, a passion so true ! 
 
 Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
 Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : 
 Thy tears are aU fruitless, thy wishes are 
 
 vain. 
 The moments neglected return not again. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot— Died 1777. 
 
 1052.— BRAID CLAITH. 
 
 Ye wha are fain to hae your name 
 Wrote i' the bonnie book o' fame. 
 Let merit nae pretension claim 
 
 To laurell'd wreath. 
 But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, 
 
 In guid braid claith. ~- - 
 
 He that some ells o' this may fa', 
 And slae-black hat on pow like snaw, 
 Bids bauld to bear the gree awa, 
 
 Wi' a' this graith, 
 When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw 
 
 0' guid braid claith. 
 
 Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't ! 
 For he's a gowk they're sure to geek at ; 
 A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit 
 
 While he draws breath, 
 TOl his four quarters are bedeckit 
 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 On Sabbath-days the barber spark, 
 When he has done wi' scrapin' wark, 
 Wi' siller broachie in his sark. 
 
 Gangs trigly, faith ! 
 Or to the Meadows, or the Park, 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 Weel might ye trow, to see them there, 
 That they to shave your haflSts bare. 
 Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, 
 
 Would be right laith, 
 When pacin' wi' a gawsy air 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 If ony mettled stirrah green 
 For favour frae a lady's een, 
 He maunna care for bein' seen 
 
 Before he sheath 
 His body in a scabbard clean 
 *0' guid braid claith. 
 
 For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, 
 A feg for him she winna care, 
 But crook her bonny mou fou sair, 
 
 And scauld him baith : 
 Wooers should aye their travel spare. 
 
 Without braid claith. 
 
 Braid claith lends f ouk an unca heeze ; 
 Maks mony kail-worms butterflees ; 
 Gies mony a doctor his degrees. 
 
 For little skaith : 
 In short, you may be what you please, 
 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 For though ye had as wise a snout on, 
 
 As Shakspere or Sir Isaac Newton, 
 
 Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on, 
 
 I'll tak my aith, 
 Till they could see ye ^vi' a suit on 
 
 O' guid braid claith. 
 
 Robert Fergusson. — Bom 1751, Died 1774. 
 
EoBT. Feegusson.] 
 
 THE FAEMEE'S INGLE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 J053.— THE FAEMEE'S INGLE. 
 
 Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin 
 keeks ; 
 Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre ; 
 Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn- 
 door steeks, 
 An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire ; 
 What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming 
 cauld, 
 An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in 
 vain; 
 Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' 
 bauld, 
 Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain ; 
 Begin, my Muse ! and chaunt in hamely 
 strain. 
 
 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, 
 
 Wi' divots theekit frae the weet an' drift ; 
 Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley 
 fiU, 
 An' gar their thickening smeek salute the 
 lift. 
 The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to 
 find, 
 Whan he out owre the hallan flings his een. 
 That ilka turn is handled to his mind ; 
 
 That a' his housie looks sae cosh an' clean ; 
 For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae 
 mean. 
 
 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs 
 require 
 
 A heartsome meltith, and refreshin' synd 
 O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire : 
 
 Sair wark an' poortith downa weel be join'd. 
 Wi' butter' d bannocks now the girdle reekg; 
 
 I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams ; 
 The readied kail stands by the chimley cheeks, 
 
 An' hand the riggin' het wi' welcome 
 streams, 
 
 Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer 
 
 Frae this, lat gentler gabs a lesson lear : 
 
 Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand. 
 They'd rax fell Strang upo' the simplest fare. 
 
 Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. 
 Fu' hale an' healthy Avad they pass the day ; 
 At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' 
 sound ; 
 Nor doctor need their weary life to spae, 
 Nor drogs their noddle and their sense 
 
 confound, 
 Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost 
 wound. 
 
 On sicken food has mony a doughty deed 
 
 By Caledonia's ancestors been done ; 
 By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed 
 
 In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun. 
 Twas this that braced their gardies stiff an' 
 Strang ; 
 That bent the deadly yew in ancient days ; 
 Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang ; 
 
 Garr'd Scotish thristles bang the Eoman 
 
 bays; 
 For near our crest their heads they dought 
 
 na raise. 
 
 The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre ; 
 
 The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash 
 0' Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's 
 sour, 
 "Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce 
 hash. 
 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on ; 
 How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his 
 bride ; 
 An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, 
 Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride ; 
 The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to 
 bide. 
 
 The fient a cheep 's amang the bairnies now ; 
 For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane : 
 Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou. 
 
 Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen. 
 In rangles round, before the ingle 's low, 
 Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tales they 
 hear, 
 0' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow : 
 
 0' ghaists, that win in glen an kirkyard 
 
 drear, 
 Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them 
 shake wi' fear ! 
 
 For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be 
 
 Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ilJ. ; 
 That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil ee ; 
 
 An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin' 
 kiln. 
 mock nae this, my friends ! but rather 
 mourn, 
 Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear ; 
 Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return. 
 
 And dim our dolefu' days wi' baimly fear ; 
 The mind 's ay cradled whan the grave is 
 near. 
 
 Yet Thrift, iadustrious, bides her latest days. 
 Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles 
 wave ; 
 Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays ; 
 Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the 
 lave. 
 On some feast-day, the wee things buskit 
 braw. 
 Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, 
 Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw 
 Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy ; 
 Careless though death shou'd mak the feast 
 her foy. 
 
 In its auld lerroeh yet the deas remains, 
 Where the gudeman aft streeks him at hi^ 
 ease ; 
 
 A warm and canny lean for weary banes 
 0' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. 
 
 Eound him will baudrins an' the coUie come. 
 To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee^ 
 
 To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum 
 
 H 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. 
 
 [RoBT. Feegusson. 
 
 O' kcbbnck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to 
 
 prie ; 
 This a' the boon they craTe, an' a' the fee. 
 
 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak : 
 "What stacks he wants to thrash; what 
 rigs to till ; 
 How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back, 
 For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill. 
 Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids 
 Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies 
 bound ; 
 Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, 
 An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the 
 
 ground ; 
 Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow 
 pound. 
 
 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green, 
 Their joints to slack frae industry a while ; 
 
 The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en. 
 
 An' haflflins steeks them frae their daily 
 toil: 
 
 The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer ; 
 The reistit ingle 's done the maist it dow ; 
 
 Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, 
 Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, 
 Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow. 
 
 Peace to the husbandman, an* a' his tribe, 
 Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to 
 year ! 
 Lang maj' his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb, 
 An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded 
 ear ! 
 May Scotia's simmers ay look gay an' green ; 
 Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts de- 
 creed ! 
 May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien, 
 Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith 
 
 freed ; 
 An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours 
 succeed ! 
 
 Robert Fergusson. — Bom 1751, Biecl 1774. 
 
 1054.— TO THE TEON-KIEK BELL. 
 
 Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing. 
 As e'er was framed to jow or ring ! 
 What gar'd them sic in steeple hing. 
 
 They ken themsel ; 
 But weel wat I, they couldna bring 
 
 Waur sounds frae hell. 
 
 Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow, 
 Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now 
 Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo, 
 
 Thy sound to bang, 
 And keep it frae gaun through and through 
 
 Wi'jarrin' twang. 
 
 Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't ; 
 Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't; 
 "When I'm 'bout ony business eident. 
 
 It's sair to thole ; 
 To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't, 
 
 "Wi' senseless knoll. 
 
 Oh ! were I provost o' the town, 
 I swear by a' the powers aboon, 
 I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down ; 
 
 Nor should you think 
 (Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown) 
 
 Again to clink. 
 
 For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap. 
 And fain wald fa' owre in a nap, 
 Troth, I could doze as sound 's a tap, 
 
 Were't no for thee, 
 That gies the tither weary chap 
 
 To wauken me. 
 
 I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick : 
 Quo' he — " This bell o' mine's a trick, 
 A wily piece o' politic, 
 
 A cunnin' snare. 
 To trap fouk in a cloven stick, 
 
 Ere they're aware. 
 
 As lang's my dautit bell hings there, 
 A' body at the kirk will skair ; 
 Quo' they, if he that preaches there 
 
 Like it can wound, 
 We downa care a single hair 
 
 Forjoyfu' sound." 
 
 If magistrates wi' me would 'gree, 
 For aye tongue-tackit should you be j 
 Nor fleg wi' anti-melody 
 
 Sic honest fouk, 
 Whase lugs were never made to dreo 
 
 Thy dolefu' shock. 
 
 But far frae thee the bailies dwell. 
 Or they would scunner at your knell ; 
 Gie the foul thief his riven bell. 
 
 And then, I trow. 
 The byword hands, " The diel himsel 
 
 Has got his due." 
 
 Bdhert Ferausson, — Born 1751, Died 1774. 
 
 1055.— A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. 
 
 On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene 
 0' men and manners meets our een. 
 Ane wad maist trow, some people chose 
 To change their faces wi' their clo'es, 
 And fain wad gar ilk neibour think 
 They thirst for guidness as for drink ; 
 But there 's an unco dearth o' grace. 
 That has nae mansion but the face, 
 And never can obtain a part 
 In benmost corner o' the heart. 
 Why should religion mak us sad, 
 If good frae virtue 's to be had ? 51 
 
John Byrom.] 
 
 CAEELESS CONTENT. 
 
 [Sixth Period.-— 
 
 Na • rather gleefu' turn your face, 
 Forsake hypocrisy, grimace ; 
 And never hae it understood 
 You fleg mankind frae being good. 
 
 In afternoon, a' brawly buskit. 
 The joes and lasses loe to frisk it. 
 Some tak a great delight to place 
 The modest bon-grace o\VTe the face ; 
 Though you may see, if so inclined, 
 The turning o' the leg behind. 
 Now, Comely-Garden and the Park 
 Refresh them, after forenoon's wark : 
 Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills, 
 Supply them in their Sunday's gills ; 
 Where writers aften spend their pence, 
 To stock their heads wi' drink and sense. 
 
 While danderin cits delight to stray 
 To Castlehill or public way, 
 Where they nae other purpose mean. 
 Than that fool cause o' being seen, 
 Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue. 
 Where bonnie pastures meet the view. 
 And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues, 
 Befitting Willie Shakspere's muse. 
 If Fancy there would join the thrang, 
 The desert rocks and hills amang. 
 To echoes we should lilt and play, 
 And gie to mirth the live-lang day. 
 
 Or should some canker' d biting shower 
 The day and a' her sweets deflower, 
 To Holyrood-house let me stray, 
 And gie to musing a' the day ; 
 Lamenting what auld Scotland knew, 
 Bein days for ever frae her view. 
 O Hamilton, for shame ! the Muse 
 Would pay to thee her couthy vows, 
 Gin ye wad tent the humble strain, 
 And gie's our dignity again ! 
 For oh, wae 's me ! the thistle springs 
 In domicile o' ancient kings. 
 Without a patriot to regret 
 Oar palace and our ancient state. 
 
 Robert Fergusson. — Born 1751, Died 1774. 
 
 I am content, I do not care, 
 
 Wag as it will the world for me ; 
 
 When fuss and fret was all my fare, 
 It got no ground as I could see : 
 
 So when away my caring went, 
 
 I counted cost, and was content. 
 
 With more of thanks and less of thought, 
 I strive to make my matters meet ; 
 
 To seek what ancient sages sought, 
 Physic and food in sour and sweet : 
 
 To take what passes in good part, 
 
 And keep the liiccups from the heart. 
 
 With good and gentle-humour' d hearts, 
 I choose to chat where'er I come. 
 
 Whate'er the subject be that starts ; 
 
 But if I get among the glum, 
 I hold my tongue to tell the truth. 
 And keep my breath to cool my broth. 
 
 For chance or change of peace or pain, 
 For fort«ne's favour or her frown, 
 
 For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 
 I never dodge, nor \rp nor down : 
 
 But swing what way the ship shall swim, 
 
 Or tack about with equal trim. 
 
 I suit not ^vhere I shall not speed. 
 Nor trace the turn of every tide ; 
 
 If simple sense will not succeed, 
 I make no bustling, but abide : 
 
 For shining wealth, or scaring woe, 
 
 I force no friend, I fear no foe. 
 
 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, 
 
 Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, 
 
 I shun the rancours and the routs ; 
 And wishing weE to every wight, 
 
 Whatever turn the matter takes, 
 
 I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 
 
 With whom I feast I do not fawn, 
 
 Nor if the folks should flout me, faint ; 
 
 If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 
 I cook no kind of a complaint : 
 
 With none disposed to disagree, 
 
 But like them best who best like me. 
 
 Not that I rate myself the rule 
 
 How all my ])etters should behave ; 
 
 But fame shall find me no man's fool, 
 Nor to a set of men a slave : 
 
 I love a friendship free and frank, 
 
 And hate to hang upon a hank. 
 
 Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
 
 I never loose where'er I link ; 
 Though if a. business budges by, 
 
 I talk thereon just as I think ; 
 My word, my work, my heart, my hand, 
 Still on a side together stand. 
 
 If names or notions make a noise, 
 Whatever hap the question hath. 
 
 The point impartially I poise, 
 
 And read or write, but without wrath ; 
 
 For should I burn, or break my brains. 
 
 Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? 
 
 I love my neighbour as myself, 
 Myself like him too, by his leave ; 
 
 Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf. 
 Came I to crouch, as I conceive : 
 
 Dame Nature doubtless has design'd 
 
 A man the monarch of his mind. 
 
 Now taste and try this temper, sirs. 
 Mood it and brood it in your breast ; 
 
 Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, 
 
 That man does right to mar his rest. 
 
 Let me be deft, and debonair, 
 
 I am content, I do not care. 
 
 John Byrom.— Born 1691, Bled 17G3 
 
From 1727 fo 1780.] 
 
 1057.— A PASTORAL. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 [John Byrom. 
 
 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 
 "VVlieu Pliosbe went with me wherever I went ; 
 Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 
 
 breast : 
 Sure never foixd shepherd like Colin was 
 
 blest ! 
 But now she is gone, and has left me behind, 
 Wliat a marvellouti change on a sudden I 
 
 find! 
 When things were as fine as could possibly 
 
 be, 
 I thought 'twas the Spring : but alas ! it was 
 
 she. 
 
 With such a companion to tend a few 
 
 sheep. 
 To rise up and play, or to lie down and 
 
 sleep : 
 I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay, 
 3Iy heart was as liglrt as a feather all day ; 
 Ihit now I so cross and so pee%dsh am grown, 
 So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 
 ^ly fair one is gone, and my joys are all 
 
 drown' d. 
 
 But now, when he 's fawning, I with a soxur 
 
 look 
 Crj'^ " Sirrah ! " and give him a blow -with my 
 
 crook : 
 And I'll give him another ; for why should 
 
 not Tray 
 Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's 
 
 away ? 
 
 When walking with Phoebe, what sights 
 
 have I seen, 
 How fair was the flower, how fresh was the 
 
 green ! 
 What a lovely appearance the trees and the 
 
 shade, 
 The corn fields and hedges, and everything 
 
 made ! 
 But now she has left me, though all are still 
 
 there. 
 They none of them now so delightful appear : 
 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her 
 
 eyes, 
 Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 
 
 Sweet music went with us both all the wood 
 through, 
 
 -Vnd my heart — I am sure it weighs more than 1 The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale 
 
 a pound. 
 
 The fountain that wont to run sweetly 
 
 along, 
 And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles 
 
 among ; 
 Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was 
 
 there, 
 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to 
 
 hear : 
 But now she is absent, I walk by its side, 
 And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but 
 
 chide ; 
 Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? 
 Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me 
 
 complain. 
 
 My lambkins around me would oftentimes 
 
 play, 
 And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; 
 How pleasant their sporting, how happy their 
 
 time. 
 When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in 
 
 their prime ; 
 But now, in their frolics when by me they 
 
 pass, 
 I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; 
 Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite 
 
 mad, 
 To see you so merry while I am so sad. 
 
 My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
 <;omo wagging his tail to my fair one and 
 
 me ; 
 And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog 
 
 said, 
 "Come hither, poor fellow," and patted his 
 
 head. 
 
 too; 
 Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did 
 
 bleat, 
 And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our 
 
 feet. 
 But now she is absent, though still they 
 
 sing on, 
 The woods are but lonely, the melody 's gone : 
 Her voice in the concert, as now I have 
 
 found. 
 Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 
 
 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 
 
 And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? 
 
 Does ought of its sweetness the blossom be- 
 guile ? 
 
 That meadow, those daisies, why do they not 
 smile ? 
 
 Ah ! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, 
 
 And made yourselves fine for — a place in her 
 breast : 
 
 You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, 
 
 To be pluck' d by her hand, on her bosom to 
 die. 
 
 How sloAvly Time creeps till my Phoebe 
 
 return ! 
 While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I 
 
 bum : 
 Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would 
 
 tread, 
 I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould 
 
 melt down the lead. 
 Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. 
 And rest so much longer for 't when she is 
 
 here. 
 Ah Colin ! old Time is full of delay, 
 Nor will budge one foot taster for all thou 
 
 canst say, 51 * 
 
Doddridge.] 
 
 THE GOSPEL. 
 
 [Sixth Period. — 
 
 Will no pitying power, that hears me com- 
 plain, 
 
 Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ? 
 
 To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion 
 remove ; 
 
 But what swain is so silly to live without 
 love ! 
 
 No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, 
 
 For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly for- 
 lorn. 
 
 Ah ! what shall I do ? I shall die with de- 
 spair ; 
 
 Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with 
 your fair. 
 
 John Byrom.—Boni 1691, Died 1763. 
 
 1058.— THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Mark the soft-falling snow, 
 And the diffusive rain ; 
 To heaven, from whence it fell, 
 It turns not back again ; 
 
 But waters earth 
 
 Through every pore. 
 
 And calls forth all 
 
 Its secret store. 
 
 Arrayed in beauteous green, 
 The hills and valleys shine. 
 And man and beast are fed 
 By providence divine ; 
 
 The harvest bows 
 
 Its golden ears. 
 
 The copious seed 
 
 Of future years. 
 
 " So," saith the God of grace, 
 " My gospel shall descend, 
 Almighty to effect 
 The purpose I intend ; 
 
 Millions of souls 
 
 Shall feel its power, 1 
 
 And bear it down 
 
 To millions more. 
 
 Joy shall begin your march, 
 And peace protect your ways, 
 While all the mountains round 
 Echo melodious praise ; 
 
 The vocal groves 
 
 Shall sing the God, 
 
 And every tree 
 
 Consenting nod." 
 
 Doddridge.^Boni 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 1059.— EVENING HYMN. 
 
 Interval of grateful shade. 
 Welcome to my weary head ! 
 Welcome slumber to mine eyes, 
 Tired with glaring vanities I 
 
 My great Master still allows 
 Needful periods of repose : 
 By my heavenly Father blest. 
 Thus I give my powers to rest ; 
 Heavenly Father ! gracious name ! 
 Night and day his love the same ; 
 Far be each suspicious thought, 
 Every anxious care forgot : 
 Thou, my ever bounteous God, 
 Crown' st my days with various good : 
 Thy kind eye, that cannot sleep. 
 These defenceless hours shall keep ; 
 Blest vicissitude to me ! 
 Day and night I'm still with thee. 
 
 What though downy slumbers flee, 
 Strangers to my couch and me ? 
 Sleepless, well I know to rest, 
 Lodged within my Father's breast. 
 While the empress of the night 
 Scatters mild her silver light ; 
 While the vivid plaiiets stray 
 Various through their mystic way ; 
 While the stars unnumber'd roll 
 Round the ever-constant pole ; 
 Far above these spangled skies, 
 All my soul to God shall rise ; 
 Midst the silence of the night, 
 Mingling with those angels bright, 
 Whose harmonious voices raise 
 Ceaseless love and ceaseless praise.' 
 Through the throng his gentle ear 
 Shall my tuneless accents hear ; 
 From on high shall he impart 
 Secret comfort to my heart. 
 He, in these serenest hours, 
 Guides my intellectual powers. 
 And his Spirit doth diffuse, 
 Sweeter far than midnight dews. 
 Lifting all my thoughts above 
 On the wings of faith and love. 
 Blest alternative to me. 
 Thus to sleep or wake with Thee ! 
 
 What if death my sleep invade ? 
 Should I be of death afraid ? 
 Whilst encircled by thine arm, 
 Death may strike, but cannot harm. 
 What if beams of opening day 
 Shine around my breathless clay ? 
 Brighter visions from on high 
 Shall regale my mental eye. 
 Tender friends awhile may mourn 
 Me from their embraces torn ; 
 Dearer, better friends I have 
 In the realms beyond the grave. 
 See the guardian angels nigh 
 Wait to waft my soul on high ! 
 See the golden gates display'd ! 
 See the crown to grace my head ! 
 See a flood of sacred light, 
 Which no more shall yield to night ! 
 Transitory world, farewell ! 
 Jesus calls with him to dwell. 
 With thy heavenly presence blest, 
 Death is life, and labour rest. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 A CHEISTMAS HYMK 
 
 [Doddridge. 
 
 Welcome sleep or death to me, 
 Still secure, for stiU with Thee. 
 
 Doddridge.— Bo^^-n 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 io6o.— TO-MORROW, LORD, IS THINE. 
 
 To-morrow, Lord, is thine, * 
 Lodged in thy sov'reign hand ; 
 And if its sun arise and shine. 
 It shines by thy command. 
 
 The present moment flies, 
 And bears our life away ; 
 Oh, make thy servants truly wise, 
 That they may live to-day ! 
 
 Since on this winged hour 
 Eternity is hung, 
 Awake, by thine almighty pow'r. 
 The aged and the young. 
 
 " One thing " demands our care : 
 Oh, be it still pursued , 
 Lest, slighted once, the season fair 
 Should never be renew'd ! 
 
 Doddridge.— Born 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 Where thou determin'st mine abode. 
 
 There would I choose to be ; 
 Foi- in thy presence death is life. 
 
 And earth is heaven with thee. 
 
 Doddndge.—Born 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 io6i. 
 
 ON RECOVERY FROM 
 SICKNESS. 
 
 My God, thy service well demands 
 
 The remnant of my days ; 
 AVhy was this fleeting breath renew'd, 
 
 But to renew thy praise ? 
 
 Thine arms of everlasting love 
 Did this weak frame sustain, 
 
 "WTien Hfe was hovering o'er the grave, 
 And nature sunk with pain. 
 
 Thou, when the pains of death were felt. 
 Didst chase the fears of hell ; 
 
 And teach my pale and quivering lips 
 Thy matchless grace to tell. 
 
 Calml3^ I bow'd my fainting head 
 On thy dear faithful breast ; 
 
 Pleased to obey my Father's call 
 To his eternal rest. 
 
 Into thy hands, my Saviour God, 
 
 Did I my soul resign, 
 In firm dependence on that truth 
 
 Which made salvation mine. 
 
 Back from the borders of the gnwe 
 
 At thy command I come ; 
 Nor would I urge a speedier flight 
 
 To my celestial home. 
 
 ! 1062.— PREPARING TO MEET GOD. 
 
 He comes ; thy God, Israel, comes ; 
 
 Prepare thy God to meet : 
 Meet him in battle's force array 'd. 
 
 Or humbled at his feet. 
 
 He form'd the mountains by his strength, 
 He makes the winds to blow ; 
 
 And all the secret thoughts of man 
 Must his Creator know. 
 
 He shades the morning's op'ning rays, 
 
 And shakes the solid world. 
 And stars and angels from their seats 
 
 Are by his thunder hurl'd. 
 
 Eternal Sovereign of the skies, 
 
 And shall thine Israel daro 
 In mad rebellion to arise, 
 
 And tempt th' rmequal war ? 
 
 Lo, nations tremble at thy frown. 
 
 And faint beneath thy rod : 
 Crush'd by its gentlest movement down, 
 
 They fall, tremendous God. 
 
 Avert the terrors of thy wrath, 
 
 And let thy mercy shine ; 
 While humble penitence and prayer 
 
 Approve us truly thine . 
 
 Doddridge. — Born 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 Hail, progeny divine ! 
 Hail, Virgin's wondrous Son, 
 Who, for that humble shrine. 
 Didst quit the Almighty's throne 
 
 The infant Lord 
 
 Our voices sing, 
 
 And be the King 
 
 Of grace adored. 
 
 Ye princes, disappear, 
 And boast your crowns no more, 
 Lay down your sceptres here, 
 And in the dust adore : 
 
 Where Jesus dwells. 
 
 The manger bare 
 
 In lustre far 
 
 Your pomp excels. 
 
Charles Wesley.] 
 
 COME. O THOU TEAVELLEE. 
 
 [Sixth Period. 
 
 With Bethlehem's shepherds mild 
 The angels bow their head, 
 And round the sacred child 
 Their guardian wings they spread ; 
 
 They knew that where 
 
 Their Sovereign lies. 
 
 In low disguise, 
 
 Heaven's court is there. 
 
 Thither, my soul, repair, 
 And earthly homage pay 
 To thy Eedeemer fair, 
 As on his natal day : 
 
 I kiss thy feet ; 
 
 And, Lord, would be 
 
 A child like thee, 
 
 Whom thus I greet. 
 Doddridge.— Born 1702, Died 1751. 
 
 1064.— COME, O THOU TEAVELLEE. 
 
 Come, thou Traveller unknown, 
 Whom still I hold, but cannot se'e ! 
 
 My company before is gone, 
 And I am left alone with thee : 
 
 With thee all night I mean to stay, 
 
 And wrestle till the break of day. 
 
 I need not tell thee who I am ; 
 
 My misery and sin declare ; 
 Thyself hast call'd me by my name, 
 
 Look on thy hands, and read it there : 
 But who, I ask thee, who art Thou .? 
 Tell me thy name, and tell me now. 
 
 Ih vain thou strugglest to get free, 
 
 I never will unloose my hold ! 
 Art thou the Man that died for me ? 
 
 The secret of thy love unfold : 
 Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 
 Till I thy Name, thy Nature know 
 
 Wilt thou not yet to me reveal 
 
 Thy new, unutterable Name ? 
 Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell : 
 
 To know it now, resolved I am : 
 Wrestling, I will not let thee go, 
 Till I thy Name, thy Nature know. 
 
 What though my shrinking flesh complain, 
 And murmur to contend so long ? 
 
 I rise superior to my pain : 
 
 When I am weak, then I am strong ! 
 
 And when my all of strength shall fail, 
 
 I shall with the God-Man prevail. 
 
 Yield to me now, for I am weak ; 
 
 But confident in self-despair : 
 Speak to my heart, in bles?ings speak : 
 
 Be conquer'd by my instant pray'r : 
 Speak, or thou never hence shalt move, 
 And tell me if thy Name is Love. 
 
 'Tis Love ! 'tis Love ! thou diedst for me : 
 I hear thy whisper in my heart ! 
 
 The morning breaks, the shadows flee, • 
 Pure, universal love thou art : 
 
 To me, to all, thy bowels move, 
 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 My pray'r hath power with God : the grace 
 
 Unspeakable I now receive ; 
 Through faith I see thee face to face : 
 
 I see thee face to face, and live ! 
 In vain I have not wept and strove : 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 I know thee. Saviour, who thou art, 
 Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend : 
 
 Nor wilt thou Avith the night depart. 
 But stay and love me to the end ; 
 
 Thy mercies never shall remove ; 
 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 The Sun of Eighteousness on me 
 
 Hath rose, with healing in his wings : 
 
 Wither'd my nature's strength, from thee 
 My soul its life and succour brings ; 
 
 My help is all laid up above ; 
 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 Contented now upon my thigh 
 
 I halt, till life's short journey end ; 
 
 All helplessness, all weakness, I 
 On thee alone for strength depend ; 
 
 Nor have I power from thee to move ; 
 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 Lame as I am, I take the prey ; 
 
 Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercomc ; 
 I leap for joy, pursue my way. 
 
 And, as a bounding hart, fly home ; 
 Through all eternity to prove 
 Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. 
 
 Charles Wesley.— Born 1708, Bled 1788. 
 
 1065.— WEAEY OF WANDEEING. 
 
 Weary of wand' ring from my God, 
 And now made willing to return, 
 
 I hear, and bow me to the rod ; 
 
 For thee, not without hope, I mourn ; 
 
 I have an Advocate above, 
 
 A Friend before the throne of Love. 
 
 O Jesus, full of truth and grace, 
 More full of grace than I of sin ; 
 
 Yet once again I seek thy face. 
 Open tliine arms, and take me in ; 
 
 And freely my backslidings heal, 
 
 And love the faithless sinner still. 
 
 Thou know'st the way to bring me back, 
 
 My fallen spirit to restore ; 
 O ! for thy truth and mercy's sake, 
 
 Forgive, and bid me sin no more ; 
 The ruins of my soul repair, 
 And make my heart a house of pray'r. 
 
FVo»)i'1727 to ITSO.j 
 
 FROM THE GEEMAN. 
 
 [John WESiiET, 
 
 The stono to flesh again convert ; 
 
 The veil of sin ag-ain remove : 
 Sprinkle thy blood ujion my heart, 
 
 And m(;lt it by thy dying: love; 
 This rebel heart by love subdue, 
 And make it soft, and make it new. 
 
 Give to mine eyes refreshing tears, 
 
 And kindle my rclentings now ; 
 Fill my whole soul with filial fears ; 
 
 To thy sweet yoke my spirit bow ; 
 Bend by thy grace, O bend or break, 
 The iron sinew in my neck ! 
 
 Ah ! give me, Lord, the tender heart, | 
 
 That trembles at th' approach of sin ; { 
 
 A godly fear of sin impart ; I 
 Implant, and root it deep within ; 
 
 That I may di-ead thy gracious power, 
 
 And never dare t' offend thee more. I 
 
 Charles Wesley.— Born 1708, Died 1788. \ 
 
 1066.— JESU, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 
 
 Jesu, Lover of my soul, 
 
 Let me to .thy bosom fly, 
 While the nearer waters roll. 
 
 While the tempest still is high : 
 Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
 
 Till the storm of life be past ; 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 receive my soul at last 1 
 
 Other refuge have I none. 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on thee ; 
 Leave, ah ! leave me not alone. 
 
 Still support and comfort me : 
 All my trust on thee is stay'd ; 
 
 AH my help from thee I bring ; 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of thy wing. 
 
 Thou, Christ, art all I want ; 
 
 More than all in thee I find : 
 Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 
 
 Heal the sick, and lead the blind : 
 Jirst and holy is thy Name ; 
 
 1 am all unrighteousness : 
 False and full of sin I am ; 
 
 Thou art full of truth and grace. 
 
 Plenteous grace mth thee is found, 
 
 Grace to cover all my sin ; 
 Let the healing streams abound, 
 
 Make and keep me pure within : 
 Thou of life the fountain art ; 
 
 Freely let me take of thee ; 
 Spring thou up within my heart, 
 
 Rise to all eternity. 
 
 Charles Wesley.— Born 1708, Died 1788. 
 
 1067.— FROM TERSTEEGE. 
 
 Thou hidden love of God, whose height, 
 Whose depth unfathom'd, no man knows, 
 
 1 see from far thy beauteous light, 
 Inly I sigh for thy repose : 
 
 My heart is pain'd, nor can it be 
 
 At rest, tni it finds rest in thee. ~ - 
 
 Thy secret voice invites me still 
 
 The sweetness of thy yoke to prove ; 
 
 And fain I would ; but though my will 
 Seems fix'd, yet wide my passions rove ; 
 
 Yet hindrances strew all the way ; 
 
 I aim at thee, yet from thee stray, 
 
 'Tis mercy aU, that thou hast brought 
 My mind to seek her peace in thee , 
 
 Yet whUe I seek,. but find thee not, 
 No peace my wand' ring soul shall see ; 
 
 when shall all my wanderings end. 
 
 And all my steps to thee- ward tend ! 
 
 Is there a thing beneath the sun 
 
 That strives with thee my heart to share ? 
 Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone. 
 
 The Lord of every motion there ! 
 Then shall my heart from earth be free, 
 When it hath found repose in thee. 
 
 O hide this self from me, that I 
 
 No more, but Christ in me, may live ; 
 
 My vile affections crucify, 
 
 Nor let one darhng lust survive I 
 
 In all things nothing may I see, 
 
 Nothing desire or seek, but thee ! 
 
 O Love, thy sovereign aid impart, , 
 To save me from low-thoughted care ; 
 
 Chase this self-will through all my heart, 
 Through all its latent mazes there : 
 
 Make me thy duteous child, that I 
 
 Ceaseless may, " Abba, Father," cry ! 
 
 Ah no ! ne'er will I backward turn : 
 Tliine wholly, thine alone, I am ; 
 
 Thrice happy he who views with scorn 
 Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame! 
 
 O help, that I may never move 
 
 From the blest footsteps of thy love. 
 
 Each moment draw from earth away 
 My heart, that lowly waits thy call ; 
 
 Speak to my inmost soul, and say, 
 " I am thy Love, thy God, thy All ! " 
 
 To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, 
 
 To taste thy love, be all my choice. 
 
 John Wesley.— Born 1703, Died 1791. 
 
 1068.— FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God, 
 To wash me in thy cleansing blood ; 
 To dwell within thy woxmds : then pain 
 Is sweet, and life or death is gain. 
 
John Wesley.] 
 
 FROM COUNT ZINZENDOEF. 
 
 fciiXTH Period.— 
 
 Take my poor heart, and let it be 
 For ever closed to all but thee ! 
 Seal thou my breast, and let me wear 
 That pledge of leve for ever there ! 
 
 How blest arc they who still abide 
 Close shelter'd in thy bleeding side ! 
 Who Hfe and strength from thence derive, 
 And by thee move, and in thee live. 
 
 What are our works but sin and death, 
 Till thou thy quick' ning spirit breathe ? 
 Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move : 
 O wondrous grace ! boundless love ! 
 
 How can it be, thou heavenly King, 
 That thou shouldst us to glory bring ? 
 Make slaves the partners of thy throne, 
 Deck'd with a never-fading crown ? 
 
 Hence our hearts melt; our eyes o'erflow; 
 Our words are lost ; nor will we know, 
 Nor will we think of aught beside, 
 " My Lord, my Love is crucified." 
 
 Ah, Lord ! enlarge our scanty thought. 
 To know the wonders thou hast wrought ; 
 Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell 
 Thy love immense, unsearchable. 
 
 First-born of many brethren Thou ! 
 To thee, lo ! all our souls we bow ; 
 To thee our hearts and hands we give : 
 Thine may we die, thine may we live ! 
 
 John Wesley.— Born 1703, Died 1791. 
 
 1069.— FROM COUNT ZINZENDOEF. 
 
 Jesus, thy Blood and Eighteousness 
 My beauty are, my glorious dress: 
 'Midst flaming worlds, in these array'd. 
 With joy shall I lift up my head. 
 
 Bold shall I stand in thy great day ; 
 For who aught to my charge shall lay ? 
 Fully absolved through these I am. 
 From sin and fear, from guilt and shame. 
 
 The holy, meek, unspotted Lamb, 
 Who from the Father's bosom came, 
 Who died for me, even me t' atone. 
 Now for my Lord and God I own. 
 
 Lord, I believe thy precious blood, 
 Which, at the mercy-seat of God, 
 For ever doth for sinners plead, 
 For me, even for my soul, was shed. 
 
 Lord, I believe, were sinners more 
 Than sands upon the ocean shore. 
 Thou hast for all a ransom paid. 
 For all a full atonement made. 
 
 When from the dust of death I rise, 
 To claim my mansion in the skies, 
 Even then, — this shall be all my plea, 
 Jesus hath lived, hath died for me. 
 
 Thus Abraham, the Friend of God, 
 Thus all heaven's armies bought with blood, 
 Saviour of sinners Thee proclaim ; 
 Sinners, of whom the chief I am. 
 
 Jesus, be endless praise to thee. 
 Whose boundless mercy hath for me, 
 For me, and all thy hands have made, 
 An everlasting ransom paid. 
 
 Ah ! give to all thy servants, Lord, 
 With power to speak thy gracious word ; 
 That all, who to thy wounds will flee. 
 May find eternal life in thee. 
 
 Thou God of power, thou God of love, 
 Let the whole world thy mercy prove ! 
 Now let thy word o'er all prevail ; 
 Now take the spoils of death and hell. 
 
 John Wesleij.—Born 1703, Died 1791. 
 
 1070.— FEOM SCHEFFLEE. 
 
 Thee will I love, my strength, my tower ; 
 
 Thee will I love, my joy, my crown ; 
 Thee will I love, with all my power, 
 
 In all thy works, and thee alone : 
 Thee will I love, till the pure fire 
 Fills my whole soul with chaste desire. 
 
 Ah, why did I so late thee know, 
 Thee, lovelier than the sons of men ! 
 
 Ah, why did I no sooner go 
 To thee, the onlj' ease in pain ! 
 
 Ashamed I sigh, and inly mourn, 
 
 That I so late to thee did turn. 
 
 In darkness willingly I stray'd ; 
 
 I sought thee, yet from thee I roved ; 
 Far wide my wand'ring thoughts were spread; 
 
 Thy creatures more than thee I loved : 
 And now if more at length I see, 
 'Tis through thy light, and comes from thee. 
 
 I thank thee, uncreated Sun, 
 
 That thy bright beams on me have shined ; 
 I thank thee, who hast overthrown 
 
 My foes, and heal'd my wounded mind; 
 I thank thee, whose enlivening voice 
 Bids mj' freed heart in thee rejoice. 
 
 Uphold me in the doubtful race. 
 
 Nor suffer me again to stray ; 
 Strengthen my feet with steady pace 
 
 Still to press forward in thy way ; 
 My soul and flesh, O Lord of might, 
 Fill, satiate, with thy heavenly light. 
 
 Give to mine eyes refreshing tears ; 
 
 Give to my heart chaste, hallow' d fires ; 
 Give to my soul, with filial fears. 
 
 The love that all heaven's host inspires; 
 That all my powers, with all their might, 
 
 In thy sole glory may unite. 
 
From 1727 to 1780.] 
 
 DEATHLESS PRINCIPLE, ARISE! 
 
 [A. TOPLADY. 
 
 Thee will I love, my joy, my crown. 
 Thee will I love, my Lord, my God ; 
 
 Thee will I love, beneath thy frown, 
 Or smile, — thy sceptre, or thy rod : 
 
 What though my flesh and heart decay, 
 
 Thee shall I love in endless day ! 
 
 John Wesley.— Born 1703, Died 1791. 
 
 107 1. —FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 O Thou, to whose all-searching sight 
 The darkness shineth as the light, 
 Search, prove my heart ; it pants for thee ; 
 O burst these bonds, and set it free ! 
 
 Wash out its stains, refine its dross. 
 Nail my affections to the cross ; 
 Hallow each thought ; let all within 
 Be clean, as thou, my Lord, art clean ! 
 
 If in this darksome wild I stray. 
 
 Be thou my Light, be thou my Way; 
 
 No foes, no violence I fear, 
 
 No fraud, while thou, my God, art near. 
 
 When rising floods my soul o'erflo\y. 
 When sinks my heart in waves of woo, 
 Jesus, thy timely aid impart. 
 And raise my head, and cheer my heart. 
 
 Saviour, where'er thy steps I see, 
 Dauntless, untired, I follow thee ! 
 O let thy hand support me still, 
 And lead me to thy holy hill ! 
 
 If rough and thorny be the way, 
 My strength proportion to my day ; 
 Till toil, and grief, and pain shall cease, 
 Where all is calm, and joy^ and peace. 
 
 John Wesleij.—Born 1703, Died 1791. 
 
 1072. 
 
 -LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE 
 EXCELLING. 
 
 Love divine, all love excelling, 
 
 Joy of heaven to earth come down ; 
 Fix in us thy humble dwelling, 
 
 All thy faithful mercies crown ; 
 Jesus, Thou art all compassion ! 
 
 Pure unbounded love Thou art ; 
 Visit us with thy salvation. 
 
 Enter every trembling heart. 
 
 Breathe, oh, breathe thy loving Spirit 
 
 Into every troubled breast ; 
 Let us all in Thee inherit. 
 
 Let us find the promised i*est ; 
 Take away the love of sinning, 
 
 Alpha and Omega be ; 
 End of faith, as its beginning, • 
 
 Stt our hearts at liberty. 
 
 Come, almighty to deliver, 
 
 Let us all thy life receive ; 
 Suddenly return, and never, 
 
 Never more thy temples leave : 
 Thee we would be always blessing. 
 
 Serve Thee as thy hosts above ; 
 Pray and praise Thee without ceasing, 
 
 Glory in thy precious love. ~ — — 
 
 Finish tlicn thy new creation, 
 
 Pure, unspotted may we be ; 
 Let us see thy great salvation 
 
 Perfectly restored by Thee : 
 Changed from glory into glory. 
 
 Tin in heaven we take our place ! 
 Till we cast our crowns before Thee, 
 
 Lost in wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 A. Tox>lady.—Born 1740, Died 1778. 
 
 1073.— DEATHLESS PRINCIPLE, ARISE ! 
 
 Deathless principle, arise ! 
 Soar, thou native of the skies ! 
 Pearl of price, by Jesus bought, 
 To his glorious likeness wrought. 
 Go, to shine before his throne — 
 Deck his mediatorial crown ! 
 Go, his triumphs to adorn — 
 Made for God, to God return ! 
 
 Lo, He beckons from on high ! 
 Fearless to his presence fly — 
 Thine the merit of his blood, 
 Thine the righteousness of God ! 
 Angels, joyful to attend. 
 Hovering, round thy pillow bend ; 
 Wait to catch the signal given. 
 And escort thee quick to heaven ! 
 
 Is thy earthly house distrest, 
 Willing to retain its guest ? 
 'Tis not thou, but it, must die — 
 Fly, celestial tenant, fly. 
 Burst thy shackles — drop thy (Aaj — 
 Sweetly breathe thyself away — 
 Singing, to thy crown remove — 
 Swift of wing, and fired with love ! 
 
 Shudder not to pass the stream. 
 Venture all thy care on Him ; 
 Him — whose dying love and power/ 
 Still' d its tossing, hush'd its roar : 
 Safe is the expanded wave. 
 Gentle as a summer's eve ; 
 Not one object of his care 
 Ever sufl'er'd shipwreck there ! 
 
 See the haven full in view ! 
 
 Love divine shall bear thee through : 
 
 Trust to that propitious gale. 
 
 Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! 
 
 Saints in glory perfect made 
 
 Wait thy passage through the shade : 
 
 Ardent for thy coming o'er, 
 
 See, they throng the blissful shore ! 
 
A.TOPLADY.] EOCK OF AGES, 
 
 CLEi^'T FOE ME. [Sixth Period. 
 
 Mount, their transports to improve — 
 Join the longing choir above — 
 Swiftly to their vpish be given — 
 Kindle higher joy in heaven !— 
 Such the prospects that arise 
 To the dying Christian's eyes ! 
 Such the glorious vista, Faith 
 Opens through the shades of death ! 
 
 A. Toplady.—Boy-n 1740, Died 1778. 
 
 Convince us of cur sin, 
 Then lead to Jesus' blood ; 
 And, to our wond'ring view reveal 
 
 The boundless love of God ! 
 
 - 
 
 Eevive our drooping faith. 
 Our unbelief remove, 
 And kindle in our hearts the flame 
 Of never-dying love. 
 
 'Tis thine to cleanse the heart, 
 To sanctify the soul. 
 To pour fresh life in every part, 
 And new create the whole. 
 
 Dwell, therefore, in our hearts, 
 Our minds from bondage free. 
 Then shall we know, and praise, and love, 
 The Father, Son, and Thee ! 
 
 Hart.— Bom , Died . 
 
 1074.— EOCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOE ME. 
 
 Eock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 
 Keep me ever near to Thee ! 
 
 Let the water and the blood 
 
 From thy wounded side which flow'd, 
 
 Be of sin the double cure, 
 
 Cleanse me from its guilt and pow'r I 
 
 Not the labour of my hands 
 Can fulfil thy law's demands ; 
 Could my zeal no respite know- 
 Could my tears for ever flow, — . 
 All for sin could not atone ; 
 Thou must save, and Thou alone ! 
 
 Nothing in my hand I bring, 
 Simply to thy cross I cling ; 
 Naked, come to Thee for dress ; 
 Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 
 Leprous, to the Fountain fly ; 
 Wash me. Saviour, or I die ! 
 
 While I draw this fleeting breath, — 
 When my eyes shall close in death, — 
 When I soar to worlds ujiknown, — 
 See Thee on thy judgment throne, — 
 Eock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
 
 A. Toplady.—Born 1740, Died 1778. 
 
 1076.— BE WISE TO EUN THY EACE. 
 
 Be -wise to run thy race, 
 And cast off ev'ry load ; 
 Strive to be rich in works' of grace, 
 Be rich towards thy God. 
 
 If profit bo thy scope, 
 Diffuse thine alms about ; 
 The worldling prospers laying up, 
 The Christian, laying out ! 
 
 Eetums will not be scant. 
 With honour in the highest ; 
 For who relieves his brother's want, 
 Bestows his alms on Christ. 
 
 Give gladly to the poor — 
 'Tis lending to the Lord ; — 
 In secret to increase thy store. 
 And hide in heav'n thy hoard. 
 
 There thou mayst fear no thief. 
 No rankling rust, nor moth ; 
 Thy treasure and thy heart are safe,— 
 Where one is, will be both. 
 
 Hart. — Born , Died % 
 
 Ib75.— COME, HOLY SPIEIT, COME. 
 
 Come, Holy Spirit, come. 
 Let thy bright beams arise ; 
 Dispel all sorrows from our minds, 
 All darkness from our eyes. 
 
THE SEYENTH PERIOD, 
 
 FROM 1780 TILL THE PRESENT TIME. 
 
 THE great variety and abundance of tlie literature of this period might, in some measure, 
 have been predicted from the progress made during the previous tliirty or forty years, 
 in -which, as Johnson said, almost every man had come to write and to express himself cor- 
 rectly, and the number of readers had been multiplied a thousand-fold. The increase in 
 national wealth and population naturally led, in a country like Great Britain, to the improve- 
 ment of literature and the arts, and accordingly we find that a more popular and general style 
 of composition began to supplant the conventional stiffness and classic restraint imposed upon 
 former authors. The human intellect and imagination were sent abroad on wider surveys, 
 and with more ambitious views. To excite a great mass of hearers, the pubhc orator finds it 
 necessary to appeal to the stronger passions and universal sympathies of his audience ; and in 
 writing for a large number of readers, an author must adopt similar means, or fail of success. 
 Hence it seems natural that as society advanced, the character of our literature should become 
 assimilated to it, and partake of the onward movement, the popular feeling, and rising energy 
 of the nation. There were, however, some great public events and accidental circumstances 
 which assisted. in bringing about a change. The American war, by exciting the eloquence of 
 Chatham and Burke, awakened the spirit of the nation. The enthusiasm was continued by 
 the poet Cowper, who sympathized keenly with his fellow-men, and had a warm love of his 
 native country. Cowper wrote from no system ; he had not read a poet for seventeen years ; 
 but he drew the distinguishing features of English life and scenery with such graphic 
 power and beauty, that the mere poetry of art and fashion, as-d the stock images of de- 
 scriptive verse, could not but appear mean, affected, and common-place. Warton's " History of 
 Poetry," and Percy's " Reliques," threw back the imagination to the bolder and freer era 
 of our national literature, and the German drama, with all its horrors and extravngance, 
 was something better than mere delineations of manners or incidental satire. The French 
 Revolution came next, and seemed to break down all artificial distinctions. Talent and 
 virtue only were to be regarded, and the spirit of man was to enter on a new course of free 
 and glorious action. This dream passed away ; but it had sunk deep into some ardent minds, 
 and its fniits were seen in bold speculations on the hopes and destiny of man, in the strong 
 colourings of nature and passion, and in the free and flexible movements of the native genius 
 of our poetry. Since then, every department of literature has been cultivated with success. 
 In fiction, the name of Scott is inferior only to that of Shakspeare ; in criticism, a new era 
 may be dated from the establishment of the Edinburgh Eeview ; and in historical composition, if 
 we have no Hume or Gibbon, we have the results of far more valuable and diligent research. 
 Truth and nature have been more truly and devoutly worshipped, and real excellence more 
 highly prized. It has been feared by some that the principle of utility, which is recognised as 
 one of the features of the present age, and the progress of mechanical knowledge, would be 
 fatal to the higher efforts of imagination, and diminish the territories of the poet. This seems 
 a groundless fear. It did not damp the ardour of Scott or Byron, and it has not prevented the 
 poetry of Wordsworth from gradually working its way into pubhc favour. If we have not the 
 chivalry and romance of the EUzabethan age, wo have the ever-living passions of human nature, 
 and the wide theatre of the world, now accurately known and discriminated, as a field for the 
 exercise of genius. We have the benefit of all past knowledge and literature to exalt our stan- 
 dard of imitation and taste, and a more sure reward in the encouragement and applause of a 
 populous and enlightened nation. " The literature of England," says Shelley, "has arisen, as 
 it were, from a new birth. In spite of the low-thoughted envy which would undervalue con- 
 temporary merit, our own will be a memorable age in intellectual achievements, and we live 
 among such philosophers and poets as surpass, beyond comparison, any who have appeared 
 since the last national struggle for civil and religious liberty. The most unfailing herald, com- 
 panion, and follower of the awakening of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 or institution, is pootry. At such periods there is an accumulation of the power of com- 
 municating and receiving intense and impassioned conceptions respecting man and nature. The 
 persons in whom this power resides, may often, as far as regards many portions of their nature, 
 have little apparent correspondence with that spirit of good of which they are the ministers. 
 But even whilst they deny and adjure, they are yet compelled to serve the power which is seated 
 on the throne of their own soul. It is impossible to read the compositions of the most 
 celebrated writers of the present day without being startled with the electric life which burns 
 within their words. They measure the circumference and sound the depths of human nature 
 with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit, and they are themselves perhaps the most 
 sincerely astonished at its manifestations, for it is less their spirit than the spirit of the age. 
 Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration ; the mirrors of the gigantic 
 shadows which futurity casts upon the present ; the words which express what they understand 
 not ; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire ; the influence which 
 is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." — Cham- 
 bers' "Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 256. What dear household names we have is this period ! 
 Cowper, in all his breathings of home, and happiness, and liberty ; Dibdin, with his famous 
 Sea-songs ; James Grahame, with his quiet and peaceful Sabbath Morn and Eve ; Edwin Ather- 
 stone, with his gorgeous Fall of Nineveh, which will be ere long acknowledged one of the 
 greatest poems ever Avritten. Then Sir Walter Scott, with the story of Abbotsford, and 
 Keats in his exquisite beauty, and Heber in his saintly Hymns. We have Leigh Hunt, in all 
 his spring-Hke and quaint beauty — God bless thee, Leigh Hunt, thou hast cast many a bright 
 ray of sunshine on the gloomy path of this world. We have Macaulay and Lockhart ; we have the 
 quiet Bernard Barton and sweet William and Mary Howitt, and Eliza Cook and T. K." Hervey, 
 D. M. Moir and Thomas Aird, who will stand as one of Scotland's greatest bards yet. We 
 have the exquisite poems of the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and the poems of Keble and Wordsworth,. 
 — we mean the Archdeacon of Westminster, and of Archbishop Trench, so quaint, so thought- 
 ful, so precious. We have Dean Alford, so fresh with beauty and truth, and which perhaps 
 may last, great, and learned, and acute, and profound as his New Testament is, which may 
 last longer than even it. Monsell and Mrs. Alexander, Lyte, Horatius Bonar, Alexander Smith, 
 Dr. Neale, Arnold, William Kennedy, Charles Swain, Owen Meredith, and, domestic, j'et great 
 and grand, W. C. Bennett. We hare all these in their beauty and their truth. Southey, Cole- 
 ridge, Wordsworth, belong to this period ; Shelley, Byron, all are ours. And were we to take 
 the names in history, and metaphysics, and divinity, and political economy, and the drama, we 
 should find the age great and glorious, notwithstanding its many faults and shortcomings. 
 Dobell, P. J. Bailey, Catherine Winkworth, all add to the list in whom the people of our isle 
 may well glory, and thank God. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 1 names of Mary IJnwin and William Cowpe^ 
 
 I are indissolubly joined in the story of Cowper' s 
 " WiUiam Cowper, the most popular poet j life as well as in his writings. On the advice 
 of his generation, and the best of the English of John Newton, a man remarkable in many 
 letter-writers, was born at Berkhamstead, ' ways, and then curate at Olney, the Unwins 
 where his father was rector. Of noble family j and Cowper removed to that town. Here he 
 on both sides, he was appointed, after a few j engaged, at Ne^vton's suggestion, in writin,':^'' 
 years spent at the law, with Thurlow for his ! hymns ; but his melancholy gaining ground, 
 fellow-student, to a clerkship in the House of ! he was for two years laid aside. On his re- 
 Lords ; but having to appear before that ' covery in 1775, ho took to gardening, to hare- 
 august body, he was overcome by nervous : keeping, and to poetry. This last became his 
 terror and attempted suicide. The appoint- | favourite employment. In 1782, when he 
 ment was of course given up, and after he had 
 been some time at St. Albans under medical 
 treatment, he retired to that seclusion which 
 he never afterwards left. He went first to 
 
 was past fifty, he published his first volume, 
 containing ' Table Talk,' ' The Progress of 
 Error,' ' Conversation,' ' Expostulation,' 
 ' Hope,' ' Charity,' etc., all of them marked 
 Huntingdon, where his brother resided. There ; by an earnest tone, and containing several 
 he formed an acquaintance with a clergyman j protests against the infidelity which the 
 of the name of Unwin, and became a member i school of Voltaire was then seeking to make 
 of his family. On Mr. Unwin' s death, he con- I popular. The sale was slow, both from tho 
 tinned to reside with his widow, and now the i themes of which it treats and from a certain 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 want of melody that impaired the versifica- 
 tion ; but the book was warmly praised by 
 Johnson, then near his end, and by Franklin. 
 Lady Austen, a widow who had come to reside 
 in that neighbourhood, now made the ac- 
 quaintance of Cowper, told him the story of 
 John Gilpin, whose feats of horsemanship he 
 was to immortalize, and advised him to try 
 his hand at blank verse. This advice 
 produced the ' Task ' and in the same 
 volume appeared 'Tirocinium,' 'John Gilpin,' 
 published two years before, and the ' Sofa.' 
 ' The Task,' says Southey, ' is one of the best 
 didactic poems in our languag'e ; ' 'a glorious 
 poem,' as Bums calls it ; 'at once descriptive, 
 moral, and satirical ; ' and its success was 
 instant and decided. After the publication of 
 this volume Cowper entered upon the more 
 arduous work of the translation of Homer, 
 setting himself forty lines a day. At length 
 the forty thousand verses were completed, 
 and in 1791 ho published the whole by sub- 
 scription in two volumes quarto ; ' the best 
 version of the great poet,' as both Southoy 
 and Wilson think. Meanwhile the friendship 
 with Lady Austen had been dissolved, and 
 Cowper had removed to Weston, about a 
 mile from Olney. Here he had for a time the 
 society of his cousin, Lady Hesketh, and of 
 the Throckmortons, the owners of Weston. 
 But his malady returned, and was aggravated 
 by the illness of Mrs. Unwin. Hoping that 
 both might be relieved by a change of scene, 
 he removed again into Norfolk, where his 
 friend Hayley was settled. There, in 1796, 
 Mrs. Unwin died ; and after her death the 
 poet lingered on for three years under the 
 same dark shadow of despondency, occasionally 
 writing, and listening with interest to all that 
 was read to him, but without permanent relief. 
 His last piece, ' The Castaway,' which shows 
 no decay of mental power, though he was then 
 in his seventieth year, is amongst the most 
 touching poems in any language. 
 
 "Cowper's personal history isone of the most 
 affecting in literature. He had the richest 
 wit and humour, yet a large part of his life 
 was spent in sadness. Of an eminently hum- 
 ble and confiding spirit, he lived in dread of 
 eternal condemnation. He wrote pieces which 
 have given consolation to all classes of Chris- 
 tians, yet he himself took no comfort from 
 them ; he even regarded them as aggrava- 
 tions of his guilt. Happily all this has now 
 passed away. He bequeathed an inexhausti- 
 ble treasure to mankind, and he now knows 
 the blessedness he has so touchingly described. 
 
 " The qualities which give Cowper a high 
 place in our poesy it is not difficult to define. 
 For humour and quiet satire ; for appreciation 
 of natural beauty and domestic life ; for 
 strong good sense and devout piety ; for public 
 spirit and occasional sublimity ; for gentle 
 and noble sentiment ; for fine descriptive 
 powers employed with skill on outward scenes 
 and on character ; for ease and colloquial free- 
 
 dom of style ; and for the strength and har- 
 mony of his later versification especially, ho 
 has rarely been equalled : and for these 
 qualities combined he has never been sur- 
 passed. 
 
 "And it is this combination that most excites 
 admiration. His satire is often keen but never 
 personal. He is earnestly religious, but his 
 religion never blunts his sensibilities to the 
 glories of nature ; nor does it ever, though 
 eminently spiritual, unfit him to appreciate 
 the sacredness of human rights or the fault of 
 wrong-doing. He has evidently been polished 
 by intercourse with the world, but he has pre- 
 served a very unworldly degree of purity and 
 simplicity. Never was poet more lonely or 
 sad, and yet by none has domestic hap- 
 piness been more impressively described. 
 With the ripeness and decision of age, he has 
 the sportiveness and susceptibility of youth. 
 Nor is it easy to decide whether we are at- 
 tracted most by the excellence of each quality 
 or by the softness and harmony of the whole. 
 
 " No one of these qualities, however, nor the 
 combination of them all, is sufficient to explain 
 the healthy influence he exerted on English 
 poetry or the love with which he is now re- 
 garded. He is practically the founder of the 
 modern school of poets — an honour he owes 
 chiefly to his reality and naturalness. It is 
 this excellence which gives attractiveness to 
 all he has written. Pope's poems are, at 
 least, as finished as the best of Cowper's, and 
 more finished than most of his earlier pieces. 
 Young is often apparently as religious, some- 
 times as merry and certainly as witty. Thom- 
 son's pictures of nature have greater variety 
 and more ideal beauty than Cowper's. But 
 Pope's poetry is art, Cowper's nature. Young's 
 religion and mirth seem to belong to two 
 different men. From every line Cowper has 
 written, the very man beams forth, always 
 natural, consistent, and unaffected ; while his 
 descriptions of natui-e excite sensations rather 
 than ideas, and the poet lives and moves in 
 every scene. In short, his poetry has the 
 polish and vigour of the eighteenth century, 
 the warmth and feeling of the seventeenth, 
 with a naturalness and a reality all his own. 
 And this last, the naturalness and a reality of 
 a loving, gentle, devout heart, is the secret of 
 his strength." — Dr. Angus's "Handbook of 
 Eng. Lit." pp. 234-237. See Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit."; Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; 
 Gilfillan's ed. of Cowper's Poems ; Grim- 
 shawe's "Life of Cowper " ; Southey's " Life 
 and Works of Cowper." 
 
 WILLIAM HAYLEY. 
 
 William Hayley, born 1745, died 1820, at 
 one time a popular poet, the friend and 
 biographer of Cowper, was educated at Trinity 
 Hall, Cambridge. Ho wrote '-Triumphs of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Temper," " Triumphs of Music," poetical 
 epistles, odes, essays, &c. His Avorks in 1785 
 occupied six volumes. — See Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit." ; Beeton's '• Diet. Univ. Biog." ; 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Southey's 
 " Life and Correspondence" ; " Lond. Month. 
 Eev.," ciii. 267; cv. 1; "Blackwood's Mag." 
 xiv. 184, 303; "Memoris of the Life and 
 Writings of Hayley," written by hircself, 
 and edited by John Johnson, LL.D., 1823, 
 2 vols. 4to. 
 
 DE. EEASUMS DAEWIN. 
 
 Dr. Erasmus Darwin, " an ingenious, philo- 
 sophical, though fanciful poet," says Chambers 
 in one of his best articles, " was born at 
 Elston, near Newark, in 1731. Having 
 passed with credit through a course of educa- 
 tion at St. John's college, Cambridge, he ap- 
 plied himself to the study of physic, and took 
 his degree of bachelor in medicine at Edin- 
 burgh in 1755. He then commenced practice 
 in Nottingham, but meeting with little encour- 
 agement, he removed to Lichfield, where he 
 long continued a successful and distinguished 
 physician. In 1757 Dr. Darwin married an 
 accomphshed lady of Lichfield, Miss Marj^ 
 Howard, by whom he had five children, two 
 of whom died in infancy. The lady herself 
 died in 1770 ; and after her decease Darwin 
 seems to have commenced his botanical and 
 literary pursuits. He was at first afraid that 
 the reputation of a poet would injure him in 
 his profession ; but being firmly estabhshed in 
 the latter capacity, he at length ventured on 
 publication. At this time he lived in a 
 picturesque villa in the neighboui-hood of 
 Lichfield, furnished with a grotto and fountain, 
 and here he began the formation of a botanic 
 garden. The spot he has described as ' adapted 
 to love-scenes, and as being thence a proper 
 residence for the modem goddess of botany.' 
 In 1781 appeared the first part of Darwin's 
 'Botanic Garden,' a poem in glittering and 
 polished heroic verse, designed to describe, 
 adorn, and allegorize the Linnsean system of 
 botany. The Eosicrucian doctrine of gnomes, 
 sylphs, nymphs, and salamanders, was adopted 
 by the poet, as ' affording a proper machinery 
 for a botanic poem, as it is probable they 
 were originally the names of hieroglyphic 
 figures representing the elements.' The novelty 
 and ingenuity of Darwin's attempt attracted 
 much attention and rendered him highly 
 popular. In the same year the poet was 
 called to attend an aged gentleman, Colonel 
 Sachevoll Pole, of Radbourne Hall, near Derby. 
 An intimacy was thus formed with Mrs. Pole, 
 and the colonel dying, the poetical physician 
 in a few months afterw«,rds, in 1781, married 
 the fair widow, who possessed a jointure of 
 .£600 per annum. Darwin was now released 
 from all prudential fears and restraints as to 
 
 the cultivation of his poetical talents, and he 
 went on adding to his floral gallery. In 1789 
 appeared the second part of his poem, con- 
 taining the ' Loves of the Plants.' Ovid 
 having, he said, transmuted men, women, and 
 even gods and goddesses into trees and flowers, 
 he had undertaken, by similar art, to restore 
 some of them to their original animality, after 
 having remained prisoners so long in their 
 respective vegetable mansions : — 
 
 'From giant oaks, that wave their branches 
 
 dark. 
 To the dwarf moss that clings upon their bark. 
 What beaux and beauties crowd the gaudy 
 
 groves. 
 And woo and win their vegetable loves. 
 How snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed harebells 
 
 blend 
 Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they 
 
 bend ; 
 The love-sick violet, and the primrose pale, 
 Bow their sweet heads, and whisper to the 
 
 gale ; 
 With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, 
 And jealous cowsKps hang their tawny cups. 
 How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride, 
 Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; 
 With honied lips enamour'd woodbines meet, 
 Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses 
 
 sweet ! 
 Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle rill ; 
 Hush, whispering winds ; ye rustling leaves 
 
 bestiU; 
 Eest, silver butterflies, your quivering wings ; 
 Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings ; 
 Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl. 
 Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks 
 
 uncurl ; 
 Glitter, ye glow-worms, on your mossy beds ; 
 Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthen' d 
 
 threads ; 
 Slide here, ye homed snails, with varnish' d 
 
 shells ; 
 Ye bee-nymphs, listen in you:; waxen cells ! ' 
 
 This is exquisitely melodious verse, and in- 
 genious subtle fancy. A 'few passages have 
 
 { moral sentiment and human interest united to 
 the same powers of vivid painting and ex- 
 
 ! pression : — 
 
 ' Eoll on, ye stars ! exult in youthful prime, 
 Mark with bright curves the printless steps 
 
 of Time ; 
 Near and more near your beamy cars approach, 
 And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach ; 
 
 I Flowers of the sky ! ye, too, to age must 
 yield, 
 
 I Frail as your silken sisters of the field ! 
 Star after star from heaven's high arch shall 
 
 j rush, 
 
 ! Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush, 
 
 i Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, 
 And death, and night, and chaos mingle all ! 
 
 ■ Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, 
 
 ' Immortnl nature lifts her changeful form, 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of 
 flame, 
 
 And soars and shines, another and the same ! ' 
 
 In another part of the poem, after describing 
 the cassia plant, * cinctured with gold,' and 
 borne on by the current to the coasts of Nor- 
 way with all its ' infant loves,' or seeds, the 
 poet, in his usual strain of forced similitude, 
 digresses, in the following happy and vigorous 
 lines, to ' Moses concealed on the Nile,' and 
 the slavery of the Africans : — 
 
 • So the sad mother at the noon of night. 
 From bloody Memphis stole her silent flight ; 
 Wrapp'd her dear babe beneath her folded vest, 
 And clasp' d the treasure to her throbbing 
 
 breast ; 
 With soothing whispers hush'd its feeble cry, 
 Press'd the soft kiss, and breathed the secret 
 
 sigh. 
 With dauntless steps she seeks the winding 
 
 shore. 
 Hears unappall'd the glimmering torrents 
 
 roar ; 
 With paper flags a floating cradle weaves. 
 And hides the smiHng boy in lotus leaves ; 
 Gives her white bosom to his eager lips. 
 The saJt tears mingling with the milk he sips, 
 Waits on the reed-crown' d brink with pious 
 
 guile. 
 And trusts the scaly monsters of the Nile. 
 Erewhile majestic from his lone abode. 
 Ambassador of heaven, the prophet trod ; 
 Wrench'd the red scourge from proud op- 
 pression's hands. 
 And broke, cursed slavery ! thy iron bands. 
 Hark ! heard ye not that piercing cry. 
 Which shook the waves and rent the sky ? 
 E'en now, e'en now, on yonder western shores 
 Weeps pale despair, and writhing anguish 
 
 roars ; 
 E'en now in Afric's groves with hideous yeU, 
 Fierce slavery stalks, and slips the dogs of 
 
 heU; 
 From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound, 
 And sable nations tremble at the sound ! 
 Ye bands of senators ! whose suffrage sways 
 Britannia's realms, whom either Ind obeys ; 
 Who right the injured and reward the brave. 
 Stretch your strong arm, for ye have power 
 
 to save ! 
 Throned in the vaulted heart, his dread resort, 
 Inexorable conscience holds his court ; 
 With stiU small voice the plots of guilt alarms. 
 Bares his mask'd brow, his lifted hand 
 
 disarms ; 
 But wrapp'd in night with terrors all his own. 
 He speaks in thunder when the deed is done. 
 Hear him, ye senates ! hear this truth sublime, 
 ' He who allows oppression shares the crime ! ' ' 
 
 " The material images of Darwin are often 
 less happy than the above, being both ex- 
 travagant and gross, and grouped together 
 without any visible connexion or dependence 
 one on the other. He has such a throng of 
 
 startling metaphors and descriptions, the 
 latter drawn out to an excessive length and 
 tiresome minuteness, that nothing is left to 
 the reader's imagination, and the whole passes 
 like a glittering i^ageant before the eye, ex- 
 citing wonder, but without touching the heart 
 or feehngs. As the poet was then past fifty, 
 the exuberance of his fancy, and his peculiar 
 choice of subjects, are the more remarkable. 
 A third part of the ' Botanic Garden ' was 
 added in 1792. Darwin next published his 
 ' Zoonomia, or the Laws of Organic Life,' 
 part of which he had written many years 
 previously. This is a curious and original 
 physiological treatise, evincing an inquiring 
 and attentive study of natural phenomena. 
 Dr. Thomas Brown, Professor Dugald Stewart, 
 I Paley, and others, have, however, successfully 
 i combated the positions of Darwin, particvdarly 
 ! his theory which refers instinct to sensation. 
 ; In 1801 our author came forward with an- 
 \ other philosophical disquisition, entitled 
 I ' Phytologia, or the Philosophy of Agriculture 
 I and Gardening.' He also wrote a short 
 ; treatise on ' Female Education,' intended for 
 j the instruction and assistance of part of his 
 own family. This was Darwin's last publica- 
 I tion. He had always been a remarkably 
 j temperate man. Indeed, he totally abstained 
 I from all fermented and spirituous liquors, and 
 in his Botanic Garden he compares their effects 
 I to that of the Promethean fire. He was, how- 
 ever, subject to inflammation as well as gout, 
 and a sudden attack carried him off in his 
 seventy-first year, on the 18th of April, 1802. 
 Shortly after his death was published a poem, 
 'The Temple of Nature,' which he had 
 ready for the press, the preface to the work 
 being dated only three months befox-e his 
 death. The ' Temple of Nature ' aimed, 
 like the Botanic Garden, to amuse by bringing 
 distinctly to the imagination the beautiful and 
 sublime images of the operations of nature. 
 It is more metaphysical than its predecessor, 
 and more inverted in style and diction. 
 
 " The poetical reputation of Darwin was as 
 bright and transient as the plants and flowers 
 which formed the subject of his verse. Cow- 
 per praised his ' song ' for its rich embellish- 
 ments, and said it was as ' strong ' as it was 
 ' learned and sweet.' ' There is a fashion in 
 poetry,' observes Sir Walter Scott, 'which, 
 without increasing or diminishing the real 
 value of the materials moulded upon it, does 
 wonders in facilitating its currency while it 
 has novelty, and is often found to impede its 
 reception when the mode has passed away.' 
 This has been the fate of Darwin. Besides 
 his coterie at Lichfield, the poet of ' Flora' had 
 considerable influence on the poetical taste 
 of his own dsiy. He may be traced in the 
 'Pleasures of Hope ' of Campbell, and in other 
 young poets of that time. The attempt to 
 unite science with the inspirations of the 
 Muse was in itself an attractive novelty, and 
 he supported it with various and high powers. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. — 
 
 His command of fancy, of poetical langnage, 
 dazzling metaphors, and sonorous versifica- 
 tion, was well seconded by his curious and 
 multifarious knowledge. The effect of the 
 whole, however, was artificial, and destitute 
 of any strong or continuous interest. The 
 Rosicrucian machinery of Pope was united to 
 the delineation of human passions and pur- 
 suits, and became the auxiliary of Avit and 
 satire; but who can sympathize with the 
 loves and metamorphoses of the plants ? Dar- 
 win had no sentiment or pathos, except in 
 very brief episodical passages, and even his 
 eloquent and splendid versification, for want 
 of variety of cadence, becomes monotonous 
 and fatiguing. There is no repose, no cessa- 
 tion from the glare of his bold images, his 
 compound epithets, and high-toned melody. 
 Ho had attained to rare perfection in the 
 mechanism of poetry, but Avanted those im- 
 pulses of soul and sense, and that guiding 
 taste, which were required to give it vitality, 
 and direct it to its true objects." — Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. pp. 270, 271. See 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Donald- 
 son's "Agricult. Biog." ; "Memoirs of Dar- 
 win's Life," by Anna Seward, Lond. 1804, 
 8vo. ; "Edin. Eev." iv. 230. 
 
 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 "Mrs. Charlotte Smith was the daughter 
 of Mr. Turner, of Stoke House, in Surrey, 
 and was born on the 4th of May, 1749. 
 She was remarkable for precocity of 
 talents, and for a lively, playful humour, 
 that showed itself in conversation and 
 in compositions both in prose and verse. 
 Being early deprived of her mother, she was 
 carelessly though expensively educated, and 
 introduced , into society at a very early age. 
 Her father having decided on a second mar- 
 riage, the friends of the young and admired 
 poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, 
 and she was induced to accept the hand of 
 Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a rich West- 
 India merchant. The husband was twenty- 
 one years of age, and his wife fifteen ! This 
 rash union was productive of mutual discon- 
 tent and misery. Mr. Smith was careless 
 and extravagant, business Avas neglected, and 
 his father dying, left a Avill so complicated 
 and voluminous that no two lawyers under- 
 stood it in the same sense. LaAvsuits and 
 embarrassments were therefore the p-^i-tion of 
 this ill-starred pair for all their after-lives. 
 Mr. Smith was ultimately forced to sell the 
 greater part of his property, after he had been 
 thrown into prison, and his faithful Avife had 
 shared Avith him the misery and discomfort 
 of his confinement. A numerous family also 
 gathered around them, to add to their so- 
 licitude and difficulties. In 1782 Mrs. Smith 
 
 published a volume of sonnetf?, irregular in 
 structure, but marked by poetical feeling and 
 expression. They AA-ere favourably received 
 by the public, and at length passed through 
 no less than eleven editions, besides being 
 translated into Erencli and Italian. After 
 an unhappy union of tAventy-three years, Mrs. 
 Smith separated from her husband, and, 
 taking a cottage near Chichester, applied her- 
 self to her literary occupations Avith cheerful 
 assiduity, supplying to her children the duties 
 of both parents. In eight months she com- 
 pleted her novel of ' Emmeline,' published in 
 1788. In the folloAving year appeared another 
 novel from her pen, entitled ' Ethelindo ' ; and 
 in 1791 a third, under the name of ' Celestina.' 
 She imbibed the opinions of the French Ee- 
 1 volution, and embodied them in a romance 
 j entitled ' Desmond.' This Avork arrayed 
 j against her many of her friends and readers, 
 { but she regained the public favour by her tale, 
 I the ' Old Manor House,' which is the best 
 I of her novels. Part of this work Avas Avritten 
 j at Eartham, the residence of Hayley, during 
 j the period of Cowper's visit to that poetical 
 retreat. ' It was delightful,' says Hayley, 
 ' to hear her read what she had just Avritten, 
 for she read, as she wrote, with simplicity 
 and grace.' CoAvper was also astonished at 
 the rapidity and excellence of her composition. 
 Mrs. Smith continued her literary labours 
 amidst private and family distress. She 
 wrote a valuable little compendium for 
 children, under the title of ' Conversations ' ; 
 ' A History of British Birds ' ; a descriptive 
 poem on ' Beachy Head,' &c. The delays in 
 the settlement of her property, Avhich had been 
 an endless source of vexation and anxiety to 
 one possessing all the susceptibility and ardour 
 of the poetical temperament, were adjusted 
 by a compromise ; but Mrs. Smith had sunk 
 into ill-health. She died at Tilford, near 
 Farnham, on the 28th of October, 1806. The 
 poetry of Mrs. Smith is elegant and senti- 
 mental, and generally of a pathetic cast. She 
 Avrote as if ' melancholy had marked her for 
 her oAvn.' The keen satire and observation 
 evinced in her novels do not appear in her 
 verse, but the same poAvers of description are 
 displayed. Her sketches of English scenery 
 are true and pleasing. ' But while we allow,' 
 says Sir Walter Scott, 'high praise to the 
 SAveet and sad effusions of Mrs. Smith's muse, 
 we cannot admit that by these alone she could 
 ever have risen to the height of eminence 
 Avhich we are disposed to claim for her as 
 authoress of her prose narratives." — Cham- 
 bers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." pp. 273, 274. 
 
 MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 
 " Miss Susanna Blamire was born at 
 Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, and remained there 
 from the date of her birth (1747) till she was 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 twenty years of age, when she accompanied 
 her sister — who had married Colonel Graham, 
 of Duchray, Perthshire — to Scotland, and con- 
 tinued there some years. She became en- 
 amoured of Scottish music and poetry, and 
 thus qualified herself for writing such sweet 
 lyrics as ' The Nabob ' and ' What ails this 
 heart o' mine ?' On her return to Cumber- 
 land, she wrote several pieees illustrative of 
 Cumbrian manners. She died unmarried in 
 1794. Her poetical pieces, some of which had 
 been floating through the country in the form 
 of popular songs, were collected by Mr. Pa- 
 trick Maxwell, and published in 1842." — 
 Gilfillan's " Less-Kno^vn Brit. Poets," vol. iii. 
 pp. 290, 291. See AlHbone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." ; Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 ANNA LETITIA BAEBAULD. 
 
 Anna Letitia Barbauld, born 1743, died 
 1825, daughter of a schoolmaster in Leicester- 
 shire, named Aikin, and wife of Eochemont 
 Barbauld, a Frenchman by extraction, and 
 minister of a dissenting congregation at Pal- 
 grave, in Suffolk. A little before her mar- 
 riage she published ' Miscellaneous Poems,' 
 and soon after ' Hymns in Prose for Children.' 
 Mr. Barbauld became a minister of a church 
 at Newington in 1802, which brought 
 Mrs. Barbauld into greater connexion with 
 the literary circles of the day. Her style is 
 simple and graceful, adorned by much ex- 
 quisite fancy and imagery. Her most valued 
 contributions have been her sacred pieces. 
 That on ' The Death of the Eighteous ' is one 
 of the gems of English sacred poetry. — 
 See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." ; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit." ; " Lon. Monthly Eev." 1785 ; Bos- 
 well's " Life of Johnson." 
 
 See Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." ; Allibone's 
 "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; "Edin. Eev." i. 
 421-426; "Blackwood's Mag." xli. 409. 
 
 MISS ANNA SEWAED. 
 
 " Miss Anma Seward, born 1747, died 1809, 
 known as the • Swan of Lichfield,' daughter 
 of a canon in the cathedral of that city, 
 wrote ' Sonnets,' and a poetical novel, called 
 ' Louisa.' Her poems were bequeathed to 
 Walter Scott for publication, but they are 
 now utterly forgotten." — Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit." See Chambers' " Cyc, Eng. Lit." 
 
 MES. HUNTEE. 
 
 " Mrs. Hunter, bom 1742, died 1821, was the 
 wife of the eminent surgeon, and sister of Eve- 
 rard Home. She wrote verses and songs which 
 were extensively read in their day, and some of 
 whichHaydnhas 'married to immortal' music." 
 — Dr. Angus's " Handbook Eng. Lit." p, 26o. 
 
 MES. AMELLA OPIE. ^ 
 
 " Mrs. Amelia Opie, born 1769, died 1853. 
 She was the wife of an artist, herself a 
 novelist, and friend of most of the literary 
 celebrities of her age. She wrote a volume of 
 miscellaneous poems, published in 1802." — Dr. 
 Angus's " Handbook Eng. Lit." p. 266. See 
 Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 MES. GEANT. 
 
 "Mrs. Grant, widow of the minister of 
 Laggan, in Inverness-shire, was born in 
 1754, and died in 1838. She was the author 
 of several able and interesting prose works. 
 She wrote ' Letters from the Mountains,' 
 giving a description of Highland scenery and 
 manners, with which she was conversant 
 from her residence in the country ; also 
 ' Memoirs of an American lady ' (1810), and 
 ' Essays on the Superstitions of the High- 
 landers,' which appeared in 1811. The 
 writings of this lady display a lively and 
 observant fancy, and considerable powers of 
 landscape painting. They first drew attention 
 to the more striking and romantic features of 
 the Scottish Highlands, afterwards so fertile 
 a theme for the ■* genius of Scott." — Cham- 
 bers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. p. 279. 
 See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 MES. TIGHE. 
 
 " Mrs. Mary Tighe, born 1774, died 1810, was 
 the daughter of the Eev. William Blatchford, 
 of the county of Wicklow, Ireland. Her 
 history seems to be but little known to the 
 public, as I have tried in vain to find some 
 account of her life ; but her early death, which 
 took place at Woodstock, near Kilkenny, 
 March 24th, 1810, after six years of protracted 
 suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, 
 in a very beautiful lyric. 
 
 " Mrs, Tighe is] chiefly known by her poem 
 of ' Psyche,' in six cantos, written in the Spen- 
 serian stanza, founded on the classic fable of 
 Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or 
 the allegory of Love and the Soul (4'vxv)- 
 Many of the pictures in this, the chief pro- 
 duction of her muse, are conceived in the true 
 spirit of poetry, while over the whole compo- 
 sition is spread the richest glow of purified 
 passion. It is a poem, however, to be read as 
 a whole, and cannot well be appreciated by any 
 detached passages. A luxurious, dreamy swect- 
 
 62 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 ness pervades the descriptions, and gives them 
 a peculiar charm, while the elegance of the 
 easy-flowing language attests the complete 
 power of the poet over her theme. Some of 
 her minor pieces also are exceedingly beau- 
 tiful ; and the lines ' On Eeceiving a Branch 
 of Mezereon' are scarcely exceeded, for beauty 
 and pathos, by anything of the kind in the 
 language." — Cleveland's "Eng. Lit. 19th 
 Cent." 
 
 EOBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 " Eobert Bloomfield, born 1766, died 1823, 
 was a farmer's boy, and became, through the in- 
 fluence of the Duke of Grafton, a government 
 clerk, with a somewhat unhappy lot in both po- 
 sitions. He wrote ' The Farmer's Boy ' (1798), 
 'Eural Tales' (1810), 'Wild Flowers,' and other 
 pieces, volumes of cheerful description of rural 
 life, with much moral feeling and smoothness of 
 versification : his great fault is his want of 
 passion ; his great excellence, the truth and 
 reality of his delineations. Some of his lines, 
 those, for example, on the ' Soldier's. Home,' 
 Wilson thinks equal to Bums." — Dr. Angus's 
 " Handbook Eng. Lit." p. 266. See Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Drake's " Literary 
 Hours"; " Blackwood's Mag." 1822. 
 
 JOHN LEYDEN. 
 
 "John Leyden, a distinguished oriental 
 scholar as well as a poet, was a native of 
 Denholm, Eoxburghshire. He was the son of 
 humble parents ; but the ardent borderer 
 fought his way to learning and celebrity. His 
 parents, seeing his desire for instruction, de- 
 termined to educate him for the Church, and 
 he was entered of Edinburgh College in 1790, 
 in the fifteenth year of his age. He made 
 rapid progress, was an excellent Latin and 
 Greek scholar, and acquired also the French, 
 Spanish, Italian, and German, besides study- 
 ing the Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian. He 
 became no mean proficient in mathematics 
 and various branches of science. Indeed, 
 every difficulty seemed to vanish before his 
 commanding talents, his retentive memory, 
 and robust application. His college vaca- 
 tions were spent at home ; and as his father's 
 cottage afforded him little opportunity for 
 quiet and seclusion, he looked out for accom- 
 modations abroad. ' In a wild recess,' says 
 Sir Walter Scott, ' in the den or glen which 
 gives name to the village of Denholm, he con- 
 trived a sort of furnace for the purpose of 
 such chemical experiments as he was adequate 
 to performing. But his chief place of re- 
 tirement was the small parish church, a 
 gloomy and ancient building, generally 
 believed in the neighbourhood to be haunted. 
 To this chosen place of study, usually 
 
 locked during week days, Leyden made 
 entrance by means of a window, read there 
 for many hours in the day, and deposited his 
 books and specimens in a retired pew. It was 
 a well-chosen spot of seclusion, for the kirk 
 (excepting during divine service) is rather a 
 place of terror to the Scottish rustic, and that 
 of Cavers was rendered more so by many a 
 tale of ghosts and witchcraft of which it was 
 the supposed scene, and to which Leyden, 
 partly to indulge his humour, and partly to 
 secure his retirement, contrived to make some 
 modem additions. The nature of his abstruse 
 studies, some specimens of natural history, as 
 toads and adders, left exposed in their spirit- 
 vials, and one or two practical jests played 
 off upon the more curious of the peasantry, 
 rendered his gloomy haunt not only venerated 
 by the wise, but feared by the simple of the 
 parish.' From this singular and romantic 
 study, Leyden sallied forth, with his curious 
 and various stories, to astonish his college 
 associates. He already numbered among his 
 friends the most distinguished literary and 
 scientific men of Edinburgh. On the expira- 
 tion of his college studies, Leyden accepted 
 the situation of tutor to the sons of Mr. 
 Campbell of Fairfield, whom he accompanied 
 to the university of St. Andrews. There he 
 pursued his own researches connected with 
 oriental learning, and in 1799 published a sketch 
 of the ' Discoveries and Settlements of the 
 Europeans in Northern and Western Africa.' 
 He wrote also various copies of verses and 
 translations from the northern and oriental 
 languages, which he published in the Edin- 
 burgh Magazine. In 1800 Leyden was or- 
 dained for the church. He continued, how- 
 ever, to study and compose, and contributed 
 to Lewis's Tales of Wonder and Scott's 
 Minstrelsy of the Scotish Border. So ardent 
 was he in assisting the editor of the Mins- 
 trelsy, that he on one occasion walked between 
 forty and fifty miles, and back again, for the 
 sole purpose of visiting an old person who 
 possessed an ancient historical baUad. His 
 next publication was a new edition of ' The 
 Complaynt of Scotland,' an ancient work 
 ■written about 1548, which Leyden enriched 
 with a preliminary dissertation, notes, and a 
 glossary. He also undertook the management, 
 for one year, of the Scots' Magazine. His 
 strong desire to visit foreign countries induced 
 his friends to apply to government for some 
 appointment for him connected with the learn- 
 ing and languages of the East. The only situa- 
 tion which they could procure was that of 
 surgeon's assistant ; and in five or six months, 
 by incredible labour, Leyden qualified himseK, 
 and obtained his diploma. ' The sudden 
 change of his profession,' says Scott, * giave 
 great amusement to some of his friends.' In 
 December, 1802, Leyden was summoned to 
 join the Christmas fleet of Indiamen, in con- 
 sequence of his appointment as assistant- 
 surgeon on the Madras establishment. He 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 finished his poem, ' The Scenes of Infancy,' 
 descriptive of his native vale, and left Scot- 
 land for ever. After his arival at Madras, 
 the health of Leyden gave way, and he was 
 obliged to remove to Prince of Wales Island. 
 He resided there for some time, visiting Su- 
 matra and the Malayan peninsula, and amass- 
 ing the curious information concerning the 
 language, literature, and descent of the Indo- 
 Chinese tribes, which afterwards enabled him 
 to lay a most valuable dissertation before the 
 Asiatic Society at Calcutta. Leyden quitted 
 Prince of Wales Island, and was appointed a 
 professor in the Bengal college. This was 
 soon exchanged for a more lucrative appoint- 
 ment, namely, that of a judge in Calcutta. ' 
 His spare time was, as usual, devoted to 
 oriental manuscripts and antiquities. ' I may 
 die in the attempt,' he wrote to a friend, ' but 
 if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones 
 a hundredfold in oriental learning, let never a 
 tear for me profane the eye of a borderer.' 
 The possibility of an early death in a distant 
 land often crossed the mind of the ambitious 
 student. In his ' Scenes of Infancy ' he ex- 
 presses his anticipation of such an event in a 
 passage of great melody and pathos. 
 
 ' The silver moon at midnight cold and stiU, 
 Looks, sad and silent, o'er yon western hill ; 
 ^Vhile large and pale the ghostly structures 
 
 grow, 
 Rear'd on the confines of the world below. 
 Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream ? 
 Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's 
 
 gleam ? 
 By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen, 
 The old deserted church of Hazeldean, 
 Where slept my fathers in their natal clay, 
 Till Teviot's waters roU'd their bones away? 
 Their feeble voices from the stream they 
 
 raise — 
 ' Rash youth ! unmindful of thy early days. 
 Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple 
 
 lot? 
 Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built 
 
 cot, 
 The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie, 
 And Teviot's stream that long has murmur' d 
 
 by? 
 And we — when death so long has closed our 
 
 eyes. 
 How wUt thou bid us from the dust arise. 
 And bear our mouldering bones across the 
 
 main. 
 From vales that knew our lives devoid of 
 
 stain ? 
 Eash youth ! beware, thy home-bred virtues 
 
 save, 
 And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.' ' 
 
 " In 1811 Leyden accompanied the governor- 
 general to Java. ' His spirit of romantic 
 adventure,* says Scott, ' led him literally to 
 rush upon death ; for, with another volunteer 
 who attended the expedition, he threw himself 
 
 into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of 
 the expedition who should set foot upon Java. 
 "When the success of the well-concerted move- 
 ments of the invaders had given them posses- 
 sion of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed 
 the same ill-omened precipitation, in his haste 
 to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of 
 books, in which many Indian manusoiipts of 
 value were said to be deposited. A library in 
 a Dutch settlement was not, as might have 
 been expected, in the best order ; the apart- 
 ment had not been regularly ventilated, and 
 either from this circumstance, or already 
 affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Ba- 
 tavia, Leyden, when he left the place, had a 
 fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere 
 was enough to give any mortal a fever. The 
 presage was too just : he took his bed, and 
 died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the 
 eve of the battle which gave Java to the 
 British empire.' The Poetical Remains of 
 Leyden were published in 1819, with a Memoir 
 of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton. Sir 
 John Malcolm and Sir Walter Scott both 
 honoured bis memory with notices of his life 
 and genius. The Great Minstrel has also 
 alluded to his untimely death inr his ' Lord of 
 the Isles.' 
 
 ' Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore 
 Stills rings to Corrievreckin's roar, 
 
 And lonely Colonsay ; 
 Scenes sung by him who sings no more, 
 His bright and brief career is o'er, 
 
 And mute his tuneful strains ; 
 Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore. 
 That loved the light of song to pour : 
 A distant and a deadly shore 
 
 Has Leyden's cold remains.' 
 
 The allusion here is to a ballad by Leyden, 
 entitled ' The Mermaid,' the scene of which is 
 laid at Corrievreckin, and which was published 
 with another, ' The Cout of Keeldar,' in the 
 Border Minstrelsy. His longest poem is his 
 ' Scenes of Infancy,' descriptive of his native 
 vale of Teviot. His versification is soft and 
 musical ; he is an elegant rather than a forcible 
 poet. His ballad strains are greatly superior 
 to his ' Scenes of Infancy.' Sir Walter Scott 
 has praised the opening of ' The Mermaid,' as 
 exhibiting a power of numbers which, for 
 mere melody of sound, has seldom been ex- 
 celled in English poetry." — Chambers' " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit." vol. ii. pp. 288, 289. 
 
 CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 Charles Dibdin, born at Southampton, 
 1745, died 1814, an EngKsh actor, dramatist, 
 and distinguished sea-song writer, was edu- 
 cated at Winchester, and originally intended 
 for the Church ; but going to London at the 
 early age of sixteen, he produced an opera 
 
 52* 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. 
 
 called " The Shepherd's Artifice," which was 
 brought out at Covent Garden. In 1778 he 
 was appointed musical manager at Covent 
 Garden. Subsequently he built the " Circus," 
 afterwards called the " Surrey; " and in 1788 
 published his "Musical Tour." In the follow- 
 ing year he gave his entertainment called 
 " The Whim of the Moment," of which he 
 was sole author, composer, and performer. 
 In this piece he sang his ballad of " Poor 
 Jack," which completely won the ear of the 
 public ; and from that time, his reputation as 
 a balladist was established. He wrote no 
 fewer than nine hundred songs, according to 
 some ; and twelve hundred, according to others. 
 Whichever number is correct does not much 
 signify, as a soil so prolific must have pro- 
 duced many weeds. Many of his lyrics, how- 
 ever, have great merit. They have solaced 
 the seaman during long voyages, sustained 
 him in the storm, and inspired him in battle ; 
 and they have been quoted to restore the mu- 
 tinous to order and discipline. In 1805 he 
 retired from public life, and received a govern- 
 ment pension of .£200 per annum. " Poor 
 Tom Bowling " was written upon a brother of 
 his, who had been the captain of an East 
 Indiaman, and was twenty-nine years older 
 than the author. Thomas, a son of Charles, 
 was long connected with the London stage as 
 an actor and dramatist. He wrote and adapted 
 a vast number of pieces ; but none of them. 
 are distinguished by much original merit. He 
 also wrote a work of amusing "Reminis- 
 cences." Died in Pentonville, 1841. — See 
 Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit. " ; AUibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." ; " Dibdin's Life." 
 
 WILLIAM GIFFOED. 
 
 WiUiam Gifford, born at Ashburton, Devon- 
 shire, 1756, died 1826, a modern English 
 writer, was the son of poor parents, and was 
 left an orphan before he had reached his 
 thirteenth year. He was apprenticed to the 
 sea; but, disliking that occupation, was put 
 to shoemaking, at which employment he con- 
 tinued till he was twenty years of age. By 
 that time he had displayed some indications of 
 genius, when a Mr. Cookesley, a surgeon of 
 Ashburton, sent him to Oxford. After leaving 
 college, he made the tour of Europe, as the 
 travelling companion of Lord Belgrave ; and, 
 on his return to England, settled in London 
 as a literary man. In 1794 he published his 
 " Baviad," a poetical satire, which annihilated 
 the Delia Crusca school of poets, of which 
 Mrs. Piozzi formed a leading member. In the 
 following year his "Maviad" ai^peared, and 
 expose 1 the low state to which dramatic au- 
 thorship had then fallen. In 1797 he became 
 the editor of the " Anti- Jacobin," established 
 by Mr. Canning and other gentlemen, and got 
 
 entangled in a quarrel with Dr. Wolcot, to 
 whom, as " Peter Pindar," he wrote a poetical 
 epistle. In 1802 he published his translation 
 of Juvenal, which Sir Walter Scott says " is 
 the best version ever made of a classical 
 author." In 1804 his edition of Massinger 
 appeared, and, in 1816, that of Ben Jonson. 
 Subsequently, editions both of Ford and 
 Shirley were published, but not entirely 
 edited by him, his death having taken place 
 before he had completed them. In 1809 he 
 became the editor of the London " Quarterly 
 Review ; " and it is in this capacity that he is 
 best known. As a critic, he has been much cen- 
 sured for his severity, with which he mingled 
 no inconsiderable degree of injustice. " He 
 was a man with whom I had no literary sym- 
 pathies," says Southey ; " perhaps there was 
 nothing upon which we agreed, except great 
 political questions. ... He had a heart 
 full of kindness for all living creatures, except 
 authors ; them he regarded as a fishmonger 
 regards eels ; or as Isaak Walton did worms, 
 slugs, and frogs. I always protested against 
 the indulgence of that spirit in his ' Review.' " 
 Scott says he was good " as a commentator ; " 
 but, as a critic, the " fault of extreme severity 
 went through his critical labours ; " and, in 
 general, he flagellated with so little pity, that 
 people lost their sense of the criminal's guilt 
 in dislike of the savage pleasure which the 
 executioner seemed to take in inflicting punish- 
 ment. He held the editorship of the ' ' Review ' ' 
 till 1824.— See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 GEORGE CANNING. 
 
 " The Right Honourable George Canning, 
 born 1770, died 1827, was, on the paternal 
 side, of Irish extraction. His father came to 
 London, entered himself of the Middle Temple, 
 and was called to the bar. Meeting with little 
 practice, he abandoned the law for literature, 
 but being unable to maintain himself in this 
 new vocation, became a wine-merchant, in 
 which capacity he failed, and died of a broken 
 heart. His mother became an actress, and 
 married an actor. He also dying, she was 
 now married to a Mr. Hunn, a linen-draper of 
 Exeter, and lived long enough to see her son 
 attain the eminence to which his distinguished 
 abilities entitled him. George was educated 
 first at Hyde Abbey School, Winchester, then 
 at Eton, and then at Oxford, where he was 
 recognized as a high-class man. He then en- 
 tered Lincoln's Inn, to follow the law as a 
 profession, but, being introduced by Mr. Pitt 
 to the House of Commons, ho abandoned the 
 bar, and devoted himself whoUy to the study 
 of politics. This was in 1793. In 1796 he 
 was appointed Under-Secretary of State, and 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 in 1800 received a fortune of .£100,000 by his 
 marriage with Joanna, the daughter of General 
 Scott. In 1804 he was appointed treasurer 
 of the navy; and in 1807, a year after the 
 death of Pitt, he was appointed, for the second 
 time, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. 
 In 1809 he fought a duel with Lord Castle- 
 reagh ; and in 1812 became member for Liver- 
 pool, which again elected him in 1814, 1818, 
 and 1820. In 1816 he became president of 
 the Board of Control, and in 1822 was named 
 Governor-General of India, and was about to 
 embark for that country, when Lord Castle- 
 reagh, then Marquis of Londonderry, com- 
 mitted suicide. This circumstance led to Mr. 
 Canning's relinquishing his appointment, and 
 again accepting that of Secretary of State for 
 Foreign AfiFairs. In 1827 he became Premier, 
 the great object of a long and arduous poli- 
 tical life. The last time he spoke in Parha- 
 ment was on the 29th of June, 1827. Born 
 in London; died at the viUa of the Duke 
 of Devonshire, Chiswick. — Mr. Canning had 
 great oratorical ability, with considerable 
 poetical power, and much brilliancy of wit. 
 He was a firm supporter of the cause of 
 CathoHc emancipation, and the main pro- 
 moter of the independence of Greece." — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." — See Maunder; 
 Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng, Lit." 
 
 THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS. 
 
 " Another satirical poem, which attracted 
 much attention in literary circles at the time 
 of its publication, was ' The Pursuits of 
 Literature,' in four parts, the first of which 
 appeared in 1794. Though published anony- 
 mously, this work was written by Mr. 
 Thomas James Mathias, a distinguished 
 scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr. 
 Mathias was some time treasurer of the 
 household to her Majesty Queen Charlotte. 
 He took his degree of B.A. in Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the ' Pursuits 
 of Literature,' Mr. Mathias was author 
 of some ' Eunic Odes, imitated from the 
 Norse Tongue,' ' The Imperial Epistle from 
 Kien-Long to George III.' (1794), ' The Shade 
 of Alexander Pope,' a satirical poem (1798), 
 and various other light, evanescent pieces on 
 the topics of the day. Mr. Mathias also 
 wrote some Latin odes, and translated into 
 Italian several English poems. He wrote 
 Italian with elegance and purity, and it has 
 been said that no Englishman, since the days 
 of Milton, has cultivated that language with 
 so much success. The 'Pursuits of Litera- 
 ture' contains some pointed satire on the 
 author's poetical contemporaries, and is en- 
 riched with a vast variety of notes, in which 
 there is a great display of learning. George 
 Steovens said the poem was merely ' a peg to 
 
 hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical 
 genius to vivify this mass of erudition has 
 been fatal to Mr. Mathias. His works appear 
 to be utterly forgotten." — Chambers' " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. pp. 296, 297. 
 
 JOHN WOLCOT. 
 
 Eev. John Wolcott, usually styled " Peter 
 Pindar," born at Dodbrooke, Devonshire, 
 about 1738, died in London, 1819, an 
 eminent English burlesque poet, who was 
 educated for the profession of medicine, and, 
 in 1767, became physician to Sir William 
 Trelawney, governor of Jamaica. He sub- 
 sequently returned to England, and entered 
 into orders ; but after having been dis- 
 appointed of a valuable living in the island 
 of Jamaica, set up in practice as a physician 
 in Cornwall. Having discovered the self- 
 taught artist Opie at Truro, he repaired with 
 him to London, and there distinguished him- 
 self as a writer of burlesque poetry. His 
 productions principally consisted of odes and 
 satires directed against George III., Pitt, and 
 the leading men of the time. A complete 
 edition of his works, in 4 vols., was published 
 in 1816.— See Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit."; 
 Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 Wilham Blake, bom 1757, died 1828. He 
 attracted great attention, as an engraver and 
 author, by the eccentricity of his genius. His 
 " Gates of Paradise " ; " America, a Pro- 
 phecy ". ; " Illustrated Edition of Young's 
 ' Night Thoughts ' " ; " Illustrations of Blair's 
 ' Grave ' " ; " Songs of Innocence and Ex- 
 perience"; "Vision of the ' Daughters of 
 Albion"; "Illustrations of Dante," are full 
 of quaint and exquisite, and sometimes sub- 
 lime, beauty, Charles Lamb says : " Blake 
 is a real name, I assure you ; and a most ex- 
 traordinary man he is, if he is still living. 
 He is the Blake whose wild designs accompany 
 a splendid edition of Blair's ' Grav6.' He 
 paints in water-colours marvellous strange 
 pictures — visions of his brain — which he 
 asserts he has seen. They have great merit. 
 I must look upon him as one of the most ex- 
 traordinary persons of the age." Pilkington, 
 in his " Dictionary of Painters," writes : " Full 
 of feeling and delicacy, and looked on with 
 wonder and respect by the world." Mr. 
 Jameson speaks in equally glowing terms : — 
 " The most original, and, in truth, the only 
 new and original version of the scripture idea 
 of Angels which I have met with, is that of 
 William Blake, a poet-painter. Somewhat 
 mad, as we are told, if indeed his madness 
 were not rather ' the telescope of truth,' — a 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 sort of poetical clairvoyance, bringing the 
 unearthly nearer to him than to others." 
 What can be more exquisitely quaint and 
 beautiful than several, one in particular, of 
 the poems we have quoted. — See Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." ; " Sacred and Le- 
 gendary Art," by Mr, Jameson. 
 
 JAMES GRAHAME. 
 
 " James Grahame, the author of the ' Sab- 
 bath,* was the son of a respectable attorney 
 in Glasgow, and was bom in that city, on 
 the 22nd of April, 1765. He was educated 
 at the excellent pubHc schools of that city, 
 and had a very early and strong desire to enter 
 the clerical profession ; but it was the long- 
 cherished wish of his father that he should be 
 bred to his own calling. Accordingly, our poet 
 sacrificed his own wishes to those of his parent, 
 and studied the law. Many irksome years — 
 the best years of his life — were wasted in this, 
 to him most uncongenial pursuit, and it was 
 finally abandoned. For many years, however, 
 he toiled on in it, and, from a sense of- what he 
 owed to his family, he gave to it all the at- 
 tention of which a mind devoted to higher 
 purposes was capable. 
 
 " In 1804 he published anonymously his 
 poem of ' The Sabbath.' He had kept from 
 all his friends, and even from his wife, who 
 was possessed of a fine literary taste, aU 
 knowledge of what he had been engaged in, 
 and laid a copy of his poem on his parlour 
 table, as soon as it appeared. Mrs. Grahame 
 was led by curiosity to examine it, and, while 
 doing so, he was walking up and down the 
 room, awaiting some remark from her. At 
 length she burst into enthusiastic admiration 
 of the performance, and, well knowing her 
 husband's weak side, very naturally added — 
 ' Ah, James, if you could produce a poem like 
 this ! ' Longer concealment was impossible ; 
 and Mrs. Grahame, justly proud of her hus- 
 band's genius, no longer checked its bent. 
 
 " ' The Sabbath ' was warmly received 
 throughout Scotland. It came from the 
 heart ; and it spoke to the heart of the 
 nation. Grahame's vocation was now con- 
 firmed ; and, in the following two years, during 
 the long recess of the Scottish courts, he re- 
 tired with his family to a cottage at KirkhiU, 
 on the classic banks of the Esk, and gave 
 himself up to 
 
 ' Calm contemplation and poetic ease.' 
 
 " He now determined to abandon the law, 
 and zealously prepared himself for the ministry. 
 This had been his early, his constant wish. His 
 appearance, voice, manner, as well as his 
 talents and his piety, were all in keeping with 
 that calling. He was ordained in 1809, and 
 soon after settled with his family at Shipton, 
 in Gloucestershire. This year he published 
 
 his ' British Georgics,' a didactic agricultural 
 poem. His health had long been delicate, and 
 he was induced, in 1811, to go to Edinburgh 
 for a change of air and for medical advice. But 
 it was apparent to aU that his days on earth 
 could not be long. He had a natural desire 
 of breathing his last in his own native city, 
 and Mrs. Grahame set out with him, on the 
 11th of September, for Glasgow. He was 
 barely able to reach the place, and died there 
 on the 14th of September, 1811, in the forty- 
 seventh year of his age, most sincerely and 
 deeply lamented by a large circle of friends. 
 
 " Of the character of Grahame's poetry, 
 there is now scarcely but one opinion. Its 
 great charms are its elevated moral tone, and 
 its easy, simple, and unaffected description. 
 His ' Sabbath ' will always hold its place 
 among those poems which are, and deserve to 
 be, in the hands of the people. He exhibits 
 great tenderness of sentiment, which runs 
 through all his writings, and sometimes 
 deepens into true pathos. We do not know 
 any poetry, indeed, that lets us in so directly 
 to the heart of the writer, and produces so 
 full and pleasing a conviction that it is dictated 
 by the genuine feelings which it aims at com- 
 municating to the reader. If there be less 
 fire and elevation than in the strains of some 
 of his contemporaries, there is more truth and 
 tenderness than is commonly found along with 
 those qualities." — Cleveland's " Eng. Lit. 
 19th Cent." 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 " George Crabbe, bom 1754, died 1832. If 
 Cowper be rightly denominated the poet of 
 the domestic hearth, George Crabbe is emi- 
 nently the poet of the passions in humble 
 life. In his long career he is the link connect- 
 ing the age of Johnson and Burke with that 
 of Walter Scott and Byron ; and his admirable 
 works, while retaining in their form much of 
 the correctness and severity of the past age, 
 exhibit in their subjects and treatment that 
 intensity of human interest and that selection 
 of real passion which constitute the distin- 
 guishing characteristic of the writers who 
 appeared at the beginning of the present 
 century. He was born at the little seaport- 
 town of Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his 
 father was an humble fisherman, and per- 
 formed the duties of salt-master, or receiver of 
 the customs duties on salt ; and his child- 
 hood was miserable through bodily weakness 
 and the sight of continual dissensions between 
 his parents. After a dreamy and studious 
 childhood, during which his thirst for know- 
 ledge was encouraged by his father, a man of 
 violent passions but of considerable intel- 
 lectual development for one in his humble 
 position, young Crabbe was apprenticed to a 
 surgeon and apothecary, and first exercised 
 his profession in his native town. Pas- 
 
:?rom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 sionately fond of literature and botany, his 
 success in business was so small that he de- 
 termined to seek his fortune in London, where 
 he arrived with only about <£3 in his pocket, 
 and several unfinished poems, which he pub- 
 lished, but which were coldly received. After 
 some stay in London he found himself reduced 
 to despair, and even threatened with a prison 
 for some small debts he had contracted ; and 
 after vainly applying for assistance to various 
 persons connected with Aldborough, he ad- 
 dressed a manly and affecting letter to Ed- 
 mund Burke, who immediately admitted him 
 to his house and friendship. From this mo- 
 ment his fortune changed ; he was assisted, 
 both with money and ad^'ice, in bringing out 
 his poem of ' The Library,' was induced to 
 enter the Church, and was promised the 
 powerful influence of Lord Chancellor Thurlow. 
 He became domestic chaplain to the Duke of 
 Eutland, and lived some time at the magnifi- 
 cent seat of Beauvoir ; but this dependent 
 position seems to have been accompanied with 
 circumstances distasteful to Crabbe's manly 
 character. It, however, enabled him to marry 
 a young lady to whom he had been long 
 attached, and he soon after changed the 
 splendid restraint of Beauvoir for the humbler 
 but more independent existence of a parish 
 priest. From this period till his death, at the 
 great age of seventy-eight, his life was passed 
 in the constant exercise of his pastoral duties 
 in various parishes, and in the cultivation of 
 literature and his favourite science of botany. 
 " In his first poem, ' The Library,' it was 
 evident that Crabbe had not yet hit upon 
 the true vein of his peculiar and powerful 
 genius. It was not till the appearance of 
 ' The Village,' in 1783, that he struck out that 
 path in which he had neither predecessor nor 
 rival. The manuscript of this poem was sub- 
 mitted to Johnson, who gave his advice and 
 assistance in the correction and revision of the 
 style. The success of ' The Village ' was very 
 great, for it was the first attempt to paint the 
 manners and existence of the labouring class 
 without dressing them up in the artificial 
 colours of fiction. Crabbe allowed about 
 fourteen years to pass before he again ap- 
 peared before the public. During the interval 
 he was busied with his professional duties, and 
 enjoying the happiness of domestic life, which 
 no man was ever more capable of appreciating : 
 he, however, does not appear to have relaxed 
 his habit of composition. His next work was 
 ' The Parish Eegister,' in which the public 
 saw the gradual ripening of his vigorous and 
 original genius ; and this was followed, at 
 comparatively short intervals, by ' The Bo- 
 rough,' 'Tales in Verse,' and 'Tales of the 
 Hall.' These, with the striking but painful 
 poems, written in a different measure, entitled 
 * Sir Eustace Gray,' and ' The Hall of Justice,' 
 make up j2!rabbe's largo and valuable contri- 
 bution to the poetical literature of his country. 
 Almost all these works are constructed upon a 
 
 peculiar and generally similar plan. Crabbe 
 starts with some description, as of the Village, 
 the Parish Church, the Borough — just such a 
 deserted seaport-town as his native Aid- 
 borough — from which he naturally proceeds to 
 deduce a series of separate episodes, usually of 
 middle and humble life, appropriate to the 
 leading idea. Thus, in ' The Parisl^Ee^ster' 
 we have some of the most remarkable births, 
 marriages, and deaths that are supposed to 
 take place in a year amid a rural population ; 
 in the ' Borough,' the lives and adventures of 
 the most prominent characters that figure on 
 the narrow stage of a small provincial town. 
 The ' Tales ' are a series of stories, some 
 pathetic and some humorous, each complete in 
 itself ; and in the ' Tales of the Hall,' two 
 brothers whose paths in life have separated 
 them from boyhood, meet in their old age, 
 and recount their respective experiences. ' Sir 
 Eustace Grey ' is the story of a madman 
 related with terrific energy and picturesque- 
 ness by himself ; and in the ' Hall of Justice ' 
 a gipsy criminal narrates a still more dreadful 
 story of crime and retribution. With the 
 exception of the two last poems, written in a 
 peculiar rhymed short-lined stanza, Crabbe's 
 poems are in the classical ten-syllabled heroic 
 verse, and the contrast is strange between the 
 neat Pope-like regularity of the metre, and 
 the deep passion, the intense reality, and the 
 quaint humour of the scenes which he displays. 
 He thoroughly knew and profoundly analysed 
 the hearts of men : the virtues, the vices, the 
 weakness, and the heroism of the poor he has 
 anatomized with a stern but not unloving 
 hand. No poet has more subtly traced the 
 motives which regulate human conduct ; and 
 his descriptions of nature are marked by the 
 same unequalled power of rendering interest- 
 ing, by the sheer force of truth and exactness, 
 the most unattractive features of the external 
 world. The village tyrant, the poacher, the 
 smuggler, the miserly old maid, the pauper, 
 and the criminal, are drawn with the same 
 gloomy but vivid force as that with Avhich 
 Crabbe paints the squahd streets of the fish- 
 ing-town, or the fen, the quay, and the heath. 
 The more unattractive the subject the more 
 masterly is the painting, whether that subject 
 be man or nature. Crabbe is generally accused 
 of giving a gloomy and unfavourable view of 
 human life ; but his pathos, when he is pa- 
 thetic, reaches the extreme limit which sensi- 
 bility will bear, and in such tales as Phoebe 
 Dawson, Edward Shore, the Parting Hour, 
 the intensity of the effect produced by Crabbe 
 is directly proportioned to the simplicity of 
 the means by which the effect is attained. 
 In painting the agonies of remorse, the wan- 
 dering reason of sorrow or of crime, he is a 
 master ; and the story of ' Peter Grimes ' 
 might be cited as an unequalled example of 
 the sublime in common life. None of the great 
 Flemish masters have surpassed Crabbe in 
 minuteness as well as in force of delineation, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 and like them hia delineation is often most 
 impressive when its subject is most vile and 
 even repulsive." — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit.," 
 pp. 398-400. See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit." 
 
 SAIVIUEL EOGEES. 
 
 Samuel Rogers, born at Newington Green, 
 near London, 1763, died 1855, an eminent 
 English poet, was the son of a London banker, 
 in whose house of business he was placed, after 
 having received an efficient private educa- 
 tion. From his earliest years he had a pre- 
 dilection for poetry, and at the age of twenty- 
 three produced his first volume of verses, under 
 the title of "An Ode to Superstition, and 
 other Poems." Between the appearance of his 
 first publication and that of his second, " The 
 Pleasures of Memory," which was given to the 
 world in 1792, he travelled upon the Continent 
 and in Scotland. Six years later he brought 
 out another volume, after which he remained 
 silent during fourteen years ; for he added 
 nothing to his poetical works until the year 
 1812, when he published a fragment entitled 
 " Columbus." During this interval, however, 
 he had retired from active participation in the 
 affairs of the bank, and had given himself to 
 the cultivation of the friendship of the cele- 
 brities of his time. " ' The house of Rogers,' 
 in St. James's Place, became a little paradise 
 of the beautiful, where, amid pictures and 
 other objects of art, collected with care and 
 arranged with skUl, the happy owner nestled 
 in fastidious ease, and kept up among his 
 contemporaries a character in which something 
 of the Horace was blended with something 
 of the Mecsenas." 
 
 " Jaqueline " was put forth in 1814 j " Hu- 
 man Life" in 1819; and in 1822, the poet, 
 then sixty years of age, produced the first part 
 of his " Italy." The complete edition of this 
 latter poem was not published until 1836, 
 when it appeared in a magnificent form, having 
 been illustrated under his own direction, by 
 Stothard, Turner, and Prout, at a cost of 
 ^10,000. Up to his ninety-first year he wrote 
 an occasional piece, composed, like all his 
 works, with laborious slowness, and polished 
 line by line into elegance. That Rogers was 
 a shrewd observer and brilliant talker, besides 
 a poet, is evinced by the publication of his 
 " Table Talk," which appeared after his death. 
 " We have in his works a classic and graceful 
 beauty," says an eminent critic, "no slovenly 
 or obscure lines ; fine cabinet pictures of soft 
 and mellow lustre, and, occasionally, trains of 
 thought and association that awaken or recall 
 tender heroic feelings." He had been in the 
 habit of taking constant exercise till within a 
 short time before his death, and was at last 
 only prevented from appearing in public by an 
 accident with which he met in the streets. 
 Orton inhis " Excelsior " says, " Wliohas ever 
 
 read the works of this noble-hearted poet, 
 without their having produced a grateful and 
 refreshing influence, or without their fiercer 
 passions being softened and calmly elevated ? 
 — None, surely ! 
 
 " Who has not felt that a loving brother is 
 conversing with him when perusing his 
 ' Pleasures of Memory ; ' or that a chaste son 
 of nature, with a classically-moulded mind, is 
 their guide through ' Italy ' ? 
 
 " He has not Avritten much, certainly, when 
 we survey his long life ; — but we feel that a 
 deeply pure and noble, an unostentatiously- 
 kind and loving spirit, has dictated every 
 line with which he has blessed the world. 
 
 "This poet's kindness and sympathy of 
 heart are so deeply felt in his writings, as 
 they have been displayed in his life. He has 
 not attempted a flight into any wild imagi- 
 native regions, but he has sought, and success- 
 fully, to throw flowers of beauty over the 
 rugged paths of man, and the ruins o'er which 
 the Past has stalked and shattered with his 
 destructive heel!" — See Beeton's "Univ. 
 Biog." ; Maunder ; Chambers' " Cyc. Eng, 
 Lit." ; Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 " William Wordsworth was born on the 
 7th of April, 1770, at Cockermouth, in Cum- 
 berland. His parents were of the middle 
 class, and designed him for the Church ; but 
 poetry and new prospects turned him into 
 another path. His pursuit through life was 
 poetry, and his profession that of stamp- 
 distributor for the Government, in the counties 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland. He made 
 his first appearance as a poet in 1793, by the 
 publication of a thin quarto volume, entitled 
 ' An Evening Walk ; an Epistle in Verse, ad- 
 dressed to a Young Lady.' In the same year 
 he published ' Descriptive Sketches in Verse, 
 taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the 
 Alps,' of which Coleridge thus writes in his 
 ' Biographia Literaria : ' — ' During the last of 
 my residence at Cambridge, 1794, I became 
 acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first publi- 
 cation, entitled "Descriptive Sketches;" 
 and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an 
 original poetic genius above the literary 
 horizon more evidently announced.' Two 
 years after, the two poets, then personally 
 unknown to each other, were brought together, 
 at Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire. Coleridge 
 was then in his twenty-fourth, and Words- 
 worth in his twenty-sixth year. A congeniality 
 of pursuit soon ripened into intimacy, and, in 
 September, 1798, accompanied by Miss Words- 
 worth, they made a tour in Germany. 
 
 " Wordsworth's next publication was the 
 first volume of his ' Lyrical Ballads,' published 
 just after he had left for the Continent, by 
 Joseph Cottle, of Bristol, who purchased the 
 copyright for thirty guineas. But it proved 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 a great failure, and Cottle was a loser by the 
 bargain. The critics were very severe upon 
 it. Jeffrey in the ' Edinburgh,' Byron in his 
 ' English Bards and Scotch Ee viewers,' and 
 James Smith in his ' Rejected Addresses,' and 
 others of less note in the literary world, all 
 fired their shafts of reason and ridicule at 
 him. Many years, therefore, elapsed before 
 Mr. Wordsworth again appeared as a poet. 
 But he was not idle ; for in the same year that 
 witnessed the failure of his ' Lyrical Ballads,' 
 he wrote his ' Peter Bell,' though he kept it 
 by him many years before he published it. 
 
 " Wordsworth married, in the year 1803, 
 Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, and settled 
 among his beloved lakes — first at Grasmere, 
 and afterward at Eydal Mount. Southey's 
 subsequent retirement to the same beautiful 
 country, and Coleridge's visits to his brother 
 poets, originated the name of the ' Lake 
 School of Poetry,' by which the opponents of 
 their principles and the critics of the ' Edin- 
 burgh Review ' distinguished the three poets, 
 whose names are so intimately connected. In 
 1807, he put forth two volumes of his poems, 
 and in the autumn of 1814 appeared, in quarto 
 form, the celebrated ' Excursion.' It consists 
 of sketches of life and manners among the 
 mountains, intermingled with moral and de- 
 votional reflections. It is merely a part of a 
 larger poem, which was to be entitled ' The 
 Recluse,' and to be prefaced by a minor one, 
 deUneating the growth of the author's mind, 
 published since his death under the name of 
 ' The Prelude.' ' The Recluse ' was to be 
 divided into three parts — the ' Excursion ' 
 forms the second of these ; the first book of 
 the first part is extant in manuscript, but the 
 rest of the work was never completed. 
 
 " No sooner did the ' Excursion' appear, than 
 the critics were down upon it with a vengeance. 
 ' This will never do,' was the memorable open- 
 ing of the article in the ' Edinburgh.' A few 
 thought it ' v/ould do,' and praised it ; but 
 while it was stiU dividing the critics, ' Peter 
 BeU ' appeared, to throw among them yet 
 greater differences of opinion. The deriders 
 of the poet laughed still louder than before ; 
 while his admirers believed, or affected to be- 
 lieve, that it added to the author's fame. 
 Another publication the next year — ' The 
 White Doe of Rylstone ' — was even more 
 severely handled by one party, while, with 
 ' the school,' it found still greater favour than 
 anything that he had written. In 1820, he 
 published his noble series of ' Sonnets to the 
 River Duddon,' which contain some of his 
 finest poetry. Two years after appeared his 
 ' Ecclesiastical Sonnets,' which were composed 
 at the same time that Southey was writing his 
 ' History of the Church.' 
 
 " In 1831 he visited Scotland, and, on his 
 way to the Lakes, had an affecting interview 
 — the last he ever had — with Sir Walter, who 
 was rapidly failing, and was about to set off 
 for an Italian chme. The evening of the 22nd 
 
 September was a very sad one in his antique 
 library. Lockhart was there, and Allan, the 
 historical painter. Wordsworth was also 
 feeble in health, and sat with a green shade 
 over his eyes, and bent shoulders, between his 
 daughter and Sir Walter. The conversation 
 was melancholy, and Sir Walter remarked 
 that SmoUett and Fielding had both'^been 
 driven abroad by declining health, and had 
 never returned. Next morning he left Abbots- 
 ford, and his guests retu-ed with sorrowful 
 hearts. Wordsworth has preserved a memento 
 of his own feelings in a beautiful sonnet. In 
 
 1833 he visited Staffa and lona. The year 
 
 1834 was a sort of era in his life, by the 
 publication of his complete works in four 
 volumes. His friends, however, now began to 
 fall around him. That year poor Coleridge bade 
 adieu to his weary life. This must have 
 touched many a chord of association in Words- 
 worth's heart. In 1836, his wife's sister, and 
 his constant friend and companion, died, and 
 blow followed blow in fatal succession. 
 
 "As if to console him for the loss of so 
 many that were dear to his heart, worldly 
 honours began to be heaped upon him. In 
 1835, ' Blackwood's Magazine ' came out 
 strongly in his defence. In 1839, amid the 
 acclamations of the students, he received the 
 degree of Doctor of Civil Law from Oxford 
 University. In 1842 he received a pension 
 of .£300 a year, with permission to resign his 
 office of stamp-distributor in favour of his 
 son. Next year he was appointed to the 
 laureateship left vacant by the melancholy 
 death of Southey. After this he lived a quiet 
 and dignified life at Rydal, evincing little '^ 
 apparent sympathy with the arduous duties 
 and activities of the every-day world — a world 
 which he left, calmly and peacefully, at a good 
 old age, on the 23rd of April, 1850. 
 
 " No author in the English language has so 
 divided the critics as William Wordsworth. 
 A few place him in the first class of our poets ; 
 while the large majority, certainly, of readers 
 see nothing in his poetry that can fairly give 
 him such a rank. Gladly would I add my 
 humble testimony in unison with that of his 
 ardent admirers, if I honestly could ; but, 
 whether right or wrong, I cannot. I cheer- 
 fully grant that his style is simple and often 
 vigorous ; that his versification is smooth and 
 easy ; that his blank verse is manly and 
 idiomatic ; that he shows great power of 
 minute and faithful description ; and that, 
 throughout his poetry, may be found senti- 
 ments of pure morality and deep wisdom, such 
 as must ever exert a happy moral influence. 
 And yet he never" moves me ; there is no 
 passion in him ; there seems to be a want of 
 naturalness in most that he has written ; he 
 ' never warms me to admiration, or melts mo 
 [ to tenderness. Southey himself has, to my 
 I mind, well expressed the real fault of both 
 I his mystical brethren : — ' Both Coleridge and 
 j Wordsworth, powerfully as they can \vrite, 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 and profoundly as they usually think, have 
 been betrayed into the same fault — that of 
 making things easy of comprehension in them- 
 selves, difficult to be comprehended by their 
 •way of stating them. Instead of going to the 
 natural springs for water, they seem to like 
 the labour of digging wells.' 
 
 " The following estimate of his character, 
 from a recent critic, seems to me very just : — 
 ' His devotion to external nature had the 
 power and persuasiveness of a passion ; his 
 perception of its most minute beauties was 
 exquisitely fine ; and his portraitures, both of 
 landscapes and figures, were so distinctly out- 
 lined as to impress them on the mind almost 
 as vividly and deeply as the sight of them 
 could have done. But he was defective in the 
 stronger passions, and hence, in spite of the 
 minuteness of his portraitures of character, 
 he failed to produce real human beings capable 
 of stirring the blood ; and what was even 
 more serious, he himseK was incapacitated 
 from feeling a genial and warm sympathy in 
 the struggles of modern man, on whom he 
 rather looked as from a distant height with 
 the commiseration of some loftier nature. 
 From the characteristics enumerated arose the 
 great faults of his works. His landscape 
 paintings are often much too minute. He 
 dwells too tediously on every small object and 
 detail, and from his over-intense appreciation 
 of them, which magnifies their importance, 
 rejects all extrinsic ornaments, and occa- 
 sionally, though exceptionally, adopts a style 
 bare and meagre, and even phrases tainted 
 with mean associations. Hence all his per- 
 sonages — being without reality — fail to 
 attract ; and even his strong domestic af- 
 fections, and his love for everything pure and 
 simple, do not give a sufiicient human inter- 
 est to his poems. His prolixity and tedious- 
 ness are aggravated by a want of artistic skill 
 in construction ; and it is owing to this that 
 he is most perfect in the sonnet, which ren- 
 ders the development of these faults an im- 
 possibility, while it gives free play to his 
 naturally pure, tasteful, and lofty diction. 
 His imagination was majestic; his fancy lively 
 and sparkling ; and he had a refined and Attic 
 humour, which, however, he seldom called into 
 exercise.' "—Cleveland's " Eng. Lit. 19th 
 Cent." 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. 
 
 " Samuel Taylor Coleridge, bom 1772, died 
 1834, 'the most imaginative of modern poets,' 
 was the son of the Rev. John Coleridge, vicar 
 of Ottery, and was bom at that place in the 
 year 1772. Losing his father in early life, ho 
 obtained, by the kindness of a friend, a pre- 
 sentation to Christ Church Hospital, London. 
 'I enjoyed,' he says, 'the inestimable ad- 
 vantage of a very sensible, though at the same 
 time a very severe master, the Rev. James 
 
 Bowyer, who early moulded my taste to the 
 preference of Demosthenes to Cicero, of Homer 
 and Theocritus to Virgil, and again of Virgil 
 to Ovid, &c.' He made extraordinary ad- 
 vances in scholarship, and amassed a vast 
 variety of miscellaneous knowledge, but in 
 that random, desultory manner which through 
 life prevented him from accomplishing what 
 his great abilities qualified him for achieving. 
 His reputation at Christ Church promised a 
 brilliant career at Cambridge, which university 
 he entered in 1790, in his nineteenth year. In 
 1794 he became acquainted with the poet 
 Southey, then a student at Baliol College, 
 Oxford, and a warm friendship soon ripened 
 between them ; and at Bristol they formed 
 the resolution, along with a third poet, Lovell, 
 of founding what they termed a Pantisocrasy, 
 or a republic of pure freedom, on the banks 
 of the Susquehanna, in Pennsylvania. In 1795 
 the three poets married three sisters, the 
 Misses Fricker, of Bristol, and thus the whole 
 pantisocratic scheme was upset. 
 
 " After his marriage, Coleridge settled at 
 Clevedon, near Bristol, and projected many 
 plans of industrious occupation in the fields 
 of literature ; but he soon became tired of 
 this retreat, and removed to Bristol, where he 
 was materially aided in his designs of publica- 
 tion by that most generous and sympathizing 
 publisher, Joseph Cottle. He first started a 
 weekly political paper, called the ' Watchman,' 
 most of which he wrote himself ; but from his 
 indolent irregularity, the work stopped at the 
 tenth number. Failing in this, he retired, in 
 the latter part of 1796, to a cottage in Nether 
 Stowey, in Somersetshire, on the grounds of 
 his friend and benefactor, Mr. Poole, and near 
 Mr. "Wordsworth. He was at this time in the 
 habit of contributing verses to one of the 
 London papers, as a means of subsistence ; 
 and it was while residing here that the greater 
 part of his poems were composed, though 
 many were not published till later : these were 
 his ' Lyrical Ballads,' ' Christabel,' the ' An- 
 cient Mariner,' and his tragedy of ' Remorse.' 
 
 " In 179S he was enabled, through the 
 munificence of Mr. Thomas Wedgwood, to 
 travel in Germany, and to study at some of 
 its famed universities. He was very indus- 
 trious in the study of the literature and 
 philosophy of that country, and may be con- 
 sidered as the introducer of German philosophy 
 to the notice of British scholars. After his 
 return from Germany, Coleridge settled with 
 his family at Keswick, in Cumberland, near 
 the ' Lakes,' in which region Wordsworth ami 
 Southey resided, and hence the appellation of 
 * Lake Poets,' given to these three individuals. 
 In the meantime, his habit of opium-eating, 
 into which he had been seduced from its ap- 
 parent medicinal effects, had gained tremen- 
 dously upon him, and had undermined his 
 health. There is no portion of literary history 
 more sad than that which reveals the tyran- 
 nical power which that dreadful habit had 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 over him, and his repeated but vain struggles 
 to overcome it. It made him its victim, and 
 held him, boimd hand and foot, with a giant's 
 strength. In consequence of his enfeebled 
 health, he went to Malta in 1804, and returned 
 in 1806. From this period till about 1816, 
 he led a sort of wandering life, sometimes 
 with one friend and sometimes with another, 
 and much of the time separated from his 
 family, supporting himself by lecturing, pub- 
 lishing, and \vriting for the London papers. 
 The great defect in his character was the want 
 of resoluteness of will. He saw that his perni- 
 cious habit was destroying his own happiness, 
 and that of those dearest to him, entangling 
 him in meanness, deceit, and dishonesty, and 
 yet he had not the strength of will to break it 
 off. 
 
 " In 1816 he placed himself under the care 
 of Mr. Gillman, a physician in Highgate, 
 London, and with his generous family he re- 
 sided till his death. Most of his prose works 
 he published between the j'ears 1817 and 1825 
 — the two ' Lay Sermons,' the ' Biographia 
 Literaria,' the ' Friend,' in three volumes, and 
 the 'Aids to Reflection,' and the ' Constitution 
 of the Church and State.' After his death, 
 which took place on the 25th of July, 1834, 
 collections were made of his ' Table Talk,' and 
 other ' Literary Remains.' 
 
 " Few men have exerted a greater influence 
 upon the thinking mind of the nineteenth 
 century than Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whether 
 we regard his poetry or his prose writings. He 
 wrote, however, for the scholastic few rather 
 than for the reading many. Hence he has 
 never become what may be called a popular 
 writer, and never will be. But if he exerted 
 not so great an influence upon the popular 
 mind directly, he did indirectly through those 
 who have studied and admired his works, and 
 have themselves popularized his own recondite 
 conceptions. His ' Aids to Reflection in the 
 Formation of a Manly Character' is a book 
 full of wisdom, of sound Christian morality, 
 and of the most just observations on life and 
 duty ; and from his ' Series of Essays — the 
 Friend,' might be culled gems of rich, and 
 beautiful, and profound thought that would 
 make a volume of priceless worth. His poetry 
 unites great vividness of fancy to a lofty 
 elevation of moral feeling and unsurpassed 
 melody and versification ; but then much of 
 it must be said to be obscure. He himself, 
 in fact, admits this, when he says, in a later 
 edition of one of his poems, that where he 
 appears unintelligible, 'the deficiency is in 
 the reader.' Still, there is enough that is 
 clear left to delight, instruct, and exalt the 
 mind ; and few authors have left to the 
 world, both in prose and poetry, so much 
 delicious and invigorating food on which the 
 worn spirit may feed with pleasure and profit, 
 and gain renewed strength for the conflicts of 
 the world, as this philosophic poet and poetic 
 philosopher. 
 
 " In conversation, Coleridge particularly 
 shone. Here, probably, he never had his 
 equal, so that he gained the title of the 
 ' Great Conversationalist.' ' It is deeply to 
 be regretted,' says an admiring critic, ' that 
 his noble genius was, to a great extent, 
 frittered away in conversation, which he 
 could pour forth, unpremeditatedlj, for 
 hours, in uninterrupted streams of vivid, 
 dazzling, original thinking.' ' Did you ever 
 hear me preach ? ' said Coleridge to Lamb. 
 ' I never heard you do anything else,' was 
 his friend's reply. Certainly through this 
 medium he watered with his instructions a 
 large circle of discipleship ; but what trea- 
 sures of thought has the world lost by his 
 unwillingness to make his pen the mouthpiece 
 of his mind ! " — Cleveland's " Eng. Lit. 19th 
 Cent." See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." ; Gilfillan's " Literary Gallery." 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Robert Southey, bom at Bristol, 1774; 
 died at Keswick, Cumberland, 1843 ; an 
 eminent English poet and general writer, was 
 the son of a linendraper at Bristol, and was 
 sent to Westminster School in 1788, from 
 which establishment he was dismissed four 
 years afterwards, in consequence of having 
 written a sarcastic attack upon the system of 
 corporal punishment pursued in the school. 
 He was, however, entered of Baliol College, 
 Oxford, it being intended that he should take 
 holy orders. For this pursuit he himself had 
 little sympathy ; indeed, he was quite un- 
 qualified for it, being then a sceptic both in 
 politics and religion. At Oxford he declared 
 that he learned only two things — to row and 
 to swim ; but, even while there, that Hterary 
 industry, which is almost without a parallel, 
 became a habit with him. About a year after 
 leaving Oxford, he made the acquaintance of 
 Coleridge, and the two poets married on the 
 same day two sisters. After supporting him- 
 self for a short time by lecturing on history, 
 in Bristol, he sold his poem, entitled "Joan 
 of Arc," to Cottle, the Bristol bookseller, for 
 fifty guineas. His maternal uncle, the Rev. 
 Mr, HOI, chaplain of the British factory at 
 Lisbon, at whose expense Southey had been 
 kept at Oxford, visited England shortly after 
 his nephew's first appearance as a poet, and 
 endeavoured to induce him to enter the 
 Church : but although Southey had by thia 
 time become reconciled to her doctrines, he 
 steadily refused to take orders. On his uncle's 
 return to Lisbon, Southey accompanied, and 
 remained in Spain and Portugal during six 
 months. In 1796 he produced " Letters from 
 Spain and Portugal ; " and in the following 
 year entered himself as a student of the law 
 at Gray's Inn. He wrote to his publisher, 
 " I advance with sufficient rapidity in Black- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod/ 
 
 stone and ' Madoc' I hope to finisli my poem 
 and begin my practice in about two years." 
 At the end of this time the poem was com- 
 pleted, but the law was given up as imprac- 
 ticable. After a second visit to Lisbon, he 
 obtained, upon his return to England, an 
 appointment as private secretary to the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland ; but 
 in six months the poet relinquished what he 
 called "a foolish office and a good salary." 
 This was in 1801, and with this year dates 
 his entrance upon literature as a profession. 
 He obtained sufficient employment from the 
 booksellers, and after making several success- 
 ful appearances as an author, he, in 1804, 
 settled at Greta Hall, near Keswick, Cum- 
 berland, where the remaining years of his life 
 were passed. In 1807 he received a pension 
 from the Government ; in 1813 he succeeded 
 Mr. Pye as poet laureate ; and under the 
 ministry of Sir Eobert Peel, a second pension 
 of .£300 per annum was bestowed upon him. 
 He was at the same time offered a baronetcy 
 by Sir Eobert ; but this Southey declined, 
 because too poor to support the dignity. He 
 lost his first wife in 1837, and two years later 
 was united to Miss Caroline Bowles, the 
 poetess. He was the author of more than one 
 hundred volumes of poetry, history, travels, 
 &c. ; and, moreover, produced one hundred 
 and twenty-six papers of various lengths, 
 upon history, biography, politics, and general 
 literature. The principal efforts of his life of 
 unwearied industry were, "Joan of Arc"; 
 " Madoc "; " Thalaba, the Destroyer "; *' The 
 Curse of Kehama," poems : the lives of Nelson, 
 Bunyan, John Wesley, Kirke White, prefixed 
 to his " Eemains ; " the History of the 
 Peninsular War, of Brazil, and of Portugal ; 
 •' Sir Thomas More ; or, Colloquies upon the 
 Church "; " The Doctor " ; and essays moral 
 and political. His " Life and Correspondence," 
 edited by his son, were published in 1850. His 
 son-in-law, the Eev. J. Wood Warter, also 
 gave to the public his commonplace books. — 
 See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit."; "Life of Southey," by 
 Warter. 
 
 CHAELES LAMB. 
 
 Charles Lamb, born in London, 1774; died 
 at Edmonton, 1834 ; a distinguished English 
 essayist and humorist, was the son of a clerk 
 to Mr. Salt, a bencher of the Inner Temple, in 
 which legal stronghold he first saw the light. 
 He was sent at an early age to Christ's Hos- 
 pital, where Coleridge was his schoolfellow. 
 Eeared in the very heart of the metropolis, he 
 throughout life evinced a strong perception of 
 the splendour, squalidness, excitement, and 
 oddities of the great world of London. " I 
 often shed tears," he said, " in tne motley 
 Strand, for fulness of joy at so much life." 
 An impediment in his speech prevented his 
 
 gaining an exhibition at the university, and, 
 in 1792, he became a clerk in the India House, 
 a post he retained during thirty-three years. 
 With the exception of one terrible circum- 
 stance, his life was very uneventful. In 1796 
 his sister, worn out by constant toil at her 
 needle, took her mother's life in an uncon- 
 trollable fit of frenzy. He first appeared as 
 an author in a small book of poems, published 
 in conjunction with Coleridge and Lloyd. Al- 
 though this was severely handled by the 
 "Anti-Jacobin," Lamb was not deterred from 
 authorship ; for, some time afterwards, he 
 produced a drama, entitled " John WoodviU." 
 His delightful " Essays of Elia," upon which 
 his fame mainly rests, were first printed in 
 the " London Magazine." He was highly 
 esteemed by a large intellectual circle, among 
 which may be named his life-long friend 
 Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, Southey, Eogers, and 
 Talfourd. The last gentleman published 
 " Lamb's Letters," and " Final Memorials," 
 in 1848 ; and those who would fully appreciate 
 his captivating essays, and morsels of auto- 
 biography scattered through his writings, 
 should consult these tributes to a genial and 
 estimable man. His complete works include 
 two volumes of verse, the " Essays of Elia," 
 and " Specimens of English Dramatic Poets 
 who lived about the time of Shakspere." The 
 "Farewell to Tobacco," "Essay on Eoast 
 Pig," "Christ's Hospital Thirty Years Ago," 
 and the "Old Benchers of Lincoln's Inn," 
 may be mentioned as representative bits of 
 his refined, quaint, easy humour. In one of 
 his last essays of " Elia," he records his 
 feelings on being released from drudgery at 
 the India House, in a delightful manner. The 
 paper is called " The Superannuated Man ; " 
 and the event happened in 1825. His death 
 was the consequence of what was at first 
 thought but a slight accident. For quaint, 
 genial, and unconventional humour. Lamb 
 has, perhaps, never been excelled. — See Shaw's 
 " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Professor Spalding ; 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." ; Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 
 
 William Sotheby, born in London, 1757; 
 died 1833 ; an English writer, who, after 
 serving as an officer in the 10th Dragoons, 
 retired to his estate near Southampton, where, 
 as well as in London at a subsequent period, ho 
 devoted his leisure to literature. He produced 
 some tragedies and poems, and translated 
 Wieland's " Oberon," the "Georgics" of 
 Virgil, and Homer's " Iliad " and " Odys- 
 sey." 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 " William Lisle Bowles, born 1762, died 
 1850, the son of the Eev, William Thomas 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Bowles, vicar of King's-Sutton, jS^orthampton- 
 shire, was born at that place on the 25th of 
 September, 1762. In 1766 he was placed on 
 theWjkeham foundation at Winchester, under 
 Dr. Joseph Warton. Naturally a timid, diffi- 
 dent boy, he ever expressed a grateful obliga- 
 tion to the kind encourgement he received 
 from that eminent man, who sympathized very 
 cordially with any manifestations of poetic 
 talents. During his last j^ear at Winchester, 
 he was at the head of the school, and in con- 
 sequence of this distinction he was elected, in 
 1781, a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford. 
 In 1783 he gained the chancellor's prize for 
 Latin verse, the subject being Calpe Obsessa, 
 'The Siege of Gibraltar.' In 1789 he pub- 
 lished twenty of his beautiful sonnets, which 
 were followed in the same year by ' Verses to 
 John Howard, on his State of the Prisons and 
 Lazarettos,' and in 1790 by ' The Grave of 
 Howard.' These and other poetical works 
 were collected in 1796, and so well were they 
 received, that repeated editions were pub- 
 lished. 
 
 " In 1797 he was married to Magdalen, 
 daughter of the Rev. Charles Wake, pre- 
 bendary of Westminster. She died some years 
 before him, leaving no cloildren. Having en- 
 tered the ministry, he obtained the vicarage 
 of BremhUl in 1804, which was his constant 
 residence for nearly a quarter of a century. 
 In 'the latter part of his life be resided at 
 Salisbury, where he died on the 7th of April, 
 1850. 
 
 " It would be difficult to enumerate aU of 
 Mr. Bowles's publications : but the following 
 are his principal poems. ' The Battle of the 
 Nile,' published in 1799 ; ' The Sorrows of 
 Switzerland,' in 1801 ; ' The Spirit of Dis- 
 cover}', or Conquest of Ocean,' in 1805 ; ' The 
 Missionary of the Andes,' in 1815 ; ' The 
 Grave of the Last Saxon,' in 1822 ; ' St. John 
 in Patmos,' in 1832, His last poetical com- 
 positions were contained in a volume published 
 in 1837, entitled ' Scenes and Shadows of 
 Daj^s .Departed, a Narrative ; accompanied 
 by Poems of Youth, and some other poems of 
 Melancholy and Fancy, in the Journey of Life 
 from Youth to Age.' He also ;printed several 
 editions of a pleasing little volume of simple 
 poetry, entitled ' The Village Verse-Book,' 
 written to excite in the youthful mind the 
 first feelings of religion and humanity, from 
 familiar rural objects. 
 
 " In 1807, Mr. Bowles edited ' The Works 
 of Alexander Pope, in Verse and Prose,' in 
 ten volumes; and in this labour (it would 
 -seem not of love) he displayed, as editor, what 
 is rather a singular phenomenon in the literary 
 world, prepossessions adverse to the claims 
 and merits of his author. He laid down this 
 proposition as a universal truth, 'that all 
 images drawn from what is beautiful or sub- 
 lime in the works of nature, are more beautiful 
 and sublime than any images drawn from art ; 
 and tliat they are therefore, per se, more 
 
 poetical.' The truth of this dogma was of 
 course warmly disputed, and Campbell, Byron, 
 and others entered into the contest in behalf 
 of Pope. The latter, doubtless, had the 
 better of the argument : a pyramid may 
 raise as strong emotions in the breast as the 
 mountain ; and, as Byron said, a ship in the 
 wind, with all sails set, is a more~ poetical 
 object than ' a hog in the vnnd,' though the 
 hog is all nature, and the ship all art. 
 
 " Mr. Bowles is probably more indebted for 
 his fame to his Sonnets than to any of his other 
 writings. Of these, Mr. Hallam, in an ad- 
 dress recently delivered at the anniversary of 
 the Eoyal Society of Literature, thus speaks : 
 ' The Sonnets of Bowles may be reckoned 
 among the first fruits of a new era in poetry. 
 They came in an age when a commonplace 
 facility in rhyming on the one hand, and an 
 almost nonsensical affectation in a new school 
 on the other, had lowered the standard so 
 much, that critical judges spoke of English 
 poetry ae of something nearly extinct, and 
 disdained to read what they were sure to 
 disapprove. In these sonnets there was ob- 
 served a grace of expression, a musical versi- 
 fication, and especially an air of melancholy 
 tenderness, so congenial to the poetical tem- 
 perament, which stiU, after sixty years of a 
 more propitious period than that which im- 
 mediately preeeded their publication, preserves 
 for their author a highly respectable position 
 among our poets.' " — Cleveland's "Eng. Lit. 
 19th Cent." See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." ; Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WALTEPw SAVAGE LANDOE. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, born 1775, died 
 1864. " His father was a gentleman of good 
 family and wealthy circumstances residing in 
 Warwickshire. The son entered Eugby at an 
 early age, and thence proceeded to Trinity 
 College, Oxford. Like many others who have 
 taken important literary positions, he left the 
 university without a degree ; and though in- 
 tended at first for the army, and afterwards 
 for the bar, he declined both professions, and 
 threw himself into literature, with the assist- 
 ance of a liberal allowance from his father. 
 In 1795 his first work — a volume of poems — 
 appeared, followed early in the present century 
 by a translation into Latin of ' Gebir,' one of 
 his own English poems. Landor had no small 
 facility in classical composition, and he ap- 
 peared to have the power of transporting 
 himself into the times and sentiments of 
 Greece and Eome. This is still more clearly 
 seen in the ' Heroic Idylls ' (1820), in Latin 
 verse ; and the reproduction of Greek thought 
 in ' The Hellenics ' is one of the most suc- 
 cessful attempts of its land. At the death 
 of his father, the poet found himself in pos- 
 session of an extensive estate, but longing for 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Pesiod.-— 
 
 a life of greater freedom and less monotony than 
 that of an English country gentleman, he sold 
 his patrimony, and took up his abode on the 
 continent, where he resided during the rest 
 of his hfe, with occasional visits to his native 
 country. The republican spirit which led him 
 to take part as a volunteer in the Spanish 
 rising of 1808 continued to burn fiercely to 
 the last. He even went so far as to defend 
 tyrannicide, and boldly offered a pension to 
 the widow of any one who would murder a 
 despot. Between 1820 and 1830 he was en- 
 gaged upon his greatest work, ' Imaginary 
 Conversations of Literary Men and StateS' 
 men.' This wasfoUowed in 1831 by ' Poems, 
 ' Letters by a Conservative,' ' Satire on Sa 
 tirists ' (1836), ' Pentameron and Pentalogue 
 (1837), and a long series in prose and poetry 
 of which the chief are the ' Hellenics,' en 
 larged and completed, ' Dry Sticks Fagoted, 
 and 'The Last Fruit off an old Tree.' He 
 resided towards the close of his life at Bath ; 
 but some four or five years before his death a 
 libel on a lady, for which he was condemned 
 to pay heavy damages, drove him again from 
 his country, and he retired to his Italian 
 home near Florence, and there in serene old 
 age ' the Nestor of English poets,' one of the 
 last literary links with the age of the French 
 Republic, passed quietly away. He died on 
 the 17th of September, 1864, an exile from 
 his country, misunderstood, from the very 
 individuality of his genius, by the majority of 
 his countrymen, but highly appreciated by 
 those who could rightly estimate the works 
 he has left behind him. 
 
 " It has been weU said of the author of 
 ' Imaginary Conversations,' that no writer 
 presents ' as remarkable an instance of the 
 strength and weakne s s of the human understand- 
 ing.' Landor was a man of refined tastes and 
 cultured mind. A gentleman by birth, every 
 line of his writings gives proofs of the learned 
 and polished intellect. But unhappily his 
 great powers were marred by the heedlessness 
 and rashness of his disposition, strong pas- 
 sions, and an unrestrained will. There is no 
 regard for the thoughts and feelings of others. 
 He, therefore, is too fond of paradox and 
 unfounded assertion. His opinion must be 
 received, because it is his ; he runs against 
 every one else, and believes what no one else 
 believes, and scouts those ideas which have 
 received universal assent. Thus, Napoleon 
 Buonaparte was a man of no genius ; Alfieri 
 the greatest man that Europe has seen ; Pitt 
 was a poor creature, and Fox a charlatan. It 
 was this unhappy inconsistency, paradox, and 
 wilfulness, which prevented his writings ob- 
 taining that position which was their due. 
 His style is nervous and graceful. In the 
 ' Imaginary Conversations ' the tones and 
 manners of the age or individual are well 
 rendered, and the whole work is evidently that 
 of a man deeply in earnest, yet wanting in that 
 gentleness, considerateness, and prudence, 
 
 which are required in a really valuable pro- 
 duction." — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 
 459, 460. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Thomas Moore, born at Dublin, 1789 ; died 
 1852, a celebrated poet, was the son of a 
 small tradesman at Dublin, and after receiving 
 some education at a school in the same city, 
 was entered of Trinity College, Dublin, in 
 1794. He had already commenced rhyme- 
 making, and had inserted two poems in a 
 Dublin Magazine. His collegiate career was 
 somewhat distinguished ; but being of the 
 Roman Catholic faith, he was not permitted 
 to take honours. About 1799 he went to 
 London, and entered himself of the Middle 
 Temple, with the view of adopting the law as 
 his profession. In 1801 he produced the 
 " Odes of Anacreon," which he had composed 
 while at college, and in the following year the 
 " Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little," 
 a coDection of lyrics in imitation of Catullus. 
 He now began to be introduced to the fashion- 
 able circle in which, throughout his after-life, 
 he sought to move. Through the influence of 
 Lord Moira he was, in the following year, 
 appointed to a post at Bermuda ; but finding, 
 on his arrival, that the situation was dis- 
 tasteful to him, he returned almost immediately. 
 He pursued his homeward journey throughout 
 the United States, and visited New York, 
 Virginia, Boston, Niagara, and Quebec, Soon 
 after his arrival in England, he put forth his 
 " Odes and Epistles," which being severely 
 criticised by Jeffrey, led to the " bloodless 
 duel" between himself and that gentleman, 
 satirized by Byron in his " EngUsh Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers." At this period he 
 was much courted by the noble and the 
 fashionable, and was a constant guest at 
 Holland and Lansdown Houses. He had a 
 sweet voice, and being a good musician, was 
 in the habit of singing the melodies of his 
 native land with much success at aristocratic 
 reunions. This fact led to his engaging him- 
 seK to write a series of Irish melodies, the 
 accompaniments to which were to be adapted 
 from Irish airs by Sir John Stevenson. This 
 task was not completed until 1834. Of a 
 similar character were his "National Airs" 
 and " Sacred Songs." In 1812, his friend 
 Mr. Perry, editor of the "Morning Chronicle," 
 negotiated on his behalf with the Messrs. 
 Longman the sale of a quarto volume of 
 poems, for which Moore was to receive 3,000 
 guineas. Five years afterwards, this poem 
 appeared under the title of " Lalla Rookh," 
 and was immediately highly successful. This 
 brilliant composition was something quite 
 new to the public, who were captivated with 
 its rich colouring, its melody, and its oriental 
 spirit. The " Fudge Family in Paris " was 
 his next work, taid was the result of a visit 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 to the French capital, made in company with 
 Mr. Rogers. He soon afterwards learned that 
 his deputy at Bermuda, " after keeping back 
 from him the proper receipts of his office, 
 had made free with the proceeds of a ship 
 and cargo deposited in his hands." For 
 this, Doctors' Commons made a claim upon 
 him to the amount of d£6,000. The poet's 
 friends proffered assistance ; but he honour- 
 ably resolved to pay off the claim out of the 
 earnings of his pen. The remaining years 
 of his life may be described as an untiring 
 pursuit of poetry, prose, and fashionable 
 society. As Byron said, he dearly loved a 
 lord, and was never so happy as when he was 
 in the presence of a noble. The simple enu- 
 meration of his chief productions vnM show, 
 however, that he did not trifle with or neglect 
 the magnificent gifts with which nature had 
 endowed him. During the subsequent twenty 
 years he laboured incessantly, and gave to the 
 world, among others, '' The Loves of the 
 Angels,'"' a poem; "The Epicurean," a prose- 
 poetical romance ; " Fables of the Holy Al- 
 liance;" " Memoirs of Captain Rock;" "The 
 Summer Fete; " "The Life of Lord Edward 
 Fitzgerald ; " '• The History of Ireland; " and 
 " The I^Ife of Sheridan." Some time pre- 
 viously to the year 1821, Lord Byron entrusted 
 Moore with his manuscript autobiography, 
 which was to be published for Moore's benefit, 
 but not until after Byron's death. In 1821 
 Moore soid the MS. to Murray, and engaged 
 to edit it for the sum of 2,000 guineas. In 
 1824 Byron died, but Lady Byron, deeming 
 that the publication of the autobiography 
 was calculated to injure the character of her 
 husband and his family, offered to repay to Mr. 
 Murray the sum he had advanced to Moore. 
 This the poet would not accede to ; but, after 
 some altercation, Moore himseK repaid the 
 sum he had obtained from the publisher, and 
 the MS. was burnt. He, however, %vrote a ' ' Life 
 of Byron " for the Messrs. Longman for alike 
 sum. As a poet, he displayed grace, pathos, 
 tenderness, and a luxuriant imagination ; his 
 melody was tender and flowing, but it was 
 deficient in power and naturalness. His 
 literary merits obtained for him, in 1835, a 
 pension of ^6300 per annum. The " Irish 
 Melodies" and "Lalla Rookh" have passed 
 through many editions, and are still ex- 
 ceedingly popular. During the last years of 
 his Hfe, Moore was engaged in completing a 
 collected edition of his poetical works, which 
 was published after his death. His character 
 was vain, but kindly, and many proofs of his 
 goodness of heart appear in the " Memoirs 
 and Correspondence of Thomas Moore," 
 edited by Earl Russell in 1855. — Shaw's 
 "Hist. Eng. Lit."; Dr. Angus's "Handbook 
 of Eng. Lit." ; Earl Russell's " Memoirs of 
 Moore ; " Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit.;" Pro- 
 fessor Spalding. 
 
 JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE. 
 
 John Hookham Frere, born 1769, died 1846, 
 a friend of Canning, whom he assisted in the 
 paper called "The Anti- Jacobin," was Charge 
 d' Affaires in Spain with General Moore, and 
 afterwards Resident at Malta, where he died, 
 aged 77. He was the author of the -once 
 celebrated satiric poem, published in 1817, 
 entitled "Pi-ospectus and Specimen of an 
 intended National Work by William and 
 Robert Whistlecraft, &c." It was written in 
 " ollava rima," and was a clever burlesque of 
 romantic writings, with here and there a 
 touch of real poetry. It was the model on 
 which Byron wrote his "Beppo." He was 
 also the author of the "War Song of Brun- 
 nenburg," published by Ellis as a fourteenth 
 century production, but reaUy written by the 
 author when at school at Eton, during the 
 great discussion on the " Rowley Poems," by 
 Chatterton. Frere, also, made an admirable 
 translation into English verse of the " Achar- 
 nians," "Knights," " Birds," and "Frogs" 
 of Aristophanes, which was printed at Malta. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Thomas Campbell, bom at Glasgow 1777, 
 died at Boulogne 1844, one of the most 
 chaste of modern poets, was the youngest of 
 a famUy consisting of eleven sons and daugh- 
 ters. After passing through the University 
 of Glasgow, in which he excelled as a Greek 
 scholar, he went to Edinburgh, where, in 
 1799, he published his "Pleasures of Hope," 
 which Byron, who ought to be a judge, pro- 
 nounced to be " one of the most beautiful 
 didactic poems in the language." It, how- 
 ever, has some of the faults of a juvenile 
 performance, notwithstanding the splendour 
 of its diction, and the fervour with which it 
 is throughout imbued. The profits arising 
 from this performance enabled him to visit 
 the Continent. During this tour he had a 
 view from a distance of the battle of 
 Hohenlinden, which he afterwards celebrated 
 in his epic poem of that name. On his re- 
 turn to Edinburgh he continued to write, but 
 in 1803 removed to London, where he began 
 to pursue literature as a profession. In 1806 
 he received from the Fox Ministry a pension 
 of d6200 a year, which he enjoyed for life. 
 In 1809 he published his " Gertrude of 
 Wyoming," which Lord Jeffrey pronounced 
 " a polished and pathetic poem in the old 
 style of English pathos and poetry." It is 
 unquestionably superior to the " Pleasures of 
 Hope" in purity of diction, and in every 
 other quahty its equal. In 1820 he became 
 the editor of the " New Monthly Magazine," 
 which post he held till 1830. In 1824 ap- 
 peared his " Theodoric," a poem of great 
 sweetness, though deficient in power. In 
 1831 he established the " Metropolitan Maga- 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 zine," wliich he managed only a short time. 
 In 1842 he published his " Pilgrim of 
 Glencoe," which did not raise his poetical 
 character above the point it already had at- 
 tained. During his intervals of repose from 
 severer duties, he occasionally produced smaller 
 ejffusions, which, from their strength and 
 beauty, have long kept possession of the 
 poptilar mind. His lyrics are, perhaps, the 
 noblest bursts of poetical feeling, fervour, 
 and enthusiasm, that have ever flashed from 
 any poet. Campbell, also, wrote several 
 prose biographies and other works. He was 
 elected twice to the Lord Rectorship of 
 Glasgow University, and took an active part 
 in forming the London University, now Uni- 
 versity College, which he indeed claimed the 
 merit of originating. His body rests in 
 Westminster Abbey, where, near the centre 
 of the Poet's Corner, there is a marble statue 
 of him by Marshall. — Shaw's "Hist. Eng. 
 Lit."; Dr. Angus's "Handbook"; Beeton's 
 "Diet. Univ. Biog." ; Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit." 
 
 MATTHEW GEEGORY LEWIS. 
 
 Matthew Gregory Lewis, born in London, 
 1775, died at sea 1818, an English novelist, 
 was the son of a wealthy man, who was 
 Deputy Secretary-at-War. After studying at 
 Christchurch, he went to Germany, where he 
 became acquainted with Gothe, and imbibed 
 a taste for the mysterious and the tragic. The 
 best-known of his romances is the " Monk," 
 first published in 1794, a work charged with 
 horrors and libertinism of spirit. He was, 
 nevertheless, a kind and charitable man, as 
 was evidenced by his treatment of the slaves 
 upon the Jamaica estates he inherited from 
 his father. He was a fluent versifier, and his 
 " Alonzo the Brave " is still found to contain 
 interest. In 1812 he produced a drama 
 entitled " Timour the Tartar," and subse- 
 quently a work called " Residence in the 
 West Indies," since reprinted in Murray's 
 Home and Colonial Library. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh in 
 1771, died l&v32. His mother was daughter 
 of Dr. Rutherford, Professor of Medicine in 
 the University of that city. By both sides 
 he was connected with those ancient Border 
 families whose deeds and characters his 
 genius was to make immortal. A weakly 
 constitution, and a lameness which he con- 
 tracted in early life, induced his friends to 
 send him into the country, and his boyhood 
 was spent near Kelso, within reach of many 
 of the scenes which he has enshrined in his 
 writings. When but thirteen years of age he 
 read Percy's " Reliques," and that work 
 
 acted upon his fancy as Spenser's "Fairy 
 Queen" acted upon the fancy of Cowley, 
 exciting an intense love for poetry, and es- 
 pecially for poetry of the ballad form. At 
 the High School of Edinburgh, and at the 
 University, he gained no great character for 
 scholarship, being averse to Greek, addicted 
 to athletic sports, and fond of miscellaneous 
 reading. He acquired, however, a taste for 
 German literature, which was then beginning, 
 under the patronage of Henry Mackenzie, 
 the author of the " Man of Feeling," to 
 attract attention. Afterwards, among his 
 first literary productions, he published, in 
 1796, translations of Burger's " Lenore " and 
 " The Wild Huntsman." At Gilsland he 
 became acquainted with Miss Carpenter, 
 whom he married. The young couple retired 
 from Edinburgh to reside at Lasswade, and 
 I Scott's life was henceforth one of severe 
 j study. In 1799 appeared his translation of 
 " Gotz of the Iron Hand," and the same 
 year he obtained the appointment of Sherijff- 
 substitute of Selkirkshire, worth about <£300 
 a year. Scott now made some of his raids, 
 as he called them, into the districts of Liddes- 
 dale and Annandale, in continuation of a 
 plan he had already formed for collecting 
 Border ballads. In 1802 the result appeared 
 in the publication of the " Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border." In the care with which 
 this work was compiled, containing, as it did, 
 some forty pieces never before published, and 
 in the wide and picturesque learning with 
 which the whole was illustrated, might have 
 been seen the germs of that taste for romantic 
 poetry, as well as for antiquarian lore, 
 which was soon to make him, in those fields, 
 the first man of his country or age. He next 
 edited the romance of " Sir Tristram," which 
 he supposed to have been written by Thomas 
 the Rhymer, who flourished about 1280. 
 This tale he illustrated with a commentary, 
 and completed by adding a number of lines in 
 imitation of the original. He now changed 
 his residence to Ashestiel on the Tweed, and 
 in 1805 published "The Lay of the Last 
 Minstrel," the first of those works which 
 were to exercise such influence on our later 
 literature. The success of this volume was 
 immense, and it suggested to Scott that 
 poetry was his calling rather than the bar. — 
 Shaw's "Hist. Eng. Lit."; Dr. Angus's 
 " Handbook " ; Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit." ; 
 Maunder' s "Biog. Diet."; Beeton's "Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." ; " Life of Sir Walter Scott," by 
 J. G. Lockart ; Washington Irving' s Sketch 
 of his Visit to Abbotsford. 
 
 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. 
 
 " George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in 
 Loudon in 1788, and was the son of an 
 unprincipled profligate and of a Scottish 
 heiress of ancient and illustrious extraction, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 but of a temper so passionate and uncon- 
 trolled, that it reached, in its capricious 
 alternations of fondness and violence, very 
 nearly to the limit of insanity. Her do^vry 
 was speedily dissipated by her worthless 
 husband ; and the lady, with her boy, was 
 obliged to retire to Aberdeen, where they 
 lived for several years in verj' straitened circum- 
 stances. The future poet inherited from his 
 mother a susceptibility almost morbid, which 
 such a kind of early training must have still 
 further aggravated. His personal beauty was 
 remarkable ; but that fatality that seemed to 
 poison in him all the good gifts of fortune and 
 nature, in giving him ' a head that sculptors 
 loved to model,' afflicted him -with a slight 
 malformation in one of his feet, which was 
 ever a source of pain and mortification to his 
 vanity. Ho was about eleven years old when 
 the death of his grand-uncle, a strange, eccen- 
 tric, and misanthropic recluse, made him heir- 
 presumptive to the baronial title of one 
 of the most ancient aristocratic houses in 
 England — a house which had figured in our 
 history from the time of the Crusades, and 
 had been for several generations notorious 
 for the vices, and even crimes, of its reprasen- 
 tatives. With the title he inherited large, 
 though embarra'ssed estates, and the noble 
 picturesque residence of Newstead Abbey, 
 near Nottingham. This sudden change in the 
 boy's prospects of course relieved both mother 
 and child from the pressure of almost sordid 
 poverty ; and ho -was sent first to Han-ow 
 School, and afterwards to Trinity College, 
 Cambridge. At school he distinguished him- 
 self by his moody and passionate character, 
 and by the romantic intensity of his youthful 
 friendships. Precocious in everything, he had 
 already felt with morbid violence the senti- 
 ment of love. At college he became no- 
 torious for the irregularities of his conduct, 
 for his contempt of academical discipline, and 
 for his friendship with several young men of 
 splendid talents but sceptical principles. He 
 was a greedy, though desultory reader, and 
 his imagination appears to have been es- 
 pecially attracted to Oriental history and 
 travels. 
 
 " It was while at Cambridge that Byron 
 made his first literary attempt in the publica- 
 tion of a small volume of fugitive poems, 
 entitled ' Hours of Idleness, by Lord Byron, 
 a Minor.' This collection, though in no re- 
 spect inferior to the youthful essays of ninety- 
 nine out of every hundred young men, was 
 seized upon and most severely criticised in the 
 • Edinburgh Review,' a literary journal then 
 just commencing that career of brilliant 
 innovation which rendered it so formidable. 
 The judgment of the reviewer as to the total 
 want of value in the poems was perfectly 
 just ; but the unfairness consisted in so 
 powerful a journal invidiously going out of 
 its way to attack such a very humble produc- 
 tion as a volume of feeble and pretentious 
 
 commonplaces written by a j'oung lord. The 
 criticism, however, threw Byron into a frenzy 
 of rage. He instantly set about taking his 
 revenge in the satire ' English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers,' in which he involved in 
 one common storm of invective not only his 
 enemies of the 'Edinburgh Eeview,'^ bnt( 
 almost all the literary men of the day — Walter 
 Scott, Moore, and a thousand others, from 
 whom he had received no provocation what- 
 ever. He soon became ashamed of his 
 unreasoning and indiscriminate violence ; 
 tried, but vainly, to suppress the poem ; and 
 became indeed, in after-life, the friend and 
 sincere admirer of many of those whom he 
 had lampooned in this burst of youthful re- 
 taliation. Though written in the classical,, 
 declamatory, and regular style of Gifford, 
 himself an imitator of Pope, the ' English 
 Bards ' shows a fervour and power of expres- 
 sion which enables us to see in it, dimly, the 
 earnest of Byron's intense and fiery genius, 
 which was afterwards to exhibit itself under 
 such different literary forms. 
 
 "Byron now went abroad to travel, and 
 visiting countries then little frequented, and 
 almost unknown to English society, he filled 
 his mind with the picturesque life and scenery 
 of Greece, Turkey, and the East; and ac- 
 cumulated those stories of character and 
 description which he poured forth with such 
 royal splendour in his poems. The two first 
 cantos of ' Childe Harold ' absolutely took the 
 public by storm, and carried the enthusiasm 
 for Byron's poetry to a pitch of frenzy of which 
 we have now no idea, and at once placed him 
 at the summit of social and literary popu- 
 larity. These were followed in rapid and 
 splendid succession by those romantic tales, 
 written somewhat upon the plan which Scott's 
 poems had rendered so fashionable, the 
 'Giaour,' 'Bride of Abydos,' 'Corsair,' 'Lara.' 
 As Scott had dra\vn his materials from feudal 
 and Scottish life, Byron broke up new ground 
 in describing the manners, scenery, and wild 
 passions of the East and of Greece — a region as 
 picturesque as that of his rival, as well known 
 to him by experience, and as new and fresh to 
 the pubHc he addressed. Returning to Eng- 
 land in the full blaze of his dawning fame, the 
 poet became the lion of the day. His life 
 was passed in fashionable frivolities, and he 
 drained, with feverish avidity, the intoxicating 
 cup of fame. He at this period married Miss 
 Milbanke, a lady of considerable expectations ; 
 but the union was an unhappy one, and 
 domestic disagreements were embittered by 
 improvidence and debt. In about a year, 
 Lady Byron, by the advice of her family, and 
 of many distinguished lawyers who were con- 
 sulted on the subject, suddenly quitted her 
 husband ; and the reasons for taking this step 
 will ever remain a mystery. The scandal of 
 the separation deeply wounded the poet, who 
 to the end of his life asserted that he never 
 knew the real motive of the divorce ; and 
 
 53 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 the society of the fashionable world, passing 
 with its usual caprice from exaggerated 
 idolatry to as exaggerated hostility, pursued 
 its former darling with a furious howl of re- 
 probation. He again left England ; and from 
 thenceforth his life was passed uninterruptedly 
 on the Continent, in Switzerland, in Greece, 
 and at Rome, Pisa, Ravenna, and Venice,- 
 where he solaced his embittered spirit with 
 misanthropical attacks upon all that his 
 countrymen held sacred, and gradually plunged 
 deeper and deeper into a slough of sensuality 
 and vice. Wliile at Geneva he produced the 
 third canto of ' Childe Harold,' ' The Prisoner 
 of Ohillon,' ' Manfred,' and ' The Lament of 
 Tasso.' Between 1818 and 1821 he was prin- 
 cipally residing at Venice and Ravenna ; and 
 at this period he wrote ' Mazeppa,' the five 
 first cantos of ' Don Juan,' and most of his 
 tragedies, as ' Marino Fahero,' ' Sardanapa- 
 Ins,' ' The Two Foscari,' ' Werner,' ' Cain,' 
 and * The Deformed Transformed,' in many of 
 which the influence of Shelley's literary 
 manner and philosophical tenets is more or 
 less traceable ; and here, too, he terminated 
 *Don Juan,' at least as far as it ever was 
 completed. The deep profligacy of his private 
 life in Italy, which had undermined his con- 
 stitution as well as degraded his genius, was 
 in some measure redeemed by an illegitimate, 
 though not ignoble connexion with the young 
 /Countess Guiccioli, a beautiful and accom- 
 jplished girl, united by a marriage of family 
 interest with a man old enough to be her 
 grandfather. In 1823, Byron, who had deeply 
 ■sympathized with revolutionary efforts in 
 Italy, and was wearied with the companion- 
 fihip of Leigh Hunt and others who surrounded 
 ihim, determined to devote his fortune and his 
 influence in aid of the Greeks, then struggling 
 for their independence. He arrived at Mis- 
 .solonghi at the beginning of 1824 ; and after 
 giving striking indications of his practical 
 rtalents, as well as of his ardour and self- 
 !sacrifice, he succumbed under the marsh fever 
 lof that unhealthy region, rendered still more 
 •deleterious by the excesses which had ruined 
 3iis constitution. He died, amid the lamenta- 
 tions of the Greek patriots, whose benefactor 
 .he had. been, and amid the universal sorroAv 
 of civilized Europe, on the 19th of April, 
 1824, at the- early age of thirty-six. 
 
 " The plan of ' Childe Harold,' though well 
 adapted for the purpose of introducing de- 
 scriptive and meditative passages, and carrying 
 the reader through widely-distant scenes, is 
 ■.not very probable or ingenious. It is a series 
 of gloomy but intensely poetical monologues, 
 pat into the mouth of a jaded and misan- 
 thropic voluptuary, who takes refuge from 
 his disenchantment of pleasure in the con- 
 templation of the lovely or historical 
 scones of travel. The first canto principally 
 describes Portugal and Spain, and contains 
 many powerful pictures of the great battles 
 which rendered memorable the struggle 
 
 between those oppressed nationalities, aided 
 by England, against the colossal power of 
 Napoleon. Thus we have the tremendous 
 combat of Talavera, and scenes of Spanish 
 life and manners, as the bull-fight. The second 
 canto carries the wanderer to Greece, Albania, 
 and the ^gean Archipelago ; and here Byron 
 gave the first earnest of his unequalled genius 
 in reproducing the scenery and the wild life of 
 those picturesque regions. In the third canto, 
 which is perhaps the finest and intensest in 
 feeling of them all, Switzerland, Belgium, 
 and the Rhine give splendid opportunities, not 
 only for pictures of nature of consummate 
 beauty, but of incidental reflections on 
 Napoleon, Voltaire, Rousseau, and the groat 
 men whose glory has thrown a new magic 
 over those enchanting scenes. This canto 
 also contains the magnificent description of 
 the Battle of Waterloo, and bitter and melan- 
 choly but sublime musings on the vanity of 
 military fame. In the fourth canto the reader 
 is borne successively over the fairest and 
 most touching scenes of Italy — ^Venice, Fer- 
 rara, Florence, Rome, and Ravenna ; and not 
 only the immortal dead, but the great monu- 
 ments of painting and sculpture are described 
 with an intensity of feeling that had never 
 before been seen in poetry. The poem is 
 written in the nine-lined or Spenserian stanza ; 
 and in the beginning of the first canto the 
 poet makes an effort to give something of the 
 quaint and archaic character of the 'Fairy 
 Queen,' by adopting old v.'ords, as Spenser had 
 done before him ; but he very speedUy, and 
 with good taste, throws off the useless and 
 embarrassing restraint. In intensity of feeling, 
 in richness and harmony of expression, and 
 in an imposing tone of gloomy, sceptical, and 
 misanthropic reflection, ' Childe Harold ' 
 stands alone in our literature ; and the free- 
 dom and vigour of the flow, both as regards 
 the images and the language, make it one of 
 the most impressive works in literature. 
 
 " The romantic tales of Byron are so 
 numerous that it will be impossible to examine 
 them in detail. They are all marked by si- 
 milar peculiarities of thought and treatment, 
 though they may differ in the kind and degree 
 of their respective excellences. ' The Giaour,' 
 'The Siege of Corinth,' 'Mazeppa,' 'Parisina,' 
 ' The Prisoner of Chillon,' and ' The Bride of 
 Abydos,' are written in that somewhat irre- 
 gular and flowing versification which Scott 
 brought into fashion ; while ' The Corsair,' 
 ' Lara,' and ' The Island,' are in the regular 
 English rhymed heroic measure. It is difficult 
 to decide which of these metrical forms Byron 
 uses with greater vigour and effect. In ' The 
 Giaour,' ' Siege of Corinth,' ' The Bride ' and 
 ' Corsair,' the scene is laid in Greece or the 
 Greek Archipelago ; and picturesque contrasts 
 between the Christian and Mussulman, as well 
 as the dramatic scenery, manners, and costume 
 of those regions, are poAverfuUy set before 
 the reader. These poems have in general a 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 fragmentary character: they are made up of 
 imposing- and intensely interesting moments of 
 passion and action. Neither in these nor in 
 any of his works does Byron show the least 
 power of delineating variety of character. 
 There are but two personages in all his poems 
 — a man in whom unbridled passions have 
 desolated the heart, and left it hard and im- 
 penetrable as the congealed lava-stream, or 
 only capable of launching its concealed fires 
 at moments of strong emotion ; a man con- 
 temptuous of his kind, whom he rules by the 
 very force of that contempt, sceptical and 
 despairing, yet feeling the softer emotions 
 with an intensity proportioned to the rarity 
 with which he jaolds to them. The woman is 
 the woman of the East — sensual, devoted, and 
 loving, but loving with the unreasoning attach- 
 ment of the lower animals. These elements of 
 character, meagre and unnatural as they are, 
 are, however, set before us ^vith such consum- 
 mate force and intensity, and are framed, so 
 to say, in such brilliant and picturesque sur- 
 roundings, that the reader, and particularly 
 the young and inexperienced reader, invariably 
 loses sight of their contradictions ; and there 
 is a time when all of us have thought the 
 sombre, scowling, mysterious heroes of Byron 
 the very ideal of all that is noble and ad- 
 mirable. Nothing can exceed the skill with 
 wliich the most picturesque light and shade is 
 thrown upon the features of these Rembrandt- 
 like or rather Tintoretto-like sketches. In all 
 those poems we meet with inimitable descrip* 
 tions, tender, animated, or profound, whicli 
 harmonize with the tone of the dramatis per- 
 sonae : thus the famous comparison of enslaved 
 Greece to a corpse, in the ' Giaour,' the night- 
 scene and the battle-scene in the ' Corsair ' 
 and ' Lara,' the eve of the storming of the 
 city in the ' Siege of Corinth,' and the fiery 
 energy of the attack in the same poem, the 
 exquisite opening lines in ' Parisina,' besides 
 a multitude of others, might be adduced to 
 l^rove Byron's extraordinary genius in com- 
 municating to his pictures the individuality 
 and the colouring of his own feelings and cha- 
 racter — proceeding, in this respect, in a manner 
 preciselj' opposed to Walter Scott, whose 
 scenes are, as it were, reflected in a mirror, and 
 take no colouring from the poet's o-vm indi- 
 viduality. If Scott's picturesque faculty be 
 like that of the pure surface of a lake, or the 
 colourless plane of a mirror, that of Byron 
 resembles those tinted glasses which convey 
 to a landscape viewed through them the yellow 
 gleam of a Cuyp, or the sombre gloom of a 
 Zurbaran. ' Lara ' is undoubtedly the sequel 
 of the ' Corsair,' the returned Spanish noble 
 of mysterious adventures is no other than 
 Conrad of the preceding poem, and the dis- 
 guised page is Gulnare. The ' Siege of Co- 
 rinth' is remarkable for the extraordinary 
 variety and force of its descriptions — a va- 
 riety greater than will gexerally be found in 
 Byron's tales. ' Parisina ' derives its chief 
 
 interest from the deep pathos with which the 
 author has invested a painful and even repul- 
 sive story; and in the 'Prisoner of Chillon' 
 the hopeless tone of sorrow and viucomplaining 
 suffering which runs through the whole gives 
 it a strong hold upon the reader's feelings. 
 ' Mazeppa,' though founded upon the adven- 
 tures of an historical person, is singularly and 
 almost ludicrously at variance with the real 
 character of the hero. The powerfully- written 
 episode of the gallop of the wild steed, with 
 the victim lashed on his back, makes the 
 reader forget all incongruities. 
 
 " In ' Beppo ' and the ' Vision of Judgment ' 
 Bj-ron has ventured upon the gay, airy, and 
 satirical. The former of these poems is a 
 little episode of Venetian intrigue narrated in 
 singularly easy verse, and exhibiting a minute 
 knowledge of the details of Italian manners 
 and society. It is not perhaps over moral, 
 but it is exquisitely playful and sparkling. 
 The ' Vision ' is a most severe attack upon 
 Southey, in which Byron vigorously repels the 
 accusations brought by his antagonist against 
 the alleged immorality of his j^oems, and 
 carries the war into the enemy's country, 
 showing up with unmerciful bitterness the 
 contrast between Southey' s former extreme 
 liberalism and his then rabid devotion to 
 Court principles, and parodying the very poor 
 and pretentious verses which Southey, as Poet 
 Laureate, composed as a sort of apotheosis of 
 George III. Though somewhat ferocious and 
 tmculent, the satire is brilliant, and contains 
 many picturesque and even beautiful passages, 
 and was certainly, under the circumstances of 
 provocation, a fair and allowable attack. The 
 ' Island,' in four cantos, is a striking incident 
 extracted from the narrative of the famous 
 mutiny of the Bounty, when Captain Bligh 
 and his officers were cast off by his rebellious 
 crew in an open boat, and the mutineers, 
 under the command of Christian, established 
 themselves in half -savage life on Pitoaim's 
 Island, where theii' descendants were recently 
 living. Among the less commonly read of 
 Byron's longer poems I may mention the ' Age 
 of Bronze,' a vehement satirical declamation ; 
 the ' Curse of Minerva,' directed against the 
 spoliation of the frieze of the Parthenon by 
 Lord Elgin, in which the description of sunset, 
 forming the opening of the poem, is inexpres- 
 sibly beautiful ; the ' Lament of Tasso,' and 
 the ' Prophecy of Dante,' the latter written in 
 the difficult terza riuia, the first attempt, I 
 believe, of any English poet to employ that 
 measure. The ' Dream ' is in some respects 
 the most complete and touching of Byron's 
 minor works. It is the narrative, in the form 
 of a vision, of his early love-sorrow for Mary 
 Chaworth. There is hardly, in the whole 
 range of literature, so tender, so lofty, and so 
 condensed a life-drama as that narrated in 
 these verses. Picture after picture is softly 
 shadowed forth, all peirvaded by the same 
 mournful /rlow, and ' the doom of the two 
 
 53* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 creatures ' is set before us in all its hopeless 
 misery. 
 
 " The di-amatic works of Byron are in many 
 respects the precise opposite of what might a 
 priori have been expected from the peculiar 
 character of his genius. In form they are 
 cold, severe, lofty, partaking far more of the 
 manner of Alfieri than of that of Shakspeare. 
 Artful involution of intrigue they have not, 
 but though singularly destitute of powerful 
 passion, they are full of intense sentiment. 
 The finest of them is ' Manfred,' which, how- 
 ever, is not so much a drama as a dramatic 
 poem, in some degree resembling ' Faust,' by 
 which indeed it was suggested. It consists 
 not of action represented in dialogue, but of 
 a series of sublime soliloquies, in which the 
 mysterious hero describes nature, and pours 
 forth his despair and his self-pity. The scene 
 with which it opens has a strong resemblance 
 to the first monologue of Goethe's hero ; and 
 the invocation of the Witch of the Alps, the 
 meditation of Manfred on the Jungfrau, the 
 description of the ruins of the Coliseum, are 
 singularly grand and touching as detached 
 passages, but have no dramatic -cohesion. 
 In this work, as well as in ' Cain,' we see the 
 full expression of Byron's sceptical spirit, 
 and the tone of half melancholy, half mocking 
 misanthropy which colours so much of his 
 writings, and which was in him partly sincere 
 and partly put on for effect ; for Byron was 
 far from that profound conviction in his anti- 
 religious doctrines which glows so fervently 
 through every page written by his friend 
 Shelley, who unquestionably exerted a very 
 powerful influence upon Byron at one part of 
 his career. The more exclusively historical 
 pieces — ' Marino Faliero,' ' The Two Foscari ' 
 — are derived from Venetian annals ; but 
 neither in the one nor in the other has Byron 
 clothed the events vnih that living and intense 
 reality which the subjects would have received, 
 I will not say from Shakspeare, but even from 
 Eowe or Otway. There is in these dramas a 
 complete failure in variety of character ; and 
 the interest is concentrated on the obstinate 
 harping of the principal personages upon one 
 topic — their own wrongs and humiliations. 
 This is indeed at times impressive, and, aided 
 by Byron's magnificent powers of expression, 
 gives us noble occasional tirades ; but it is 
 essentially undramatic, for it is inconsistent 
 with that play and mutual action and reaction 
 of one character or passion upon another, in 
 which dramatic interest essentially consists. 
 In ' Sardanapalus,' the remoteness of the 
 epoch chosen, and our total ignorance of the 
 interior life of those times, remove the piece 
 into the region of fiction. But the character 
 of Myrrha, though beautiful, is an ana- 
 chronism and an impossibiUty ; and the an- 
 tithetic contrast between the effeminacy and 
 sudden heroism in Sardanapalus belongs 
 rather to the satire or to the moral disquisi- 
 tion than to tragedy. ' Werner,' a piece of 
 
 domestic interest, is bodily borrowed, as far 
 
 as regards its incidents, and even much of its 
 
 dialogue, from the Hungarian's Story in Miss 
 
 Lee's ' Canterbury Tales.' It still retains 
 
 { possession of the stage, because, like ' Sarda- 
 
 i napalus,' it gives a good opportunity for the 
 
 I display of stage decoration and declamation ; 
 
 ' but Byron's share in its composition extends 
 
 ! little further than the cutting up of Miss 
 
 Lee's prose into tolerably regular but often 
 
 i very indifferent lines. 
 
 j " ' Don Juan ' is the longest, the most 
 , singular, and in some respects the most 
 1 characteristic of Byron's poems. It is, 
 indeed, one of the most remarkable and sig- 
 nificant productions of the age of revolution 
 and scepticism which almost immediately 
 : preceded its appearance. It is written in 
 ; octaves, a kind of versification borrowed from 
 j the Italians, and particularly from the half 
 j serious half comic writers who followed in 
 I the wake of Ariosto. The outline of the 
 I story is the old Spanish legend of Don Juan 
 de Teuorio, upon which have been founded so 
 many dramatic works ; among the rest the 
 ' Festin de Pierre,' of Moliere, and the im- 
 mortal opera of Mozart. The fundamental 
 idea of the atheist and voluptuary enabled 
 Byron to carry his hero through various ad- 
 ventures, serious and comic, to exhibit his 
 imrivalled power of description, and left him 
 unfettered by any necessities of time and 
 place. Byron's Don Juan is a young Spanisli 
 hidalgo, whose education is described with 
 strong satiric power, intermingled with fre- 
 quent and bitter personal allusions to 
 those against whom the author has a grudge ; 
 and being detected in a scandalous intrigue 
 with a married woman, he is obliged to leave 
 Spain. He embarks on board a ship which is 
 wrecked in the Greek Archipelago, all hands 
 perishing after incredible sufferings in an open 
 boat, and is thrown exhausted and almost 
 dying on one of the smaller Cyclades. Here 
 he is cherished and sheltered by Haidee, a 
 lovely Greek gii-1, the half-savage daughter of 
 Lambro, the master of the isle, now absent 
 on a piratical expedition. Haidee and Juan 
 are married, and in the midst of the wedding 
 festivities Lambro returns, Juan is over- 
 powered, wounded, and put on board the 
 pirate's vessel to be carried to Constantinople, 
 and Haidee soon afterwards dies of grief and 
 despair. Juan is exposed for sale in the 
 slave-market at Stamboul, attracts the notice 
 of the favourite Sultana, who buys him and 
 introduces him in the disguise of an odalisque 
 into the seraglio ; but Juan refuses the love 
 of Gulbeyaz, and afterwards escapes from 
 I Constantinople in company with Smith, an 
 Englishman whom he has encountered in 
 slavery. The hero is then made to arrive at 
 the siege of Izmail by the Russian army 
 under Souvaroff ; the horrible details of the 
 storming and capture of the city are borrowed 
 from ofticial and historical sources, and repro- 
 
i'Vom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 duced with the same fidelity as the pictures of 
 the shipwreck from Admiral Byron's narrative 
 of his own calamities. Juan distinguishes 
 himself in the assault, and is selected to carry 
 the bulletin of victory to the Empress 
 Catherine. The Court of St. Petersburg is 
 then described, and Juan becomes the favour- 
 ite and lover of the Northern Semiramis ; but 
 his health giving way, he is sent on a diplo- 
 matic mission to England. Here the author 
 gives us a very minute and sarcastic account 
 of English aristocratic society, and in the 
 midst of what promises to turn out an amus- 
 ing though not over moral adventure the 
 narrative abruptly breaks off. ' Don Jiian,' in 
 the imj)erfect state in which it was left, con- 
 sists of sixteen cantos, and there is no reason 
 why it should not have been indefinitely ex- 
 tended. It was the author's intention to 
 bring his hero's adventures to a regular termi- 
 nation, but so desultoi-y a series of incidents 
 have no real coherency. The merit of this 
 extraordinary poem is the richness of ideas, 
 thoughts, and images, which form an absolute 
 plethora of witty allusion and sarcastic re- 
 flection ; and above all the constant passage 
 from the loftiest and tenderest tone of poetry 
 to the most familiar and mocking style. 
 These transitions are incessant, and the arti- 
 fice of such sudden change of sentiment which 
 at first dazzles and enchants the reader, iilti- 
 mately wearies him. The tone of morality 
 is throughout very low and selfish, even 
 materialistic : evei-ythiug in turn is made the 
 subject of a sneer, and the bi'illiant but 
 desolating lightning of Byron's sarcasm blasts 
 alike the weeds of hypocrisy and cant, and 
 the flowers of faith and the holiest affections. 
 This Mephistopheles-like tone is rendered 
 more effective by perpetual contrast with the 
 vvarmest outbursts of feeling and the most 
 admirable descriptions of nature : the air of 
 superiority which is implied in the very nature 
 of sarcasm renders ' Don Juan ' peculiarly 
 dangerous, as it is peculiarly fascinating, to 
 young readers. In spite of much superficial flip- 
 pancy, this poem contains an immense mass 
 of profound and melancholy satire, and in a 
 very large number of serious passages Byron 
 has shown a power, picturesqueness, and pathos 
 which in other works may indeed be paralleled, 
 but cannot be surpassed." — Shaw's " Hist. 
 Eng. Lit.,"' pp. 435 to 444. See Allibone's 
 "Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit."; " Edin. Rev.," xxvii., 
 27 ; " Quarterly Rev.," xii., 172 ; Sir Walter 
 Scott's "Letters" to Mr. Morritt, May 12, 1812, 
 to Lord Byron, July 3 and 16, 1812 ; Lock- 
 hart's " Life of Scott " ; Macaulay in " Edin. 
 Rev.," June, 1831, in his " Crit. and Histor. 
 Essays," 1854, vol. i., 345, 347, 348 ; " Con- 
 versations of Lord Byron," by Thomas Med- 
 win ; " The Last Days of Byron," by Major 
 Wm. Parry ; " Lord Byron and some of his 
 Contemporaries," by Leigh Hunt ; " Conver- 
 sations on Religion with Lord Byron and 
 Others," by James Kennedy, M.D., 1830; 
 
 j " Conversations with Lord Byron," by Lady 
 Blessington, 1836; "Life of Byron," by 
 John Gait, 1837 ; " Life of Lord Byron," by 
 I Armstrong, 1846 ; " Recollections of the Last 
 i Days of Byron and Shelley," by E. J. Tre- 
 ! lawney, 1858 ; Moir's " Sketches of Poet. 
 j Lit. of the Past Half Cent." ; Alison's "Hist. 
 j of Europe," 1815-52, chap. v. : Newstead 
 I Abbey in Washington Irving' s " Crayon Mis- 
 j cellanies" ; " Quar. Rev.," vols, vii., x., xi., 
 j xix., xxvii., xxxviii. ; Articles of Lord Jeffrey 
 j in "Edin. Rev.," vols, ix., xix., xxi., xxiii, 
 I xxvii., xxviii., xxix., xxxv., xxxvi., xxxviii. ; 
 '. Articles in " North American Rev.," vols, v., 
 xiii., 227, 450, xxi., xxxi., xxxvi., Ix. ; Moore's 
 ; " Life of Byron." 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 " The life of this poet, who was bora in 
 1792, and died in 1822," says Dr. Angus, "is 
 not unlike Byron's. There was a similar title 
 to wealth and honours, the same boyhood of 
 fierce passion, an unhappy training, an early 
 manhood of blighted domestic life — blighted 
 by his own foUy and crime, a spirit of atheistic 
 revolt against all religious and social claims ; 
 though this last was greatly diminished to- 
 wards the close of his course, after his mar- 
 riage with the daughter of William Godwin, 
 and might have been diminished much more, 
 had his life not terminated prematurely by 
 drowning when he was but thirty years old. 
 
 " From earliest years he showed poetic 
 tastes, and when only eighteen he produced 
 the atheistical poem of ' Queen Mab,' written 
 in the rhythm of Southey's ' Thalaba,' and 
 containing passages of great melody and 
 beaiity. The fault of this poem, besides its 
 sceptical notes, mere repetitions of the sneers 
 of Voltaire and others, is the vagueness of the 
 meaning. His next piece was ' Alastor, or 
 the spirit of SoKtude,' intended to sketch the 
 sufferings of a genius like his own : he thirsts 
 for a friend who shall understand and sympa- 
 thize with him, and, blighted by disappoint- 
 ment, sinks into an untimely grave. The 
 descriptions of scenery in this poem are sin- 
 gularly rich and beautiful : the whole is 
 written in blank verse. ' The Revolt of 
 Islam,' wi'itten while the poet resided at 
 Marlow, has the same peculiarities of thought 
 and style as ' Alastor,' though with less 
 human interest and more energy. ' Hellas ' 
 and ' The Witch of Atlas ' belong more or 
 less to the same class as ' Queen Mab : ' all 
 contain attacks on kingcraft, priestcraft, re- 
 ligion, and marriage, with airy pictures, 
 scenes, and beings of the utmost indistinct- 
 ness and unearthly splendour. In Italy he 
 wrote his ' Adonais,' an elegy on the death of 
 Keats, a toiiching monument over the grave 
 of his friend. Here, also, he composed the 
 ' Prometheus Unbound,' a classic drama, and 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 in the following year, 1819, ' The Cenci,' a 
 tragedy, one of the finest of the poet's produc- 
 tions, a tale that reminds the reader of the 
 dramas of Otway. His odes on ' The Skylark' 
 and ' The Cloud ' are more poetical and perfect 
 than any other of his pieces. ' The Sensitive 
 Plant ' is a good specimen of the beauty and 
 gracefulness of his versification, of the fanci- 
 fulness of his imagery, and of the profound- 
 ness of his meaning, which now seems within 
 our grasp and again eludes it." — " Handbook 
 Eng. Lit.," pp. 253, 254. 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 "John Keats, born in Moorfields, London, 
 1796, died 1821, was apprenticed to a surgeon 
 in his fifteenth year. During his apprentice- 
 ship he devoted most of his time to poetry, j 
 and in 1817 he published a volume of juvenile j 
 poems. This was followed, in 1818, by his 
 long poem ' Endymion,' which was severely 
 censured by the ' Quarterly Eeview,' an attack 
 which has been somewhat erroneously de- 
 scribed as the cause of his death. It is pro- 
 bable that it gave a rude shock to Keats' s 
 liighly sensitive nature, and to a physical 
 condition much weakened by the attention 
 which he had bestowed upon a dying brother. 
 But he had a constitutional tendency to con- 
 sumption, which would most likely have deve- 
 loped itself under any circumstances. He went 
 for the recovery of his health to Eome, where 
 he died on the 24th of February, 1821. In 
 the previous year he had published another 
 volume of poems, ' Lamia,' ' Isabella,' &c., in 
 which was included the fragment of his re- 
 markable poem entitled ' Hyperion.' 
 
 " It was the misfortune of Keats to be 
 either extravagantly praised or unmercifully 
 condemned. This arose on the one hand from 
 the extreme partiality of friendship, and on 
 the other from resentment of that friendship, 
 connected as it was with party politics and 
 with peculiar views of society. That which 
 is most remarkable in his works is the won- 
 derful profusion of figurative language, often 
 exquisitely beautiful and luxuriant, but some- 
 times purely fantastical and far-fetched. The 
 peculiarity of Shelley's style, to which we may 
 give the name of incantation, Keats carries 
 to extravagance — one word, one image, one 
 rhyme suggests another, till we quite lose 
 sight of the original idea, which is smothered 
 in its own sweet luxuriance, like a bee stifled 
 in honey. Shakspeare and his school, upon 
 whose manner Keats undoubtedly endeavoured 
 to form his style of writing, have, it is true, 
 this peculiarity of language ; but in them the 
 images never run away with the thought — the 
 guiding master-idea is ever present. These 
 poets never throw the reins on their Pegasus, 
 even when soaring to 'the brightest heaven 
 of invention.' With them the images are 
 
 produced by a force acting ah intra ; like wild 
 flowers springing from the very richness of 
 the ground. In Keats the force acts ah extra ; 
 the flowers are forcibly fixed in the earth, as 
 in the garden of a child, who cannot wait till 
 they grow there of themselves. Keats deserves 
 high praise for one very pe(?uliar and original 
 merit : he has treated the classical mythology 
 in a way absolutely new, representing the 
 Pagan deities not as mere abstractions of art, 
 nor as mere creatures of popular belief, but 
 giving them passions and affections like our 
 own, highly purified and idealized, however, 
 and in exquisite accordance with the lovely 
 scenery of ancient Greece and Italy, and with 
 the golden atmosphere of primeval existence. 
 This treatment of a subject, which ordinary 
 readers would consider hopelessly worn and 
 threadbare, is certainly not Homeric, nor is it 
 Miltonic, nor is it in the manner of any of the 
 great poets who have employed the mythological 
 imagery of antiquity ; but it is productive of 
 very exquisite pleasure, and must, therefore, 
 be in accordance with true principles of art. 
 In ' Hyperion,' in the ' Ode to Pan,' in the 
 verses on a ' Grecian Urn,' we find a noble 
 and airy strain of beautiful classic imagery, 
 combined with a perception of natural loveli- 
 ness so luxuriant, so rich, so dehcate, that the 
 rosy dawn of Greek poetry seems combined 
 with aU that is most tenderly pensive in the 
 calm sunset twilight of romance. Such of 
 Keats' s poems as are founded on more modern 
 subjects — ' The Eve of St. Agnes,' for example, 
 or ' The Pot of Basil,' a beautiful anecdote 
 versified from Boccacio — are, to our taste, 
 inferior to those of his productions in which 
 the scenery and personages are mythological. 
 It would seem as if the severity of ancient 
 art, which in the last-mentioned works acted 
 as an involuntary check upon a too luxuriant 
 fancy, deserted him when he left the antique 
 world ; and the absence of true, deep, intense 
 pa^ssion (his prevailing defect) becomes neces- 
 sarily more painfully apparent, as well as the 
 discordant mingling of the prettinesses of mo- 
 dern poetry with the directness and unaffected 
 i^implicity of Chaucer and Boccacio. But 
 Keats was a true poet. If we consider his 
 extreme youth and delicate health, his solitary 
 and interesting self-instruction, the severity 
 of the attacks made upon him by hostile and 
 powerful critics, and above all the original 
 richness and picturesqueness of his concep- 
 tions and imagery, even when they run to 
 waste, he appears to be one of the greatest of 
 the young poets — resembling the Milton of 
 ' Lycidas,' or the Spenser of the ' Tears of the 
 Muses.' " — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit.," pp. 456, 
 457. 
 
 BISHOP HEBEE. 
 
 " Eeginald Heber, the son of the Eev. 
 Eeginald Heber, was born at Malpas, in 
 
From 17S0 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Cheshire, on the 21st of April, 1783. His 
 youth was distinguished by a precocity of 
 talent, docility of temper, a love of reading, 
 and a veneration for religion. The eagerness, 
 indeed, with which he read the Bible in his 
 early years, and the accuracy with which he 
 remembered it, were quite remarkable. After 
 completing the usual course of elementary in- 
 struction, he entered the University of Oxford 
 in 1800. In the first year he gained the Uni- 
 versity priae for Latin verse, and in 1803 he 
 wrote his poem of ' Palestine,' which was 
 received with distinguished applause. His 
 acadomical career was brilliant from its com- 
 mencement to its close. After taking his 
 degrse, and gaining the University prize for 
 the best English prose essay, he set out, in 
 1805. on a continental tour. He returned the 
 following year, and in 1807 ' took orders,' and 
 was settled in Hodnet, in Shropshire, where 
 for many years he discharged the duties of 
 his large parish with the most exemplary 
 assiduit}'. 
 
 " In 1809 he married, and in the same year 
 pubHshed a series of hymns, • appropriate for 
 Sundays and principal hoHdays of the j'ear.' 
 In 1812, he commenced a ' Dictionary of the 
 Bible,' and published a volume of ' Poems and 
 Translations,' the translations being chiefly 
 from Pindar. After being advanced to two 
 or three ecclesiastical preferments, in 1822 
 he received the offer of the bishopric of Cal- 
 cutta, made vacant by the death of Dr. Mid- 
 dleton. Never, it is behoved, did any man 
 accept an oifico from a higher sense of duty. 
 He was in the possession of affluence — ^had 
 the fairest prospects before him — and had 
 recently built at Hodnet a parsonage-house, 
 combining every comfort "svith elegance and 
 beauty. But his exalted piety considered this 
 call as a call from Heaven, from which he 
 might not shrink, and he resolutely deter- 
 mined to obey the summons. Accordingly, in 
 1823, he embarked for India, where he arrived 
 in safetA', ' with a field before him that might 
 challenge the labours of an apostle, and, we 
 will venture to say, with as much of the spirit 
 of an apostle in him as has rested on any man 
 in these latter days.' Indeed, he was pecu- 
 liarly well qualified to fill this high and 
 responsible station, as well by his amiable and 
 conciliatory temper as by his talents, learning, 
 and zeal in the cause of Christianity. He en- 
 tered with great earnestness upon his duties, 
 and had already made many long journeys 
 through his extensive field of labour, when he 
 was suddenly cut off by an apoplectic fit, 
 which seized him while batliing, at Trichino- 
 poly, on the 3rd of April, 1826. 
 
 " Besides the works of Bishop Heber al- 
 ready mentioned, there were published, after 
 his death, ' Parish Sermons at Hodnet,' in 
 two volumes, and a ' Narrative of a Journey 
 through the Upper Provinces of India, from 
 Calcutta to Bombay,' in two volumes." — 
 Cloveland's"Eng.Lit.l9thCent.,'.'pp.l80,181. 
 
 CHAELES WOLFE. 
 
 " Charles Wolfe, the youngest son of 
 Theobald Wolfe, Esq., was born in Dublin 
 on the 14th of December, 1791. As a 
 youth, he showed great precocity of talent, 
 united to a most amiable disposition. After 
 the usual preparatory studies, in which he 
 distinguished himself, he entered the Uni- 
 versity of Dublin in 1809. He immediately 
 attained a high rank for his classical attain- 
 ments, and for his true poetic talent ; and the 
 first year of his college course he obtained a 
 prize for a poem upon ' Jugurtha in Prison.' 
 Before he left the University, he wrote a 
 number of pieces of poetry that were truly 
 beautiful, but especially that one on which his 
 fame chiefly rests, the ' Lines on the Buiial of 
 Sir John Moore.' 
 
 "In 1814, he took his bachelor's degree, 
 and entered at once upon the study of divinity. 
 In 1817, he was ordained as curate of the 
 church of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards 
 of Donoughmore. His most conscientious and 
 incessant attention to his duties in a wild and 
 scattered parish soon made inroads upon his 
 health, and he was advised to go to the south 
 of France as the most hkely means to avert 
 the threatened malady — consumption. He 
 remained but little more than a month at 
 Bordeaux, and returned home, appearing to 
 have been benefited by the voyage. But the 
 fond hopes of his friends were soon to bo 
 blasted — the fatal disease had taken too 
 strong a hold upon its victim — and, after a 
 protracted illness, accompanied with much 
 suffering, which he bore with great Christian 
 fortitude and patience, he expired on the 21st 
 of February, 1823, in the thirty-second year 
 of his age."— Cleveland's "Eng. Lit. 19th 
 Cent.," pp. 131, 132. 
 
 HERBERT KNOWLES. 
 
 "Herbert Knowles, bom 1798, died 1817, 
 a native of Canterbury, produced, when a 
 youth of eighteen, several fine religious 
 stanzas, which, being published in the ' Quar- 
 terly Review,' soon obtained general circula- 
 tion and celebrity : they have much of the 
 steady faith and devotional earnestness of 
 Cov/pcr." — Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," 
 voL ii. p. 411. 
 
 ROBERT POLLOK. 
 
 " Robert PoUok, a Scotch poet, who was 
 educated for the Church, but produced, before 
 he had attained his 26th year, a very remark- 
 able poem, entitled ' The Course of Time.* 
 Upon the recommendation of Professor Wilson, 
 Messrs. Blackwood, of Edinburgh, published 
 the Avork, which attracted the most unqualified 
 admiration in the religious world. It speedily 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 ran through several editions ; having in the j 
 
 year 1857 attained its twenty-first. The young' j 
 
 poet's constitution was frail, and was under- I 
 
 mined by his intense application. He was ' 
 
 preparing to start for Italy, but died at \ 
 
 Southampton, 1827 ; born in Eenfrewshire, } 
 1799." — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." See 
 Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 412. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMEEY. 
 
 James Montgomery, born at Irvine, Ayr- ; 
 shire, 1771; died at Sheffield, 1854; an Eng- : 
 I lish poet, was the son of a Moravian preacher, i 
 j and was sent to be educated at the settlement i 
 I of that sect at Fulneck, near Leeds. There \ 
 he was distinguished for his indolence and ! 
 melancholy ; and, although poetry and fiction | 
 were forbidden, he contrived to read, clan- I 
 destinely, " Eobinson Crusoe " and Cowper's \ 
 poems. His inattention to his studies caused \ 
 him to be placed by the school authorities j 
 with a shopkeeper, from whom, in 1789, he \ 
 ran away. A few months afterwards, he sent j 
 a volume of poems to a London bookseller, | 
 and followed it himself to the great metro- ! 
 polls. The poems were declined, but the i 
 young poet obtained a situation in the pub- ! 
 lisher's office. In 1791 he wrote a tale, his ■ 
 first prose production, for the "Bee," an \ 
 Edinburgh periodical, and soon afterwards ■ 
 published a novel, which was declined, because \ 
 the hero gave utterance occasionally to a ! 
 strong expression. The young author was j 
 greatly hurt at this, for he was of a deeply \ 
 religious cast of mind, and imagined he had ; 
 only done that which v/as right in imitating | 
 Fielding and Smollett. He returned to a i 
 situation for some time, and at length entered 
 the service of Mr. Gales, a printer and book- 
 seller at Sheffield, who permitted him to 
 ■write political articles for the " Sheffield 
 Eegister," a paper conducted on what was 
 then called revolutionary principles. A war- 
 rant being issued for the apprehension of 
 Gales, he fled to America, and Montgomery 
 started a paper on "peace and reform " prin- 
 ciples, called the " Sheffield Iris," and was 
 soon afterwards indicted for producing some 
 doggrel verses, which had been brought to his 
 printing-office to be printed. For this he was 
 fined ^20, and sentenced to three months' im- 
 prisonment. On another occasion, for pub- 
 lishing an account of a riot at Sheffield, he 
 was fined £,30, and was imprisoned for six 
 months. His subsequent career was com- 
 paratively uneventful. In 1806 he produced 
 "The Wanderer in Smtzerland," which 
 quickly ran through three editions, and was 
 subsequently followed by other and better 
 works of the same nature, the chief of which 
 were — "The West Indies," "The World be- 
 fore the Flood," and " Greenland," a poem 
 descriptive of the establishment of the Mo- 
 
 ravians in that desolate region, which sect he 
 had again joined. In 1823 he produced 
 " Original Hymns for Public, Private, and 
 Social Devotion." In 1825 he resigned the 
 editorship of the " Sheffield Iris : " where- 
 upon he was entertained at a public dinner 
 by his fellow townsmen. His interesting 
 " History of Missionary Enterprise in the 
 South Seas" was produced in 1830. Five 
 years later he was offered the chair of rhe- 
 toric in the University of Edinburgh, which 
 he declined. Sir Eobert Peel about the same 
 time bestowed upon him a pension of ,£150, 
 In 1836 he left the house of his old emploj'cr, 
 Gales, where he had lived during forty years, 
 for a more convenient abode. He delivered 
 several courses of lectures upon " The British 
 Poets " at Newcastle- on-Tyne and other 
 places, during some years ; but, in 1841, he 
 visited his native country on a missionary 
 tour. His last effort was a lecture " On some 
 Passages of English Poetry but little known " 
 Orton writes of James Montgomery : — " A 
 universally beloved poet of the Goldsmith 
 genus. His patriotic and philanthropic prin- 
 ciples cast a halo around his name and illume 
 his works. His poems against slavery are 
 the breathings of a noble and free-born soul. 
 There are many passages in ' The West 
 Indies ' of surpassing loveliness, and which 
 have often brought tears to our eyes. In 
 his ' Greenland,' the descriptions of nature 
 in that clime are often magnificent. The 
 mountainous icebergs swim distinctly and 
 flash their light before our mental sight, and 
 there is an icy clearness and freshness about 
 the whole. The wondrous superstitions of 
 that ignorant country are finely and graphi- 
 cally told, and we feel, whilst perusing this fine 
 poem (even though it be in summer), a cold 
 but bracing atmosphere enveloping us, so 
 strong is its effect on the imagination. But 
 as he is beloved by every child who knows 
 his works (and who does not ?) as well as 
 ' children of an older growth,' we will only 
 add our blessings, and bid him adieu." — 
 "Excelsior," p. 61. See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. 
 Lit,"; Dr. Angus's "Handbook"; Gilfillan's 
 " Gallery Lit. Portraits " ; Chambers's " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit." 
 
 THE HON. WILLIAM E. SPENCEE. 
 
 " The Hon. William Eobert Spencer, born 
 1770, died 1834, published occasional poems 
 of that description named vers de societe, v/hose 
 highest object is' to gild the social hour. They 
 were exaggerated in compliment and adulation, 
 and wittih^ pai'odied in the ' Eejected Ad- 
 dresses.' As a companion, Mr. Spencer was 
 much prized by the brilliant circles of the 
 metropolis ; but falling into pecuniary diffi- 
 culties, ho removed to Paris, where he died. 
 His poems were collected and published in 
 1835. Sir Walter Scott, who knew and 
 
F-rom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 esteemed Spencer, quotes the following 
 ' fine lines ' from one of his poems, as 
 expressive of his own feelings amidst the 
 wreck and desolation of his fortunes at 
 Abbotsford : — 
 
 The shade of youthful hope is there, 
 That linger'd long, and latest died ; 
 
 Ambition all dissolved to air, 
 
 With phantom honours by his side. 
 
 What empty shadows glimmer nigh ? 
 
 They once were Friendship, Truth, and 
 Love ! 
 Oh ! die to thought, to memory die, 
 
 Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! " 
 
 — Chambers's "Cyc. Eng. Lit.," voL ii. pp. 
 420-21. 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 James Henry Leigh Hunt, bom at South- 
 gate, Middlesex, 1784 ; died 1859 ; an English 
 poet, essayist, and critic, was the son of a 
 West Indian gentleman, who was resident in 
 America when the War of Independence burst 
 forth. Being a stanch royalist, he was com- 
 pelled to seek refuge in England, where he 
 entered into orders, and afterwards became 
 tutor to Mr. Leigh, nephew to the Duke of 
 Chandos. Leigh Hunt was educated with 
 Coleridge, Lamb, and Barnes, at Christ's 
 Hospital, London, which he left at fifteen. 
 He had already written verses, which were 
 published under the title of " Juvenilia ; or, a 
 Collection of Poems written between the Ages 
 of Twelve and Sixteen." After leaving school, 
 he first became assistant to his brother 
 Stephen, an attorney and afterwards obtained 
 a clerkship in the War-office. In 1805, his 
 brother John started " The News," and for 
 this paper Leigh wrote reviews of books and 
 theatrical criticisms. These last were com- 
 posed in a more elegant style than had been 
 the case with such literary performances 
 hitherto ; and, in 1807, he edited them, 
 and published the series, under the title of 
 "Critical Essays on the Performers of tlie 
 London Theatres." A year afterwards, he 
 resigned his situation in the War-office, to 
 undertake the joint editorship of the " Exa- 
 miner " newspaper, which he and his brother 
 John had established. The bold political 
 strictures of this print caused its proprietors 
 to undergo three Government prosecutions. 
 The first was in 1810, for an attack on the 
 regency; this was, however, abandoned. But 
 next year, the Hunts were again tried by Lord 
 Ellenborough, for alleged seditious sentiments 
 expressed in an article on military flogging. 
 On this occasion, the emarkable defence of 
 Lord (then Mr.) Brougham greatly contributed 
 to their acquittal by the jury. A third article, 
 in which the Prince-Regent was severely cri- 
 ticised, and called " an Adonis of fifty," led 
 
 to their being condemned to two years' im- 
 prisonment, with a fine of d£500 each. This 
 sentence caused Hunt to become \evy popular, 
 and to receive the sympathy of Bj^ron, Lamb, 
 I Keats, Shelley, and Moore. While in prison he 
 wrote " The Descent of Liberty, a Masque," 
 I '' The Story of Rimini," and " The Feast of 
 i the Poets ; " and, on liis release, Eeat? ad- 
 j dressed to him his fine sonnet, " Written on 
 I the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison." 
 His next literary labour was " Foliage ; or, 
 Poems Original and translated from the Greek 
 of Homer, Theocritus, &c." In 1818, he 
 commenced a small periodical after the model 
 of Addison's " Spectator," &c., called " In- 
 dicator." In 1823, the " Quarterly Review " 
 attacks on the " Cockney school " of poets, 
 to which he belonged, elicited from his pen a 
 satire against Mr. Gifford, its editor, called 
 " Ultra Crepidarius." His fortunes were at 
 this period at a very low ebb, and he was in- 
 duced to accept the kind invitation of Shelley 
 to go to Italy, where himself and Lord Byron 
 then were. But SheUey meeting his death 
 almost as soon as Hunt had reached Italy, he, 
 for some time, resided with Lord Byron, 
 leaving his house, however, with feelings less 
 friendly than he had entered it. In 1S28, 
 after his return to England, he published 
 " Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries, 
 with Recollections of the Author's Life and 
 his Visit to Italy," a book which contained 
 severe criticims of Lord Byron's personal 
 character, but which, at a later period, Hunt 
 admitted were of too harsh a nature. During 
 the subsequent ten years, he edited the 
 " Companion," a sequel to the " Indicator ; " 
 wrote " Captain Sword and Captain Pen," 
 contributed to the magazines and reviews, and 
 published a play — "The Legend of Florence." 
 In addition to these, he superintended the 
 publication of the dramatic works of Wy- 
 cherlj-, Farquhar, and Congreve ; wrote " The 
 Palfrey: a Love Storj-- of Old Times;" pro- 
 duced a "Volume of Selections, called " One 
 Hundred Romances of Real Life ; " and ^vrote 
 a second novel of a more ambitious nature 
 than the first, under the title of " Sir Ralph i 
 Esher; or, Memoirs of a Gentleman of the 
 Court of Charles II." Leading, henceforth, 
 the uneventful life of a studious man of 
 letters, the record of his career is nothing 
 more than a catalogue of the names of his 
 Kterary productions, with the dates of their 
 publication. Firstly, there are his essays and 
 criticisms on poets and poetry. Of these the 
 chief are "Imagination and Fancy," "Wit 
 and Humour," " Men, Women, and Books," 
 "A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla," and 
 " A Book for the Corner." Among his genial, 
 chattj'', antiquarian sketches, we have " The 
 Town : its Remarkable Characters and 
 Events," and " The Old Court Suburb; or. 
 Memorials of Kensington, Regal, Critical, and 
 Anecdotal." "Stories from the Italian Poets, 
 v/ith Lives'," and the dramatic works of 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Sheridan, were of similar character with, his 
 former editions of Congreve, &o. His last 
 efforts were his Autobiography, in 3 vols., 
 published in 1853, and " The Eeligion of the 
 Heart: a Manual of Faith and Duty." He 
 became the recipient, in 1847, of a pension of 
 .£200 per annum from the drown, lie died in 
 1859. 
 
 JAMES SMITH. 
 
 James Smith, bom 1775, died 1839, known 
 best in connexion with his brother Horace, 
 wrote clever parodies and criticisms in the 
 " Picnic," the " London Eeview," and the 
 " Monthly Mirror." In the last appeared 
 those imitations, from his own and brother's 
 hand, which were published in 1813 as " The 
 Eejected Addresses ; " one of the most suc- 
 cessful and popular works that has ever ap- 
 peared. James wrote the imitations of 
 Wordsworth, Cobbett, Southej'', Coleridge, and 
 Crabbe ; Horace, those of Scott, Moore, 
 Monk Lewis, Fitzgerald, and Dr. Johnson. 
 
 HOEACE SMITH. 
 
 Horace Smith, bom 1779, died 1849, was a 
 more voluminous writer than his brother. He 
 was the author of several novels and verses. 
 " Brambletye House," 1826, was in imitation 
 of Scott's historical novels. Besides this he 
 wrote "Tor Hill," " Walter Colyton," "The 
 Moneyed Man," " The Merchant," and several 
 others. His best performance is the "Address 
 to the Mummy," some parts of which exhibit 
 the finest sensibility and an exquisite poetic 
 taste. 
 
 PEOFESSOE JOHN WILSON. 
 
 Professor John Wilson, born at. Paisley 
 1785, died at Edinburgh 1854, an eminent 
 
 JOHN CLASE. 
 
 John Clare, bom at Helpstone, Northampton- 
 shire, 1793; the son of a farm- labourer, who 
 was early sent to Avork in the fields. "Wlien 
 he became able to read he purchased a few 
 books, and, bj' degrees, initiated himself into 
 composition in verse. In 1818 he produced a 
 " Sonnet to the Setting Sun," which attracted 
 the notice of a bookseller at Stamford, and led 
 to the publication of a small volume entitled 
 "Poems descriptive of EuralLife andScenery," 
 which was favourably received. He subse- 
 quently produced the "Village Minstrel, and 
 other Poems ; " and, in 1836, the " Eural 
 Muse." These are all pleasing effusions, but 
 exhibiting neither strength nor ' much 
 originality. 
 
 Scotch poet and essayist, who received his 
 education at Oxford. After taking his degrees 
 in arts, he quitted the University, and retired 
 to the beautiful estate of EUery, on Lake 
 Windermere. He had spent some portion of 
 the year in Edinburgh, and there made the 
 I acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott, who spoke 
 of him in a letter as " an eccentric genius." 
 After putting forth some minor lyrical at- 
 tempts, he, in 1812, published " The Isle of 
 Patmos," which was well received. His 
 I prepossessions, both political and literary, led 
 him to attach himself to the little band of 
 ; young Tories, with Scott at their head, who 
 caiased "Blackwood's Magazine" to be 
 started as an outlet of Scottish Toryism. In 
 : 1816 Wilson produced "The City of the 
 ■ Plague ; " in 1820 he was nominated to the 
 ' chair of moral philosophy in the University of 
 ; Edinburgh. He next published " Lights and 
 I Shadows of Scottish Life," and the "Trials of 
 I Margaret Lyndsay," political articles, and 
 literary criticisms. In 1825 he began his 
 ' celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianfe," under the 
 ! name of Christopher North. In the interval 
 1 (1836-46) he wrote, as a pendant to the 
 I " Noctes," his " Dies Boreales," but these 
 i met with less success. In 1855 a collected 
 edition of his works was commenced. — See 
 Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." ; Dr. Angus's 
 " Handbook Eng. Lit. " ; Professor Spalding ; 
 Gilfillan's " Gal. of Lit. Port." 
 
 I J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 ' "J. H. Wiffen, born near Wobum 1792, 
 died 185G, an English poet and translator, 
 who was a member of the Society of 
 
 I Friends, and for some years followed the 
 profession of schoolmaster. His earliest 
 efforts in literature were some poems con- 
 tributed to the Eev. M. Parry's " History of 
 Woburn," and a volume of verse, entitled 
 " Aonian Hours." In 1819 he received the 
 appointment of private secretary to the Duke 
 of Bedford. As a translator, he produced 
 Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered," and the 
 poems of Gao-'cilasso de la Yega. As an 
 original writer, he published " Historical 
 
 I Memoirs of the House of Sussell." — Beeton's 
 Diet. L^niv. Biog." 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 "Felicia Hemans, born 1793, died 1835. 
 Female author .ship in England is of com- , 
 paratively modern date. After the period 
 when the maiden queen condescended to figure 
 as a little occidental luminary in poetry, a 
 single star or two glitters in the sky of the 
 17th century ; they begin to assemble in 
 greater numbers in the 18th ; and in the con- 
 clusion of that century and the commeB^ement 
 
From 1780 to 1S66.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 of the present the literature of England 
 presents the names of many females, in all 
 departments of knowledge, of pro-eminent or 
 of respectable merit. We regret that we are 
 forced to confine our selection to the name 
 that has been universally acknowledged to 
 stand at the head of our English poetesses. 
 
 " Mrs. Hemans, originally Miss Felicia 
 Dorothea Browne, was the daughter of a 
 merchant, a native of Ireland, and born in 
 Liverpool, in September, 1793. The failure of 
 her father in trade caused the retirement of 
 the family into Wales, and the childhood of 
 the poetess was spent among the inspiring 
 f-cenery of Denbighshire. From a child she 
 was a versifier, and produced her first publica- 
 tion at the age of fifteen. At that of eighteen 
 she was married to Captain Hemans. The 
 union was unhappy ; her husband six years 
 afterwards, for his health, went to Italy, and, 
 Avithout any formal deed of separation, "they 
 never met again." Mrs. Hemans continued 
 in her Welsh seclusion, the exertions of her 
 pen, the education of her children, and the 
 duties of religion and benevolence, furnishing 
 her with ample employment. She died in 
 Dublin, diu'ing a visit to her brother, Major 
 Browne, in 1835. Her deathbed was an 
 affecting scene of Christian fortitude, resigna- 
 tion, and hope. 
 
 "Mrs. Hemans, like several modem writers, 
 is most popular in her minor poems. Delicacy 
 of feehng, warmth of affection and devotion, 
 depth of sympathy with nature, and harmony 
 and brilliancy of language, are the features of 
 these charming little pieces. Her larger works 
 have the same characteristics, but become 
 languid and fatiguing from their very unifor- 
 mity of sweetness. Her translations from 
 modern languages, and her chivaMc poems, 
 exhibit great spirit and splendour of associa- 
 tion and imagery. Over her whole poetry, in 
 the phrase of Sir W. Scott, there is too much 
 flower for the fruit. Her style has been 
 peculiarly popular in America, and much of 
 the later American poetry is moulded on it. 
 The larger works of Mrs. Hemans are ' The 
 Sceptic ; ' ' The Vespers of Palermo ' (a 
 tragedy) ; ' The Forest Sanctuary ; ' ' Eecords 
 of Woman.' " — Scrymgeour's " Poetry and 
 Poets of Britain," pp. 4G7, 468. See S. C. 
 HaU's " Book of Gems." 
 
 BEENAED BAETON. 
 
 Bernard Barton, born 1784, died 1849, was 
 ^ a member of the Society of Friends, and the 
 amount of attention v/hich he attracted is 
 perhaps mainly owing to the then unusual 
 phenomenon which he presented of a Quaker 
 poet — ^the title, indeed, by which he came to 
 be commonly known. He published a volume 
 of " Metrical Effusions " in 1812 ; "Napoleon, 
 and other Poems," 1822; "Poetic Vigils," 
 
 1824; "Devotional Verses," 1826. Numerous 
 other pieces appeared separately, and in 
 magazines. 
 
 L. E. LANDON. 
 
 " L. E. Landon, born 1802, died IS 3S— our 
 English Sappho. Her piind was a golden urn 
 filled with lusciously-scented rose-leaves, but, 
 alas ! the breath of life was not there. Her 
 heart was a crushed rose-leaf, yet giving forth 
 from that bruising the richest fragrance of 
 pensive Poesy. 
 
 " She lived in the world as in a lone gloomy 
 cavern, and scarcely saw through its twilight 
 the flowers that bloomed around ; her imagi- 
 nation (and she was all imagination) feasting 
 onlj' on those entwined by the dewy fingers of 
 IMomory and Fancy, the tearful dews of twi- 
 light lay thick upon them, and she sickened 
 and died through excess of fragrance ; for, 
 hoAvever delicious the breath of flowers, it is 
 alas ! also true, that, in too great a profusion, 
 it is poisonous, and bears on its pinions the 
 angel of death ! 
 
 " Thus, then, did L. E. L. breathe her last ; 
 and bitter tears of love fell fast and watered 
 the flowers o'er her early grave ! 
 
 " Like Sappho, she sang of passionate love ; 
 like Sappho, she paired the way to, and dropped 
 into, an untimely and tragical grave!" — 
 Orton's " Excelsior," pp. 41, 42. See D. M. 
 Moir's ' Poetical Literature of the Past Half 
 Century;" S. C. Hall's " Book of Gems." 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 Joanna Baillie, born at Bothwell, near 
 Glasgow, 1762, died 1851, the daughter of a 
 Presbyterian clergyman, lived the greater part 
 of her life at Hampstead. She wrote various 
 plays, of which her tragedy of " De Mont- 
 fort" is perhaps the finest. 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 "William Knox, a young poet of consider- 
 able talent, who died in Edinburgh in 1825, 
 aged thirty-six, was author of ' The Lonely 
 Hearth,' 'Songs of Israel,' 'The Harp of 
 Zion,' &c. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions 
 Knox in his diary : — ' His father was a re- 
 spectable yeoman, and he himself, succeeding 
 to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, 
 became too soon his own master, and plunged 
 into dissipation and ruin. His talent then 
 showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry.* 
 Knox spent his later years in Edinburgh, 
 under his father's roof, and, amidst all his 
 errors, was ever admirably faithful to the 
 domestic affections — a kind and respectful son, 
 and an attached brother. He experienced on 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 several occasions substantial proofs of tliat 
 generosity of Scott towards his less fortunate 
 brethren, which might have redeemed his in- 
 finite superiority in Envy's OAvn bosom. It 
 was also remarkable of Knox tliat, from the 
 force of early impressions of piety, he was 
 able, in the very midst of the most deplorable 
 dissipation, to command his mind at intervals 
 to the composition of verses alive with sacred 
 fire, and breathing of Scriptural simplicity and 
 tenderness." — Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," 
 vol. ii. p. 453. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 
 Thomas Pringle, born at Blaiklaw, Teviot- 
 dale, 1789, died 1834, a Scotch poet and 
 writer of travels, was the son of a farmer, and 
 educated at the Grammar-school of Kelso and 
 the University of Edinburgh. After pubhshing 
 several minor effusions, he started the " Edin- 
 burgh Monthly Magazine," having among his 
 coadjutors Lockhart, Dr. Brewster, Hogg, and 
 Wilson. Pringle, experiencing some pecuniary 
 embarrassments, separated from the peiiodical, 
 and in 1820 went out with his brothers to 
 the Gape of Good Hope. Through the in- 
 fluence of Scott and others, he obtained the 
 post of librarian to the Government at Cape 
 Town. He also set up an academy, and 
 started a newspaper, when his print, " The 
 South- African Journal," having been declared 
 by the governor to contain a libel upon him, 
 Pringle fell under the ban of the Government 
 authorities, and in time became ruined in his 
 prospects. In 1826 he returned to London. 
 The remaining years of his life were spent as 
 a working literary man. His chief works 
 were "A Narrative of a Eesidence in South 
 Africa," "An Account of English Settlers in 
 Albany, South Africa," and several small 
 collections of poems. His poetry is fluent and 
 pleasing. 
 
 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Robert Montgomery, born 1808, died 1855, 
 a popular preacher at Percy Chapel, Charlotte 
 Street, Bedford Square. His poems passed 
 through numerous editions ; but they are 
 stilted and unnatural in expression. Their 
 religious subjects, and the clever pufling which 
 they received, contributed to their success. 
 The chief of them were the " Omnipresence 
 of the Deity," "Satan," "Luther," "Mes- 
 siah," and " Oxford." He is perhaps best 
 known by the scathing criticism which he 
 received in the celebrated essay by Macaulay. 
 
 thou man of the most opposite qualities, wit 
 and pathos, yet brightly excellent in each ! 
 
 " Whoever knows thy Avorks loves thee 
 deeply, and pities thy unfortunate lot. How 
 could the World let its most loving and feeling 
 son die in such utter poverty ? 
 
 " Hood's poems of wit are the drollest, and 
 his poems of sympathy on behalf of his suffer- 
 ing and forgotten fellow-creatures are the 
 most deeply touching, yea, harrowing, in their 
 noble earnestness, ever written. 
 
 " Who, knowing even his well-known ' Song 
 of the Shirt ' and ' Bridge of Sighs,' can ever 
 cease to deluge his name with eudearing 
 epithets ? Our tears flow, and we become 
 all heart ! 
 j " Let the present age do that justice to his 
 ■ memory which may partly atone for his 
 i sorrows and neglect when living ! 
 i " The world should never be without a 
 ' Hood, to sing the sorrows of the wretched 
 • and forlorn, and appeal to their more fortunate 
 brethren in their behalf ! " — Orton's " Ex- 
 celsior," p. 55. See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. 
 Eng. Lit."; S. C. Hall's "Book of Gems;" 
 i Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog. ; " D. M. Moir's 
 j " Poetical Literature of the Past Half -Cen- 
 tury." 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 "Thomas Hood, born 1798, died 1842. 
 Poor Hood ! who does not honour thy name. 
 
 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 
 
 i 
 
 j " He was, next to Moore, the most success- 
 : fnl song-writer of our age. His most attrac- 
 ; tive lyrics turned on the distresses of the 
 ; victims of the affections in elegant life ; but 
 I his muse had also her airy and cheerful strain, 
 ! and he composed a surprising number of light 
 j dramas, some of which show a likelihood of 
 j maintaining their ground on the stage. He 
 j was bom in 1797, the son of an eminent and 
 j wealthy solicitor, near Bath. Destined for 
 the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, 
 but could not settle to so sober a profession, 
 and ultimately came to depend chiefly on lite- 
 rature for support. His latter years were 
 marked by misfortunes. 
 
 " This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. 
 
 His songs contain the pathos of a section of 
 
 our social system ; but they are more calculated 
 
 to attract attention by their refined and happy 
 
 j diction, than to melt us by their feeling. 
 
 ) Several of them, as ' She wore a wreath of 
 
 ; roses,' ' Oh no, we never mention her,' and 'We 
 
 I met — 'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extra- 
 
 I ordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, 
 
 ; ' I'd be a butterfly ' was the most felicitous : 
 
 1 it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms 
 
 j exceeding even Horace in gaiety." — Chambers' 
 
 I " Cyc. Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 471. 4 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Hartley Coleridge, born 1796, died 1849, 
 the eldest son of Samuel Coleridge, produced 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 some excellent poems, and from 1820 to 1831 
 was a contributor to ' Blackwood's Magazine.' 
 He also wrote some excellent biographies of 
 ' The Worthies of Yorkshire and Lancashire.' 
 He lived mostly in the neighbourhood of the 
 lakes Grasmere and Eydal, pleasing himself, 
 rather than pleasing others, by the indulgence 
 of an unfortunate propensity to intemperance, 
 which he had contracted at college, and which 
 never left him through life." — Beeton's " Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 N. T. CAEEINGTON. 
 
 The subject of our present paper was born 
 at Plymouth, in 1777, of respectable parent- 
 age. Nothing remarkable occurred in his life 
 until he reached his sixteenth year, when ho 
 was apprenticed to Mr. Thomas Foot, a mea- 
 surer : the pursuits of liis profession, however, 
 were unsuitable to his literary predilections. 
 The love of poetry, as embodied in the beauti- 
 ful creations of God, had taken possession of 
 his soul, and when once under the dominion 
 of that delightful passion, we feel a growing 
 dislike to noise and bustle ; it leads its vo- 
 taries to the contemplation of Nature in all 
 her loveliness and grandeur ; it leads them to 
 meditate amid her solitary haunts and quiet 
 seclusions; every flower is rich with a thousand 
 memories, every shrub with a thousand as- 
 sociations. Literature stamps an everlasting 
 charm and an everlasting truth on those 
 scenes which rise in simple majesty around 
 us. 
 
 In the dockyard there could be little that 
 was congenial ; its noiso was little suited to 
 the spirit that had learned to love the crea- 
 tions of poet and of painter. He might, 
 indeed, have dreamt of beautiful things while 
 at his labours ; he might have depicted the 
 blushing scenery of nature, colouring it with 
 the golden and purple tints of his fancy ; he 
 might have listened to the sweet music of 
 heaven and earth ; but ever and anon the 
 truth would come that he was far from these, 
 and they far from him. 
 
 Each day, as it glided by, bore mth its 
 fading glories the entreaties of our poet for 
 a change of situation : it was in vain he 
 asked ; the boon Avas refused. After some 
 three years of hope and fear he ran away. 
 He had no sooner done this, than he felt the 
 effects of his own rashness, for not having 
 courage to return home, he seemed an out- 
 cast and an exile. In this emergency he 
 entered on " shipboard," and soon after was 
 present at the victory off Cape St. Vincent, 
 on the 14th of Februarj'-, 1797. Having 
 written some verses on the occasion, the first 
 he ever penned, they met the eye of his cap- 
 tain, who appreciated their merits, and became 
 deeply interested in their author. Having 
 learned his story, he promised to send him to 
 
 his parents immediately on their arrival in 
 ' England. The youthful bard soon obtained 
 forgiveness, and was once more reinstated in 
 the home of infancy. He was now allowed to 
 choose his own j)rofession, and ere very long- 
 became a public schoolmaster. 
 
 Seven years after this, we find him removed 
 to Maidstone, in Kent. In 1805~he married, 
 i and continued to pursue his avocation with 
 I success until 1809, when he returned to 
 Plymouth, at the earnest request of some 
 friends, who were anxious to place their sons 
 under his care ; he remained here till within 
 six months of his death : his duties allowed 
 him little or no recreation. In 1820 he pro- 
 I duced his " Banks of Tamar," which was well 
 ' received ; and four years afterwards he pub- 
 lished " Dartmoor," with still greater success. 
 Friends now gathered round him, and even 
 royalty itself smiled. He continued from 
 this time to write occasional pieces for maga- 
 zines until disabled by sickness. In 1830 
 he relinquished his school and removed to 
 ' Bath, where he died a few months afterwards. 
 i His burial-place seems suited to his character : 
 I it lies in the secluded village of Combehay, 
 I somewhat more than three miles from his 
 : latest residence, " deep sunk " in a romantic 
 and sequestered vale. 
 
 Our author's finest poem is, tmquestion- 
 ably, " Dartmoor." It is marked by much 
 truth and beauty, and its strain is lively and 
 joyous ; there are a few melancholy notes, a 
 few pensive touches ; its versification is in 
 general harmonious, and its description 
 ; strong and characteristic ; its imagery correct, 
 ' and its associations pleasant ; its episodes are 
 full of sweetness ; it scents of the gorse and 
 broom which grow on our heaths, and sounds 
 with the murmuring of brooks and the dashing 
 of the rushing torrent. 
 
 And who is there amongst us who feels 
 not the power of local sympathy ? How 
 beautiful and bright those hills up which wo 
 toiled in childhood ! how thick they stand 
 with sweet associations! how lovely those 
 I woodbine lanes along which our feet used to 
 stray, and what remembrances entwine their 
 green hedge-rows and shady trees ! The very 
 wild-flowers that trembled in the evening 
 breeze seemed more exquisite than others. 
 How quiet and calm the village we were ac- 
 customed to visit, with its straw-roofed 
 ' cottages, low porches, and latticed panes, 
 ■with its ancient church and ivied parsonage ! 
 There seems to be a deeper shade in those 
 yews that skirted the church-yard, and a more 
 softened repose breathed overthe lonely graves. 
 And thus we ever cling to those streams, and 
 I walks, and flowers, and trees, and peaceful 
 huts, and Elizabethan mansions we gazed on 
 in bygone years; memory adorns them with 
 : a more than rainbow beauty 
 i The sky of Italy may be bright and 
 ' sunny, but the sky which mantled over the 
 place of owr birth, and which witnessed ovu- 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod. — 
 
 youthful sports, seems to us more st>nny and 
 more bright. Other lands may be graced 
 with the narcissus and the orange-blossom, 
 and may be breathed on by gentle winds and 
 balmy gales, and there may be silvery 
 whisperings in their woods ; but that nook 
 which beheld us laughing in the joyance of 
 childhood seems -to be graced with sweeter 
 flowers and breathed on by more softened 
 gales ; and from out its woods comes a more 
 silvery music. Other countries may be decked 
 with high-crested mountains and deep dark 
 lakes reflecting in their still waters the mag- 
 nificent sunset and sunrise and the resplendent 
 glory of the starry host ; but there is a retreat 
 which yields to us thoughts more stirring 
 and feelings more throbbing than any of 
 these. 
 
 There are times when the soft and volup- 
 tuous please not, when we seek the solitary 
 region ; t.he stern features of nature are then 
 more suited to the soul ; we love its severer 
 beauties ; the voice of waters amid thesolem- 
 nity of seeming desolation is proper music, 
 none other is desirable. The singing of the 
 birds harmonizes not, the cooing of the dove 
 is unwelcome ; the whispering of trees, hum 
 of bees, and tinglings of the sheep-bell belong 
 not to creation in its wilder domains. The 
 silvery chime of the chapel-beU would be 
 ungrateful ; nothing but the torrent's hoarse 
 and dashing sounds are in accordance. In 
 such a spot, all solitary and alone, sublime 
 thoughts will often pass over the spirit, and 
 shake it as with a storm ; a mightier power 
 is disclosed, a more tremendous energy; the 
 busy world is shut out, the transient affairs 
 of mortals shrink into littleness ; the immortal 
 stands divested of its earthliness ; we feel, as 
 it were, a new being. "With ' the vast sky 
 above, and the wide waste below, the mind 
 puts on its highest and loftiest attributes. — 
 See Allibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. ;" D. M. 
 Moir's "Poetical Lit. of the Past Half- 
 Century." 
 
 sublime tale of all European imitations." — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." See Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD. 
 
 " "William Beckford, born 1770, died near 
 Bath, 1844, the only legitimate son of Alder- 
 man Beckford, who, in the time of George III., 
 was twice mayor of London. He is known by 
 his great wealth, which enabled him to erect 
 the magnificent structure called Fonthill ; and 
 by his being the anther of ' "Vathek,' and 
 several other Avorks. This work is an Arabian 
 tale, which was composed at one sitting. 
 ' It took me,' said he, ' three days and two 
 nights of hard labour. I never took off my 
 clothes the whole time.' It is a work of great 
 genius, and, according to Byron, for correct- 
 ness of costume, beauty of description, and 
 power of imagination, the most eastern and 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 
 
 " John Gibson Lockhart, born at Cambus- 
 nethan, Scotland, 1794, died at Abbotsford 
 1854, a modern English writer, author of the 
 ' Life of Sir "Walter Scott,' and other valuable 
 contributions to literature, was the son of a 
 minister of the Presbyterian Church of Scot- 
 land, and was educated at Glasgow University, 
 and afterwards at Balliol College, Oxford. 
 After a short sojourn in Germany, he went to 
 Edinburgh in 1816, intending to practise the 
 law at the Scottish bar. He soon, however, 
 became a prominent member of a small band 
 of Scotch writers, whose chief was Wilson. 
 In 1817, on the establishment of ' Blackwood's 
 Magazine,' Lockhart was one of its principal 
 writers. The Toryism of the new periodical, 
 and of its writers, caused both to become 
 especial favourites with Sir "Walter Scott, 
 whose political views were of the same nature. 
 Lockhart, in a short time, became an intimate 
 friend of the great novelist, who advanced his 
 interests on every occasion. In 1820 he 
 married Sophia, eldest daughter of Scott, and 
 went to reside at Abbotsford. During the 
 succeeding five years he worked with great 
 industry and success in literature. He pro- 
 duced, among others, 'Valerius, a Roman 
 story ; ' ' Adam Blair, a story of Scottish 
 Life ; ' ' The Life of Burns ; ' ' The Life of 
 Napoleon ; ' and published his translations of 
 the Spanish Ballads. In 1826 he became 
 editor of the ' Quarterly Review,' and retained 
 the appointment until 1853. In biography 
 and biographical sketches he was particularly 
 excellent, as is attested by his ' Life of Scott,' 
 and the smaller piece, entitled ' Theodore 
 Hook.' His health becoming delicate, he re- 
 signed the editorship of the ' Quarterly Re- 
 view,' and went to Rome in 1853 ; but, after 
 a short stay, he took up his residence in 
 Scotland." — Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 T. K. Hervey was born in Manchester, in 
 1804. After receiving his education at Oxford 
 and Cambridge, he devoted some time to legal 
 studies ; but soon abandoned Coke and Black- 
 stone for the more congenial pursuit of letters. 
 He published " Australia, and other Poems ; " 
 " The Poetical Sketch-Book ; " " Illustrations 
 of Modern Sculpture;" "The English He- 
 licon ; " " The Book of Christmas." The 
 genius of T. K. Hervey, for he has genius at 
 
From 1780 to 18GG.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 once pathetic and refined, is not nnallied to 
 that of Pringle and Watts, but with a dash of 
 Thomas Moore. He writes uniformly, with 
 taste and elaboration, polishing the careless 
 and rejecting the crude ; and had he addressed 
 himself more earnestly and unreservedly to 
 the task of composition, I have little doubt, 
 from several specimens he has occasionally 
 exhibited, that he might have occupied a 
 higher and more distinguished place in our 
 poetical literature than he can be said to have 
 attained. His " Australia," and several of 
 his lyrics, were juvenile pledges of future ex- 
 cellence which maturity can scarcely be said 
 to have fully redeemed. — See Moir's " Poet, 
 Lit. of the Past Half -Century ; " Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. ;" "British Critic," 
 Aug. 1824; "Literary Gazette," 1829, p. 
 360; Dr. Hawks's (New York) "Church 
 Record ; " " Blackwood's Mag.," xvii. 98, 99 ; 
 xix. 88, 89 ; " Men of the Time," 1856. 
 
 RIGHT HON. JOHN WILSON CROKER. 
 
 " Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, born in 
 Gal way, Ireland, 1780 ; died at Hampton, 
 1857 ; was educated for the bar, and, in 1800, 
 was entered a student at Lincoln's Inn. He 
 devoted much of his time, however, to litera- 
 ture and politics, displaying in the latter field 
 strong Tory tendencies. In 1807 ho became 
 Member of Parliament for Downpatrick, in 
 Ireland, and in 1809 Secretary to the Ad- 
 miralty. This post ho held for twenty years, 
 during which he sat as Member in the House 
 for various boroughs. Meanwhile he 'was 
 almost continually engaged with his pen, and 
 v/as a ready and versatile writer. His most 
 extensive production is an edition of ' Bos- 
 well's Life of Johnson,' which Macaulay 
 criticised with great sevcritj'- in the ' Edin- 
 burgh Review.' Ho wrote, besides, ' Stories 
 from the History of England,' and edited 
 ' The Suffolk Papers,' ' Walpole's Letters to 
 Lord Hertford,' and several other works." — 
 Beaton's " Diet, of Univ. Biog." 
 
 MRS. SOUTHEY. 
 
 "Mrs. Southey, born 1787, died 1854, a 
 popular poetess, and wife of the Poet-Laureate, 
 was the only child of Captain Charles Bowles, 
 of Buckland, near Lymington. Her earliest 
 production was the ' 13irthday.' But for more 
 than twenty years, the writings of Caroline 
 Bowles were published anonymously, and it 
 was not until after the publication of ' Ellen 
 Fitz-Arthur,' and several of the pathetic 
 novelettes which she had contributed to 
 ' Blackwood's Magazine ' under the title of 
 ' Chapters on Churchyards,' that her name 
 
 and identity became known beyond a limited 
 circle. Among the friends who had been at- 
 tracted to her by her genius, in the earlier 
 part of her career, were the poets Southey and 
 Bowles ; the former of whom became her 
 husband in 1839. At the date of the mar- 
 riage, Southey had been a v/idower two years, 
 his former wife having been virtually dead to 
 him for many more. On his death, Mrs. 
 Southey was left with means insufficient, in 
 her state of health, to provide the ordinary 
 comforts of life ; but M^as placed on the Civil 
 List for a pension of ^62 00 a j^ear. The prin- 
 cipal of Mrs. Southey's works are 'Ellen 
 Fitz-Arthur : a Poem ; ' ' The Widow's Tale, 
 and other Poems ; ' ' Solitary Hours,' prose 
 and verse ; ' Chapters on Churchyards ; ' 
 ' Tales of the Factories ; ' and ' Robin Hood, 
 a Fragment, by the late Robert Southey and 
 Caroline Bowles : ^vith other Poems.' " — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 ELIZABETH BRO"V\rNING. 
 
 " Elizabeth Browning, originally Miss Bar- 
 rett, wife of the poet ; born in London, date 
 unknown ; died at Florence, in 1861 ; gave 
 early indications of genius, and was educated 
 with the utmost care. At the age of seven- 
 teen she published ' An Essay of Mind, with 
 other Poems ; ' and in 1838 appeared her 
 ' Seraphim,' which was succeeded by < The 
 Romaunt of the Page,' ' The Drama of Exile,' 
 ' Isabel's Child,' ' Casa Guidi Windows,' and 
 several miscellaneous pieces, all of which 
 occupy a high place in our poetical literature. 
 Besides these original works, she had trans- 
 lated the ' Prometheus Bound,' of JEschylus, 
 and contributed a series of papers to the 
 London ' Athenreum ' on the Greek-Christian 
 poets. In 1850 appeared her ' Aurora Leigh,' 
 which has many admirers." — Beeton's "Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." 
 
 DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 
 
 " David Macbeth Moir, born at Musselburgh, 
 1798 ;• died 1851 ; a modern poet and prose 
 writer, who was educated for and practised 
 the medical profession. He made his first 
 appearance as an author in 1812, by publish- 
 ing a small volume of poems. He next wrote 
 for some local magazines and journals, and, 
 at the commencement of ' Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine,' he became a contributor to its pages, 
 and remained so until his death. For the 
 same magazine he also wrote ' The Auto- 
 biography of Mansie Wauch.' In 1831 he 
 pubKshed the ' Outlines of the Ancient 
 History of Medicine,' and, in the same year, 
 exerted himself energetically while the cholera 
 raged in Musselburgh, where he practised his 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 profession, and subsequently published a 
 pamphlet entitled ' Practical Observations on 
 Malignant Cholera.' In 1851 he delivered a 
 course of lectures upon the ' Poetical Litera- 
 ture of the Past Century,' at the Edinburgh 
 Philosophical Institution. As a poet, he was 
 tender and pathetic, rather than forcible and 
 original. His poetical works were collected 
 in 1852, and to them was prefixed his life. 
 Dr. Moir was a graceful essayist, and a com- 
 petent man of science, and was, moreover, a 
 kind and excellent man." — ^Beetou's " Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." 
 
 GEORGE CEOLY. 
 
 " George Croly was bom in Ireland toward 
 the close of the last century, and was educated 
 in Trinity College, Dublin, where he took his 
 regular Master's degree, and was ordained 
 ' deacon and priest ' in Ireland. After this 
 he went to England to settle, and was recom- 
 mended by Lord Brougham (though differing 
 much from him in public views) to the living 
 of St. Stephen's church, Walbrook, London, 
 where he still continues, discharging his duties 
 with assiduity, and with a true zeal for the 
 cause of the truth and the gospel. He is an 
 independent thinker and writer, and prefers 
 freedom of thought and speech to preferment 
 in ' the church.' 
 
 "Eew authors of the nineteenth century, 
 who have written so much, have written so 
 well as Dr. Croly. His prose style is clear, 
 rich, idiomatic, and at times eloquent ; while 
 as a poet he has many great and shining 
 qualities — ' a rich command of language, 
 whether for the tender or the serious, an ear 
 finely attuned to musical expression, a fertile 
 and lucid conceptive power, and an intellect 
 at once subtle and masculine. Hundreds of 
 copies of verses from his indefatigable pen, 
 some of them of surpassing excellence, lie 
 scattered about — rich bouquets of unowned 
 flowers — throughout the wide, unbounded 
 fields of periodical literature.' 
 
 " The following, I believe, is a full list of 
 Dr. Croly' s works. While they are so highly 
 creditable to the learning and talents of their 
 author, they give evidence of an astonishing 
 industry that could accomplish so much, inde- 
 pendent of his parochial duties. Theolo- 
 gical : ' Divine Providence ; or, Three Cycles 
 of Revelation ;' ' A New Interpretation of the 
 Apocalypse;' 'The True Idea of Baptism;' 
 ' Sermons Preached at St. Stephen's, Wal- 
 brook ; ' ' Sermons on Important Subjects ; ' 
 ' Speeches on the Papal Aggression ; ' Pam- 
 phlets on ' Marriage with a Deceased Wife's 
 Sister,' and on the 'Proposed Admission of 
 Jews into Parliament.' Political and Mis- 
 cellaneous : ' The Political Life of Edmund 
 Burke ; ' ' The Personal History of George IV. ;' 
 ' Historical Essays on Luther, &c. ; ' ' Sala- 
 thiel' (the Wandering Jew), 3 vols. ; ' Marston; 
 
 or, the Soldier and Statesman,' 3 vols. ; ' Cha- 
 racter of Curran's Eloquence and Politics.' 
 Poetical : ' Paris in 1815, and other Poems ;' 
 I 'Catiline, a Tragedy, Avith other Poems;' 
 I ' The Angel of the World,' an Arabian, and 
 I ' Sebastian,' a Spanish tale ; ' ' Poems Illus- 
 ; rative of Gems from the Antique ;' ' Scenes 
 1 from Scripture,' and a vast body of miscel- 
 ! laneous poetry scattered through the periodical 
 i literature of the dav." — Cleveland's "Eng. 
 ; Lit. 19th Cent. See" Gilfillan's " Gallery of 
 Literary Portraits;" Allibone's "Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 ! " Lord Macaulay, born October 25, 1800, died 
 ; 1859. He was the son of Zachary Macaulay, an 
 ; ardent philanthropist and one of the earliest 
 ! opponents of the slave trade. Educated at 
 I Trinity College, Cambridge, of which College 
 ; he became a Fellow, and called to the bar at 
 ; Lincoln's Inn, he suddenly achieved a literary 
 i reputation by an article on Milton, in the 
 i ' Edinburgh Review,' in 1825. This was the 
 first of a long series of brilliant literary and 
 ! historical essays which he contributed to the 
 same periodical. He entered Parliament in 
 ; 1830, and was almost immediately acknow- 
 I ledged to be one of the first orators in the 
 ' House. He went to India in 1834 as a 
 I Member of the Council in Calcutta and as 
 : President of the Law Commission. Soon after 
 ': his retux'n he was elected by the city of Edin- 
 : burgh as their representative in Parliament 
 : (1840), and became successively Secretary at 
 War and Paymaster of the Forces. He lost 
 ; his election in 1847, in consequence of 
 i opposing the religious prejudices of his con- 
 • stituents, and from this time he devoted all his 
 i powers to the undivided cultivation of letters. 
 Although he sat in Parliament again from 
 ! 1852 to 1856, he took little part in the debates 
 \ of the House. He was raised to the peerage 
 i in 1857. 
 
 "Macaulay is distinguished as a Poet, an 
 
 Essayist, and an Historian. His 'Lays of 
 
 Ancient Rome' are the best known of his 
 
 poems ; but the lines which he wrote upon 
 
 his defeat at Edinburgh in 1847, and in which 
 
 he turns for consolation to literature, are, in 
 
 j our judgment, the finest of all his poetical 
 
 [ pieces. His Essays and his History will, in 
 
 I virtue of their inimitable style, always give 
 
 I Macaulay a high place among English classics. 
 
 j His style has been well characterized by a 
 
 I friendly but discerning critic : — 'It was 
 
 eminently his own, but his own not by strange 
 
 words, or strange collocation of words, by 
 
 phrases of perpetu^ occurreace, or the 
 
 straining after original and striking terms of 
 
 expression. Its characteristics were vigour 
 
 and animation, copiousness, clearness, above 
 
 all sound English, now a rare excellence. 
 
 The vigour and life were unabating ; perhaps 
 
From 1780 to 1SG6.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 in that conscious strength which cost no 
 exertion he did not always gauge and measure 
 the force of his own words. Those who 
 studied the progress of his writing might 
 perhaps see that the full stream, though it 
 never stagnated, might at first overflow its 
 banks ; in later days it ran with a more direct, 
 undivided torrent. His copiousness had 
 nothing tumid, dift'use, Asiatic ; no ornament 
 for the sake of o'rnament. As to its clear- 
 ness, one may read a sentence of Macaulay 
 twice to judge of its full force, never to com- 
 prehend its meaning. His English was pure, 
 both in idiom and in words, pure to fasti- 
 diousness ; not that he discarded, or did not 
 make free use of, the plainest and most homely 
 terms (he had a sovereign contempt for what 
 is called the dignity of history, Avhich would 
 keep itself above the vulgar tongue), but every 
 word must be genuine English, nothing that 
 approached real vulgarity, nothing that had 
 not the stamp of popular use, or the authority 
 of sound English writers, nothing unfamiliar 
 to the common ear.' 
 
 " JIacaulay's Essays are philosophical and 
 historical disquisitions, embracing a vast 
 range of subjects ; but the larger number and 
 the most important relate to English History. 
 These Essays, however, were only preparatory 
 to his great work on the ' History of Eng- 
 land,' which he had intended to write from 
 the accession of James II. to the time imme- 
 diately preceding the French Revolution. But 
 of this subject he lived to complete only a 
 portion. The two first volumes, published in 
 1849, contain the reign of James II. and the 
 Eevolution of 1688 ; two more, which ap- 
 peared in 1855, bring down the reign of 
 William III. to the peace of RyswickinlG97; 
 while a fifth, published m 1861, after the 
 author" s death, nearly completes the history 
 of that reign. Macaulay, in a Review of Sir 
 James Mackintosh's ' History of the Revolu- 
 tion,' observed that 'a History of England, 
 written throughout in this manner, would be 
 the most fascinating book in the language. 
 It would be more in request at the circulating: 
 libraries than the last novel.' The unex- 
 ampled popularity of Macaulay's own History 
 verified the prediction. In a still earlier 
 I'ssay he had remarked that we had good 
 historical romances and good historical essays, 
 but no good histories ; and it cannot be 
 denied that he has, to a great extent, attained 
 his ideal of a perfect history, which he defines 
 to be ' a compound of poetry and philosophy, 
 impressing general rules on the mind by a 
 vivid representation of particular characters 
 and incidents.' " — Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit." 
 
 English poet, who was an iron-merchant at 
 
 Sheffield, and became famous as a writer of 
 
 ' Rhymes ' against the Corn Laws. These 
 
 first appeared in a local paper, after their 
 
 I author had settled at Sheffield, and produced 
 
 I a powerful eftect upon all who read them. 
 
 I When they re-appeared in a single volume, in 
 
 I conjunction with ' The Ranter,' he no longer 
 
 i sung in comparative obscurity, but commanded'- 
 
 i a wide circle of admirers. In 1 834 a collected 
 
 I edition of his works was published. His 
 
 effusions have procured for him the right of 
 
 I being emphatically the bard of Yorkshire, as 
 
 I he is certainly, like Crabbe, the poet of the 
 
 i poor and of the Corn Law struggle, before that 
 
 I ended in the triumphal achievement of the 
 
 ; aspirations of his muse." — Beeton's " Diet. 
 
 i Univ. Biog." 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott, born near Rotherham, 
 Yorkshire, 1781, died near Barnsley, 1849, an 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Robert Burns was the greatest poet that 
 Scotland ever produced ; born at AUoway, near 
 Ayr, in 1759 ; died 1796. He received a 
 common school education. His chief advances 
 in general knowledge he owed to the books 
 he read, among which he mentions as fa- 
 vourites the " Spectator," the works of Pope, 
 and the poems of Allan Ramsay ; among un- 
 printed books were the songs and ballads, 
 mostly of unknown authorship, which then 
 circulated through that part of Scotland, and 
 some of which were collected by Percy and by 
 Scott. A little later Burns' reading became 
 more extensive, and to his list of favourites 
 were added Thomson, Shcnstone, Sterne, and 
 i Henry Mackenzie. When sixteen years of 
 j age he fell in love, and his feelings, as he tells 
 I us, at once burst into a song. His first 
 j volume of poetry was issued, in 1786, from the 
 j provincial press of Kilmarnock : it became 
 I immediately popular, and has ever since 
 j exercised the greatest influence on the mind 
 i and taste of Scotland. 
 
 I His "Tam O'Shanter" was deemed by 
 j Bums himself to be his best piece, and in thiis 
 I judgment Campbell, Wilson, and Montgomery 
 ! concur. The combination it exhibits of the 
 j terrible and the ludicrous is very charac- 
 teristic. His " Bruce' s Address," " A 
 Cotter's Saturday Night," " The Mountain 
 Daisy," "The Mousie's Nest," and his lyric 
 to "Mary in Heaven" are equally charac- 
 teristic, though in a very different strain ; as 
 are " Mary Morrison" and " Ae fond Kiss," 
 — " a poem that contains," says Scott, " the 
 essence of a thousand love- tales." Indeed, 
 nothing is more remarkable in Burns than his 
 range of subjects, and the api;)ropriatene3s, 
 both of language and of feeling, with which 
 he treats them. Romantic landscape, the 
 superstitions of the country, the delights of 
 good fellowship, the aspirations of ambition, 
 the passion of love — all are treated with a 
 master hand, while he displays in each, as 
 
 54 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 occasion requires, tlie pathos of Sterne or of 
 Eichardson, the humour of Smollett, the de- 
 scriptive power of Thomson, and the sarcasm 
 of Pope or of Churchill : though all are too 
 often disfigured with irreverence and licen- 
 tiousness. His songs, however, are the main 
 foundation of his popularity : of these he has 
 written upwards of two hundred with great 
 geniality and power. The common Scottish 
 dialect was never used with more freshness or 
 grace than by him. The success of his poetry 
 induced him to take the farm of Ellisland, 
 near Dumfries, where he married his " bonny 
 Jean," and united the functions of exciseman 
 with those of a farmer. He entered upon his 
 new occupation at Whitsuntide, 1788. The 
 farming proved a bad speculation. In 1791 
 he relinquished it, and removed to Dumfries, 
 subsisting entirely upon his income in the 
 Excise, which yielded ^£70 a year. In this 
 office, a dangerous one to men of his ten- 
 dencies, intemperance graduallly gained upon 
 him ; disappointment and self-reproach em- 
 bittered his life ; want threatened him ; and 
 in his thirty-seventh year he sank into an 
 untimely grave. A more mournful history 
 the records of our literature do not supply. 
 It must be added that in his poems are sad 
 proofs that he quarrelled with the moral 
 teaching of Presbyterianism, as well as with 
 what he deemed its narrowness and doctrines. 
 His youth and early manhood, his simplicity 
 and genius, it is impossible to contemplate 
 without admiration ; but his closing years 
 were darkened by neglect, and, alas ! by low 
 habits unworthy of his fame. His letters, 
 published in Dr. Currie's "Life of Burns," 
 must be read by all who would understand his 
 character, though they give a less favourable 
 impression of his naturalness and simplicity 
 than his poems. — See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. 
 Lit.;" Dr. Angus's "Handbook." 
 
 ALEXANDER WILSON. 
 
 " Alexander Wilson, a distinguished 
 naturalist, was also a Scottish poet. He 
 was a native of Paisley, and born July 6th, 
 1766. He was brought up to the trade of a 
 weaver, but afterwards preferred that of a 
 pedlar, selling muslin and other wares. In 
 1789 he added to his other commodities a 
 prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as 
 he said, — 
 
 ' If the pedlar should fail to be favour 'd 
 with sale. 
 
 Then I hope you'll encourage the poet.' 
 
 He did not succeed in either character ; and 
 after publishing his poems he returned to the 
 loom. In 1792 he issued anonymously his 
 best poem, 'Watty and Meg," which was at 
 first attributed to Burns. A foolish personal 
 satire, and a not very wiso admiration of the 
 
 principles of equality disseminated at the time 
 of the French Revolution, drove Wilson to 
 America in the year 1794. There he was once 
 more a weaver and a pedlar, and afterwards a 
 schoolmaster. A love of ornithology gained 
 upon him, and he wandered over America, 
 collecting specimens of birds. In 1808 ap- 
 peared his first volume of the 'American 
 Ornithology,' and he continued collecting and 
 publishing, traversing swamjps and forests in 
 quest of rare birds, and undergoing the greatest 
 privations and fatigues, till he had committed 
 an eighth volume to the press. He sank under 
 his severe labours on the 23rd of August, 1813, 
 and was interred Avith public honours at Phila- 
 delphia. In the ' Ornithology ' of Wilson we 
 see the fancy and descriptive powers of the 
 poet. The following extract is part of his 
 account of the bald eagle, and is extremely 
 vivid and striking : — 
 
 " ' The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a 
 noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well 
 on account of the fish procured there, as for 
 the numerous carcases of squirrels, deer, bears, 
 and various other animals, that, in their at- 
 tempts to cross the river above the falls, have 
 been dragged into the current, and preci- 
 pitated down that tremendous gulf, where, 
 among the rocks that bound the rapids below, 
 they furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the 
 raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of tho 
 present account. Ho has been long known to 
 naturalists, being common to both continents, 
 and occasionally met with from a very high 
 northern latitude to the borders of the torrid 
 zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, 
 and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes 
 and large rivers. Formed by nature for 
 braving the severest cold, feeding equally 
 on the produce of the sea and of the land, 
 possessing powers of flight capable of out- 
 stripping even the tempests themselves, 
 unawed by anything but man, and, from the 
 ethereal heights to which he soars, looking 
 abroad at one glance on an immeasurable ex- 
 panse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean deep 
 below him, he appears indifferent to the little 
 localities of change of seasons, as in a few 
 minutes he can pass from summer to winter, 
 from the lower to the higher regions of the 
 atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from 
 thence descend at will to the torrid or the 
 arctic regions of the earth. He is, therefore, 
 found at all seasons in the countries he in- 
 habits ; but prefers such places as have been 
 mentioned above, from the great partiality he 
 has for fish. 
 
 " ' In procuring these, he displays, in a very 
 singular manner, the genius and energy of 
 his character, which is fierce, contemplative, 
 daring, and tyrannical ; attributes not exerted 
 but on particular occasions, but when put 
 forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated 
 on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree 
 that commands a wide view of tho neighbour- 
 ing shore and ocean, he seems calmly to con- 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 template the motions of the various feathered 
 tribes that pursue their busy avocations 
 below ; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing 
 the air ; the busy tring-aj coursing along the 
 sands ; trains of ducks streaming over the 
 surface ; silent and watchful cranes intent 
 and wading ; clamorous crows ; and all the 
 winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty 
 of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High 
 over all these hovers one whose action in- 
 stantly arrests his whole attention. By his 
 wide curvature of wing, and sudden suspension 
 in air, he knows him to be the fish-hawk, 
 settling over some devoted victim of the deep. 
 His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing 
 himself with haK-opened wings on the branch, 
 he v/atches the result. Down, rapid as an 
 arrow from heaven, descends the distant 
 object of his attention, the roar of his wings 
 reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, 
 making the surges foam around. At this 
 moment the eager looks of the eagle are all 
 ardour ; and, levelling his neck for flight, he 
 sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, strug- 
 gling with his prey, and mounting in the air 
 with screams of exultation. These are the 
 signal for our hero, who, launching into the 
 air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on 
 the fish-hawk ; each exerts liis utmost to 
 mount above the other, displajong in these 
 rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial 
 evolutions. The unencumbered eagle rapidly 
 advances, and is just on the point of reaching 
 his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, 
 probably of despair and honest execration, the 
 latter drops liis fish : the eagle, poising him- 
 self for a moment, as if to take a more certain 
 aim, descends Hke a whirlwind, snatches it in 
 his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears 
 his ill-gotten booty silently away to the 
 woods.' 
 
 " By way of preface, ' to invoke the cle- 
 mency of the reader,' Wilson relates the 
 following exquisite trait of simplicity and 
 nature : — 
 
 " ' In one of my late visits to a friend in 
 the country, I found their youngest son, a fine 
 boy of eight or nine years of age, who usually 
 resides in town for his education, just return- 
 ing from a ramble through the neighbouring 
 woods and fields, where he had collected a 
 large and very handsome bunch of wild 
 flowers, of a great many diff'erent colours ; 
 and, presenting them to his mother, said, 
 " Look, my dear mamma, what beautiful 
 flowers I have found gromng on our place ! 
 Why, all the woods are full of them ! red, 
 orange, and blue, and 'most every colour. 
 Oh ! I can gather you a whole parcel of them, 
 much handsomer than these, all grooving in 
 oiir woods ! Shall I, mamma ? Shall I go 
 and bring you more ? " The good woman re- 
 ceived the bunch of flowers with a smile of 
 affectionate complacency ; and, after admiring 
 for some time the beautiful simplicity of 
 Nature, gave her willing consent, and the 
 
 little fellow went off on the wings of ecstacy 
 to execute his delightful commission. 
 
 " ' The similarity of this little boy's en- 
 thusiasm to my own struck me, and the reader 
 will need no explanations of mine to make the 
 application. Should my country receive with 
 the same gi-acious indulgence the specimens 
 which I here humbly present her ; should she 
 express a desire for me to go and bring her 
 more, the highest wishes of my ambition will 
 be gratified ; for, in the language of my little 
 friend, our whole woods are full of them, and 
 I can collect hundreds more, much handsomer 
 than these.' 
 
 " The ambition of the poet-naturalist was 
 amply gratified." — Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. 
 Lit." vol. ii. p. 486-87. , 
 
 HECTOR MACNEILL. 
 
 Hector Macneill was born in 1746, and died 
 in 1818. He was brought up to a mercantile 
 life, but was unsuccessful in most of his 
 business affairs. In 1789 he published a 
 legendary poem, " The Harp ; " and in 1795 
 his moral tale, " Scotland's Skaith ; or, the 
 History o' Will and Jean." The object of 
 this latter production was to depict the evils 
 of intemperance. He wrote several Scottish 
 lyrics. The latter years of the poet were 
 spent in comparative comfort in Edinburgh, 
 where he enjoyed the refined and literary 
 society of the Scottish capital till an advanced 
 age. — See Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 " Robert Tannahill, a lyrical poet of a 
 superior order, whose songs rival all but the 
 best of Burns' s in popularity, was born in 
 Paisley on the 3rd of June, 1774. His edu- 
 cation was limited, but he was a diligent 
 reader and student. He was early sent to 
 the loom, weaving being the staple trade of 
 Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation 
 in liis native town until his twenty-sixth year, 
 when, with one .of his younger brotlicrs, he 
 removed to Lancashire- There he continued 
 two years, when the declining state of his 
 father's health induced him to return. He 
 arrived in time to receive the dying blessing 
 of his parent, and a short time afterwards 
 we find him writing to a friend — ' My brother 
 Hugh and I are aU that now remain at home, 
 with our old mother, bending under age and 
 frailty ; and but; seven years back, nine of us 
 used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh 
 married, and the poet was left alone with his 
 widowed mother. On this occasion he adopted 
 a resolution which he has expressed in the 
 following lines : — 
 
 54'^ 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 THE FILIAL VOW. 
 
 Why heaves my mother oft the deep- 
 drawn sigh ? 
 
 Wliy starts the big tear glistening in her 
 eye? 
 
 Why oft retire to hide her bursting 
 grief ? 
 
 Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish 
 relief ? 
 
 'Tis for my father, mouldering with the 
 dead, 
 
 My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid ; 
 
 And for the pains which age is doom'd 
 to bear, 
 
 She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and 
 drops the secret tear. 
 
 Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts 
 employ. 
 
 But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy; 
 
 She grieves to think she may be burden- 
 some, 
 
 Now feeble, old, and tottering to the 
 tomb. 
 
 hear me. Heaven ! and record my 
 
 vow ; 
 Its non- performance let thy wrath 
 pursue ! 
 
 1 swear, of what thy iDrovideuce may 
 
 give. 
 My mother shall her due maintenance 
 
 have. 
 'Twas hers to guide me through life's 
 
 early day. 
 To point out virtue's paths, and lead the 
 
 way : 
 Now, while her powers in frigid languor 
 
 sleep, 
 'Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged 
 
 steep ; 
 With all her little weaknesses to bear, 
 Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care. 
 'Tis Nature bids, and truest pleasure 
 
 flows 
 From lessening an aged parent's woes. 
 
 " The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly 
 apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority 
 of the lines to any of his Scottish songs 
 shows how little at home he was in English. 
 His mother outlived him thirteen years. 
 Though Tannahill had occasionally composed 
 verses from a very early age, it was not till 
 after this time that he attained to anything 
 beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted 
 with Mr. E. A. Smith, a musical composer, 
 the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical 
 composition, aided by the encouragement and 
 the musical taste of his friend. Smith set 
 some of his songs to original and appropriate 
 airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the 
 publication of a volume of poems and songs, 
 of which the first impression, consisting of 
 900 copies, were sold in a few weeks. It is 
 related that in a solitary walk on one occasion 
 
 his musings were interrupted by the voice of 
 a country girl in an adjoining field singing by 
 herself a song of his own — 
 
 ' We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on i 
 
 yon burnside — ' ' 
 
 and he used to say he was more pleased at 
 this evidence of his popularity, than at any 
 tribute which had ever been paid him. He 
 afterwards contributed some songs to Mr. 
 George Thomson's ' Select Melodies,' and 
 exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of which 
 he was very fond. Whilst delighting all classes I 
 of his countrymen with his native songs, the ■ 
 poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, 
 aggravated bj'- bodily weakness, and a ten- 
 dency to consumption. He had prepared a 
 new edition of his poems for the press, and 
 sent the manuscript to Mr. Constable, the 
 publisher ; but it was returned by that gentle- 
 man, in consequence of his having more new 
 works on hand than he could undertake that 
 season. This disappointment preyed on the 
 spirits of the sensitive poet, and his me- 
 lancholy became deep and habitual. He 
 burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a 
 state of mental derangement. Returning 
 from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of May, 
 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest ; but 
 ' suspicion having been excited, in about an 
 hour afterwards it was discovered that he had 
 stolen out unperceived. Search was made in 
 every direction, and by the dawn of the 
 morning the coat of the poet was discovered 
 lying at the side of the tunnel of a neigh' 
 bouring brook, pointing out but too surely 
 where his body was to be found.' Tannahill 
 Avas a modest and temperate man, devoted to 
 his kindred and friends, and of unblemished 
 purity and correctness of conduct. His lament- _ 
 able death arose from no want or irregularit}', ' 
 but was solely caused by that morbid disease 
 of the mind which at length overthrew his 
 reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of 
 genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They 
 have all a commonplace artificial character. 
 His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and 
 original both in description and sentiment. 
 His diction is copious and luxuriant, par- 
 ticularly in describing natural objects and the 
 peculiar features of the Scottish .mdscape. 
 His simplicity is natural and unaflTected ; and 
 though ho appears to have possessed a deeper 
 sympathy with nature than with the workings 
 of human feeling, or even the passion of love, 
 he is often tender and pathetic. His ' Gloomy 
 Winter's now awa' ' is a beautiful concentra- 
 tion of tenderness and melody." — Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. pp. 490-91. 
 
 EICHAED GALL. 
 
 Eichard Gall, born 1776, died 1800. He 
 
Front 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 ■vvaa contemporary with Tannahill, and pos- 
 sessed a kindred tasto of song writing. 
 
 JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 " John Mayne, author of the ' Siller Gun,' 
 ' Glasgow,' and other poems, was a native of 
 Dumfries; born in the year 1761, and died 
 in London in 1836. He was brought up to 
 the printing business, and whilst apprentice 
 in the ' Dumfries Journal ' office, in 1777, in 
 his sixteenth year, he published the germ of 
 liis ' Siller Gun ' in a quarto page of twelve 
 stanzas. The subject of the poem is an an- 
 cient custom in Dumfries, called ' Shooting 
 for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small 
 silver tube presented by James VI. to the in- 
 corporated trades as a prize to the best 
 marksman. This poem Mr. Mayne continued 
 to enlarge and improve up to the time of his 
 death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two 
 years to two cantos ; in another year (1780) 
 the poem was published — enlarged to three 
 cantos — in ' Euddiman's Magazine ; ' and in 
 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. 
 This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, 
 who said (in one of his notes to the ' Lady of 
 the Lake') 'that it surpassed the efforts, of 
 Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.' 
 In 1836 the ' Siller Gun ' was again reprinted 
 with the addition of a fifth canto. Mr. Mayne 
 Avas author of a short poem on ' Hallo- 
 ween,' printed in ' Euddiman's Magazine ' in 
 1780; and in 1781 he published at Glasgow 
 his fine ballad of ' Logan Braes,' which Burns 
 had seen, and two lines of which he copied 
 into his ' Logan Water.' The ' Siller Gun ' is 
 humorous and descriptive, and is happy in 
 both. The author is a shrewd and lively 
 observer, full of glee, and also of gentle and 
 affectionate recollections of his native town 
 and all its people and pastimes. The ballad 
 of ' Logan Braes ' is a simple and beautiful 
 lyric, superior to the more elaborate version 
 of Burns. Though long resident in London 
 (as proprietor of the ' Star ' newspaper), Mr. 
 Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to 
 the last ; and to those who, like ourselves, 
 rooollect him in advanced life, stopping in the 
 midst of his duties, as a public journalist, to 
 trace some remembrance of his native Dum- 
 fries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum 
 over some rural or pastoral song which he had 
 heard forty or fifty years before, his name, as 
 vvell as his poetry, recalls the strength and 
 permanency of early feelings and associations." 
 — Chambers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. pp. 492- 
 93. 
 
 SIE ALEXANDEE BOSWELL. 
 
 " Sir Alexander Boswell, born 1775, died 
 1822, the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, 
 
 was author of some amusing songs, which are 
 still very popular. ' Auld Gudeman, ye're a 
 Druchen Carle,' 'Jenny's Bawbee,' Jenny 
 Dang the Weaver,' &c., display considerable 
 comic humour, and coarse but characteristic 
 painting. The higher qualities of simple 
 rustic grace and elegance he seems never to 
 have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander col- 
 lected his fugitive pieces, and published them 
 under the title of ' Songs chiefly in the Scottish 
 Dialect.' In 1810 he published a Scottish 
 Dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called 
 ' Edinburgh, or the Ancient Eoyalty ; a Sketch 
 of Manners, by Simon Gray.' This sketch is j 
 greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an 
 ardent lover of our early literature, and re- 
 printed several works at his private printing- 
 press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, ' 
 lie unfortunately wrote some personal satires, 
 for one of which he received a challenge from 
 Mr. Stuart, of Dunearn. The parties met at 
 Auchtertool, in Fifeshire : conscious of his 
 error. Sir Alexander resolved not to fire at his 
 opponent ; but Mr. Stuart's shot took effect, 
 and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died 
 from the wound on the following day, the 26th 
 of March, 1822. He had been elevated to the 
 baronetcy only the year previous." — Cham- 
 bers' " Cyc. Eng. Lit." vol. ii. p. 494. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 " Allan Cunningham, born 1785, died 1842. 
 This poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, 
 was born of comparatively humble parentage 
 in Dumfries-shire. He began life as a stone- 
 mason ; but his early literary ability was such 
 that, being introduced to Cromek, the editor 
 of ' Eemains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song,' 
 and undertaking to procure contributions to 
 that work, he sent to the Editor, as genuine 
 remains, compositions of his own. Cromek 
 had slighted some original pieces shown to 
 him as the production of Cunningham, and in 
 retaliation, the young poet presented him with 
 fabricated ' antiques.' These form the bulk 
 of Cromek' s collection. The cheat was long 
 unsuspected ; but the suspicious sagacity of 
 the Ettrick Shepherd and others, especially 
 Professor Wilson (see 'Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine,' Dec, 1819), ultimately demonstrated 
 the imposition, much to the reputation of the 
 real author. 
 
 " Mr. Cunningham repaired, in 1810, to 
 London, and obtaining an appointment of 
 trust in the sculptor Chantrey's studio, ho 
 settled himself here for life. In this congenial 
 position of comfort and independence, he 
 possessed opportunities for the employment 
 of his active pen, and for intercourse with 
 men of kindred genius. His warm heart, his 
 honest, upright, and independent character, 
 attracted the affectionate esteem and respect 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 of all Avho enjoyed his acquaintance. He died 
 in London in 1842. 
 
 " His larg-er works are, tlie ' Maid of Elvar,' 
 a species of epic in Spenserian stanzas, illus- 
 trative of Dumfries- shire in days of yore ; 
 and ' Sir Marmaduke Maxwell,' a wild 
 tumultuous collection of Border superstitions. 
 His reputation rests chiefly on his smaller 
 pieces, which are airy, natural, and intensely 
 Scotch ; vigorous and even splendid in their 
 higher moods, affectingly pathetic in their 
 softer strains. His novels, ' PaulJones,' &c., are 
 full of glittering description, and exaggerated 
 and unnatural character." — Scrymgeour's 
 " Poetry and Poets of Britain," p. 436. See 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit. ;" D_. M. 
 Moir's " Poetical Literature of the Past Half- 
 Century ; " S. C. Hall's "Book of Gems." 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 James Hogg, born in Ettrick Yale, Selkirk- 
 shire, 1770, died 1835, known better .as the 
 "Ettrick Shepherd." His school was the 
 mountain's side, where he kept the cattle and 
 sheep. His education was scanty j but a 
 quick and retentive memory, great natural 
 gifts, and a fine appreciation of the wondrous 
 scenes around him, called up the slumbering 
 muse, and in 1801 he published a small 
 volume of songs. "The Mountain Bard" 
 followed in 1807. Soon afterwards he left 
 his occupation and resided at Edinburgh, 
 supporting himself entirely by his pen. The 
 "Queen's Wake" (1813) brought him into 
 very favourable notice. It was followed by 
 "Mador of the Moor," "Winter Evening 
 Tales," &c. Hog'g's chief delight was in 
 legendary tales and folk lore. Fancy, rather 
 than the description of life and manners, is 
 the prevailing character of the poet's writings. 
 A modern critic says — " He wanted art to 
 construct a fable, and taste to give due effect 
 to his imagery and conceptions. But there 
 are few poets who impress us so much with 
 the idea of direct inspiration, and that poetry 
 is indeed an art ' unteachable and untaught.' " 
 — See Shaw's " Hist. Eng. Lit. ; " Beeton's 
 "Diet. Univ. Biog. ;" Maunder; Chambers' 
 " Cyc. Eng. Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM TENNANT. 
 
 " William Tennant, born at Easter- An- 
 struther, Fife, 1785; died 1848 :• a Scotch poet, 
 who studied for a short time at the University 
 of St. Andrews. He was so unfortunate as 
 to lose the use of his feet while still young. 
 Unaided, he taught himself German, Por- 
 tuguese, Hebrew, Syriac, Chaldaic, and other 
 languages. After spending many years as a 
 schoolmaster and classical teacher, he, in 
 
 1835, received the appointment of professor o 
 Oriental languages in the University of St 
 Andrews. He wrote three dramas, exhibiting 
 considerable poetical power; the well-known 
 poem of ' Anster Fair,' ' The Life of Allan 
 Eamsay,' and other works." — Beeton's "Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." See D. M. Moir's " Poetical 
 Literature of the Past HaK-Century." 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHEEWELL. 
 
 " Wniiam Motherwell, born 1798, died 1835, 
 poet and journalist; when a youth, obtained a 
 situation in the sheriff clerk's office at Paisley, 
 where he continued for many years. In 1827 
 he published an interesting and pleasing col- 
 lection of ballads, entitled 'Minstrelsy, An- 
 cient and Modern ; ' and was afterwards 
 successively editor of the ' Paisley Magazine,' 
 ' Paisley Advertiser,' and the ' Glasgow 
 Courier.' In 1833 was published a collected 
 edition of his own poems, some of which 
 possess a pathos and an intensity of feeling 
 seldom equalled. These qualities are strikingly 
 exhibited in his ' Jeanie Morrison,' and ' My 
 heid is like to rend, Willie.' an address by a 
 dying girl to her lover ; while his success in 
 imitating the old mystic ballad is well exempli- 
 fied in the ' Ettin Lang of Sillerwood,' ' Hol- 
 bert the Grim,' and other pieces. Some years 
 after his death, a monument to his memory 
 was erected by subscription in the necropolis 
 of his native city, Glasgow." — ^Beeton's "Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." See Chambers's " Cyc. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 EOBEET NICOLL. 
 
 " Eobert NicoU, born in Perthshire, 1814 ; 
 died 1837 ; a Scotch poet, the son of parents 
 in humble circumstances, and whose efforts at 
 self -education were pursued under the most 
 disadvantageous circumstances. At the age 
 of twenty-one he produced a small volume of 
 poems, which became exceedingly popular, and 
 passed through several editions. He shortly 
 afterwards obtained the post of editor of the 
 ' Leeds Times,' which, under his control, was 
 more than tripled in its circulation. His prose 
 writings consisted, for the most part, of poli- 
 tical articles contributed to the before-men- 
 tioned print, and were marked by strongly 
 liberal sentiments and a clear, energetic style. 
 His health, which had always been frail, and 
 was probably shattered by his youthful 
 studies, gave way after he had been engaged 
 upon his editorial duties about a year ; and 
 he removed to Edinburgh, where he died 
 almost as soon as he had reached manhood." 
 — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 EGBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 Robert Gilfillan, a native of Dunfermline, 
 has written songs marked by much gentle and 
 kindly feehng, and a smooth flow of versifica- 
 ' tion, Avhich makes them eminently suitable for 
 being set to music. — See Chambers' " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit.," Tol. ii. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 "William Laidlaw is son of the Ettrick 
 Shepherd's master at Blackhouse. All who 
 have read Lockhart's 'Life of Scott,' know 
 how closely Mr. Laidlaw was connected with 
 the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He 
 was his companion in some of his early wan- 
 derings, his friend and land-steward in ad- 
 vanced years, his amanuensis in the com- 
 position of some of his novels, and he was 
 one of the few who watched over his last sad 
 and painful moments. ' Lucy's Flittin' ' is 
 deservedly popular for its unaffected tender- 
 ness and simplicity. In printing the song, 
 Hogg added the last four lines to ' complete 
 the story.' " — Chambers' "Cyc. Eng. Lit.," 
 vol. ii. p. 507. 
 
 JAMES HISLOP. 
 
 " James Hislop was born of humble parents 
 in the parish of Kirkconnel, in the neighbour- 
 hood of Sanquhar, near the source of the 
 Nith, in July, 1798. He was employed as a 
 shepherd-boy in the vicinity of Airsmoss, 
 where, at the gravestone of a party of slain 
 Covenanters, he composed the striking poem, 
 ' The Cameronian's Dream.' He afterwards 
 became a teacher, and his poetical effusions 
 having attracted the favourable notice of Lord 
 Jeffrej^ and other eminent literary characters, 
 he was, through their influence, appointed 
 schoolmaster^ first on board the Doris, and 
 subsequently the Tweed man-of-war. He died 
 on the 4th December, 1827, from fever caught 
 by sleeping one night in the open air upon the 
 island of St. Jago. His compositions display 
 an elegant rather than a vigorous imagination, 
 much chasteness of thought, and a pure but 
 ardent love of nature." — Chambers' " Cyc. 
 Eng. Lit.," vol. ii. p. 508. 
 
 WILLIAM ATTOUN. 
 
 " William Aytoun, author of ' Lays of the 
 Scottish Cavaliers,' was a member of the 
 Edinburgh bar, but never, we believe, devoted 
 himself to any extent to the severer duties of 
 his profession. He was long, however, one of 
 the standing wits of the Parliament House, 
 as the law courts of Edinburgh are locally 
 
 denominated. He succeeded Mr. Moir as 
 Professor of Literature and Belles Lettres in 
 the university of Edinburgh, where his lec- 
 tures — full of pith, energy, and distinguished 
 by fine literary taste — were in great vogue. 
 Professor Aytoun was for some years one of 
 the chief contributors to ' Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine,' and few numbers appeared from which 
 his hand was absent. At the time of the 
 railway mania he flung off a series of papers, 
 — the first entitled, ' How we got up the Glen 
 Mutchkin Eailwaj'.' descriptive of the doings 
 in the Capel Court of Edinburgh and Glasgow ; 
 papers which for broad, vigorous humour, and 
 feUcitous setting forth of genuine Scotch cha- 
 racter, are almost unrivalled. Under the nom 
 de guen'c of Augustus Dun shunner — then first 
 adopted — the professor frequently contributed 
 pieces of off-hand criticism on books and men 
 to ' Blackwood,' taking especial delight in 
 showing up what he conceives to be the weak 
 points of the Manchester school ; and, hu- 
 morous though the general tone of the papers 
 bo, hesitating not to dash headlong at piles 
 of statistics intended to prop up the fallen 
 cause of protection. Aytoun' s politics, as 
 may be inferred from his sole work published 
 in an independent form, the 'Lays of the 
 Scottish Cavaliers,' were high Tory, or, rather, 
 they amount to a sort of poetic and theoretical 
 Jacobitism, which finds vent in enthusiastic 
 laudation of the Marquis of Montrose and the 
 Viscount Dundee, as models of Scottish 
 heroes. The ballads in question are strongly 
 tinged by deep national feeling, and remind 
 the reader of Macaulay's ' Lays of Ancient 
 Eome:' and, from the more picturesque natm-e 
 of the subject, are, perhaps, even still more 
 highly coloured. ' Edinburgh after flodden,' 
 the ' Death of Montrose,' and the ' Battle of 
 Killiecrankie,' are strains which Scotchmen 
 will not Avillingly let die. Professor Aytoun 
 married one of the daughters of Professor 
 Wilson, otherwise Christopher North." — 
 " Men of the Time." See Allibone's " Crit. 
 Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 HENEY HAET MILMAN. 
 
 " We are surprised that this poet is not 
 more universally known by his countrymen ! 
 
 " There is an oriency of colour about his 
 imagination that dyes every object upon which 
 it falls with the richest tints. Or it may be 
 compared to the richly- stained window of 
 some dim cathedral, which throws on every 
 spot or figure over which the light passing 
 through it falls, a most heavenly and saintly 
 glory. 
 
 " His ' Fall of Jerusalem ' has a fresh 
 breezy beauty and deHghtfulness about it, 
 joined with a vigorous action, that carries us 
 on a bold, rapid stream to its conclusion. 
 
 " His other poems show great command of 
 powerful and yet classical language, a chaste 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 elegance of thought, a profusion of glowing 
 imagery, and a vigorous manly spirit that do 
 him honour both as a man and a Christian 
 minister." — " Excelsior," p. 50. 
 
 SYDNEY YENDYS. 
 
 " Eome has been the subject of many a song 
 of triumph and many a note of woe : — in her 
 youth, when she sat upon the seven hills like 
 a new-fledged eagle, sunning herself in the 
 eye of heaven ; in her full maturity, when she 
 waved her wings above the universe, and went 
 forth conquering and to conquer ; in the 
 autumn of her splendour, when the clouds 
 began to close — when the long-baffled waves, 
 with steady march, rolled on to cover her ; 
 and when, her energies exhausted, her power 
 paralyzed, she tottered on her base, and fell 
 from the foremost place in the firmament, 
 like Lucifer the morning star. Macaulay 
 sings — 
 
 ' Hail to the Grand Asylum, 
 
 Hail to the hill-tops seven ! 
 Hail to the fire that bvirns for aye. 
 
 And the shield that fell from Heaven ! * 
 
 He tells us of the dauntless courage and the 
 high resolve, the love of country and the love 
 of home, the affection that burnt like a Vestal- 
 flame in a Eoman's heart and the blood that 
 ran like fire along a Eoman's veins ; how the 
 mystic horseman fought in the battle by the 
 Lake Eegillus, and how good Horatius kept 
 the bridge in the brave days of old. We hear 
 from Bulwer how Eienzi ruled and how he 
 fought g.nd how he fell, and how all Eome itself 
 was the funeral pile of the last of the Eoman 
 Tribunes. Byron, in verses as magnificent 
 and melancholy as the ruins he celebrates, 
 gives us the last act of the mighty drama, the 
 diadem dashed down, the sceptre snapped, the 
 ' royalty in ruins : ' while Shelley, with a 
 spirit as ethereal as the moonlight, wanders 
 among the shattered battlements and fallen 
 fanes, and touches with his sad and solemn 
 beauty, like flowers upon a warrior's grave, 
 the hoary vestiges of the Imperial City. And 
 now we have another poet discoursing upon the 
 same theme, but striking a different string. 
 ' Up for the Cross and Freedom ! ' The eye 
 is not for ever closed in death, the soul is not 
 for ever departed : it is there yet — it lives — 
 it breathes. The sun ye thought had looked 
 his last upon you from the weeping west shall 
 gather up his glories once again, and flash 
 with all the splendour of his prime. Ye 
 thought that Liberty was lost, the toy of 
 fools, the sport of fiends, the fancy-haunting 
 dream of shackled men : but lo ! a beacon- 
 fire in the distance ; it spreads from mount to 
 mount, from height to height, and the red 
 flame flings a lustre on the midnight heavens, 
 and, lights up on the earth faces sad, but stern 
 
 and resolute ; and in the shadow of the build- 
 ings that encircled their illustrious forefathers, 
 upon the soil where the Caesars trod, and be- 
 neath the firmament that canopied the Cresars' 
 kingdom, they swear that Eome shall yet be 
 free. 
 
 " Vittorio Santo goes forth as a Missionary 
 of Freedom ; devotes himself to the task of 
 rousing up his countrymen, and inciting them 
 to shake off the Austrian yoke. And, depend 
 upon it, before a man surrenders himself thus 
 unreservedly to a noble cause, he must count 
 the cost. No holiday game will life be to him, 
 no gentle transit down the stream of Time — 
 no pleasant dwelling with the eyes and smiles 
 of happy children round him — no joyful 
 greeting of kinsfolk — no tranquil resting 
 at the close of life among his old familiar 
 vscenes — no peaceful gathering of his ashes to 
 his fathers when his day is done. He must 
 up and arm himself for a conflict such as fev/ 
 can stand. He must ' bear all things, believe 
 all things, hope all things, endure all things.' 
 His must be the forty years' sojourn in the 
 wilderness, to catch at last, perchance, but a 
 glimpse of the promised land afar off. He 
 must be content to ' sit in the gate and be the 
 heathen's jest, silent and self-possessed.' He 
 must count upon the curses of the world, the 
 flippancy, the carelessness, the cold contempt 
 of those he would arouse ; the deadly sickness 
 of a bleeding heart, a baffled hope, an enter- 
 prise abortive. He must be ' all things to all 
 men : ' he must till the barren soil, that yields 
 as harvest naught but thorns and briars ; he 
 must see the flame of enthusiasm leap up and 
 then die out in darkness, like a midnight 
 rocket from a sinking ship ; he must expect 
 to find his passionate appeals fall dead — pro- 
 fitless as dew upon the desert ; he must lead 
 on the forlorn hope and perish in the breach ; 
 he must be the scapegoat doomed to bear the 
 labour and the toil, ' the fastings, th-a foot- 
 v,'anderings,' the feai-ful weight of thought and 
 care and anxious expectation. 
 
 " The world considers such a character a 
 fool. Who, say they, l>ut a madman would 
 sacrifice ease, comfort, respectability, for the 
 sake of following the phantom of a dis- 
 tempered brain ; a visionary good which never 
 can be grasped. The world has set up images 
 of clay and fallen down and worshipped them, 
 and the smoke of ton thousand sacrifices has 
 gone up like a frowning cloud, and hangs 
 between earth and heaven, shutting out the 
 blessed light. And when one rises who will 
 only bow before the sacred presence of the 
 Truth ; one with deep vision to detect the 
 counterfeit, and a loud prophet-voice to give 
 his spirit utterance, — when he smites down 
 the idol, and standing on its reeking ruins, 
 bids its blinded votaries shake their fetters 
 off — he has to undergo Vittorio Santo' s perils 
 and to share Vittorio Santo's doom. 
 
 " But to the Poem, which is a record of the 
 Missionary of Freedom as he pursues his 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 arduous task. We meet him in various dis- 
 guises, and exorcising his influence upon dif- 
 ferent natures — now smiting upon the ' cold, 
 proud, rocky heart ' of the worldling, now 
 flashing out his thoughts like lightning upon 
 the careless crowd : teaching the minstrels in 
 their own souls' language the noblest theme 
 that can inspire their song ; and evoking from 
 the depths of vroman's gentle nature that 
 mQd but spiritual splendour which is the 
 crowning glory of a great cause, like the 
 crescent on the brow of night. Time would 
 fail us vrere we to expatiate upon each several 
 scene ; we must therefore content ourselves 
 with presenting one or two extracts and 
 introducing a few comments. 
 
 " The opening of the poem strikes us as 
 being vei-y powerfully conceived. The sun is 
 setting and his last streaks of glory are light- 
 ing up the heavens, the ' purple heavens ' of 
 Eome. They touch with all their sad and 
 solemn beauty the cramped and fettered limbs 
 of her who once was mistress of the world. 
 They flit among the tovrers and battlements 
 which flash the splendour back no more ; but 
 receive the sunshine shudderingly, and with a 
 fearful air, like a prisoner through the grated 
 window of his cell : ' and still the bright 
 beams come and go as they were wont to do, 
 and seem to wonder why they meet not with 
 the olden welcome. Upon an ancient battle- 
 field a band of youths and maidens meet; 
 they sing and dance although their land is a 
 desolation and themselves but slaves : — they 
 dance upon the spot where their great fathers 
 fought and bled to bind another chaplet round 
 the laurelled brows of what was then their 
 Country. The Missionary approaches, dis- 
 guised as a monk, and bids them stop, they 
 dance UTJon a grave — the grave that holds his 
 Mother ! They yield to his solicitations and 
 withdraw a space : he follows and begs them 
 lo forgive his vehemence, and bids them listen 
 how he loved his Mother : — 
 
 ' She loved mo, nursed me. 
 And fed my soul with light. Morning 
 
 and Even, 
 Praying, I sent that soul into her eyes, 
 And knew what heaven was though I was 
 
 a child, 
 I grew in stature and she grew in good- 
 ness. 
 I was a grave child ; looking on her taught 
 
 me 
 To love the beautiful : and I had thoughts 
 Of Paradise, when other men have hardly 
 Look'd out of doors on earth. (Alas ! alas ! 
 That I have also learn' d to look on 
 
 earth 
 When other men see Heaven.) I toil'd, 
 
 but ever, 
 As I became more holy, she seem'd holier ; 
 Even as when climbing mountain-tops, 
 
 the sky 
 Grows ampler, higher, purer as ye rise.' 
 
 "And then he tells them how strange 
 robbers seized her, bound her, while he and 
 all her other children denied her in her agony : 
 counted out the gold that bought her pangs ; 
 and when she lifted up her shackled hands 
 and prayed forgiveness for them — struck her ! 
 The wellnigh quenched but still existing spirit 
 of his auditors is roused by this tale ot vio- 
 lence, and with execrations they attempt to 
 kill him, when he bids them stand off, for they 
 are partners in the wrongs and sharers in the 
 unhallowed gain; that his Mother is their 
 Mother : — 
 
 ' Her name is Eome. Look round. 
 And see those features which the sun 
 
 himself 
 Can hardly leave for fondness. Look 
 j upon 
 
 ! Her mountain bosom, where the very sky 
 1 Beholds with passion : and with the last 
 proud 
 Imperial sorrow of dc^jected empire, 
 i She ^vraps the purple roiiiid her outraged 
 ' breast, 
 
 j And even in fetters cannot be a slave.' 
 
 ' "And then he launches into a long and 
 ' eloquent harangue : he dresses up the past in 
 all its ancient pomp, as sunset streaming 
 ' through stained windows lights up the dust- 
 dimmed statues of ancestral rulers : he shows 
 , them their present state, a life in death — a 
 mockery of existence — ' a broken mirror, 
 j which the glass in every fragment multiplies :' 
 , and looking forward, with a prophet's vision 
 ; he evokes the phantoms of the future, the 
 ' glories nebulous as yet, but destined to become 
 j the stars of earth — the fixed and flashing 
 i diadems upon the brow of Time. Then by his 
 j Country's wrongs, — 
 
 ' By her eternal youth, 
 And coi'ternal utterless dishonour, 
 Her toils, her stripes, her agonies, her 
 
 scars — 
 And her undying beauty — 
 By her long agony and bloody sweat. 
 Her passion of a thousand years, her 
 
 glory. 
 Her pride, her shame, her worlds subdued 
 
 and lost. 
 He swears She shall be free ! ' 
 
 Alas ! the heartless slaves have stolen away 
 one by one, and when the poor enthusiast 
 looks to find an answering echo to his great 
 appeal, he is alone with the grass and the 
 ruins and the broad blue sky and the soft 
 wind of heaven. And yet not quite alone : 
 for one of the band of revellers, a Eoman 
 maiden, has been attracted, spell-bound by 
 the words that have fallen, like flakes of fire 
 from a burst bombshell, from Vittorio Santo's 
 tongue : and now she timidly approaches him 
 and asks if there be no office in the great work 
 j which Eome's daughters can fill — no services 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Pektod. — 
 
 which they can render to their common 
 mother. A mig-hty change has passed upon 
 her spirit in these few brief moments : the 
 missionary, all unconscious, held the master- 
 key of her affections, and now she is his in life 
 and death. 
 
 * Alas ! the love of women, it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 All that they have upon that die is 
 thrown.' 
 
 She knows he has entered upon a perilous ■ 
 enterprise — that he carries his life in his hand ; '■ 
 but she will surrender fortune, fame, friends, j 
 everything, to be his follower, to execute his | 
 orders, and to live within the shadow of his 
 presence. But what can she do ? What part 
 in the drama can she sustain ? Woman can- 
 not grasp an abstract idea. This Rome, this 
 Country, this impersonation of the frowning 
 ruins which she saw around but bewildered her : 
 she wanted to observe some glance of ' human 
 nature in the idol's eyes ' — some touch of 
 human feeling in the Queen they strove to 
 reinstate — some symbol of humanity upon the 
 banners of the host. It was Rome she loved 
 personified in Rome's deliverer ; it was Santo' s 
 wild and witching words that woke the music 
 from her heart-strings, and so she strives to 
 do his will, to prove herself not unworthy of 
 her leader. And nobly does she execute her 
 mission : Vittorio is imprisoned by a libertine 
 young lord, Francesca purchases his freedom 
 at the price of herself, and ' in her superb high 
 loveliness, whose every look enhanced the 
 ransom,' begs — 
 
 * Another maiden hour for prayer and 
 
 tears. 
 Francesca wore a poniard. She is now 
 A maid for ever.* 
 
 " The poet has displayed a very high degree 
 of talent in the conception of this character. 
 The labyrinthine mazes of passion are de- 
 veloped with a master hand. The dazzling, 
 blinding rush of fresh thoughts and feelings 
 evoked mysteriously, like the fabled well- 
 spring of Helicon, from the heart of the young 
 Italian girl : the moments of doubt, suspense, 
 hesitation : the conflict between fear and love 
 — the fear of offending, of being cast off as 
 useless, of being but a drag upon the chariot- 
 wheels of the emancipator : the love which 
 has dawned suddenly upon her like an Oriental 
 sunrise, and which she knows cannot perish 
 but with her existence — the love which would 
 be contented with the humblest post in his 
 great enterprise : the set determination to do 
 the wishes of her master — and the woman's 
 weakness asking for some tangible reaUt^^, 
 some symbol of the divinity she is to serve — 
 some star to twinkle with a human radiance 
 on what, to her, would else be but one broad 
 and blinding blue — the still, intense com- 
 munings with her own spirit when she learns 
 that lie is doomed to die by ' the greatest 
 
 libertine in Milan ' — the shudderings of soul 
 as she contemplates her scheme for his libera- 
 tion, and her last act of glorious self-forget- 
 f ulness, when she accomplishes her object, and 
 baffling the base hopes of the tyrant, dies ; 
 and in dying shows the greatness of a woman's 
 heart, the unsullied lustre of a woman's love. 
 There is to us something inexpressibly touch- 
 ing in this portrait, so pure, so exalted, yet so 
 true to nature ; something which appeals to 
 our best feelings, and nobly vindicates the 
 noble origin of our common humanity. And 
 it is not merely a fine idea of the poet, a 
 beautiful creation of the fancy with a rain- 
 bow's brilliancy and a rainbow's unsubstantial 
 life : it is the personification of a great fact, 
 a special instance of the love which lies about 
 us like the grass upon the meadows. True, 
 the sacrifices woman has to make now are not 
 what they were then ; but though the light 
 has come down from the mountains to the 
 valleys — no more a beacon but a household 
 fire — it still exists. Ten thousand silent wit- 
 nesses are standing round us of the fact, more 
 eloquent in their silence. There are sacrifices 
 offered up every day within our ken as noble 
 as the Roman girl's, ^nd the more we con- 
 template and admire them the better will our 
 lives become. We cannot bear the vulgar hand 
 which rudely tears away the veil that hides so 
 many sacred scenes ; but we give honour to 
 the man who shows us Woman in her noble 
 nature, her generous devotion of herseK to 
 others ; for we feel he gives an impulse to our 
 spirit, subdues our miserable selfishness, in- 
 spires us with a hopeful and a healthy spirit, 
 lightens our burden in this lingering life- 
 journey, and lifts us nearer Heaven ! 
 
 ' Thou little child. 
 Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope — 
 
 thou bright. 
 Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep 
 
 their gladness — 
 Thou little potentate of love, who comest 
 With solemn sweet dominion to the old. 
 Who see thee in thy merry fancies 
 
 charged 
 With the grave embassage of that dear 
 
 past, 
 When they were young like thee — thou 
 
 vindication 
 Of God — thou living witness against all 
 
 men 
 Who have been babes — thou everlasting 
 
 promise 
 Which no man keeps — thou portrait of 
 
 our nature. 
 Which in despair and pride we scorn and 
 
 worship — 
 Thou household-god, whom no iconoclast 
 Hath broken ! ' 
 
 " That strain falls on us like a snow-flake 
 on a fevered lip : Childhood gleams on us once 
 again — those early days when we were inno- 
 cent and happy, when earth with its flowers 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 and sunshine seemed a Paradise wliicli would 
 never pass away — when the moon and the 
 stars were a mystery, and we believed that 
 God was up, far away in the great blue 
 lieaven — when we felt as secure in the domestic 
 circle, as Adam did within the ' cherubim-de- 
 fended battlements ' of Eden. Childhood ! 
 Before the serpent drew its trail across our 
 path and dimmed the lustre which it takes a 
 life-long labour to regain — before we tasted of 
 the Trees of Life and Knowledge and found 
 them dust and ashes in our mouth — ' Trees 
 of death and madness.' An immeasurable 
 gulf divides us from that blessed .time — we 
 have passed from out that dream-land where 
 we were supremely happy in our ignorance — 
 we have plunged into the fiery furnace of the 
 world, and taken part in its toils and throb- 
 bings, and restless heaving passions. We 
 have felt the fever-strife of existence — the 
 elements which constitute at once the blessing 
 and the bane of manhood. Many a hard lesson 
 have we learned, many an agonizing thought 
 has maddened our brain, and many a wild 
 woe has swept across our heart-strings and 
 struck oiit harsh discord. Love has looked 
 upon us with her heavenly eyes, like a fairy 
 from a fountain, and then died away in bub- 
 bling music, leaving us longing to follow her, 
 but not knowing whither. Fame, Fortune, 
 all the wreckers' lights the world hangs out 
 to tempt poor mortals to destruction on its reefs 
 and shoals, have met us. Death has thro\vn his 
 shadow on our path, and muffled in his mantle 
 those we called our own. And then in some 
 still moment — some hour when we are sitting 
 silently over our lonely fireside, the ghosts of 
 our early days appear like ' gleams of a re- 
 moter world ' — old thoughts, old feelings, old 
 associations, come to life again — then, gazing 
 on the laughing landscape we have left for 
 ever, the golden sunrise which has gathered 
 to a burning heat, the fresh young corn-blade 
 which has matured through many a storm and 
 sunbeam till it bows beneath the weight of its 
 own age and longs for the sickle ; — who has 
 not sometimes wished he was a child again ? 
 Sometimes the wish steals on us when the 
 white-robed past confronts the sin-stained 
 present, and aggravates its hue by contrast ; 
 but life was breathed into the frame of each 
 that he might answer a purpose, and we must 
 ever Onward ! Knowledge is power, though 
 it be stamped into the spirit ^vith a burning 
 brand : and he acts nobly who girds himself 
 up for action. There may be tears for him, 
 and throbbings of the heart, and passionate 
 sad voices from the past ; there may be soli- 
 tude and silence — the solitude of a being 
 friendless in a peopled world : but let him 
 pass on with a resolved but stricken spirit, 
 believing that the path he treads is that of 
 duty and the goal is God ; and be shaH. find 
 that knowledge, purified by faith, is better 
 than unconscious innocence : his shall be the 
 crystal calmness of the current that has 
 
 passed the rapid and the precipice, and gone 
 to rest in some sequestered spot, the mirror 
 of the Heaven that hangs above it. 
 
 " Let us glance for a moment at the closing 
 scene. The Monk has fulfilled his mission, 
 the task which was appointed him he has 
 accomplished : and now prisoned, condemned, 
 sentenced to die on the morrow, he knnw^ his 
 hour has come. A number of his partisans 
 are gathered in the dungeon to bid him fare- 
 well, to hear his parting words, to listen to 
 the last instructions of their leader ere he 
 passes from them for ever, and leaves them 
 to carry on the cause alone. It is a solemn 
 and a critical moment. He is standing in the 
 shadow of death and on the brink of the un- 
 seen world : the stormy past lies behind him 
 like the dashing ocean in the wake of the 
 bark that nears the haven. He has stemmed 
 the flood and grappled with the fury of the 
 whirlwind. He has lived among the strife of 
 elements, the war of deadly passions. Ho had 
 to kindle the first feeble watch-fire, and fan 
 its faint and sickly flame ; he had to seek 
 materials to work upon, and then to mould 
 them to his purpose ; he had to teach the 
 ignorant, to stimulate the faint-hearted, to 
 cheer the wavering, to check the undisciplined 
 ardour of the over-zealous — and all alone. 
 But now his voice is softened, and a calm-like 
 sunset rests upon his noble features. 
 
 ' Let us brighten 
 This last best hour with thoughts that, 
 
 shining through 
 To-morrow's tears, shall set in our worst 
 
 cloud 
 The bow of promise.' 
 
 *' He puts away from him now the sound of 
 war, the shock of arms, the noise of hosts, 
 the banners and the blazoned ensigns ; and 
 he endeavours to instU into the minds of his 
 followers a knowledge of their higher duty, 
 of a more difiicult but nobler task which may 
 be theirs. He bids them — 
 
 * Learn a prophet's duty : 
 For this cause is he born, and for this 
 
 cause, 
 For this cause comes he to the world, — 
 
 to hear 
 Witness.' 
 
 " Truly, as his audience thought, 'tis a hard 
 saying — Who shall hearit ? It is comparatively 
 easy when the commander says, ' Up and at 
 them,' to charge down the hill upon the enemy, 
 like the Life Guards at Waterloo ; but it is a 
 greater and a hundred-fold more difiicult task 
 to stand as those Guards stood for seven mortal 
 hours upon the eminence without stirring 
 a step or firing a shot. It is a gallant thing 
 to fight with the free and the brave in defence 
 of our country, our shrines, our hearth-stones, 
 and our fathers' sepulchres — action animates 
 and prevents the spirits drooping ; companions 
 in arms, though they be few, incite us on : we 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 fling fear, doubt, irresolution to the winds — 
 and death is indifferent to us, for we know 
 that glory decks the hero's bier if it does not 
 bind his brow. But to hear icitness ! 
 
 ' Speak, speak thy message ; 
 The world runs post for thee. The good 
 
 by nature, 
 The bad by fate ; — whom the avenging 
 
 gods 
 Having condemn'd have first demented. 
 
 Know 
 By virtue of that madness they are 
 
 thine. 
 Lay-brothers working where the sanctity 
 Of thine high office comes not. Savage 
 
 friends 
 Who, scattering in their wrath thv beacon, 
 
 light 
 The fire that clears the wilderness. Un- 
 conscious 
 Disciples, writing up the martyr's title 
 In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin on his 
 
 cross. 
 Love him Avho loves thee ; his sweet love 
 
 hath bought 
 A place in Heaven. Bat love him' more 
 
 who hates, 
 For he dares hell to serve thee. Pray for 
 
 him 
 "^Vho hears thee gladly; it shall be 
 
 remember' d 
 On high. But, martyr ! count thy debt 
 
 the greater 
 To the reviler ; he hath bought thy 
 
 triumph 
 With his own soul. In all thy toils forget 
 
 not 
 That whoso sheddeth his life's blood for 
 
 thee 
 Is a good lover ; but thy great apostle, 
 Thy ministering spirit, thy spell-bound, 
 World-working giant, thy head hiero- 
 
 phant 
 And everlasting high priest, is that 
 
 sinner 
 Who sheds thine own.' 
 
 *' To hear ii-itnoss ! what a world of mean- 
 ing lies hidden in these few words ! how many 
 of the grandest elements of human nature it 
 requires to mould a character like this I Every 
 man values the honest hearty good word of 
 his neighbours ; and there are associations 
 gathered roimd the heart of each of us which 
 it is impossible to efi'ace. To be estranged 
 from those we have lived with and loved from 
 infancy — to pass from under the shadow of 
 the faith that has fostered us — to look upon 
 old sights, old haunts, familiar scenes, and 
 find they are but fiends to mock us with a 
 memory of what once was — to see contempt 
 and scorn assume the place where love was 
 wont to reign — to know that the aftections we 
 prized more than life are changed to worm- 
 wood — to watch our tried and trusted friends 
 deliberately range themselves in the foemen's 
 
 ranks — to have the harrowing conviction 
 burned in upon the soul that we must go on 
 now alone — go along the path we have chosen, 
 and forego all the pleasures on which we 
 counted to render existence endurable — these, 
 these things try the temper and the tone of 
 spirit — these constitute a frightful and a fiery 
 ordeal at which human nature shudders. And 
 yet all this must frequently be undergone for 
 the cause of Truth. The alternative is a 
 terrible one, and many waver ; but such have 
 not the elements of real greatness in them, 
 the qualities which constitute one who must 
 bear Witness. The world has its laws and 
 customs, its usages and ordinances ; and 
 woe to the man who sets himself in opposition 
 to these. The world has its idols, its creed, 
 its rule of faith — woe to the man who rises 
 and declares its worship blasphemy — its creed 
 a falsehood — its rule of faith a damnable de- 
 lusion. Woe ! truly ; but unutterable woe 
 would it be if these men did not rise up ever 
 and anon, to smite the lazy blood into the 
 cheeks of humanity ; to exorcise the demon 
 that directs the rabid multitude ; to breathe 
 a holier feeling through a land defaced by 
 blood and crime. They are the pioneers of 
 Freedom, the vanguard of the hosts of Truth. 
 And their fate is to be reviled and ridiculed — 
 blasphemed and buff"etted — tortured body 
 and soul with all the ingenuity of cruelty. 
 Well — so it is, and so it will be : they have 
 counted the cost; their death-smile is the calm 
 of conquest ; and — 
 
 ' They flee far 
 To a sunnier strand : 
 And follow Love's folding star 
 To the evening land.' 
 
 '* Vittorio Santo is one of these — and now 
 his last hour has come. He has to take a 
 final look at that cause which he has watched 
 alone from its cradle : which he has reared 
 amid ten thousand obstacles, and guided 
 through ten thousand dangers : he is leaving 
 it in the hands of his followers, and with all 
 the solemnity of sorrow, with all the majesty 
 of a man sublime in suffering and crowned 
 with the diadem of death, he endeavours to 
 form their minds, to instil into them those 
 great principles which have regulated his own 
 career. He gives them a glimpse of the higher 
 mysteries, and strives to stimulate their souls 
 to pierce the mist which hides them from the 
 common ken. He labours to communicate to 
 them that strong, calm, deep, earnest feeling 
 which is an ark of refuge to a persecuted cause, 
 and still on every cloud that either frowns or 
 falls imprints the bow of promise. Thus 
 having spoken words of comfort and assurance 
 to the companions of his toil, having done 
 everything in his power for the promotion of 
 the enterprise — with peace upon his brow, he 
 passes from them like the orb of day into the 
 chambers of the West : and then — ' the night 
 Cometh ; ' — but it is a ' night of stars.* The 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 greater luminary has set, yet his ' apostle 
 lights ' have caught the mantle that fell from 
 him as he ascended, and ere the musket- shots 
 of the minions of the tyrant have passed 
 through his body, there is a band of twenty 
 thousand insurgents at the gates — led on by 
 a woman ! 
 
 ' Yes ! Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won.' 
 
 You may place what barriers ye will in the 
 way of Truth and Liberty — ye cannot stop 
 tliem. You may burn and slay and torture 
 their votaries ; you may drive them into the 
 mountains ; you may scatter their ashes to the 
 winds and waters : — from grave and guillotine 
 and gory block proceeds an influence that 
 passes like electric fluid through the hearts of 
 men and mocks your mad endeavour. 
 
 ' Truth is the equal sun. 
 
 Ripening no less the hemlock than the 
 ■vine. 
 
 Truth is the flash that turns aside no 
 more 
 
 From castle than from cot. Truth is a 
 spear 
 
 Thrown by the blind. Truth is a Ne- 
 mesis 
 
 Which leadeth her beloved by the hand 
 
 Through all things ; giving him no task 
 to break 
 
 A bruised reed, but bidding him stand 
 firm 
 
 Though she crush worlds.' 
 
 " Truth is the hidden treasure which a 
 baffled and bewildered universe has been en- 
 gaged in seeking for six thousand years. 
 "What is Truth ? 'Tis a question which has 
 been often asked : by the broken heart and 
 the bleeding breast ; by the dauntless spirit 
 and the undimmed eye. It has been asked in 
 the full triumph of faith, when the light of 
 eternity illuminated the world-mysteries ; it 
 has gone up to heaven with the stifled sob 
 from the stricken spirit ; it has been uttered 
 to the silent forest by the lonely anchorite ; 
 it has been proclaimed in the majesty of hope, 
 in the agony of despair, in the ghastly 
 eloquence of death. Truth stands ever in 
 still, silent beauty, like a star which reeks not 
 of the clouds which come and go, and make 
 wild warfare in the heavens. These shall pass 
 away — the strife of tongues shall cease — the 
 vain possessions and pursuits of earth shall 
 vanish from their votaries — the workmen on 
 the walls and battlements of this vast Babel- 
 tower shall be arrested in their labour like 
 the moon at Ajalon — the incubus shall be re- 
 moved from the bosom of humanity, and the 
 emancipated universe shall recognize their 
 victim and their Conqueror — the solution of 
 this world-enigma — the Everlasting Truth. 
 But then the end c®meth. Meanwhile there 
 must be agony and tears and death ; there 
 
 must be the faggot and the fire ; there must 
 be hollow-heartedness and mockery : for 
 battle must be waged between the true and 
 false till time shall be no more. There will 
 be— 
 
 ' Dim echoings — 
 Not of the truth, but witnessiKg the 
 
 truth— ^ 
 
 Like the resounding thunder of the rock 
 AVhich the sea passes — rushing thoughts 
 
 like heralds. 
 Voices which seem to clear the way for 
 
 greatness, 
 Cry advent in the soul, like the far 
 
 shoutings 
 That say a monarch comes. These must 
 
 goby. 
 And then the man who can outwatch this 
 
 vigil 
 Sees the apocalypse.' 
 
 " There is a hearty purpose and a solemn 
 earnestness in ' The Roman ' which we think 
 is calculated to teach an admirable lesson to, 
 and produce a powerful eflTect upon, the minds 
 of the present age. Never perhaps was it 
 more necessary to inculcate independent 
 thought and self-reliance ; never more re- 
 quisite to guard individuals against losing 
 their identity in the mass ; never more need- 
 ful to fix the image of Truth in the heart, and 
 tend it day and night as the virgins watched 
 the fire of Vesta. Our poet shows us the 
 dignity of nran — the power he can exercise, 
 the active power of kindling great thoughts 
 in his fellow-men — rousing them up from 
 their lethargic sleep — snapping the fetters 
 which cramp their spiritual freedom, and 
 bidding them pursue the path which God has 
 placed before them, and along which duty 
 guides them — peradventure to a grave. He 
 shows us also Man's passive power — the 
 nobler of the two, and by far the more dif- 
 ficult to practise — the power which can impel 
 the soul right onward, like an arrow to its 
 mark ; which yields not to the sun-smile of 
 fortune nor to the pitiless peltings of the 
 tempest-cloud : the power from which the 
 shafts of scorn fall off with deadened point ; 
 which walks unscathed through the fiery 
 furnace of a nation's mockery : and gazes 
 with an unblenched eye upon the ghastliest 
 insignia of death. He shows us Pity bending 
 with unutterable tenderness ; Love sacrificing 
 self at the altar of its divinity ; Resolution stern 
 as fate, sheathing the spirit as in a panoply 
 of steel ; Hope, baffled, bleeding, but like the 
 dolphin, beautiful in death ; Faith lifting its 
 flashing eyes to Heaven, and speaking forth 
 the words of inspiration. He takes us by the 
 hand and conducts us reverently among the 
 ruins of the past — he leads us within the 
 circle of its magic presence, and bids us look 
 and wonder. 
 
 " We must conclude as we commenced. 
 What went ye out for to see ? ' The moral of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 all human tales ' — the melancholy monument 
 and memento of mortal grandeur and mortal 
 vanity — the City of the dead, who erst was 
 Queen of Nations — the Time-swept, but Time- 
 conquering, Capitol — Imperial Home. 
 
 ' All through the lorn 
 Vacuity winds came and went, but stirr'd 
 Only the flowers of yesterday. Upstood 
 The hoar unconscious walls, bisson and 
 
 bare, 
 Like an old man, deaf, blind, and grey, in 
 
 whom 
 The years of old stand in the sun, and 
 
 murmur 
 Of childhood and the dead. From 
 
 parapets 
 "Where the sky refts, from broken niches 
 
 — each 
 More than an Olympus, — for gods dwelt 
 
 in them, — 
 Below, from senatorial haunts and seat? 
 Imperial, where the ever-passing fates 
 Wore out the stone, strange hermit birds 
 
 croak' d forth 
 Sorrowful sounds, like watchers on the 
 
 heights 
 Crying the hours of ruin. When the 
 
 clouds 
 Dress'd every myrtle on the walls in 
 
 mourning, 
 i With calm prerogative the eternal pile 
 Impassive shone with the unearthly hght 
 Of immortality. When conquering suns 
 Triumph' d in jubilant earth, it stood out 
 
 dark 
 With thoughts of ages : like some mighty 
 
 captive 
 Upon his deathbed in a Chi-istian land, 
 And lying, through the chant of Psalm 
 
 and Creed, 
 Unshriven and stern, with peace upon his 
 
 brow. 
 And on his lips strange gods.' 
 
 " Ashes to ashes — dust to dust : we will 
 not disturb the majestic repose, nor break the 
 silence which broods above the princely se- 
 pulchre ; but we will be — 
 
 ' Like some village children 
 Who found a dead king on a battle-field, 
 And with decorous care and reverent pity 
 Composed the lordly niin, and sat down 
 Graver without tears.' " 
 
 — Lester's 
 462., 
 
 Criticisms," 3rd edit., pp. 440- 
 
 P. J. BAILEY. 
 
 P. J. Bailey, born 1816, a member of the 
 bar, son of the proprietor of the " Nottingham 
 Mercury," is the author of " Festus," " The 
 Angel World," and " The Mystic." Few 
 poems upon their first appearance have ex- 
 cited so much attention as " Festus." Bailey 
 was but about twenty years of age when this 
 
 poem was finished. The second edition, pub- 
 lished in 1842, was much enlarged, and in 
 later editions it has been still further aug- 
 mented, to about three times its original length. 
 It contains many exquisite passages of genuine 
 poetry, and is one of the most remarkable 
 books of the present century. 
 
 BEYAN WALLEE PEOCTER. 
 
 " Bryan Waller Procter, born about 1790, 
 a modem EngHsh poet, generally known under 
 the pseudonym of Barry Cornwall. He was 
 educated for the legal profession, and, during 
 many years, held an important appointment 
 as one of the commissioners of lunacy. His 
 first volume of poems was produced in 1819, 
 under the title of ' Dramatic Scenes, and other 
 Poems.' His 'English Songs,' Memoir and 
 Essay prefixed to an edition of Shakspere, 
 ' Marcian Colonna,' and others, evinced, in 
 their author, the possession of a graceful and 
 refined order of mind. Some of his songs 
 became popular ; and one of his tragedies 
 (that entitled 'Mirandola') which was pro- 
 duced at Covent Garden Theatre, was highly 
 successful. A collection of some charming I 
 essays and tales in prose by him was pub- 
 lished in America." — Beeton's " Diet, Univ. 
 Biog." 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 "Charles Swain, born at Manchester, 1803, 
 a modern English writer, known as the ' Man- 
 chester Poet,' was educated for commercial 
 I pursuits ; but after spending fourteen years 
 ! in the office of his uncle, the proprietor of 
 : large dye-works, he abandoned commerce to 
 : acquire the art of engraving, which he after- 
 j wards practised as a profession. His first 
 1 essay in poetry was made in 1828, at which 
 I time he produced a collection of lyrics, upon 
 I subjects of history and imagination. His 
 : later works were, 'Beauties of the Mind,' 
 1 ' Dryburgh Abbey, an Elegy upon the Death 
 j of Sir Walter Scotfc,' 'English Melodies,' 
 ' Dramatic Chapters,' and ' Rhymes for Child- 
 , hood.' To evince their respect for him his 
 fellow-townsmen presented him with a testi- 
 monial." — Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 " Alfred Tennyson, bom 1810. He received 
 the 'Laurel'' after the death of Wordsworth 
 in 1850. He first appeared as a poet under 
 his own name in 1830, in his twentieth year. 
 A second volume of poems was issued in 1833, 
 and in 1842 he re-appeared with two volumes 
 of ' Poems,' many of which were his early 
 pieces altered and retouched. His other 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 works are, ' The Princess, a Medley,' 1847 ; 
 ' In Memoriam,' 1850 (the latter a series of 
 beautiful elegiac poems on the death of his 
 young friend Arthur Hallam, son of the his- 
 torian) ; ' Ode on the Death of the Duke of 
 Wellington,' 1852 ; and ' Maud, and other 
 Poems,' 1855. The popularity of Mr. Tenny- 
 son has been steadily on the increase, and he 
 has a band of devoted worshippers. His 
 chief defect is obscurity of expression, with a 
 certain mannerism. The characteristics of 
 his poetry lie rather in its external dress of 
 imagery and language, tha,n in any bias to- 
 wards a particular line of thought or subject. 
 His pieces might be classed, in the manner of 
 Mr. Wordsworth, into Poems of the Affections; 
 Poems of the Fancy ; Studies from Classical 
 Statuary and Gothic Eomance, &c. Many of 
 them, from the apparent unintelligibility of 
 their external shape, have been supposed to 
 bear an esoteric meaning. The ' Princess,' 
 especially, apparently a Gothic romance in a 
 drawing-room dress, has been supposed to 
 figure forth not merely the position which 
 women and their education hold in the scale 
 of modern civilization, but to indicate also 
 the results of modem science on the relations, 
 affections, and employments of society. The 
 verso of Mr. Tennyson is a composite melody, 
 it has great power and large compass ; 
 original, yet delightfully mingled with the 
 notes of other poets. His mind is richly 
 stored with objects which he invests some- 
 times with the sunny mists of Coleridge, 
 sometimes with the amiable simplicity of 
 Wordsworth, or the palpable distinctness of 
 Hood. His late works reflect the thought and 
 contemplation of the age." — Scrymgeour's 
 " Poetry and Poets of Britain," p. 503-4. 
 
 Orton says of Tennyson : — " Not exactly 
 cypress, but a wreath of weeping willow, 
 should encircle his name. He is enamoured 
 with ideal beauty and purity of soul, and he 
 sings the praises of holy and exalted friend- 
 ship more than the warmer passion of Love. 
 He may be characterized as an elevated phi- 
 losopher with a poet's expression, which a 
 delicate perception of the beautiful and true 
 has given him. 
 
 " His harp is not strung with strings whose 
 wild, loud notes shall first awaken, and then 
 petrify the snoring World, but with sUken, 
 silvery, gossamer chords, whose fairj"- melody 
 is heard only by the delicate spiritual ear. 
 
 " Yet keeps ho perhaps too close to the 
 shores of Time, and dares not, or will not, 
 sail the mighty oceans of mind, and bring us, 
 like golden fruit, from beyond their distant 
 shores sublime and inspiriting ideas of Fu- 
 turity. He keeps his wings too closely furled, 
 when we consider his poetical powers ! 
 
 " May Time give him courage and bear him 
 happiness ; — root up the willow which points, 
 with its thousand drooping and nerveless 
 arms, to the cold earth, and transplant the 
 Poplar, which ever points, with its one firm, 
 
 ! giant finger, to the bright, glorious, and 
 ! joy-inspiring Heavens!" — "Excelsior," p. 
 I 23. 
 
 j So classical, so full of refined beauty, 
 j breathing all the spirit of loveliness. How 
 I exquisite his (Enone — " Dear Mother Ida, 
 i hearken, ere I die." How the plaintive 
 I language breaks on the air in delieioua. ac- 
 cents ! We think we see the gentle (Jb^none 
 and the three fair deities of Olympus, with 
 the sunbeam darting through the vine-leaves, 
 and the olive upon their ' finely-chiselled ' 
 forms, so moulded to perfect symmetry. She 
 recals all the tenderness of her love — " Dear 
 Mother Ida, hearken, ere I die ! " The sylvan 
 shades, and the clear streams, and the grassy 
 meads, and the flowery banks, and the modest 
 violet, and the golden crocus, seem to echo in 
 softest whispers to the melancholy prayer — 
 " Dear Mother Ida, hearken, ere I die." And 
 the rippling of the waters, and the light blue 
 of heaven, and the fleecy clouds, and the rich 
 perfumes of rose and hyacinths, re-echo in 
 tones of deep, still witchery — " Dear Mother 
 Ida, hearken, ere I die." The dulcet cadence 
 floats over the dark waves of ocean; and 
 faithful (Enone, with her clustering hair and 
 serene countenance, lifts her dewy eye to the 
 broad canopy of midnoon, and once more 
 throbs out — '' Dear Mother Ida, hearken, ere 
 I die ! " 
 
 THOMAS AIRD. 
 
 " Thomas Aird, born at Bowden, Eoxburgh- 
 shire, 1802, an original poet of considerable 
 power, a contributor to periodical literature, 
 and author of the ' Old Bachelor in the Old 
 Scottish Village,' ' Eeligious Characteristics,' 
 and ' The Devil's Dream,' a poem pronounced 
 ' a wonderful piece of weird, supernatural ima- 
 gination,' He was editor of the ' Edinburgh 
 Weekly Journal,' the ' Dumfries Herald,' and 
 of an edition of the poems of Dr. Moir, the 
 ' Delta ' of ' Blackwood's Magazine.' " — 
 Beeton's "Diet. Univ. Biog." See Allibone's 
 " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit." 
 
 EDWIN ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Edwin Atherstone, a truly great poet. He 
 has published " The Last Days of Hercula- 
 neum," " Abradates and Panthea," " The 
 Fall of Nineveh," and other works. His 
 productions display " power and vigour, 
 splendid diction, and truly poetic feeling." 
 
 ALAEIC A. WATTS. 
 
 " Alaric Alexander Watts, born in London, 
 1799, a modem English poetical writer, who, 
 in early life, became the literary assistant to 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Sevsntw Pekiod. — 
 
 Crabbe, the writer of the ' Technological 
 Dictionary,' and having- put forth a small 
 collection of poems in 1822, which obtained 
 some success, he was appointed editor of the 
 ' Leeds Intelligencer,' and subsequently of the 
 ' Manchester Courier.' In 1825 he commenced 
 the publication of the ' Literary Souvenir,' 
 which was continued as an annual until 1836. 
 This work contained contributions bj"- Camp- 
 bell, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and was 
 illustrated by Turner, Leslie, Roberts, and 
 other emirwsnt artists, the engravings being 
 executed by Heath, assisted bj'' the best en- 
 gravers of the day. He also attempted to 
 establish a fine-art journal, called ' The 
 Poetical Album ; ' but it ceased to appear 
 after the second year. In 1833 he commenced 
 the ' United Service Gazette,' of which he 
 remained the editor until 1843. He was 
 subsequently connected Avith the ' Standard ' 
 and other newspapers. A collected edition of 
 his poetical pieces appeared in 1851, with the 
 title of ' Lyrics of the Heart,' and two years 
 subsequently, he received a pension of .£100 
 per annum fi-om the Government." — Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 " Lord Houghton, born 1809, a modern 
 English politician, poet, and prose writer. A 
 few years after concluding his university 
 career at Cambridge, he was elected Member 
 of Parliament for Pontefract, and distinguished 
 himself therein as a zealous supporter of all 
 questions relative to popular education and 
 complete religious ec[uality. His literary 
 efforts were various in kind and of an excellent 
 character. As a poet, he produced ' Poems 
 of Many Years,' ' Memorials of Many Scenes,' 
 ' Poems, Legendary and Historical,' and ' Palm 
 Leaves.' His ' Life, Letters, and Literary 
 Remains of John Keats ' was an appreciative 
 and delightful commemoration of departed 
 genius. He was understood to have been the 
 writer of several interesting articles in the 
 ' Westminster Review.' He published several 
 of his speeches, delivered from his place in the 
 House of Commons, and wrote a number of 
 political pamphlets, the most important of 
 which were ' Thoughts on Party Politics,' 
 * Real Union of England and Ireland,' and 
 ' The Events of 1848.' "—Beeton's " Diet. 
 Univ. Biog." 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 
 
 Eliza Cook, born 1817, the daughter of a 
 tradesman in the borough of Southwark, 
 London, gained considerable reputation, when 
 in her twentieth year, as a poetical contributor 
 to some of the higher class of London pe- 
 riodicals — "The New Monthly Magaainc," 
 "The Metropolitan," "The Literary Gazette," 
 
 { &c. In 1840 a volume of her poems was 
 I published in London, and was reproduced in 
 I New York, in 1844, under the title of " Melaia, 
 ; and other Poems." Many editions of her 
 I poems have since been published in England 
 j and America. " The Old Arm Chair," " The 
 j Old Farm Gate," " Home in the Heart," 
 1 " The Last Good-bye," and " I Muiss thee, my 
 I Mother! " are known and loved by thousands, 
 I both old and young. In September, 1849, 
 : appeared the first number of " Eliza Cook's 
 1 Journal." Professor Cleveland says : " The 
 characteristics of her poetry are great free- 
 dom, ease, and heartiness of sentiment and 
 expression ; and she makes you feel at once 
 that her whole heart is in all she writes ; that 
 ! she gives full utterance to the depths of her 
 \ soul — a soul that is in sympathy with all that 
 : is pure and true." — Cleveland's " Enq-. Lit. 
 19th Cent." See AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. 
 Lit." 
 
 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 
 
 " William Howitt, born at Heanor, Derby- 
 shire, 1795, a living English litterateur, the 
 son of a member of the Society of Friends, 
 who educated him and his five brothers in the 
 principles of Quakerism. Although he had 
 been sent to several schools kept by Quakers, 
 his education Avas almost entirely owing to 
 his own perseverance. Up to his twenty- 
 eighth year, when he married and commenced 
 with his wife a career of literature, his tim.o 
 had been spent in acquiring mathematical and 
 scientific knowledge, in studying the classical 
 authors, and in mastering the German, 
 French, and Italian tongues. His studies 
 were varied by rambles in the country, 
 shooting, and fishing ; and these again led 
 him to obtain an amount of information 
 relative to English rural life and nature, 
 which was afterwards reproduced in his works. 
 The lady who became his wife was, like him- 
 self, a member of the Society of Friends, and 
 strongly imbued with literary tastes. In 1823, 
 the first year of their marriage, they published 
 together a volume of poems, entitled, ' The 
 Forest Minstrel,' and followed it up by con- 
 tributions to the ' Amulet,' ' Literary Sou- 
 venir,' and other annuals then in vogue. 
 These contributions, with some origmal pieces, 
 were collected and published, in 1827, under 
 the title of ' The Desolation of Eyam,' &c. 
 ' The Book of the Seasons,' ' Popular History 
 of Priestcraft,' ' Tales of the Pantika ; or. Tra- 
 ditions of the most Ancient Times,' 'Rural Life 
 ! of England,' ' Colonization and Christianity,' 
 i and several other works, were produced by 
 ; him during the ten following years. In 1839 
 j and succeeding year, he wrote his 'Boy's 
 ; Country Book,' and ' Visits to Remarkable 
 '■■ Places.' In 1840 he went to Germany for the 
 : purpose of educating his children, and his 
 [ sojourn there led to the production of the 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 • Rural and Domestic Life of Germany/ 
 ' German Experiences,' &c. In 1847 and the 
 four foUowiug- years he published his ' Homes 
 and Haunts of the most eminent English 
 Poets,' 'The Hall and Hamlet; or, Scenes and 
 Characters of Country Life,' ' The Year-Book 
 of the Country,' and a novel, ' Madame Dor- 
 rington of the Dene.' In 1846 he contributed 
 to the ' People's Journal,' and afterwards 
 became part proprietor of it ; but a quarrel 
 between himself and his partner led him to 
 establish a rival publication — ' Howitt's 
 Journal,' which, however, like its predecessor, 
 was subsequently unsuccessful. In 1852 he, 
 with his two sons and Mr. R. H. Home, sailed 
 for Australia, where he, for some time, worked 
 as a ' digger.' He also visited Tasmania, 
 Sydney, «fec., and communicated his observa- 
 tions in a number of letters to the ' Times* 
 newspaper, which he afterwards collected and 
 published, with some new matter, under the 
 title of ' Land, Labour, and Gold,' in 1855." 
 
 her observation of nature accurate and in- 
 tense." 
 
 " Sweet Mary Howitt I her name brings 
 magic with it, let us see it when and where 
 we will ! It is one crowded with pleasant 
 associations ; telling of wisdom learned by 
 the v/ayside and under the hedgerows ; 
 breathing perfumes — not the perfumes ofT^alls 
 and routs — of violets and wild flowers ; lead- 
 ing the mind to pure and pleasant thought- 
 fulness." — " New Monthly Mag." See Row- 
 ton's " Female Poets of Great Britain ; " 
 AUibone's " Crit. Diet. Eng. Lit.;" Mrs. S. 
 C. Hall ; Allan Cunningham's " Biog. and 
 Crit. Hist, of Lit. of Last Eifty Years." 
 
 '• Mary Both am Howitt, bom at Uttoxeter, 
 Staffordshire, about 1804, an English au- 
 thoress, wife of the above, came of a family 
 of Quakers, and commenced her literary 
 career, shortly after her marriage, with a 
 volume of poems, called ' The Forest Minstrel.' 
 After having published several volumes of 
 gi-aceful poetry, and a number of books for 
 the young, she, on visiting Germany with her 
 husband, proceeded to acquire the Swedish 
 and Danish languages, with a view of 
 translating the novels of Miss Bremer and 
 the tales of Hans C. Andersen. The trans- 
 lations of Miss Bremer's works were pub- 
 lished between 1844 and 1852 ; and the 
 ' Improvisatore,' a reproduction in English of 
 Andersen's novel, in 1857. Besides being an 
 industrious contributor to the periodicals, she 
 wrote a volume of ' Ballads, and other Poems ; ' 
 ' Sketches of Natural History in Verse ; ' 
 two novels, called ' The Heir of Wast-Way- 
 laud,' and ' Wood Leighton ; ' and translated 
 'Ennemoser's History of Magic' for Bohn's 
 ' Scientific Library.' The valuable work en- 
 titled ' Literature and Romance of Northern 
 Europe,' published as the joint production of 
 herself and husband, is almost entirely her 
 work." — ^Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 " There can be no surer proof of the 
 genuineness of the poetical power possessed 
 by Mary Howitt, than the fact that her fine 
 pieces ever recur again and again to the 
 memories of all imaginative readers. This 
 can be only owing to their feminine tender- 
 ness, their earnest tone, their gentle music, 
 and their simple but genuine nature." — 
 Moir's " Sketches of Poet Lit. of the Past 
 Half Cent." 
 
 Christopher North, in his " Noctes Am- 
 Urosiana;," says : — " Her language is chaste 
 and simple, her feeling tender and pure, and 
 
 REV. THOMAS DALE, M.A. 
 
 Rev. Thomas Dale, M.A., Canon of St. Paul's 
 Cathedral and late Vicar of St. Pancras, poet 
 and popular author, was bom at Pentonville, 
 London, August, 1797. His mother died 
 when he was but three years old; and his 
 father, having married again, went to the 
 West Indies to edit a public journal there, 
 where he also died, leaving his only son. A 
 presentation to Christ's Hospital was 
 eventually obtained for him, where, under 
 the late Dr. TroUope, by whom he was most 
 kindly treated, he received a superior classical 
 education. In 1817 he entered the University 
 of Cambridge, having previously published his 
 " Widow of Nain," which was speedily fol- 
 lowed by the " Outlaw of Taurus," and " Trad 
 and Adah, a Tale of the Flood," his first work 
 passing through six editions within a very 
 short period. He was ordained, in 1823, first 
 curate of St. Michael's, Cornhill, London; 
 and afterwards, in 1835, by the special favour 
 of Sir Robert Peel, appointed to be Vicar of 
 St. Bride's. In 1843, through the same in- 
 fluence, he became a Canon of St. Paul's ; 
 and, in 1846, Vicar of St. Pancras. He had 
 previously held the Lectureship of St. Mar- 
 garet, Lothbury ; but resigned it in 1849. 
 With the exception of his poems, of which a 
 collected edition was published in 1836, his 
 edition of Cowper, and his translation of 
 Sophocles, his later writings are exclusively 
 religious, consisting chiefly of Sermons — 
 "The Domestic Liturgy and Family Chap- 
 lain," " The Sabbath Companion," &c. They 
 display a fine tone of thought, solid erudition, 
 and the purest taste. 
 
 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 I Winthrop Mackworth Praed, bom 1802, 
 ! died 1839, son of Mr. Sergeant Praed, entered 
 i the House of Commons, and became Secretary 
 I of the Board of Control. His early life and 
 [ writings gave promise of future eminence. 
 
 55 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 While at Eton, he started " The Etonian," 
 and was one of the chief contributors to 
 " Knight's Quarterly Magazine." His poems, 
 which have been recently published in a 
 collected form, are some of the most remark- 
 able which have appeared in modem times. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 Coventry Patmore, an English poet, was 
 bom at Woodford, in Essex, 23rd July, 
 1823. His father was in his day a well-known 
 literary celebrity, and in 1846 Mr. Coventry 
 Patmore became an Assistant Librarian to 
 the British Museum, which office he continues 
 to hold. He has published three volumes, of 
 which the second, the " Angel in the House," 
 is a poem of undoubted merit ; but the third, 
 "Faithful for ever," has been severely 
 criticised. He is understood to be a con- 
 tributor to the " Edinburgh Review." 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. ' 
 
 Alexander Smith, a poet, was born on 31st 
 of December, 1830, at Kilmarnock, Ayrshire. 
 His early intention was to qualify himseK for 
 the ministry, but circumstances of various 
 kinds prevented him from entering on the 
 preparatory studies. While following the 
 business of a lace-pattern designer in Glas- 
 gow, he began to write verses, and sent some 
 extracts from his first sustained poem to the 
 Rev. George GilfiUan, of Dundee, then under- 
 stood to be one of the writers for the " Critic," 
 who inserted them in that journal. His " Life 
 Drama" was afterwards published, and, 
 although severely criticised, was admitted on 
 all hands to contain lines of the highest 
 poetical merit. In 1854 Mr. Smith was 
 elected to the secretaryship of the Edinburgh 
 University. His "Life Drama" and "City 
 Poems " are his principal works. 
 
 THE VERY REV. HENRY ALFORD, D.D. 
 
 The Very Rev. Henry Alford, D.D., Dean 
 of Canterbury, a poet and Biblical critic, was 
 bom in London in 1810, and educated at 
 Ilminster Grammar School, and Trinity 
 College, Cambridge. He has published 
 several poetic productions, which have been 
 well ^ received, has held several University 
 appointments, and various preferments 
 in the Church. His editions of the Greek 
 New Testament have been carefully prepared. 
 He is also the author of several papers, con- 
 tributed to serials and other periodical pub- 
 lications, and his work entitled " The Poets 
 of Greece " exhibits an intimate and correct 
 knowledge of the language. He has pubHshed 
 
 many volumes of sermons, and critical 
 memoirs on matters pertaining to ancient 
 history. Owing to his eminent talents as 
 a preacher, he was appointed, by Lord 
 Palmerston, Dean of Canterbury, in 1857. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. 
 
 Archbishop Trench, a scholar, poet, and 
 divine, was bom at Dublin in September, 
 1807, and graduated at Cambridge in 1829, 
 after which he spent some years in travelling 
 abroad. While holding the incumbency of 
 Cardridge, Hants, he published, in 1838, two 
 volumes of poems. These, having been well 
 received by the public, were followed by 
 " Genoveva," " Elegiac Poems," which also 
 elicited favourable notices. In 1841 he be- 
 came Curate to the present Bishop of Oxford, 
 at Alverstoke, and afterwards Rector of 
 Itchinstoke. He was also Hulscan Lecturer 
 at Cambridge, and in 1847 he was appointed 
 to the important office of Theological Professor 
 in King's College, London. On the death of 
 Dr. Buckland, which caused a vacancy in the 
 Deanery of Westminster, he was nominated to 
 that office, since which he has been preferred 
 to the Archbishopric of Dublin. His sermons 
 are considered eloquent and impressive. 
 Those preached at the special services for the 
 working classes, delivered at Westminster 
 Abbey, have been attended by very crowded 
 congregations. He has published several 
 works on theological subjects ; among these 
 are " Notes on the Parables," " Notes on the 
 Miracles," " The Sermon on the Mount," &c. ; 
 and his lectures on the " English Language " 
 and on the "Study of Words" have had a 
 large circulation. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 Gerald Massey, an EngKsh poet, was born 
 May, 1828, near Tring, in Herts. His parents 
 were so steeped in poverty that the children 
 received scarcely any education. When only 
 eight years old, Gerald was sent to work in a 
 neighbouring silk mill; but the mill being 
 burned down, the boy took to straw plaiting. 
 He had learned to read at a penny school ; 
 and, when fifteen, went up to London as an 
 errand boy, and spent all his spare time in 
 reading and writing. When out of a situa- 
 tion, he has gone without a meal to purchase 
 a book. His first appearance in print was in 
 a provincial paper; he published a small 
 collection of his verses in his native town, 
 and during the political excitement of 1848 
 edited a cheap paper called the " Spirit of 
 Freedom." His writing was so bold and 
 vigorous, that his political manifestations cost 
 him five situations in eleven months. He was 
 a warm advocate of the co-operative system, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 and thus was introduced to the Kev. Charles 
 Kingsley and others who were promoting that 
 movement. Still continuing to write, his 
 name began to be known ; and in 1853 
 " Christabel " took the public completely by 
 surprise. Five editions of the work were 
 published in two years ; his pecuniary circum- 
 stances improved in proportion to his fame 
 as a poet ; and in 1855 he removed to Edin- 
 burgh, where in 1856 he issued " Craigcrook 
 Castle," in his own estimation his best work. 
 A collected edition of his poems has lately been 
 published. 
 
 CHAELES MACKAY. 
 
 Charles Mackay, a poet and journalist, 
 •was born at Perth, in 1814, He is a de- 
 scendant of an honourable Highland family, 
 the Mackays of Strathnever. Having received 
 the rudiments of his education in London, he 
 was in 1827 sent to a school at Brussels, and 
 ho remained, in Belgium and Germany for 
 some years. On his return to this country he 
 abandoned his intention of entering the East 
 India Service, for which he had been originally 
 intended by his uncle, General Mackay, and 
 devoted himself to literature. In 1835, after 
 the publication of a small volume of poems 
 which attracted the notice of Mr. John Black, 
 he became connected with the " Morning 
 Chronicle." While employed in his arduous 
 studies as sub-editor of a daily paper, Mr. 
 Mackay pubhshed two poetical works, " The 
 Hope of the World," and " The Salamandrine," 
 a thu'd edition of which, illustrated by Gilbert, 
 appeared in 1856 ; within the same period he 
 published three works in prose, viz., " The 
 Thames and its Tributaries," "Popular 
 Delusions," and " Longbeard, Lord of Lon- 
 don, a Eomance." In 1844 he removed from 
 London to Glasgow, to succeed the late Mr. 
 Weir as editor of the "Argus," then a lead- 
 ing liberal journal in the West of Scotland. 
 During his residence in Scotland he produced 
 " The Legends of the Isles, and other Poems," 
 " A Series of Twelve Letters to Lord Morpeth 
 on the Education of the People," and a 
 volume entitled " The Scenery and Poetry of 
 the English Lakes : a Summer Ramble." He 
 also published "Voices from the Crowd," 
 which contained the spirit-stirring song 
 " The Good Time Coming." It was while Mr. 
 Mackay remained in Scotland that he received 
 from the University of Glasgow the honorary 
 degree of LL.D. In 1847 he returned to the 
 metropolis, where he succeeded to the political 
 editorship of the " Illustrated London News." 
 He published, in 1848, his " Town Lyrics ; " 
 in 1850, " Egeria, or the Spirit of Nature ; and 
 other Poems," to which was prefixed " An 
 Inquiry into the alleged Anti-poetical 
 Tendencies of the present Age." In 1851 he 
 edited for the Percy Society, with Notes and 
 an Introduction, an important antiquarian 
 
 work, entitled " A Collection of Songs and 
 Ballads relative to the London 'Prentices and 
 Trades, and to the Affairs of London 
 generally, during the Fourteenth, Fifteenth, 
 and Sixteenth Centuries." He also edited 
 "A Book of English Songs," and "A Book 
 of Scottish Songs, with Notes andL Observa- 
 tions." In 1856 Dr. Mackay published the 
 " Lump of Gold," and in the following year 
 " Under Green Leaves," two poetical works 
 abounding with verses of the utmost melody, 
 rich with the choicest English epithets and 
 phrases. After the publication of these works 
 Dr. Mackay made a tour to America, where 
 he delivered lectures upon " Poetry and Song," 
 receiving everywhere a cordial and enthusiastic 
 reception; his poetry and songs, owing per- 
 haps to the higher standard of education in 
 the Northern States, being well known and 
 appreciated among our Transatlantic cousins. 
 After his return to this country he published 
 his " Life and Liberty in America," which 
 is characterized in the Athencexim as a bright, 
 fresh, and hopeful book ; worthy of an 
 author whose songs are oftenest heard on 
 the Atlantic. He also edited a Christmas 
 book, entitled "The Home Affections as 
 portrayed by the Poets." Dr. Mackay lately 
 published a narrative poem, entitled " A 
 Man's Heart," and has just edited "A 
 Collection of the Jacobite Ballads of Scot- 
 land." He has been actively engaged in 
 journalism, and was connected with the 
 "London Review." Like all the great song- 
 writers, Dr. Mackay is a ipusician, and the 
 composer of all the melodies published mth 
 many of his songs. He possesses in a high 
 degree the rare faculty of a true lyric poet, 
 that of working his words and music up into 
 harmony and unison with the feelings they 
 express. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 " He was the eldest son of Dr. Arnold, the 
 well-known and highly-esteemed Master of 
 Rugby School, and was born at Laleham, 
 1822. He won the Newdegate prize for 
 English verse at Oxford in 1843, and became 
 a fellow of Oriel College in 1845. He was 
 elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1857. 
 He has taken an active part in the promotion 
 of middle-class education, and has contributed 
 largely to the periodical literature of the day." 
 — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 WILLIAM COX BENNETT. 
 " He was bom at Greenwich in 1820, and, 
 as a modem English song- writer, his poems of 
 childhood and other home subjects have 
 deservedly attained celebrity. His first volume 
 of ' Poems' was published 1847 ; ' War So ngs, 
 1857 ; ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance and 
 other Poems,' 1858; 'Songs by a Song- 
 
 55* 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh period. 
 
 writer,' and 'Baby May and other Poems 
 on Infants,' both in 1859. His verses have 
 a large number of readers as well in America 
 as in England, and he is now a contributor to 
 the Weekly Dispatch newspaper." — Beeton's 
 "Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 EOBERT BROWNING. 
 
 '• Robert Browning is one of the most dis- 
 tinguished of modern English poets. He was 
 born near London in 1812, In 1836 he 
 published ' Paracelsus,' which was favourably 
 received; and in 1837 produced 'Strafford,' a 
 tragedy, in which Mr. Macready, the actor, 
 personated the hero. His other works are 
 ' Sordello,' ' Pippa Passes,' ' The Blot in the 
 Scutcheon,' ' King Victor and King Charles,' 
 'Dramatic Lyrics,' 'Return of the Druses,' 
 * Colombe'sBirth-dny,' 'Dramatic Romances,' 
 &c. Of all his writings, perhaps his ' Pippa 
 Passes ' and ' The Blot in the Scutcheon ' 
 are the best. His latest work, ' The Ring 
 and the Book,' appeared in 1868." — Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog.' 
 
 Criticising the " Ring and the Book," the 
 Atlienceitm, in one of its numbers published in 
 1869, on the publication of the last volume, 
 thus spoke of it : — 
 
 "At last, the ojw.s magnum of our generation 
 lies before the world — the ' ring is rounded ' ; 
 and we are left in doubt which to admire 
 most, the supremely precious gold of the 
 material or the wondrous beauty of the work- 
 manship. The fascination of the work is still 
 so strong upon us, our eyes are still so spell- 
 bound by the immortal features of Pompilia 
 (which shine through the troubled mists of 
 the story with almost insufferable beauty), 
 that we feel it difficult to write calmly and 
 without exaggeration ; yet we must record at 
 one 6 our conviction, not merely that ' The 
 Ring and the Book ' is beyond all parallel the 
 supremest poetical achievement of our time, 
 but that it is the most precious and X)rofound 
 spiritual treasure that England has produced 
 since the days of Shakspeare. Its intellec- 
 tual Greatness is as nothing compared with 
 tts transcendent spiritual teaching. Day 
 after day it grows into the soul of the reader, 
 until all the outlines of thought are brightened 
 and every mystery of the world becomes more 
 and more softened into human emotion. Once 
 and for ever must critics dismiss the old stale 
 charge that Browning is a mere intellectual 
 giant, difficult of comprehension, hard of as- 
 similation. This great book is difficult of 
 comprehension, is hard of assimilation ; not 
 because it is obscure — every fibre of the 
 thought is clear as day ; not because it is in- 
 tellectual, — and it is intellectual in the highest 
 sense, — ^but because the capacity to compre- 
 hend such a book must be spiritual ; because, 
 although a child's brain might grasp the 
 general features of the picture, only a purified 
 
 nature could absorb and feel its profoundest 
 meanings. The man who tosses it aside be- 
 cause it is ' difficult ' is simply adopting a 
 subterfuge to hide his moral littleness, not 
 his mental incapacity. It would be unsaTe to 
 predict anything concerning a production so 
 many-sided ; but we quite believe that its true 
 public lies outside the literary circle, that men 
 of inferior capacity will grow by the aid of it, 
 and that feeble women, once fairly initiated 
 into the mystery, will cling to it as a succour 
 passing all succour save that which is purely 
 religious. Is it not here that we find the 
 supremacy of Shakspeare' s greatness? Shaks- 
 peare, so far as we liave been able to observe, 
 places the basis of his strange power on his 
 appeal to the draff of humanity. He is the 
 delight of men and women by no means 
 brilliant, by no means subtle ; while he holds 
 with equal sway the sympathies of the most 
 endowed. A small intellect may reach to the 
 heart of Shakspearean power ; not so a small 
 nature. The key to the mystery is spiritual. 
 Since Shakspeare we have had m^ny poets — 
 poets, we mean, offering a distinct addition 
 to the fabric of human thought and language. 
 We have had Milton, with his stately and 
 crystal speech, his special disposition to 
 spiritualize polemics, his profound and silent 
 contemplation of heavenly processions. We 
 have had Dryden, with his nervous filter- 
 ings of English diction ; and we have had the 
 so-called Puritan singers, with their sweetly 
 English fancies touched with formal charitj-, 
 like wild flowers sprinkled with holy water. 
 In latter days, we have been wealthy indeed. 
 Wordsworth has consecrated Nature, given 
 the hills a new silence, shown in simple lines 
 the solemnity of deep woods and the sweet- 
 ness of running brooks. Keats and Shelley 
 caught up the solemn consecration, and 
 uttered it with a human passion and an 
 ecstatic emotion that were themselves a 
 revelation. Byron has made his Epimethean 
 and somewhat discordant moan. Numberless 
 minor men, moreover, have brightened old 
 outlines of thought and made clear what 
 before was dim with the mystery of the 
 original prophet. In our own time, Carlyle 
 — a poet in his savage way — has driven some 
 new and splendid truths (and as many errors) 
 into the heart of the people. But it is doubt- 
 ful, very doubtful, if any of the writers we 
 have named — still less any of the writers we 
 have not named — stands on so distinct and 
 perfect a ground of vantage as to be al- 
 together safe as a human guide and helper. 
 The student of Wordsworth, for example, is 
 in danger of being hopelessly narrowed and 
 dwarfed, unless he turns elsewhere for 
 qualities quite un-Wordsworthian ; and the 
 same is true of the students of Milton and of 
 Shelley. Of Shakspeare alone (but perhaps, 
 to a certain extent, of Burns) would it be 
 safe to say, 'Communion with Ms soul ia 
 ample in itself ; his thought must freshen, can 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 never cramp, is ever many-sided and full of 
 the free air of the world.' This, then, is 
 supremely sigrnificant, that Shakspeare — un- 
 like the Greek dramatists, unlike the Biblical 
 poets, unlike all English singers save Chaucer 
 only — had no special teaching whatever He 
 was too human for special teaching. He 
 touched all the chords of human life ; and life, 
 so far from containing any universal lesson, 
 is only a special teaching for each individual 
 — a sibylline riddle, by which each man may 
 educate himself after his own fashion." 
 
 JOHN KEBLE, M.A. 
 
 " JohnKeble, M.A., a highly popular writer 
 of sacred poetry, for many years vicar of 
 Hursley, in Hampshire. Soon after taking 
 his B.A. degree he was chosen fellow of Oriel 
 College, Oxford ; and from 1831 to 1841 was 
 professor of poetry at his university. His 
 chief works are the ' Christian Year,' of which 
 thousands of copies have been sold, and 
 * Lyra Innocentiura.' Born 1792 ; died 1856." 
 — Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 HON. CAEOLINE ELIZABETH SAEAH 
 NORTON. 
 
 " This modern English poetess was one of 
 the three daughters of Thomas Sheridan, son 
 of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
 She was bom in 1808. Her father dying 
 while she was still very young, her care 
 devolved upon her mother, who gave her a 
 high education. At the age of nineteen she 
 became the wife of the Hon. George Chappie 
 Norton, the barrister and police-magistrate, a 
 union which proved an unhappy one. In 
 1829 she commenced her career of authorship 
 by publishing anonymously the ' Sorrows of 
 Rosalie,' a tale, and other poems. In the 
 following year she achieved the greatest 
 success as a poetess, with the production of 
 her ' Undying One,' and other poems, which 
 the Quarterly Review declared to be worthy 
 of Lord Byron. The ' ChHd of the Islands,'' 
 
 • Aunt Carry's Ballads for Children,' and 
 
 * Stuart of Dunleath,' a novel, were her sub- 
 sequent works. In 1854 her warm sympathies 
 with the social ^vrongs of her sex found ex- 
 pression in a work entitled ' English Laws for 
 Women in the 19th Century.' This work was 
 privately printed ; but a very large circulation 
 was obtained for a later effort of the same 
 character, wliich was named ' A Letter to the 
 Queen on Lord Chancellor Cran worth's Mar- 
 riage and Divorce Bill.' In 1862 she published 
 a poem entitled ' The Lady of Garaye,' which 
 met with considerable public favour." — 
 Beeton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 "Alexander Smith, a modern Scotch poet, 
 Avas born in 1830, and died Jan. 5, 1867. He was 
 intended for the ministry ; but circumstances 
 having conspired to prevent his entering upon 
 the necessary course of study, he was put to 
 the business of a lace-designer in~^Gla"sgow ; 
 while following which, he devoted his leisure 
 to the composition of ver.ses. Having for- 
 warded some extracts from his ' Life Drama ' 
 to the Rev. George Gilfillan, of Dundee, that 
 gentleman was so highly pleased with the 
 youthful poet's effusions as to obtain a place 
 for them in the columns of the Critic. Ho 
 subsequently produced ' City Poems ' and 
 'Edwin of Deira," and three volumes of prose, 
 entitled ' Dreamthorp,' ' A Summer in Skye,' 
 and 'Alfred Hagart's Household'; he also 
 edited an edition of the works of Burns. In 
 1854 he was appointed secretary to the Edin- 
 burgh University.' — Beeton's "Diet. Univ. 
 Biog." 
 
 RICHARD CHENEYIX TRENCH, D.D. 
 
 " The present Archbishop of Dublin is best 
 known as a modern English philologer. He 
 was born in 1807, and after completing his 
 studies at the University of Cambridge, entered 
 into orders, and became a country curate. 
 His earliest efforts in literature were as a 
 poet, in imitation of the chaste style of 
 Wordsworth. After obtaining some profer- 
 ment in the Church, ha became in 1846 a 
 select preacher at the University of Cambridge, 
 and in 1856, alter the death of Dr. Buckland, 
 was appointed Dean of Westminster. In 
 1864 he succeeded Dr. Whately as Archbishop 
 of Dublin. His most important works were, 
 ' Notes on the Miracles,' ' Proverbs and their 
 Lessons,' ' Synonyms of the New Testament,' 
 and ' The Study of Words.' " — Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 ERNEST JONES. 
 
 " Ernest Jones was educated in Germany, 
 and having kept his terms as a law-student of 
 the Middle Temple, was called to the bar in 
 1844. In the following year he joined the 
 Chartist movement, and soon became one of 
 the most conspicuous and active leaders of the 
 party; remaining so until Chartism expired 
 in 1858. During this period he edited the 
 People's Paper and other Chartist periodicals. 
 In 1848 he was tried for making a seditious 
 speech, and condemned to two years' im- 
 prisonment. He stood for Halifax in 1847, 
 and Nottingham in 1853 and 1857, without 
 success. In January, 1869, when it was sup- 
 posed that Mr. Hugh Birley would lose his 
 seat for Manchester, through being a govern- 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 ment contractor at the time of his election, 
 Mr. Jones was chosen by ballot to fill the 
 expected vacancy against Mr. Milner Gibson, 
 but died a few days after. He was an honest 
 politician, for he refused a large fortune rather 
 than give up his principles. He wrote the 
 ' Eevolt of Hindostan,' ' The Battle Day,' 
 and other poems. He was born about 1820." 
 —Beaton's " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 EEV. CHAELES KINGSLEY. 
 
 " The Eev. Charles Kingsley, a distinguished 
 modern novelist and essayist. At fourteen 
 years of age he became the pupil of the Eev. 
 Derwent Coleridge, son of the poet : he after- 
 wards went to Cambridge University, where 
 he distinguished himself both in classics and 
 mathematics. He was at first intended for 
 the law, but the church was afterwards 
 chosen. In 1842 he was appointed curate of 
 Eversley, in Hampshire ; two years later he 
 succeeded to the same living. He married, 
 about the same time, a daughter of Mr. 
 Grenfell, who represented Truro and. Great 
 Marlow in Parliament for many years, and 
 whose other daughter became the wife of 
 the eminent historian Mr. J. A. Froude. His 
 first acknowledged contributions to literature 
 were a volume of ' Village Sermons,* and 
 ' The Saint's Tragedy,' a drama in verse, pub- 
 lished in 1848. ' Alton Locke, Tailor and 
 Poet,' was his third essay, and, from its 
 first appearance, it commanded the greatest 
 attention. The bold and earnest views of its 
 author — ' the Chartist clergyman,' as he was 
 called — sank deeply into the public mind. This 
 novel has been several times reprinted ; its 
 treatment of social and political questions- 
 remaining as fresh and valuable as when the 
 book first came before the pubHc. A second 
 novel, — ' Yeast, a Problem,' was first pub- 
 lished in ' Eraser's Magazine,' and afterwards 
 reprinted in 1851 : this is a philosophical 
 rather than a political novel. His subsequent 
 works were ' Hypatia ; or, New Foes with an 
 old Face,' a beavttiful descriptive fiction, 
 illustrating the times of the early Christian 
 church in the East ; ' Westward Ho ! or, the 
 Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh 
 
 in the Eeign of Queen Elizabeth ! ' and ' Two 
 Years Ago.' These novels, by their great 
 excellence, have placed their author among the 
 foremost of recent writers. Mr. Kingsley 
 also produced a volume for juvenile reading, 
 called ' The Heroes,' in which the deeds of 
 some great chiefs of the Grecian mythology 
 are narrated in a captivating manner. 
 Among the more important of his religious 
 writings may be enumerated, ' The Message 
 of the Church to Labouring Men,' * Sermons 
 on National Subjects, preached in a Village 
 Church,' and ' Sermons for the Times ; ' all 
 of these being inspired by a pure, generous, 
 and enlightened Christian feeling. He ex- 
 pounded mental philosophy in his ' Phaeton ; 
 or, Loose Thoughts for Loose Thinkers,' and 
 hia ' Alexandria and her Schools ; ' while, for 
 natural philosophy and the observation of 
 nature, he contributed his ' Glaucus ; or, the 
 Wonders of the Shore.' He likewise wrote 
 for Fraser's Magazine, the North British 
 Review, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica. 
 His last works of importance are ' The 
 Eoman and the Teuton,' lectures delivered at 
 Cambridge in 1864 ; and a novel entitled 
 ' Heraward the Wake ; or, the Last of the 
 English.' A bold, independent, and earnest 
 thinker, Mr. Kingsley, in every one of his 
 popular and excellent work. , contributed to 
 elevating the tone of modern society, and to 
 giving it a more enlarged and refined appreci- 
 ation of the good, beautiful, and true, whether 
 in art or nature. He succeeded Sir James 
 Stephen as professor of modern history in the 
 University of Cambridge, in 1859. Born at 
 Holne Vicarage, Devonshire, 1819." — Beeton's 
 " Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
 HENEY KINGSLEY. 
 
 " Henry Kingsley, brother of the preceding', 
 was educated at King's College, London, and 
 at Oxford. In 1852 he went to Australia, 
 from which he returned in 1858. He contri- 
 buted to 'Fraser's' and ' Macmillan's' 
 magazines ; ' Eavenshoe,' ' Geojffiy Hamlyn,' 
 and ' The Hillyars and the Burtons,' being the 
 best known of his productions. Bom 1830."— 
 Beeton's *' Diet. Univ. Biog." 
 
SEVENTH PEEIOD. 
 
 From 1780 to 1866. 
 
 I077.-~THE CHAEACTER OF CHATHAM. 
 
 A. Patriots, alas ! tlie few that have been 
 found 
 
 Where most they flourish, upon English 
 
 ground, 
 The country's need have scantily supplied ; 
 And the last left the scene when Chatham 
 
 died. 
 
 B. Not so ; the virtue still adorns our age, 
 Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
 In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
 Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ; 
 She clothed him with authority and awe, 
 Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave 
 
 law. 
 His speech, his form, his action full of grace, 
 And all his country beaming in his face, 
 He stood as some inimitable hand 
 Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 
 No sycophant or slave that dared oppose 
 Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
 And every venal stickler for the yoke, 
 Felt himself crush' d at the first word he 
 
 spoke. 
 
 Coicper.-^Born 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 1078.— THE GREENLAND 
 MISSIONARIES. 
 
 That sound bespeaks salvation on her way, 
 
 The trumpet of a life-restoiing day ; 
 
 'Tis heard where England's eastern glory 
 
 shines, 
 And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines. 
 And still it spreads. See Germany send forth 
 Her sons to pour it on the farthest north j 
 Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy 
 The rage and rigour of a polar sky. 
 And plant successfidly sweet Sharon's rose 
 On icy plains and in eternal snows. 
 
 Oh bless'd within the enclosure of your 
 
 rocks. 
 Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating 
 
 flocks ; 
 No fertilizing streams your fields divide, 
 That show reversed the villas on their side : 
 
 No groves have ye; no cheerful sound of 
 
 bird. 
 Or voice of turtle in your land is heard ; 
 Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
 Of those that walk at evening where ye 
 
 dwell; 
 But Winter, arm'd with terrors here un- 
 known, 
 Sits absolute on his unshaken throne. 
 Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste. 
 And bids the mountains he has built stand 
 
 fast ; 
 Beckons the legions of his storms away 
 From happier scenes to make your lands a 
 
 prey; 
 Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, 
 And scorns to share it with the distant sun. 
 Yet Truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ! 
 And Peace, the genuine offspring of her smile ; 
 The pride of letter' d ignorance, that binds 
 In chains of error our accomplish'd minds. 
 That decks with all the splendour of the true, 
 A false religion, is unknown to you. 
 Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight 
 The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; 
 Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 
 Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature 
 
 here; 
 But brighter beams than his who fires the 
 
 Have risen at length on your admiring eyes. 
 That shoot into your darkest caves the day 
 From which our nicer optics turn away. 
 
 CoiiTer.—Bo'nv 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 1079.— RURAL SOUNDS. 
 
 Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds. 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds 
 That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading 
 
 wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
 The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
 And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, 
 Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast. 
 And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 
 
CowpEr..] 
 
 FEOM "CONVERSATION." 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Nor loss composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they 
 
 fall 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds. 
 But animated nature sweeter still, 
 To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and 
 
 one 
 The livelong night; nor these alone whoso 
 
 notes 
 Nice-finger' d art must emulate in vain, 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sub- 
 lime 
 In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl 
 That hails the rising jnoon, have charms for 
 
 me. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever 
 
 reigns, 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 Coivper.—Born 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 loSo.— FROM " CONVERSATION." 
 
 The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose. 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
 As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, 
 Touch'd with a magnet, had attracted his. 
 His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large. 
 Proves after all a wind gun's airy charge — 
 An extract of his diary — no more — 
 A tasteless journal of the day before. 
 He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, 
 Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stept home 
 
 again ; 
 Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk 
 With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk ; 
 I interrupt him with a sudden bow. 
 Adieu, dear sir, lest you should lose it now. 
 A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 
 Quite as absurd, though not so light as he : 
 A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
 An oracle within an empty cask, 
 The solemn fop, significant and budge ; 
 A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge ; 
 He says but little, and that little said, 
 Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 
 His \nt invites you by his looks to come, 
 But when you knock, it never is at home : 
 'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage. 
 Some handsome present, as your hopes pre- 
 sage; 
 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 
 An absent friend's fidelity of love; 
 
 But when unpack' d, your disappointment 
 
 groans 
 To find it stuff' d with brickbats, earth, and 
 stones. 
 Some men employ their health — an ugly 
 trick — 
 In making known how oft they have been 
 
 sick, 
 And give us in recitals of disease 
 A doctor's trouble, but without the fees : 
 Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 
 How an emetic or cathartic sped ; 
 Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot ; 
 Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on the 
 
 spot. 
 Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
 Victorious scem'd, and now the doctor's skill ; 
 And now — alas ! for unforeseen mishaps ! 
 They put on a damp nightcap, and relapse ; 
 They thought they must have died, they were 
 
 so bad. 
 Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 You speak with life, in hopes to entertain^ 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
 You fall at once into a lower key. 
 That's worse, the drone-pipe of a humble bee. 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light ; 
 You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis 
 
 night. 
 He shakes with cold — you stir the fire, and 
 
 strive 
 To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; 
 With sole — that's just the sort he would not 
 
 wish. 
 He takes what he at first profess'd to loathe, 
 And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
 Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 Your hope to please him vain on every plan. 
 Himself should work that wonder, if he can. 
 Alas ! his efforts double hiS distress. 
 He likes yours little and his own still less ; 
 Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
 His only pleasure is to be displeased. 
 
 I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
 Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, 
 And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
 Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. 
 Our sensibilities are so acute, 
 The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
 We sometimes think we could a speech pro- 
 duce 
 Much to the purpose, if our tongues were 
 
 loose ; 
 But being tried, it dies upon the lip. 
 Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip ; 
 Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, 
 Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
 
 Coicper.—Born 1731, Died 18Q0. 
 
.From 1780 to 18G6. 
 
 ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. 
 
 [COWPEK 
 
 1 08 1. —ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS 
 MOTHER'S PICTURE. 
 
 Oh that those lips had Language ! Life has 
 
 pass'd 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I 
 
 poe, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 Voice only fails, else, how distinct they saj^ 
 " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 
 
 away ! " 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
 The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the 
 
 same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bidd'st me honour, with an artless song 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief ; • 
 Shall steep me in Elj'sian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 My mother ! when I learn' d that thou wast 
 dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursery Avindow, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? It was. Where thou art 
 
 gone, 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 ]\Iay I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting sound shall i)ass my lips no 
 
 more ! 
 Thy niaidens grieved themselves at my con- 
 cern, 
 Oft gave me promise of a quick return : 
 What ardently I Avish'd I long believed, 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived; 
 By disappointment every day beguiled. 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till, all ray stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I Itoarn'd at last submission to my lot. 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
 more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
 'Tis now become a history little known. 
 That once we call'd the pastoral house oiar 
 
 but the record fair, 
 of all thy kindness 
 
 Short-lived possession 
 That memory keeps 
 
 there, 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
 
 laid ; ^ 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit or confectionary plum ; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow' d 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 
 
 glow'd : 
 All this, and more endearing still than all. 
 Thy constant flow of love, that know no 
 
 fall. 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and 
 
 breaks. 
 That humour interposed too often makes ; 
 All this, still legible in memoi'y's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 Not scorn' d in heaven, though little noticed 
 
 here. 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
 
 hours. 
 When, playing with thy vcstm-e's tissued 
 
 flowers. 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I jirick'd them into i:)aper with a pin 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the 
 
 while. 
 Would softly speak, and stroke my head and 
 
 smile). 
 Could those few pleasant hours again appear. 
 Might' one wish bring them, would I wish them 
 
 here? 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
 But no — what here we call our life is such. 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
 That I should ill requites thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's 
 
 coast 
 (The storms all weather'd and the ocean 
 
 cross' d). 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven' d isle, 
 Where spices breathe and brighter seasons 
 
 smile. 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers 
 
 gay; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach' d 
 
 the shore 
 " Where tempests never beat nor billows 
 
 roar ; " 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 Always from port withheld, always dis- 
 tress' d — 
 
COWPER.] 
 
 TO MAKY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Me howKng winds drive devious, tempest- 
 toss' d, 
 Sails ript, seams opening' wide, and compass 
 
 lost ; ' 
 
 And day by day some current's thwarting 
 
 force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous 
 
 course. 
 But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and 
 
 he! 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 From loms enthroned, and rulers of the earth. 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
 The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
 And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again : 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were 
 
 mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 And, whUe the wings of fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe, me left. 
 Coivper.—Bom 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 1082.— TO MAEY (MRS. UNWIN). 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past 
 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; 
 
 Ah, would that this might be our last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow ; 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Mary : 
 
 Thy needles, once a Shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
 And all thy threads, with magic art, 
 Have wound themselves about this heart. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 
 Like language utter' d in a dream ; 
 
 Yet mo they charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
 What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet gently press' d, press gently mine. 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
 That now at every step thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
 How oft the sadness that I show. 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Cow:per.^Bor.i 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 1083.— ENGLISH LIBEETY. 
 
 We love 
 The king who loves the law, respects his 
 
 bounds, 
 And reigns content within them ; him wc 
 
 serve 
 Freely and with delight, who leaves us free : 
 But recollecting stiU that he is man. 
 We trust him not too far. King though ho 
 
 be, 
 And king in England too, he may be weak, 
 And vain enough to be ambitious still ; 
 May exercise amiss his proper powers, 
 Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : 
 Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours 
 To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, 
 But not to warp or change it. We are his 
 To serve him nobly in the common cause, 
 True to the death, but not to be his slaves. 
 Mark now the difference, ye that boast your 
 
 love 
 Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. 
 We love the man, the paltry pageant you ; 
 We the chief patron of the commonwealth, 
 You the regardless author of its woes ; 
 We for the sake of liberty, a king, 
 You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake; 
 Our love is principle, and has its root 
 In reason, is judicious, manly, free ; 
 Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, 
 And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 [COWPER. 
 
 Were kingsliip as true treasure as it seems, 
 Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, 
 I would not be a king to be beloved 
 Causeless, and daub'd with undisceming 
 
 praise, 
 Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 
 Not to the man who fills it as he ought. 
 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
 And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
 Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
 Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes 
 Their progress in the road of science, blinds 
 The eyesight of discovery, and begets 
 In those that suffer it a sordid mind, 
 Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
 To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
 Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou 
 
 art, 
 With all thy loss of empire, and though 
 
 squeezed 
 By public exigence, till annual food 
 Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 
 Thee I account still happy, and the chief 
 Among the nations, seeing thou art free. 
 My native nook of earth ! thy clime is rude, 
 Replete with vapours, and disposes much 
 All hearts to sadness, and none more than 
 
 mine : 
 Thine unadulterate manners are less soft 
 And .plausible than social life requires. 
 And thou hast need of discipline and art 
 To give thee what politer France receives 
 From nature's bounty — that humane address 
 And sM'eetness, ^\'ithout which no pleasure is 
 In converse, either starved by cold reserve. 
 Or flush' d with fierce dispute, a senseless 
 
 brawl. 
 Yet being free, I love thee : for the sake 
 Of that one feature can be well content. 
 Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou 
 
 art, 
 To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
 But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 
 Chains nowhere patiently ; and chains at 
 
 home, 
 Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 
 Then what were left of roughness in the grain 
 Of British natures, wanting its excuse 
 That it belongs to freemen, would disgust 
 And shock me. I should then with double 
 
 pain 
 Feel aU the rigour of thy fickle clime ; 
 And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, 
 For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys 
 
 bled, 
 I would at least bewail it under skies 
 Milder, among a people less austere ; 
 In scenes which, having never known me 
 
 free. 
 Would not reproach me for the loss I felt. 
 Do I forebode impossible events, 
 And tremble at vain dreams ? Heaven grant 
 
 I may ! 
 But the age of virtuous politics is past. 
 And we are deep in that of cold pretence. 
 
 Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
 And we too wise to trust them. He that 
 
 takes 
 Deep in his soft credulity the stamp 
 Design' d by loud declaimers on the part 
 Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust. 
 Incurs derision for his easy faith. 
 And lack of knowledge, and with -cause 
 
 enough : 
 For when was public virtue to be found 
 Where private was not ? Can he love the 
 
 whole 
 Wlio loves no part ? He be a nation's 
 
 friend. 
 Who is in truth the friend of no man there ? 
 Can he be strenuous in his country's cause 
 Who slights the charities, for whose dear 
 
 sake 
 That country, if at all, must be beloved ? 
 'Tis therefore sober and good men are 
 
 sad 
 For England's glory, seeing it wax pale 
 And sickly, while her champions . wear their 
 
 hearts 
 So loose to private duty, that no brain. 
 Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes. 
 Can dream them trusty to the general weal. 
 Such were they not of old, whose temper' d 
 
 blades 
 Dispersed the shackles of usurp' d control, 
 And hew'd them link from link ; then Albion's 
 
 sons 
 Were sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart 
 Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs ; 
 And, shining each in his domestic sphere. 
 Shone brighter still, once call'd to public 
 
 view. 
 'Tis therefore many, whose sequester' d lot 
 Forbids their interference, looking on, 
 Anticipate perforce some dire event ; 
 And, seeing the old castle of the state, 
 That promised once more firmness, so assail' d 
 That all its tempest-beaten turrets shako. 
 Stand motionless expectants of its fall. 
 All has its date below ; the fatal hour 
 Was register' d in heaven ere time began. 
 We turn to dust, and aU our mightiest works 
 Die too : the deep foundations that we lay. 
 Time ploughs them up, and not a trace 
 
 remains. 
 We build with what we deem eternal rock : 
 A distant age asks where the fabric stood : 
 And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain. 
 The undiscoverable secret sleeps. 
 
 Coivx>cr. — B mi 1731, Died 18oo. 
 
 1084.— THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 ,Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder 
 
 bridge. 
 That with its wearisome but needful length 
 Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the Moon 
 Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 
 
COWPER.] 
 
 THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
 
 With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and 
 
 frozen locks ; 
 News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-pack' d load 
 
 behind, 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
 And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass 
 
 on. 
 He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 
 Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. 
 Houses in ashes, and the faU of stocks. 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 With tears, that trickled down the writer's 
 
 cheeks 
 Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 
 Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent 
 
 swains, 
 C:: uymphs responsive, equally afifect 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 But O th' important budget ! usher' d in 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 What are its tidings ? have our troops 
 
 awaked ? 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 
 Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 
 Is India free ? and does she wear her jilumed 
 And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, 
 Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 
 The popular harangue, the tart reply. 
 The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit. 
 And the loud laugh — I long to know them 
 
 all; 
 I bum to set th' imprison' d Avranglers free, 
 And give them voice and utt'rance once 
 
 again. 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters 
 
 fast, 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. 
 Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed 
 And bored with elbow-points through both 
 
 his sides, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage. 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
 This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
 Wliich not even critics criticise ; that holds 
 Inquisitive Attention, while I read, 
 East bound in chains of silence, which the 
 
 fair, 
 Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to 
 
 break ; , 
 
 AVhat is it, but a map of busy life. 
 Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 
 Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
 That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
 
 The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
 
 He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his 
 
 heels, 
 Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 
 And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him 
 
 down. 
 And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
 Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 
 Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 
 The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 
 T' engross a moment's notice ; and yet begs. 
 Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts. 
 However trivial all that he conceives. 
 Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this 
 
 praise ; 
 The dearth of information and good sense. 
 That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 
 Cat'racts of declamation thunder here : 
 There forests of no meaning spread the page, 
 In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 
 While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
 With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
 The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
 But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 
 And lilies for the brows of faded age, 
 Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
 Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their 
 
 sweets, 
 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, 
 Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, 
 Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits. 
 And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 
 At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. 
 'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of 
 
 retreat. 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
 Of the great. Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
 To hear the roar she sends through all her 
 
 gates 
 At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
 Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjured ear. 
 Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
 To some secure and more than mortal height. 
 That lib'rates and exempts me from them all. 
 It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
 With all its generations ; I behold 
 The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
 Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the 
 
 pride 
 And av'ricc; that make man a wolf to man, 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 
 By which he speaks the language of his heart. 
 And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
 He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
 From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land ; 
 The manners, customs, policy, of all 
 Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
 He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime, 
 And spreads the honey of his deep research 
 At his return — a rich repast for me. 
 He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
 Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
 Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
 Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 
 
From 1780 to 18GG.] WINTER EVENING IN THE COUNTEY 
 
 [COWPER 
 
 Wliile fancy, like the finger of a clock, 
 Runs the great cu'cuit, and is still at home. 
 
 Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, 
 Thy scatter' d hair with sleet like ashes fiU'd, 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy 
 
 cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other 
 
 snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in 
 
 clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
 But urged by storms along its slipp'ry way, 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
 And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the 
 
 Sun 
 A pris'ner in the yet undawning east. 
 Short' ning his journey between morn and 
 
 noon, 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 Of social converse and instructive ease. 
 And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group, 
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
 Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
 I crovvn thee king of intimate delights. 
 Fire-side enjoyments, home-bora happiness, 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
 Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know. 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these 
 
 gates ; 
 No powder'd pert, proficient in the art 
 Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
 Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the 
 
 sound, 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
 But here the needle plies its busy task. 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, 
 AVrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
 Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and 
 
 sprigs, 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
 A wreath, that cannot fade, of flow'rs, that 
 
 blow 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 The poet's or historian's page by one 
 Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest ; 
 The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet 
 
 sounds 
 The touch from many a trembling chord 
 
 shakes out ; 
 And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, 
 And in the charming strife triumphant still ; 
 Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
 On female industry : the threaded steel 
 Flies s^\'iftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
 The vol'ame closed, the customary rites 
 Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal ; 
 Such as the mistress of the world once found 
 DeUcious, when her patriots of high note, 
 Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, 
 And under an old oak's domestic shade, 
 
 Enjoy'd, spare feast ! a radish and an egg. 
 Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, 
 Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 
 Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
 Nor do we madly, like an impious world. 
 Who deem religion frenzy, and the God, 
 That made them, an intruder on their joys, 
 Start at his awful name, or deem hi»^ praise 
 A jaiTing note. Themes of a graver tone, 
 Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
 While we retrace with Mem'ry's pointing 
 
 wand, 
 That calls the past to our exact reviev/. 
 The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken. 
 
 snare, 
 The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found 
 Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace re- 
 stored, 
 Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
 " O ev'nings worthy of the gods ! " exclaim'd 
 The Sabine bard. O ev'nings I reply. 
 More to be prized and coveted than yours. 
 As more illumined, amd Avith nobler truths. 
 That I, and mine, and those we love enjoy. 
 
 Coirpcr.—Born 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 1085.— WINTER EVENING IN THE 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 Come, Evening, once again, season of 
 
 peace ; 
 Return, sweet Evemng, and continue long ! 
 Methinks I sec thee in the streaky west. 
 With matron-step slow-moving, while the 
 
 night 
 Treads on thy sweeping train ! one hand 
 
 employ' d 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose 
 On bird and beast, the other charged for 
 
 man 
 With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 
 Not sumptuously adorn' d, nor needing aid. 
 Like homely-featured night, of clustering 
 
 gems ; 
 A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, 
 Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
 No less than her§ : not worn indeed on high 
 With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
 With modest grandeur in thy purple zone. 
 Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. 
 Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary 
 
 calm. 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift ; 
 And whether I devote thy gentle hours 
 To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
 To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels. 
 When they command whom man was born to 
 
 please, 
 I slight thee not, but make thee welcome 
 
 still. 
 
OOWPEB."] 
 
 WINTEE EVENING IN THE COUNTEY, [Seventh Pbkiod.— 
 
 Just when our drawing-rooms begin to 
 
 blaze 
 "With lights, by clear reflection multiplied 
 From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, 
 Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk 
 Whole without stooping, towering crest and 
 
 aU, 
 My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps 
 The glowing hearth may satisfy a while 
 With faint illumination, that uplifts 
 The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits 
 Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. 
 Not undelightful is an hour to me 
 • So spent in parlour twilight : such a gloom 
 Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, 
 The mind contemplative, with some new 
 
 theme 
 Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. 
 Laugh ye who boast your more mercurial 
 
 powers, 
 That never felt a stupor, know no pause, 
 Nor need one ; I am conscious, and confess 
 Fearless a soul that does not always think. 
 Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild. 
 Soothed with a waking dream of houses, 
 
 towers, 
 Trees, churches, and strange visages, ex- 
 press' d 
 In the red cinders, wliile with poring eye 
 I gazed, myself creating what I saw. 
 Nor less amused have I quiescent watch' d 
 The sooty films that play upon the bars 
 Pendulous, and foreboding in the view 
 Of superstition, j)rophesying still, 
 Though still deceived, some stranger's near 
 
 approach. 
 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 
 In indolent vacuity of thought, 
 And sleeps and is refresh' d. Meanwhile the 
 
 face 
 Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 
 Of deep deliberation, as the man 
 Were task'd to his fuU strength, absorb'd and 
 
 lost. 
 Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an liour 
 At evening, tiU at length the freezing blast, 
 That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons 
 
 home 
 The recollected powers ; and snapping short 
 The glassy threads with which the fancy 
 
 weaves 
 Her brittle toUs, restores me to mj'^self. 
 How calm is my recess ; and how the frost, 
 Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear 
 The silence and the warmth enjoy' d within ! 
 I saw the Avoods and fields at close of day, 
 A variegated show ; the meadows green, 
 Though faded ; and the lauds, where lately 
 
 waved 
 The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
 Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 
 I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
 With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
 By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
 His favourite herb ; while all the leafless 
 
 groves 
 
 j That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue. 
 Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
 Which even now, though silently perform' d, 
 And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
 Of universal nature undergoes. 
 Fast falls a fleecy shower : the downy flakes 
 Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse 
 Softly alighting upon all below. 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 Gladly the thickening mantle ; and the 
 
 green 
 And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling 
 
 blast. 
 Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 
 In such a world, so thorny, and where 
 
 none 
 Finds happiness unblighted ; or, if found, 
 Without some thistly sorrow at its side, 
 It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
 Against the law of love, to measure lots 
 With less distinguish' d than ourselves ; that 
 
 thus 
 We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 
 And sympathize with others suffering more. 
 Ill fares the traveller now, and he that 
 
 • stalks 
 In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. 
 The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
 By congregated loads adhering close 
 To the clogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish 
 
 pace 
 Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. 
 The toiling steeds expand the nostril \vide, 
 While every breath, by respiration strong 
 Forced downward, is consolidated soon 
 Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to 
 
 bear 
 The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 
 With haK-shut eyes, and pucker' d cheeks, and 
 
 teeth 
 Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
 One hand secures his hat, save when with 
 
 both 
 He brandishes his pliant length of whip, 
 Resoimding oft, and never heard in vain. 
 O happy — and in my account denied 
 That sensibility of pain with which 
 Refinement i« endued — thrice happy thou ! 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 
 The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair"d. 
 The learned finger never need explore 
 Thy vigorous pulse ; and the unhealthful 
 
 east, 
 That breathes the spleen, and searches every 
 
 bone 
 Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
 Thy days roll on exempt from household 
 
 care ; , 
 
 Thy waggon is thy wiie ; and the poor 
 
 beasts 
 That drag the dull companion to and fro. 
 Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy 
 
 care. 
 Ah, treat them kindly ; rude as thou ap- 
 
 pearest. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] OPENING OF THE SECOND BOOK OF " THE TASK." [Cowper. 
 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the 
 
 great 
 With needless hurry whirl' d from place to 
 
 place, 
 Humane as they would seem, not always 
 
 show. 
 Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, 
 Such claim compassion in a night like this, 
 And have a friend in every feeling heart. 
 Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day 
 
 long 
 They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
 ni clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
 The frugal housewife trembles while she 
 
 lights 
 Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing 
 
 clear. 
 But djdng soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
 The few small embers left she nurses well ; 
 And, while her infant race, with outspread 
 
 hands 
 And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the 
 
 Retires, content to quaj^e, so they be warm'd. 
 The man feels least, as, more inured than 
 
 she 
 To winter, and the current in his veins 
 More briskly moved by his severer toil : 
 Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. 
 The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw 
 Dangled along at the cold finger's end 
 Just when the day declined, and the brown 
 
 loaf 
 Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without 
 
 sauce 
 Of savoury cheese, or butter, costlier stiU. 
 Sleep seems their only refuge ; for, alas, 
 AVhere penury is felt, the thought is chain'd, 
 And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few ! 
 With all this thrift they thrive not. All the 
 
 care 
 Ingenious parsimony takes, but just 
 Saves the small inventory, bed and stool. 
 Skillet and old carved chest, from public 
 
 sale. 
 They live, and live without extorted alms 
 From grudging hands ; but other boast have 
 
 none 
 To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to 
 
 beg. 
 Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. 
 I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair. 
 For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far 
 A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd. 
 And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 
 The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs 
 Of knaves in office, partial in the work 
 Of distribution ; liberal of their aid 
 To clamorous importunity in rags, 
 But ofttimes deaf to supphants who would 
 
 blush 
 To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse, 
 Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth : 
 These ask with painful shyness, and, refused 
 Because deserving, silently retire ! 
 But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 
 
 Shall much befriend you. Time shall give 
 
 increase ; 
 And all your numerous progeny, well-train' d, 
 But helpless, in few years shall find their 
 
 hands, 
 And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not 
 
 want 
 What, conscious of your virtues,— we- can, 
 
 spare, 
 Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. 
 I mean the man who, when the distant poor 
 Need help, denies them nothing but his name. 
 
 Coivpe;\—Born 1731, Died 1800. 
 
 io86. 
 
 -OPENING OF THE SECOND BOOK 
 OF "THE TASK." 
 
 for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contignity of shade. 
 Where rumour of oppression and deceit. 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
 
 Might never reach me more. My ear is 
 
 pain'd, 
 My soul is sick, with every day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is 
 
 fiU'd. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
 It does not feel for man ; the nat'ral bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever' d as the flax. 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
 Not colour" d like his own; and having power 
 T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else. 
 Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 
 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 
 And worse than all, and most to be deplored 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his 
 
 sweat 
 With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding 
 
 heart 
 Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
 Then what is man ? And what man, seeing 
 • this, 
 
 And having human feelings, does not blush. 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 
 
 1 would not have a slave to till my ground, 
 To carry me, to fan me wliile I sleep. 
 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation prized above all price, 
 I had much rather be myseK the slave, 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 We have no slaves at home — Then why 
 
 abroad ? 
 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the 
 
 wave 
 
CowPER.] THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the 
 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their 
 
 wheels, 
 
 lung-s 
 
 W^ere never folk so glad ; 
 
 Receive onr air, that moment they are free ; 
 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 
 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 
 John Gilpin at lus horse's side 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 And xip he got, in haste to ride. 
 
 And let it circulate through every vein 
 
 Of all your empire ; that, where Britnin's 
 
 povi^er 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reach' d had he. 
 
 Coivpcr.—Born 1731, ricd 1800. 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 
 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, 
 
 
 
 Although it grieved him sore, 
 
 1087.— THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF 
 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Of credit and renown. 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 
 A train-band captain eke was he 
 
 AVhen Betty screaming came down stairs, 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 '• The wine is loft behind ! " 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear. 
 Though Avedded wo have been 
 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me. 
 
 My leathern belt likewise, 
 In Avhich I bear my trusty sword 
 
 When I do exercise. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding day, 
 And we will then repair 
 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 
 To hold the liquor that she loved. 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 My sister, and my sister's child, 
 Myself and children three, 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear. 
 
 Through which the belt he drew. 
 And hung a bottle on each side. 
 
 Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 On horseback after we. 
 
 
 He soon replied, I do admire 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Of womankind but one. 
 
 Equipp'd from top to toe. 
 
 And you are she, my dearest dear ; 
 
 His long red cloak, well brush' d and neat, 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 I am a linen-draper bold, 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 As all the world doth know. 
 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 
 And my good friend the calender 
 
 Fiill slowly pacing o'er the stones 
 
 Will lend his horse to go. 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said ; 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 And for that wine is dear. 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 
 We will be furnish' d with our own, 
 
 The snorting beast began to trot, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear. » 
 
 Which gaU'd him in his seat. 
 
 John GUpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 
 
 So fair and softly, John he cried. 
 
 O'erjoy'd was he to find 
 
 But John he cried in vain ; 
 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 That' trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 
 Wlio cannot sit upright. 
 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 
 
 His horse, which never in that sort 
 
 Where they did all get in ; 
 
 Had handled been before, 
 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 To dash through thick and thin- 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] THE DIVEETING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 [COWPFK. 
 
 Away went Gilpia, neck or nought ; 
 
 Away went hat and wi<? ; 
 He little dreamt when he set out 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long and gay, 
 Till, loop and button failing both. 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 • 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles he had slung ; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children scream' d, 
 
 Up flew the windows all; 
 And every soul cried out, Well done ! 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 
 
 His fame soon spread around ; 
 He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 
 
 "Tis for a thousand pound ! 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near, 
 
 "Twas wonderful to view 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low, 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shatter' d at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 Most piteous to be seen. 
 Which made his horse's flank^ to smoke 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seem'd to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle braced : 
 Foi- all might see the bottle necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols he did play. 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay. 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony si)ied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the 
 house — 
 
 They all aloud did cry ; 
 The dinner waits, and we are tired : 
 
 Said Gilpin — So am I ! 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclined to tarry there ; 
 For why ? his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an archer strong ; 
 So did he fly — which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will. 
 Till at his friend the calender's — - — 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 
 His neighbour in such trim. 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 Wliat news? what news ? your tidings tell — 
 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come. 
 
 Or why you come at all P 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 I came because your horse would come ; 
 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here — 
 
 They are upon the road. 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 IJeturn'd him not a single word. 
 
 But to the house went in. 
 
 AVhence straight became with hat and wig; 
 
 A wig that flow'd behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear. 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 
 Thus show'd his ready wit. 
 My head is twice as big as yours, 
 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the dirt away 
 
 That hangs upon your face ; 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 
 Be in a hungry case. 
 
 Said John, It is my wedding day. 
 
 And all the world would stare 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 
 And I should dine ab Ware. 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 I am in haste to dine ; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 
 
 You shaU go back for mine. 
 
 Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast ! 
 
 For which he paid full dear ; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear ; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had heard a lion roar. 
 And gallop' d off with all his might, 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 56 
 
CtoWPEK.] 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 
 He lost them sooner than at first ; 
 
 For why ? — ^they were too big. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 Her husband posting down, 
 Into the country far away, 
 
 She pull'd out haK-a-crown ; 
 
 And thus \mto the youth she said. 
 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 This shall be yours when you bring back 
 
 My husband safe and well. 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 John coming back amain ! 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 
 
 By catching at his rein ; 
 
 But not performing what he meant, 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 The frighted steed ho frighted more, 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went post-boy at his heels. 
 The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With post-boy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : — 
 
 Stop thief ! stop thief ! a highwayman ! 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The tollmen thinking as before 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too, 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor stopp'd till where ho had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing long live the king,. 
 
 And Gilpin, long live he ; 
 And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
 
 May I be there to see ! 
 
 Coit'per.— I^om 1731. Died 1800. 
 
 !o88.— EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL. 
 
 Dear Joseph — five-and-twenty years ago — 
 Alas, how time escapes ! — 'tis even so — 
 With frequent intercourse, and always sweet. 
 And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
 A tedious hour — and now wo never meet ! 
 As some grave gentleman in Terence says. 
 
 ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient 
 
 days,) 
 Good lack, we know not what to-morrow 
 
 brings — 
 Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
 True. Changes will befall, and friends may 
 
 part. 
 But distance only cannot change the heart : 
 And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion true. 
 One proof should serve — a reference to you. 
 Whence comes it then, that in the wane of 
 life, 
 Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife. 
 We find the friends we fancied we had won. 
 Though num'rous once, reduced to few or 
 
 none ? 
 Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the 
 
 touch ? 
 No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never 
 such. 
 Horatio's servant once, with bow and 
 cringe. 
 Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge. 
 Dreading a negative, and overaAv'd 
 Lest he shotdd trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
 " Go, fellow I — whither ? " — turning short 
 
 about — 
 " Nay. Stay at home — you're always going 
 
 out." 
 " 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's 
 
 end." 
 " For what ? " — " An please you, sir, to see a 
 
 friend." 
 "A friend!" Horatio cried, and seem'd to 
 
 start — 
 " Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my 
 
 heart. — 
 And fetch my cloak ; for, though the night 
 
 be raw, 
 I'll see him too — the first I ever saw." 
 
 I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, 
 And was his playtliing often when a child ; 
 But somewhat at that moment pinch' d him 
 
 close. 
 Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
 Perhap.5 his confidence just then betray' d, 
 His grief might prompt him with the speech 
 
 he made ; 
 Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it 
 
 birth, 
 The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. 
 Howe'er it was, his language in my mind. 
 Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
 But not to moralize too much and strain, 
 To prove an evil, of which aU complain, 
 (I hate long arguments verbosely spun,) 
 One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
 Once on a time an emp'ror, a wise man. 
 No matter where, in China, or Japan, 
 Decreed, that whosoever should olfend 
 Against the well-known duties of a friend, 
 Competed once should ever after wear 
 But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
 The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
 That all was naught within, and all found 
 out. 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMB OF COWPER. 
 
 [Wm. Haylet, 
 
 O happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
 Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
 Else, could a law, like that which I relate, 
 Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
 Some few, that I have known in days of old. 
 Would run most dreadful risk of catching- 
 cold ; 
 While you, my friend, whatever wind should 
 
 blow, 
 Might traverse England safely to and fro, 
 An honest man, close-button' d to the chin, 
 Broad cloth without, and a warm heart 
 within. 
 
 Coivper.—Bom 1731, IHed 1800. 
 
 1089.— TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER, ON 
 HER DEATH. 
 
 For me who feel, whene'er I touch the lyre, 
 My talents sink below my proud desire ; 
 Who often doubt, and sometimes credit give, 
 When friends assure me that my verse will 
 
 live ; 
 Whom health, too tender for the bustling 
 
 throng. 
 Led into pensive shade and soothing song ; 
 Whatever fortune my unpohshed rhymes 
 May meet in present or in future times. 
 Let the bleat art my grateful thoughts 
 
 employ. 
 Which soothes my sorrow and augments my 
 
 joy; 
 
 Whence lonely peace and social pleasure 
 
 springs. 
 And friendship dearer than the smile of 
 
 kings. 
 While keener poets, querulously proud, 
 Lament the ill of poesy aloud. 
 And magnify with irritation's zeal, 
 Those common evils we too strongly feel, 
 The envious comment and the subtle style 
 Of specious slander, stabbing with a smile ; 
 Frankly I wish to make her blessings known, 
 And think those blessings for her ills atone ; 
 Nor would my honest pride that praise forego, ' 
 Which makes MaHgnity yet»more my foe. 
 If heartfelt pain e'er led me to accuse 
 The dangerous gift of the alluring Muse, 
 'Twas in the moment when my verse im- 
 
 press'd • 
 
 Some anxious feelings on a mother's breast. 
 O thou fond spirit, who with pride hast 
 
 smiled, 
 And frown' d ^vith fear on thy poetic child, 
 Pleased, yet alarm'd, when in his boyish time 
 He sigh'd in numbers or he laugh'd in 
 
 rhyme ; 
 While thy kind cautions warn'd him to 
 
 beware 
 Of Penury, the bard's perpetaal snare ; 
 Marking the early temper of his soul. 
 Careless of wealth, nor fit for base control ! 
 
 Thou tender saint, to whom he owes muck 
 
 more 
 Than ever child to parent owed before ; 
 In life's first season, when the fever's flame 
 Shrunk to deformity his shriveDed frame, 
 And turned each fairer image in his brain 
 To blank confusion and her crazy train, - _ 
 'Twas thine, with constant love, through lin- 
 gering years, 
 To bathe thy idiot orphan in thy tears ; 
 Day after day, and night succeeding night. 
 To turn incessant to the hideous sight. 
 And frequent watch, if haply at thy view 
 Departed reason might not dawn anew ; 
 Though medicinal art, with pitying care. 
 Could lend no aid to save thee from despair. 
 Thy fond maternal heart adhered to hope ani 
 
 prayer ; 
 Nor prayed in vain : thy child from powers 
 
 above 
 Received the sense to feel and bless thy love. 
 O might he thence receive the happy skill, 
 And force proportioned to his ardent will, 
 W^ith truth's unfading radiance to emblaze 
 Thy virtues, worthy of immortal praise ! 
 Nature, who deck'd thy form with beauty'* 
 
 flowers, 
 Exhausted on thy soul her finer powers ; 
 Taught it with all her energy to feel 
 Love's melting softness, friendship's fervii 
 
 zeal, 
 The generous purpose and the active thought. 
 With charity's diflusive spirit fraught. 
 There all the best of mental gifts she placed. 
 Vigour of judgment, purity of taste, 
 Superior parts without their spleenful leaven. 
 Kindness to earth and confidence in heaven- 
 While my fond thoughts o'er all thy merits 
 
 roll, 
 Thy praise thus gushes from my filial soiil ; 
 Nor will the public with harsh rigour blame 
 This my just homage to thy honoured name ; 
 To please that public, if to please be mine, 
 Thy virtues train' d me — let the praise be 
 
 thine. 
 
 William Hayley.—Born 1745, Died 1820- 
 
 1090.— INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMB OF 
 "^ COWPER. 
 
 Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel 
 Of talents dignified by sacred zeal. 
 Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
 Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
 England, exulting in his spotless fame. 
 Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite 
 
 name. 
 Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise 
 So clear a title to affection's praise : 
 His highest honours to the heart belong ; 
 His virtues form'd the magic of ^is song. 
 
 William Hayley.—Bom 1745, Died 1820. 
 56 * 
 
Wm. Haylet.] 
 
 ON THE TOMB OF MRS: UNWIN. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 109 1. —ON THE TOMB OF MES. UNWIN. 
 
 Trusting in God with all her heart and mind, 
 This woman proved magnanimously kind ; 
 Endured affliction's desolating hail, 
 And watch' d a poet through misfortune's 
 
 vale. 
 Her spotless dust angelic guards defend ! 
 It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend. 
 That single title in itself is fame, 
 For all who read his verse revere her name. 
 
 William Haylcy.—Born 1745, Died 1820. 
 
 1092.— DESTRUCTION OF SENNA- 
 CHERIB'S ARMY. 
 
 From Ashur's vales when proud Sennacherib 
 
 trod, 
 Poured his swoln heart, defied the living 
 
 God, 
 Urged with incessant shouts his glittering 
 
 powers, 
 And Judah shook through all her massy 
 
 towers ; 
 Round her sad altars press the prostrate 
 
 crowd, 
 Hosts beat their breasts, and suppliant chief- 
 tains bow'd ; 
 Loud shrieks of matrons thrill' d the troubled 
 
 air, 
 And trembling virgins rent their scatter'd 
 
 hair; 
 High in the midst the kneeling king adored, 
 Spread the blaspheming scroll before the 
 
 Lord, 
 Raised his pale hands, and breathed his 
 
 pausing sighs, 
 And fix'd on heaven his dim imploring eyes. 
 "Oh ! mighty God, amidst thy seraph throng 
 Who sit'st sublime, the judge of right and 
 
 wrong ; 
 Thine the wide earth, bright sun, and starry 
 
 zone, 
 That twinkling journey round thy golden 
 
 throne ; 
 Thine is the crystal source of life and light. 
 And thine the realms of death's eternal 
 
 night. 
 Oh ! bend thine ear, thy gracious eye incline, 
 Lo ! Ashur's king blasphemes thj' holy shrine. 
 Insults our offerings, and derides our vows. 
 Oh! strike the diadem from his impious 
 
 brows, 
 Tear from his murderous hand the bloody 
 
 rod. 
 And teach the trembling nations ' Thou art 
 
 God ! ' " 
 Sylphs ! in what dread array with pennons 
 
 broad. 
 Onward ye floated o'er the ethereal road ; 
 Called each dank steam the reeking marsh 
 
 exhales, 
 Contagious vapours and volcanic gales ; 
 
 Gave the soft south with poisonous breath to 
 
 blow, 
 And roll'd the dreadful whirlwind on the foe ! 
 Hark ! o'er the camp the venom'd tempest 
 
 sings, 
 Man falls on man, on buckler buckler rings : 
 Groan answers groan, to anguish anguish 
 
 yields, 
 And death's loud accents shake the tented 
 
 fields ! 
 High rears the fiend his grinning jaws, and 
 
 wide 
 Spans the pale nations with colossal stride. 
 Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand, 
 And his vast shadow darkens all the land. 
 
 Erasmus Darwin. — Born 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 [093. 
 
 -THE BELGIAN LOVERS AND 
 THE PLAGUE. 
 
 Thus when the plague, upborne on Belgian 
 
 air, 
 Look'd through the mist, and shook his 
 
 clotted hair, 
 O'er shrinking nations steer'd malignant 
 
 clouds. 
 And rain'd destruction on the gaping crowds ; 
 The beauteous Mgle felt the envenom'd 
 
 dart, 
 Slow roll'd her eye and feebly throbb'd her 
 
 heart : 
 Each fervid sigh seem'd shorter than the 
 
 last. 
 And starting friendship shunn'd her as she 
 
 pass'd. 
 With weak unsteady step the fainting maid 
 Seeks the cold garden's solitary shade, 
 Sinks on the pillowy moss her drooping head, 
 And prints with lifeless limbs her leafy bed. 
 On wings of love her plighted swain pursues. 
 Shades her from winds and shelters her from 
 
 dews. 
 Extends on tapering poles the canvass roof, 
 Spreads o'er the straw- wove mat the flaxen 
 
 woof; 
 Sweet buds and blossoms on her bolster 
 
 strows. 
 And binds his kerchief round her aching 
 
 brows ; * 
 
 Soothes with soft kiss, with tender accents 
 
 charms, 
 And clasps the bright infection in his arms. 
 With pale and languid smiles the grateful 
 
 fair 
 Applauds his virtues and rewards his care ; 
 Mourns with wet cheek her fair companions 
 
 fled. 
 On timorous step, or number'd with the 
 
 dead ; 
 Calls to her bosom all its scattered rays, 
 And pours on Thyrsis the collected blaze ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PHILANTHEOPY.— MR. HOWAED. 
 
 [Erasmus DARwiir. 
 
 Braves the chill nigrht, caressing' and caress'd, 
 And folds her hero-lover to her breast. 
 Less bold, Leander, at the dusky hour, 
 Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower ; 
 Breasted with struggling arms the tossing 
 
 wave, 
 And sunk benighted in the watery grave. 
 Less bold, Tobias claim' d the nuptial bed, 
 Where seven fond lovers by a fieiid had bled ; 
 And drove, instructed by his angel guide, 
 The enamoured demon from the fatal bride. 
 Sylphs ! while your winnowing pinions fanned 
 
 the air, 
 And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair, 
 Love round their couch effused his rosy 
 
 breath. 
 And with his keener arrows conquer'd death. 
 
 Erasmus Banvin. — Bom 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 1094.— DEATH OF ELIZA AT THE 
 BATTLE OF MINDEN. 
 
 So stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd h^ght, 
 O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight. 
 Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
 Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; 
 From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, 
 And vicw'd his banner, or believed she view'd. 
 Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker 
 
 tread 
 Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
 And one fair girl amid the loud alarm 
 Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
 While round her brows bright beams of 
 
 Honour dart, 
 And Love's warm eddies circle round her 
 
 heart. 
 Near and more near the intrepid beauty 
 
 press'd, 
 Saw through the driving smoke his dancing 
 
 crest ; 
 Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove, 
 Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of 
 
 love; 
 Heard the exulting shout, " They run ! they 
 
 run !" 
 "Great God!" she cried, "He's safe! the 
 
 battle's won ! " 
 A ball now hisses through the airy tides 
 (Some fury wing'd it, and some demon 
 
 guides !), 
 Parts the fine locks her graceful head that 
 
 deck, 
 Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her 
 
 neck ; 
 The red stream, issuing from her azure veins. 
 Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
 " Ah me ! " she cried, and sinking on the 
 
 ground, 
 Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the 
 
 wound ; 
 
 " Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ! 
 Wait, gushing life, oh wait my love's 
 
 return ! " 
 Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams 
 
 from far ! 
 The angel pity shuns the walks of war ! 
 " Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender 
 
 age ; 
 On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your 
 
 rage ! " 
 Then with weak arms her weeping babes 
 
 caress'd, 
 And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd 
 
 vest. 
 From tent to tent th' impatient warrior 
 
 flies, 
 Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes ; 
 Eliza's name along the camp he c-Jls, 
 " Eliza " echoes through the canvass walls ; 
 Quick through the murmuring gloom his foot- 
 steps tread. 
 O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, 
 Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
 Lo I dead Eliza weltering in her blood ! 
 Soon hears his listening son the welcome 
 
 sounds, 
 With open arms and sparkling eye he 
 
 bounds : 
 " Speak low," he cries, and gives his little 
 
 hand, 
 " Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand ^ " 
 Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers 
 
 press'd. 
 And tried with pouting lips her milkless 
 
 breast ; 
 "Alas ! we both with cold and hunger 
 
 quake — 
 Why do you weep ? — Mamma will soon 
 
 awake." 
 " She'll wake no more ! " the hapless mourner 
 
 cried, 
 Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp' d his hands, and 
 
 sigh'd ; 
 Stretch' d on the ground, a while entranced he 
 
 lay. 
 And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 
 And then upsprung with wild convulsive 
 
 start, 
 And all the father kindled in his heart : 
 " Oh heavens ! " he cried, " my first rash vow 
 
 forgive ; 
 These bind to earth, for these I pray to 
 
 live ! " 
 Eound his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimscn 
 
 vest. 
 And clasp' d them sobbing to his aching 
 
 breast. 
 
 Erasmus Darwin. — Bom 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 1095.— PHILANTHROPY— ME. HOWARD. 
 
 And now, philanthropy ! thy rays divine 
 Dart round the globe from Zembla to the lino 
 
Erasmus Dakwin.] 
 
 PERSUASION TO MOTHERS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 O'er each dark prison plays the cheering 
 
 Hght, 
 Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night. 
 From realm to realm, with cross or crescent 
 
 crown'd, 
 Where'er mankind and misery are found. 
 O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of 
 
 snow, 
 Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of 
 
 woe. 
 Down many a winding step to dungeons dank, 
 Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters 
 
 clank ; 
 To caves bestrew' d with many a mouldering 
 
 bone, 
 And cells whose echoes only learn to groan ; 
 Where no kind bars a whispering friend 
 
 disclose, 
 Noi sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows, 
 He treads, unemulous of fame or wealth, 
 Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health. 
 With soft assuasive eloquence expands 
 Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching 
 
 hands ; 
 Leads stem-eyed Justice to the dark domains, 
 If not to sever, to relax the chains ; 
 Or guides awaken' d mercy through the 
 
 gloom. 
 And shows the prison, sister to the tomb ! 
 Gives to her babes the self -devoted wife. 
 To her fond husband liberty and life ! 
 The spirits of the good, who bend from high 
 Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial 
 
 eye, 
 When first array'd in Virtue's purest robe. 
 They saw her Howard traversing the globe ; 
 Saw round his brows her sun-like glory blaze 
 In arrowy circles of unwearied rays ; 
 Mistook a mortal for an angel guest. 
 And ask'd what seraph foot the earth im- 
 press' d. 
 Onward he moves ! Disease and Death 
 
 retire. 
 And Diurmuring demons hate him and 
 
 admire ! 
 
 Erasmus Dancin. — Born 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 1096.— PERSUASION TO MOTHERS TO 
 SUCKLE THEIR OWN CHILDREN. 
 
 Connubial Fair I whom no fond transport 
 
 warms 
 To lull your infant in maternal arms ; 
 Who, bless' d in vain with tumid bosoms, 
 
 hear 
 His tender wailings with unfeeling ear ; 
 The soothing kiss and milky rill deny 
 To the sweet pouting lip and glistening 
 
 eye ', — 
 Ah! what avails the cradle's damask roof, 
 The eider bolster, and embroider' d woof ! 
 
 Oft hears the gilded coueh unpitied plains, 
 And many a tear the tassel'd cushion stains ! 
 No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, 
 So soft no piUow as his mother's breast I-^ 
 Thus charm' d to sweet repose, when twilight 
 
 hours 
 Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers. 
 The cherub Innocence, with smile divine. 
 Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on beauty's 
 
 shrine. 
 Erasmus Darwin. — Bom 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 1097.— SONG TO MAT. 
 
 Bom in yon blaze of orient sky, 
 
 Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold ; 
 
 Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye. 
 
 And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 
 
 For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, 
 For thee descends the sunny shower ; 
 
 The rills in softer muymurs flow. 
 
 And brighter blossoms gem the bower. ' 
 
 Light graces deck'd in flowery wreaths 
 And tiptoe joys their hands combine ; 
 
 And 5L,ove his sweet contagion breathes. 
 And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. 
 
 Warm with new life, the glittering throng 
 On quivering fin and rustling wing, 
 
 Delighted join their votive song, 
 
 And hail thee Goddess of the Spring ! 
 Erasmus Darwin. — Born 1731, Died 1802. 
 
 1098.— SONG TO ECHO. 
 I. 
 
 Sweet Echo ! sleeps thy vocal shell, 
 Where this high arch o'erhangs the dell ; 
 While Tweed, with sun-reflecting streams, 
 Chequers thy rocks with dancing beams ? 
 
 Here may no clamours harsh intrude, 
 No brawling hound or clarion rude ; 
 Here.no fell beast of midnight prowl. 
 And teach thy tortured cliffs to howL 
 
 Bo thine to pour these vales along 
 Some artless shepherd's evening song; 
 While night's sweet bird from yon high spray 
 Responsive listens to his lay. 
 
 And if, like me, some love-lorn maid 
 Should sing her sorrows to thy shade. 
 Oh ! sooth her breast, ye rocks around^ 
 With softest sympathy of sound. 
 
 Erasmus Darwin. — Born 1731, Died 1802. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] EECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH SCENERY. [Charlotte Smith. 
 
 I099._0N THE DEPARTURE OF THE 
 NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 
 
 Farewell soft minstrel of the early year ! 
 Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 
 
 And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
 "Whether on spring thy wandering flights 
 await, 
 Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. 
 The pensive muse shall own thee for her 
 mate, 
 And still protect the song she loves so well. 
 With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall 
 glide 
 Through the lone brake that shades thy 
 mossy nest ; » 
 
 And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall 
 hide 
 The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
 For still thy voice shall soft affections move, 
 And still be dear to sorrow und to love ! 
 
 Charlotte Smith.— Born 1749, Died 1806. 
 
 1 100.— WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF 
 SPRING. 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove ; 
 Each simple flower, which she had nursed in 
 dew, 
 Anemonies that spangled every grove. 
 
 The primrose wan, and harebell mildly 
 blue. 
 No more shall violets linger in the dell. 
 Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
 Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, 
 And dress with humid hands her wreaths 
 again. 
 Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, 
 
 Are the fond visions of thy early day. 
 Till tyrant passion and corrosive care 
 
 Bid all fhy fairy colours fade away ! 
 Another May new buds and flowers shall 
 
 bring ; 
 Ah I why has happiness no second Spring ? 
 
 Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his 
 way, 
 Rest for a moment of the sultry hours. 
 And, though his path through thorns and 
 roughness lay. 
 Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding 
 flowers ; 
 Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering 
 tree. 
 The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ; 
 So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! 
 So charm' d my way with friendship and the 
 Muse. 
 But darker now grows life's unhappy day, 
 Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come ; 
 
 Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, 
 
 And weary Hope recKnes Tipon the tomb. 
 And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 
 Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more ! 
 Charlotte Smith.— Born 1749, Died 1806. 
 
 lOI. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH 
 SCENERY. 
 
 Haunts of my youth ! 
 Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 
 Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern 
 
 slopes. 
 To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 
 By scatter'd thorns, whose spiny branches 
 
 bore 
 Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant 
 
 lamb. 
 There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun : 
 And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, 
 To look beneath upon the hollow Avay, 
 While heavily upward moved the labouring 
 
 wain. 
 And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. 
 To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a 
 
 stone 
 The grating wheel. 
 
 Advancing higher stiU, 
 The prospect widens, and the village church 
 But little o'er the lowly roofs around 
 Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane ; 
 Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal' d 
 By the rude ai-ms of trees, lovely in spring ; 
 When on each bough the rosy tinctured 
 
 bloom 
 Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
 For even those orchards round the Norman 
 
 farms, 
 Which, as their owners mark'd the promised 
 
 fruit. 
 Console them, for the vineyards of the south 
 Surpass not these. 
 
 Where woods of ash and beech, 
 And partial copses fringe the green hill foot. 
 The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; 
 There wanders by a little nameless stream 
 That from the hill wells forth, bright now, 
 
 and clear, 
 Or after rain with chalky mixture gray. 
 But still refreshing in its shallow course 
 The cottage garden ; most for use design'd, 
 Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
 Mantles the little casement ; yet the briar 
 Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
 And pansies ray'd, and freak'd, and mottled 
 
 pinks. 
 Grow among balm and rosemary and rue ; 
 There honej'suckles flaunt, and roses blow 
 Almost uncultured ; some with dark green 
 
 leaves 
 Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied 
 
 white 
 
Susanna Blamire.] 
 
 THE NABOB. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Others like velvet robes of regal state 
 Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss 
 Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear 
 The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. 
 With fond regret I recollect e'en now 
 In spring and summer, what delight I felt 
 Among these cottage gardens, and h:-"? much 
 Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 
 By village housewife or her ruddy maid. 
 Were welcome to me ; soon and simply 
 
 pleased. 
 An early worshipper at nature's shrine, 
 I loved her rudest scenes — warrens, and 
 
 heaths, 
 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded 
 
 hollows. 
 And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes. 
 Bower' d with wild roses and the clasping 
 
 woodbine. 
 
 Charlotte Smith.— Born 1749, Died 1806. 
 
 II02.— THE NABOB. 
 
 When silent time, wi' lightly foot. 
 
 Had trod on thirty .years, 
 I sought again my native land 
 
 Wi' mony hopes and fears. 
 Wha kens gin the dear friends I left 
 
 May still continue mine ? 
 Or gin I e'er again shall taste 
 
 The joys I left langsyne ! 
 
 As I drew near my ancient pile, 
 
 My heart beat a' the way ; 
 Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak 
 
 O' some dear former day ; 
 Those days that follow'd me afar, 
 
 Those happy days o' mine, 
 Whilk made mo think the present joys 
 
 A' naething to langsyne : 
 
 The ivied tower now met mj' eye. 
 
 Where minstrels used to blaw ; 
 Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand, 
 
 Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw ; 
 Till Donald tottered to the door, 
 
 Wham I left in his prime, 
 And grat to see the lad return 
 
 He bore about langsj-ne. 
 
 I ran to ilka dear friend's room. 
 
 As if to find them there, 
 I knew where ilk ane used to sit. 
 
 And hang o'er mony a chair ; 
 Till soft remembrance threw a veil 
 
 Across the?e een o' mine, 
 I closed the door, and sobb'd aloud. 
 
 To think on anld langsyne ! 
 
 Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race. 
 Wad next their welcome pay, 
 
 Wha shudder'd at my Gothic wa's, 
 And wish'd my groves away. 
 
 " Cut, cut," they cried, " those aged elms, 
 Lay low j'on mournfu' pine." 
 
 Na ! na ! our fathers' names grow there, 
 Memorials o' langsyne. 
 
 To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts* 
 
 They took me to the town ; 
 But sair on ilka weel-kenned faca 
 
 I miss'd the youthfu' bloom. 
 At balls they point' d to a nymph 
 
 Wham a' declared divine ; 
 But sure her mother's blushing checks 
 
 Were fairer far langsyne ! 
 
 In vain I sought in music's sound 
 
 To find that magic art. 
 Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays 
 
 Has thrill'd through a' my heart. 
 The sang had mony an artfu' turn ; 
 
 My ear confess'd 'twas fine ; 
 But miss'd the simple melody 
 
 I listen' d to langsyne. 
 
 Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, 
 
 Forgie an auld man's spleen, 
 Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still 
 mourns 
 
 The days he ance has seen. 
 When time has pass'd and seasons fled, 
 
 Your hearts will feel like mine ; 
 And aye the sang will maist delight 
 
 That minds ye o' langsyne ! 
 
 Susanna Blamire. — Boni 1747, Died 1794. 
 
 103.— WHAT AILS THIS HEAET O' 
 MINE? 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine ? 
 
 What ails this watery ee ? 
 What gars me a' turn pale as death 
 
 When I take leave o' thee ? 
 When thou art far aw a', 
 
 Thou'lt dearer grow to me ; 
 But change o' place and change o' folk 
 
 May gar thy fancy joe. 
 
 When I gae out at e'en. 
 
 Or walk at morning air. 
 Ilk rustling bush will seem to say 
 
 I used to meet thee there. 
 Then I'll sit down and cry, 
 
 And live aneath the tree, 
 And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 
 
 I'll ca't a word frae thee. 
 
 I'll hie me to the bower 
 
 That thou wi' roses tied. 
 And where wi' mony a blushing bud 
 
 I strove myself to hide. 
 I'll doat on ilka spot 
 
 Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; 
 And ca' to mind some kindly word 
 
 Hy ilka burn and tree. 
 Susanna Blaniirc. — Born 1747, Died 1794. 
 
From 1780 to 186G.] 
 
 HYMN TO CONTENT. 
 
 [Anna L. Barbauld. 
 
 1 104.— ODE TO SPEING. 
 
 Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, 
 Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful 
 Spring ! 
 
 Whose unshorn locks with leaves 
 
 And swelling buds are crown' d ; 
 
 From the green islands of eternal j'outh 
 (Crown'd with fresh blooms and ever-springing 
 shade), 
 
 Turn, hither turn thy step, 
 
 O thou, whose powerful voice 
 
 More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed 
 Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding 
 winds, 
 
 And through the stormy deep 
 
 Breathe thy own tender calm. 
 
 Thee, best beloved I the virgin train await 
 With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove 
 
 Thy blooming wilds among, 
 
 And vales and dewy lawns, 
 
 With imtired feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets 
 To weave fresh garlands for the glo\ving brow 
 Of him, the favour'd youth 
 Tliat prompts their whisper'd sigh. 
 
 Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender 
 
 showers 
 That drop their sweetness on the infant buds. 
 
 And silent dews that swell 
 
 Tho milky ear's green stem. 
 
 And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ; 
 And call those winds, which through the whis- 
 pering boughs 
 
 With warm and pleasant breath 
 
 Salute the blowing flowers. 
 
 Now let me sit beneath the whitening tliorn, 
 And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the 
 dale ; 
 
 And watch with patient eye 
 
 Thy fair unfolding charms. 
 
 O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate 
 
 sun 
 With bashful forehead, through the cool moist 
 air 
 Throws his young maiden beams. 
 And with chaste kisses woos 
 
 The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming 
 
 veil 
 Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade. 
 
 Protects thy modest blooms 
 
 From his severer blaze. 
 
 Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog- 
 star 
 Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's 
 scythe 
 ' Thy greens, thy flowerets all, 
 Eemorseless shall destroy. 
 
 Eeluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; 
 For O ! not all that Autumn's lap contains. 
 
 Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits, 
 
 Can aught for thee atone. 
 
 Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more 
 
 delights 
 Then all their largest wealth, and^through 
 the heart 
 Each joy and new-born hope 
 With softest influence breathes. 
 
 Anna L. Barha.uUl—Born 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 1 105.— TO A LADY, WITH SOME 
 PAINTED FLOWEES. 
 
 Flowers to the fair : to you these flowers I 
 
 bring. 
 And strive to greet you with an earlier 
 
 spring. 
 Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like 
 
 you; 
 Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. 
 With flowers the Graces bind their yellow 
 
 hair, 
 And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. 
 Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew. 
 In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. 
 To loftier forms are rougher tasks as sign 'd ; 
 The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, 
 Tho tougher yew repels invading foes. 
 And the tall pine for future navies grows : 
 But this soft familj' to cares unknown. 
 Were bom for pleasure and delight alone. 
 Gay without toil, and lovely without art, 
 They spring to cheer the sense and glad the 
 
 heart. 
 Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these ; 
 Your best, your sweetest empire is — to 
 
 please. 
 
 Anna L. Barhauld.—Bom 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 1 106.— HYMN TO CONTENT. 
 
 O thou, the nymph with placid eye ! 
 O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
 
 Eeceive my temperate vow : 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb tby halcyon soul, 
 
 And smooth the unalter'd brow. 
 
 come, in simple vest array'd. 
 With all thy sober cheer display'd, 
 
 To bless my longing sight ; 
 Thy mien composed, thy even pace. 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace. 
 
 And chaste subdued delight. 
 
 No more by varying passions beat, 
 O gently guide my pilgrim feet 
 To find thy hermit cell ; 
 
Anna L. Babbauld.] 
 
 WASHING DAY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 "Where in some pure and equal sky, 
 Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, 
 The modest virtues dwell. 
 
 Simplicity in Attic vest, 
 
 And Innocence "with candiS breast, 
 
 And clear undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years, 
 Fair opening through this vale of tears, 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 There Health, through whose calm bosom 
 
 glide , 
 
 The temperate joys in even- tide, 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow ; 
 And Patience there, thy sister meek, 
 Presents her mild unvarying cheek 
 
 To meet the offer' d blow. 
 
 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage 
 
 With settled smiles to wait : 
 Inured to toil and bitter bread. 
 He bow' d his meek submissive head, 
 
 And kiss'd thy sainted feet. 
 
 But thou, oh nymph retired and coy ! . 
 In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale ? 
 The lowliest children of the ground, 
 Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, 
 
 And lily of the vale. 
 
 say what soft propitious hour 
 
 1 best may choose to hail thy power, 
 
 And court thy gentle sway ? 
 ^Vhen autumn, friendly to the Muse, 
 Shall thy own modest tints diffuse. 
 
 And shed thy milder day. 
 
 When eve, her dewy star beneath. 
 Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 
 
 And eery storm is laid ; 
 If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice 
 
 Low whispering through the shade. 
 
 Anna L. Barhauld.—Born 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 1107.— WASHING DAY. 
 
 The Muses are tum'd gossips ; they have lost 
 The buskin' d step, and clear high-sounding 
 
 phrase. 
 Language of gods. Come, then, domestic 
 
 Muse, 
 In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on, 
 Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 
 Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire 
 By little whimpering boy, with rueful face — 
 Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing 
 
 day. 
 
 Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 
 With bow'd soul, full well ye ken the day 
 
 Which week, smooth sliding after week, 
 
 brings on 
 Too soon ; for to that day nor peace belongs. 
 Nor comfort ; ere the first gray streak of. 
 
 dawn. 
 The red-arm- d washers come and chase 
 
 repose. 
 
 Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of 
 
 mirth, 
 Ere visited that day ; the very cat. 
 From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking 
 
 hearth, 
 Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest. 
 The silent breakfast meal is soon despatch' d,' 
 Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 
 Cast at the louring sky, if sky should lour. 
 
 From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens ! 
 For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 
 Remains of quiet ; then expect to hear 
 Of sad disasters — dirt and gravel stains 
 Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once 
 Snapp'd short, and linen horse by dog thrown 
 
 down. 
 And all the petty miseries of life. 
 
 Saints have been calm while stretch' d upon 
 
 the rack. 
 And Montezuma smiled on burning coals ; 
 But never yet did housewife notable 
 Greet with a smile a rainy washing day. 
 But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
 Who call'st thyself, perchance, the master 
 
 there. 
 Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat. 
 Or usual 'tendance ; ask not, indiscreet. 
 Thy stoclrings mended, though the yawning 
 
 rents 
 Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
 Some snug recess impervious. Should'st thou 
 
 try 
 The ' custom' d garden walks, thine eye shall 
 
 rue 
 The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs. 
 Myrtle or rose, all crush'd beneath the 
 
 weight 
 Of coarse-check' d apron, with impatient hand 
 Twitch'd off when showers impend; or 
 
 crossing lines 
 Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet 
 Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to 
 
 claim 
 On such a day the hospitable rites ; 
 Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy 
 Shall he receive ; vainly he feeds his hopes 
 With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie. 
 Or tart or pudding ; pudding he nor tart 
 That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband 
 
 try- 
 Mending what can't be helped — to kindle 
 
 mirth 
 From cheer deficient, shall his consort's br®w 
 Clear up propitious ; the unlucky guest 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
 
Frovi 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PRAISE TO GOD. 
 
 [Anna L. Babbauld. 
 
 I well remember, when a child, the awe 
 This day struck into me ; for then the maids, 
 I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove 
 
 me from them ; 
 Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 
 Usual indnlgencies ; jelly or creams, 
 Relique of costly suppers, and set by 
 For me their petted one ; or butter' d toast, 
 When butter was forbid ; or thrilling' tale 
 Of ghost, or witch, or murder. So I went 
 And sheltered me beside the parlour fire ; 
 There my dear grandmother, eldest of all 
 
 forms, 
 Tended the little ones, and watched from 
 
 harm. ; 
 Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 
 With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 
 Drawn from her ravell'd stocking might have 
 
 soured 
 One less indulgent. 
 
 At intervals my mother's voice was heard 
 Urging despatch ; briskly the work went on, 
 All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to 
 
 wring. 
 Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and 
 
 plait. 
 
 Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 
 Why washings were ; sometimes through 
 
 hoUow hole 
 Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 
 The floating bubbles ; little dreaming then 
 To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball 
 Ride buoyant tlxrough the clouds, so near 
 
 approach 
 The sports of children and the toils of men. 
 
 Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its 
 
 bubbles, 
 And verse is one of them — this most of all. 
 Anna L. Barhduld.—Born 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 iio8.— THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 
 
 Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 
 
 When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes, 
 
 How gently heaves th' expiring breast ! 
 
 So fades a summer cloud away, 
 
 So sinks the gale when storms are o'ei*. 
 
 So gently shuts the eye of day, 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
 
 Fann'd by some angel's purple wing: — 
 
 Where is, O Grave ! thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious Death ! thy sting? 
 
 Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 
 
 Where light and shade alternate dwell I 
 
 How bright th' unchanging morn appears ; — 
 Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 
 
 Its duty done, — as sinks the day, 
 Light from its load the spirit flies ; 
 
 While heaven and earth combine to say 
 " Sweet is the scene when virtue dies I '* 
 
 Anna L. Barhauld.^Born 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 1 109. 
 
 COME UNTO ME." 
 
 Come, said Jesus' sacred voice — 
 Come and make my joaths yotu.* choice ! 
 I will guide you to your home — 
 Weary pilgrim, hither come ! 
 
 Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn. 
 Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, 
 Long hast roam'd the barren waste. 
 Weary pilgrim, hither haste ! 
 
 Ye who, toss'd on beds of pain, 
 Seek for ease, but seek in vain — 
 Ye whose swollen and sleepless eye* 
 Watch to see the morning rise — 
 
 Ye by fiercer anguish torn, 
 
 In strong remorse for guilt who mourn. 
 
 Here repose your heavy care — 
 
 A wounded spirit who can bear ! 
 
 Sinner, come ! for here is found 
 Balm that flows from every wound — - 
 Peace, that ever shall endure — 
 Rest eternal, sacred, sure. 
 
 AnnaL. Barhauld.—Born 1743, Died 1825. 
 
 mo.— PRAISE TO GOD. 
 
 Praise to God, immortal praise. 
 
 For the love that cro^vns our days — 
 
 Bounteous source of every joy. 
 
 Let Thy praise our tongues employ ! 
 
 For the blessings of the field, 
 For the stores the gardens yield, 
 For the vine's exalted juice. 
 For the generous olive's use ; 
 
 Flocks that whiten all the plain. 
 Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain. 
 Clouds that drop their fattening dews, 
 Suns that temperate warmth diffuse — 
 
 All that Spring, with bounteous hand. 
 Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
 All that liberal Autumn pours 
 From her rich o'erflowing stores : 
 
 These to Thee, my God, we owe — 
 Source whence all our blessings flow ! 
 And for these my soul shall raise 
 Grateful vows and solemn praise. 
 
Anka Sewabd.] 
 
 THE ANNIVERSAEY. 
 
 [Seventh PEPaoD.— 
 
 Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 
 From its stem the ripening ear — 
 Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
 Drop her green untimely fruit — 
 
 Should the vine put forth no more, 
 Nor the olive yield her store — 
 Though the sickening flocks should fall, 
 And the herds desert the stall — 
 
 Should Thine alter' d hand restrain 
 The early and the latter rain, 
 Blast each opening bud of joy, 
 And the rising year destroy ; 
 
 Tet to Thee my soul should raise 
 
 Grateful vows and solemn praise. 
 
 And, when every blessing's flown, 
 
 Love Thee — for Thyself alone. 
 
 Anna L. Barlaxdil.—Bom 1743, Dial 1825. 
 
 nil.— THE ANNIYERSAEY. 
 
 Ah, lovely Lichfield ! that so long hast shone 
 In blended charms peculiarly thine own ; 
 Stately, yet rural ; through thy choral day 
 Though shady, cheerful, and though quiet, 
 
 gay; 
 How interesting, how loved, from year to 
 
 year, 
 How more than beauteous did thy scenes 
 
 appear ! 
 Still as the mild Spring chased the wintry 
 
 gloom, 
 Devolved her leaves, and waked her rich 
 
 perfume, 
 Thou, with thy fields and groves around thee 
 
 spread, 
 Lift'st, in unlessen'd grace, thy spiry head ; 
 But many a loved inhabitant of thine 
 Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine. 
 Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours. 
 That saw Honora's eyes adorn these bowers ? 
 These darling bowers, that much she loved to 
 
 hail, 
 The spires she called " the Ladies of the 
 
 Vale!" 
 Fairest and best ! — Oh ! can I o'er forget 
 To thy dear kindness my eternal debt ? 
 Life's opening paths how tenderlj^ it smoothed. 
 The joys it heighten' d, and the pains it 
 
 soothed ? 
 No, no I my heart its sacred memory boars, 
 Bright 'mid the shadows of o'erwhelming 
 
 years ; 
 When mists of deprivation round me roll, 
 'Tis the soft sunbeam of my clouded soul. 
 
 Ah, dear Honora ! that remember' d day, 
 First on these eyes when shone thy early 
 
 ray! 
 Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs 
 
 had gone. 
 Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood 
 
 flown. 
 
 When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant 
 
 frame 
 To our glad walls a happy inmate came. 
 
 summer morning of unrivall'd light ! 
 Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white I 
 June, the bright month, when nature joys to 
 
 wear 
 The livery of the gay, consummate year, 
 Gave that envermiled dayspring all her powers, 
 Gemm'd the light leaves, and glow'd upon the 
 
 flowers ; 
 Bade her plumed nations hail the rosy ray 
 With warbled orisons from every spray. 
 Purpureal Tempo, not to thee belong 
 More poignant fragrance or more jocund 
 
 song. 
 Thrice happy day ! thy clear auspicious 
 
 Ught 
 Gave " future years a tincture of thy white ; " 
 Well may her strains thy votive hymn decree, 
 Whose sweetest pleasures found their source 
 
 in thee ; 
 The purest, best that memory explores, 
 Safe in the past's inviolable stores. 
 The ardent progress of thy shining hours 
 Beheld me rove through Lichfield's verdant 
 
 bowers. 
 Thoughtless and gay, and volatile and vain. 
 Circled by nymphs and youths, a frolic train ; 
 Though conscious that a little orphan child 
 Had to my parents' guidance, kind and mild. 
 Recent been summon' d, when disease and 
 
 death 
 Shed dark stagnation o'er her mother's breath. 
 While eight sweet infants' wailful cries de- 
 plore 
 What not the tears of innocence restore ; 
 And while the husband mourn'd his widow'd 
 
 doom, 
 And hung despondent o'er the closing tomb. 
 To us this loveliest scion he consign' d, 
 Its beauty blossoming, its opening mind. 
 His heartfelt loss had drawn my April tears, 
 But childish, womanish, ambiguoiis years 
 Find all their griefs as vanishing as keen ; 
 Youth's rising sun soon gilds the showery 
 
 scene. 
 On the expected trust no thought I bent. 
 Unknown the day, unheeded the event. 
 One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood 
 
 free. 
 Rose to the verge of womanhood with me ; 
 Gloom'd by no envy, by no discord jarr'd. 
 Our pleasures blended, and our studies shared ; 
 And when with day and waking thoughts they 
 
 closed. 
 On the same couch our agile limbs reposed. 
 Amply in friendship by her virtues blest, 
 
 1 gave to youthful gaiety the rest; 
 Considering not how near the period drew. 
 When that transplanted branch should meet 
 
 our view, 
 Wlioso intellectual fruits were doom'd to rise. 
 Food of the future's heart-expanding joys ; 
 Bom to console mc when, by Fate severe, 
 The Much-Beloved should press a timeless bior. 
 
Froir. 1780 to 1SG6.] 
 
 THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. 
 
 [Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 My friend, my sister, from my arms be torn, 
 Sickening and sinking on her bridal mom ; 
 While Hymen, speeding from this mournful 
 
 dome, 
 Should drop his darken' d torch upon her 
 
 tomb. 
 'Twas eve ; the sun, in netting glory drest, 
 Spread his gold skirts along the crimson 
 
 west; 
 A Sunday's eve ! Honora, bringing thee. 
 Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me, 
 When on the wing of circling seasons borne. 
 Annual I hailed its consecrated morn. 
 
 In the kind interchange of mutual thought, 
 Our home myself, and gentle sister sought ; 
 Our pleasant home, round which the ascending 
 
 gale 
 Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale ; 
 On her green verge the spacious walls arise, 
 View her fair fields, and catch her balmy 
 
 sighs ; 
 See her near hills the bounded prospect close, 
 And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose. 
 With arms entwined, and smiHng as we 
 
 talk'd, 
 To the maternal room we careless walk'd. 
 Where sat its honour' d mistress, and with 
 
 smile 
 Of love indulgent, from a floral pile 
 The gayest glory of the summer bower 
 Cull'dfor the new-arrived — the human flower, 
 A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood 
 Close to her knees, and charm' d us as we 
 
 view'd. 
 O ! hast thou mark'd the sum'mer's budded 
 
 rose. 
 When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson 
 
 glows ? 
 So bloom' d the beauty of that fairy form, 
 So her dark locks with golden tinges warm, 
 Play'd round the timid curve of that white 
 
 neck. 
 And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. 
 O ! hast thou seen the star of eve on high, 
 Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy 
 
 sky 
 Shed its green light, and in the glassy stream 
 Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam ? 
 So look'd on us with tender, bashful gaze, 
 The destined charmer of our youtiiful days ; 
 Whose soul its native elevation join'd 
 To the gay wildness of the infant mind ; 
 Esteem and sacred confidence impress 'd, 
 While our fond arms the beauteous child 
 
 caress'd. 
 
 Anna Seward.— Born 1747, Died 1809. 
 
 1 1 12.— SONG. 
 
 The season comes when first we met. 
 
 But you return no more ; 
 Why cannot I the days foi-get, 
 
 Which time can ne'er restore ? 
 
 O days too sweet, too bright to last, 
 Are you indeed for ever past ? 
 
 The fleeting shadows of delight, 
 
 In memory I trace ; 
 In fancy stop their rapid flight, 
 
 And all the past replace : 
 But, ah ! I wake to endless woes, _ 
 And tears the fading visions close ! 
 
 2Irs. Hunter.'— Born 1742, Died 1821. 
 
 H13.--SONG. 
 
 O tuneful voice ! I still deplore 
 
 Those accents which, though heard no more. 
 
 Still vibrate on my heart ; 
 In echo's cave I long to dwell, 
 And still would hear the sad farewell, 
 
 When we were doom'd to part. 
 
 Bright eyes, O that the task were mine 
 To guard the liquid fires that shine, 
 
 And round your orbits play ; 
 To watch them with a vestal's care, 
 And feed with smiles a light so fair. 
 
 That it may ne'er decay ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter.— Bora 1742, Died 1821. 
 
 1 1 14. — TO MY DAUGHTER, ON BEING 
 SEPARATED FROM HER ON HER 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 Dear to my heart as life's warm stream 
 Wliich animates this mortal clay, 
 
 For thee I court the waking dream, 
 And deck with smiles the future day ; 
 
 And thus beguile the present pain 
 
 With hopes that we shall meet again. 
 
 Yet, will it be as when the past 
 
 Twined every joy, and care, and thought. 
 And o'er our minds one mantle cast 
 
 Of kind affections finely wrought ? 
 Ah no ! the groundless hope were vain. 
 For so we ne'er can meet again ! 
 
 May he who claims thy tender heart 
 Deserve its love, as I have done ! 
 
 For, kind and gentle as thou art, 
 If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won. 
 
 Bright may the sacred torch remain. 
 
 And cheer thee till we meet again ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter.— Born 1742, Died 1821. 
 
 1 1 15. —THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. 
 
 When hope lies dead within the heart. 
 By secret sorrow close conceal' d. 
 
Mrs. Opie.] 
 
 THE OEPHAN BOY'S TALE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 We shrink lest looks or words impart 
 What must not be reveal' d. 
 
 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep ; 
 
 To speak when one would silent be ; 
 To wake when one should wish to sleep, 
 
 And wake to agony. 
 
 Yet such the lot by thousands cast 
 Who wander in this world of care, 
 
 Ajid bend beneath the bitter blast, 
 To save them from despair. 
 
 But nature waits her guests to greet, 
 Where disappointment cannot come ; 
 
 And time guides with imerring feet 
 The weary wanderers home. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter.^Boni 1742, Died 1821. 
 
 1116.— THE OEPHAN BOY'S TALE. 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 
 
 And hear a helpless orphan's tale, 
 Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake, 
 
 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 
 Yet I was once a mother's pride. 
 
 And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 
 
 And I am now an ophan boy. 
 
 Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I 
 
 When news of Nelson's victory came, 
 Along the crowded streets to fly, 
 
 And see the lighted windows flame ! 
 To force me home my mother sought. 
 
 She could not bear to see my joy ; 
 For with my father's life 'twas bought, 
 
 And made me a poor orphan boy. 
 
 The people's shouts were long and loud, 
 
 My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
 " Eejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ; 
 
 My mother answer'd with her tears. 
 " WTiy are you crying thus," said I, 
 
 " While others laugh and shout with joy ? 
 She kiss'd me — and with such a sigh ! 
 
 She call'd me her poor orphan boy. 
 
 " What is an orphan boy ? " I cried. 
 As in her face I look'd, and smiled ; 
 
 My mother through her tears replied, 
 " You'U know too soon, ill-fated chUd !" 
 
 And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, 
 And I'm no more a parent's joy ; 
 
 lady, I have learn' d too well 
 
 ■ WTmt 'tis to be an orphan boy I 
 
 Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! 
 
 Nay, gentle lady, do not chide — 
 Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 
 
 The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
 Lady, you weep ! — ah P — this to me ? 
 
 You'll give me clothing, food, employ ? 
 
 Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 
 Your happy, happy orphan boy ! 
 
 Mrs. Opie.— Bom 1769, Died 1853. 
 
 1 1 17.— A LAMENT. 
 
 There was an eye whose partial glance 
 Could ne'er my numerous failings see ; 
 
 There was an ear that still imtired 
 Could listen to kind praise of me. 
 
 There was a heart Time only made 
 For me with fonder feelings burn ; 
 
 And which whene'er, alas ! I roved, 
 Still longed and pined for my return. 
 
 There was a lip which always breathed 
 
 E'en short farewells with tones of sadness ; 
 
 There was a voice whose eager sound 
 
 My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. 
 
 There was a mind, whose vigorous powers 
 On mine its fostering influence threw ; 
 
 And called my humble talents forth. 
 Till thence its dearest joys it drew. 
 
 There was a love that oft for me 
 With anxious fears would overflow ; 
 
 And wept and pray for me, and sought 
 From future ills to guard — but now 
 
 That eye is closed, and deaf that ear. 
 That lip and voice are mute for ever ! 
 
 And cold that heart of faithful love, 
 
 Which death alone from mine could sever ! 
 
 And lost to me that ardent mind. 
 Which loved my varied tasks to see ; 
 
 And, Oh ! of all the praise I gain'd. 
 This was the dearest far to me. 
 
 Now I, unloved, uncheer'd, alone. 
 Life's dreary wilderness must tread, 
 
 Till He who loves the broken heart 
 In mercy bids me join the dead. 
 
 But, "Father of the fatherless," 
 
 ! Thou that hear'st the orphan's cry. 
 And " dwellest with the contrite heart," 
 
 As weU as in " Thy place on high." — 
 
 Lord ! though like a faded leaf, 
 That's sever' d from its parent tree, 
 
 1 struggle down life's stormy tide, 
 That awful tide which leads to Thee. — 
 
 Still, Lord ! to thee the voice of praise 
 
 Shall spring triumphant from my breast ; 
 Since, though I tread a weary way, 
 
 1 trust that he I mourn is blest ! 
 
 Mrs. Opic.—Born 1769, Died 1853. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE HIGHLAND POOR. 
 
 [Mrs. Grant. 
 
 1 1 18.— SONG. 
 
 Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 
 
 New friends, new hopes, new joys to find ! 
 Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids, 
 
 To think on her thou leav'st behind. 
 Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, 
 
 Must never be my happy lot ; 
 But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, 
 
 Forget me not ! forget me not ! 
 
 Yet, should the thought of my distress 
 
 Too painful to thy feelings be, 
 Heed not the wish I now express. 
 
 Nor ever deign to think on me : 
 But oh ! if grief thy steps attend. 
 
 If want, if sickness be thy lot, 
 And thou requii-e a soothing friend. 
 
 Forget me not ! forget me not ! 
 
 Mrs. Opic.—Born 1769, Died 1853. 
 
 1 1 19.— ON A SPEIG OF HEATH. 
 
 Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns 
 For thee the brake and tangled wood — 
 
 To thy protecting shade she runs. 
 Thy tender buds supply her food ; 
 
 Her young forsake her downy plumes, 
 
 To rest upon thy opening blooms. 
 
 Flower of the desert though thou art ! 
 
 The deer that range the mountain free, 
 The graceful doe, the stately hart. 
 
 Their food and shelter seek from thee ; 
 The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 
 And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 
 
 Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom 
 Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; 
 
 Though thou dispense no rich perfume. 
 Nor yet with splendid tints allure. 
 
 Both valour's crest and beauty's bower 
 
 Oft hast thou deck'd, a favourite flower. 
 
 Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 
 Adorns the dusky mountain's side, 
 
 Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, 
 Nor garden's artful varied pride, 
 
 With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, 
 
 Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 
 
 Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild 
 Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; 
 
 To pluck thy blossoms in the \\dld. 
 And deck his bonnet with the wreath, 
 
 "Where dwelt of old his rustic sires. 
 
 Is all his simple wish requires. 
 
 Flower of his dear-loved native land ! 
 
 Alas, when distant far more dear ! 
 When he from some cold foreign strand, 
 
 Looks homeward through the blinding tear, 
 How must his aching heart deplore, 
 That home and thee he sees no more ! 
 
 Mrs. Grant.— Born 1754, Died 1838. 
 
 120.— THE HIGHLAND POOE. 
 
 the 
 
 Where yonder ridgy moiintains bound 
 
 scene. 
 The narrow opening glens that intervene 
 Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure. 
 One poorer than the rest — where all are 
 
 poor ; — _ 
 
 Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief. 
 Who to her secret breast confines her grief ; 
 Dejected sighs the wintry night away. 
 And lonely muses all the summer day : 
 Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's 
 
 charms, 
 Pursued the phantom Fame through war's 
 
 alarms, 
 Return no more; stretch' d on Hindostan's 
 
 plain. 
 Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main ; 
 In vain her eyes the watery waste explore 
 For heroes — fated to return no more ! 
 Let others bless the morning's reddening 
 
 beam. 
 Foe to her peace — it breaks the illusive 
 
 dream 
 That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, 
 Eestored the long-lost warriors to her breast ; 
 And as they strove, with smiles of filial love. 
 Their widowed parent's anguish to remove. 
 Through her small casement broke the in- 
 trusive day, 
 And chased the pleasing images away ! 
 No time can e'er her banish' d joys restore. 
 For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more. 
 The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye. 
 The " stiU small voice " of sacred sympathy. 
 In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, 
 Or steal from weary wo one languid smile ; 
 Yet what they can they do — the scanty 
 
 store. 
 So often open'd for the wandering poor, 
 To her each cottager complacent deals, 
 While the kind glance the melting heart 
 
 reveals ; 
 And stiU, when evening streaks the west with 
 
 gold. 
 The milky tribute from the lowing fold 
 With cheerful haste officious children bring, 
 And every smiling flower that decks the 
 
 spring : 
 Ah ! little know the fond attentive train. 
 That spring and flowerets smile for her in 
 
 vain : 
 Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe. 
 And of their little all a pax*t bestow. 
 Let those to wealth and proud distinction 
 
 born. 
 With the cold glance of insolence and scorn 
 Eegard the suppliant wretch, and harshly 
 
 grieve 
 The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve : 
 Far different these; while from a bounteous 
 
 heart 
 With the poor sufi'erer they divide a part ; 
 Humbly they o'svn that all they have is given 
 A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven : 
 
Mary Tighe.] THE MAEEIAGE OF CUPID AND PSYCHE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 And the next blighted crop or frosty spring 
 Themselves to equal indigence may bring. 
 
 3Irs, Gmnt—Boni 1754, Died 1838. 
 
 1 12 1. —THE MAERIAGE OF CUPID AND 
 PSYCHE J PSYCHE'S BANISHMENT. 
 
 -She rose, and all enchanted gazed 
 
 On the rare beauties of the pleasant scene : 
 Conspicuous far, a lofty palace blazed 
 Upon a sloping bank of softest green ; 
 A fairer edifice was never seen ; 
 The high-rang' d columns own no mortal 
 
 hand, 
 But seem a temple meet for Beauty's 
 
 queen ; 
 Like polished snow the marble pillars 
 stand, 
 In grace-attemper' d majesty, sublimely grand. 
 
 Gently ascending from a silvery flood. 
 Above the palace rose the shaded hill, 
 The lofty eminence was crown' d with Avood, 
 And the rich lawns, adorn' d by nature's 
 
 skill, 
 The passing breezes with their odours fill ; 
 Here ever-blooming groves of orange glow, 
 And here all flowers, which from their 
 
 leaves distil 
 Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow, ■ 
 And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade 
 
 bestow. 
 
 The sun looks glorious 'mid a sky serene. 
 And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide ; 
 The clear blue ocean at a distance seen, 
 Bounds the gay landscape on the western 
 
 side. 
 While closing round it with majestic pride. 
 The lofty rocks mid citron groves arise ; 
 " Sure some divinity must here reside," 
 As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche 
 
 cries. 
 And scarce beheves the bliss, or trusts her 
 
 charmed eyes. 
 
 When lo ! a voice divinely sweet she hears, 
 From xmseen lips proceeds the heavenly 
 
 sound : 
 " Psyche approach, dismiss thy timid fears. 
 At length his bride thy longing spouse has 
 
 found, 
 And bids for thee immortal joys abound ; 
 For thee the palace rose at his command. 
 For thee his love a bridal banquet crown' d; 
 He bids attendant nymphs around thee 
 
 stand. 
 Prompt every wish to serve — a fond obedient 
 
 band." 
 
 Increasing wonder fiU'd her ravish'd soul. 
 For now the pompous portals open'd wide, 
 
 There, pausing oft, with timid foot she 
 
 stole 
 Through haUs high-domed, enrich'd with 
 
 sculptured pride. 
 While gay saloons appear' d on either side, 
 In splendid vista opening to her sight ; 
 And all vclth precious gems so beautified, 
 And furnish' d with such exquisite delight, 
 That scarce the beams of heaven emit such 
 
 lustre bright. 
 
 The amethyst was there of violet hu6 
 And there the topaz shed its golden ray, 
 The chrysoberyl, and the sapphire blue 
 As the clear azure of a sunny day, 
 Or the mild eyes where amorous glances 
 
 play ; 
 The snow-white jasper, and the opal's 
 
 flame, 
 The blushing ruby, and the agate gray, 
 I And there the gem which bears his luckless 
 
 name 
 Whose death, by Phoebus mourn"d, insured 
 
 him deathless fame. 
 
 There the green emerald, there cornelians 
 
 glow, 
 And rich carbuncles pour eternal Hght, 
 With all that India and Peru can show, 
 Or Labrador can give so flaming bright 
 To the charm'd mariner's half-dazzled 
 
 sight : 
 The coral- paved baths with diamonds blaze ; 
 And all that can the female heart delight 
 Of fair attire, the last recess displays. 
 And all that luxury can ask, her eye surveys. 
 
 Now through the hall melodious music 
 
 stole. 
 And self-prepared the splendid banquet 
 
 stands. 
 Self -poured the nectar sparkles in the bowl. 
 The lute and viol, touch' d by unseen hands. 
 Aid the soft voices of the choral bands ; 
 O'er the full board a brighter lustre beams 
 Than Persia's monarch at his feast com- 
 mands : 
 For sweet refreshment all inviting seems 
 To taste celestial fpod, and pure ambrosial 
 streams. 
 
 I But when meek eve hung out her dewy 
 star, 
 And gently veiled with gradual hand the 
 
 sky, 
 Lo ! the bright folding doors retiring far. 
 Display to Psyche's captivated eye 
 All that voluptuous ease could o'er 
 
 supply 
 To soothe the spirits in serene repose : 
 Beneath the velvet's purple canopy. 
 Divinely form'd a downy couch arose, 
 ' While alabaster lamps a milky light disclose. 
 
 Once more she hears the hymeneal strain ; 
 Far other voices now attune the lay ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] THE MAEEIAGE OF CUPID AND PSYCHE. [Makt Tighe. 
 
 The swelling sounds approach, awhile 
 
 remain, 
 And then retiring, faint dissolved away ; 
 The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, 
 And soon in fragrant death extinguish' d 
 
 He: 
 Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay. 
 When through th' obscuring gloom she 
 
 nought can spy. 
 But softly rustling sounds declare some being 
 
 nigh. 
 
 Oh, you for whom I write ! whose hearts 
 
 can melt 
 At the soft thrilKng voice whose power 
 
 you prove, 
 You know what charm, unutterably felt, 
 Attends the unexpected voice of love : 
 Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above. 
 With sweet enchantment to the soul it 
 
 steals, 
 And bears it to Elysium's happy grove ; 
 You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels. 
 When love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen 
 
 seals. 
 
 " 'Tis he, 'tis my deliverer ! deep imprest 
 Upon my heart those sounds I well recall," 
 The blushing maid exclaim' d, and on his 
 
 breast 
 A tear of trembling ecstasy let fall. 
 But, ere the breezes of the morning call 
 Aurora from her purple, humid bed. 
 Psyche in vain explores the vacant hall ; 
 Her tender lover from her arms is fled, 
 WTiile sleep his downy wings had o'er her 
 
 eyelids spread. 
 
 ***** 
 Illumined bright now shines the splendid 
 
 dome. 
 Melodious accents her arrival hail : 
 But not the torch's blaze can chase the 
 
 gloom. 
 And all the soothing powers of music fail ; 
 Trembling she seeks her couch with horror 
 
 pale, • 
 
 But first a lamp conceals in secret shade. 
 While unknown terrors all her soul assail. 
 Thus half their treacherous counsel is 
 
 obey'd. 
 For still her gentle soul abhors the murderous 
 
 blade. 
 
 And now with softest whispers of delight, 
 Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly 
 
 dear; 
 Not unobserv'd, though hid in deepest 
 
 night. 
 The silent anguish of her secret fear. 
 He thisks that tenderness excites the tear, 
 By the late image of her parent's grief, 
 And half offended seeks in vain to cheer ; 
 Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel 
 relief. 
 Too soon more keen to sting from this sus- 
 pension brjef ! 
 
 Allow'd to settle on celestial eyes, 
 Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway. 
 From Psyche's anxious piUow gladly flies 
 To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent 
 
 ray 
 The powers of heaven submissively obey. 
 Trembling and breathless then shs softly 
 
 rose. 
 And seized the lamp, where it obscurely 
 
 lay, 
 With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
 The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er 
 
 her woes. 
 
 Twice, as with agitated step she went, 
 The lamp expiring shone with doubtful 
 
 gleam. 
 As though it warn'd her from her rash 
 
 intent : 
 And twice she paused, and on its trembling 
 
 beam 
 Gazed with suspended breath, while voices 
 
 With murmuring sound along the roof to 
 
 sigh; 
 As one just waking from a troublous dream, 
 With palpitating heart and straining eye, 
 StiU fix'd with fear remains, still thinks the 
 
 danger nigh. 
 
 Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay 
 To paint the wonders which that lamp 
 
 covild show ? 
 And canst thou hope in living words to say 
 The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? 
 Ah ! well I ween, that if with pencil true 
 That splendid vision could be well express' d, 
 The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew 
 Would seize with rapture every wondering 
 
 breast, 
 Wlien Love's all-potent charms divinely stood 
 
 confess'd. 
 
 All imperceptible to human touch. 
 His "svings display celestial essence light ; 
 The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, 
 The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly 
 
 bright. 
 That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the 
 
 sight ; 
 A youth he seems, in manhood's freshest 
 
 years ; 
 Bound his fair neck, as chnging with 
 
 delight. 
 Each golden curl resplendently appears, 
 Or shades his darker brow, which grace 
 
 majestic wears : 
 
 Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets 
 
 bright 
 Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, 
 That front than polished ivory more white ! 
 His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes 
 
 glow 
 Than roses scatter' d o'er a bed of snow : 
 While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews 
 
Maut Tighe.] 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 (Those lips di-vine, that even in silence 
 
 know 
 The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse, 
 Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly 
 
 sues. 
 
 The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
 Disclosed not yet his eyes' resistless sway, 
 But from their silky veil there seem'd to 
 
 peep 
 Some brilliant glances with a softened ray, 
 Which o'er his features exquisitely play. 
 And all his polish' d Hmbs suffuse with 
 
 light. 
 Thus through some narrow space the azure 
 
 day, 
 Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, 
 Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow 
 
 of night. 
 
 His fatal arrowa and celestial bow 
 Beside the couch were negligently thrown, 
 Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to 
 
 shoAv 
 His glorious birth ; such beauty round him 
 
 shone 
 As sure could spring from Beauty's self 
 
 alone ; 
 The bloom which glow'd o'er all of soft 
 
 desire 
 Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherish' d 
 
 son : 
 And Beauty's self will oft those charms 
 
 admire. 
 And steal his witching smile, his glance's 
 
 living fire. 
 
 Speechless with awe, in transport strangely 
 
 lost, 
 Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
 Her limbs immovable, her senses toss'd 
 Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy. 
 She ha-ngs enamour'd o'er the deity. 
 Till from her trembling hand extinguish' d 
 
 falls 
 The fatal lamp — he starts — and suddenly 
 Tremendous thunders echo through the 
 
 halls, 
 While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er th' 
 
 affrighted walls. 
 
 Dread horror seizes on her sinking heart, 
 A mortal chillness shudders at her breast, 
 Her soul shrinks fainting from death's icy 
 
 dart. 
 The groan scarce utter'd dies but half 
 
 express' d. 
 And down she sinks in deadly swoon 
 
 oppress'd ; 
 But when at length, awaking from her 
 
 trance. 
 The terrors of her fate stand all confess'd, 
 In vain she casts around her timid glance ; 
 The rudely frowning scenes her former joys 
 
 enhance. 
 
 No traces of those joys, alas, remain ! 
 
 A desert solitude alone appears ; 
 
 No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, 
 
 The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain 
 
 cheers ; 
 One barren face the dreary prospect wears : 
 Nought through the vast horizon meets her 
 
 eye 
 To calm the dismal tumult of her fears ; 
 No trace of human habitation nigh : 
 A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening 
 
 sky. 
 Mary TigJie.—Bom 1773, Died 1810. 
 
 1 1 22.— THE LILY. 
 
 How withered, perish'd seems the form 
 
 Of yon obscure unsightly root ! 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm, 
 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 
 The careless eye can find no grace, 
 
 No beauty in the scaly folds, 
 Nor see within the dark embrace 
 
 What latent loveliness it holds. 
 
 Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 
 
 The lily wraps her silver vest. 
 Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once *more her fragrant breast. 
 
 Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap 
 The undelighting slighted thing ; 
 
 There in the cold earth buried deep, 
 In silence let it wait the spring. 
 
 Oh ! many a stormy night shall close 
 In gloom upon the barren earth, 
 
 While still, in undisturb'd repose, 
 Uninjured lies the future birth : 
 
 And Ignorance with sceptic eye, 
 
 Hope's patient smile shall wondering view ; 
 ^r mock her fond credulity, 
 
 As her soft tears the spot bedew. 
 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! 
 
 The sun, the shower indeed shall come ; 
 The promis'd verdant shoot appear. 
 
 And nature bid her blossoms bloom. 
 
 And thou, O virgin queen of spring ! 
 
 Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed. 
 Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, 
 
 Unveil thy charms and perfume shed ; 
 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white. 
 
 Unsullied from their darksome grave, 
 
 And thy soft petals' silvery light 
 In the mild breeze unfettered waVfe. 
 
 So Faith shall seek the lowly dust ' 
 Where humble Sorrow loves to Ke, 
 
 And bid her thus her hopes intrust. 
 And watch with patient, ^cheerful eye ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE FAEMER'S LIFE. 
 
 [RoBT. Bloomfield. 
 
 And bear the long, cold wintry night, 
 And bear her own degraded doom ; 
 
 And wait till Heaven's reviving light, 
 Eternal spring ! shall burst the gloom. 
 
 Mary Tighe.—Born 1773, Died 1810. 
 
 1 123. 
 
 -THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 
 The farmer's life displays ra every part 
 A moral lesson to the sensual heart. 
 Though in the lap of plenty, thoughtful still, 
 He looks beyond the present good or Ul ; 
 Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth, 
 From changeful seasons, or capricious earth ! 
 But views the future with the present hours, 
 And looks for failures as he looks for showers ; 
 For casual as for certain want prepares, 
 And round his yard the reeking haystack 
 
 rears ; 
 Or clover, blossom' d lovely to the sight, 
 His team's rich store through many a wintry 
 
 night. 
 What though abundance round his dwelling 
 
 spreads. 
 Though ever moist his self-improving meads 
 Supply his dairy with a copious flood. 
 And seem to promise unexhausted food ; 
 That promise fails when buried deep in snow. 
 And vegetative juices cease to flow. 
 For this his plough turns up the destined 
 
 lands. 
 Whence stormy winter draws its full demands ; 
 For this the seed minutely small he sows, 
 Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip 
 
 ^ows. 
 But how unlike to April's closing days ! 
 High climbs the sun and darts his powerful 
 
 rays; 
 Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces 
 
 through 
 The cumbrous clods that tumble round the 
 
 plough. 
 O'er heaven's bright azure, hence with jojrful 
 
 eyes 
 The farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise ; 
 Borne o'er his flelds a heavy torrent falls, 
 And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. 
 " Right welcome down, ye precious drops," 
 
 he cries ; 
 But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. • 
 " Boy, bring the harrows, try how deep the 
 
 rain 
 Has forced its way." He comes, but comes in 
 
 vain ; 
 Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks, 
 And mocks his pains the more the more he 
 
 works. 
 Still, 'midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn, 
 That laugh his harrows and the showers to 
 
 scorr.. 
 E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool. 
 Resists the stormy lectures of the school, 
 
 Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to 
 
 please, 
 His head imbibes right reason by degrees ; 
 As when from eve till morning's wakeful 
 
 hour, 
 Light constant rain evinces secret power, 
 And, ere the day resumes its wonted smiles. 
 Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles. 
 Down with a touch the mellow soil is laid, 
 And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid ; 
 Thither well-pleased he hies, assured to find 
 Wild trackless haimts, and objects to his 
 
 mind. 
 Shut up from broad rank blades that droop 
 
 below. 
 The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, 
 With milky kernels starting full weigh' d 
 
 down. 
 Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with 
 
 brown : 
 There thousands in a flock,'for ever gay. 
 Loud chirping sparrows welcome in the day, 
 And from the mazes of the leafy thorn 
 Drop one by one upon the bending com. 
 Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, 
 And round the grass-grown dewy border 
 
 beats. 
 On either side completely overspread, 
 Here branches bend, there com o'erstoops his 
 
 head. 
 Green covert hail ! for through the varying 
 
 year 
 No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. 
 Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
 His frequent intervals of lonely ease. 
 And with one ray his infant soul inspires, 
 Just kindling there her never-dying fires. 
 Whence solitude derives peculiar charms. 
 And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
 Just where the parting bough's light shadows 
 
 play, 
 Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching 
 
 day, 
 Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, 
 Where swarming insects creep around his 
 
 head. 
 The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with 
 
 pain 
 O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious 
 
 plain ! 
 Thence higher still, by countless steps con- 
 vey' d, 
 He gains the summit of a shivering blade, 
 And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, 
 Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
 The tender speckled moth here dancing seen. 
 The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 
 And all prolific Summer's sporting train. 
 Their Httle lives by various powers sustain. 
 But what can unassisted vision do ? 
 What but recoil where most it would pursue ; 
 His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, 
 When Music waking speaks the skylark nigh. 
 Just starting from the corn, he cheerily sings, 
 And trusts with conscious pride his downy 
 
 wings; 
 
 57* 
 
RoBT. Bloomfield.] banquet OF AN ENGLISH SQUIEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Still louder breathes, and in the face of day- 
 Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his 
 
 way. 
 Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
 And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
 Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, 
 And place the wandering bird before his sight, 
 That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along, 
 Lost for awhile, yet pours the varied song ; 
 The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by. 
 Again he stretches up the clear blue sky ; 
 His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite, 
 Save when he wheels direct from shade to 
 
 Hght: 
 E'en then the songster a mere speck became, 
 Gliding like fancy's bubbles in a dream, 
 The gazer sees ; but yielding to repose, 
 Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
 Delicious sleep ! From sleep who could for- 
 bear, 
 With guHt no more than Giles, and no more 
 
 care; 
 Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian 
 
 wing, 
 Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a 
 
 sting ; 
 He wakes refresh' d from every trivial pain. 
 And takes his pole, and brushes round again. 
 Its dark green hue, its sicklier tints all 
 
 fail, 
 And ripening harvest rustles in the gale. 
 A glorious sight, if glory dwells below, 
 Where heaven's munificence makes all things 
 
 show. 
 O'er every field and golden prospect found. 
 That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's 
 
 round ; 
 When on some eminence he takes his stand, 
 To judge the smiling produce of the land. 
 Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide ; 
 What is there here to flatter human pride ? 
 The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar, 
 And steadfast columns may astonish more. 
 Where the charm' d gazer long delighted stays, 
 Yet traced but to the architect the praise ; 
 Whilst here the veriest clown that treads the 
 
 sod. 
 Without one scruple gives the praise to God ; 
 And twofold joys possess his raptured mind, 
 From gratitude and admiration join'd. 
 Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her 
 
 worth. 
 Nature herself invites the reapers forth ; 
 Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's 
 
 rest, 
 And gives that ardour which in every breast 
 From infancy to ago alike appears, 
 When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. 
 No rake takes here what Heaven to all 
 
 bestows — 
 Children of want, for you the bounty flows ! 
 And every cottage from the plenteous store 
 Receives a burden nightly at its door. 
 
 Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips 
 
 along ; 
 Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, 
 
 Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, 
 Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries ; 
 Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet. 
 But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. 
 Come Health! come Jollity! light-footed 
 
 come ; 
 Here hold your revels, and make this your 
 
 home. 
 Each heart awaits and hails you as its own : 
 Each moisten' d brow that scorns to wear a 
 
 frown : 
 The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants 
 
 stray'd : 
 E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid 
 Hies to the field the general toil to share. 
 Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow-chair, 
 His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease, 
 And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees 
 His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, 
 The ready group attendant on his word 
 To turn the swath, the quivering load to rear, 
 Or ply the busy rake the land to clear. 
 Summer's light garb itseK now cumbrous 
 
 grown. 
 Each his thin doublet in the shade throws 
 
 down : 
 Where oft the mastiff skulks with half- shut 
 
 eye. 
 And rouses at the stranger passing by ; 
 While unrestrain'd the social converse flows. 
 And every breast Love's powerful impulse 
 
 knows, 
 And rival wits with more than rustic grace 
 Confess the presence of a pretty face. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield.—Born 1766, Died 1823. 
 
 1 1 24.— BANQUET OF AN ENGLISH 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Then came the jovial day, no streaks of red 
 O'er the broad portal of the morn were 
 
 spread, 
 But one high-sailing mist of dazzling v/hite, 
 A screen of gossamer, a magic light, 
 Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's 
 
 ken, 
 To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten. 
 O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power 
 
 restored, 
 Forth came the conquering sun and look'd 
 
 abroad ; 
 Millions of dew-drops feU, yet milUons hung, 
 Like words of transport trembling on the 
 
 tongue, 
 Too strong for utterance. Thus the infant 
 
 boy. 
 With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to 
 
 joy. 
 Weeps while he struggles with restraint or 
 
 pain ; 
 But change the scene, and make him laugh 
 
 again, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S HOME. 
 
 [EoBT. Bloomfield. 
 
 His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears 
 A thousand times more lovely through his 
 
 tears. 
 From the first glimpse of day, a busy scene 
 Was that high- swelling lavm, that destined 
 
 green, 
 Wliich shadowless expanded far and wide, 
 The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride ; 
 To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive. 
 Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five ; 
 There his whole household labour'd in his 
 
 view — 
 But hght is labour where the task is new. 
 Some wheeled the turf to build a grassy 
 
 throne 
 Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs 
 
 alone, 
 Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place ; 
 Five generations of the Higham race 
 Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his 
 
 sway, 
 Waved his white head, and felt the breath of 
 
 May. 
 Some from the greenhouse ranged exotics 
 
 round, 
 To bask in open day on English ground : 
 And 'midst them in a hne of splendour drew 
 Long wreaths and garlands gather'd in the 
 
 dew. 
 Some spread the snowy canvass, propp'd on 
 
 high 
 O'er sheltering tables with their whole supply; 
 Some swung the biting scythe with merry face, 
 And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space ; 
 Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might, 
 From prison darkness into cheerful light. 
 And fenced him round with cans ; and others 
 
 bore 
 The creaking hamper with its costly store ; 
 WeU cork'd, well flavour'd, and well tax'd, 
 
 that came 
 From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame, 
 Whence Gama steer' d, and led the conquering 
 
 way 
 To eastern triumphs and the realms of day. 
 A thousand minor tasks fill'd every hour. 
 Till the sun gain'd the zenith of his power, 
 When every path was thronged with old and 
 
 young. 
 And many a skylark in liis strength upsprung 
 To bid them welcome. Not a face was there 
 But, for May-day at least, had banish' d care ; 
 No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell, 
 No timid glance — ^they knew their host too 
 
 well — 
 Freedom was there, and joy in every eye : 
 Such scenes were England's boast in days 
 
 gone by. 
 Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose 
 
 found, 
 His guests an ample crescent form'd around ; 
 Nature's own carpet spread the space between. 
 Where blithe domestics plied in gold and 
 
 The venerable chaplain waved his wand. 
 And silence follow' d as he stretch' d his hand 
 
 The deep carouse can never boast the bliss, 
 
 The animation of a scene like this. 
 
 At length the damask' d cloths were whisk' d 
 
 away 
 Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day ; 
 The hey-day of enjoyment found repose ; 
 The worthy baronet majestic rose. 
 They view'd him, while his ale wa^ filling- 
 
 round. 
 The monarch of his own paternal ground. 
 His cup was full, and where the blossoms 
 
 bow'd 
 Over his head. Sir Ambrose spoke aloud. 
 Nor stopp'd a dainty form or phrase to cull. 
 His heart elated, like his cup was full : — 
 " Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that 
 
 faU; 
 Health to my neighbours, happiness to all." 
 Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's 
 
 sleet, 
 Who would not instantly be on his feet : 
 An echoing health to mingling shouts give 
 
 place, 
 " Sir Ambrose Higham and his noble race ! " 
 
 Robert Bloowfield.—Bom 1766, Died 1823. 
 
 1 1 25. —THE SOLDIER'S HOME. 
 
 My untried Muse shall no high tone assume, 
 Nor strut in arms — farewell my cap and 
 
 plume ! 
 Brief be my verse, a task within my power ; 
 I teU my feehngs in one happy hour : 
 But what an hour was that ! when from the 
 
 main 
 I reach' d this lovely valley once again ! 
 A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight. 
 Half shock' d, half waving in a flood of light ; 
 On that poor cottage roof where I was born. 
 The sun look'd down as in life's early morn. 
 I gazed around, but not a soul appear' d ; 
 I listen' d on the threshold, nothing heard ; 
 I called my father thrice, but no one came ; 
 It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, 
 But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home. 
 Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. 
 The door invitingly stood open wide ; 
 I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. 
 How sweet it was to breathe that cooler 
 
 air. 
 And take possession of my father's chair ! 
 Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, 
 Appear'd the rough initials of my name, 
 Cut forty years before ! The same old clock 
 Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a 
 
 shock 
 I never can forget. A short breeze sprung. 
 And while a sigh was trembling on my 
 
 tongue. 
 Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, 
 And up they flew like banners m the wind ; 
 
RoBT. Bloomfield.] 
 
 TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Then gently, singly, down, down, down they 
 
 went, 
 And told of twenty years that I had spent 
 Far from my native land. That instant 
 
 came 
 A robin on the threshold ; though so tame, 
 At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, 
 And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, 
 And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) 
 " Ah ha ! old worn-out soldier, is it you ? " 
 Through the room ranged the imprison' d 
 
 humble bee, 
 And bomb'd, and bounced, and struggled to 
 
 be free ; 
 Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, 
 That threw their diamond sunlight on the | 
 
 floor ; I 
 
 That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy 
 
 stray'd, i 
 
 O'er undulating waves the broom had made ; I 
 Reminding me of those of hideous forms | 
 
 That met us as we pass'd the Cape of storms, j 
 Where high and loud they break, and peace ! 
 
 comes never ; 
 They roll and foam, and roll and foam for 
 
 ever. 
 But here was peace, that peace which home 
 
 can yield ; 
 The grasshopper, the partridge in the field. 
 And ticking clock, were aU at once become 
 The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum. 
 While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing 
 
 still, 
 On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 
 I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen 
 Had been so lovely, brilhant, fresh, and 
 
 green, 
 And guess' d some infant hand had placed it 
 
 there, 
 And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 
 Feelings on feelings mingling, doubhng rose ; 
 My keart felt everything but calm repose ; 
 I could not reckon nainutes, hours, nor years, 
 But rose at once, and bursted into tears ; 
 Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, 
 And thought upon the past with shame and 
 
 pain; 
 I raved at war and all its horrid cost. 
 And glory's quagmire, where the brave are 
 
 lost. 
 On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, 
 And cursed the murdering weapons I had 
 
 used. 
 Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard. 
 One bespoke age, and one a child's appear' d. 
 In stepp'd my father with convulsive start. 
 And in an instant clasp' d me to his heart. 
 Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ; 
 And stooping to the child, the old man said, 
 " Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again. 
 This is your uncle Charles, come home from 
 
 Spain." 
 The child approach' d, and with her fingers 
 
 Hght, 
 Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of 
 
 sight. 
 
 But why thus spin my tale — thus tedious be ? 
 Happy old soldier ! what 's the world to me ! 
 
 Robert Bloomfield.— Born 1766, Died 1823. 
 
 1 1 26.— TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest, 
 
 A wandering, way-worn, musing, singing 
 
 guest. 
 I claim the privilege of hill and plain ; 
 Mine are the woods, and all that they con- 
 tain ; 
 The unpolluted gale, which sweeps the glade ; 
 All the cool blessings of the solemn shade ; 
 Health, and the flow of happiness sincere ; 
 Yet there's one wish — I wish that thou wert 
 
 here ; 
 Free from the trammels of domestic care, 
 With me these dear autumnal sweets to share ; 
 To share my heart's ungovernable joy, 
 And keep the birthday of our poor lame boy. 
 Ah ! that 's a tender string ! Yet since I find 
 That scenes like these can soothe the harass'd 
 
 mind. 
 Trust me, 'twould set thy jaded spirits free. 
 To wander thus through vales and woods with 
 
 me. 
 Thou know'st how much I love to steal away 
 From noise, from uproar, and the blaze of 
 
 day; 
 With double transport would my heart re- 
 bound 
 To lead thee where the clustering nuts are 
 
 found ; 
 No toilsome efforts would our task demand. 
 For the brown treasure stoops to meet the 
 
 hand. 
 Round the tall hazel beds of moss appear 
 In green swards nibbled by the forest deer, 
 Sun, and alternate shade ; while o'er our 
 
 heads 
 The cawing rook his glossy pinions spreads ; 
 The noisy jay, his wild woods dashing 
 
 through ; 
 The ring-dove's chorus, and the rustling 
 
 bough ; 
 The far-resounding gate ; the kite's shrill 
 
 scream ; 
 The distant ploughman's halloo to his team. 
 This is the chorus to my soul so dear ; 
 It would delight thee too, wert thou but 
 
 here : 
 For we might talk of home, and muse o'er 
 
 days 
 Of sad distress, and Heaven's mysterious 
 
 ways ; 
 Our chequer' d fortunes with a smile retrace. 
 And build new hopes upon our infant race ; 
 Pour our thanksgivings forth, and weep the 
 
 while ; 
 Or pray for blessings on our native isle. 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 LINES TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 [RoBT. Bloomfield. 
 
 But vain the wish ! Majy, thy sighs forbear, 
 Nor grudge the pleasure which thou canst not 
 
 share ; 
 Make home delightful, kindly wish for me, 
 And I'll leave hills, and dales, and woods for 
 
 thee. 
 
 B&hert Bloomfield.— Born 1766, IHed 1823. 
 
 1 127.— SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER 
 RETURNING FROM ENGLAND. 
 
 Now fare-thee-well, England : no further I'll 
 
 roam ; 
 But follow my shadow that points the way 
 
 home : 
 Your gay southern shores shall not tempt me 
 
 to stay ; 
 For my Maggy's at home, and my children at 
 
 play! 
 'Tis this makes my bonnet sit light on my 
 
 brow, 
 Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom 
 
 its glow. 
 
 my companions, 
 
 Farewell, mountaineers 
 
 adieu ; 
 Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from 
 
 you, 
 I shall miss your white horns on the brink of 
 
 the bum, 
 And o'er the rough heaths, where you'll never 
 
 return ; 
 But in brave English pastures you caimot 
 
 complain. 
 While your drover speeds back to his Maggy 
 
 For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my 
 
 breast, 
 And fortitude grows both from toil and from 
 
 rest ; 
 May your deeds and your worth be for ever 
 
 in view, 
 And may Maggj' bear sons not unworthy 
 
 you. 
 
 Love, why do you urge me, so weary and 
 
 poor? 
 I cannot step faster, I cannot do more : 
 I've passed silver Tweed ; e'en the Tay flows 
 
 behind ; 
 Yet fatigue I'll disdain ; — my reward I shall 
 
 find; 
 Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my 
 
 prize ; 
 And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue 
 
 eyes. 
 
 She'll watch to the southward ; — perhaps she 
 
 will sigh, 
 That the way is so long, and the mountains 
 
 so high ; 
 Perhaps some huge rock in the dusk she may 
 
 see, 
 And will say in her fondness, " that surely is 
 
 he! " 
 Good wife, you're deceived : I'm still far from 
 
 my home ; 
 Go, sleep, my dear Maggy, — to-morrow I'll 
 
 corae. * 
 
 Robert Bloomfield.— Born 1766, Died 1823. 
 
 112S. 
 
 -LINES ADDRESSED TO MY 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 O Tweed ! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green 
 
 vales, 
 More than life, more than love, my tired spirit 
 
 inhales ; i 
 
 There Scotland, my darling, Hes full in my j 
 
 view, j 
 
 With her bare-footed lasses and mountains so ' 
 
 blue ; I 
 
 To the mountains away my heart bounds like 
 
 the hind. 
 For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind. 
 
 As day after day I still follow my course, 
 And in fancy trace back every stream to its 
 
 source, 
 Hope cheers me up hUls, where the road lies 
 
 before. 
 O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild 
 
 moor; 
 The keen polar star nightly rising to view ; 
 But Maggy's my star, just as steady and true. 
 
 O ghosts of my fathers ! O heroes, look 
 down I ^ ! 
 
 Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of ! 
 renown ; 
 
 Genius of the forest shades. 
 
 Lend thy power, and lend thine ear ; 
 A stranger trod thy lonely glades, 
 
 Amidst thy dark and bounding deer ; 
 Inquiring childhood claims the verse, 
 
 O let them not inquire in vain ; 
 Be with me while I thus rehearse 
 
 The glories of thy sylvan reign. 
 
 Thy deUs by wintry currents worn. 
 
 Secluded haunts, how dear to me ! 
 From all but nature's converse borne, 
 
 No ear to hear, no eye to see. 
 Their honour'd leaves the green oaks rear'd, 
 
 And crown' d the upland's graceful swell ; 
 While answering through the vale was heard 
 
 Each distant heifer's tinkling bell. 
 
 Hail, greenwood shades, that, stretching far. 
 
 Defy e'en summer's noontide power, 
 When August in his burning car 
 
 Withholds the clouds, withholds the shower. 
 The deeptoned low from either hill, 
 
 Down hazel aisles and arches green 
 (The herd's rude tracks from rill to rill), 
 
 Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene. 
 
John Leyden.] 
 
 DYING IN A FOEEIGN LAND. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 From my chann'd "heart the numbers sprung, 
 
 Thoug-h birds had ceased the choral lay ; 
 I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue, 
 
 And gave deUcious tears their way. 
 Then, darker shadows seeking still, 
 
 "Where human foot had seldom strayed, 
 I read aloud to every hill 
 
 Sweet Emma's love, "the Nut-brown maid." 
 
 Shaking his matted mane on high, 
 
 The gazing colt would raise his head, 
 Or timorous doe would rushing fly, 
 
 And leave to me her grassy bed ; 
 Where, as the a2ure sky appeared 
 
 Through bowers of ever varying form, 
 'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard 
 
 The daring progress of the storm. 
 
 How would each sweeping ponderous bough 
 
 Eesist, when straight the whirlwind cleaves, 
 Dashing in strengthening eddies through 
 
 A roaring wilderness of leaves ? 
 How would the prone descending shower 
 
 From the green canopy rebound ? 
 How would the lowland torrents pour ? 
 
 How deep the pealing thunder sound ? 
 
 But peace was there : no lightnings blazed ; 
 , No clouds obscured the face of heaven ; 
 
 Down each green opening while I gazed, 
 
 My thoughts to home and you were given. 
 0, tender minds ! in life's gay morn. 
 
 Some clouds must dim your coming day ; 
 Yet bootless, pride and falsehood scorn, 
 
 And peace like this shall cheer your way. 
 
 Now, at the dark wood's stately side, 
 
 Well pleased I met the sun again ; 
 Here fleeting fancy travell'd wide ; 
 
 My seat was destined to the main. 
 For many an oak lay stretch' d at length. 
 
 Whose trunks (with barknolonger sheathed) 
 Had reach' d their full meridian strength 
 
 Before your father's father breathed ! 
 
 Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave 
 
 And many a dreadful storm defy ; 
 Then, groaning o'er the adverse wave. 
 
 Bring home the flag of victory. 
 Go, then, proud oaks, we meet no more ! 
 
 Go, grace the scenes to me denied. 
 The white cliffs round my native shore. 
 
 And the loud ocean's swelling tide. 
 
 " Genius of the forest shades," 
 
 Sweet from the heights of thy domain, 
 When the gray evening shadow fades, 
 
 To view the country's golden grain ; 
 To view the gleaming village spire 
 
 'Midst distant groves unknown to me — 
 Groves that, grown bright in borrow'd fire. 
 
 Bow o'er the peopled vales to thee. 
 
 Where was thy elfin train, that play 
 
 Round Wake's huge oak, their favourite 
 tree. 
 
 Dancing the twilight hours away ? 
 Why were they not revealed to me ? 
 
 Yet, smiling fairies left behind. 
 Affection brought you aU to view ; 
 
 To love and tenderness resigned. 
 
 My heart heaved many a sigh f cr you. - 
 
 Wlien morning still unclouded rose, 
 
 Eefresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams. 
 Where fruitful fields with woodlands close, 
 
 I traced the births of various streams. 
 From beds of clay, here creeping rills, 
 
 Unseen to parent Ouse, would steal ; 
 Or, gushing from the northward hills, 
 
 Would glitter through Tove's winding dale. 
 
 But ah ! ye cooling springs, farewell ! 
 
 Herds, I no more your freedom share ; 
 But long my grateful tongue shall teU 
 
 What brought your gazing stranger there. 
 " Genius of the forest shades," 
 
 Lend thy power, and lend thine ear ; 
 But dreams still lengthen thy long glades, 
 
 And bring thy peace and silence here. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield.—Born 1766, Died 1823. 
 
 1 129.— DYING IN A FOREIGN LAND. 
 
 The silver moon at midnight cold and still, 
 Looks, sad and silent, o'er yon western hill ; 
 ■While large and pale the ghostly structures 
 
 grow, 
 Rear'd on the confines of the world below. 
 Is that duU sound the hum of Teviot's 
 
 stream ? 
 Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's 
 
 gleam ? 
 By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen. 
 The old deserted church of Hazeldean, 
 Where slept my fathers in their natal clay. 
 Till Teviot's waters roUed their bones away ? 
 Their feeble voices from the stream they 
 
 raise — 
 " Rash youth ! unmindful of thy early days, 
 Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple 
 
 lot? 
 Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf -built 
 
 cot. 
 The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie, 
 And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd 
 
 by? 
 And we — when death so long has closed our 
 
 eyes. 
 How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise, 
 And bear our mouldering bones across the 
 
 main. 
 From vales that knew our lives devoid of 
 
 stain ? 
 Rash youth ! beware, thy home-bred virtues 
 I save, 
 
 j Arcs sweetly sleep m thy paternal grave." 
 
 I John Leyden.— Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 [John Leyden. 
 
 1 130.— SONNET ON SABBATH MOEN. 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
 That scarcely wakes while all the fields are 
 
 still; 
 A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 
 A graver murmur echoes from the hill, 
 And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
 The skj'lark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
 Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn I 
 The sky a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
 The gales that lately sigh'd along the grove 
 Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead 
 
 repose ; 
 The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move ; 
 So soft the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 II' 
 
 •ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD 
 COIN. 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 
 
 What vanity has brought thee here ? 
 How can I love to see thee shine 
 
 So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 
 
 The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
 For tvrilight converse, arm in arm ; 
 
 The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
 When mirth and music wont to cheer. 
 
 By Cherical's dark wandering streams. 
 Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
 
 Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
 Of Teviot loved while still a child, 
 Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
 
 By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 
 
 Where loves of youthand friendships smiled, 
 
 Uncursed by thee, vile yeUow slave ! 
 
 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 
 
 The perish' d bliss of youth's first prime. 
 That once so bright on fancy played, 
 
 Revives no more in after-time. 
 
 Far from my sacred natal clime, 
 I haste to an untimely grave ; 
 
 The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime 
 Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
 
 A gentle vision comes by night 
 
 My lonely widowed heart to cheer : 
 Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
 
 That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
 Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 
 
 I cannot bear to see thee shine. 
 
 For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
 I left a heart that loved me true ! 
 
 I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, 
 To roam in climes tmkind and new. 
 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 Chill on my withered heart ; the grave 
 
 Dark and untimely met my view — 
 An3. all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock 
 
 A wanderer's banished heart forlorn^ 
 Now that his frame the lightning shock 
 
 Of sun-rays tipt with death was borne ? 
 
 From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey ; 
 
 VUe slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
 Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 1 132.— THE MERMAID. 
 
 On Jura's heath how sweetly swell 
 The murmurs of the mountain bee ! 
 
 How softly mourns the writhed shell 
 Of Jura's shore, its parent sea ! 
 
 But softer floating o'er the deep. 
 
 The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, 
 
 That charm' d the dancing waves to sleep, 
 Before the bark of Colonsay. 
 
 Aloft the purple pennons wave. 
 
 As, parting gay from Crinan's shore. 
 
 From Morven's wars, the seamen brave 
 Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. 
 
 In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail 
 Still blamed the Ungering bark's delay : 
 
 For her he chid the flagging sail. 
 The lovely maid of Colonsay. 
 
 " And raise," he cried, "the song of love. 
 The maiden sung with tearful smile, 
 
 "SVhen first, o'er Jura's hills to rove. 
 We left afar the lonely isle ! " 
 
 " When on this ring of ruby red 
 
 Shall die," she said, " the crimson hue, 
 
 Know that thy favourite fair is dead. 
 Or proves to thee and love untrue." 
 
 Now, lightly poised, the rising oar 
 Disperses wide the foamy spray, 
 
 And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, 
 Resounds the song of Colonsay. 
 
 " Softly blow, thou western breeze, 
 Softly rustle through the sail ! 
 
 Soothe to rest the f arrowy seas. 
 
 Before my love, sweet western gale ! 
 
 Where the wave is tinged with red, 
 And the russet sea-leaves grow, 
 
 Mariners, with prudent dread, 
 Shun the shelving reefs below. 
 
OHN LeTDEN.] 
 
 THE MEEMAID. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 As you pass through Jura's sound, 
 Bend your course by Scarba's shore ; 
 
 Shun, O shun, the gulf profound, 
 Where Corrievreckin's surges roar ! 
 
 If from that unbottom'd deep, 
 
 With wrinkled form and wreathed train, 
 O'er the verge of Scarba's steep. 
 
 The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, 
 
 Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils. 
 
 Sea-green sisters of tbe main, 
 And in the gulf where ocean boils, 
 
 The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. 
 
 Softly blow, thou western breeze, 
 
 Softly rustle through the sail ! 
 Soothe to rest the furrow' d seas, 
 
 Before my love, sweet western gale ! " 
 
 Thus all to soothe the chieftain's wo, 
 Far from the maid he loved so dear, 
 
 The song arose, so s6ft and slow. 
 He seem'd her parting sigh to hear. 
 
 The lonely deck he paces o'er. 
 
 Impatient for the rising day, 
 And still from Crinan's moonlight shore,' 
 
 He turns his eyes to Colonsay. 
 
 The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, 
 That streaks with foam the ocean green ; 
 
 While forward stiU the rowers urge 
 Their course, a female form was seen. 
 
 That sea-maid's form, of pearly light. 
 Was whiter than the downy spray, 
 
 And round her bosom, heaving bright, 
 Her glossy yellow ringlets play. 
 
 Borne on a foamy crested wave, 
 
 She reached amain the bounding prow. 
 
 Then clasping fast the chieftain brave. 
 She, plunging, sought the deep below. 
 
 Ah ! long beside thy feigned bier. 
 
 The monks the prayer of death shall say, 
 
 And long for thee, the fruitless tear. 
 Shall weep the maid of Colonsaj'^ ! 
 
 But downward like a powerless corse. 
 The eddying waves the chieftain bear ; 
 
 He only heard the moaning hoarse 
 Of waters murmuring in his ear. 
 
 The murmurs sink by slow degrees, 
 No more the waters round him rave ; 
 
 LuU'd by the music of the seas. 
 He lies within a coral cave. 
 
 In dreamy mood reclines he long, 
 Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, 
 
 Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song 
 Far in the crystal cavern rose. 
 
 Soft as that harp's unseen control, 
 In morning dreams which lovers hear, 
 
 WTiose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul. 
 But never reach the waking ear. 
 
 As sunbeams through the tepid air. 
 
 When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, 
 
 Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, 
 And fields that glow with livelier green— 
 
 So melting soft the music fell ; 
 
 It seem'd to soothe the fluttering spray — 
 " Say, heard' st thou not these wild notes swell : 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the song of Colonsay." 
 
 Like one that from a fearful dream 
 Awakes, the morning light to view, 
 
 And joys to see the purple beam. 
 Yet fears to find the vision true. 
 
 He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, 
 "Which bade his torpid languor fly ; 
 
 He fear'd some speU had bound his feet, 
 And hardly dared his limbs to try. 
 
 " This yellow sand, this sparry cave, 
 Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway; 
 
 Can'st thou the maiden of the wave 
 Compare to her of Colonsay ? " 
 
 Roused by that voice of silver sound. 
 From the paved floor he lightly sprung. 
 
 And glancing wild his eyes around 
 
 Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung, 
 
 No form he saw of mortal mould ; 
 
 It shone like ocean's snowy foam ; 
 Her ringlets waved in living gold. 
 
 Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb. 
 
 Her pearly comb the siren took, 
 
 And careless bound her tresses wild ; 
 
 Still o'er the mirror stole her look, 
 As on the wondering youth she smiled. 
 
 Like music from the greenwood tree, 
 • Again she raised the melting lay ; 
 " Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, 
 And leave the maid of Colonsay ? 
 
 Fair is the crystal hall for me 
 
 With rubies and with emeralds set ; 
 
 And sweet the music of the sea 
 
 Shall sing, when we for love are mot. 
 
 How sweet to dance with gliding feet 
 
 Along the level tide so green, 
 Eesponsive to the cadence sweet 
 
 That breathes along the moonlight scene ! 
 
 And soft the music of the main 
 
 Rings from the motley tortoise-shell, 
 
 While moonbeams o'er the watery plain 
 Seem trembling in its fitful swell. 
 
 How sweet, when billows heave their head, 
 And shake their snowy crests on high, 
 
 Serene in Ocean's sapphire-bed 
 
 Beneath the tumbling surge to lie ; 
 
 To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, 
 Where pearly drops of frozen dew 
 
 In concave shells unconscious sleep. 
 Or shine with lustre, silvery blue ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 [John Leyden. 
 
 Then all the summer sun, from far, 
 Pour through the wave a softer ray ; 
 
 While diamonds in a bower of spar, 
 At eve shall shed a brighter day. 
 
 Xor stormy wind, nor wintry gale, 
 That o'er the angry ocean sweep, 
 
 Shall e'er our coral groves assail, 
 Calm in the bosom of the deep. 
 
 Through the green meads beneath the sea, 
 Enamour' d we shall fondly stray — 
 
 Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me. 
 And leave the maid of Colonsay ! " 
 
 " Though bright thy locks of glistening gold, 
 Fair maiden of the foamy main ! 
 
 Thy life-blood is the water cold, 
 
 While mine beats high in every vein : 
 
 If I, beneath thy sparry cave, 
 
 Should in thy snowy arms recline, 
 
 Inconstant as the restless wave, 
 
 My heart would grow as cold as thine." 
 
 As cygnet down, proud swell'd her breast, 
 Her eye confess'd the pearly tear : 
 
 His hand she to her bosom press' d, 
 " Is there no heart for rapture here ? 
 
 These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, 
 Does no warm blood their currents fill. 
 
 No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, 
 To joy, to love's delicious thrill ? " 
 
 " Though aU the splendour of the sea 
 Around thy faultless beauty shine, 
 
 That heart, that riots wild and free, 
 Can hold no sympathy ^vith mine. 
 
 These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay. 
 They swim not in the light of love ; 
 
 The beauteous maid of Colonsay, 
 Her eyes are milder than the dove ! 
 
 E'en now, within the lonely isle. 
 
 Her eyes are dim with tears for me ; 
 
 And canst thou think that siren smile 
 Can lure my soul to dwell with thee ? " 
 
 An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, 
 Unfolds in length her scaly train ; 
 
 She toss'd in proud disdain her head. 
 And lash'd with webbed fin the main. 
 
 " Dwell here alone ! " the Mermaid cried, 
 " And view far off the sea-nymphs play j 
 
 The prison- wall, the azure tide, 
 Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. 
 
 Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood, 
 I cleave with rapid fin the wave. 
 
 Far from the daughter of the flood, 
 Conceal thee in this coral cave. 
 
 I feel my former soul return, 
 
 It kindles at thy cold disdain ; 
 And has a mortal dared to spurn 
 
 A daughter of the foamy main! " 
 
 She fled, around the crystal cave 
 
 The rolling waves resume their road ; 
 
 On the broad portal idly rave. 
 
 But enter not the nymph's abode. 
 
 And many a weary night went by. 
 
 As in the lonely cave he lay ; 
 And many a sun roll'd through the^ky; 
 
 And pour'd its beams on Colonsay. 
 
 And oft beneath the silver moon 
 He heard afar the Mermaid sing ; 
 
 And oft to many a meting tune, 
 
 The shell-form' d lyres of ocean ring. 
 
 And when the moon went down the sky. 
 Still rose, in dreams, his native plain, 
 
 And oft he thought his love was by. 
 
 And charm' d him with some tender strain 
 
 And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep. 
 When ceased that voice of silver sound, 
 
 And thought to plunge him in the deep 
 That wall'd his crystal cavern round. 
 
 But still the ring, of ruby red, 
 
 Retain'd its vivid crimson hue. 
 And each despairing accent fled. 
 
 To find his gentle love so true. 
 
 When seven long lonely months were gone. 
 The Mermaid to his cavern came, 
 
 No more misshapen from the zone, 
 But like a maid of mortal frame. 
 
 " O give to me that ruby ring, 
 That on thy finger glances gay. 
 
 And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing 
 The song thou lovest of Colonsay." 
 
 " This ruby ring, of crimson grain, 
 
 Shall on thy finger glitter gay, 
 If thou wilt bear me through the main 
 
 Again to visit Colonsay." 
 
 " Except thou quit thy former love, 
 Content to dwell for aye AAdth me. 
 
 Thy scorn my finny frame might move 
 To tear thy limbs amid the sea." 
 
 " Then bear me swift along the main, 
 
 The lonely isle again to see. 
 And when I here return again, 
 
 I plight my faith to dwell with thee." 
 
 An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, 
 While slow unfolds her scaly train ; 
 
 With gluey fangs her hands were clad ; 
 She lash'd with webbed fin the main. 
 
 He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides, 
 As with broad fin she oars laer way ; 
 
 Beneath the silent moon she glides, 
 That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. 
 
 Proud swells her heart ! she deems at last 
 To lure him with her silver tongue. 
 
 And, as the shelving rocks she pass'd, 
 She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. 
 
John Leyden.] 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 In softer, sweeter strains she sung, 
 Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, 
 
 When light to land the chieftain sprung. 
 To hail the maid of Colonsay. 
 
 O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell. 
 
 And sadly sink remote at sea ! 
 So sadly mourns the writhed shell 
 
 Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. 
 
 And ever as the year returns. 
 
 The charm-bound sailors know the day ; 
 For sadly still the Mermaid mourns 
 
 The lovely chief of Colonsay. 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 1 1 33.— TO lANTHE. 
 
 Again, sweet siren, breathe again 
 That deep, pathetic, powerful strain, 
 
 Whose melting tones of tender woe 
 Fall soft as evening's summer dew. 
 That bathes the pinks and harebells blue 
 
 Which in the vales of Teviot blow. 
 
 Such was the song that soothed to rest, 
 Far in the Green Isle of the west, 
 
 The Celtic warrior's parted shade; 
 Such are the lonely sounds that sweep 
 O'er the blue bosom of the deep, 
 
 When shipwreck' d mariners are laid. 
 
 Ah ! sure as Hindu legends tell, 
 When music's tones the bosom swell. 
 
 The scenes of former life return ; 
 Ere, sunk beneath the morning star, 
 We left our parent climes afar, 
 
 Immur'd in mortal forms to mourn. 
 
 Or if, as ancient sages ween, 
 Departed spirits, half unseen, 
 
 Can mingle with the mortal throng, 
 'Tis when from heart to heart we roll 
 The deep-toned music of the soul, 
 
 That warbles in our Scottish song. 
 
 I hear, I hear, with awful dread, 
 The plaintive music of the dead ! 
 
 They leave the amber fields of day : 
 Soft as the cadence of the wave. 
 That murmurs round the mermaid's grave, 
 
 They mingle in the magic lay. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sweet sounds ! that oft have soothed to rest 
 The sorrows of my guileless breast, 
 
 And charm' d away mine infant tears : 
 Fond memory shall your strains repeat. 
 Like distant echoes, doubly sweet. 
 
 That in the wild the traveller hears. 
 
 And thus the exil'd Scotian maid, 
 By fond alluring leva betray' d 
 
 To visit Syria's date-crown'd shore, 
 
 In plaintive strains that soothed despair. 
 Did " Both well's banks that bloom so fair," 
 And scenes of early youth, deplore. 
 
 Soft syren ! whose enchanting strain 
 Floats wildly round my raptur'd brain, 
 
 I bid your pleasing haunts adieu ! 
 Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead 
 My footsteps to the silver Tweed, 
 
 Through scenes that I no more must view. 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 1 134.— ODE TO THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 How sweet thy modest light to view. 
 Fair Star, to love and lovers dear ! 
 
 While trembling on the falling dew, 
 Like beauty shining through a tear. 
 
 Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream. 
 To mark that image trembling there. 
 
 Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam. 
 To see thy lovely face so fair. 
 
 Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, 
 The moon thy timid beams outshine. 
 
 As far as thine each starry light ; — 
 Her rays can never vie with thine. 
 
 Thine are the soft enchanting hours, 
 When twilight lingers on the plain. 
 
 And whispers to the closing flowers 
 That soon the sun will rise again. 
 
 Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
 As music, wafts the lover's sigh, 
 
 And bids the yielding heart expand 
 In love's delicious ecstasy. 
 
 Fair Star ! though I be doom'd to prove 
 That rapture's tears are mixed with pain, 
 
 Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! 
 But sweeter to be loved again. 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 1135.— SCOTLAND. 
 
 Land of my fathers ! — though no mangrove 
 here 
 O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear; 
 Nor scaly palm her finger' d scions shoot ; 
 Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit : 
 Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ; — 
 Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art 
 free ! 
 
 Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot ! runs. 
 With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LOVE AND GLOEY. 
 
 [Charles Dibdin. 
 
 No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil, 
 Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil, 
 Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads 
 Is bought and barter' d, as the flock he feeds. 
 Free as the lark that carols o'er his head, 
 At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed. 
 Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers -with care, 
 Anjd, whistling loud, directs the mining share : 
 Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, 
 And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain ; 
 Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, 
 And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might. 
 
 John Leyden. — Born 1775, Died 1811. 
 
 1 136.— THE TAE FOE ALL WEATHEES. 
 
 I sail'd fr®m the Downs in the " Nancy," 
 
 My jib how she smack' d through the breeze ! 
 She's a vessel as tight to my fancy 
 
 As ever sail'd on the salt seas. 
 So adieu to the white cliffs of Britain, 
 
 Our girls and our dear native shore ! 
 For if some hard rock we should split on, 
 
 We shall never see them any more. 
 But sailors were born for all weathers, 
 
 Great guns let it blow, high or low, 
 Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 When we enter'd the Straits of Gibraltar 
 
 I verily thought she'd have sunk. 
 For the wind began so for to alter, 
 
 She yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk. 
 The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, 
 
 Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries ; 
 Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers, 
 
 As through the rough tempest she flies. 
 But sailors wore born for all weathers, 
 
 Great guns let it blow, high or low. 
 Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 The storm came on thicker and faster, 
 
 As black just as pitch was the sky, 
 When truly a doleful disaster 
 
 Befel three poor sailors and I. 
 Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, 
 
 By a blast that came furious and hard, 
 Just while we were furling the mainsail, 
 
 Were every soul swept from the yard. 
 But sailors were born for all weathers, 
 
 Great guns let it blow, high or low, 
 Our duty keeps us to oiir tethers, 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi, 
 
 As for I, at the risk of my neck, 
 While they sank down in peace to old Da*vy, 
 
 Caught a rope, and so landed on deck. 
 Well, what would you have ? We were stranded. 
 
 And out of a fine jolly crew 
 Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed 
 
 But I and, I think, twenty-two. 
 
 But sailors were born for all weathers, 
 Great guns let it blow, high or low. 
 
 Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 Charles DibdAn. — Born 1745, Died 1814. 
 
 1137.— SIE SIDNEY SMITH. 
 
 Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a 
 rhyme, 
 But the song I now trouble you with 
 Lays some claim to applause, and you'll 
 grant it, because 
 The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is ; 
 The subject's Sir Sidney Smith. 
 
 We aU know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney. 
 
 He'd fight every foe he could meet ; 
 Give him one ship or two, and without more 
 ado, 
 He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he 
 
 would ; 
 He'd engage if he met a whole fleet. 
 
 Thus he took, every day, all that came in his 
 way, 
 Till fortune, that changeable elf, 
 Order'd accidents so, that, while taking tho 
 foe. 
 Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did ; 
 Sir Sidney got taken himself. 
 
 His captors, right glad of the prize they now 
 had, 
 Eejected each offer we bid, 
 And swore he should stay, lock'd up till 
 doomsday, 
 ! But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, ho 
 
 did; 
 I But he swore he'd be hang'd, if he did. 
 I 
 So Sir Sid got away, and his gaoler next day 
 
 Cried " Sacre, diable, morbleu ! 
 Mon prisonnier 'scape, I 'ave got in von scrape, 
 And I fear I must run away, too, I must ; 
 I fear I must run away too." 
 
 Charles Dihdin.—Born 1745, Died 1814. 
 
 1 1 38.— LOVE AND GLOEY. 
 
 Young Henry was as brave a youth 
 As ever graced a gallant story ; 
 
 And Jane was fair as lovely truth, 
 She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory 
 
 With her his faith he meant to plight, 
 And told her many a gallant story ; 
 
 Till war, their coming joys to blight, 
 Call'd him away from Love to Glory ! 
 
Charles Dibdin.J 
 
 NONGTONGPAW. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod.- 
 
 Young Henry met the foe with pride ; 
 
 Jane follow' d, fought ! ah, hapless story ! 
 In man's attire, by Henry's side, 
 
 She died for Love, and he for Glory. 
 
 Clmrles Dibdin.—Bom 1745, Died 1814. 
 
 1 139.— NONGTONGPAW. 
 
 John Boll for pastime took a prance, 
 
 Some time ago, to peep at France ; 
 
 To talk of sciences and arts. 
 
 And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. 
 
 Monsieur, obsequious, heaffd him speak, 
 
 And answer' d John in heathen Greek : 
 
 To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 
 
 'Twas, " Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas." 
 
 John, to the Palais-Royal come. 
 
 Its splendour almost struck him dumb. 
 
 " I say, whose house is that there here ?" 
 
 " House ! Je vous n'entends pas. Monsieur." 
 
 " WTiat, Nongtongpaw again ! " cries John ; 
 
 " This fellow is some mighty Don : 
 
 No doubt he's plenty for the maw, 
 
 I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw." 
 
 John saw Versailles from Marly' s height, 
 
 And cried, astonish'd at the sight, 
 
 " Whose fine estate is that there here ?" 
 
 " State ! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." 
 
 " His ? what, the land and houses too ? 
 
 The fellow's richer than a Jew : 
 
 On everything he lays his claw ! 
 
 I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw." 
 
 Next tripping came a courtly fair, 
 
 John cried, enchanted with her air, 
 
 " What lovely wench is that there here ?" 
 
 " Ventch ! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." 
 
 " What, he again ? Upon my life ! 
 
 A palace, lands, and then a wife 
 
 Sir Joshua might delight to draw : 
 
 I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw." 
 
 "But hold ! whose funeral's that?" cries John. 
 ' ' Je vous n'entends pas.' ' — ' ' What, is he gone ? 
 Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save 
 Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave ! 
 His race is run, his game is up, — 
 I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup ; 
 But since he chooses to withdraw. 
 Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw !" 
 
 Cha/rles Dihdin. — Bom 1745, Died 1814. 
 
 1 1 40.— TOM BOWLING. 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
 
 The darling of our crew; 
 No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 
 
 For death has broach'd him to. 
 
 His form was of the manliest beauty. 
 
 His heart was kind and soft, 
 Faithful, below, he did his duty. 
 
 But now he's gone aloft. 
 
 Tom never from his word departed, 
 
 His virtues were so rare, 
 His friends were many and true-hearted. 
 
 His Poll was kind and fair : 
 And then he'd sing scr blithe and jolly, 
 
 Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
 But mirth is tum'd to melancholy. 
 
 For Tom is gone aloft. 
 
 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 
 
 When He, who all commands. 
 Shall give, to call life's crew together. 
 
 The word to pipe all hands. 
 Thus Death, who kings and tara despatches. 
 
 In vain Tom's life has doff'd. 
 For, though his body's under hatches, 
 
 His soul is gone aloft. 
 Charles Dihdin.— Born 1745, Died 1814. 
 
 1 141. —THE GRAVE OF ANNA. 
 
 I wish I was where Anna lies, 
 
 For I am sick of lingering here ; 
 And every hour affection cries, 
 
 Go and partake her humble bier, 
 
 I wish I could ! For when she died, 
 I lost my all ; and life has proved 
 
 Since that sad hour a dreary void ; 
 A waste unlovely and unloved. 
 
 But who, when I am tum'd to clay, 
 
 Shall duly to her grave repair, 
 And pluck the ragged moss away. 
 
 And weeds that have " no business there ?" 
 
 And who with pious hand shall bring 
 
 The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold. 
 
 And violets that unheeded spring 
 To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? 
 
 And who, while memory loves to dwell 
 
 Upon her name for ever dear. 
 Shall feel his heart with passion swell. 
 
 And pour the bitter, bitter tear ? 
 
 I did it ; and would fate allow, 
 
 Should visit still, should still deplore — 
 
 But health and strength have left me nov/, 
 And I, alas ! can weep no more. 
 
 Take then, sweet maid ! this simple strain, 
 
 The last I offer at thy shrine ; 
 Thy grave must then undeck'd remain. 
 
 And all thy memory fade with mine. 
 
 And can thy soft persuasive look. 
 
 Thy voice that might with music vie,. 
 
 Thy air that every gazer took. 
 Thy matchless eloquence of eye ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A TUFT OF EAELY VIOLETS. 
 
 [Wm. Gifford. 
 
 Thy spirits frolicsome as good, 
 Thy courage by no ills dismay'd, 
 
 Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, 
 Thy gay good-humour, can they fade ? 
 
 Perhaps — but sorrow dims my eye ; 
 
 Cold turf which I no more must view, 
 Dear name which I no more must sigh, 
 
 A long, a last, a sad adieu ! 
 
 William Giford. — Bom 1756, Died 1826. 
 
 1 142.— GREENWICH HILL. 
 
 Though clouds obscured the morning hour, 
 And keen and eager blew the blast. 
 
 And drizzling fell the cheerless shower, 
 As, doubtful, to the skiff we pass'd : 
 
 All soon, propitious to our prayer, 
 Gave promise of a brighter day ; 
 
 The clouds dispersed in purer air. 
 The blasts in zephyrs died away. 
 
 So have we, love, a day enjoy'd, 
 
 On which we both — and yet, who knows ?- 
 May dweU with pleasure unalloy'd, 
 
 And dread no thorn beneath the rose. 
 
 How pleasant, from that dome-crown'd hill. 
 To view the varied scene below. 
 
 Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still, 
 The circling Thames majestic flow ! 
 
 How sweet, as indolently laid, 
 
 We overhung that long-drawn dale, 
 
 To watch the chequer' d light and shade 
 That glanced upon the shifting sail ! 
 
 And when the shadow's rapid growth 
 Proclaim'd the noon-tide hour expired. 
 
 And, though unwearied, "nothing loath,'* 
 We to our simple meal retired ; 
 
 The sportive wile, the blameless jest. 
 The careless mind's spontaneous flow. 
 
 Gave to that simple meal a zest 
 Which richer tables may not know. 
 
 The babe that on the mother's breast 
 Has toy'd and wanton'd for awhile. 
 
 And, sinking in unconscious rest. 
 Looks up to catch a parting smile ; 
 
 Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, 
 When, ere thy ruby lips could part 
 
 (As close to mine thy cheek was laid), 
 Thine eyes had open'd all thy heart. 
 
 Then, then I mark'd the chasten' d joy 
 That lightly o'er thy features stole, 
 
 From vows repaid (my sweet employ). 
 From truth, from innocence of soiJ : 
 
 TMiile every word dropt on my ear 
 So soft (and yet it seem'd to thrill), 
 
 So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear. 
 And e'en thy pause had music still. 
 
 And ! how like a fairy dream 
 
 To gaze in silence on the tide, — -^ 
 
 WhUe soft and warm the sunny gleam 
 Slept on the glassy surface wide ! 
 
 And many a thought of fancy bred. 
 Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, 
 
 Play'd lightly round the heart, and shed 
 Delicious languor o'er the mind. 
 
 So hours like moments wing'd their flight, 
 Till now the boatmen on the shore. 
 
 Impatient of the waning light, 
 Eecall'd us by the dashing oar. 
 
 Well, Anna, many days like this 
 I cannot, must not hope to share ; 
 
 For I have found an hour of bliss 
 Still follow' d by an age of care. 
 
 Yet oft when memory intervenes — 
 But you, dear maid, be happy still, 
 
 Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes. 
 The day we pass'd on Greenwich Hill. 
 
 William Gifford.— Born 1756, Died 1826. 
 
 1 143.— TO A TUFT OF EAELY VIOLETS. 
 
 Sweet flowers ! that from your humble beds 
 
 Thus prematurely dare to rise, 
 And trust your unprotected heads 
 
 To cold Aquarius' watery skies ; 
 
 Eetire, retire ! these tepid airs 
 Are not the genial brood of May ; 
 
 That Sun with light malignant glares. 
 And flatters only to betray. 
 
 Stem winter's reign is not yet past — 
 Lo ! while your buds prepare to blow, 
 
 On icy pinions comes the blast, 
 
 And nips your root, and lays you low. 
 
 Alas, for such ungentle doom ! 
 
 But I will shield you, and supply 
 A kindlier soil on which to bloom, 
 
 A nobler bed on which to die. 
 
 Come then, ere yet the morning ray 
 
 Has drunk the dew that gems your crest 
 
 And drawn your balmiest sweets away ; 
 O come, and grace my Anna's breast. 
 
 Ye droop, fond flowers ! but, did ye know 
 What worth, what goodness there reside. 
 
 Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, 
 And spread their leaves with conscious 
 pride; 
 
Geo. Canning.] 
 
 THE FEIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 rSEVENTH Period. — 
 
 For there has liberal nature join'd 
 
 Her riches to the stores of art, 
 And added to the vigorous mind 
 
 The soft, the sympathizing heart. 
 
 Come then, ere yet the morning ray 
 
 Has drunk the dew that gems your crest. 
 
 And drawn your balmiest sweets away; 
 come, and grace my Anna's breast. 
 
 ! I should think — ^that fragrant bed 
 Might I but hope with you to share — 
 
 Years of anxiety repaid 
 
 By one short hour of transport there. 
 
 More bless' d your lot, ye there shall live 
 Your little day ; and when ye die. 
 
 Sweet flowers ! the grateful Muse shall give 
 A verse — the sorrowing maid a sigh. 
 
 While I, alas ! no distant date. 
 
 Mix with the dust from whence I came, 
 
 Without a friend to weep my fate. 
 Without a stone to tell my name. 
 
 William Gifford.—Bom 1756, Jyied 1826. 
 
 II 44.— THE FEIEND OF HUMANITY 
 AND THE KNIFE-GEINDER. 
 
 Feiend of Humanity. 
 
 Needy Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? 
 liough is your road, your wheel is out of 
 
 order ; 
 Bleak blows the blast — your hat has got a 
 
 hole in't, 
 
 So have your breeches ! 
 
 Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud 
 
 Who in their coaches roll along the tumpike- 
 Eoad, what hard work 'tis crying all day, 
 " Knives and 
 
 Scissors to grind ! " 
 
 Tell mo, Knife-grinder, how came you to 
 
 grind knives ? 
 Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
 Was it the squire, or parson of the parish. 
 Or the attorney ? 
 
 Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? 
 Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ? 
 Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your Httle 
 All in a lawsuit ? 
 
 (Have you not read the Eights of Man, by 
 
 Tom Paine ? ) 
 Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
 Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your 
 Pitiful story. 
 
 Knife-Grindee. 
 
 Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, 
 
 sir; 
 Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, 
 This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, 
 
 were 
 
 Torn in a scuffle. 
 
 Constables came up for to take me into 
 Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
 Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- 
 Stocks for a vagrant. 
 
 I should be glad to drink your honour's health 
 
 in 
 A pot of beer, if you wiU give me sixpence ; 
 But for my part, I never love to meddle 
 With politics, sir. 
 
 Friend of Humanity. 
 
 I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee d d 
 
 first — 
 Wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse 
 
 to vengeance — 
 Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 
 Spiritless outcast ! 
 
 Canning.— Born 1770, Died 1827. 
 
 II 45 .—SONG BY ROGERO IN 
 EOVEES." 
 
 THE 
 
 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
 This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 
 I think of those companions true 
 Who studied with me at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 nivcrsity of Gottingen. 
 
 Sweet kerchief, check' d with heavenly blue, 
 
 Which once my love sat knotting in — 
 Alas, Matilda tlien was true ! 
 At least I thought so at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew. 
 
 Her neat post- wagon trotting in ! 
 Ye bore Matilda from my view; 
 Forlorn I languish' d at the U- 
 
 iiiversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 
 
 This blood my veins is clotting in, 
 My years are many — they were few 
 When first I enter' d at the U- 
 
 niversityof Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.1 
 
 THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. 
 
 [De. Wolcot. 
 
 There first for thee my passion grew, 
 
 Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
 Thou wast the daughter of my Tu- 
 tor, law professor at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu. 
 
 That kings and priests are plotting in : 
 Here doom'd to starve on water gru- 
 el, never shall I see the U- 
 
 niversityof Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 George Canning. -^Born 3770, Died 1827. 
 
 1 146.— LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS 
 
 ELDEST SON. 
 
 Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd 
 
 decrees, 
 Which made that shorten' d span one long 
 
 disease ; 
 Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope 
 For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope, 
 Meek resignation, pious charity ; 
 And, since this world was not the world for 
 
 thee, 
 Far from thy path removed, with partial 
 
 care, 
 Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery 
 
 snare ; 
 Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless 
 
 by, 
 And fix'd on Heaven thine unreverted eye ! 
 Oh ! mark'd from birth, and nurtured for the 
 
 skies ! 
 In youth, with more than learning's wisdom 
 
 wise ! 
 As sainted martyrs, patient to endure ! 
 Simple as unwean'd infancy, and pure ! 
 Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, 
 ^Vhich Christ's atoning blood hath wash'd 
 
 away) ! 
 By mortal suflferings now no more oppress' d, 
 Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest ! 
 While I — reversed our nature's kindlier 
 
 doom — 
 Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. 
 
 George Canning.— Born 1770, Died 1827. 
 
 1 147.— THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. 
 
 A brace of sinners, for no good, 
 
 Were order' d to the Virgin Mary's shrine, 
 Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood, 
 
 And in a curl'd white wig look'd wondrous 
 fine. 
 
 Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to 
 
 travel, 
 With something in their shoes much worse 
 
 than gravel : 
 In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, 
 The priest had order' d peas into^their shoes. 
 
 A nostrum famous in old popish times 
 For purifying souls that stunk with crimes, 
 
 A sort of apostolic salt, 
 
 That popish parsons for its powers exalt, 
 For keeping souls of sinners sweet. 
 Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. 
 
 The knaves set off on the same day. 
 Peas in their shoes, to go and pray ; 
 
 But very different was their speed, I wot : 
 One of the sinners gallop'd on, 
 Light as a bullet from a gun ; 
 
 The other Hmp'd as if he had been shot. 
 
 One saw the Virgin, soon peccavi cried ; 
 
 Had his soul whitewash' d all so clever. 
 When home again he nimbly hied. 
 
 Made fit with saints above to live for ever. 
 
 In coming back, however, let me say, 
 He met his brother rogue about half-way. 
 Hobbling with outstretch' d hams and bending 
 
 knees, 
 Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas ; 
 His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in 
 
 sweat, 
 Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. 
 
 " How now ! " the light-toed whitewash'd 
 pilgrim broke, 
 " You lazy lubber ! " 
 " Confoxmd it ! " cried the t'other, "'tis no 
 
 joke; 
 My feet, once hard as any rock, 
 Are now as soft as blubber. 
 
 Excuse me. Virgin Mary, that I swear : 
 As for Loretto, I shall not get there ; 
 No ! to the devil my sinful soul must go, 
 For hang me if I ha' n't lost every toe ! 
 
 But, brother sinner, do explain 
 How 'tis that you are not in pain — 
 
 What power hath work'd a wonder for 
 your toes — 
 Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling. 
 Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling. 
 Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my 
 woes? 
 
 How is't that you can like a greyhound go, 
 
 Merry as if nought had happen' d, burn ye .^" 
 •'Why," cried the other, grinning, "you 
 must know, 
 That just before I ventured on my journey, 
 To walk a Httle more at ease, 
 I took the liberty to boil my peas." 
 
 Dr. Wolcot— Born 1738, Died 1819. 
 58 
 
Dr. Wolcot.] 
 
 DE. JOHNSON'S STYLE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 1148.— DE. JOHNSON'S STYLE. 
 
 I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, 
 That gives an inch the importance of a mile, 
 Casts of manure a wagon-load around, 
 To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; 
 Uplifts the club of Hercules — for what ? 
 To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat ; 
 Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw 
 A goose's feather or exalt a straw ; 
 Sets wheels on wheels in motion — such a 
 
 clatter 
 To force up one poor nipperkin of water ; 
 Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar, 
 To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore ; 
 Alike in every theme his pompous art. 
 Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart ! 
 
 l>r. Wolcot— Born 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 1 149. 
 
 -ADVICE TO LANDSCAPE 
 PAINTEES. 
 
 Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel, 
 
 London 's the very place to mar it ; 
 Believe the oracles I tell. 
 
 There's very little landscape in a garret. 
 Whate'er the flocks of fleas you keep, 
 'Tis badly copying them for goats and sheep ; 
 And if you'll take the poet's honest word, 
 A bug must make a miserable bird. 
 
 A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick, 
 111 represents the glorious orb of morn ; 
 
 Nay, though it were a candle with a wick, 
 'Twoxild be a representative forlorn. 
 
 I think, too, that a man would be a fool, 
 For trees, to copy legs of a joint stool ; 
 
 Or even by them to represent a stump : 
 Also by broomsticks — which, though well he 
 
 rig 
 Each with an old fox-colour' d wig, 
 
 Must make a very poor autumnal clump. 
 
 You'll say, " Yet such ones oft a person sees 
 In many an artist's trees ; 
 And in some paintings we have all beheld 
 Green baize hath surely sat for a green field : 
 Bolsters for mountains, hills, and wheaten 
 
 mows; 
 Cats for ram-goats, and curs for bulls and 
 
 cows." 
 
 All this, my lads, I freely grant ; 
 But better things from you I want. 
 As Shakspoare says (a bard I much approve), 
 " List, list ! oh, list ! if thou dost painting 
 love." 
 
 Claude painted in the open air ! 
 Therefore to Wales at once repair, 
 
 Where scenes of true magnificence you'll 
 find; 
 
 Besides this great advantage — if in debt. 
 You'll have with creditors no tete-a-tete ; 
 
 So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind ; 
 Who, hunt you with what noise they may, 
 Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay. 
 
 Dr. Wolcot— Boi-n 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 1 1 50. 
 
 Once 
 
 -THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND 
 A KING. 
 
 on a time, a monarch, tired with 
 whooping, 
 Whipping and spurring, 
 Happy in worrying 
 A poor defenceless harmless buck 
 (The horse and rider wet as muck), 
 From his high consequence and wisdom 
 stooping, 
 Enter' d through curiosity a cot, 
 Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. 
 
 The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny. 
 In this same cot, illumed by many a 
 cranny, 
 Had finish' d apple dumplings for her pot : 
 In tempting row the naked dumpLings lay, 
 When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way. 
 Like lightning spoke, " What's this ? what's 
 this ? what, what ? " 
 
 Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
 His eyes with admiration did expand ; 
 
 And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : 
 he cried, 
 " 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed ! 
 What makes it, pray, so hard ? " The dame 
 replied. 
 Low curtsying, " Please your majesty, the 
 apple." 
 " Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing ! " 
 (Turning the dumpling round) rejoin' d the 
 king. 
 " 'Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is — 
 It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces : 
 Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ! 
 But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the 
 seam ? " 
 
 '• Sir, there's no seam," quoth she ; " I never 
 
 knew 
 That folks did apple dumplings sew." 
 " No ! " cried the staring monarch with a grin ; 
 " How, how the devil got the apple in ? " 
 
 On which the dame the curious scheme re- 
 veal' d 
 By which the apple lay so sly conceal' d. 
 
 Which made the Solomon of Britain start ; 
 Who to the palace with full speed repair' d. 
 And queen and princesses so beauteous scared 
 
 All with the wonders of the dumpling art. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 WHITBREAD'S BEE WERT. 
 
 [Dr. Wolcot. 
 
 There did he labour one whole week to show 
 The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker ; 
 
 And, lo ! so deep was majesty in dough, 
 The palace seem'd the lodging of a baker ! 
 
 Dr. Wolcot— Born 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 ii5i._WHITBREAD'S BEEWEEY 
 VISITED BY THEIE MAJESTIES. 
 
 Full of the art of brewing beer, 
 
 The monarch heard of Whitb read's fame ; 
 Quoth he unto the queen, " My dear, my 
 
 dear, 
 Whitbread hath got a marvellous great 
 
 name. 
 Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread 
 
 brew — 
 Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew. 
 Shame, shame we have not yet his brewhouse 
 
 seen ! " 
 Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen. 
 
 Eed hot with novelty's delightful rage, 
 To Mister Whitbread forth he sent a page, 
 
 To say that majesty proposed to view, 
 With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep 
 
 inflamed, 
 His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads 
 famed, 
 And learn the noble secret how to brew. 
 
 Of such undreamt-of honour proud. 
 Most rev'rently the brewer bow'd ; 
 So humbly (so the humble story goes). 
 He touch' d e'en terra firma with his nose ; 
 
 Then said unto the page, hight BiUy Eamus, 
 " Happy are we that our great king should 
 
 name us 
 As worthy unto majesty to show 
 How we poor Chiswell people brew." 
 
 Away sprung BUly Eamus quick as thought : 
 To majesty the welcome tidings brought, 
 How Whitbread staring stood like any 
 
 stake, 
 And trembled ; then the civil things he said ; 
 On which the king did smQe and nod his 
 
 head ; 
 For monarchs like to see their subjects 
 
 quake ; 
 
 Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are, 
 Proclaiming reverence and humility : 
 
 High thoughts, too, all these shaking fits 
 declare. 
 Of kingly grandeur and great capability ! 
 
 People of worship, wealth, and birth, 
 Look on the humbler sons of earth. 
 
 Indeed in a most humble light, God knows ! 
 
 High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, 
 Where ships below appear like little skiffs. 
 The people walking on the strand like 
 crows. 
 
 Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread 
 
 made : _ 
 
 Poor gentleman ! most terribly afraid 
 
 He should not charm enough his guests 
 
 divine, 
 He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and 
 
 smocks ; 
 And lo ! two hundred pounds were spent in 
 
 frocks, 
 To make the apprentices and draymen fine : 
 Busy as horses in a field of clover, 
 Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were 
 
 tumbled over, 
 Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation, 
 To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. 
 
 Now moved king, queen, and princesses so 
 
 grand, 
 To visit the first brewer in the land ; 
 Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his 
 
 meat 
 In a snug comer, christen' d Chiswell Street ; 
 But oftener, charm' d with fashionable air. 
 Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square. 
 
 Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also, 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise, 
 With Lady Harcourt join'd the raree show. 
 And fix'd all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes : 
 For lo ! a greater show ne'er graced those 
 
 quarters. 
 Since Mary roasted, ' just like crabs, the 
 martyrs. 
 
 Thus was the brewhouse fiU'd with gabbling 
 
 noise. 
 Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys, 
 
 Devour' d the questions that the king did 
 
 ask ; 
 In different parties were they staring seen, 
 Wond'ring to think they saw a king and 
 
 queen ! 
 Behind a tub were some, and some behind 
 
 a cask. 
 
 Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty 
 
 luncheon) 
 Into tl^e mouth of many a gaping puncheon : 
 And through the bung-hole wink'd with 
 curious eye, 
 To view and be assured what sort of tilings 
 Were princesses, and queens, and kings, 
 For whose most lofty station thousands 
 sigh ! 
 And lo ! of all the gaping puncheon clan, 
 Few were the mouths that had not got a 
 man; 
 
 Now majesty into a pump so deep 
 Did with an opera-glass so curious peep : 
 Examining with care each wondrous matter 
 That brought up water ! 
 
Dr. WoLCOT.j 
 
 WHITBEEAD'S BREWEET. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, 
 A chattering bird we often meet, 
 A bird for curiosity well known, 
 
 With head awry, 
 
 And cunning eye. 
 Peep knowingly into a marrow -bone. 
 
 And now his curious majesty did stoop 
 
 To count the nails on every hoop ; 
 
 And lo ! no single thing came in his way, 
 
 That, full of deep research, he did not say, 
 
 "What's this? hae hae ? What's that? 
 
 ■Wliat'sthis? 
 What's that?" 
 So quick the words too, when he deign'd to 
 
 speak, 
 As if each syllable would break its neck. 
 
 Thus, to the world of great whilst others 
 
 crawl, 
 Our sov'reign peeps into the world of small : 
 Thus microscopic geniuses explore 
 
 Things that too oft the public scorn ; 
 Yet swell of useful knowledges the store. 
 
 By finding systems in a peppercorn. 
 
 Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, 
 To make the majesty of England stare, 
 That he had butts enough, he knew. 
 Placed side by side, to reach to Kew ; 
 On which the king with wonder swiftly cried, 
 " What, if they reach to Kew, then, side by 
 
 side, 
 What would they do, what, what, placed 
 
 end to end ? " 
 To whom, with knitted calculating brow. 
 The man of beer most solemnly did vow. 
 
 Almost to Windsor that they would extend : 
 On which the king, with wondering mien, 
 Eepeated it unto the wondering queen ; 
 On which, quick turning round his halter'd 
 
 head. 
 The brewer's horse, with face astonish' d, 
 
 neigh' d ; 
 The brewer's dog, too, pour'd a note of 
 
 thunder, 
 Battled his chain, and wagg'd his tail for 
 
 wonder. 
 
 Now did the king for other beers inquire, 
 For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire ; 
 And after talking of these different beers, 
 Ask'd Whitbread if his porter equall'd theirs. 
 
 This was a puzzling disagreeing question. 
 Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion ; 
 A kind of question to the Man of Cask 
 That even Solomon himself would ask. 
 
 Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took 
 A very pretty memorandum-book. 
 With gilded leaves of asses' -skin so white, 
 And in it legibly began to write — 
 
 Memorandum. 
 
 A charming place beneath the grates 
 For roasting chestnuts or potates. 
 
 Mem. 
 
 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer. 
 Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Qu.a;RE. 
 
 Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it 
 
 dwell? 
 Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well ? 
 
 Mem. 
 
 To try it soon on our small beer — 
 'Twill save us several pounds a year. 
 
 Mem. 
 
 To remember to forget to ask 
 
 Old Whitbread to my house one day. 
 
 Mem. 
 
 Not to forget to take of beer the cask, 
 The brewer offer' d me, away. 
 
 Now, having pencill'd his remarks so shrewd, 
 Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin, 
 
 His majesty his watch most sagely view'd, 
 And then put up his asses'-skin. 
 
 To Whitbread now deign'd majesty to say, 
 " "^NTiitbread, are all your horses fond of 
 
 hay?" 
 " Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes 
 The brewer answer' d — "Also, sire, of oats; 
 Another thing my horses, too, maintains. 
 And that, an't please your majesty, are 
 
 grains." 
 
 " Grains, grains ! " said majesty, " to fill 
 
 their crops ? 
 Grains, grains ! — that comes from hops — yes, 
 
 hops, hops, hops ? " 
 Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at 
 
 fault— 
 " Sire," cried the humble brewer, " give me 
 
 Your sacred majesty to undeceive ; 
 Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but 
 malt." 
 
 " True," said the cautious monarch with a 
 
 smile, 
 " From malt, malt, malt — I meant malt all 
 
 the while." 
 "Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoin'd the 
 
 brewer, 
 "An't please your majesty, you did, I'm 
 
 sure." 
 " Yes," answer'd majesty, with quick reply, 
 "I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I." 
 
 Now did the king admire the bell so fine. 
 That daily asks the draymen aU to dine ; 
 On which the beU rung out (how very proper !) 
 To show it was a bell, and had a clapper. 
 And now before their sovereign's curious 
 eye — 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 EPIGEAM ON SLEEP. 
 
 TDr. Wolcot. 
 
 Parents and children, fine fat hopeful 
 sprigs, 
 All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their 
 stye — 
 Appear' d the brewer's tribe of handsome 
 pigs; 
 On -which the observant man who fills a 
 
 throne, 
 Declared the pigs were vastly like his own ; 
 On which the brewer, swallow' d up in joys, 
 Fear and astonishment in both his eyes. 
 His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal, 
 
 Exclaim'd, " O heavens ! and can my swine 
 Be deem'd by majesty so fine ? 
 Heavens ! can my pigs compare, sire, with 
 pigs royal ? " 
 
 To which the king assented with a nod ; 
 
 On which the brewer bow'd, and said, " Good 
 
 God ! " 
 Then wiuk'd significant on Miss, 
 Significant of wonder and of bliss, 
 
 Wlio, bridling in her ohin divine, 
 Cross'd her fair hands, a dear old maid, 
 And then her lowest curtsy made 
 
 For such high honour done her father's 
 s\vine. 
 
 Now did his majesty, so gracious, say 
 To Mister Whitbread in his flying way, 
 
 "Wliitbread, d'ye nick th' exciseman now 
 and then ? 
 Hae ? what ? Miss Whitbread 's still a maid, a 
 maid ? 
 Wliat, what's the matter with the men ? 
 
 D'ye hunt ? — hae, hunt ? No no, you arc too 
 old; 
 You'll be lord-mayor — lord-mayor one day ; 
 Yes, yes, I've heard so ; yes, yes, so I'm told; 
 
 Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay ; 
 I'll prick you every year, man, I declare ; 
 Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord- 
 mayor. 
 
 Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, 
 pray? 
 Job, job, that's cheapest ; yes, that's best, 
 that's best. 
 You put your liveries on the draymen — hae ? 
 Hae, Whitbread ! you have feather' d well 
 your nest. 
 What, what's the price now, hae, of all your 
 
 stock ? 
 But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's 
 
 o'clock? " 
 Now Whitbread inward said, " May I be curst 
 If I know what to answer first." 
 
 Then search' d his brains with ruminating 
 eye; 
 But ere the man of malt an answer found, 
 Quick on his heel, lo, majesty tum'd round, 
 Skipp'd off, and balk'd the honour of reply. 
 
 Dr. Wolcot.— Born 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 1152.— LOED GEEGOEY. 
 
 "Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door, 
 
 A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
 Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 
 
 And lightnings cleave the skies." 
 
 " Who comes with woe at this dreamight, 
 
 A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
 If she whose love did once dehght, 
 
 My cot shall yield her room." 
 
 " Alas ! thou heard' st a pilgrim mourn 
 That once was prized by thee : 
 
 Think of the ring by yonder burn 
 Thou gav'st to love and me. 
 
 But shouldst thou not poor Marion know, 
 
 I'U turn my feet and part ; 
 And think the storms that round me blow, 
 
 Far kinder than thy heart." 
 
 Br. Wolcot.— Bom 1738. Died 1819. 
 
 1 1 53.— MAY DAY. 
 
 The daisies peep from every field, 
 And violets sweet their odour yield ; 
 The purple blossom paints the thorn. 
 And streams reflect the blush of morn. 
 ^Hhen lads and lasses all, be gay, 
 For this is nature's holiday. 
 
 Let lusty Labour drop his flail, 
 Nor woodman's hook a tree assail ; 
 The ox shall cease his neck to bow, 
 And Clodden yield to rest the plough. 
 Then lads, &c. 
 
 Behold the lark in ether float, 
 While rapture swells the liquid note ! 
 What warbles he, with merry cheer ? 
 " Let Love and Pleasure rule the year !" 
 Then lads, &c. 
 
 Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. 
 And throws a smile around his sky ; 
 Embracing hill, and vale, and stream, 
 And warming nature with his beam. 
 Then lads, «&c. 
 
 The insect tribes in mjrriads pour, 
 And kiss with zephyr every flower ; 
 Shall these our icy hearts reprove, 
 And tell us we are foes to Love ? 
 Then lads, &c. 
 
 Br. Wolcot.— Born 1738, Bied 1819. 
 
 1 1 54.— EPIGEAM ON SLEEP. 
 
 Come, gentle sleep ! attend thy votary's 
 
 prayer, 
 And, though death's image, to my couch 
 
 repair ; 
 
Dr. Wolcot.] 
 
 TO MY CANDLE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to 
 
 lie, 
 And, without dying, O how sweet to die ! 
 
 J}r. Wolcot— Bom 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 1 155.— TO MY CANDLE. 
 
 Thou lone companion of the spectred night ! 
 I wake amid thy friendly watchful light, 
 
 To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep. 
 Hark, the wild uproar of the winds ! and hark, 
 HeU's genius roams the regions of the dark. 
 
 And swells the thundering horrors of the 
 deep. 
 
 From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying 
 
 flies, 
 Now blacken' d, and now flashing through 
 the skies ; 
 But all is silence here beneath thy beam. 
 I own I labour for the voice of praise — 
 
 For who would sink in dull oblivion's 
 stream ? 
 Who would not hve in songs of distant days ? 
 
 Thus while I wondering pause o'er Shakspere's 
 
 page, 
 I mark in visions of delight the sage, 
 
 High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands 
 sublime ; 
 A column m the melancholy waste 
 (Its cities humbled and its glories past). 
 
 Majestic 'mid the solitude of time. 
 Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour — 
 Yes, let the tears of purest friendship shower ! 
 
 I view, alas ! what ne'er should die — 
 A form that wakes my deepest sigh — 
 
 A form that feels of death the leaden sleep — 
 Descending to the realms of shade, 
 I view a pale-eyed panting maid ; 
 
 I see the Virtues o'er their favourite weep. 
 
 Ah ! could the Muse's simple prayer 
 
 Command the envied trump of fame. 
 Oblivion should Eliza spare — 
 
 A world should echo with her name. 
 Art thou departing, too, my trembling friend ? 
 Ah, draws thy little lustre to its end ? 
 
 Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her 
 seal — 
 O let me pensive watch thy pale decay ; 
 How fast that frame, so tender, wears away, 
 
 How fast thy life the restless minutes steal ! 
 
 How slender now, alas I thy thread of fire ! 
 Ah ! falling — falling — ready to expire ! 
 
 In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er. 
 At life thou snatchest with an eager leap ; 
 Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep, 
 
 Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now 
 no more ! 
 
 Thus shall the sons of science sink away, 
 And thus of beauty fade the fairest flower — 
 
 For where' s the giant who to Time shaU say 
 " Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power !" 
 
 Dr. Wolcot— Born 1738, Died 1819. 
 
 1 1 56.— SCOTLAND. 
 
 How pleasant: came thy rushing, silver 
 
 Tweed ! 
 Upon my ear, when, after roaming long 
 In southern plains, I've reach'd thy lovely 
 
 bank ! 
 How bright, renowned Sark ! thy little 
 
 stream, 
 Like ray of column' d light chasing a shower. 
 Would cross my homeward path ; how sweet 
 
 the sound. 
 When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply, 
 Would ask thy well-known name ! 
 
 And must I leave, 
 Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales^ 
 Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung 
 With all the varied charms of bush and tree ? 
 And must I leave the friends of youthful 
 
 years, 
 And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp 
 Of foreign friendships in a foreign land. 
 And learn to love the music of strange 
 
 tongues ! 
 Yes, I may love the music of strange tongues. 
 And mould my heart anew to take the stamp 
 Of foreign friendships in a foreign land : 
 But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this 
 
 tongue, 
 My fancy fade into the yellow leaf. 
 And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb. 
 If, Scotland ! thee and thine I e'er forget. 
 
 James Grahame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 1 157.— A SPEING SABBATH WALK. 
 
 Most earnest was his voice ! most mild his 
 
 look, 
 As with raised hands he bless'd his parting 
 
 flock. 
 He is a faithful pastor of the poor ; 
 He thinks not of himself ; his Master's 
 
 words, 
 " Feed, feed my sheep," are ever at his heart, 
 The cross of Christ is aye before his eyes. 
 Oh how I love with melted soul to leave 
 The house of prayer, and wander in the 
 
 fields 
 Alone ! What though the opening spring be 
 
 chill! 
 
from 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. 
 
 [James Gkahame. 
 
 What though tho lark, check' d in his airy- 
 path, 
 Eke out his song, perch'd on the fallow clod, 
 That still o'ertops the blade ! What though 
 
 no branch 
 Have spread its foUage, save the willo-w wand, 
 That dips its pale leaves iu the swollen 
 
 stream ! 
 "What though the clouds oft lower ! their 
 
 threats but end 
 In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds 
 Of moss-couch'd violet, or interrupt 
 The merle's dulcet pipe — melodious bird ! 
 He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn 
 
 spray 
 {Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf). 
 Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year. 
 
 Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps 
 Have brought me, hardly conscious where I 
 
 roam'd, 
 irnlieeding where — so lovely, all around. 
 The works of God, array' d in vernal smile ! 
 
 Oft at this season, musing I prolong 
 My devious range, till, sunk from view, tho 
 
 sun 
 Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, tho 
 
 breast 
 And >ving unquivering of the wheeling lark, 
 Descending vocal from her latest flight. 
 While, disregardful of yon lonely star — 
 The harbinger of chill night's glittering 
 
 host — 
 Sweet redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chants 
 In desultory strains his evening hymn. 
 
 James Orahame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 1158.— A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. 
 
 Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms 
 
 My heart : pleasant the cool beneath these 
 
 elms 
 That throw across the stream a moveless 
 
 shade. 
 Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks ; 
 How iDcaceful every sound 1 — tho ring-dove's 
 
 plaint, 
 Moan'd from the forest's gloomiest retreat, 
 While every other woodland lay is mute, 
 Save when the \vi-en flits from her down-coved 
 
 nest. 
 And from the root- sprigs trills her ditty 
 
 clear — 
 The grasshopper's oft-pausing chii*p — the 
 
 buzz, 
 Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 
 That soon as loosed booms with fuU twang 
 
 away — 
 The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal 
 Scared from the shallows by my passing 
 
 tread. 
 Dimpling the water glides, with here and 
 
 there 
 
 A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
 
 The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed 
 
 trout 
 Watches his time to spring ; or from above, 
 Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the 
 
 boughs. 
 Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless 
 
 brood 
 Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's 
 
 lot! 
 He, giddy insect, from his native leaf 
 (Where safe and happily he might have 
 
 lurk'd) 
 Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings. 
 Forgetful of his origin, and worse, • 
 Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream, 
 And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, 
 Buoyant he flutters but a little while, ' 
 Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 
 For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his 
 
 fate. 
 Now, let me trace the stream up to its 
 
 source 
 Among the hills, its runnel by degrees 
 Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 
 Closer and closer still the banks approach, 
 Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble 
 
 shoots, 
 With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn 
 
 spray. 
 That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount 
 Into the open air : grateful the breeze 
 That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles t'.ie 
 
 plain 
 Spread wide below : how sweet the placid 
 
 view ! 
 But, oh ! more sweet the thought, heart- 
 soothing thought. 
 That thousands and ten thousands of the 
 
 sons 
 Of toil partake this day the common joy 
 Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 
 Of breathing in the silence of the woods, 
 And blessing him who gave the Sabbath-day. 
 Yes ! my heart flutters with a freer throb, 
 To think that now the townsman wanders 
 
 foith 
 Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 
 The coolness of the day's decline, to see 
 His children sport around, and simply pull 
 The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon 
 Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 
 
 Again I turn me to the hill, and trace 
 The wizard stream, now scarce to bo dis- 
 cern' d, 
 Woodless its banks, but green with ferny 
 
 leaves. 
 And thinly strew' d with heath-bells up and 
 
 down. 
 Now, when the downward sun has left the 
 
 glens. 
 Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
 Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
 The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart tho 
 
 chasm. 
 As on tho topmost ridge he homeward hies. 
 
James Grahame.] 
 
 AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 Seventh Period, — 
 
 How deep the husli ! the torrent's channel 
 
 dry, 
 
 Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
 But hark a plaintive sound floating along ! 
 'Tis from yon heath-roof d shieling ; now it 
 
 dies 
 Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
 Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs ; 
 Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear ; 
 It is the music of the heart, the voice 
 Of venerable age, of guileless youth, 
 In kindly circle seated on the ground 
 Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! ' 
 The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locks 
 Beam in the parting ray; before him lies. 
 Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book, 
 His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight ; 
 While heedless at a side, the lisping boy 
 Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his 
 
 couch. 
 
 James Grahame. — Bom 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 1 159.— AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 When homeward bands their several ways 
 
 disperse, 
 I love to linger in the narrow field 
 Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb. 
 And think of some who silent sleep below. 
 Sad sighs tho wind that from these ancient 
 
 elms 
 Shakes showers of leaves upon the wither'd 
 
 The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying 
 
 sweep, 
 Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock' d 
 
 graves. 
 But list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's 
 
 dog. 
 His guide for many a day, now come to 
 
 mourn 
 The master and the friend — conjunction rare ! 
 A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul. 
 Though bred to brave the deep : the lightning's 
 
 flash 
 Had dimm'-d, not closed, his mild but sightless 
 
 eyes. 
 He was a welcome guest through all his range 
 (It was not wide) ; no dog would bay at him : 
 Children would run to meet him on his way. 
 And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. 
 Then would he teach the elfins how to plait 
 The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship : 
 And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
 Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
 Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me 
 Perhaps wdth greater pity than I felt 
 To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 
 
 But let mc quit this melancholy spot. 
 And roam where nature gives a parting smile. 
 As yet tho blue-bells linger on tho sod 
 
 That copse the sheepfold ring; and in the 
 
 woods 
 A second blow of many flowers appears, 
 Flowers faintly tinged, and breatliing -no 
 
 perfume. 
 But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland 
 
 wreath 
 That circles Autumn's brow. The ruddy 
 
 haws 
 Now clothe the half-leaf 'd thorn ; the bramblo 
 
 bends 
 Beneath its jetty load ; the hazel hangs 
 With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream 
 That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow 
 The leaf-strewn banks : oft, statue-like, 1 
 
 gaze. 
 In vacancy of thought, upon that stream. 
 And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying 
 
 foam, 
 Or rowan's cluster' d branch, or harvest sheaf, 
 Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood. 
 
 James Graliavie. — JBorTi 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 1 160.— A WINTEE SABBATH WALK. 
 
 How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, 
 
 deep 
 The stillness of the winter Sabbath day — 
 Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the 
 
 fields, 
 Each hoUow pathway level with the plain : 
 Hid are the bushes, save that here and there 
 Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or 
 
 broom. 
 High-ridged the whirled drift has almost 
 
 reach 'd 
 The powder' d key- stone of the churchyard 
 
 porch. 
 Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie 
 
 buried ; 
 No step approaches to the house of prayer. 
 The flickering fall is o'er : the clouds dis- 
 perse, 
 And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's 
 
 verge. 
 Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam 
 On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time 
 To visit nature in her grand attire. 
 Though perilous the mountainous ascent, 
 A noble recompense the danger brings. 
 How beautiful the plain stretch' d far below. 
 Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream 
 With azure windings, or the leafless wood ! 
 But what the beauty of the plain, compared 
 To that sublimity which reigns enthroned, 
 Holding joint rule with solitude divine, 
 Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance 
 To steps the most adventurously bold ? 
 There silence dwells profound ; or if the cry 
 Of high-poised eagle break at times the 
 
 hush. 
 The mantled echoes no response return. 
 
Frovi 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A SCOTTISH COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 [James Graha3ie. 
 
 But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell. 
 No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's, 
 Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs 
 Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. 
 Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous 
 
 haunts. 
 Nor linger there too long : the wintry day 
 Soon closes ; and full oft a heavier fall, 
 Heap'd by the blast fills up the shelter' d 
 
 glen, 
 While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill 
 Mines for itself a snow-coved way ! Oh, 
 
 then. 
 Your helpless charge drive from the tempting 
 
 spot, 
 And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy 
 
 side. 
 Where night- winds sweep the gathering drift 
 
 away: 
 So the great Shepherd leads the heaven-y 
 
 flock 
 From faithless pleasures, full into the storms 
 Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast. 
 Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, 
 Bedimm'd with showers ; then to the pastures 
 
 green 
 He brings them where the quiet waters glide, 
 The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul. 
 
 James Grahame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 Ii6i.— THE BURIAL OF THE 
 EIGHTEOUS. 
 
 But wood and wild, the mountain and the 
 
 dale, 
 The house of prayer itself, — no place inspires 
 Emotions more accordant with the day. 
 Than does the field of graves, the land of 
 
 rest : — 
 Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll, 
 The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims 
 The service of the tomb : the homeward 
 
 crowds 
 Divide on either hand ; the pomp draws near ; 
 The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, 
 " I am the resurrection and the life." 
 Ah me ! these youthful bearers robed in 
 
 white, 
 They tell a mournful tale ; some blooming 
 
 friend 
 Is gone, dead in her prime of years : — 'Twas 
 
 she, 
 The poor man's friend, who, when she could 
 
 not give. 
 With angel tongue pleaded to those who 
 
 could; 
 With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye. 
 That ne'er besought in vain, save when she 
 
 pray'd 
 For longer life, with heart resign' d to die, — 
 Eejoiced to die ; for happy visions bless'd 
 
 Her voyage's last days, and hovering round, 
 Alighted on her soul, giving presage 
 
 That heaven was nigh : O what a burst 
 
 Of rapture from her lips ! what tears of joy 
 Her heavenward eyes suffused ! Those eyes 
 
 are closed ; 
 But all her loveliness is not yet flown_L 
 She smiled in death, and still her cold pale 
 
 face 
 Retains that smile ; as when a waveless lake, 
 In which the wintry stars all bright appear, 
 Is sheeted by a nightly frost witli ice. 
 Still it reflects the face of heaven tmchanged, 
 Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast. 
 Again that kneU! The slow procession 
 
 stops : 
 The paU withdrawn, Death's altar, thick em- 
 
 boss'd 
 With melancholy ornaments — (the name, 
 The record of her blossoming age), — appears 
 Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown, 
 The final rite. Oh ! hark that sullen sound ! 
 Upon the lower' d bier the shovell'd clay 
 Falls fast, and fills the void. 
 
 Ja7nes Graliame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 ii62,—A SCOTTISH COUNTEY 
 WEDDING. 
 
 Now, 'mid the* general glow of opening 
 
 blooms, 
 Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the 
 
 gift^ 
 From neighbouring fair brought home, till 
 
 now refused. 
 Swains, seize the sunny hours to make your 
 
 hay, 
 For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky : 
 Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too, 
 Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns. 
 Th' appointed day arrives, a blithesome 
 
 day 
 Of festive jollity ; yet not devoid 
 Of soft regret to her about to leave 
 A parent's roof; yes, at the word, join hands, 
 A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds' 
 Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs. 
 But serious thoughts take flight, when from 
 
 the bam. 
 Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound 
 Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast 
 Upon the earthen floor. Through many a 
 
 reel 
 With various steps uncouth, some new, some 
 
 old. 
 Some all the dancer's own, with Highland 
 
 flings 
 Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive 
 To dance each other down; and oft when 
 
 quite 
 Forespent, the fingers merrily crack'd, the 
 
 bound. 
 
James Gkahame.] 
 
 THE IMPEESSED SAILOE BOY. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.- 
 
 The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden 
 
 change 
 To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot, 
 And make it feel as if it tripp'd in air. 
 
 When all are tired, and all his stock of 
 . reels 
 The minstrel o'er and o'er again has run. 
 The cheering flagon circles rotmd ; meanwhile, 
 A soften'd tune, and slower measure, flows 
 Sweet from the strings, and stills the bois- 
 terous joy. 
 May be The Bcainy Broom of Cowdenknowes 
 (If simply play'd, though not with master 
 
 hand), 
 Or Patie's Mill, or Bush aboon Traquair, 
 Inspire a tranquil gladness through the 
 
 breast ; 
 Or that most mournful strain, the sad lament 
 For Flodden-field, drives mirth from every 
 
 face. 
 And makes the firmest heart strive hard to 
 
 curb 
 The rising tear ; till, with unpausing bow, 
 The blithe strathspey springs up, reminding 
 
 some 
 Of nights when Gow's old arm (nor old the 
 
 tale). 
 Unceasing, save when reeking cans went 
 
 round. 
 Made heart and heel leap light as bounding 
 
 roe. 
 Alas ! no more shall we behold that look 
 So venerable, yet so blent with mirth. 
 And festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 
 Unvaried — tartan hose and bonnet blue ! 
 No more shall beauty's partial eye draw forth 
 The full intoxication of his strain. 
 Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ! 
 No more amid the pauses of the dance 
 Shall he repeat those measures, that in days 
 Of other years could soothe a falling prince, 
 And light his visage with a transient smile 
 Of melancholy joy — like autumn sun 
 Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam ! 
 Or play to sportive children on the green 
 Dancing at gloaming hour ; or willing cheer. 
 With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal 
 - day! 
 
 But light now failing, glimmering candles 
 . shine 
 In ready chandeliers of moulded clay * 
 Stuck round the walls, displaying to the view 
 The ceiling rich with cobweb-drapery hung. 
 Meanwhile, from mill and smiddy, field and 
 
 bam. 
 Fresh groups come hastening in ; but of them 
 
 all, 
 The miller bears the gree, as rafter high 
 He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud 
 
 all round. 
 In harmless merriment, protracted long, 
 The hours glide by. At last, the stocking 
 
 thrown. 
 And duly every gossip rite performed. 
 Youths, maids, and matrons, take their several 
 
 ways ; 
 
 While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon, 
 Sit down again, and quaff till daylight dawn. 
 
 James Grahame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 Low in a glen, 
 Down which a little stream had furrow'd 
 
 deep, 
 'Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy 
 
 channel. 
 And brawKng mingled with the western tide ; 
 Far up that stream, almost beyond the roar 
 Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the 
 
 rocks 
 With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurk'd. 
 Surrounded by a circlet of the stream. 
 Before the wattled door, a greensward plat, 
 With daisies gay, pastured a playful lamb ; 
 A pebbly path, deep worn, led up the hill, 
 Winding among the trees, by wheel un- 
 touch' d, 
 Save when the winter fuel was brought 
 
 home — 
 One of the poor man's yearly festivals. 
 On every side it was a shelter' d spot. 
 So high and suddenly the woody steeps 
 Arose. One only way, downward the stream, 
 Just o'er the hollow, 'tween the meeting 
 
 boughs. 
 The distant wave was seen, with now and 
 
 then 
 The glimpse of passing sail ; but when the 
 
 breeze 
 Crested the distant wave, this little nook 
 Was all so calm, that, on the limberest spray. 
 The sweet bird chanted motionless, the leaves 
 At times scarce fluttering. Here dwelt a 
 
 pair. 
 Poor, humble, and content ; one son alone. 
 Their WilHam, happy lived at home to bless 
 Their downward years ; he, simple youth. 
 With boyish fondness, fancied he could love 
 A seaman's life, and with the fishers sail'd, 
 To try their ways far 'mong the western 
 
 isles, 
 Far as St. Kilda's rock-wall'd shore abrupt, 
 O'er which he saw ton thousand pinions wheel 
 Confused, dimming the sky : these dreary 
 
 shores 
 Gladly he left— he had a homeward heart : 
 No more his wishes wander to the waves. 
 But still he loves to cast a backward look. 
 And tell of all he saw, of all he learn'd ; 
 Of pillar' d Stafi"a, lone lona's isle. 
 Where Scotland's kings are laid ; of Lewis, 
 
 Skye, 
 And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs ; 
 And he would sing the rowers' timing chant 
 And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve. 
 When low the sun behind the Highland hills 
 Was almost set, he sung that song to cheer 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 [H. KiRKE White. 
 
 The aged folks ; upon the inverted quern 
 The father sat ; the mother's spindle hung 
 Forgot, and backward twirl'd the half-spun 
 
 thread ; 
 Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she 
 
 gazed 
 Upon her son, and inly bless' d the Lord, 
 That he was safe return' d. Sudden a noise 
 Bursts rushing through the trees ; a glance of 
 
 steel 
 Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band 
 Glare all around, then single out their prey. 
 In vain the mother clasps her darling boy ; 
 In vain the sire offers their little all : 
 William is bound ; they follow to the shore, 
 Implore, and weep, and pray ; knee-deep they 
 
 stand, 
 And view in mute despair the boat recede. 
 
 James (Jrahame. — Born 1765, Died 1811. 
 
 1 1 64.— TO MY SON. 
 
 Twice has the sun commenced his annual 
 
 round, 
 Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the 
 
 ground ; 
 Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine 
 
 ear, 
 By faltering out the name to fathers dear. 
 Oh ! nature's language, with her looks com- 
 bined. 
 More precious far than periods thrice refined ! 
 Oh ! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile, 
 I prize you more than beauty's magic smile ; 
 Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm, 
 I gaze with bliss unmingled with alarm. 
 Ah, no ! full oft a boding horror flies 
 Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries. 
 Almighty Power ! his harmless life defend, 
 And, if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send. 
 And yet a wish will rise — would I might live, 
 Till added years his memory firmness give ! 
 For, oh ! it would a joy in death impart 
 To think I still survived within his heart ; 
 To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years, 
 A retrospective look bedimm'd with tears. 
 And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke ; 
 What walks I loved, where grew my favourite 
 
 oak ; 
 How gently I would lead him by the hand ; 
 How gently use the accent of command ; 
 What lore I taught him, roaming wood and 
 
 wild, 
 And how the man descended to the child ; 
 How well I loved with him, on Sabbath 
 
 morn, 
 To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn, 
 To teach religion, unallied to strife, 
 And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. 
 
 But far and farther still my view I bend. 
 And now I see a child thy steps attend ; 
 
 To yonder churchyard-wall thou takest thy 
 
 way, 
 While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the 
 
 infant play ; 
 Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine 
 
 eyes, 
 Pointing, thou tell'st him, There^hy^rand- 
 
 sire lies. 
 
 James G-mhame. — Born 1765, Died 18] 1. 
 
 1 1 65 .—TO AN EAELY PEIMEOSE. 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 
 
 Was nursed in whirling storms, 
 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first questioned 
 
 Winter's sway, 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone, 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the 
 
 storms 
 Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head, 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her 
 
 blows. 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 H. Kirke White.— Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1 1 66.— SONNET. 
 
 What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy 
 seat ? 
 Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the 
 
 lands. 
 
 And thou dost bear within thine awful hands 
 
 The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet ; 
 
 Stem on thy dark- wrought car of cloud and 
 
 wind. 
 
 Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's 
 
 dead noon, 
 Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, 
 Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 
 In the drear silence of the polar span 
 
 Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 
 Of sTiltry tracts, where the lone caravan 
 
 Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry 
 brood ? 
 
H. KiRKE White.] 
 
 TKH STAll OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 Vain thought! the confines of his throne to 
 
 trace, 
 "Who glows through all the fields of boundless 
 
 space. 
 
 ff. Kirke White.— Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1167.— THE STAE OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train. 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From every host, from every gem ; 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud — the night was dark ; 
 The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 
 
 The wind that toss'd my foundering- bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 
 When suddenly a star arose, 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all. 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 
 And fiirough the storm and dangers' thrall, 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 Now safely moor'd — ^my perils o'er, 
 I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
 
 For ever and for evermore, 
 
 The Star— the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 H. Ki/rke White.^Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 [68.— A HYMN FOE FAMILY WOESHIP. 
 
 Lord ! another day is fiown. 
 
 And we, a lonely band, 
 Are met once more before thy throne. 
 
 To bless thy fostering hand. 
 
 And wilt thou bend a listening ear 
 
 To praises low as ours ? 
 Thou wilt ! for thou dost love to hear 
 
 The song which meekness pours. 
 
 And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, 
 
 As we before thee pray ; 
 For thou didst bless the infant train, 
 
 And we are less than they. 
 
 O let thy grace perform its part. 
 
 And let contention cease ; 
 And shed abroad in every heart 
 
 Thine everlasting peace ! 
 
 Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 
 
 A flock by Jesus led ; 
 The Sun of Holiness shall shine 
 
 In glory on our head. 
 
 And thou Avilt turn our wandering feet, 
 
 And thou wilt bless our way ; 
 Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
 
 The dawn of lasting day. 
 
 H. Kirlce JVldte.—Born 11So,Died 1806. 
 
 1 1 69.— THE CHEISTIAD. 
 
 Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme. 
 With self -re war ding toil ; thus far have 
 sung 
 Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 
 The lyre which I in early days have 
 
 strung ; 
 And now my spirits faint, and I have 
 hung 
 The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour. 
 On the dark cypress ; and the strings 
 
 which rung 
 With Jesus' praise, their harpings now 
 are o'er, 
 Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are 
 heard no more. 
 
 And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 
 
 Shall I no more reanimate the lay ? 
 Oh ! Thou who visitest the sons of men, 
 Thou who dost listen when the humble 
 
 pray, 
 One little space prolong my mournful day; 
 One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 
 I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
 And this slight boon would consecrate to 
 thee. 
 Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that 
 I am free. 
 
 / H. Kirle White.— Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1 1 70. 
 
 -THE SHIPWEECKED SOLITAEY'S 
 SONG'.— TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 Thou, spirit of the spangled night ! 
 I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
 Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
 Of lonely mariner. 
 
 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
 The distant main is moaning low ; 
 Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
 A melancholy song ! 
 
 Sweet is the scented gale of mom, 
 And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
 But sweeter far the solemn calm 
 That marks thy mournful reign. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FEOM CLIFTON GEOVE. 
 
 [H. KiRKE White. 
 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
 And never human voice have heard ; 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And I have lingered in the shade, 
 From sultry noon's hot beam ; and I 
 Have knelt before my wicker door, 
 To sing my evening song. 
 
 And I have hail'd the gray morn high 
 On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
 An d tried to tune my little reed 
 To hymns of harmony. 
 
 But never could I tsne my reed, 
 At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet 
 As when upon the ocean shore 
 I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 
 
 The day-spring brings not joy to me, 
 The moon it whispers not of peace ! 
 But oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
 My woes are mix'd with joy. 
 
 And then I talk, and often think 
 Aerial voices answer me ; , 
 
 And oh ! I am not then alone — 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And when the blustering winter winds 
 Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
 I lay me on my lonely mat. 
 
 And pleasant are my dreams. 
 
 And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
 And Fancy gives mo back my child ; 
 She gives me back my little home. 
 And all its placid joys. 
 
 Then hateful is the morning hour 
 That calls me from the dream of bliss, 
 To find myself still lone, and hear 
 The same dull sounds again. 
 
 H. Kirhe Wliite.—Bom 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1171.— FEOM CLIFTON GEOVE. 
 
 Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light. 
 And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
 No more is heard the woodman's measured 
 
 stroke 
 Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle 
 
 broke ; 
 No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted 
 
 head,^, 
 The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock' d 
 
 bed. 
 Still'd is the village hum — the woodland 
 
 sounds 
 Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds. 
 
 And general silence reigns, save when below. 
 The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to 
 
 flow ; 
 And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic 
 
 late, 
 Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate : 
 Or, when the sheep-bell, in the distant ^ale, 
 Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 
 
 Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 
 Eeleased from day and its attendant toil, 
 And draws his household roimd their evening 
 
 fire. 
 And tells the oft-told tales that never tire : 
 Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise 
 And manufacture taints the ambient skies. 
 The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom. 
 The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 
 And rushes out, impatient to begin 
 The stated course of customary sin : 
 Now, now, my solitary way I bend 
 Where solemn groves in awful state impend. 
 And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain. 
 Bespeak, blest Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 
 Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
 I come to pass the meditative hour ; 
 To bid awhile the strife of passion cease. 
 And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
 And oh ! thou sacred power, who rear'st on 
 
 high 
 Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh .' 
 Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild 
 
 control 
 Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, 
 Come with thy wonted ardour and inspire 
 My glowing bosom with thy hallow' d fire. 
 And thou, too, Fancy ! from thy starry sphere, 
 Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine 
 
 ear. 
 Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
 Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
 At thy command the gale that passes by 
 Beaxs in its whispers mystic harmony. 
 Thou wavest thy wand, and lo ! what forms 
 
 appear ! 
 On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 
 TJie ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, 
 Ajid hosts -of sylphids on the moon-beam sail. 
 
 This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight. 
 Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 
 Save when from yonder stream the sunny ray 
 Eeflected gives a dubious gleam of day ; 
 Eecalls endearing to my alter' d mind. 
 Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined 
 I watch' d the lapwing to her clamorous 
 
 brood ; 
 Or lured the robin to its scatter' d food ; 
 Or woke with song the woodland echo wild. 
 And at each gay response delighted, smiled. 
 How oft, when childhood threw its golden 
 
 ray 
 Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 
 Here would I run, a visionary boy. 
 When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted 
 
 sky, 
 
H. Kteke White.] 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 [Cetis^ittii Pesiod. — 
 
 And fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
 Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 
 And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost 
 
 soul, 
 His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
 With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare, 
 The voUey'd lightnings cleave the sullen air; 
 And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
 With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 
 Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which en- 
 dears 
 This silent spot to my advancing years. 
 Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, 
 In shades like these to live, is to be blest, 
 While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
 In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
 And thou, too. Inspiration, whose wild flame 
 Shoots with electric swiftness through the 
 
 frame. 
 Thou here dost love to sit, with up-turn'd 
 
 eye. 
 And listen to the stream that murmurs by. 
 The woods that wave, the gray-owl's silken 
 
 flight. 
 The mellow music of the listening night. 
 Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
 Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest. 
 To heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I 
 
 raise. 
 That ye may bless my unambitious days, 
 Withdrawn, remote, from aU the haunts of 
 
 strife 
 May trace with me the lowly vale of life, 
 And when her banner Death shall o'er me 
 
 wave. 
 May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 
 Now, as I rove, where wide the prospect 
 
 grows, 
 A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
 No more above, th' embracing branches 
 
 meet ; 
 No more the river gurgles at my feet, 
 But seen deep down the cliff's impending 
 
 side 
 Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver 
 
 tide. 
 Dim is my upland path, — across the Green , 
 Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
 The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste 
 
 ray sheds, 
 Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful 
 
 heads. 
 And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, 
 Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal 
 
 breeze. 
 
 Say, why does man, while to his opening 
 
 sight 
 Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
 And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
 And gives to him alone his bliss to know, 
 Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
 Why clasp the siren Pleasure to his arms ? 
 And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous 
 
 •breath, 
 Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
 
 Could he, who thus to vile enjoyments clings, 
 Know what calm joy from purer sources 
 
 springs, 
 Could he but feel how sweet, how free from 
 
 strife. 
 The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
 No moi-e his soul would pant for joys impure, 
 The deadly chalice would no more aUure, 
 But the sweet potion he was wont to sip. 
 Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 
 
 H. KirTce Wliite.—Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1 1 72.— A HYMN. 
 
 Lord, my God, in mercy turn ; 
 In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
 To Thee I call, to Thee I cry. 
 
 Oh ! leave me, leave me not to die ! 
 
 1 strove against Thee, Lord, I know ; 
 
 I spurn' d thy grace, I mock'd thy law; 
 The hour is past — the day 's gone by, 
 And I am left alone to die. 
 
 pleasures past, what are ye now 
 But thorns about my bleeding brow ? 
 Spectres that hover round my brain, 
 And aggravate and mock my pain. 
 
 For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
 Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
 Now, Vengeance, smile — and with a blow, 
 Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 
 
 Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling ; 
 I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
 I'll clasp the cross ; and, holding there. 
 Even me, oh bliss ! — his wrath may spare. 
 
 H. Eirlce White.— Born 1785, Died 1806. 
 
 1 1 73 .—THE PAEISH WORKHOUSE AND 
 APOTHECAEY. 
 
 Theirs is yon house that holds the parish 
 
 poor. 
 Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken 
 
 door; 
 There, where the putrid vapours flagging, 
 
 play, 
 And the duU wheel hums doleful through the 
 
 day; 
 There children dwell who know no parents' 
 
 care; 
 Parents, who know no children's love, dwell 
 
 there ; 
 Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, 
 Forsaken wives and mothers never wed. 
 Dejected widows with unheeded tears. 
 And crippled age "svith more than childhood 
 
 fears ; 
 
From 1780 to 18S6.] 
 
 ISAAC ASHFOED. 
 
 [Gso. Crabbe. 
 
 The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! 
 The moping idiot and the madman gay. 
 
 Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, 
 Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to 
 
 grieve, 
 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber 
 
 flow, 
 Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below ; 
 Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, 
 And the cold charities of man to man : 
 Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide. 
 And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from 
 
 pride ; 
 But still that scrap is bought with many a 
 
 sigh. 
 And pride imbitters what it can't deny. 
 Say ye, oppress' d by some fantastic woes, 
 Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; 
 Who press the downy couch, while slaves 
 
 advance 
 With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; 
 Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, 
 To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
 Who with mock patience dire complaints 
 
 endure, 
 Which real pain, and that alone, can cure ; 
 How would ye bear in real pain to lie, 
 Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 
 How would ye bear to draw your latest breath 
 Where all that's wretched pave the way for 
 
 death ? 
 Such is that room which one rude beam 
 
 divides, 
 And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
 Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are 
 
 seen, 
 And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
 Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, 
 
 gives way 
 To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
 Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread. 
 The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; 
 For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 
 Or wipes the tear 'that stagnates in his eyes ; 
 No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, 
 Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. 
 
 But soon a loud and hasty summons calls. 
 Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the 
 
 walls ; 
 Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, 
 All pride and business, bustle and conceit, 
 With looks unalter'd by these scenes of wo. 
 With speed that, entering, speaks his haste 
 
 to go ; 
 He bids the gazing throng around him fly, 
 And carries fate and physic in his eye ; 
 A potent quack, long versed in human ills. 
 Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; 
 Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect, 
 And whose most tender mercy is neglect. 
 Paid by the parish for attendance here. 
 He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer ; 
 In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, 
 Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes; 
 And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 
 Without reply, he rushes on the door ; 
 
 His drooping patient, long inured to pain. 
 And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain j 
 He ceases now the feeble help to crave 
 Of man ; and silent sinks into the grave. , 
 
 George Crahhe.—Born 1754, Died 1832. 
 
 1 1 74. 
 
 -ISAAC ASHFORD, A NOBLE 
 PEASANT. 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, 
 A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
 Noble he was, contemning aU things mean, 
 His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene : 
 Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
 At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd : 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, 
 Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved ; 
 To bHss domestic he his heart resign'd. 
 And with the firmest, had the fondest mind ; 
 Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 
 And gave allowance where he needed none ; 
 Good he refused with future ill to buy, 
 Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ; 
 A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; 
 (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind 
 To miss one favour which their neighbours find) 
 Yet far was he from stoic-pride removed ; 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : 
 I mark'd his action when his infant died. 
 And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 
 The still tears, stealing down that furrow' d 
 
 cheek, 
 Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. 
 If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, 
 WTio, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 
 Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, 
 If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 
 Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 
 None his superior, and his equals few : 
 But if that spirit in his soul had place, 
 It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 
 A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd. 
 In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train' d r. 
 Pride in the power that guards his country's 
 
 coast. 
 And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 
 Pride in a hfe that slander's tongue defied. 
 In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. 
 
 He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim; 
 Christian and countryman was all with him ; 
 True to his church he came, no Sunday- 
 shower 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect 
 By the strong glare of their new light direct : 
 " On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
 But should be blind and lose it in your blaze." 
 In times severe, when many a sturdy .swain 
 Felt it his pride, lais comfort to complain, 
 
Geo. Cuabbe.] 
 
 PHCEBE DAWSON. 
 
 [Seventh Period.-— 
 
 Isaac their wants -would soothe, his own would 
 
 hide, 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 At length he found, when seventy years were 
 
 run, 
 His strength departed and his labour done ; 
 When, save his honest fame, he kept no more ; 
 But lost his wife and saw his children poor ; 
 'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — 
 Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : 
 " Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied) 
 That in yon house for ruin'd age provide, 
 And they are just ; when young, we give you 
 
 aU, 
 And then for comforts in our weakness call. 
 Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
 To join your poor and eat the parish-bread ? 
 But yet I linger, loath with him to feed 
 Who gains his plenty by the sons of need : 
 He who, by contract, all your paiipers took, 
 And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
 On some old master I could well depend ; 
 See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; 
 But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 And counts our chances who at night may die : 
 Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not com- 
 plain 
 Of what befaUs me, but the fate sustain." 
 Such were his thoughts, and so resign' d he 
 
 grew; 
 Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
 But came not there, for sudden was his fate, 
 He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 
 
 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
 And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ; 
 I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
 Round the bald polish of that honour' d head ; 
 No more that awful glance on playful wight 
 Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight ; 
 To fold his j&ngers all in dread the while, 
 Till Mister Ashford soften' d to a smile ; 
 No more that meek and suppliant look in 
 
 prayer. 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are 
 
 there : . . . . 
 But he is blest, and I lament no more, 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. 
 
 George Cro.hhe. — Bom 1754, Died 1832. 
 
 1 1 75. —PHOEBE DAWSON. 
 
 Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, 
 The sweetest flower that ever blossom' d there ; 
 When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, 
 In haste to see and happy to be seen ; 
 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, 
 Courteous though coy, and gentle though 
 
 retired ; 
 The joy of youth and health her eyes dis- 
 played, 
 And ease of heart her every look conveyed ; 
 A native skill her simple robes express' d, 
 A3 with untutor'd elegance she dress' d ; 
 
 The lads around admired so fair a sight, 
 
 And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
 
 Admirers soon of every age she gain'd. 
 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; 
 
 Envy itself coiild no contempt display. 
 
 They wish'd her well, whom yet they vfish'd 
 
 away; 
 Correct in thought, she judged a servant's 
 
 place 
 Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour. 
 With secret joy she felt that beauty's power ; 
 When some proud bliss upon the heart would 
 
 steal. 
 That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
 At length, the youth ordain'd to move her 
 
 breast. 
 Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd ; 
 With looks less timid made his passion 
 
 known, 
 And pleased by manners, most unlike her own ; 
 Loud though in love, and confident though 
 
 young ; 
 Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ; 
 By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade. 
 He served the squire, and brush' d the coat he 
 
 made; 
 Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, 
 Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board ; 
 With her should years of growing love be 
 
 spent. 
 And growing wealth : — she sigh'd and look'd 
 
 consent. 
 Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross 
 
 the green 
 (Seen by but few and blushing to be seen — 
 Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid), 
 Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid : 
 Slow through the meadows roved they many 
 
 a mile, 
 Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each style ; 
 Where, as he painted every blissful view. 
 And highly colour' d what he strongly drew, 
 The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, 
 Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic 
 
 tears : 
 Thus passed the allotted hours, till, lingering 
 
 late. 
 The lover loiter' d at the master's gate ; 
 There he pronounced adieu! and yet would 
 
 stay, 
 Till chidden — soothed — intreated — forced 
 
 away ! 
 He would of coldness, though indulged, com- 
 plain. 
 And oft retire and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind. 
 The grief assumed compell'd her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of phghted kindness crave, 
 That she resented first, and then forgave, 
 And to his grief and penance yielded more 
 Than his presumption had required before : — 
 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! 
 refrain ! 
 
 Each yielding maid and each presuming 
 swain! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 AN ENGLISH FEN— GIPSIES. 
 
 [Geo. Crabbe. 
 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet 
 
 black, 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her 
 
 back, 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains, 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for 
 
 bread, 
 Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are 
 
 fled; 
 Pale her parch' d lips, her heavy eyes sunk low. 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again ; 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 For not alone that infant in her arms. 
 But nearer cause her anxious soiil alarms ; 
 With water burden' d then she picks her way, 
 Slowly and cautious, in the chnging clay ; 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, 
 And deeply plunges in the adhesive ground ; 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she 
 
 takes, 
 While hope the mind as strength the frame 
 
 forsakes ; 
 For when so full the cup of sorrow grows. 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
 And now her path but not her peace she 
 
 gains. 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her 
 
 pains ; 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door. 
 And placing first her infant on the floor. 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits. 
 And sobbing struggles with the rising fits ; 
 In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief, 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief ; 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress' d, 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd ; 
 The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and 
 
 flies 
 With all the aid her poverty supplies ; 
 Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys. 
 Not led by profit, not allured by praise ; 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease. 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy 
 
 aid. 
 She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 But who this child of weakness, want, and 
 
 care? 
 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair ; 
 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. 
 Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : 
 Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart 
 For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart : 
 "And then his prayers ! they would a savage 
 
 move, 
 And win the coldest of the sex to love." 
 But ah ! too soon his looks success declared. 
 Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair' d ; 
 The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot : 
 If present, raihng till he saw her pain'd ; 
 If absent, spending what their labours gain'd; 
 
 Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, youth ; resist I 
 refrain ! 
 
 Nor let me preach for ever and in vain ! 
 
 George Crahhe.—Born l754,-IHei_1832. 
 
 1 1 76.— AN ENGLISH FEN— GIPSIES. 
 
 On either side 
 Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide, 
 I With dikes on either hand by ocean's self 
 j supplied : 
 
 j Far on the right the distant sea is seen, 
 i And salt the springs that feed the marsh 
 ! between : 
 
 Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten' d 
 
 flood 
 RoUs through its sloping banks of slimy 
 
 mud; 
 Near it a sunken boat resists the tide. 
 That frets and hurries to the opposing side ; 
 The rushes sharp that on the borders grow. 
 Bend their brown flowerets to the stream 
 
 below. 
 Impure in all its course, in all its progress 
 
 slow: 
 Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom. 
 Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume ; 
 The few dull flowers that o'er the place are 
 
 spread. 
 Partake the nature of their fenny bed. 
 Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom. 
 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume ; 
 Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil 
 
 harsh, 
 And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; 
 Low on the ear the distant billows sound. 
 And just in view appears their stony bound ; 
 Nor hedge nor tree conceals the glo-sving^ 
 
 sun ; 
 Birds, save a watery tribe, the district shun, 
 Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters 
 
 run. 
 Again, the country was inclosed, a wide 
 And sandy road has banks on cither side ; 
 Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appear' d. 
 And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd ; 
 'Twas open spread to catch the morning sun, 
 And they had now their early meal begun, 
 When two brown boys just left their grassy 
 
 seat, 
 The early traveller with their prayers to 
 
 greet ; 
 While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 
 He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 
 Some twelve years old, demure, affected, clj, 
 Prepared the force of early powers to try ; 
 Sudden a look of languor he descries. 
 And well-feign' d apprehension in her eyes ; 
 Train' d, but yet savage, in her speaking fac3 
 He mark'd the features of her vagrant race, 
 
 59 
 
f Geo. Ceabbe.] 
 
 THE DYING SAILOE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Wlien a light laugh and roguish leer express' d 
 The vice implanted in her youthful breast ; 
 Forth from the tent her elder brother came, 
 Who seem'd oflFended, yet forbore to blame 
 The young designer, but could only trace 
 The looks of pity in the traveller's face. 
 Within the father, who from fences nigh, 
 Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, 
 Watch' d now the feeble blaze, and stood de- 
 jected by ; 
 On ragged rug, just borrow' d from the bed. 
 And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
 In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, 
 Eeclined the wife, an infant at her breast ; 
 In her wild face some touch of grace remain' d, 
 Of vigour palsied, and of beauty stain' d ; 
 Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
 Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants 
 
 to state, 
 Cursing his tardy aid. Her mother there 
 With gipsy state engross'd the only chair j 
 Solemn and dull her look ; with such she 
 
 stands, 
 And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her 
 
 hands, 
 Tracing the lines of life; assumed through 
 
 years, 
 Each feature noAV the steady falsehood wears ; 
 With hard and savage eye she views the 
 
 food. 
 And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 
 Last in the group, the worn- out grandsire 
 
 sits 
 Neglected, lost, and living but by fits ; 
 Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, 
 And half protected by the vicious son, 
 Who half-supports him, he with heavy glance 
 Views the young ruflfians who around him 
 
 dance. 
 And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
 To trace the progress of their future years ; 
 Through what strange course of misery, vice, 
 
 deceit, 
 .Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat ; 
 What shame and grief, what punishment and 
 
 pain, 
 Sport of fierce passions, must each child 
 
 sustain, 
 Ere they like him approach their latter end, 
 Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! 
 
 George Crahhe.—Born 1754, Died 1832. 
 
 1177.— THE DYING SAILOE. 
 
 Yes ! there are real mourners. — I have seen 
 A fair, sad girl, mild, sufi'ering, and serene ; 
 Attention (through the day) her duties claim' d, 
 And to be useful as resign' d she aim'd : 
 Neatly she drest, nor vainly seem'd t' expect 
 Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; 
 But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
 She ccught her place to meditate and weep : 
 
 Then to her mind was all the past display' d, 
 That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid : 
 For then she thought on one regretted youth. 
 Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth : 
 In every place she wander' d, where they'd 
 
 been. 
 And sadly- sacred held the parting scene, 
 Where last for sea he took his leave — that 
 
 place 
 With double interest would she nightly trace ; 
 For long the courtship was, and he would say. 
 Each time he sail'd, — " This once, and then 
 
 the day :" 
 Yet prudence tarried ; but, when last he went. 
 He drew from pitying love a full consent. 
 
 Happy he sail'd, and great the care she 
 
 took, 
 That he should softly sleep, and smartly 
 
 look; 
 White was his better linen, and his check 
 Was made more trim than any on the deck ; 
 And every comfort men at sea can know. 
 Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : 
 For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she 
 
 told, 
 How he should gu^rd against the climate's 
 
 cold, 
 Yet saw not danger ; dangers he'd withstood, 
 Nor could she trace the fever in his blood : 
 His messmates smiled at flushings on his 
 
 cheek, 
 And he too smiled, but seldom would he 
 
 speak ; 
 For now he found the danger, felt the pain, 
 With grievous symptoms he could not explain ; 
 Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd, 
 But quickly sank, and never more prevaU'd. 
 
 He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a 
 
 sigh 
 A lover's message — " Thomas, I must die : 
 Would I could see my Sally, and could rest 
 My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. 
 And gazing, go ! — if not, this trifle take, 
 And say, till death I wore it for her sake ; 
 Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, 
 
 blow on ! 
 Give me one look, before my life be gone, 
 Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair, 
 One last fond look — and now repeat the 
 
 prayer." 
 
 He had his wish, had more ; I will not 
 paint 
 The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint, — 
 With tender fears, she took a nearer view, 
 Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; 
 He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, 
 " Yes ! I must die ;" and hope for ever fled. 
 
 Still long she nursed him ; tender thoughts, 
 
 meantime. 
 Were interchanged, and hopes and views 
 
 sublime. 
 To her he came to die, and every day 
 She took some portion of the dread away : 
 
JProm 1780 io Vc 
 
 EEFLECTIONS. 
 
 [Geo. Cijabbe. 
 
 With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read, 
 Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching 
 
 head ; 
 She came with smiles the hour of pain to 
 
 cheer ; 
 Apart, she sigh'd ; alone, she shed the tear ; 
 Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
 Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave, j 
 
 One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot 
 The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 
 They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to 
 
 think, 
 Yet said not so — " perhaps he will not sink :" 
 A sudden brightness in his look appear' d, 
 A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ; — 
 She had been reading in the book of prayer. 
 And led him forth, and placed him in his 
 
 chair ; 
 Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. 
 The friendly many, and the favourite few ; 
 Nor one that day did he to mind recall. 
 But she has treasured, and she loves them all ; 
 When in her way she meets them, they appear 
 Peculiar people— death has made them dear. 
 He named his friend, but then his hand she 
 
 prest, 
 And fondly whisper'd, " Thou must go to 
 
 rest. " 
 '•I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found 
 His hand more cold, and fluttering was the 
 
 sound ! 
 Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a 
 
 last, 
 A dying look of love, and all was past ! 
 
 She placed a decent stone his grave above. 
 Neatly engraved — an offering of her love ; 
 For that she wrought, for that forsook her 
 
 bed, 
 Awake alike to duty and the dead ; 
 She would have grieved, had friends presumed 
 
 to spare 
 The least assistance — 'twas her proper care. 
 
 Here will she come, and on the grave will 
 
 sit. 
 Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit ; 
 But, if observer pass, will take her round, 
 And careless seem, for she would not be 
 
 found ; 
 Then go again, and thus her hour employ, 
 While visions please her, and while woes 
 
 destroy. 
 
 Forbear, sweet maid ! nor be by fancy led. 
 To hold mysterious converse with the dead ; 
 For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's 
 
 pain. 
 In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain ; 
 All have their tasks and trials ; thine are 
 
 hard, 
 But short the time, and glorious the reward ; 
 Thy patient spirit to thy duties give, 
 Sogard the dead, but, to the living, live 
 
 George Crahbe. — Born 1754, Died 1832. 
 
 1 1 78.— EEFLECTIONS. 
 
 When all the fiercer passions cease 
 
 (The glory and disgrace of youth) ; 
 Wlien the deluded soul in peace, 
 
 Can listen to the voice of truth ; 
 When we are taught in whom to tF 
 
 And how to spare, to spend, to give 
 (Our prudence kind, our pity just), 
 
 'Tis then we rightly learn to live. 
 Its weakness when the body feels ; 
 
 Nor danger in contempt defies ; 
 To reason when desire appeals. 
 
 When on experience hope relies ; 
 When every passing hour we prize, 
 
 Nor rashly on our folhes spend, 
 But use it, as it quickly flies. 
 
 With sober aim to serious end ; 
 When prudence bounds our utmost views. 
 
 And bids us wrath and wrong forgive | 
 When we can calmly gain or lose : — 
 
 'Tis then we rightly learn to live. 
 Yet thus, when we our way discern, 
 
 And can upon our care depend. 
 To travel safely, when we learn. 
 
 Behold ! we're near our journey's end ; 
 We've trod the maze of error round, 
 
 Long wandering in the winding glade ; 
 And, now the torch of truth is found. 
 
 It only shows us where we stray' d : 
 Light for ourselves, what is it worth. 
 
 When we no more our way can choose T 
 For others, when we hold it forth. 
 
 They, in their pride, the boon refuse. 
 By long experience taught, we now 
 
 Can rightly judge of friends and foes, 
 Can all the worth of these allow. 
 
 And all their faults discern in those ; 
 Relentless hatred, erring love. 
 
 We can for sacred truth forego ; 
 We can the warmest friend reprove. 
 
 And bear to praise the fiercest foe : 
 To what effect ? Our friends are gono 
 
 Beyond reproof, regard, or care ; 
 And of our foes remains there one, 
 
 The mild relenting thoughts to share 
 Now 'tis our boast that we can quell 
 
 The wildest passions in their rage ; 
 Can their destructive force repel, 
 
 And their impetuous wrath assuage : 
 Ah ! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now 
 
 This bold rebellious race are fled ; 
 When all these tyrants rest, and thou 
 
 Art warring with the mighty dead ? 
 Eevenge, ambition, scorn and pride, 
 
 And strong desire, and fierce disdain, 
 The giant-brood by thee defied, 
 
 Lo ! Time's resistless strokes have slain. 
 Yet Time, who could that race subdue 
 
 (O'erpowering strength, appeasing rage), 
 Leaves yet a persevering crew. 
 
 To try the failing powers of age. 
 Vex'd by the constant call of these, 
 
 Virtue awhile for conquest tries ; 
 But weary grown, and fond of ease, 
 
 She makes with them a compromise : 
 59* 
 
Geo. Chabbe.] 
 
 THE WIFE'S FUNERAL. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. — 
 
 Avarice himseK she gives to rest, 
 
 But rules Mm with her strict commands, 
 Bids Pity touch his torpid breast, 
 
 And Justice hold his eager hands. 
 Yet is there nothing men can do, 
 
 When chilling age comes creeping on ? 
 Cannot we yet some good pursue ? 
 
 Are talents buried ? genius gone ? 
 If passions slumber in the breast, 
 
 If follies from the heart be fled ; 
 If laurels let us go in quest, 
 
 And place them on the poet's head. 
 Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time, 
 
 And to neglected studies flee ; 
 We'll build again the lofty rhyme, 
 
 Or live, Philosophy, with thee : 
 For reasoning clear, for flight sublime. 
 
 Eternal fame reward shall be ; 
 And to what glorious heights we'U climb, 
 
 The admiring crowd shall envying see. 
 Begin the song ! begin the theme ! — 
 
 Alas ! and is Invention dead ? 
 Dream we no more the golden dream ? . 
 
 Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled ? 
 Yes, 'tis too late, — now Eeason guides 
 
 The mind, sole judge in all debate ; 
 And thus th' important point decides, 
 
 For laurels, 'tis, alas ! too late. 
 What is possess' d we may retain. 
 But for new conquests strive in vain. 
 Beware then. Age, that what was won. 
 
 If life's past labovirs, studies, views, 
 Be lost not, now the labour's done. 
 
 When all thy part is, — not to lose ; 
 When thou canst toil or gain no more, 
 Destroy not what was gain'd before. 
 For, all that's gain'd of all that's good. 
 
 When time shall his weak frame destroy 
 (Their use then rightly understood). 
 
 Shall man in happier state enjoy. 
 Oh ! argument for truth divine, 
 
 For study's cares, for virtue's strife ; 
 To know th' enjoyment will be thine. 
 
 In that renew' d, that endless life ! 
 
 George Crabhe.—Born 1754, IHed 1832. 
 
 1179.— THE WIFE'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Then died, lamented, in the strength of life, 
 
 A valued mother, and a faithful wife : 
 
 Called not away, when time had loosed each 
 
 hold 
 On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold ; 
 But when, to aU that knit us to our kind. 
 She felt fast bound, as charity can bind ; — 
 Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, * 
 The drooping spirit for its fate prepare ; 
 And, each affection failing, leaves the heart 
 Loosed from life's charm, and willing to 
 
 depart : — 
 But all her ties the strong invader broke. 
 In all their strength, by one tremendous 
 
 stroke ! 
 
 Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, 
 And terror grew, till every hope was gone, 
 Stni those ai'ound appear' d for hope to seek • 
 But view'd the sick, and were afraid to 
 
 speak. 
 Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the 
 
 dead; 
 When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were 
 
 shed, 
 My part began : a crowd drew near the place, 
 Awe in each eye, alarm in every face ; 
 So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind. 
 That fear with pity mingled in each mind ; 
 Friends with the husband came, their griefs 
 
 to blend ; 
 For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. 
 The last-born boy they held above the bier ; 
 He knew not grief, but cries express' d his 
 
 fear ; 
 Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain, 
 In now a louder, now a lower strain ! 
 While the meek father, listening to their 
 
 tones, 
 Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans. 
 
 The elder sister strove her pangs to hide. 
 And soothing words to younger minds applied : 
 " Be still, be patient," oft she strove to stay I 
 But fail'd as oft, and weeping turned away. 
 Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill, 
 The village lads stood melancholy still ; 
 And idle children, wandering to and fro. 
 As nature guided, took the tone of woe. 
 
 Arrived at home, how then they gazed 
 
 around. 
 In every place — where she — no more was 
 
 found : — 
 The seat at table she was wont to fill ; 
 The fire- side chair, still set, but vacant still ; 
 The garden- walks, a labour all her own ; 
 The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'er- 
 
 grown ; 
 The Sunday pew she filled with all her race, — 
 Each place of hers was now a sacred place : 
 That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes, 
 Pierced the full heart, and forced them still 
 
 to rise. 
 Oh sacred sorrow ! by whom souls are tried, 
 Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; 
 If thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare 
 To tell his Maker, he has had a share r) 
 Still let me feel for Avhat thy pangs are sent. 
 And be my guide, and not my punishment \ 
 
 George Crahhe.—Born 1754, Died 1832. 
 
 I 1 180.— FROM THE " PLEASURES OF 
 i MEMORY." 
 
 TT^'ilight's soft dews steal o'er the village 
 
 green. 
 With magic tints to harmonise the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet 
 
 broke, 
 "When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
 
Samuel Eogees.] FROM '- THE PLEASUEES OF MEMORY.' 
 
 [Samuel Eogees. 
 
 The peasants flock' d to hear the minstrel 
 play, 
 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 
 Her wheel at rest the matron thrills no more 
 
 With treasured tales and legendary lore. 
 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 
 All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear ? 
 Mark yon old mansion frowning through 
 the trees, 
 
 Whose hollow turret w6os the whistling 
 breeze. 
 
 That casement, arch'd %vith ivy's brownest 
 shade, 
 
 First to these eyes the light of heaven con- 
 vey' d. 
 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass- 
 grown court, 
 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
 
 When nature pleased, for life itself was new. 
 
 And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 
 See, through the fractured pediment re- 
 veal' d, 
 
 Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured 
 shield, 
 
 The martin's old hereditary nest. 
 
 Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest ! 
 # # # 
 
 Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
 
 The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green ! 
 Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
 Clothed with far softer hues than light can 
 
 give. 
 Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns 
 
 below, 
 To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
 Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. 
 When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; 
 Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
 The sage's precept and the poet's song. 
 What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals. 
 When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight 
 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
 Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
 Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd. 
 Glance on the darken' d mirror of the mind. 
 The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses 
 
 gray. 
 Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
 Tvlute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 
 Cjuickening my truant feet across the lawn : 
 Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, 
 When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
 Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 
 Some little friendship formed and cherished 
 
 here; 
 And not the lightest leaf," but trembling teems 
 With golden visions and romantic dreams. 
 
 Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
 The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
 Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe. 
 Her tatter' d mantle and her hood of straw ; 
 Her moving lips, her cauldron brimming o'er ; 
 The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, 
 
 Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, 
 From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
 Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of 
 
 blackest shade, 
 When in the breeze the distant watch-dog 
 
 bayed : 
 And heroes fled the sibyl's mutter' dirallr 
 "WTiose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. 
 As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
 And traced the hne of life with searching 
 
 view. 
 How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes 
 
 and fears. 
 To learn the colour of my future years ! 
 Ah, then, what honest triumph flush' d my 
 
 breast ; 
 This truth once known — to bless is to bo 
 
 blest ! 
 W^e led the bending beggar on his way 
 (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray), 
 Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt. 
 And on his tale with mute attention dwelt : 
 As in his scrip we dropt our little store. 
 And sigh'd to think that little was no more. 
 He breathed his prayer, " Long may such 
 
 goodness live ! ' ' 
 'Twas all he gave — 'twas all he had to give. 
 
 Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; 
 From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. 
 What different spheres to human bliss as- 
 
 sign'd ! 
 What slow gradations in the scale of mind ! 
 Yet mark in each these mystic wonders 
 
 wrought ; 
 Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! 
 j Th' adventurous boy that asks his little 
 
 share. 
 And hies from home with many a gossip's 
 
 pray'r, 
 Tvirns on the neighbouring hill, once more to 
 
 see 
 The dear abode of peace and privacy ; 
 And as he turns, the thatch among the trees. 
 The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the 
 
 breeze. 
 The village-common spotted white with sheep, 
 The churchyard yews round which his fathers 
 
 sleep ; 
 All rouse Reflection's sadly pleasing train. 
 And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. 
 
 So, when the mild Tupia dared explore 
 Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown 
 
 before. 
 And, with the sons of Science, woo'd the gale 
 That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of 
 
 sail ; 
 So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, 
 Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, 
 And all his soul best loved — such tears he 
 
 shed, 
 While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. 
 Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast. 
 Long watch' d the streaming signal from the 
 
 mast ; 
 
Samuel Eogess.] FROM " THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY." [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, 
 And fairy forests fringed the evening sky. 
 So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawned the 
 
 day, 
 Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. 
 Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering 
 
 height, 
 That faintly tipp'd the feathery surge with 
 
 light ; 
 But now the morn with orient hues portray' d 
 Each castled cliff and Jorown monastic shade : 
 All touch' d the talisman's resistless spring. 
 And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the 
 
 wing ! 
 Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts 
 
 inspire. 
 As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 
 And hence this spot gives back the joys of 
 
 youth, 
 Warm as the life, and with the mirror's 
 
 truth. 
 Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's 
 
 sigh; 
 This makes him wish to live, and dare to 
 
 die. 
 For this yoirng Foscari, whose hapless' fate 
 Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, 
 When exile wore his blooming years away. 
 To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, 
 When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause. 
 For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; 
 Glad to return, though Hope could grant no 
 
 more. 
 And chains and torture hail'd him to the 
 
 shore. 
 And hence the charm historic scenes im- 
 part ; 
 Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. 
 Aerial forms in Tempo's classic vale 
 Glance through the gloom and whisper in the 
 
 gale; 
 In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, 
 And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 
 'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he 
 
 sought 
 Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought, 
 Sat at the helm himself. No meaner hand 
 Steer'd through the Avaves, and when he 
 
 struck the land. 
 Such in his soul the ardour to explore, 
 Pelides-like, he leap'd the first ashore. 
 'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb 
 We bless the' shade, and bid the verdure 
 
 bloom : 
 So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
 On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; 
 When at his feet in honour'd dust disclosed, 
 Th' immortal sage of Syracuse reposed. 
 And as he long in sweet delusion hung 
 Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung ; 
 Who now but meets him musing, when he 
 
 roves 
 His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves ? 
 In Rome's great forum, who but hears him 
 
 roll 
 His moral thunders o'er the subject soul ? 
 
 \ And hence that calm delight the portrait 
 gives : 
 We gaze on every feature till it lives ! 
 I Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; 
 ! And the lost friend still lingers in his shade 1 
 : Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, 
 When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep : 
 Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
 j The father's features in his infant face. 
 j The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, 
 ! Won by the raptures of a game at play ; 
 I He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, 
 ! Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. 
 ! What though the iron school of war erase 
 I Each milder virtue, and each softer grace ; 
 ; What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest 
 j Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast ; 
 j Still shall this active principle preside. 
 
 And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. 
 I Th' intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign 
 shore. 
 Condemned to chmb his mountain-cliffs nc 
 
 more, 
 If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild 
 Which on those cliffs his infant hours be- 
 guiled, 
 Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him 
 
 rise. 
 And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 
 
 Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the 
 charm : 
 Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ? 
 Why great Navarre, when France and freedom 
 
 bled. 
 Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed ? 
 When Dioclesian's self -corrected mind 
 Th' imperial fasces of a world resign'd. 
 Say why we trace the labours of his spado 
 In calm Salona's philosophic shade ? 
 Say, when contentious Charles renounced & 
 
 throne, 
 To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown, 
 What from his soul the parting tribute drew ? 
 What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ? 
 The still retreats that soothed his tranquil 
 
 breast 
 Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd. 
 Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct 
 glows 
 Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; 
 Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest 
 On every form of varied life irapress'd. 
 The social tribes its choicest influence hail ; 
 And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, 
 The war-worn courser charges at the sound. 
 And with young vigour wheels the pasture 
 round. 
 Oft has the aged tenant of the vale 
 Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale ; 
 Oft have his lips the grateful tribute 
 
 breathed. 
 From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. 
 When o'er the blasted heath the day dc- 
 
 chned. 
 And on the scathed oak warred the winter- 
 wind; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FROM "HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 [Samuel Eogeks. 
 
 When not a distant taper's twinkling ray 
 Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his 
 
 way ; 
 When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening 
 
 ear, 
 And the big rain-drops told the tempest near : 
 Then did his horse the homeward track 
 
 descry, 
 The track that shunn'd his sad inquiring 
 
 eye; 
 And win each wavering purpose to relent, 
 With warmth so mild, so gently violent, 
 That his charm 'd hand the careless rein re- 
 sign' d. 
 And doubts and terrors vanish' d from his 
 
 mind. 
 Recall the traveller, whose alter' d form 
 Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm ; 
 And who will first his fond impatience meet ? 
 His faithful dog's already at his feet ! 
 Yes, though the porter spurn him from the 
 
 door, 
 Though all that knew him know his face no 
 
 more, 
 His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,. 
 With that mute eloquence which passes 
 
 speech. 
 And see, the master but returns to die ! 
 Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly ? 
 The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of 
 
 earth, 
 The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth, 
 These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred 
 
 grave, 
 Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. 
 
 Led by what chart, transports the timid 
 
 dove 
 The wreaths of conquest or the vows of love ? 
 Say, through the clouds what compass points 
 
 her flight ? 
 Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the 
 
 sight. 
 Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains 
 
 rise, 
 Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : 
 'Tis vain ! through ether's pathless wild she 
 
 goes. 
 And lights at last where all her cares repose. 
 Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls 
 
 attest, 
 And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
 When, with the silent energy of grief. 
 With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope 
 
 relief, 
 Want with her babes round generous Valour 
 
 clung. 
 To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 
 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ; 
 Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, 
 Crush' d by her meagre hand when welcomed 
 
 from the sky. 
 Hark ! the bee winds her small but mellow 
 
 horn 
 Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
 O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course. 
 And many a stream allures her to its source. 
 
 'Tis noon — 'tis night. That eye so finely 
 
 wrought, 
 Beyond the search of sense, the soar of 
 
 thought. 
 Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
 Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
 Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? 
 Who bids her soul with conscious triumph 
 
 swell ? 
 With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue 
 Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she 
 
 flew? 
 Hail, Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
 Guards the least link of Being's glorious 
 
 chain. 
 
 * * * 
 
 As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower 
 Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour, 
 Than when the shades of Time serenely fall 
 On every broken arch and ivied wall ; 
 The tender images we love to trace 
 Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 
 And as the sparks of social love expand, 
 As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
 And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's 
 
 smile, 
 The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 
 So scenes of life, when present and confest, 
 Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 
 Yet not an image, when remotely view'd, 
 However trivial, and however rude. 
 But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, 
 With every claim of close affinity ! 
 
 Han, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless 
 
 mine 
 From age to ageunnumber'd treasures shine ! 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey. 
 And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! 
 Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone ; 
 The only pleasures we can call our own. 
 Lighter than air, Hope's summer- visions die, 
 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
 If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
 Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! 
 But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
 Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 
 These, Avhen the trembling spirit wings her 
 
 flight. 
 Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
 And gild those pure and perfect realms of 
 
 rest, 
 Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are 
 
 blest ! 
 Samuel Rogers.— Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 ii8i.— FROM "HUMAN LIFE." 
 
 The lark has sung his carol in the sky. 
 
 The bees have humm'd their noontide 
 
 lullaby ; 
 Still in the vale the village bells ring round, 
 Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound ; 
 
Samuel Bogeks.] FEOM " THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS." [Seventh Period.— 
 
 For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
 Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their 
 
 prayer, 
 And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
 The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 
 A few short years, and then these sounds 
 
 shall hail 
 The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
 So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
 Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
 Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir- 
 loin; 
 The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber 
 
 shine ; 
 And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. 
 The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
 " 'Twas on her knees he sat so oft and 
 
 smiled." 
 And soon again shall music swell the 
 
 breeze ; 
 Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the 
 
 trees 
 Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be 
 
 sung. 
 And violets scatter' d round ; and old and 
 
 young, 
 In every cottage-porch with garlands green. 
 Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the 
 
 scene. 
 While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, 
 Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. 
 And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour. 
 Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; 
 When in dim chambers long black weeds are 
 
 What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
 He walks, he speaks. In many a broken 
 
 word 
 His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are 
 
 heard. 
 And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 
 When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet sur- 
 prise. 
 Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung 
 (That name most dear for ever on his tongue), 
 As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
 And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she 
 
 sings, 
 How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
 Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss 
 
 impart ; 
 Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding 
 
 dove, 
 And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 
 But soon a nobler task demands her care. 
 I Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
 Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! 
 And now the volume on her knee has caught 
 His wandering eye — now many a written 
 
 thought 
 Never to die, with many a lisping sweet. 
 His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to 
 
 repeat. 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 And weeping heard where only joy has been ; 
 When, by his children borne, and from his 
 
 door. 
 Slowly departing to return no more. 
 He rests in holy earth with them that went 
 
 before. 
 And such is human life ; so gKding on, 
 It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! 
 Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
 As full, methinks, of wild and wond'rous 
 
 change. 
 As any that the wand' ring tribes require. 
 Stretch' d in the desert round their evening 
 
 fire; 
 As any sung of old, in hall or bower. 
 To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching 
 
 hour ! 
 
 * * # 
 
 The day arrives, the moment wish'd and 
 
 feared ; 
 The child is bom, by many a pang endeared. 
 And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 
 Oh grant the cherub to her asking ej'e ! 
 He comes — she clasps him. To her bosom 
 
 press' d, 
 He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 
 Her by her smile how soon the stranger 
 
 knows I 
 How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
 As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy. 
 
 1182.— FEOM "THE VOYAGE OF 
 COLUMBUS." 
 
 The sails were furl'd ; with many a melt- 
 ing close. 
 Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose, 
 Eose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day, 
 When setting suns o'er summer seas display 
 A path of glory, opening in the west 
 To golden climes and islands of the blest ; 
 And human voices, on the silent air. 
 Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness 
 
 there ! 
 Chosen of men ! 'Twas thine, at noon of 
 
 night, . 
 First from the prow to hail the glimmering 
 
 light 
 (Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
 Enters the soul and makes the darkness day !) : 
 " Pedro ! Eodrigo ! there methought it shone ! 
 There — in the west ; and now, alas ! 'tis 
 
 gone ! — 
 'Twas all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in 
 
 vain ! 
 But mark and speak not, there it comes 
 
 again ! 
 It moves ! — what form unseen, what being 
 
 there 
 With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? 
 His instincts, passions, say, how like our 
 
 own! 
 Oh ! when will day reveal a world unknown ? " 
 
From 1780 to 1866.J 
 
 GINEVEA. 
 
 [Samuel Eogers. 
 
 Long on the deep the mists of morning lay, 
 Then rose, revealing as they roll'd away 
 Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods 
 Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy 
 
 floods : 
 And say, when all, to holy transport given, 
 Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, 
 When one and all of us, repentant, ran, 
 And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man ; 
 Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies 
 Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? 
 '• Glory to God ! " unnumber'd voices sung, 
 '• Glory to God !" the vales and mountains 
 
 rung, 
 Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn, 
 And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. 
 Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we 
 
 bore 
 The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kiss'd the 
 
 shore. 
 But what a scene was there ! Nymphs of 
 
 romance. 
 Youths graceful as the fawn, with eager 
 
 glance, 
 Spring from the glades, and down the alleys 
 
 peep, 
 Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to 
 
 steep. 
 And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, 
 " Come and behold the children of the Sun I " 
 When hark, a signal shot I The voice, it 
 
 came 
 Over the sea in darkness and in flame ! 
 They saw, they heard ; and up the highest 
 
 hill. 
 As in a picture, all at once were still ! 
 Creatures so fair, in garments strangely 
 
 wrought. 
 From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder 
 
 fraught, 
 Check' d their light footsteps — statue-like they 
 
 stood 
 As worshipp'd forms, the Genii of the Wood ! 
 At length the spell dissolves ! The warrior's 
 
 lance 
 Eiings on the tortoise with wild dissonance ! 
 And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state ! 
 Still where it moves the mse in council wait ! 
 See now borne forth the monstrous mask of 
 
 gold. 
 And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold ; 
 These now exchanged for gifts that thrice 
 
 surpass 
 The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of 
 
 brass. 
 What long-drawn tube transports the gazer 
 
 home. 
 Kindling with stars at noon th' ethereal 
 
 dome ! 
 'Tis here : and here circles of solid light 
 Charm with another self the cheated sight ; 
 As man to man another self disclose. 
 That now with terror starts, with triumph 
 
 glows ! 
 Then Cora came, the youngest of her race, 
 And in her hands she hid her lovelv face ; 
 
 Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast, 
 And now with playful step the mirror pass'd, 
 Each bright reflection brighter than the last ! 
 And oft behind it flew, and oft before ; 
 The more she search' d, pleased and perplex' d 
 
 the more ! 
 And look'd and laugh' d, and blushld with 
 
 quick surprise ! 
 Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes ! 
 
 But soon the telescope attracts her view : 
 And lo, her lover in his light canoe 
 Rocking, at noontide, on the silent sea, 
 Before her lies ! It cannot, cannot be. 
 Late as he left the shore, she linger' d there. 
 Till, less and less, he melted into air ! 
 Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame. 
 And say — that murmur — was it not his 
 
 name ? 
 She turns, and thinks, and, lost in wild 
 
 Gazes again, and could for ever gaze ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 83.— GINEVEA. 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or 
 
 chance 
 To Modena, where still religiously 
 Among her. ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
 Stop at a palace near the Eeggio-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
 Will long detain thee ; through their arch'd. 
 
 walks. 
 Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song. 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, 
 That in the spring-time, as alone they sat. 
 Venturing together on a tale of love, 
 Eead only part that day. A summer sun 
 Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go. 
 Enter the house — prithee, forget it not — • 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth. 
 The very last of that illustrious race, 
 Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. 
 He who observes it, ere he passes on, 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
 That he may call it up, when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lips half-open, and her finger up. 
 As though she said " Beware ! " Her vest of 
 
 gold 
 'Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head 
 
 to foot. 
 An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls, But then her face, 
 
Samusl Eogers.] 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 rSEVENTH Period. 
 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has 
 
 fled, 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, 
 An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm, 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me 
 there. 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. 
 Her mother dying of the gift she gave, 
 That precious gift, what else remain' d to him ? 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life. 
 Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first 
 love. 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
 Her pranks the favourite theme of every 
 
 tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
 Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth 
 
 time, 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached de- 
 corum ; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. 
 When all sat dowji, the bride was wanting 
 
 there. 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
 " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " 
 And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand 
 
 shook, 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic 
 
 spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
 Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could anything bo guess'd 
 But that she was not ! Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini lived ; and long mightst thou have seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of some- 
 thing. 
 Something he could not find — he knew not 
 
 what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgot. 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
 That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas 
 said 
 
 By one as younj:, as thoughtles as Ginevra, 
 "Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" 
 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
 It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton. 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald- 
 stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold ! 
 All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
 " Ginevra." There then had she found a 
 
 grave ! 
 Within that chest had she conceal' d herself. 
 Fluttering with joy the happiest of the 
 
 happy ; 
 When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, 
 Fasten' d her down for ever ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 84. —THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile — 
 Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
 Thy ros3' lips still wear a smile 
 And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! 
 
 Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow : 
 Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
 What most I wish — and fear to know ! 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast : 
 — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 
 Sleep on secure ! Above controul 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee : 
 And may the secret of thy soul 
 E-emain witldn its sanctuary ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 85 .—A WISH. 
 
 Mine be' a cot beside the hiU ; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 A willowy brook that turns a mill. 
 With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet-gown and apron blue. 
 
From 1780 to 1866] THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH U; 
 
 [Wordsworth. 
 
 The village-church among' the trees, 
 Wliere first our marriage-vows were given, 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
 And point with taper spire to Heaven. 
 Samuel Rogers.— Bom 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 86.— AN ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 Dear is my little native vale, 
 
 The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
 
 Close by my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager. 
 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 
 And shells his nuts at liberty. 
 
 In orange groves and myrtle bowers, 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 I charm the fairy-footed hours 
 With my loved lute's romantic sound; 
 Of crowns of living laurel weave 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
 The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 Sung in the sUent greenwood pftiade : 
 These simple joys that never fail, 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1187.— TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous 
 
 flight. 
 Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of 
 
 Hght; 
 And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, 
 Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of 
 
 gold. 
 There shall thy wings, rich as an evening 
 
 sky. 
 Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
 Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that 
 
 crept 
 On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and 
 
 slept. 
 And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
 To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. — Born 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 88.— ON A TEAR. 
 
 Oh that the chemist's magic art 
 Could crystallise this sacred treasure ! 
 Long should it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 The little brilliant, ere it fell. 
 Its lustre caught from Chloc's eye ; 
 Then, trembling, left its coral cjU — 
 The spring of Sensibility! 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light. 
 In thee the rays of Virtue shine-; - 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 Who- ever fliest to bring relief, 
 When first we feel the rude control 
 Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 
 
 The sage's and the poet's theme. 
 In every chme, ia every age ; 
 Thou charm' st in Fancy's idle dream, 
 In Reason's philosopliic page. 
 
 That very law which moulds a tear. 
 And bids it trickle from its source, 
 That law preserves the earth a sphere. 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 Samuel Roger s.-^-Bom 1762, Died 1855. 
 
 1 1 89.— LONDON, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 
 England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was hke a star, and dwelt apart ; 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the 
 
 sea; 
 Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common v/ay 
 In cheerful godUness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowHest duties on herself didst lay. 
 
 Wordsxvortli.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 1 90.— THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH 
 WITH US. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
 
 powers : 
 Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid 
 
 boon ! 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
 And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 
Wordsworth.] ON KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBEIDGE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn : 
 So might I, standing oh this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less 
 
 forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 191. --ON KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-match' d aims the architect who 
 
 plann'd, 
 Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed scholars only, this immense 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the 
 
 lore 
 Of nicely calculated less or more ; 
 So deem'd the man who fashioned for the 
 
 sense 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 Self -poised, and scoop' d into ten thousand 
 
 cells, 
 Where light and shade repose, where music 
 
 dwells 
 Lingering — and wandering on, as loath to 
 
 die ; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth 
 
 proof 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 1 92.— LINES. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The child is father of the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 193.— LUCY. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways. 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A maid whom there were none to praise. 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone. 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ; 
 Fair as a star when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and oh. 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 Wordsworth. — Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1194.— A POETEAIT. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 
 "When first she gleam' d upon my sight ; 
 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 
 A dancing shape, an image gay. 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate mil. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright. 
 With something of an "angel light. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1195.— TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 Five years have pass'd ; five summers, with 
 
 the length 
 Of five long winters ; and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain 
 
 springs 
 With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty clifi's, 
 Which Qu a wild, secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 These plots of cottage ground, these orchard 
 
 tufts, 
 Which, at this season, with their unripe 
 
 fruits, 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
 selves 
 
From 1780 to 1866." 
 
 TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 [Wordsworth. 
 
 Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little 
 
 lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral 
 
 farms 
 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of 
 
 smoke 
 Sent up in silence from among the trees, 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where, by his fire, 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 Though absent long, 
 These forms of beauty have not been to me, 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart. 
 And passing even into my purer mind 
 With tranquil restoration — feelings, too, 
 Of unremember'd pleasure ; such, perhaps, 
 As may have had no trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremember'd acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more subhme ; that blessed mood 
 In which the burthen of the mystery. 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 Is lighten' d ; that serene and blessed mood 
 In which the affections gently lead us on. 
 Until the breath of this corporeal frame, 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In Ibody, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft. 
 In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. 
 How oft in spirit have I turned to thee, 
 O sylvan Wye ! — thou wanderer through the 
 
 woods — 
 How often has my spirit turn'd to thee ! 
 And now, with gleams of half -extinguish' d 
 
 thought. 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 While here I stand, not only -svith the 
 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 
 
 thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was 
 
 when first 
 I came among these hiUs ; when, like a roe, 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 "VMierever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than 
 
 one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature 
 
 then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish- days 
 And their glad animal movements aU gone 
 
 by) 
 
 To me was all in all — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract * 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 
 
 wood. 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to 
 
 me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is 
 
 past. 
 And all its aching joys are now no more. 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur j other 
 
 gifts 
 Have follow'd, for such loss, I would believe, 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learn' d 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing often- 
 times 
 The still sad music of humanity, 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 
 
 power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
 A motion and a spirit that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of a}] 
 
 thought. 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am 1 
 
 stiU 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods 
 And mountains, and of all that we behold 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty 
 
 world 
 Of eye and ear, both what they half create 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
 In nature, and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 
 
 soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor, perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me here, upon the banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest friend. 
 My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I 
 
 catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting Hghts 
 Of thy ^vild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 
Wordsworth.] 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 My dear, dear sister ! And this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 
 
 tongues, 
 flash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 
 
 rsen, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail aga.inst us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and in after years, 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! 
 
 then. 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 
 
 gleams 
 Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 A worshipper of nature, hither came. 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to 
 
 me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy 
 
 sake. 
 
 Wordsworth. — Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 1 96.— TO A HIGHLAND GIEL. 
 
 Sweet Highland girl ! a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And those gray rocks ; that household lawn 
 
 Those trees, a veU just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This faU of water, that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 
 This little bay, a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy abode 
 
 In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem 
 Like something fashion' d in a dream ; 
 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 Yet, dream or vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 I neither know thee nor thy peers ; 
 And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 iFor never saw I mien or face. 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scatter' d, like a random seed, 
 Remote from men, thou dost not need 
 Th' embarrass' d look of shy distress 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And scemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, bat such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech ; 
 A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 What joy to hear thee, and to* see ! 
 Thy elder brother I would be— 
 Thy father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 . Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence, 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 Then, why should I be loath to stir ? 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 To give new pleasure like the past. 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, 
 Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part ; 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old. 
 As fair before me shall behold, 
 As I do now, the cabin small. 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 And thee, the spirit of them all ! 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ODE. 
 
 [Wordsworth. 
 
 1 197.— AN OLD MAN'S EEFLECTIONS. 
 
 Down to the vale this water steers, 
 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill mtirmur on a thousand years, 
 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 And here, on this delightful day, 
 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 
 Beside the fountain's brink. 
 
 My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 
 My heart is idly stirr'd ; 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 Thus fares it still in our decay ; 
 
 And yet, the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away, 
 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 The Blackbird in the summer trees, 
 
 The Lark upon the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 With Nature never do they wage 
 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 
 Is beautiful and free. ^ 
 
 But we are press'd with heavy laws ; 
 
 And, often glad no more. 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 Wordsivorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 1 98.— ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMMORTALITT FROM 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparell'd in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see 
 no more ! 
 
 The Eainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the Eose ; 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth; — 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath pass'd away a glory from the 
 earth. 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your 
 jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss I feet, — I feel it 
 aU. 
 Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen. 
 While the earth herseK is adorning. 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the children are pulling, 
 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
 warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm. 
 
 I hear, I hear, what joy I hear ! 
 — But there 's a tree, of many one, 
 A single field which I have look'd upon. 
 
 Both of them speak of something that is 
 gone ; 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat. 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star. 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But, trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her natural kind ; 
 And, even with something of a mother's 
 
 mind. 
 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known. 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 * * « * 
 
 The thought of our past years in me doth 
 
 breed 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
 
 breast : — 
 
Wordsworth.] 
 
 YAEEOW VISITED. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Not for these I raise 
 The songs of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questioning's 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realised, 
 High instincts, before which our mortal 
 
 nature 
 Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised ! 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us — cherish — and have power to 
 make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
 deavour, 
 
 Nor man, nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy : 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 Can in a moment travel thither, — 
 And see the children sport upon the shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We, in thought, will join your throng 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so 
 
 bright 
 Be now for ever taken from thy sight, — 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the 
 flower ; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 In the primal sympathy, 
 Which, having been, must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering, 
 In the faith that looks through 
 death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 
 
 groves. 
 Think not of any severing of your loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 I only have relinquish' d one delight. 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 I love the brooks, which down their channels 
 
 fret, 
 Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as 
 
 they; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are 
 
 won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which wc 
 
 live ; 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can 
 
 give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 Wordsivorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1 199.— YAEEOW VISITED. 
 
 And is this Yarrow ? — this the stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished. 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perish' d ! 
 
 Oh that some minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness. 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontroU'd meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in aU my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here t' admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth movmd 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool. 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning. 
 
 The water-wraith ascended thrice, 
 
 And gave his 'doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove. 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And pity sanctifies the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 To fond imagination, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 [Wordsworth. 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decay'd, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Eiich groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves, 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shatter'd front of Newark's towers, 
 
 Eenown'd in border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 
 It promises protection 
 
 To studious ease, and generous cares. 
 
 And every chaste affection ! 
 
 How sweet on this autumnal day, 
 
 The wild wood's fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my true love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather I 
 
 And what if I en^vreath'd my own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the heights, 
 They melt — and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought ! which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 'Will d^weU with me — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 Wordsivorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I20O.--T0 A DISTANT FEIEND. 
 
 Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 
 The nund's least generous wish a mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could 
 spare. 
 
 Speak ! — though this soft warm heart, once 
 
 free to hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine. 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cok4 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end 
 may know ! 
 
 Wordsivorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I20I.— TO THE SKYLAEK. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
 
 abound ? 
 Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music 
 
 still ! 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted 
 
 strain 
 — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
 Yet might' st thou seem, proud privilege ! to 
 
 sing 
 All independent of the leafy Spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine, 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 
 
 flood 
 Of harmony with instinct more divine ; 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and 
 
 Home ! 
 
 Wordsivorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I202.--T0 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice : 
 
 O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing 
 
 A voice, a mystery j 
 
 60 
 
"Wordsworth.] 
 
 COMPOSED AT NETDPATH CASTLE.. [Seventh Period. 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy daj's 
 I listen'd to ; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Throug-h woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 StUl long'd for, never seen ! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, fairy place 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 Wordsioortn.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1203.— COMPOSED AT NETDPATH CAS- 
 TLE, THE PEOPERTY OF LORD 
 QUEENSBEERY, 1803. 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! O the unworthy lord ! 
 "Whom mere despite of heart could so far 
 
 please 
 And love of havoc (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him) that he could send forth 
 
 word 
 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 
 A brotherhood of venerable trees. 
 
 Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like 
 these 
 
 Beggar' d and outraged ! — Many hearts de- 
 plored 
 
 The fate of those old trees ; and oft with 
 
 pain 
 The traveller at this day will stop and gaze 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to 
 
 heed : 
 
 For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle 
 
 Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1204.-— UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 
 Sept. 3, 1802. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 
 The beauty of the morning : silent, bare. 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 
 
 lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky. 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1205.— ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 
 — The lovely cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear 
 
 brook. 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 
 But covet not the abode — O do not sigh 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 Intruders who would tear from Nature's book 
 This precious leaf with harsh impiety : 
 
 — Think what the home would be if it were 
 
 thine. 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, 
 
 window, door. 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touch' d would melt 
 away ! 
 
 Wordstvorth.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1206.— THE REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field. 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself ; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 O listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 No sweeter voice was ever heard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 And battles long ago : 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 That has been, and may be again ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.1 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 [WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; 
 I listen' d till I had my fill ; 
 And as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 WordswortK—Bo-ni 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I207.~THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 I wander' d lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden daffodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretch' d in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A Poet could not but be gay 
 
 In such a jocund company ! 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What. wealth the show to me had brought j 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Bo^-n 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I208.— TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming commonplace 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 
 Which love makes for thee ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit and play -with similes, 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising ; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court. 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy. 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over. 
 The shape will vanish, and behold ! 
 A silver shield with boss of gold 
 That spreads itself, some fairy bold 
 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star. 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 SeK- poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Sweet flower ! for by that name at last 
 
 When all my reveries are past 
 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 
 Sweet silent Creature ! 
 That breath' st with me in sun and air, 
 ) Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 I My heart with gladness, and a share 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 Wordsworth.— Bom 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1209.— BY THE SEA. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea r 
 Listen ! the mighty being is awake, 
 And doth Avith his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child! dear girl! tliat walk'st with me 
 
 here, 
 If thou appear untouch' d by solemn thought 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divide : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
 And worship' st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 Wordsworth.— Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 1210.— TO SLEEP. 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 
 60* 
 
WORDSWOUTH.] 
 
 WEITTEN IN EAELY SPRING. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he. 
 
 seas, 
 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure 
 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 
 sky ;— 
 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first utter' d from my orchard trees, 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more I 
 
 lay 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any 
 
 stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's 
 
 wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 
 
 health ! 
 
 Wordsivcyrtn.—Born 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 121 1.— WRITTEN IN EAELY SPRING. 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 
 
 While in a grove I sat reclined. 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Natm-e link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What Man has made of Man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trail'd its -wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure — 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What Man has made of Man ? 
 
 WordsivoHli.—Boni 1770, Died 1850. 
 
 I2I2.~THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopp'd. he look'd, and said 
 " The will of God be done ! " 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We travell'd merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hUls. 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun ; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top. 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this, which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 And just above yon slope of com 
 Such colours, and no other. 
 Were in the sky that April morn 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave. 
 And coming to the church stopp'd short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang : — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more — 
 For so it seem'd, — than tiU that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 And turning from her grave, I met 
 Beside the churchyard yew 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To -see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 No foimtain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripp'd with foot so free ; 
 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I look'd at her, and look'd again : 
 And did not wish her mine ! " 
 
 — Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 Methinks I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 Words icorth.— Bom 1770, Died 1850. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE HOLLY TEEE. 
 
 [EOBT. SOUTHET. 
 
 1 21 3.— THE WIDOWED MOTHEE. 
 
 How beautiful is niglit ! 
 A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
 No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor 
 stain, 
 Breaks the serene of heaven : 
 In full-orb' d glory, yonder moon divine 
 EoUs through the dark-blue depths. 
 Beneath her steady ray 
 The desert-circle spreads, 
 Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
 How beautiful is night ! 
 
 Who, at this untimely hour. 
 Wanders o'er the desert sands ? 
 No station is in view, 
 Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. 
 
 The mother and her child. 
 The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, 
 They, at this untimely hour, 
 Wander o'er the desert sands. 
 
 Alas ! the setting sun 
 
 Saw Zeinab in her bliss, 
 
 Hodeirah's wife beloved, 
 
 The fruitful mother late, 
 Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named, 
 They Avish'd their lot like hers :' 
 She v.-anders o'er the desert sands 
 
 A -wretched widow now, 
 The fruitful mother of so fair a race ; 
 
 With only one preserved, 
 She wanders o'er the wilderness. 
 
 No tear relieved the burden of her heart ; 
 Stunii'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one 
 Half- wakened from a midnight dream of blood. 
 But sometimes, when the boy 
 Would wet her hand with tears. 
 And, looking up to her fix'd countenance, 
 Sol) out the name of Mother, then did she 
 Utter a feeble groan. 
 At Icuj^th, collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes 
 To Heaven, exclaiming, " Praised be the Lord ! 
 He gave, He takes away ! 
 The Lord our God is good ! " 
 
 Robert Southcy.—Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1 2 14.— A MOONLIGHT SCENE. 
 
 How calmly, gliding through the dark blue 
 
 sky, 
 The midnight moon ascends ! Her placid 
 
 beams, 
 Throucrh thinly- scatter' d leaves, and boughs 
 
 grotesque, 
 
 Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope ; 
 Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray 
 And massy, motionless they spread; here 
 
 shine 
 Upon the crags, deepening with blacker 
 
 night 
 Their chasms: and there the glittering -ttrgen- 
 
 try 
 Eipples and glances on the confluent streams. 
 A lovelier, purer light than that of day 
 Bests on the hills ; and oh ! how awfully. 
 Into that deep and tranquil firmament. 
 The summits of Auseva rise serene ! 
 Tlie watchman on the battlements partakes 
 The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels 
 The silence of the earth ; the endless sound 
 Of flowing water soothes him ; and the stars, 
 Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh 
 
 quench'd. 
 Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth 
 Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen. 
 Draw on with elevating influence 
 Towards eternity the attemper' d mind. 
 Musing on worlds beyond the grave, lie 
 
 stands. 
 And to the Virgin Mother silently 
 Breathes forth her hymn of praise. 
 
 Robert Southey.—Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 12 1 5.— THE HOLLY TEEE. 
 
 Oh, Eeader ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The Holly Tree? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves. 
 Order' d by an InteUigence so wise. 
 As might confoimd the Atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 
 Wrinkled and keen ; 
 No grazing cattle through their prickly round 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
 Smooth and unarm' d the pointless leaves 
 appear. 
 
 I love to view these things with curious eyes, 
 
 AikI moralize ; 
 And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 
 
 Can emblems see, 
 Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant 
 
 rhyme, 
 One v/hich may profit in the after-tim.e. 
 
 Thus, though abroad perchance I might 
 ap]iear 
 
 Har.sh and austere ; 
 To those, who on my leisure would intrude, 
 
 Eeserved and rude ; — 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. 
 Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 
 
EOBT. SOUTHET.l 
 
 THE ALDEEMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, I 
 
 know, 
 
 Some harshness sho"w, 
 All vain asperities I day by day 
 
 Would wear away, 
 Till the smooth temper of my age shonld be 
 like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 
 
 And as when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green, 
 The Holly leaves a sober hue display 
 
 Less bright than they ; 
 But, when the bare and wintry woods we 
 
 see. 
 What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree ? 
 
 So serions should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng- ; 
 So would I seem amid the young and gay 
 
 More grave than they ; 
 That in my age as cheerful I might bo 
 As the green winter of the Holly Tree. 
 
 RoheH Smithey.—Bom 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1216.— THE ALDEEMAN'S FUNEEAL. 
 
 This man of half a million 
 Had all these public virtues which you praise : 
 But the poor man rung never at his door ; 
 And the old beggar, at the pubHc gate, 
 Who, all the summer long, stands hat in 
 
 hand. 
 He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
 To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
 Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
 Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
 His alms were money put to interest 
 In the other world, — donations to keep open 
 A running charity account with Heaven, — 
 Eetaining fees against the Last Assizes, 
 When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
 Shall be required from all, and the old Arch- 
 Lawyer 
 Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose 
 
 heart 
 Love had no place, nor natural charity ? 
 The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step, 
 Eose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 
 With creeping pace; she nev^er raised her 
 
 eyes 
 To woo kind words from him, nor laid her 
 
 head 
 Upraised upon his knee, Avith fondling whine. 
 How could it be but thus ? Arithmetic 
 Was the sole science he was ever taught ; 
 The multiplication-table was his Creed, 
 His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. 
 When yet he was a boy, and should have 
 
 breathed 
 The open air and sunshine of the fields, 
 To give liis blood its natural spring and play. 
 
 He, in a close and dusky counting-house, 
 Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his 
 
 heart. 
 So, from the way in Vtrhich he was train' d up. 
 His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moil'd, 
 Poor muckworm I through his three-score 
 
 years and ten. 
 And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on 
 
 him, 
 If that which served him for a soul were still 
 Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 
 
 Bohert Southey.—Bom 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1217.— LOVE. 
 
 They sin who tell us Love can die. 
 With life all other passions fly, 
 
 All others are but vanity. 
 In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ; 
 Earthly, these passions are of earth. 
 They perish where they have their birth : 
 But Love is indestructible. 
 Its holy flame for ever burneth ; 
 From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth ; 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest. 
 At times deceived, at times opprest. 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : 
 It soweth here with toil and eare. 
 But the harvest time of Love is there. 
 
 Bohert Southey.—Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 12 1 8.— THE MISEE'S MANSION. 
 
 Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled 
 side 
 Shakes as about to fall at every blast ; 
 Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and 
 pride. 
 But now the monument of grandeur past. 
 
 Fallen fabric ! pondering o'er thy time-traced 
 walls. 
 
 Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state ; 
 Each object to the musing mind recalls 
 
 The sad vicissitudes of varying fate. 
 
 Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time. 
 The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious 
 courts ; 
 Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime. 
 Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toav^ 
 sports. 
 
 Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, 
 
 The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat ; 
 And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests 
 howl. 
 Screams as the wild winds shako her secret 
 seat. 
 
Form 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 AFTER BLENHEIM. 
 
 [ROBT. SOUTHET. 
 
 'Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told 
 His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy ; 
 
 Who loved to ruminate o'er hoarded gold, 
 And hid those stores he dreaded to employ. 
 
 In vain to him benignant Heaven "bestow'd 
 The golden heaps to render thousands blest; 
 
 Smooth aged penury's laborious road, 
 
 And heal the sorrows of aflBtiction's breast. 
 
 For, like the serpent of romance, he lay 
 
 Sleepless and stern to guard the golden 
 sight ; 
 With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by 
 day, I 
 
 With causeless fears he a^oniz«d by night. 
 
 Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil j 
 
 Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest ; 
 
 Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil, 
 With all his riches, was Avaro blest ? 
 
 Rose he, like you, at mom, devoid of fear, 
 His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep ? 
 
 Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near, 
 As calmly on his couch of down to sleep ? 
 
 Thou wretch ! thus curst with poverty of soul, 
 What boot to thee tlie blessings fortune 
 gave? 
 YHiat boots thy wealth above the world's 
 control. 
 If riches doom their churlish lord a slave ? 
 
 Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, 
 Nor longer echoed to the song of mirth ; 
 
 The hand of art ne more adorn' d thy walls, 
 Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth. 
 
 On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, 
 Nor social friendship hastes the friend to 
 meet; 
 Nor, when the accustom' d guest draws near 
 the door. 
 Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his 
 feet. 
 
 Sullen and stem Avaro sat alone, 
 
 In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, 
 Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'er- 
 grown, 
 Nor sees the green slime mark the moulder- 
 ing waU. 
 
 For desolation o'er the fabric dwells. 
 
 And time, on restless pinion, hui-ried by ; 
 Lovid from her chimney'd seat the night-bird 
 yells. 
 And through the shatter' d roof descends the 
 sky. 
 
 Thou melancholy mansion ! much mine eye 
 Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom. 
 
 And mark the daw from yonder turret fly. 
 And muse how man himself creates his 
 doom. 
 
 For here, had justice reign'd, had pity known 
 With genial power to sway Avaro' s breast, 
 
 These treasured heaps which fortune made his 
 own. 
 By aiding misery might himself have blest. 
 
 And charity had oped her golden store. 
 
 To work the gracious will of Heaven intent. 
 
 Fed from her superflux the craving poor, 
 And paid adversity what Heaven had lent. 
 
 Then had thy turrets stood in all their state. 
 Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, 
 
 Swift on its well-worn hinges tum'd the gate. 
 And friendly converse cheer' d the echoing 
 hall. 
 
 Then had the village youth at vernal hour 
 Hung round with flowery wreaths thy 
 friendly gate. 
 
 And blest in gratitude that sovereign power 
 That made the man of mercy good as great. 
 
 The traveller then to view thy towers had 
 stood. 
 Whilst babes had lisp'd their benefactor's 
 name, ^ 
 And call'd on Heaven to give thee every good. 
 And told abroad thy hospitable fame. 
 
 In every joy of life the hours had fled, 
 
 Wliilst time on downy pinions hurried by, 
 
 'Till agevrith silver hairs had graced thy head, 
 Wean'd from the world, and taught thee 
 how to die. 
 
 And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around 
 
 The ample wealth by lavish fortune given. 
 Thy parted spirit had that justice found, 
 And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to 
 heaven. 
 Eolert Southei/.—Bom 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1 2 19.— AFTER BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a summer evening. 
 Old Kaspar's work was done. 
 
 And he before his cottage door 
 Was sitting in the sun ; 
 
 And by him sported on the green 
 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 Roll something large and round 
 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 In playing there had found 
 
 He came to ask what he had found ; 
 
 That was so large and smooth and round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the bo}', 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head. 
 
 And with a natural sigh 
 " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
 " Who fell in the great victory." 
 
EOBT. SOUTHEY.] 
 
 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 " I find them in the garden, 
 
 For there's many here about ; 
 And often when I go to plough 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out. 
 For many thousand men," said he, 
 " Were slain in that great victory." 
 
 " Now tell us what 'twas all about," 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries ; 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 With wonder- waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for." 
 
 " It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
 " Who put the French to rout ; 
 
 But what they fought each other for 
 I could not well make out. 
 
 But everybody said," quoth he, 
 
 " That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 My father lived at Blenheim then. 
 
 Yon little stream hard by ; 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 
 
 And he was forced to fly : 
 So mth his wife and child he fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 And many a childing mother then 
 
 And newborn baby died : 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won ; 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun : 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 . After a famous victory. 
 
 Great praise the Duke of Marlbro* won 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 
 " Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! " 
 Said Httle Wilhelmine. 
 
 " Nay . . nay . . my little girl," quoth he, 
 
 " It was a famous victory. 
 
 And everybody praised the Duke 
 Who this great fight did win." 
 
 '" But what good came of it at last ? " 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 
 " Why that I cannot tell," said he, 
 
 " But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 Bohert Southey. — Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1 220.— THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 My days among the Dead are past ; 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 The mighty minds of old : 
 
 My never failing friends are they, 
 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead; with them 
 
 I live in long-past years. 
 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears, 
 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 
 My place with them will be, 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 Through all Futurity ; 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 Rolert Southey.— Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1 22 1. —YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 With cheerful step the traveller 
 
 Pursues his early way. 
 When first the dimly-dawning east 
 
 Reveals the rising day. 
 
 He bounds along his craggy road. 
 
 He hastens up the height, 
 And all he sees and all he hears 
 
 Administer delight. 
 
 And if the mist, retiring slow. 
 
 Roll round its wavy white, 
 He thinks the morning vapours hide, 
 
 Some beauty from his sight. 
 
 But when behind the western clouds 
 
 Departs the fading day. 
 How wearily the traveller 
 
 Pursues his evening way ! 
 
 Sorely along the craggy road 
 
 His painful footsteps creep, 
 And slow, with many a feeble pause, 
 
 He labours up the steep. 
 
 And if the mists of night close round. 
 
 They fill his soul with fear ; 
 He dreads some unseen precipice. 
 
 Some hidden danger near. 
 
 So cheerfully does youth begin 
 Life's pleasant morning stage; 
 
 Alas ! the evening traveller feels 
 The fears of wary age ! 
 Rohcrt Southey.— Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1222.— THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain ? 
 The rich man ask'd of me ; . . . 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE mCHCAPE EOCK. 
 
 [EOBT. SOUTHEY. 
 
 Come walk abroad with me, I said, 
 And I will answer thee. 
 
 *Twas evening, and the frozen streets 
 
 Were cheerless to behold, 
 And we were wrapt and coated well, 
 
 And yet we were a-cold. 
 
 We met an old bare-headed man. 
 His locks were thin and white : 
 
 I ask'd him what he did abroad 
 In that cold winter's night : 
 
 The cold was keen, indeed, he said, 
 
 But at home no fire had he. 
 And therefore he had come abroad 
 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 We met a young bare-footed child, 
 And she begg'd loud and bold : 
 
 I ask'd her what she did abroad 
 When the wind it blew so cold : 
 
 She said her father was at home, 
 
 And he lay sick a-bed, 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 
 Abroad to beg for bread. 
 
 We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest, 
 She had a baby at her back 
 
 And another at her breast : 
 
 I ask'd her why she loiter'd there 
 When the night- wind was so chill : 
 
 She tum'd her head and bade the child 
 That scream'd behind, be still ; 
 
 Then told us that her husband served, 
 
 A soldier, far away, 
 And therefore to her parish she 
 
 Was begging back her way. 
 
 We met a girl, her dress was loose, 
 
 And sunken was her eye. 
 Who with a wanton's hollow voice 
 
 Address'd the passers-by ; 
 
 I ask'd her what there was in guilt 
 
 That could her heart allure 
 To shame, disease, and late remorse : 
 
 She answer'd she was poor. 
 
 I tum'd me to the rich man then, 
 
 For silently stood he, . . . 
 You ask'd me why the poor complain. 
 
 And these have answer'd thee ! 
 
 Robert Southey.—Bom 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 "You are old, Father William," the young 
 man cried, 
 " The few locks that are left you are gray ; 
 You are hale. Father William, a hearty old 
 man; 
 Xow tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " In the days of my youth," Father William 
 replied, ^ 
 " I rememljer'd that youth would fly fast. 
 And abused not my health and my vigour at 
 first, 
 That I never might need them at last." 
 
 " You are old, Father William," the young 
 man cried, 
 " And pleasures with youth pass away ; 
 And yet you lament not the days that are 
 gone; 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 "In the days of my youth," Father WiUiam 
 replied, 
 
 " I remember'd that youth could not last ; 
 I thought of the future ; whatever I did. 
 
 That I never might grieve for the past." 
 
 "You are old. Father William," the young 
 man cried, 
 " And life must be hast'ning away ; 
 You are cheerful, and love to converse upon 
 death ; 
 Now teU me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " I am cheerful, young man," Father William 
 replied, 
 " Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youth I remember'd my 
 God, 
 And He hath not forgotten my age." 
 
 Ilobert Southey.—Bom 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1224.— THE INCHCAPE EOCK. 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea. 
 The ship was as still as she could be, 
 Her sails from heaven received no motion. 
 Her keel was steady in the ocean. 
 
 Without either sign or sound of their shock 
 The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Eock ; 
 So little they rose, so little they fell. 
 They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 
 
 The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok 
 Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Eock ; 
 On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
 And over the waves its warning rung. 
 
 When the Eock was hid by the surges' swell. 
 The Mariners heard the warning bell ; 
 And then they knew the perilous Eock, 
 And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 
 
 The sun in heaven was shining gay. 
 
 All things were joyful on that day ; 
 
 The sea-birds scream'd as the}^ wheel'dround,^ 
 
 And there was joyance in their sound. 
 
 The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
 A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
 Sir Ealph the Eover walk'd his deck, 
 And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. 
 
EOBT. SOITTHEY.] 
 
 BISHOP HATTO. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod. — 
 
 He felt the cheering- power of spring-, 
 It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
 His heart was mirthful to excess, 
 But the Eover's mirth was wickedness. 
 
 His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
 Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
 And row me to the Inchcape Eock, 
 And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 
 
 The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, 
 
 And to the Inchcape Eock they go ; 
 
 Sir Ealph bent over from the boat. 
 
 And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 
 
 Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound. 
 
 The bubbles rose and burst around ; 
 
 Quoth Sir Ealph, " The next who comes to 
 
 the Eock 
 Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 
 
 Sir Ealph the Eover sail'd away, 
 He scour'd the seas for many a day ; 
 And now grown rich with plunder' d store. 
 He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 
 
 So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
 They cannot see the sun on high ; 
 The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the Eover takes his stand. 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 Quoth Sir Ealph, " It will be lighter soon. 
 For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 
 
 " Can'st hear," said one, " the breakers roar ? 
 For methinks we should be near the shore ; 
 Now where we are I cannot tell. 
 But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." 
 
 They hear no sound, the swell is strong ; 
 Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 
 
 along, 
 Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock : 
 Cried they, " It is the Inchcape Eock !" 
 
 Sir Ealph the Eover tore his hair, 
 He curst himself in his despair ; 
 The waves rush in on every side. 
 The ship is sinking beneath the tide, 
 
 But even in his dying fear 
 One dreadful sound could the Eover hear, 
 A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, 
 The fiends below were ringing his kneU. 
 
 Itolcrt Boutliey. — Born 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1225.— BISHOP HATTO. 
 
 The sunmier and autumn had been so wet. 
 That in winter the corn was growing yet ; 
 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
 The grain lie rotting on the ground. 
 
 Every day the starving poor 
 Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, 
 For he had a plentiful last year's store ; 
 And all the neighbourhood could tell 
 His granaries were furnish' d well. 
 
 At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
 To quiet the poor without delay ; 
 He bade them to his great barn repair, 
 And they should have food for the winter 
 there. 
 
 Eejoiced such tidings good to hear. 
 The poor folk flock' d from far and near ; 
 The great bam was full as it could hold 
 Of women and children, and young and old. 
 
 Then when he saw it could hold no more 
 Bishop Hatto he made fast the door ; 
 And while for mercy on Christ they call, 
 He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. 
 
 " r faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire ! " quoth he, 
 " And the country is greatly obliged to me, 
 For ridding it in these times forlorn 
 Of rats, that only consume the com." 
 
 So then to his palace returned he, 
 
 And he sat down to supper merrily, 
 
 And he slept that night like an innocent 
 
 man. 
 But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 
 
 I In the morning as he enter'd the hall, 
 Where his picture hung against the wall, 
 
 j A sweat like death all over him came, 
 For the rats had eaten it ont of the frame. 
 
 I As he look'd there came a man from the 
 farm, 
 
 i He had a countenance white with alarm ; 
 " My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, 
 And the rats had eaten all your corn." 
 
 Another came running presently, 
 
 And he was pale as pale could be, 
 
 " Fly ! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, 
 
 " Ten thousand rats are coming this way — 
 
 The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! " 
 
 "I'll go to my tower on the Ehine," replied 
 
 he, 
 " Tis the safest place in Germany ; 
 The walls are high, a^d the shores are steep. 
 And the stream is strong, and the water 
 
 deep." 
 
 Bishop Hatto fearfuUy hasten' d away. 
 And he cross' d the Ehine without delay, 
 And reach' d his tower and barr'd with care 
 All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. 
 
 He laid him down and closed his eyes, 
 But soon a scream made him arise ; 
 He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
 On his pillow from whence the screaming 
 came. 
 
Vrom 1780 io 1866.] 
 
 MAEY, THE MAID OP THE INN. 
 
 [ROBT. SOUTHET. 
 
 He listen'd and look'd ; it was only the eat; 
 But the Bishop he grew more fearful for 
 
 that, 
 For she sat screaming-, mad with fear, 
 At the army of rats that was drawing near. 
 
 For they have swum over the river so deep, 
 And they have climb'd the shores so steep, 
 And up the tower their way is bent 
 To do the work for which they were sent. 
 
 They are not to be told by the dozen or 
 
 score, 
 By thousands they come, and by myriads and 
 
 more; 
 Snch numbers had never been heard of before, 
 Such a judgment had never been witness' d of 
 
 yore. 
 
 Down on his knees the Bishop fell, 
 
 And faster and faster his beads did he teU, 
 
 As louder and louder drawing near 
 
 The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 
 
 And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
 And through the walls helter-skelter they 
 
 pour, 
 And down from the ceiling, and up through 
 
 the floor. 
 From the right and the left, from behind and 
 
 before, 
 From within and without, from above and 
 
 below. 
 And all at once to the Bishop they go. 
 
 They have whetted their teeth against the 
 
 stones. 
 And now they pick the Bishop's bones ; 
 They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, 
 For they were sent to do judgment on him. 
 
 I?o&ei-i Southey.—Borii 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1226.— MAEY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 
 
 Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly 
 fix'd eyes 
 Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
 She weeps not, yet often and deeply she 
 
 sighs ; 
 She never complains, but her silence implies 
 The composure of settled distress. 
 
 No pity she looks for, no alms doth she 
 
 Nor for raiment nor food doth she care : 
 Through her tatters the -winds of the winter 
 
 blow bleak 
 On that wither' d breast, and her weather- 
 worn cheek 
 Hath the hue of a mortal despair. 
 
 Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, 
 
 Poor Mary the Maniac hath been ; 
 The traveller remembers who journey'd this 
 way 
 
 No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 
 As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 
 
 Her cheerful address fill'd the g-nests with 
 delight 
 As she welcom'd them in with a smile ; 
 Her heart was a stranger to childish afi'right. 
 And Mary would walk by the" Abbey at 
 night 
 When the wind whistled down the dark 
 aisle. 
 
 She loved, and young Eichard had settled the 
 day, 
 And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
 But Eichard was idle and worthless, and 
 
 they 
 Who knew him would pity poor Mary and 
 say 
 That she was too good for Ms wife. 
 
 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was 
 the night, 
 And fast were the windows and door ; 
 Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt 
 
 bright. 
 And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, 
 They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 
 
 " 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the 
 fireside 
 To hear the wind whistle without." 
 " What a night for the Abbey ! " his comrade 
 
 replied, 
 "Metliinks a man's courage would now be 
 well tried. 
 Who should wander the ruins about. 
 
 I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to 
 hear 
 The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
 And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by 
 
 fear. 
 Some ugly old abbot's giim spirit appear, 
 For this wind might awaken the dead ! " 
 
 " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 
 " That Mary would venture there now." 
 " Then wager and lose ! " with a sneer he 
 
 replied, 
 " I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her 
 side. 
 And faint if she saw a white cow." 
 
 "Will Mary this chaise on her courage 
 allow ? " 
 His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
 " I shall win — for I know she will venture 
 
 there now 
 And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
 From the elder that grows in the aisle." 
 
 With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, 
 
 And her way to the Abbey she bent ; 
 The night was dark, and the wind was high. 
 And as hollowly howling it swept through the 
 sky. 
 She shiver'd with cold as she went. 
 
SOBT. SOUTHEY.] 
 
 ST. ROMUALD. 
 
 [Seventh Period, — 
 
 O'er the path so well known still proceeded 
 the maid, 
 Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
 Through the gatewixy she enter'd, she felt not 
 
 afraid, 
 Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their 
 shade 
 Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. 
 
 AU around her was silent save when the rude 
 blast 
 Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; 
 Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly 
 
 pass'd, 
 And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 
 Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. 
 
 Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly 
 drew near, 
 And hastily gather'd the bough ; 
 When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on 
 
 her ear, 
 She paused, and she listen'd intently, in fear, 
 And her heart panted painfully now. 
 
 The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her 
 head, 
 She listen'd, nought else could she hear ; 
 The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom 
 
 ^vith dread, 
 For she heard in the ruins distinctly the 
 tread 
 Of footsteps approaching her near. 
 
 Behind a wide column half breathless with 
 fear 
 She crept to conceal herseK there : 
 That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud 
 
 shone clear. 
 And she saw in the moonlight two ruflEians 
 ax)pear, 
 And between f^em a corpse they did bear. 
 
 Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle 
 cold; 
 Again the rough wind hurried by — 
 It blew oflP the hat of the one, and behold, 
 Even close to the feet of poor Mary it 
 roll'd,— 
 She felt, and expected to die. 
 
 " Curse the hat ! " he exclaims. " Nay, come 
 on till wo hide 
 The dead body," his comrade replies. 
 She beholds them in safety pass on by her 
 
 side, 
 She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied. 
 And fast through the Abbey she flies. 
 
 She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the 
 door. 
 She gazed in her terror around. 
 Then her limbs could support their faint 
 
 burden no more, 
 And exhausted and breathless she sank on the 
 floor, 
 Unable to utter a sound. 
 
 Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart. 
 
 For a moment the hat met her view ; 
 Her eyes from that object convulsively start. 
 For — what a cold horror then thrill'd through 
 her heart 
 When the name of her Richard she knew ! 
 
 Where the old Abbey stands, on the Common 
 hard by. 
 His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
 His irons you still from the road may espy ; 
 The traveller beholds them, and thinks with 
 a sigh 
 Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 
 
 Eohert Soutliey.—Boni 1774, Died 1843. 
 
 1227.— ST. ROMUALD. 
 
 One day, it matters not to know 
 How many hundred years ago, 
 A Frenchman stopt at an inn door : 
 The Landlord came to welcome him and chat 
 
 Of this and that, 
 For he had seen the traveller there before. 
 " Doth holy Romuald dwell 
 Still in his cell ? " 
 
 The Traveller ask'd, "or is the old man 
 dead ? " 
 "No ; he has left his loving flock, and we 
 So great a Christian never more shall see," 
 The Landlord answer' d, and he shook his 
 head. 
 " Ah, sir, we knew his worth ! 
 If ever there did live a saint on earth ! 
 Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt 
 For thirty days, all seasons, day and night. 
 Good man, he knew it was not right 
 For Dust and Ashes to fall out with 
 
 Dirt! 
 And then he only hung it out in the rain, 
 And put it on again. 
 
 There has been perilous work 
 With him and the Devil there in yonder 
 ceU; 
 For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. 
 There they would sometimes fight, 
 All through a winter's night, 
 From sunset until mom. 
 Ho with a cross, the Devil with his horn ; 
 The Devil spitting fire with might and main, 
 Enough to make St. Michael half afraid : 
 He splashing holy water till he made 
 His red hide hiss again, 
 And the hot vapour fiU'd the smoking cell. 
 This was so common that his face became 
 All black and yellow with the brimstone 
 flame. 
 And then he smelt ... dear, how he did 
 smell ! 
 
 Then, sir, to see how he would mortify 
 The flesh ! If any one had dainty fare. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A FAEEWELL TO TOBACCO. 
 
 [Charles Lam e. 
 
 Good man, he wonld come there, 
 And look at all the delicate things, and 
 cry, 
 " O belly, belly. 
 You would be gormandizing now, I 
 know; 
 But it shall not be so ! 
 Home to your bread and water, home, I tell 
 ye!" 
 
 " But," quoth the Traveller, " wherefore did 
 he leave 
 A flock that knew his saintly worth so 
 
 well ? "- 
 "Why," said the Landlord, "Sir, it so 
 befell 
 He heard unluckily of our intent 
 To do him a great honour ; and you know 
 He was not covetous of fame below, 
 And so by stealth one night away he went." 
 
 '• "What might this honour be ? " the Traveller 
 cried. 
 "Why, sir," the host replied, 
 " We thought perhaps that he might one day 
 leave us ; 
 And then should strangers have 
 The good man's grave. 
 A loss like that would naturally grieve us, 
 For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure. 
 Therefore we thought it prudent to 
 secure 
 His relics while we might ; 
 And so we meant to strangle him one night." 
 
 Robert Sout1mj,—Bo,')iV7i, Died 1843. 
 
 1228.— TO HESTEE. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place ye may not well suppl}-, 
 Though ye among a thousand try, 
 With vain endeavour. 
 
 A montli or more she hath been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed, 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising stop, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate, 
 That flush'd her spirit. 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride> 
 It was a joy to that allied. 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
 Which doth the human feeling cool : 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school 
 Nature had blest her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
 Some summer morning, 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day,_ 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 
 Charles Lamb.— Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 1229.— A FAEEWELL TO TOBACCO. 
 
 May the Babylonish curse 
 
 Straight confound my stammering verse, 
 
 If I can a passage see 
 
 In this word-perplexity, 
 
 Or a fit expression find. 
 
 Or a language to my mind 
 
 (Still the phrase is wide or scant), 
 
 To take leave of thee. Great Plant ! 
 
 Or in any terms relate 
 
 Half my love, or half my hate : 
 
 For I hate, yet love thee so, 
 
 That, whichever thing I show. 
 
 The plain truth will seem to be 
 
 A constrain' d hyperbole. 
 
 And the passion to proceed 
 
 More from a mistress than a weed. 
 
 Sooty retainer to the vine, 
 Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
 Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon 
 Thy begrimed complexion. 
 And, for thy pernicious sake. 
 More and greater oaths to break 
 Than reclaimed lovers take 
 'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay 
 Much too in the female way. 
 While thou suck'st the lab'ring broath 
 Faster than kisses or than death. 
 
 Thou in such a cloud dost bind us. 
 That our worst foes cannot find u^, 
 And ill fortune, that would thwart us, 
 Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 
 While each man, through thy hcight'niilg 
 
 steam. 
 Does like a smoking Etna seem,^ 
 And all about us does express 
 (Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
 A Sicilian fruitfxilness. 
 
 Thou through such a mist dost show us. 
 That our best friends do not know us, 
 And, for those allowed features. 
 Due to reasonable creatures, 
 Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, 
 Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; 
 Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
 Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 
 
 Bacchus we know, and we allow 
 His tipsy rites. But what art thou, 
 
Cj'::asles Lamb.] THE OLD FAMTTJAR FACES. [Seventh Pesiod.— 
 
 That but by reflex canst show 
 
 Or, as men, constrain'd to part 
 
 What his deity can do, 
 
 With what 's nearest to their heart, 
 
 As the false Egyptian spell 
 
 While their soxtow 's at the height, 
 
 Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? 
 
 Lose discrimination quite, 
 
 Some few vapours thou mayst raise, 
 
 And their hasty wrath let fall. 
 
 The weak brain may serve to amaze, 
 
 To appease their frantic gaU, 
 
 But to the reins and nobler heart. 
 
 On the darling thing whatever, 
 
 Canst nor life nor heat impart. 
 
 Whence they feel it death to sever, 
 
 
 Though it be, as they, perforce, 
 
 Brother of Bacchus, later born, 
 
 Guiltless of the sad divorce. 
 
 The old worid was sure forlorn 
 
 For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 
 
 Wanting thee, that aidest more 
 
 Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave 
 thee ; 
 
 The god's victories than before 
 
 AU his panthers, and the brawls 
 
 For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
 
 Of his piping Bacchanals. 
 
 Would do anything but die. 
 
 These, as stale, Ave disallow, 
 
 And but seek to extend my days 
 Long enough to sing thy praise. 
 
 Or judge of thee meant : only thou 
 
 His true Indian conquest art ; 
 
 But as she, who once hath been 
 
 And, for ivy round his dart, 
 
 A king's consort, is a queen 
 
 The reformed god now weaves 
 
 Ever after, nor will bate 
 
 A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 
 
 Any tittle of her state. 
 
 Scent to match thy rich perfume 
 Chemic art did ne'er presume ; 
 Through her quaint alembic strain, 
 None so sov'reigu to the brain : 
 
 Though a widow, or divorced. 
 So I, from thy converse forced. 
 The old name and style retain, 
 A right Katherine of Spain ; 
 
 Nature, that did in thee excel. 
 Framed again no second smell. 
 Eoses, violets, but toys 
 For the smaller sort of boys, 
 Or for greener damsels meant ; 
 Thou art the only manly scent. 
 
 And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
 Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
 Where, though I, by sour physician. 
 
 And debarr'd the fuU fruition 
 Of thy favours, I may catch 
 Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
 Sidelong odours, that give life 
 
 Stinking' st of the stinking kind, 
 
 Tiike glances from a neighbour's wife ; 
 
 Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
 
 And stiU live in the by-places 
 
 Africa, that brags her foison, 
 
 And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
 
 Breeds no such prodigious poison ; 
 
 And in thy borders take delight. 
 
 Henbane, nightshade, both together, 
 
 An unconquer'd Canaanite. 
 
 Hemlock, aconite 
 
 Charles Lamh.—Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 Nay, rather, 
 
 
 Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
 
 
 BKsters on the tongue would hurt you. 
 
 
 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; 
 None e'er prpsper'd who defamed thee ; 
 
 1230.— THE OLD FAMILIAE FACES. 
 
 Irony all, and feign'd abuse, 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had compa,Tiions, 
 
 Such as perplex'd lovers use 
 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
 
 At a need, when, in despair 
 
 days ; 
 
 To paint forth their fairest fair, 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Or in part but to express 
 
 
 That exceeding comeliness 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
 
 Which their fancies doth so strike, 
 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 
 
 They borrow language of dislike ; 
 
 cronies ; 
 
 And, instead of Dearest Miss, 
 
 AH, aU are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 
 And those forms of old admiring, 
 Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
 
 I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 
 
 her; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Basilisk, and all that 's evil, 
 Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, 
 
 Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
 
 Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; 
 
 Like an ingrato I left my friend abruptly ; 
 
 Friendly Trait' ress, loving Foe — 
 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Not that she is truly so. 
 
 
 But no other way they know 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my 
 
 A contentment to express. 
 
 childhood ; 
 
 Borders so upon excess. 
 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to 
 
 That they do not rightly wot 
 
 traverse, 
 
 Whether it be pain or not. 
 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE GIPSY'S MALISON. 
 
 [Chakles Lamb. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a 
 
 brother, 
 Why wert not thou bom in my father's 
 
 dwelHng ? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have 
 left me, 
 
 And some are taken from me ; all are de- 
 parted ; 
 
 All, aU are gone, the old famUiar faces. 
 
 Charles Lamh.—Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 1231.— ON AN INFANT DYI^a AS SOON 
 AS BOEN. 
 
 I saw where in the shroud did lurk 
 
 A curious frame of Natui-e's work ; 
 
 A flow'ret crushed in the bud 
 
 A nameless piece of Babyhood 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 
 For darker closets of the tomb ! 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
 
 For the long dark : ne'er more to see 
 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy errand here below ? 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 
 Check' d her hand, and changed her mind 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finish'd pattern without fault ? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire, 
 
 Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long ■workings 
 
 sicken' d) 
 That should thy little limbs have quicken'd ? 
 Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 
 Life of health, and days mature : 
 Woman's self in miniature ! 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
 Or did the stem-eyed Fate descry 
 That babe or mother, one must die ; 
 So in mercy left the stock 
 And cut the branch ; to save the shock 
 Of young years widow' d, and the pain 
 When Single State comes back again 
 To the lone man who, reft of wife. 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 
 The economy of Heaven is dark. 
 And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark 
 Why human buds, like this, should fall 
 More brief than fly ephemeral 
 That has his day ; while shrivell'd crones 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 
 — Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss : 
 
 Rites, which custom does impose, 
 
 Silver bells, and baby clothes ; 
 
 Coral redder than those lips 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse ; 
 
 Music framed for infants' glee, 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee ; 
 
 Though thou want'st not, thou^shalt have 
 
 them. 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them. 
 Let not one be missing ; nurse, 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 Pictured trophies to their grave, 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie — 
 A more harmless vanity ? 
 
 Clw/rles Lamb. — Born 1775, BiedL 1835. 
 
 1232.— THE CHRISTENING. 
 
 Array' d — a half -angelic sight — 
 
 In vests of pure baptismal white, 
 
 The mother to the Font doth bring 
 
 The little helpless, nameless thing 
 
 With hushes soft and mUd caressing, 
 
 At once to get — a name and blessing. 
 
 Close by the babe the priest doth stand, 
 
 The cleansing water at his hand 
 
 Which must assoil the soul within 
 
 From every stain of Adam's sin. 
 
 The infant eyes the mystic scenes. 
 
 Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 
 
 And now he smiles, as if to say, 
 
 " I am a Christian made this day ; " 
 
 Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, 
 
 Shrinking from the water cold, 
 
 Whose virtues, rightly understood, 
 
 Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 
 
 Strange words— The World, The Fleah, The 
 
 Devil- 
 Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? 
 But we must silently adore 
 Mysterious truths, and not explore. 
 Enough for him, in after times, 
 When he shall read these artless rhymes, 
 If, looking back upon this day 
 With quiet conscience, he can say, 
 " I have in part redeem' d the pledge 
 Of my baptismal privilege ; 
 And more and more will strive to flee 
 All which my sponsors kind did then re- 
 nounce for me." 
 
 Charles Lamb. — Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 1233.— THE GIPSY'S MALISON. 
 
 " Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows by 
 
 giving; 
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by 
 
 wasting : 
 
Charles Lamb.] 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — . 
 
 Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty 
 
 living 
 Han is thee the cup that shall be death in 
 
 tasting. 
 
 Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother's lips shine by 
 
 kisses ; 
 Choke the warm breath that else would fall 
 
 in blessings : 
 Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty 
 
 blisses 
 Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caress- 
 
 ings. 
 
 Hang, baby, hang ! mother's love loves such 
 
 forces ; 
 Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy 
 
 clinging : 
 Black manhood comes, when violent lawless 
 
 courses 
 Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging.'* 
 
 So sang a wither' d beldam energetical. 
 And bann'd the ungiving door with lips pro- 
 phetical. 
 
 Charles Laval.— Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 1234.— CHILDHOOD. 
 
 In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 
 Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 
 Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 
 To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, 
 Down which the child would roll ; to pluck 
 
 gay flowers, 
 Make posies in the sun, which the child's 
 
 hand 
 (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) 
 Would throw away, and straight take up 
 
 again, 
 Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the 
 
 lawn 
 BoiTud with so playful and so light a foot, 
 That the press'd daisy scarce declined her 
 
 head. 
 
 ClwA-les Lamb. — Born 1775, Died 1835. 
 
 1235.— STAFFA. 
 
 Staffa, I scaled thy summit hoar, 
 
 I pass'd beneath thy arch gigantic, 
 Whose pillar'd cavern swells the roar, 
 When thunders on thy rocky shore 
 The roll of the Atlantic. 
 
 That hour the wind forgot to rave. 
 
 The surge forgot its motion, 
 And every pillar in thy cave 
 Slept in its shadow on the wave, 
 Unrippled by the ocean. 
 
 Then the past age before me came, 
 
 When 'mid the lightning's sweep, 
 Thy isle with its basaltic frame. 
 And every column wreath'd with flame, 
 Burst from the boiling deep. 
 
 When 'mid lona's -svrecks meanwhile 
 
 O'er sculptured graves I trod. 
 Where Time had strewn each mouldering 
 
 aisle 
 O'er saints and kings that rear'd the pile, 
 
 I hail'd the eternal God : 
 Yet, Staffa, more I felt his presence in thy 
 
 cave 
 Than where lona's cross rose o'er tlie western 
 
 wave. 
 
 William Sotliehj.—Born 1757, Bled 1833. 
 
 1236.— APPEOACH OF SAUL AND HIS 
 GUAEDS AGAINST THE PHILIS- 
 TINES. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the clash and clang 
 Of shaken cymbals cadencing the pace 
 Of martial movement regular ; the swell 
 Sonorous of the brazen trump of war ; 
 Shrill twang of harps, soothed by melodious 
 
 chime 
 Of beat on silver bars ; and sweet, in pause 
 Of harsher instrument, continuous flow 
 Of breath, through flutes, in symphony with 
 
 song, 
 Choirs, whose match' d voices fill'd the air 
 
 afar 
 With jubilee and chant of triumph hymn ; 
 And ever and anon irregular burst 
 Of loudest acclamation to each host 
 Saul's stately advance proclaim'd. Before 
 
 him, youths 
 In robes succinct for swiftness ; oft they 
 
 struck 
 Their staves against the ground, and wam'd 
 
 the throng 
 Backward to distant homage. Next, his 
 
 strength 
 Of chariots roU'd with each an arm'd band ; 
 Earth groan'd afar beneath their iron wheels : 
 Part arm'd with scythe for battle, part 
 
 adorn' d 
 For triumph. Nor there wanting a led train 
 Of steeds in rich caparison, for show 
 Of solemn entry. Eound about the king. 
 Warriors, his watch and ward, from every 
 
 tribe 
 Drawn out. Of these a thousand each selects, 
 Of size and comeliness above their peers, 
 Pride of their race. Eadiant their armour : 
 
 some 
 In silver cased, scale over scale, that play'd 
 All pliant to the litheness of the limb ; 
 Some mail'd in twisted gold, link within link 
 Flexibly ringed and fitted, that the eye 
 Beneath the yielding panoply pursued, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SONG OF THE VIKGINS. 
 
 [AVji. SoTiivnv. 
 
 When act of war the strength of man pro- 
 voked, 
 The motion of the muscles, as they work'd 
 In rise and fall. On each left thigh a sword 
 Swung in the 'broider'd baldric ; each right 
 
 hand 
 Grasp'd a long-shadomng spear. Like them, 
 
 their chiefs 
 Array' d ; save on their shields of solid ore, 
 And on their helm, the graver's toil had 
 
 wrought 
 Its subtlety in rich device of war ; 
 And o'er their mail, a robe, Punicean dye. 
 Gracefully play'd ; where the wing'd shuttle, 
 
 shot 
 By cunning of Sidonian virgins, wove 
 Broidui-e of many-colour'd figures rare. 
 Bright glow'd the sun, and bright the bur- 
 nish' d mail 
 Of thousands, ranged, whose pace to song 
 
 kept time ; 
 And bright the glare of spears, and gleam of 
 
 crests, 
 And flaunt of banners flashing to and fro 
 The noonday beam. Beneath their coming, 
 
 earth 
 Wide glitter'd. Seen afar, amidst the pomp, 
 Gorgeously mail'd, but more by pride of port 
 Known, and superior stature, than rich trim 
 Of war and regal ornament, the king. 
 Throned in triumphal car, with trophies 
 
 graced. 
 Stood eminent. The lifting of his lance 
 Shone like a sunbeam. O'er his armour 
 
 flow'd 
 A robe, imperial mantle, thickly stanr'd 
 With blaze of orient gems; the clasp that 
 
 bound 
 Its gather' d folds his ample chest athwart. 
 Sapphire ; and o'er his casque, where rubies 
 
 burnt, 
 A cherub flamed and waved his wings in gold. 
 
 William Sothehy.—Born 1757, Died 1833. 
 
 1237. — SONG OF THE VIEGINS 
 CELEBRATING THE VICTORY. 
 
 Daughters of Israel! praise the Lord of 
 
 Hosts ! 
 Break into song ! With harp and tabret lift 
 Your voices up, and weave with joy the 
 
 dance ; 
 And to your twinkling footsteps toss aloft 
 Your arras ; and from the flash of cymbals 
 
 shake 
 Sweet clangour, measuring the giddy maze. 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath 
 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands 
 
 slain. 
 Sing a new song. I saw them in their 
 
 xage; 
 I saw the gleam of spears, the flash of swords. 
 
 That rang against our gates. Tlio warders' 
 
 watch 
 Ceased not. Tower answer' d tower : a warn- 
 ing voice 
 Was heard without ; the cry of v*'oe within : 
 The shriek of virgins, and the wail of licr, 
 The mother, in her anguish, who fore-wept, 
 Wept at the breast her babe as now no more. 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath 
 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands 
 
 slain. 
 Sing a new song. Spake not the insulting 
 
 foe.? 
 I will pursue, o'ertake, divide the spoil. 
 My hand shall dash their infants on the 
 
 stones ; 
 The ploughshare of my vengeance shall draw 
 
 out 
 The furrow, where the tower and fortress rose. 
 Before my chariot Israel's chiefs shall clank 
 Their chains. Each side their virgin daugh- 
 ters groan ; 
 ErewhUe to weave my conquest on their 
 
 looms. 
 Shout ye I and ye ! make answer, Saul hath 
 
 slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands 
 
 slain. 
 Thou heard' st, O God of battle ! Thou, 
 
 whose look 
 Snappeth the spear in sunder. In thy 
 
 strength 
 A youth, thy chosen, laid their champion low. 
 Saul, Saul pursues, o'ertakes, divides the 
 
 spoil ; 
 Wreathes round our necks these chains of 
 
 gold, and robes 
 Our limbs with floating crimson. Then re- 
 joice. 
 Daughters of Israel ! from your cymbals 
 
 shake 
 Sweet clangour, hymning God I the Lord of 
 
 Hosts ! 
 Ye ! shout ! and ye ! make answer, Saul 
 
 hath slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands 
 
 slain. 
 Such the hymned harmony, from voices 
 
 breathed 
 Of virgin minstrels, of each tribe the prime 
 For beauty, and fine form, and artful touch 
 Of instrument, and skill in dance and song ; 
 Choir answering choir, that on to Gibeah led 
 The victors back in triumph. On each neck 
 Play'd chains of gold ; and, shadowing their 
 
 charms 
 With colour like the blushes of the morn, 
 Robes, gift of Saul, round their hght limbs, 
 
 in toss 
 Of cymbals, and the many-mazed dance, 
 Floated like roseate clouds. Thus, these 
 
 came on 
 In dance and song ; then, multitudes that 
 
 swell' d 
 The pomp of triumph, and in circles ranged 
 
 61 
 
W. L. Bowles.] 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Arotmd the altar of Jehovah, brought 
 Freely their offerings ; and with one accord 
 Sang, " Glory, and praise, and worship unto 
 
 God." 
 Loud rang the exultation. Twas the 
 
 voice 
 Of a free people from impending chains 
 Eedeem'd; a -people proud, whose bosom 
 
 beat 
 With fire of glory and renown in arms 
 Triumphant. Loud the exultation rang. 
 There, many a wife, whose ardent gaze 
 
 from far 
 Singled the warrior whose glad eye gave 
 
 back 
 Her look of love. There, many a grandsire 
 
 held 
 A blooming boy aloft, and 'midst the array 
 In triumph, pointing with his staff, exclaim'd, 
 " Lo, my brave son! I now may die in peace." 
 There, many a beauteous virgin, blushing 
 
 deep. 
 Flung back her veil, and, as the warrior came, 
 Hail'd her betrothed. But, chiefly, on one 
 
 alone 
 All dwelt. 
 
 William Sotheby.—Born 1757, Died 1833. 
 
 1238.— TO TIME. 
 
 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly 
 
 thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away ; 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last. 
 
 And think when thou hast dried the bitter 
 
 tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held 
 dear, 
 
 1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a 
 
 smile — 
 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour. 
 
 Sings in the sunbeam of the transient 
 
 shower, 
 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : 
 
 Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart 
 
 endure 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a 
 cure ! 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Bom 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1239.— HOPE. 
 
 As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, 
 Weary has watch' d the lingering night, and 
 
 heard, 
 Heartless, the carol of the matin bird 
 
 Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn 
 
 Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; 
 
 He the green slope and level meadow views, 
 Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews ; 
 Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's 
 
 head. 
 In varying forms, fantastic wander white ; 
 Or turns his ear to every random song 
 Heard the green river's winding marge 
 along. 
 The whilst each sense is steep'd in still 
 
 delight : 
 With such delight o'er all my heart I feel 
 Sweet Hope ! thy fragrance pure and healing 
 incense steal. 
 
 TF. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1240.— THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS. 
 
 When evening listen'd to the dripping oar. 
 
 Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar. 
 
 By the green banks, where Thames, with 
 
 conscious pride, 
 Reflects that stately structure on his side, 
 Within whose walls, as their long labours 
 
 close, 
 The wanderers of the ocean find repose, 
 We wore in social ease the hours away, 
 The passing visit of a summer's day. 
 
 Whilst some to range the breezy hill are 
 
 gone, 
 I linger' d on the river's marge alone ; 
 Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, 
 And watch'd the last bright sunshine steal 
 
 away. 
 
 As thus I mused amidst the various train 
 Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main. 
 Two sailors — well I mark'd them (as the 
 
 beam 
 Of parting day yet linger' d on the stream, 
 And the sun sank behind the shady reach) — 
 Hasten' d with tottering footsteps to the 
 
 beach. 
 The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight; 
 Total eclipse had veil'd the other's sight 
 For ever ! As I drew more anxious near, 
 I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear ; 
 But neither said a word ! He who was blind 
 Stood as to feel the comfortable wind 
 That gently lifted his gray hair : his face 
 Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the 
 
 trace. 
 
 The other fix'd his gaze upon the light 
 Parting; and when the sun had vanish'd, 
 
 quite, 
 Methought a startling tear that Heaven might 
 
 bless, 
 Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, 
 Came to his aged eyes, and touch' d his cheek ! 
 And then, as meek and silent as before, 
 Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the 
 
 shore. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 AT OXFOED, 1786. 
 
 [W. L. Bowles. 
 
 As they departed through the unheeding 
 
 crowd, 
 A caged bird sung from the casement loud ; 
 And then I heard alone that blind man say, 
 " The music of the bird is sweet to-day ! " 
 I said, " O Heavenly Father ! none may know 
 The cause these have for silence or for wo I " 
 Here they appear heart- stricken or resign'd 
 Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind. 
 
 There is a world, a pure unclouded clime, 
 Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor 
 
 time ! 
 Nor loss of friends ! Perhaps when yonder 
 
 beU 
 Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell. 
 Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night, 
 They thought upon that world of distant 
 
 light; 
 And when the blind man, lifting light his hair, 
 Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer 
 
 prayer ; 
 Then aigh'd, as the blithe bii-d sung o'er his 
 
 head, 
 " No morn will shine on me till I am dead ! " 
 
 W. L. Boivlcs.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1 24 1. —THE GEEENWOOD. 
 
 Oh ! when 't is summer weather. 
 And the yellow bee, with fairy sound. 
 The waters clear is humming round, 
 Ajid the cuckoo sings unseen. 
 And the leaves are waving green — 
 
 Oh ! then 't is sweet, r 
 
 In some retreat, 
 To hear the murmuring dove, 
 With those whom on earth alone we love. 
 And to wind through the greenwood together. 
 
 But when 't is winter weather, 
 
 And crosses grieve. 
 
 And friends deceive, 
 » And rain and sleet 
 
 The lattice beat, — 
 
 Oh ! then 't is sweet 
 
 To sit and sing 
 Of the friends with whom, in the days of 
 
 Spring, 
 We roam'd through the greenwood together. 
 
 W. L. Bmvles.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1242.— COME TO THESE SCENES OF 
 PEACE. 
 
 Come to these scenes of peace, 
 
 Where, to rivers murmuring, 
 
 The sweet birds all the Summer sing, 
 
 Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease ! 
 
 Stranger, does thy heart deplore 
 
 Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? 
 
 Does thy wounded spirit prove 
 
 Pangs of hopeless, sever'd love ? 
 Thee, the stream that gushes clear — 
 Thee, the birds that carol near 
 Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
 And dream of their wild lullaby ; 
 Come to bless these scenes of peace. 
 Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 
 W. L. Boioles.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1243. 
 
 AT 
 
 -ON THE FUNEEAL OF 
 CHAELES I., 
 
 NIGHT IN ST. George's chapel, 
 
 WINDSOR. 
 
 The castle clock had toll'd midnight, 
 With mattock and with spade — 
 
 And silent, by the torches' light — 
 His corpse in earth we laid. 
 
 The coffin bore his name ; that those 
 
 Of other years might know. 
 When earth its secret should disclose. 
 
 Whose bones were laid below. 
 
 " Peace to the dead ! " no children sung. 
 
 Slow pacing up the nave ; 
 No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 
 
 As deep we dug his grave. 
 
 We only heard the winter's wind, 
 
 In many a sullen gust. 
 As o'er the open grave inclined, 
 
 We murmured, " Dust to dust ! " 
 
 A moonbeam from the arch's height 
 Stream'd, as avc placed the stone 
 
 The long aisles started into light, 
 And all the windows shone. 
 
 We thought we saw the banners then 
 
 That shook along the walls, 
 Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 
 
 Were gazing on the stalls. 
 
 'T is gone ! — ^Again on tombs defaced 
 
 Sits darkness mci'e profound ; 
 And only by the torch we traced 
 
 The shadows on the ground. 
 
 And now the chilling, freezing air 
 
 Without blew long and loud ; 
 Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, 
 
 Wliere he slept in his shroud. 
 
 We laid the broken marble floor, — 
 
 No name, no trace appears ! 
 And when we closed the sounding door, 
 
 We thought of him Avith tears. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1244.— AT OXFOED, 1786. 
 
 Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams, 
 Which won my heart, or when the gay 
 
 career 
 Of life begun, or when at times a tear 
 
W. L. Bowles.] 
 
 WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Sat sad on memory's cheek — though loftier 
 
 themes 
 Await th' awaken'd mind, to the high prize 
 Of wisdom, hardly eam'd with toil and 
 
 pain, 
 Aspiring patient ; yet on life's wide plain 
 Loft fatherless, where many a wanderer sighs 
 Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, 
 'T were not a crime, should we a while 
 
 delay 
 
 Amid the sunny field ; and happier they 
 
 Who, as they journey, woo the charm of song, 
 
 To cheer their way — till they forget to weep, 
 
 And the tired sense is hush'd, and sinks to 
 
 sleep. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1245. — WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, 
 NOETHUMBEELAND, AFTEE A 
 TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE. 
 
 As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, 
 Much musing on the track of terror past, 
 When o'er the dark wave rode the howling 
 blast, 
 Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil 
 
 tide 
 .That laves the pebbled shore : and now the 
 beam 
 Of evening smiles on the grey battlement. 
 And yon forsaken tow'r that Time has 
 rent : — 
 The lifted oar far off with silver gleam 
 Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy 
 
 Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's 
 
 breast 
 A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest ; 
 While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to 
 
 sleep. 
 Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre, 
 Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, 
 e:!^ire ! 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1246.— AT BAMBOEOUGH CASTLE. 
 
 Ye holy Towers that shade the wave-worn 
 steep, 
 Long may ye rear your aged brows sub- 
 lime, 
 Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time 
 Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's 
 
 For far from blazing Grandeur's crowded 
 halls. 
 Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat. 
 Oft list'ning tearful when the wild winds 
 beat 
 With hollow bodings round your ancient 
 walls : 
 
 And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on 
 
 high. 
 Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost 
 
 tow'r, 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry ; 
 Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might 
 
 save, 
 And snatch him cold and speechless from the 
 
 wave. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1247.— TO THE EIVEE WENSBECK. 
 
 While slowly wanders thy soquester'd stream, 
 Wensbeck ! the mossy-scatter'd rocks 
 
 among, 
 In fancy's ear still making plaintive song 
 To the dark woods above, that waving seem 
 To bend o'er some enchanted spot ; removed 
 From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind, 
 And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, 
 reclined 
 O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved ! — 
 Fair scenes ! ye lend a pleasure, long 
 unknown, 
 To him who passes weary on his way — 
 The farewell tear, which now he turns to 
 pay, 
 Shall thank you ; — and whene'er of pleasures 
 
 flown 
 His heart some long-lost image would renew, 
 Delightful haunts ! he will remember you. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850 
 
 1248.— TO THE EIVEE TWEED. 
 
 O Tweed ! a stranger, that with wandering 
 feet 
 O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a 
 
 mile 
 (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile), 
 Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to 
 
 greet. 
 The waving branches that romantic bend 
 O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm 
 
 bestow ; 
 The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave 
 below 
 Sccra to his ear the pity of a friend. 
 Delightful stream ! though now along thy 
 shore, 
 "When spring returns in all her wonted 
 pride, 
 The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more. 
 
 Yet here with pensive peace could I abide. 
 Far from the stormy world's tumultuous 
 roar, 
 To muse upon thy banks at eventide. 
 
 W. L. Bowlcs.—Born 1762, Died 1850 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO THE RIVER CHERWELL. 
 
 [W. L. Bowles. 
 
 1249.— SONNET. 
 
 Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend, 
 Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape 
 
 still, 
 The lonely battlement, and farthest hill, 
 And wood, I think of those that have no 
 
 friend. 
 Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led. 
 
 From the broad blaze of day, where plea- 
 sure flaunts, 
 Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts 
 Unseen ; and watch the tints that o'er thy 
 
 bed 
 Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's ej'^e 
 Presenting fairy vales, where the tired 
 
 mind 
 Might rest, beyond the murmurs of man- 
 kind, 
 Nor hear the hourly moans of misery ! 
 Ah ! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams 
 
 the while 
 Should smile like you, and perish as they 
 smile ! 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, BieO. 1850. 
 
 1250.— ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Clysdale, as thy romantic vales I leave. 
 And bid farewell to each retiring hill. 
 Where fond attention seems to linger still, 
 Tracing the broad bright landscape ; much I 
 
 grieve 
 That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no 
 more 
 I may return your varied views to mark. 
 Of rocks amid the sunshine tow' ring dark. 
 Of rivers winding wild, and mountains hoar, 
 Or castle gleaming on the distant steep ! — 
 For this a look back on thy hills I cast. 
 And many a soften'd image of the past 
 Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance 
 
 keep. 
 To soothe me with fair views and fancies 
 
 rude. 
 When I pursue my path in solitude. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Bom 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 125 1. —SONNET. 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly 
 
 thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 The faint pang stealest unperceived away ; 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 
 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter 
 
 tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held 
 dear, 
 
 I may look back on every sorrow past. 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a 
 
 smile — 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient 
 
 show'r 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the 
 
 while : — 
 Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart 
 
 endure. 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a 
 
 cure ! 
 
 IF. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1252.— ON A DISTANT VIEW OF 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Ah ! from mine eyes the tears unbidden 
 start. 
 As thee, my country, and the long-lost 
 
 sight 
 Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits 
 white 
 Above the wave, once more my beating heart 
 With eager hope and filial transport hails ! 
 Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye 
 
 bring, 
 As when erewhile the tuneful morn of 
 spring 
 Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales, 
 And till'd with fragrance every painted plain r 
 Fled are those hours, and all the joys they 
 
 gave ! 
 Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave 
 That bears me nearer to your haunts again ; 
 If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair. 
 Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there, 
 W. L. Bowles.— Bom 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1253.— TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, 
 OXFORD. 
 
 CherweU! how pleased along thy willow'd 
 hedge 
 Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn 
 
 began 
 To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan. 
 Or evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge ! 
 And now reposing on thy banks once more, 
 I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay 
 Whose music on my melancholy way 
 I woo'd : amid thy waving willows hoar 
 Seeking awhile to rest — tiU the bright sun 
 Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous 
 
 bow 
 Beams on the night-storm's passing wings 
 below : 
 Whate'er betide, yet something have I won 
 Of solace, that may bear me on serene. 
 Till Eve's last hush shall close the silent 
 scene, 
 
 W. L. Bowles.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
W. L. Bowles.] 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 1254 
 
 ,— SONNET. 
 
 As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, 
 Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and 
 
 heard 
 Heartless the carol of the matin bird 
 Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn 
 Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; 
 He the green slope and level meadow views. 
 Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; 
 Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's 
 
 head 
 In varying forms fantastic wander white ; 
 Or turns his ear to every random song, 
 Heard the green river's winding marge along, 
 The whilst each sense is steep' d in still 
 
 delight. 
 With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, 
 Sweet Hope ! thy fragrance pure and healing 
 incense steal ! 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, BiedL 1850. 
 
 1255.— APEIL, 1793. 
 
 Whose was that gentle voice, that whispering 
 sweet. 
 Promised methought long days of bliss 
 
 sincere ? 
 Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, 
 Most like soft music, that might sometimes 
 
 cheat 
 Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the 
 voice of Hope. 
 Of love, and social scenes, it seem'd to 
 
 Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek ; 
 That, oh ! poor friend, might to life's down- 
 ward slope 
 Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. 
 
 Ah me ! the prospect sadden'd as she sung ; 
 
 Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; 
 ChiU darkness wrapt the pleasurable bow'rs, 
 Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, 
 " No peace be thine," exclaim'd ; " away, 
 away ! " 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Bom 1762, IHed 1850. 
 
 1256.— NETLEY ABBEY. 
 
 Fall'n pile ! I ask not what has been thy fate ; 
 But when the weak winds, wafted from the 
 
 main, 
 Through each reaifc arch, like spirits that 
 complain. 
 Come hollow to my ear, I meditate 
 On this world's passing pageant, and the lot 
 Of those who once fuH proudly in their 
 
 prime 
 And beauteons might have stood, till bow'd 
 by time 
 Or injury, their early boast forgot, 
 They may have fallen like thee : pale and 
 forlorn. 
 
 Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white 
 as snow. 
 They lift, majestic yet ; as they would scoru 
 This short-Hved scene of vanity and woe ; 
 Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear 
 The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of 
 care ! 
 
 W. L. Boiules.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1257.— MAY, 1793. 
 
 How shall I meet thee. Summer, wont to fill 
 My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant 
 
 tide 
 First came, and on each coomb's romantic 
 side 
 Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill ? 
 Fresh fiow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of 
 the stream. 
 As with -the songs of joyance and of hope 
 The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the 
 slope 
 The poplars sparkle in the transient beam ; 
 The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend. 
 Thinking their May-tide fragrance might 
 delight, 
 With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best 
 friend, 
 Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer 
 the sight ! 
 But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning 
 
 And weep for her who in the cold grave lies ! 
 W. L. Boxdcs.—Bovn 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1258.— ON EEVISITING OXFOED. 
 
 I never hear the sound of thy glad bells, 
 Oxford ! and chime harmonious, but I say 
 (Sighing to think how time has worn away), 
 " Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that 
 swells, 
 Heard after years of absence, from the vale 
 Where Cherwell ^vinds." Most true it 
 speaks the tale 
 Of days departed, and its voice recalls 
 Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide 
 
 Of life, and many friends now scatter' d wide 
 By many fates. — Peace be within thy waUs ! 
 I have scarce heart to visit thee ; but yet, 
 Denied the joys sought in thy shades, — 
 
 denied 
 Each better hope, since my poor ***** died. 
 What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er 
 forget ! 
 
 W. L. Boxoles.—Born 1762, Bled 1850. 
 
 1259. 
 
 -ON THE DEATH OF THE EEV. 
 WILLIAM BENWELL. 
 
 Tliou earnest with kind looks, when on the 
 brink 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SHEEP-FOLD. 
 
 [W. L. Bowles. 
 
 Almost of death I strove, and with mild 
 
 voice 
 Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart 
 rejoice, 
 Though smitten sore : Oh, I did little think 
 That thou, my friend, woTild'st the first victim 
 faU 
 To the stern King of Terrors ! thou didst fly, 
 By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry ; 
 And soon thyself wert stretch' d beneath the 
 
 pall, 
 Livid Infection's prey. The deep distress 
 Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew. 
 To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was 
 true, 
 What pow'rs of falt'ring language shall ex- 
 press ? 
 As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own. 
 And sorrowing say, " Pure spirit, thou art 
 gone ! " 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Bom 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 [26o.- 
 
 -ON EEVIEWING THE FOEE- 
 GOING. 
 
 I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, 
 and say, 
 " Alas ! how many friends of youth are dead, 
 How many visions of fair hope have fled, 
 Since first, my Muse, we met:" — So speeds 
 away 
 Life, and its shadows ; yet we sit and sing. 
 Stretch' d in the noontide bower, as if the day 
 Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay 
 
 Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing 
 That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds 
 shine ! 
 Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night, 
 Religion, may vre bless thy purer light. 
 That still shall warm us, when the tints 
 
 decline 
 O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze 
 On the vain visions of our passing days ! 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1 26 1. —PATH OF LIFE. 
 
 Oh Lord — in sickness and in health, 
 
 To every lot resign' d, 
 Grant me, before all worldly wealth, 
 
 A meek and thankful mind. 
 
 As life, thy upland path we tread, 
 
 And often pause in pain, 
 To think of friends and parents dead, 
 
 Oh ! let us not complain. 
 
 The Lord may give or take away. 
 But nought our faith can move, 
 
 "While we to Heaven can look, and say, 
 " Our Father lives above." 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762 Died 1850. 
 
 1262.— StlN-EISE. 
 
 When from my humble bed I rivse, 
 
 And see the morning Sun ; 
 Who, glorious in the eastern skies. 
 
 His journey has begun ; 
 
 I think of that Almighty powfir,- 
 Which caU'd this orb from night ; 
 
 I think how many at this hour 
 Eejoice beneath its light. 
 
 And then I pray, in every land. 
 
 Where'er this light is shed, 
 That all who live may bless the hand 
 
 Which gives their daily bread. 
 
 W. L. Boivles.—Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1263.— SUMMEE'S EVENING. 
 
 As homeward by the evening star 
 
 I pass along the plain, 
 I see the taper's light afar 
 
 Shine through our cottage-pane. 
 
 My brothers and my sisters dear, 
 
 The child upon the knee, 
 Spring, when my hastening steps they hear, 
 
 And smile to welcome me. 
 
 And when the fire is growing dim, 
 
 And mother's labours cease, 
 I fold my hands, and say my hymn, 
 
 And " lay me down in peace." 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1 264.— SPEING.— CUCKOO. 
 
 The bee is humming in the sun. 
 
 The yellow cowslip springs, 
 And hark ! from yonder woodland's side, 
 
 Again the cuckoo sings ! 
 
 *' Cuckoo— Cuckoo ! " no other note, 
 
 She sings from day to day ; 
 But I, though a poor cottage-girl, 
 
 Can work, and read, and pray. 
 
 And whilst in knowledge I rejoice. 
 Which heavenly truth displays, 
 
 Oh ! let me still employ my voice. 
 In my Eedeemer's praise. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850, 
 
 1265.— SHEEP-FOLD. 
 
 The sheep were in the fold at night ; 
 
 And now, a new-bom lamb 
 Totters and trembles in the light, 
 
 Or bleats beside its dam. 
 
 How anxiously the mother tries. 
 
 With evei-y tender care, 
 To screen it from inclement skies, 
 
 And the cold morning air ! 
 
W. L. Bowles.] 
 
 PEIMROSE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 The hail-storm of the east is fled. 
 
 She seems with joy to swell, 
 While ever as she bends her head, 
 
 I hear the tinkling bell. 
 
 So while for me a mother's praj'er 
 
 Ascends to Heaven above, 
 May I repay her tender care 
 
 With gratitude and love. 
 
 W. L. BowUs.—Boni 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1266.— PEIMEOSE. 
 
 'Tis the first primrose ! see how mcc!:, 
 
 Yet beautiful it looks ; 
 As just a lesson it may speak 
 
 As that which is in books. 
 
 While gardens show in flow'ring pride. 
 
 The lily's stately ranks, 
 It loves its modest head to hide 
 
 Beneath the bramble-banks. 
 
 And so the little cottage-maid 
 
 May bloom unseen and die ; 
 But she, when transient flow' rets fade, 
 
 Shall live with Christ on high. 
 
 ir. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, l>ic'l 1850. 
 
 1267.— BIRD'S NEST. 
 
 In yonder brake there is a nest. 
 But come not, George, too nigh, 
 
 Lest the poor mother frighten' d thence, 
 Should leave her young, and fly. 
 
 Think with what pain, through many a day, 
 Soft moss and straw she brought ; 
 
 And let our own dear mother's care 
 Be present to our thought. 
 
 And think how must her heart deplore, 
 
 And droop with grief and pain, 
 If those she.rear'd, and nursed, and loved, 
 
 She ne'er should see again. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, BIclI 1850. 
 
 1 268.— WINTER.— REDBREAST. 
 
 Poor Robin sits and sings alone, 
 When showers of dri^ang sleet, 
 
 By the cold winds of winter blown, 
 The cottage casement beat. 
 
 Come, let us share our chimney-nook. 
 
 And dry his dripping wing ; 
 See, little Mary shuts her book. 
 
 And cries, " Poor Robin, sing." 
 
 Methinks I hear his faint replj' — 
 " When cowslips deck the plain. 
 
 The lark shall carol in the sky, 
 And I shall sing again. 
 
 But in the cold and wintry day 
 
 To you I owe a debt. 
 That in the sunshine of the May, 
 
 I never can forget." 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Diecl 1850. 
 
 1269.— BUTTERFLY AND BEE. 
 
 Methought I heard a butterfly 
 
 Say to a labouring bee, 
 " Thou hast no colours of the sky. 
 
 On painted wings like me ! " 
 
 " Poor child of vanity, those dyes 
 
 And colours bright and rare 
 (With mild reproof the bee replies). 
 
 Are all beneath my care. 
 
 Content I toil from morn to eve. 
 
 And scorning idleness, — 
 To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave 
 
 The vanities of dress." 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1270.— GLOW-WORM. 
 
 Oh ! what is this which shines so bright. 
 
 And in the lonely place 
 Hangs out his small green lamp at night. 
 
 The dewy bank to grace ? 
 
 It is a glow-worm — Still and pale 
 It shines the whole night long, 
 
 When only stars. Oh ! nightingale. 
 Seem list'ning to thy song. 
 
 And so, amid the world's cold night, 
 
 Through good report or ill, 
 Shines out the humble Christian's light. 
 
 As lonely and as still. 
 
 W. L. Bowles.— Born 1762, Died 1850. 
 
 1271.— STAR-LIGHT FROST. 
 
 The stars are shining over head, 
 
 In the clear frosty night ; 
 So will they shine when we are dead. 
 
 As countless and as bright. 
 
 For brief the time and short the space 
 That e'en the proudest have. 
 
 Ere they conclude their various race 
 In silence and the grave. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 IPHIGENIA AND AGAMEMNON. 
 
 [W. S. Landor. 
 
 But the pure soul from dust shall rise, 
 
 By our great Saviour's aid, 
 When the last trump shall rend the skies, 
 
 And all the stars shall fade. 
 
 W. L. Boicles.—Born 1762, Dial 1850. 
 
 1272.— THE MAID'S LAMENT. 
 
 I loved him not : and yet, now he is gone, 
 
 I feel I am alone, 
 I check' d him while he spoke : yet could he 
 
 Alas ! I would not check. 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought, 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him : I now would give 
 
 My love could ho but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and v/hen he found 
 
 'Twas vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, 
 
 And this lone bosom bums 
 With stifling heat, hea-\ang it up in sleep, 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft heart : for 
 years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears ! 
 " Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer, 
 
 " These may she never share ! " 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 
 
 Than daisies in the mould, 
 Where children spell athwart the churchyard 
 gate 
 
 His name and Kfe's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, 
 
 And oh ! pray, too, for me ! 
 
 W. S. Landor.— Born 177S, Died 1864. 
 
 1273.— THE BEIEE. 
 
 My brier that smelledst sweet. 
 When gentle Spring's first heat 
 Ean through thy quiet veins ; 
 Thou that could' st injure none. 
 But would'st be left alone. 
 Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine 
 remains. 
 
 What ! hath no poet's lyre 
 O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier, 
 
 Hung fondly ill or well ? 
 And yet, methinks, with thee 
 A poet's sympathy, 
 Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, 
 might dwell. 
 
 Hard usage both must bear, 
 Few hands your youth will rear. 
 Few bosoms cherish you = 
 
 Your tender prime must bleed 
 Ere you are sweet ; but, freed 
 From life, you then are prized; thus 
 are poets too. 
 
 W. 8. Landor.— Born 1775, Died. 1864. 
 
 prized 
 
 1274.— CHILDEEN. 
 
 Children are what the mothers are. 
 No fondest father's fondest care 
 Can fashion so the infant heaii; 
 As those creative beams that dart, 
 With all their hopes and fears, upon 
 The cradle of a sleeping son. 
 
 His startled eyes with wonder see 
 A father near him on his knee, 
 Who wishes all the while to trace 
 The mother in his future face ; 
 But 't is to her alone uprise 
 His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 
 Open with joy and not surprise. 
 
 W. S. Landor.— Born 1775, Died 1864. 
 
 1 275. —IPHIGENIA AND AGAMEMNON. 
 
 Iphigenia, when she heard her doom 
 
 At Aulis, and when aU beside the king 
 
 Had gone away, took his right hand, and 
 
 said: 
 " O father ! I am young and very happy. 
 I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
 Distinctly what the goddess spake ; — old age 
 Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
 My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, 
 WTiile I was resting on her knee both arms. 
 And hitting it to make her mind my words. 
 And looking in her face, and she in mine. 
 Might not he, also, hear one word amiss. 
 Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ? " 
 The father placed his cheek upon her head, 
 And tears dropt down it ; but the king of 
 
 men 
 Eeplied not. Then the maiden spake once 
 
 more : 
 " father ! say est thou nothing ? Hearest 
 
 thou not 
 Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, 
 Listen' d to fondly, and awaken' d me 
 To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
 When it was inarticulate as theirs, 
 And the down deadened it within the nest ? " 
 He moved her gently from him, sUent still ; 
 And this, and this alone, brought tears from 
 
 her. 
 Although she saw fate nearer. Then with -ighs : 
 " I thought to have laid down my hair before 
 Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
 Her polished altar with my virgin blood ; 
 I thought to have selected the white flowers 
 
W. S. Landor.] 
 
 TO MACAULAY. 
 
 [Seventh Period.' 
 
 To please the-nymplis, and to have asked of 
 
 each 
 By name, and with no sorrowfvJ regret, 
 Whether, since both my parents willed the 
 
 change, 
 I might at Hjonen's feet bend my clipt 
 
 brow; 
 And (after these who mind us girls the 
 
 most) 
 Adore our own Athene, that she would 
 Eegard me mildly with her azure eyes — 
 But, father, to see you no more, and see 
 Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone ! " 
 Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, 
 Bending his lofty head far over hers ; 
 And the dark depths of nature heaved and 
 
 burst. 
 He tiurned away — not far, but silent still. 
 She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh, 
 So long a silence seem'd the approach of 
 
 death, 
 And like it. Once again she raised her voice : 
 " father ! if the ships are now detain' d, 
 And all your vows move not the gods above. 
 When the knife strikes me there will be one 
 
 prayer 
 The less to them ; and purer can there be 
 Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's 
 
 prayer 
 For her dear father's safety and success ? " 
 A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
 An aged man now entered, and without 
 One word, stepped slowly on, and took the 
 
 ■^vrist 
 Of the pale maiden. She look'd up, and saw 
 The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
 Then tum'd she where her parent stood, and 
 
 cried : 
 " father ! grieve no more : the ships can 
 
 sail." 
 
 TF. S. L(imhr.—Borii 1775, Died 1864. 
 
 1276.— TO MACAULAY. 
 
 The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
 Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
 And by long strides are left behind 
 The dear delights of womankind, 
 Who wage their battles like their loves, 
 In satin waistcoats and kid gloves. 
 And have achieved the crowning work 
 When they have truss' d and skewer' d a Turk. 
 Another comes with stouter tread, 
 And stalks among the statelier dead : 
 He rushes on, and haQs by turns 
 High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; 
 And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
 Will lag behind, what Romans were. 
 When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
 Shouted, and shook the towers ©f Mars. 
 
 W. S. Landor.—Born 1775, Dtad 1864. 
 
 1277.— THE ONE GRAY HAIE. 
 
 The wisest of the wise 
 Listen to pretty lies. 
 
 And love to hear them told ; 
 Doubt not that Solomon 
 Listen'd to many a one — 
 Some in his youth, and more when he grew 
 old. 
 
 I never sat among 
 
 The choir of Wisdom's song, 
 
 But pretty lies loved I 
 As much as any king — 
 When youth was on the wing, 
 And (must it then be told ? ) when youth had 
 quite gone by. 
 
 Alas ! and I have not 
 The pleasant hour forgot, 
 
 When one pert lady said — 
 " O, Landor ! I am quite 
 Bewilder' d with affright ; 
 I see (sit quiet now ! ) a white hair on your 
 head ! " 
 
 Another, more benign, 
 Drew out that hair of mine, 
 And in her own dark hair 
 Pretended she had found 
 That one, and twirl'd it round. — 
 Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 
 
 W. 8. Landor.—Born 1775, Died 1864. 
 
 [278.- 
 
 'TIS THE LAST EOSE OF 
 SUMMER. 
 
 'Tis the last rose of Summer 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone : 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud is nigh, 
 To reflect back her blushes, 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh ! 
 
 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping. 
 
 Go, sleep thou with them. 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may I follow. 
 
 When friendships decay. 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away ! 
 When true hearts lie wither' d. 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Born 1780, Di€dl852. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. 
 
 [THOg. Moore. 
 
 I279._\VEEATHE THE BOWL. 
 
 Wreathe the bowl 
 
 With flowers of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can fiud us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to-night, 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
 Should Love amid 
 
 The wreaths be hid 
 That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, 
 
 No danger fear 
 
 WTiUe wine is near — 
 We'll drown him if he stings us. 
 
 Then wreathe the bowl 
 
 With flowers of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to-night. 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
 'Twas nectar fed 
 
 Of old, it's said. 
 Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 
 
 And man may brew 
 
 His nectar too ; 
 The rich receipt's as follows : — 
 
 Take wine like this ; 
 
 Let looks of bliss 
 Around it well be blended ; 
 
 Then bring Wit's beam 
 
 To warm the stream. 
 And there's your nectar, splendid ! 
 
 So wreathe the bowl 
 
 With flowers of soul. 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to-night. 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
 Say, why did Time 
 
 His glass sublixae 
 Fill up with sands unsightly, 
 
 AVhen wine he knew 
 
 Runs brisker through, 
 And sparkles far more brightly ? 
 
 Oh, lend it us, 
 
 And, smiling thus, 
 The glass in two we'd sever, 
 
 Make pleasure glide 
 
 In double tide, 
 And fill both ends for ever ! 
 
 Then wreathe the bowl 
 
 With flowers of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to-night, 
 And leave duU earth behind us I 
 Thomas Moore.— Bcyrn 1780 med 1852. 
 
 1280. 
 
 FILL THE BUMPER PAIR. 
 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 Wit's electric flame 
 
 Ne'er so swiftly passes 
 As when through the frame 
 
 It shoots from brimming glasses. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of care "" ~ 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 Sages can, they say. 
 
 Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
 And bring down its ray 
 
 From the starred dominions : — 
 So we, sages, sit. 
 
 And 'mid bumpers bright'ning. 
 From the heaven of wit 
 
 Draw down all its lightning. 
 
 Would' st thou know what first 
 
 Made our souls inherit 
 This ennobling thirst 
 
 For wine's celestial spirit? 
 It chanced upon that day. 
 
 When, as bards inform us, 
 Prometheus stole away 
 
 The living fires that warm us : 
 
 The careless Youth, when up 
 
 To glory's fount aspiring, 
 Took nor urn nor cup 
 
 To hide the pilfer' d fire in. — 
 But oh his joy, when, round 
 
 The halls of heaven spying 
 Among the stars, he fotmd 
 
 A bowl of Bacchus lying ! 
 
 Some drops were in that bowl. 
 
 Remains of last night's pleasure, 
 With which the sparks of soul 
 
 Mix'd their burning treasure. 
 Hence the goblet's shower 
 
 Hath such spells to win us ; 
 Hence its mighty power 
 
 O'er that flame within us. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Bo^rn 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1 28 1. —AND DOTH NOT A MEETING 
 LIKE THIS. 
 
 And doth not a meeting like this make 
 
 amends 
 For all the long years I've been wand' ring 
 
 away — 
 To see thus around me my youth's early 
 
 friends, 
 As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? 
 Though haply o'er some of your brows, as 
 
 o'er mine, 
 The snow-fall of Time may be stealing — what 
 
 then ? 
 
Thos. Mooke.] 
 
 FEIEND OF MY SOUL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Like Alps in the sui.set, thvis lighted by wine, 
 We'll wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses 
 again. 
 
 What soften'd remembrances come o'er the 
 
 heart, 
 In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! 
 The sorrows, the joys, of which once they 
 
 were part. 
 Still round them, like visions of yesterday, 
 
 throng ; 
 As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 
 When held to the flame will steal out on the 
 
 sight. 
 So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, 
 The warmth of a moment like this brings to 
 
 light 
 
 And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, 
 To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, 
 Though oft we may see, looking down on the 
 
 tide, 
 The ^vreck of full many a hope shining 
 
 through ; 
 Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowors 
 That once made a garden of all the gay shore. 
 Deceived for a moment, we'll think them 
 
 still ours. 
 And breathe the fresh air of Life's morning 
 
 once more. 
 
 So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most. 
 Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; 
 And oft even joy is unheeded and lost 
 For want of some heart that could echo it, near. 
 Ah, well may we hope, when this short life 
 
 is gone. 
 To meet in some world of more permanent 
 
 bliss ; 
 For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening 
 
 on, 
 Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 
 
 But, come, the more rare such delights to the 
 
 heart. 
 The more we should welcome, and bless them 
 
 the more ; 
 They're ours when we meet — ^they are lost 
 
 when we part — 
 Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 
 
 'tis o'er. 
 Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we 
 
 drink. 
 Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, 
 
 through pain. 
 That, fast as a feeling but touches one link. 
 Her magic shall send it direct through the 
 
 chain. 
 
 Tliomas Moore. — Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1282.— FEIEND OF MY SOUL. 
 
 Friend of my soul ! this goblet sip— 
 'Twill chase the pensive tear ; 
 
 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 
 But, O ! 'tis more sincere. 
 
 Like her delusive beam, 
 
 'Twill steal away the mind. 
 But like affection's dream, 
 
 It leaves no sting behind- 
 Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade — 
 
 These flowers were culled at noon ; 
 Like woman's love the rose will fade, 
 
 But ah ! not half so soon : 
 For though the flower's decay' d, 
 
 Its fragrance is not o'er ; 
 But once when love's betray 'd. 
 
 The heart can bloom no more. 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 283.-00 WHERE GLORY WAITS 
 THEE ! 
 
 Go where glory waits thee ; 
 But, while Fame elates thee, 
 
 still remember me ! 
 When the praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 then remember nic ! 
 Other arms may press thee. 
 Dearer friends caress thee— 
 All the joys that bless thee 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest. 
 And when joys are dearest, 
 
 O then remember mo ! 
 
 When, at eve, thou revest 
 By the star thou lovest, 
 
 then remember me ! 
 Think when home returning, 
 Bright we've seen it burning, 
 
 O, thus remember me ! 
 Oft as summer closes, 
 When thine eye reposes 
 On its lingering roses, 
 
 Once so loved by thee. 
 Think of her who wove them, 
 Her who made thee love them ; 
 
 O then remember me ! 
 
 When, around thee dying, 
 Autumn leaves are lying, 
 
 O then remember me ! 
 And, at night, when gazing 
 On the gay hearth blazing, 
 
 O, still remember me ! 
 Then should music, stealing 
 AU the soul of feeling, 
 To thy heart appealing. 
 
 Draw one tear from thee — 
 Then let memory bring thee 
 Strains I used to sing thee ; 
 
 O then remember me ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. — Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 [Thos. Moore. 
 
 1284.— FLY TO THE DESERT. 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with 
 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
 
 But, O ! the choice what heart can doubt, 
 
 Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 
 
 Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there 
 Th' acacia wares her yellow hair — 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For flowering in a wilderness. 
 
 Our sands are bare ; but do^vn their slope 
 The silvery-footed antelope 
 As gracefully and gaily springs 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 Then come — thy Arab maid mil be 
 The loved and lone acacia-tree — 
 The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loveliness. 
 
 O I there are looks and tones that dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart, — 
 As if the soul that minute caught 
 Some treasure it through life had sought ; 
 
 As if the very lips and eyes 
 Predestined to have aU our sighs, 
 And never be forgot again, 
 Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 
 
 So came thy every glance and tone, 
 "When first on me they breathed and shone ; 
 New as if brought from other spheres, 
 Yet welcome as if loved for years. 
 
 Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
 No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
 A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
 Should ever in thy heart be worn ; 
 
 Come, if the love thoix hast for me, 
 Is pure and fresh as mine for thee — 
 Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
 When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 
 
 But if for me thou dost forsake 
 Some other maid, and rudely break 
 Her worshipp'd image from its base, 
 To give to me the ruin'd place — 
 
 Then, fare thee well ; I'd rather make 
 My bower upon some icy lake 
 When thawing suns begin to shine. 
 Than trust to love so false as thine ! 
 
 TJiomas Moore.—Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1285. — THE HARP THAT ONCE 
 THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. 
 
 The harp that onoe through Tara's halls 
 
 The soul of music shed. 
 Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 
 
 As if that soul were fled. 
 
 So sleeps the pride of former days. 
 
 So glory's thrill is o'er, 
 And hearts that once beat high for praise. 
 
 Now feel that pulse no more. 
 
 No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
 
 The harp of Tara swells ; ~ - 
 The chord alone that breaks at night 
 
 Its tale of ruin tells. 
 Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 
 
 The only throb she gives ' 
 Is when some heart indignant breaks 
 
 To show that still she lives. 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1286.— SONG. 
 
 As by the shore, at break of day, 
 A vanquish' d chief expiring lay, 
 Upon the sands, with broken sword, 
 
 He traced his farewell to the free ; 
 And, there, the last unfinish'd word 
 
 He dying wrote, was " Liberty ! " 
 
 At night a sea-bird shriek' d the knell 
 Of him who thus for Freedom fell ; 
 The words he wrote, ere evening came, 
 
 Were cover'd by the sounding sea ; — 
 So pass away the cause and name 
 
 Of him who dies for Liberty ! 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Bom 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1287.— 0! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
 
 O ! breathe not his name ! let it sleep in the 
 
 shade, 
 Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid ; 
 Sad, sQent, and dark be the tears that we 
 
 shed, 
 As the night dew that falls on the grave o'er 
 
 his head. 
 
 But the night dew that falls, though in silence 
 
 it weeps. 
 Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 
 
 he sleeps ; 
 And the tear that we shed, though in secret 
 
 it rolls, 
 Shall long keep his memory green in our 
 
 souls. 
 
 TJiomas Moore. — Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1288.— THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells L 
 How many a tale their music tells. 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime I 
 
Thos. Moore.] 
 
 AERANMOEE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away • 
 And many a heart that then was gay, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 'twill be when I am gone — 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
 While other bards shall walk these dells, 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 
 
 Tlwmas Moore.— Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1289.— AEEANMORE. 
 
 G ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 
 
 How oft I dream of thee ! 
 And of those days when by thy shore 
 
 I wander'd young and free, 
 FuU many a path I've tried since then, 
 
 Through pleasure's fltowery maze. 
 But ne'er could find the bliss again 
 
 I felt in those sweet days. 
 
 How blithe upon the breezy cliffs 
 
 At sunny mom I've stood, 
 With heart as bounding as the skiffs 
 
 That danced along the flood ! 
 Or when the western wave grew bright 
 
 With daylight's parting wing. 
 Have sought that Eden in its light 
 
 Which dreaming poets sing — 
 
 That Eden where th' immortal brave 
 
 Dwell in a land serene — 
 Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 
 
 At sunset, oft are seen ; 
 Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth ! 
 
 Those mansions o'er the main 
 Are like the hopes I built in youth — 
 
 As sunny and as vain ! 
 
 Tliomas Moore.— Bom 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1290.— MIEIAM'S SONG. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph' d — ^his people are free. 
 Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 
 His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and 
 
 brave. 
 How vain was their boasting ! — ^the Lord hath 
 
 but spoken, 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the 
 
 wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph' d — ^his people are free. 
 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, 
 His word was our arrow, his breath was our 
 
 sword ! — 
 ^Tio shall return to tell Egypt the story 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her 
 
 pride? 
 
 For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of 
 glory, 
 And all her brave thousands are dash'd in 
 the tide. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea I 
 Jehovah has triumph' d, his people are free. 
 
 Thoinas Moore. — Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1291.— ECHOES. 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 
 To Music at night 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she 
 And far away o'er lawns and lakes 
 Goes answering light ! 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truer far 
 
 And far more sweet 
 
 Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 
 Of horn or lute or soft guitar 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
 'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere 
 And only then. 
 
 The sigh that's breathed for one to hear — 
 Is by that one, that only Dear 
 Breathed back again. 
 
 T/iomas Moore. — Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1292.— THE LIGHT OF OTHEE DAYS. 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of boyhood's years, 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shene. 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so Hnk'd together 
 I've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled 
 Whose garlands dead. 
 And all but he departed ! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] WAR SONG ON VICTOEY OF BEUNNENBUEG. [J. H. Feeee. 
 
 1293.— THE JOURNEY ONWAEDS. 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving, 
 Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
 
 To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
 So loth we part from all we love, 
 
 From all the links that bind ns; 
 So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 
 
 To those we've left behind us ! 
 
 "When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 
 
 We talk with joyous seeming — 
 With smiles that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
 While memory brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twined us, 
 O, sweet's the cup that circles then 
 
 To those we've left behind us ! 
 
 And when in other climes we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting. 
 Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 
 
 And nought but love is wanting ; 
 We think how gi-eat had been our bliss 
 
 If Heaven had but assign' d us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we've left behind us ! 
 
 As travellers oft look back at eve 
 
 When eastward darkly going, 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing, — 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom hath near consign' d us. 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that's left behind us. 
 
 Thomas Moore.— Born 1780, Died 1852. 
 
 1294.— ME. MUEEAY'S PEOPOSAL. 
 
 I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray. 
 He offers handsomely — the money down ; 
 My dear, you might recover from your flurry, 
 In a nice airy lodging out of town, 
 At Croydon, Epsom, anjryvhere in Surrey 3 
 If every stanza brings us in a crown, 
 I think that I might venture to bespeak 
 A bedroom and front parlour for next week. 
 
 Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think ; 
 Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock ; 
 Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink ; 
 On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new 
 
 stock, 
 And I'd be sure to keep away from drink, 
 And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. 
 We'll travel down there in the morning 
 
 stages ; 
 Our verses shall go down to distant ages. 
 
 And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls, 
 And you shall have a better shawl to wear ; 
 These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ; 
 By Monday next I'll compass a new pair 
 
 Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the 
 
 coals, 
 And take away the things you hung to air ; 
 Set out the tea-things, and bid Phoebe bring 
 The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing. 
 
 J. H. Frere.—Boni 1769^ied 1846. 
 
 1295.— THE GIANTS AND THE ABBEY. 
 
 Oft that wild untutor'd race would draw, 
 Led by the solemn sound and sacred light, 
 Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw, 
 To listen all the livelong summer night. 
 Till deep, serene, and reverential awe 
 Environ' d them with sUent calm delight. 
 Contemplating the minster's midnight gleam, 
 Eeflected from the clear and glassy stream. 
 
 But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had 
 
 shed 
 O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue, 
 Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed 
 With thoughts and aspirations strange and 
 
 new, 
 TiU their brute soiils with inward working 
 
 bred 
 Dark hints that in the depths of instinct 
 
 grew 
 Subjective — not from Locke's associations. 
 Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations. 
 
 Each was ashamed to mention to the others 
 
 One haK of all the feelings that he felt, 
 
 Yet thus far each would venture — " Listen, 
 
 brothers, 
 It seems as if one heard Heaven's thunders melt 
 In music ! " 
 
 J". H. Frere.—Bom 1769, Died 1846. 
 
 1296.— WAE SONG ON THE VICTOEY OF 
 BRUNNENBUEG. 
 
 The gates were then thrown open, 
 
 and forth at once they rush'd, 
 The outposts of the Moorish hosts 
 
 back to the camp were push'd ; 
 The camp was all in tumult, 
 
 and there was such a thimder 
 Of cymbals and of drums, 
 
 as if earth would cleave in sunder. 
 There you might see the Moors 
 
 arming themselves in haste, 
 And the two main battles 
 
 how they were forming fast ; 
 Horsemen and footmen mixt, 
 
 a countless troop and vast. 
 The Moors are moving forward, 
 
 the battle soon must join, 
 " My men stand here in order, 
 
 ranged upon a line ! 
 Let not a man move from his rank 
 
 before I give the sign." 
 
Thos. Campbell.] 
 
 HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN DEATH. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Pero Bermuez lieard the word, 
 
 but ho could not refrain, 
 He held the banner in his hand, 
 
 he gave his horse the rein ; 
 " You see yon foremost squadron there, 
 
 the thickest of the foes, 
 Noble Cid, God be your aid, 
 
 for there j'our banner goes ! 
 Let him that serves and honours it, 
 
 show the duty that he owes." 
 Earnestly the Cid caU'd out, 
 
 " For heaven's sake be still ! " 
 Bermuez cried, " I cannot hold," 
 
 so eager was his will. 
 He spurr'd his horse, and drove him on 
 
 amid the Moorish rout : 
 They strove to win the banner, 
 
 and compass' d him about. 
 Had not his armour been so true, 
 
 he had lost either life or limb ; 
 The Oid call'd out again, 
 
 " For heaven's sake succour him !" 
 Their shields before their breasts, 
 
 forth at once they go, 
 Their lances in the rest 
 
 level!' d fair and low ; 
 Their banners and their crests 
 
 waving in a row. 
 Their heads all stooping down 
 
 towards the saddle bow. 
 The Cid was in the midst, 
 
 his shout was heard afar, 
 " I am Rui Diaz, 
 
 the champion of Bivar ; 
 Strike amongst them, gentlemen, 
 
 for sweet mercies' sake ! " 
 There where Bermuez fought 
 
 amidst the foe they brake ; 
 Three hundred banner'd knights, 
 
 it was a gallant show ; 
 Three hundred Moors they kill'd, 
 
 a man at every blow : 
 When they whecl'd and turn'd, 
 
 as many more lay slain. 
 You might see them raise their lances, 
 
 and level them again. 
 There you might see the breastplates, 
 
 how they were cleft in twain, 
 And many a Moorish shield 
 
 lie scatter' d on the plain. 
 The pennons that were white 
 
 mark'd with a crimson stain, 
 The horses running wild 
 
 whose riders had been slain. 
 
 J. H. Frcrc.—Born 1769, Died 1846. 
 
 I297.~H0PE TRIUMPHANT IN 
 DEATH. 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers 
 burn, 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ; 
 
 Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful 
 
 hour ! 
 Oh ! then thy kingdom comes ! Immortal 
 
 Power ! 
 What though each spark of earth-bom rapture 
 
 The quivering lip, pale check, and closing 
 
 eye ! 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
 Then, then, the triumph and the trance 
 
 begin ! 
 And all the Phoenix spirit burns within ! 
 
 Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose. 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
 Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh. 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die I 
 Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
 Where Time's far- wandering tide has never 
 
 run, 
 From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless 
 
 spheres, 
 A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and 
 
 loud, 
 Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
 While Nature hears, with terror-mingled 
 
 trust. 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
 And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he 
 
 trod 
 The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! 
 Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that 
 
 roll 
 Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! 
 Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay. 
 Chased on his night- steed by the star of day I 
 The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close. 
 And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her 
 
 woes. 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
 The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
 Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
 Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale. 
 When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight 
 
 still 
 Watch' d on the holy towers of Zion hill ! 
 
 Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
 Where is thy home, and whither art thou 
 
 fled? 
 Back to its heavenly sonroe thy being goes, 
 Swift as the comet wheels to whence he 
 
 rose ; 
 Doom'd on his airy path awhile to bum. 
 And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and 
 
 return. — 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MATERNAL CAEE. 
 
 [Thos. Campbell. 
 
 Hark ! from the world's exploding centre 
 
 driven, 
 With sounds that shook the firmament of 
 
 Heaven, 
 Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
 On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; 
 From planet whirl' d to planet more remote, 
 He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; 
 But, wheeling homeward, when his course is 
 
 run. 
 Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the 
 
 sun ! 
 So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd 
 Her trembling wings, emerging from the 
 
 world ; 
 And o'er the path by mortal never trod. 
 Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 
 
 TJiomas Cam^phell.—Bom 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1298.— DOMESTIC LOVE. 
 
 Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought 
 Some cottage-home, from towns and toil 
 
 remote. 
 Where love and lore may claim alternate 
 
 hours. 
 With peace embosom' d in Idalian bowers ! 
 Remote from busy life's bewildered way. 
 O'er aU his heart shall Taste and Beauty 
 
 sway; 
 Free on the sunny slope or winding shore, 
 With hermit-steps to wander and adore ! 
 There shall he love, when genial mom 
 
 appears, 
 Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, 
 To watch the brightening roses of the sky. 
 And muse on nature with a poet's eye ! 
 And when the sun's last splendour lights the 
 
 The woods and waves, and murmuring -winds 
 
 When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail. 
 And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, 
 His path shall be where streamy mountains 
 
 sv/'ell 
 Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow 
 
 deU; 
 Where mouldering piles and forests inter- 
 vene. 
 Mingling with darker tints the living green ; 
 No circHng hills his ravished eye to bound, 
 Heaven, earth, and ocean blazing all around ! 
 The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly 
 burns — 
 And down the vale his sober step returns ; 
 But pauses oft as winding rocks convey 
 The stOl sweet fall of music far away ; 
 And oft he lingers from his home awhile. 
 To watch the dying notes, and start, and 
 smile ! 
 Let -svinter come ! let polar spirits sweep 
 The darkening world, and tempest-troubled 
 deep; 
 
 Though boundless snows the wither' d heath 
 
 deform, 
 And the dim sun scarce wanders through the 
 
 storm, 
 Yet shall the smile of social love repay. 
 With mental light, the melancholy day ! 
 And when its short and suUen noon^s o^er, 
 The ice-chained waters slumbering on the 
 
 shore, 
 How bright the faggots in his little hall 
 Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured 
 
 wall ! 
 How blest he names, in love's familiar 
 
 1;pne, 
 The kind fair friend by nature mark'd his 
 
 own ; 
 And, in the waveless mirror of his mind. 
 Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, 
 Since when her empire o'er his heart began — 
 Since first he called her his before the holy 
 
 man ! 
 Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, 
 And light the wintry paradise of home ; 
 And let the half -uncurtained window hail 
 Some wayworn man benighted in the vale ! 
 Now, while the moaning night-wind rages 
 
 high. 
 As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled 
 
 sky; 
 While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle 
 
 play, 
 
 And bathe in lurid light the milky way ; 
 Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the 
 
 shower. 
 Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn 
 
 hour; 
 With pathos shall command, with wit beguile 
 A generous tear of anguish, or a smile ! 
 
 Thomas Cam^hell—Bom 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1299.— MATERNAL CAEE. 
 
 Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty 
 
 Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
 She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
 Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive 
 
 eyes, 
 And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
 " Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my 
 
 boy: 
 No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine j 
 No sigh that rends thy father's heart and 
 
 mine ; 
 Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be 
 In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than 
 
 he ! 
 Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, 
 Shall soothe this aching heart for all the 
 
 past — 
 With many a smile my solitude repay, 
 And chase the world's ungenerous soon: 
 
 away. 
 
 62 
 
Thos. Campbell.] 
 
 BATTLE OF WYOMING. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 And say, when summon' d from the world 
 
 and thee, 
 I lay my head beneath the willow tree ; 
 Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone 
 
 appear. 
 And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? 
 Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to 
 
 shed 
 The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; 
 With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 
 Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, 
 Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur 
 
 low, 
 And think on all my love, and all my wx)e ?" 
 
 So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
 Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
 But when the cherub lip hath learnt to 
 
 claim 
 A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
 Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
 A tear of pity, or a smile of love. 
 Or cons his murmuring task beneath her 
 
 care. 
 Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 
 Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
 The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
 How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, 
 At every artless tear, and every smile ! 
 How glows the joyous parent to descry 
 A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 
 
 Thomas Camphell.—Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1300.— BATTLE OF WYOMING, AND 
 DEATH OF GEETEUDE. 
 
 Heaven's verge extreme 
 Reverberates the bomb's descending star — 
 And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, 
 
 and scream, 
 To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, 
 Eung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 
 "VVhoop after whoop with rack the ear 
 
 assail' d. 
 As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; 
 While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd : 
 And ay, as if for death, some lonely trumpet 
 
 wailed. 
 
 Then look'd they to the hills, where fire 
 
 o'erhung 
 The bandit groups in one Vesuvian glare ; 
 Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock 
 
 unrung, 
 Told legible that midnight of despair. 
 She faints — she falters not — the heroic fair, 
 As he the sword and plume in haste array' d. 
 One short embrace — he clasp' d his dearest 
 
 care ; 
 But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the 
 
 glade ! 
 Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling 
 
 through the shade ! 
 
 Then came of every race the mingled swarm, 
 Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight 
 
 grass 
 With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 
 As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass. 
 Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 
 Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : 
 And first the wild Moravian yagers pass. 
 His plumed host the dark Iberian joins ; 
 And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland 
 
 thistle shines. 
 
 And in the buskined hunters of the deer 
 
 To Albert's home with shoat and cymbal 
 
 throng, 
 Eoused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, 
 
 and cheer. 
 Old Outalissi woke his battle-song. 
 And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, 
 Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts ; 
 Of them that wrapt his house in flames, 
 
 erelong 
 To whet a dagger on their stony hearts. 
 And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit 
 
 parts. 
 
 Calm, opposite the Christian father rose. 
 
 Pale on his venerable brow its rays 
 
 Of martyr-light the conflagration throws ; 
 
 One hand upon his lovely child he lays, 
 
 And one the uncover' d crowd to silence 
 
 sways ; 
 While, though the battle-flash is faster 
 
 driven — 
 Unaw'd, with eye unstartled by the blaze, 
 He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, 
 Prays that the men of blood themselves may 
 
 be forgiven. 
 
 Short time is now for gratulating speech : 
 
 And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 
 
 Thy country's flight yon distant towers to 
 
 reach, 
 Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan 
 With brow relax' d to love ? And murmurs 
 
 ran, 
 As round and round their willing ranks they 
 
 drew. 
 From beauty's sight to shield the hostile 
 
 van. 
 Grateful on them a placid look she threw. 
 Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave 
 
 adieu ! 
 
 Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the 
 
 tower. 
 That like a giant standard-bearer frown' d 
 Defiance on the roving Indian power. 
 Beneath, each bold and promontory mound 
 With embrasure emboss' d and armour 
 
 crown' d, 
 And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, 
 Wove like a diadem its tracery round 
 The lofty summit of that mountain green ; 
 Here stood secure the group, and eyed a 
 
 distant scene, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BATTLE OF WYOMING. 
 
 [Thos. Campbell. 
 
 A scene of death 1 where fires beneath the 
 
 sun, 
 And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
 And for the business of destruction done, 
 Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow : 
 There, sad spectatress of her country's wo ! 
 The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, 
 Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of 
 
 On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his 
 
 arm 
 Enclosed, that felt her heart, and huSh'd its 
 
 wild alarm ! 
 
 But short that contemplfrtion — sad and short 
 The pause to bid each much-loved scene 
 
 adieu ! 
 Beneath the very shadow of the fort. 
 Where friendly swords were drawn, and 
 
 banners flew ; 
 Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian 
 
 crew 
 Was near ? — yet there, with lust of murderous 
 
 Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, 
 The ambush' d foeman's eye — his volley 
 
 speeds, 
 And Albert, Albert falls ! the dear old father 
 
 bleeds ! 
 
 And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude 
 
 swoon' d ; 
 Yet, while she clasps him Kfeless to her 
 
 zone. 
 Say, burst they, borrow'd frdfn her father's 
 
 wound, 
 These drops ? Oh God ! the life-blood is her 
 
 own'. 
 And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom 
 
 thrown — 
 " Weep not, O love ! " she cries, " to see me 
 
 bleed ; 
 Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
 Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I 
 
 heed 
 These wounds ; yet thee to leave is death, is 
 
 death indeed ! 
 
 Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
 
 Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
 
 And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh I 
 
 think. 
 And let it mitigate thy wo's excess, 
 That thou hast been to me all tenderness. 
 And friend to more than human friendship 
 
 just. 
 Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 
 And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
 God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid 
 
 in dust ! 
 
 Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, 
 
 The scene thy bursting tears too deep will 
 
 move. 
 Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
 And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
 
 j With thee, as with an angel, through the 
 
 ! grove 
 
 '' Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
 
 i In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly 
 
 j love. 
 
 And must this parting be our very last ?^ 
 No ! I shall love thee stiU, when death itself 
 is past. 
 
 Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this 
 earth, 
 I And thee, more loved than aught beneath the 
 j sun, 
 
 ; If I had hved to smile but on the birth 
 
 Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be 
 none. 
 
 In future times — no gentle little one 
 
 To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 
 
 Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses 
 I run, 
 
 I A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 
 I Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding 
 I thee ! " 
 
 I Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips ! but stiU 
 j their bland 
 
 And beautiful expression seem'd to melt 
 With love that could not die ! and still his 
 i hand 
 
 She presses to the heart no more that felt. 
 Ah, heart I where once each fond affection 
 
 dwelt. 
 And features yet that spoke a soul more 
 
 fair. 
 Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt — 
 Of them that stood encircling his despair 
 He heard some friendly words ; but knew not 
 what they were. 
 
 For now to mourn their judge and child 
 
 arrives 
 A faithful band. With solemn rites between 
 'Twas sung how they were lovely in their 
 
 Lives, 
 And in their deaths had not divided been. 
 Touch' d by the music and the melting scene. 
 Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the 
 
 crowd — 
 Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were 
 
 seen 
 To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved 
 
 shroud — 
 While woman's softer soul in wo dissolved 
 
 aloud. 
 
 Then mournfully the parting bugle bid 
 
 Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and 
 
 truth ; 
 Prone to the dust aflflicted Waldegrave hid 
 His face on earth ; him watch' d, in gloomy 
 
 ruth, 
 His woodland guide : but words had none to 
 
 soothe 
 The grief that knew not consolation's name ; 
 Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, 
 
 62* 
 
Thos. Campbell.] 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that 
 
 came, 
 CoBvoisive, agTie-like, across his shuddering 
 
 frame ! 
 
 " And I could weep," the Oneyda chief 
 
 His descant wildly thus begun ; 
 
 " But that I may not stain with grief 
 
 The death-song of my father's son, 
 
 Or bow this head in wo ! 
 
 For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath. 
 
 To-morrow Areouski's breath, 
 
 That fires yon heaven with storms of death, 
 
 Shall light us to the foe : 
 
 And we shall share, my Christian boy. 
 
 The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 
 
 But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 
 
 By milder genii o'er the deep, 
 
 The spirits of the white man's heaven 
 
 Forbid not thee to weep : 
 
 Nor will the Christian host. 
 
 Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 
 
 To see thee, on the battle's eve. 
 
 Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
 
 Of her who loved thee most : 
 
 She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 
 
 Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 
 
 To-morrow let us do or die. 
 
 But when the bolt of death is hurl'd. 
 
 Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. 
 
 Shall Outalissi roam the world ? 
 
 Seek we thy once-loved home ? 
 
 The hand is gone that cropt its flowers ; 
 
 Unheard their clock repeats its hours ; 
 
 Cold is the hearth within their bowers : 
 
 And should we thither roam. 
 
 Its echoes and its empty tread 
 
 Would sound like voices from the dead ! 
 
 Or shall we cross yon mountains blue. 
 
 Whose streams my kindred nation quaffd, 
 
 And by my side, in battle true, 
 
 A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? 
 
 Ah ! there, in desolation cold. 
 
 The desert serpent dwells alone, 
 
 Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone. 
 
 And stones themselves to ruin grown. 
 
 Like me, are death-like old. 
 
 Then seek we not their camp ; for there 
 
 The silence dwells of my despair ! 
 
 But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou 
 In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : 
 Even from the land of shadows now 
 My father's awful ghost appears 
 Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; 
 He bids my soul for battle thii-st — 
 He bids me dry the last — the first — 
 The only tears that ever burst 
 From Outalissi's soul; 
 Because I may not stain with grief 
 The death-song of an Indian chief ! " 
 
 Thomas Campbell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1301.— TO THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 Star that bringest home tke bee. 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
 If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies. 
 Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
 Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, 
 
 And songs when toil is done. 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art. 
 Too delicious to be riven. 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 Thomas Campbell.— Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1302.— SONG. 
 
 How delicious is the \vinning 
 Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 
 ■When two mutual hearts are sighing 
 For the knot there's no untjdng ! 
 
 Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 
 Love has bliss, but Love has rueing ; 
 Other smiles may make you fickle ; 
 Tears for other charms may trickle. 
 
 Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
 Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
 Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 
 Laughs and flies when press' d and bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly ; 
 Bind its odor to the lily ; 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver ; 
 Then bind Love to last for ever ! 
 
 Thomas Campbell. — Bom 1*111. Di^ 1844, 
 
 1303.— LOCHIEL'S WAENING. 
 Wizard — Lochiel. 
 
 W^IZARD. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
 
 When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle 
 
 array ! 
 For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in 
 
 fight. 
 They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 
 
 crown ; 
 Woe, woe to the riders that trample them 
 
 down ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LOCHIEL'S WAENING. 
 
 'Thos. Campbell. 
 
 Proud Clunberland prances, insulting the 
 
 slain, 
 And their hoof -beaten bosoms are trod to the 
 
 plain. 
 But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning 
 
 of war 
 What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
 'Tis thine, oh GlenuUln ! whose bride shaU. 
 
 await, 
 Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the 
 
 gate. 
 A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
 But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
 Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led — 
 Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the 
 
 dead; 
 For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
 Culloden that reeks with the blood of the 
 
 brave. 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling 
 
 seer! 
 Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
 Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
 This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Ha ! laugh' st thou, Lochiel, my vision to 
 
 scorn ? 
 Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall 
 
 be torn ! 
 Say, rush' d the bold eagle exultingly forth 
 From his home in the dark rolling clouds of 
 
 the north ? 
 Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he 
 
 rode 
 Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
 But down let him stoop from his havoc on 
 
 high! 
 Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is 
 
 nigh. 
 Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to 
 
 the blast 
 Those embers, like stars from the firmament 
 
 east? 
 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully 
 
 driven 
 From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 
 
 heaven. 
 Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
 Whose banners arise on the battlements' 
 
 height, 
 Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to 
 
 bum ; 
 Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where 
 
 it stood. 
 And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 
 
 brood, 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my 
 
 clan ; 
 Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are 
 
 one ! 
 
 They are true to the last of their blood and 
 
 their breath, 
 And like reapers descend to the harvest of 
 
 death. 
 Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the 
 
 shock ! 
 Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on 
 
 the rock ! 
 But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
 When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
 When her bonneted chieftains to victory 
 
 crowd, 
 Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the 
 
 proud, 
 All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 
 
 For, dark and despairing, my sight 1 may seal. 
 But man cannot cover what God would re- 
 veal ; 
 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 I tell thee, Culloden' s dread echoes shall ring 
 With the bloodhounds that bark for thy 
 
 fugitive king. 
 Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of 
 
 wrath, 
 Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
 Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from 
 
 my sight : 
 Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his 
 
 flight ! 
 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on 
 
 the moors : 
 Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
 But where is the iron-bound prisoner? 
 
 where ? 
 For the rod eye of battle is shut in despair. 
 Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, 
 
 forlorn. 
 Like a hmb from his country cast bleeding 
 
 and torn ? 
 Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
 The war-drum is muffled, and black is the 
 
 bier ; 
 His death-bell is tolling. ! Mercy, dispel 
 Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
 Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
 And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 
 
 swims. 
 Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
 Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases 
 
 to beat, 
 With the smoke of its ashes to poison the 
 
 gale 
 
 Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the 
 
 tale ! 
 For never shall Albin a destiny meet 
 So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
 Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd 
 
 in their gore, 
 Like ocean- weeds heap'd on the surf -beaten 
 
 shore, 
 
Thos. Campbell. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Lochiel, tmtainted by flight or by chains, 
 While the kindling of life in his bosom re- 
 mains, 
 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
 With liis back to the field, and his feet to the 
 
 foe! 
 And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed 
 of fame. 
 
 TJiomas Camphell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1 304.— HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight 
 When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array 'd, - 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh' d 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
 Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven ; 
 And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
 Far flash' d the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet those fires shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of crimson' d snow, 
 And bloodier yet shall be the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall bo a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 TJiomas Camphell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1305.— YE MARINEES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 A NAVAL ODE. 
 I. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas ; 
 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years. 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 To match another foe ! 
 And sweep through the deep 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 WhQe the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy -winds do blow. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ! — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And Ocean was their grave. 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
 
 Tour manly hearts shall glow. 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow — 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep ; , 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain- wave, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 
 
 She quells the floods below. 
 
 As they roar on the shore 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow — 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn. 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart, 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 Wlien the storm has ceased to blow — ■ 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 Thomas Camphell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1306.— BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown. 
 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 All the might of Denmark's crown, 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly 
 
 shone ; 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 On the lofty British line — 
 
From 1780 to 18GG.] 
 
 LOED ULLIN'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 [Thos. Campbell. 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime. 
 As they drifted on their path 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flush'd 
 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 " Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried; when 
 
 each *;un 
 I^rom its adamantine lips 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 TlU a feeble cheer the Dane 
 To our cheering sent us back ; 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom- 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 As they strike the shatter'd sail, 
 Or, in conflagration pale, 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 V. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then. 
 
 As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 
 
 ^' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save ; 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our king." 
 
 Then Denmark bless' d our chief, 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the 
 
 day. 
 While the sun look'd smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight. 
 Where the fires of funeral light ; 
 Died away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 
 Whilst thy wine-cup shines in light ; 
 
 And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 
 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
 Once so faithful and so true. 
 On the deck of fame that died, 
 With the gallant good Eiou — 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their 
 
 grave! 
 While the billow mournful rolls, 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 Thomas Camphell.—Born 17?7,~7Kei«^1844. 
 
 1307.— LOED ULLIN'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 A chieftain, to the Highlands bound. 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
 
 And I'U give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water? " 
 
 "0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together ; 
 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 El:s horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
 
 ShoCld they our steps discover, 
 Then who ^'viil cheer my bonny bride 
 
 When they hd'^Q slain her lover P " 
 
 Out spoke the hardy HigMazid wight, 
 " I'll go, my chief — I'm reau^.- 
 
 It is not for your silver bright, 
 But for your winsome lady. 
 
 And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry ; 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace ; 
 
 The water- wraith was shrieking ; 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But stUl as wUder blew the wind, 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 
 Adown the glen rode armed men — 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 " haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
 " Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies. 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her — 
 When, ! too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gather'd o'er her. 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing — 
 Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore ; 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
Thos. Campbell.] 
 
 THE SOLDIEE'S DEEAM. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 For sore dismay' d through, storm and shade 
 
 His child he did discover ; 
 One lovely hand she stretch' d for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in 
 grief, 
 
 " Across this stormy water ; 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
 
 My daughter ! — O my daughter ! " 
 
 'Twas vain : — the loud waves lash'd the 
 shore, 
 
 Eetum or aid preventing. 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 Thomas Camphell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1308.— THE SOLDIEE'S DEEAM. 
 
 Oar bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud 
 had lower' d. 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in 
 the sky ; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
 power' d — 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to 
 die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of 
 straw, 
 By the wolf-aoa,ring fagot that guarded the 
 slain, 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it 
 again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful 
 array 
 Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 
 'Twas Autumn — and sunshine arose on the 
 way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd 
 me back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom 
 was young ; 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating 
 aloft, 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
 reapers sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 
 swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends 
 never to part ; 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness 
 of heart. 
 
 Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary 
 and worn ! — 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to 
 fitav; 
 
 But sorrow return'd with the dawning of 
 mom, 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted 
 away. 
 
 Thomas Camplell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1309.— HALLOWED GEOUND. 
 
 What's hallow' d ground ? Has earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, the image of his God 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourged by Superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 That's hallow' d ground where, mourn' d and 
 
 miss'd. 
 The lips repose our love has kiss'd : — 
 But where' s their memory's mansion ? Is't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
 No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual bound ; 
 The spot where love's first links were wound, 
 
 That ne'er are riven, 
 Is hallow' d down to earth's profound, 
 
 And up to Heaven ! 
 
 For time makes all but true love old ; 
 The burning thoughts that then were told 
 Eun molten still in memory's mould ; 
 
 And will not cool 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
 'Tis not the sculptur'd piles you heap ! — 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom, 
 Or genii twine beneath the deep 
 
 Their coral tomb. 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wind * 
 
 Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 
 And is he dead whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? — 
 To live in hearts we leave behind 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
 And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : — 
 What can alone ennoble fight ? 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
 
 Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking space ? 
 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 
 
 Shall still be dear. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOE. 
 
 [ToHs. Campbell. 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
 The cause of truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To peace and love. 
 
 Peace ! love ! — the cherubim that join 
 Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ! 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 
 Where they are not ; 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 
 Eeligion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites ia domes august ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 
 Belie the vaunt. 
 That men can bless one pile of dust 
 
 With chime or chaunt. 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
 Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
 But there's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 
 
 Its space is Heaven ! 
 
 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. 
 Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
 And God himself to man revealing. 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Made music, though unheard their pealing" 
 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
 Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 
 Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
 
 Aspect above ? 
 Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 
 
 Of heavenly love ! 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time : 
 That man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime. 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallow' d ground ? 'Tis what gives 
 
 birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth, 
 
 Earth's compass round ; 
 And your high priesthood shall make earth 
 
 AU hallow'd ground ! 
 
 Thomas Campbell.— Born 17,77, Died 1844. 
 
 1 310.— THE PAEEOT. 
 
 A parrot, from the Spanish main, 
 
 Full yoimg and early caged came o'er, 
 
 With bright wings, to the bleak domain 
 Of Mulla's shore. 
 
 To spicy groves where he had won 
 His plumage of resplendent hue, 
 
 His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
 He bade adieu. 
 
 For these he changed the smoke of turf, 
 A heathery land and misty sky, ^ 
 
 And tum'd on rocks and raging surf 
 His golden eye. 
 
 But petted in our climate cold. 
 
 He lived and chatter' d many a day ; 
 
 Until with age, from green and gold 
 His -wings grew grey. 
 
 At last when blind, and seeming dumb. 
 He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, 
 
 A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
 To MuUa's shore ; 
 
 He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech. 
 The bird in Spanish speech replied ; 
 
 Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, 
 Dropt down, and died. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. — Born 1777, IKed 1844. 
 
 131 1.— NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOE. 
 
 A TRUE STOUT. 
 
 Napoleon's banners at Boulogne 
 Arm'd in our island every freeman, 
 
 His navy chanced to capture one 
 Poor British seaman. 
 
 They suffer'xi him — ^I know not how — 
 Unprison'd on the shore to roam ; 
 
 And aye was bent his longing brow 
 On England's home. 
 
 His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
 Of birds to Britain half-way over, 
 
 With envy, they could reach the white 
 Dear cliffs of Dover. 
 
 A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 
 
 Than this sojourn would have been dearer. 
 
 If but the storm his vessel brought 
 To England nearer. 
 
 At last, when care had banish'd sleep, 
 
 He saw one morning — dreaming — doating, 
 
 An empty hogshead from the deep 
 Come shoreward floating; 
 
 He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
 The livelong day laborious ; lurking 
 
 Until he launch'd a tiny boat 
 By mighty working. 
 
 Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
 Description wretched : such a wherry 
 
 Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
 Or cross' d a ferry. 
 
Thos. Campbell.] 
 
 ADELGITHA. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 For ploughing in the salt sea-field, 
 
 It would have made the boldest shudder ; 
 
 Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, 
 No sail — no i-udder. 
 
 From neighbouring' woods he interlaced 
 His sorry skiff "vvith wattled willows ; 
 
 And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd 
 The foaming billows — 
 
 But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
 
 His little Argo sorely jeering ; 
 TiU tidings of him chanced to reach 
 
 Napoleon's hearing. 
 
 With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
 Serene alike in peace and danger ; 
 
 And in his wonted attitude, 
 Address' d the stranger : — 
 
 ** Eash man that wouldst yon channel pass 
 On twigs and staves so rudely faShion'd; 
 
 Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
 Must be impassion'd." 
 
 " I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 
 
 " But — absent long from one another — 
 Great was the longing that I had 
 
 To see my mother." 
 
 "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
 " Ye've both ray favour fairly won ; 
 
 A noble mother must have bred 
 So brave a son." 
 
 He gave the tar a piece of gold, 
 
 And with a flag of truce commanded 
 He should be shipp'd to England Old, 
 • And safely landed. 
 
 Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
 To find a dinner plain and hearty ; 
 
 But never changed the coin and gift 
 Of Bonaparte, 
 
 Tliomas Camphell. — Born 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 13 1 2.— ADELGITHA. 
 
 The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded. 
 
 And sad pale Adelgitha came, 
 When forth a valiant champion bounded, 
 
 And slew the slanderer of her fame. 
 
 She wept, deliver' d from her danger ; 
 
 But when he knelt to claim her glove — 
 " Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger, 
 
 For hapless Adelgitha' s love. 
 
 For he is in a foreign far land 
 
 Whose arms should now have set me free ; 
 And I must wear the willow garland 
 
 For him that 's dead or false to me." 
 
 " Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted ! " 
 He raised his visor — at the sight 
 
 She fell into his arms and fainted ; 
 It was indeed her ovm. true knight ! 
 
 Thomas Camplcll.—Bom 1777, Died 1844. 
 
 1313.--ALONZO THE BE AVE AND THE 
 PAIE IMOGINE. 
 
 A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, 
 
 Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
 They gazed on each other with tender 
 
 delight : 
 Alonzo the Brave was the name of the 
 knight — 
 The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 
 
 " And, oh ! " said the youth, " since to-morrow 
 I go 
 To fight in a far distant land, 
 Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to 
 
 flow. 
 Some other will court you, and you will 
 bestow 
 On a wealthier suitor your hand ! " 
 
 " Oh ! hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine 
 said, 
 
 " Offensive to love and to me ; 
 For, if you be living, or if you be dead, 
 I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead 
 
 Shall husband of Imogine be. 
 
 If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside, 
 
 Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
 God grant that, to punish my falsehood and 
 
 pride. 
 Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my 
 
 side, 
 May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride. 
 And bear me away to the grave ! " 
 
 To Palestine hasten' d the hero so bold, 
 
 His love she lamented him sore ; 
 But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, 
 
 behold ! 
 A baron, all cover' d with jewels and gold. 
 
 Arrived at Fair Imogine' s door. 
 
 His treasures, his presents, his spacious 
 domain. 
 
 Soon made her untrue to her vows : 
 He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her bram ; 
 He caught her affections, so light and so vain. 
 
 And carried her home as his spouse. 
 
 And now had the marriage been blest by the 
 priest ; 
 The revelry now was begun ; . 
 The tables they groan' d with the weight of 
 
 the feast. 
 Nor yet had the laughter and merriment 
 ceased. 
 When the bell at the castle toli'd — one. 
 
 Then first with amazement Fair Imogine 
 found 
 A stranger was placed by her side : 
 His air was terrific ; he utter'd no sound — 
 He spake not, he moved not, he look'd not 
 around — 
 But earnestly gazed on the bride. 
 
From 1780 ip 1866.] 
 
 LOVE OF COUNTRY. 
 
 [SiK W. Scott. 
 
 His vizor was closed, and gigantic his heiglit, 
 
 His armour was sable to view ; 
 All pleasure and laughter were hush'd at his 
 
 sight ; 
 The dogs, as they ej^ed him, drew back in 
 aflWght ; 
 The Hghts in the chamber burn'd blue ! 
 
 His presence all bosoms appear' d to dismay ; 
 
 The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
 At length spake the bride — while she trembled 
 
 — " I pray 
 Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would 
 lay, 
 And deign to partake of our cheer." 
 
 The lady is silent ; the stranger complies — 
 
 His vizor he slowly unclosed ; 
 Oh, God ! what a sight met Fair Imogine's 
 
 eyes ! 
 Y^That words can express her dismay and 
 surprise 
 When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 
 
 All present then utter'd a terrified shout. 
 All tum'd with disgust from the scene ; 
 
 The worms they crept in, q,nd the worms they 
 crept out, 
 
 And sported his eyes and his temples about. 
 While the spectre address' d Imogine : 
 
 " Behold me, thoti false one, behold me ! " he 
 
 cried, 
 " Eemember Alonzo the Brave ! 
 God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and 
 
 pride, 
 My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy 
 
 side; 
 Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as 
 
 bride. 
 And bear thee away to the grave ! " 
 
 Thus saying, his arms round the lady he 
 wound. 
 While loudly she shriek'd in dismaj^ ; 
 Then sunk with his prey through the wide- 
 yawning ground, 
 T^or ever again was Fair Imogine found, 
 Or the spectre that bore her away. 
 
 Not long lived the baron ; and none, since 
 that time, 
 
 To inhabit the castle presume ; 
 For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
 There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, 
 
 And mourns he? deplorable doosa. 
 
 At midnight, four times in each year, does 
 her sprite. 
 
 When mortals in slumber are bound, 
 Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, 
 Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight. 
 
 And shriek as he whirls her around ! 
 
 While they drink out of skulls newly torn 
 from the grave, 
 DancinsT round them the spectres are seen ; 
 
 Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
 They howl : "To the health of Alonzo the 
 Brave, 
 And his consort, the Fair Imogine ! " 
 
 M. Q. Lewis.— Born 1773, IKcd 1818. 
 
 1314- 
 
 -DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE 
 ABBEY. 
 
 If thou would' st view fair Melrose aright. 
 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 
 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruin'd- central tower ; 
 
 When buttress and buttress alternately. 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 
 When silver edges the imagery. 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 
 die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is hoard to rave. 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 
 grave, 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
 
 And, home returning, soothly swear. 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 The moon on the east oriel shone, 
 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone. 
 By foliaged tracery combined ; 
 
 Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 
 
 'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand, 
 In many a freakish knot, had tAvined ; 
 
 Then framed a spell, when the work was 
 done. 
 
 And changed the willow wreaths to stone. 
 The silver Hght, so pale and faint, 
 Show'd many a prophet and many a saint ; 
 
 Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 
 Full in the midst, his cross of red 
 Triumphant Michael brandished. 
 
 And trampled the apostate's pride. 
 The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane, 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 13 1 5. —LOVE OF COUNTRY. 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Wliose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd. 
 As home his footsteps he hath tum'd 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 If such' there breathe, go mark him well : 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim ; 
 
Sir W. Scott.] 
 
 DEATH OF MAEMION". 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
 
 Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stem and wild. 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 Land of the mountain and the flood. 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 Can e'er untie the filial band 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 Still as I view each well-known scene. 
 Think what is now and what hath been, 
 I Seems as to me, of all bereft. 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were 
 
 left; 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 Even in extremity of ill." 
 By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 Although it chiU my wither'd cheek ; 
 StiU lay my head by Teviot stone, 
 Though there, forgotten and alone. 
 The bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1316.— DEATH OF MAEMION. 
 
 When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air, 
 
 Arovmd 'gan Marmion wildly stare : 
 
 " Where 's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace 
 where ? 
 
 Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 
 Eedeem my pennon — charge again ! 
 
 Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
 
 Last of my race, on battle plain 
 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
 
 Yet my last thought is England's : — fl}' ; 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring ; 
 TeU him his squadrons up to bring. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie : 
 Tunstall lies dead upon the field ; 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 
 Edmund is down — my life is reft ; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host, 
 Or victory and England 's lost. 
 Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets ! fly I 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 Clare drew her from the sight away, 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he murmur' d — " Is there none, 
 
 Of all ray halls have nurst. 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 Of blessed water from the spring. 
 To slake my dying thirst ! " 
 
 O, woman ! in our hours of ease, 
 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 
 And variable as the shade 
 
 By the light quivering aspen made ; 
 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 
 A ministering angel thou ! 
 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said. 
 
 When, with the baron's casque, the maid 
 
 To the nigh streamlet ran : 
 Forgot were hatred, -wrongs, and fears ; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears. 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stoop' d her by the runnel's side, 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain wide, 
 Where raged the war, a dark red tide 
 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn ! — ^behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain-cell. 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark. 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half -worn letters say, 
 
 Brink . ^carg . pilgrim . lirinfe . anti ♦ prag ♦ 
 jFor . tfjc . kinii ♦ soul . of . .Sgljil . ©rcg » 
 
 a^jo . built . tljis . cross . anti . Suell . 
 She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting Marmion' s head; 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought. 
 
 To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stoop' d his brow to lave — 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 " Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? " 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose — 
 " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 
 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " 
 
 " Alas ! " she said, " the while — - 
 O think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She died at Holy Isle." 
 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground. 
 
 As light as if he felt no wound : 
 
 Though in the action burst the tide. 
 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 
 " Then it was truth ! " — he said — " I knew 
 
 That the dark presage must be true. 
 
 I would the fiend, to whom belongs 
 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
 
 And priests slain on the altar stone, 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 With fruitless labour Clara bound. 
 And strove to staunch the gushing wound : 
 The monk, with unavailing cares. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 [SiE W. Scott. 
 
 Exhausted all the church's prayers ; 
 Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
 A lady's voice was in his ear, 
 And that the priest he could not hear, 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 " In the lost battle, borne do^vn by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle with groans of 
 the dying ! " 
 
 So the notes rung ; 
 " Avoid thee, fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! 
 O look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's givace divine ; 
 
 O think on faith and bliss ! 
 By many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 Tlie war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swell' d the gale, 
 
 And — Stanley ! was the cry ; 
 A hght on Marmion's visage spread, 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 With dying hand above his head 
 He shook the fragment of his blade, 
 
 And shouted " Victory ! 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! " 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bo^m 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 131 7.— YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 
 
 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
 
 west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was 
 
 the best ; 
 And save his good broad-sword he weapon 
 
 had none. 
 He rode all unarm' d, and he rode all alone ! 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young 
 
 Lochinvar ! 
 
 He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not 
 
 for stone, 
 He swam the Esk river where ford there was 
 
 none — 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came 
 
 late : 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 Was to wed the fair EUen of brave 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he enter' d the Netherby Hall, 
 'Mong bride' s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, 
 
 and all ! 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 
 
 sword — 
 For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
 
 word — 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in 
 
 war ? 
 Or to dance at our bridal ? young Lord 
 
 Lochinvar ! " 
 
 '*' I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you 
 
 denied : 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 
 
 tide ! 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of 
 
 mine, ^ 
 
 To lead but one measure, drink onb cup of 
 
 wine ! 
 There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by 
 
 far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the young 
 
 Lochinvar ! " 
 
 The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took 
 
 it up, 
 He quaff 'd off the wine, and he tlirew down 
 
 the cup ! 
 She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up 
 
 to sigh, 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her 
 
 eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 
 
 bar — 
 " Now tread we a measure ! " said young 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did 
 
 fume, 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
 
 and plume, 
 And the bride-maidens whisper' d, " 'Twere 
 
 better by far 
 To have match' d our fair cousin with young 
 
 Lochinvar ! " 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her 
 
 ear. 
 When they reach' d the hall door, and the 
 
 charger stood near. 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
 " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 
 
 and scaur; 
 They'U have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth 
 
 young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 
 
 Netherby clan ; 
 Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 
 
 and they ran ; 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie 
 
 Lea, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they 
 
 see ! 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 
 
 Lochinvar ? 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 13 1 8.— JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide, ladye — 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 
SiE W. Scott.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye shall bo his bride ; 
 And ye shall be his bride, lodye, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen." — 
 But ay she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 *' Now let this wilful grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley dale : 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen." — 
 But ay she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 *' A chain of gold ye shall not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair, 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfry fresh and fair ; 
 And you the foremost of them a* 
 
 Shall ride, our forest queen." — 
 But ay she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning tide ; 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And knight and dame are there : 
 They sought her both by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The ladye was not seen. — 
 She 's o'er the border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 13 19.— SONG. 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken curtain for my head. 
 My lullaby the warder's tread. 
 
 Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
 My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 
 
 It will not waken me, Mary ! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow j 
 
 I dare not thiak upon thy vow. 
 
 And aU it promised me, Mary. 
 No fond regret must Norman know ; 
 When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe, 
 His heart must be like bended bow. 
 
 His foot Kke arrow free, Mary, 
 
 A time will come, with feeling fraught ! 
 For, if I fall in battle fought, 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Mary ! 
 And if return' d from conquer' d foes. 
 How blithely will the evening close. 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose 
 
 To my dear bride and me, Mary ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1320.— SONG. 
 
 " A weary lot is thine, fair muid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine I 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine ! 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green — 
 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 My love ! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 This morn is merry June, I trow — 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake. 
 
 Upon the river shore ; 
 He gave his bridle reins a shake, 
 
 Said, " Adieu for evermore. 
 
 My love ! 
 And adieu for evermore." 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1 32 1. —BOEDER BALLAD. 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 
 
 Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in 
 order ? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale I 
 All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border ! 
 Many a banner spread 
 Flutters above your head. 
 Many a crest that is famous in story. 
 Mount and make ready, then, 
 Sons of the mountain glen. 
 Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
 glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
 grazing ; 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the 
 roe; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and the 
 bow. 
 
 Trumpets are sounding ; 
 War- steeds are bounding ; 
 Stand to your arms, and march in good order. 
 England shall many a day 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1322.— PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew. 
 
 Summon Clan-Conuil ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.1 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 [SiK W. Scott. 
 
 Come away, come away — 
 
 Hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array, 
 
 Gentles and Commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky j 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlochy. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one j 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 
 The flock without shelter ; 
 Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 
 
 The bride at the altar ; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 
 Leave nets and barges : 
 Come with yoiir fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come when 
 
 Forests are ronded ; 
 Come as the waves come when 
 
 Navies are stranded ! 
 Faster come, faster come, 
 
 Faster and faster — 
 Chief, vassal, page, and groom. 
 
 Tenant and master ! 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come — 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume, 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain. 
 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone, and for ever. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1323.— COEONACH. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain. 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font re- appearing 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow j 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary. 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The Autumn winds rushing, 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flushing, 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Eed hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! 
 
 1324.— HYMN OF THE HEBEEW MAID. 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 
 
 Out from the land of bondage came. 
 Her father's God before her moved. 
 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 By day, along the astonish' d lands, 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
 By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands 
 
 Eeturn'd the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of praise. 
 
 And trump and timbrel answer' d keen ; 
 And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays. 
 
 With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
 No portents now our foes amaze — 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
 Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 
 
 And Thou hast left them to their own. 
 
 But, present still, though now unseen. 
 
 When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
 Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, 
 
 To temper the deceitful ray. 
 And O, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frequent night. 
 Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 
 
 A burning and a shining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 
 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 
 No censer round our altar beams, 
 
 And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 
 But Thou hast said, the blood of goats, 
 
 The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 
 A contrite heart, and humble thoughts, 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Died 1771, Born 1832. 
 
 1325.— CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 
 Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers. 
 
 The song went round, the goblet flow'd, 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. 
 
 Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
 So sweetly rung each vaulted wall. 
 
 And echoed light the dancer's bound, 
 As mirth and music cheer' d the hall. 
 
 But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, 
 And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, 
 
 Thrill to the music of the shade. 
 Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 
 
Sib W. Scott.] 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame 
 
 You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 
 And tune my harp of border frame 
 
 On the wild banks of Evandale. 
 
 Tor thou, from scenes of courtly pride, 
 From pleasure's lighter scenes can turn, 
 
 To draw obKvion's pall aside. 
 
 And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
 
 Then, noble maid, at thy command 
 Again the crumbled walls shall rise ; 
 
 Lo, as on Evan's bank we stand, 
 The past returns — the present flies. 
 
 Where, with the rocks' wood-covered side. 
 Were blended late the ruins green, 
 
 Eise turrets in fantastic pride. 
 
 And feudal banners flaunt between : 
 
 Whore the rude torrent's brawling course 
 Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, 
 
 The ashler buttress braves its force, 
 And ramparts frown in battled row. 
 
 'Tis night — the shades of keep and spire 
 Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 
 
 And on the wave the warder's fire 
 Is chequering the moonlight beam. 
 
 Fades slow their light ; the east is grey ; 
 
 The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
 Steeds snort ; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, 
 
 And merry hunters quit the bower. 
 
 The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
 
 Clatters each plank and swinging chain, 
 As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 
 . IJrge the shy steed and slack the rein. 
 
 First of his troop the chief rode on ; 
 
 His shouting merry-men shout behind ; 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 From the thick copse the roebucks bound, 
 The startled red deer scuds the plain, 
 
 For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
 Has roused their mountain haunts again. 
 
 Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 
 
 Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, 
 
 What sullen roar comes do^vn the gale. 
 And drowns the hunter's pealing horn ? 
 
 Mightiest of all the beasts of chase 
 
 That roam in woody Caledon, 
 Crashing the forest in his race. 
 
 The mountain bull comes thundering on. 
 
 Fierce on the hunter's quiver' d hand 
 He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. 
 
 Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand. 
 And tosses high his mane of snow. 
 
 Aim'd weU, the chieftain's lance has flown, 
 Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
 
 His roar is sunk in hollow groan, — 
 
 Sound, merry huntsmen, sound the pryse ! 
 
 'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
 
 The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
 Curls through the trees the slender smoke. 
 
 Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. 
 
 Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan, 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown. 
 
 Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 " Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 
 
 Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
 Why shares he not our hunter's fare ? " 
 
 Stern Claude rephed, with darkening face 
 (Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he), 
 
 " At merry feast or buxom chase 
 No more the warrior wilt thou see. 
 
 Few suns have set since Woodhouselee 
 
 Saw Bothwellhaugh' s bright goblets foam, 
 
 When to his hearths, in social glee. 
 The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. 
 
 There, wan from her maternal throes, 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild. 
 
 Sat in her bower, a pallid rose. 
 
 And peaceful nursed her new-bom child. 
 
 Oh, change accursed ! pass'd are those days ; 
 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
 And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, 
 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 
 
 What sheeted phantom wanders wild. 
 
 Where mountain Esk through woodland 
 flows, 
 
 Her arms enfold a shadowy child, — 
 Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 
 
 The 'wilder'd traveller sees her gHde, 
 And hears her feeble voice with awe, — 
 
 ' Eevenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride, 
 And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' " 
 
 He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band. 
 
 And half arose the kindling chief, 
 
 And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 
 
 But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock. 
 Rides headlong with resistless speed. 
 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; 
 
 Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 
 As one some vision' d sight that saw ; 
 
 Whose hands are bloody, lose his hair ? — 
 'Tis he, 'tis he, 'tis Bothwellhaugh ! 
 
 From gory selle and reeling steed 
 
 Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, 
 
 And, reeking from the recent deed, 
 He dash'd his carbine on the ground. 
 
 Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
 
 But sweeter to Revenge's ear 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 [Sir W. Scott. 
 
 Your slaughter' d quarry proudly trode 
 At dawning morn o'er dale and down. 
 
 But prouder base-bom Murray rode 
 
 Through old LinUthgow's crowded town. 
 
 From the wild Border's humbled side 
 In haughty triumph marched he ; 
 
 While Knox relax' d his bigot pride, 
 And smiled the traitorous pomp to see. 
 
 But can stern power with all her vaunt, 
 Or pomp, with all her courtly glare, 
 
 The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, 
 Or change the purpose of Despair ? 
 
 With hackbut bent, my secret stand, 
 Dark as the purposed deed, I chose ; 
 
 And mark'd where, mingling in his band, 
 Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows. 
 
 Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 
 
 And clash'd their broadswords in the rear 
 The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. 
 
 Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, 
 Obsequious at their regent's rein. 
 
 And haggard Lindsay's iron eye, 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 
 
 'Mid pennon' d spears, a steely grove. 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; 
 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. 
 
 From the raised vizor's shade his eye, 
 Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along ; 
 
 And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
 Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 
 
 But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 
 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast — 
 Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh. 
 
 The death-shot parts — the charger springs- 
 Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
 
 And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
 Rings on the ground-*— to rise no more. 
 
 What joy the ra,ptured youth can feel 
 To hear her love the loved one tell — 
 
 Or he who broaches on his steel 
 The wolf by whom his infant fell ! 
 
 But dearer to my injured eye 
 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 
 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy 
 To hear him groan his felon soul. 
 
 My Margaret's spectre glided near. 
 With pride her bleeding victim saw, 
 
 And shriek' d in his death-deafen' d ear. 
 Remember injured Bothwellhaugh ! 
 
 Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 
 
 Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree ! 
 Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow ! 
 
 Murray is fallen and Scotland free ! " 
 
 Vaidts every warrior to his steed ; 
 
 Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
 " Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed ! 
 
 Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame ! " 
 
 But see, the minstrel vision fails, — 
 
 The glimmering spears are seen no more ; 
 
 The shouts of war die on the gales, 
 Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 
 
 For the loud bugle, pealing high, 
 
 The blackbird whistles down the vale. 
 
 And sunk in ivied ruins lie 
 
 The banner'd towers of Evandale. 
 
 For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 
 
 And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 
 
 Lo ! high-bom Beauty rules the steed, 
 Or graceful guides the silken rein. 
 
 And long may peace and pleasure own 
 The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 
 
 Nor e'er a ruder guest be known. 
 On the fair banks of Evandale. 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1326.— THE OUTLAW. 
 
 BrignaU banks are wild and fair, 
 And Gi'eta woods are green. 
 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would gi-ace a summer-queen. 
 And as I rode hj Dalton Hall, 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A Maiden on the castle- wall 
 
 AVas singing merrily : 
 " O Brignall Banhs are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen." 
 
 " If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 
 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we 
 
 That dwell by dale and down. 
 And if thou canst that riddle read, 
 
 As read full well you may. 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May." 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 1 read you by your bugle-horn 
 
 And by your palfry good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood." 
 " A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light ; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn. 
 
 And mine at dead of night." 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay ; 
 I would I were ^vith Edmund there 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 63 
 
Sib W. Scott.] 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 With burnish' d brand and musketoon 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold Dragoon 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." 
 ^ I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear ; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 And O ! though Brignall banks be fair 
 
 And Greta woods be gay, 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May ! 
 
 Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'U die ! 
 The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, 
 
 Were better mate than I ! 
 And when I'm with my comrades met 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough. 
 What once we were we all forget, 
 
 Nor think what we are now." 
 
 CHOBUS. 
 
 Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a summer-queen. 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1327.— A SERENADE. 
 
 jaji ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 
 
 The sun has left the lea. 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower. 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trill' d all day. 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 'The village maid steals through the shade 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
 To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above. 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
 And high and low the influence know — 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 3328.— WHERE SHALL THE LOVER 
 REST? 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast 
 
 Parted for ever ? 
 Where, through groves deep and high 
 
 Sounds the far billow. 
 Where early violets die 
 
 Under the willow. 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day 
 
 Cool streams are laving : 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 There thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 Never again to wake 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, never ! 
 
 Where shaU the traitor rest, 
 
 He, the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying ; 
 Eleu loro 
 
 There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the falsehearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted : 
 Shame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1329.— THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
 And love, in life's extremity, 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower 
 
 And slow decay from mourning, 
 Though now she sits, on Neidpath's tower 
 
 To v^atch her Love's returning. 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so bright. 
 
 Her form decay' d by pining. 
 Till through her wasted hand, at night. 
 
 You saw the taper shining. 
 By fits a sultry hectic hue 
 
 Across her cheek was flying ; 
 By fits so ashy pale she grew 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear 
 
 Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
 Before the watch-dog prick' d his ear 
 
 She heard her lover's riding; 
 Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd 
 
 She knew and waved to greet him. 
 And o'er the battlement did bend 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
Frtrm 1780 to 1866.] HINTING SONG. [Sib W. Scott. 
 
 He came — ^lie pass'd — an heedless gaze 
 
 'Tis not because the ring they ride. 
 
 As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide 
 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 
 If 'tis not fiU'd by EosabeUe." 
 
 The castle arch, whose hollow tone 
 
 
 Eeturns each whisper spoken, 
 
 — O'er Eoslin all that dreary night 
 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
 
 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 
 
 It glared on EosUn's castled rock, 
 
 
 It ruddied all the copse- wood glen ; 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
 
 
 
 And seen from cavern' d Hawthornden. 
 
 1330.— THF. PEIDE OF YOUTH. 
 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
 
 Proud Maisio is in the wood, 
 
 Where Eoslin' s chiefs uncoffin'd lie. 
 
 Walking so early ; 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud. 
 
 Sweet Eobin sits on the bush 
 
 Sheath' d-rin his iron panoply. 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 
 
 Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
 
 " Tell m.e, thou bonny bird, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
 
 When shall I marry me ? " 
 
 Shone every pillar foHage-bound, 
 
 — " When six braw gentlemen 
 
 And glimmer' d all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Kirkward shall carry ye." 
 
 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 
 
 " Who makes the bridal bed, 
 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 Birdie, say truly ? " 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 
 — " The grey-headed sexton 
 
 The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 
 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 
 • 
 
 There are twenty of Eoslin' s barons bold 
 
 The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle , 
 
 Shall Hght thee steady ; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold. 
 
 The owl from the steeple sing 
 
 But the sea holds lovely EosabeUe ! 
 
 Welcome, proud lady." 
 
 
 
 And each Saint Clair was buried there 
 
 Sir W. ScoU.—Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 With candle, with book, and with knell ; 
 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
 
 
 sung 
 The dirge of lovely Eosabelle. 
 
 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Bom 1771, Bied 1832. 
 
 1331.— EOSABELLE. 
 
 
 listen, listen, ladies gay ! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
 
 
 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
 
 
 That mourns the lovely Eosabelle. 
 
 1332.— HUNTING SONG. 
 
 " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 And, gentle lady, deign to stay I 
 
 On the mountain dawns the day ; 
 
 Eest thee in Castle Eavensheuch, 
 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 With hawk and horse and hunting- spear ; 
 
 
 Hounds are in their couples yelHng, 
 
 The blackening wave is edged with white ; 
 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 
 To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
 
 Merrily merrily mingle they, 
 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is 
 
 
 nigh. 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 
 
 Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 
 
 A wet shroud swathed round lady gay 
 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming. 
 
 Then stay thee, Fair, in Eavensheuch ; 
 
 And foresters have busy been 
 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " 
 
 To track the buck in thicket green ; 
 
 
 Now we come to chant our lay 
 
 *"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 To-night at Eoslin leads the ball, 
 
 But that my lady-mother there 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 ^ Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
 To the greenwood haste away ; 
 
 63* 
 
Sib W. Scott.] 
 
 THE PALMER. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot and tail of size ; 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; 
 You shall see him brought to bay ; 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
 
 Eun a course as well as we ; 
 
 Time, stem huntsman ! who can baulk, 
 
 Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day, 
 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, IHed 1832. 
 
 1333.— THE PALMER. 
 
 " Open the door, some pity to show ! 
 
 Keen blows the northern wind ! 
 The glen is white with the drifted snow. 
 
 And the path is hard to find. 
 
 No outlaw seeks your castle gate. 
 
 From chasing the king's deer. 
 Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
 
 Might claim compassion here. 
 
 A weary Palmer worn and weak, 
 
 I wander for my sin ; 
 O, open, for our Lady's sake ! 
 
 A pilgrim's blessing win ! 
 
 The hare is crouching in her form, 
 
 The hart beside the hind ; 
 An aged man, amid the storm, 
 
 No shelter can I find. 
 
 Tou hear the Ettrick's sullen roar. 
 
 Dark, deep, and strong is he, 
 And I must ford the Ettrick o'er, 
 
 Unless you pity me. 
 
 The iron gate is bolted hard. 
 
 At which I knock in vain ; 
 The owner's heart is closer barr'd. 
 
 Who hears me thus complain. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! and Heaven grant. 
 
 When old and frail you be, 
 You never may the shelter want, 
 
 That's now denied to me ! " 
 
 The Ranger on his couch lay warm, 
 
 And heard him plead in vain ; 
 But oft, amid December's storm, 
 
 He'll hear that voice again : 
 
 For lo, when through the vapours dank 
 
 Mom shone on Ettrick fair, 
 A corpse, amid the alders rank. 
 
 The Palmer welter' d there. 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1334.— THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn. 
 To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 
 
 His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 
 
 And thronging serfs their lords pursue. 
 
 The eager pack, from couples freed, 
 
 Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; 
 
 While answering hound, and horn, and steed. 
 The mountain echoes startling wake. 
 
 The beams of God's own haUow'd day 
 Had painted yonder spire mth gold, 
 
 And calling sinful man to pray. 
 
 Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd. 
 
 But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 
 
 Halloo, halloo I and, hark again ! 
 Wlien spurring from opposing sides, 
 
 Two stranger horsemen join the train. 
 
 Who was each stranger, left and right. 
 Well may I guess but dare not tell ; 
 
 The right-hand steed was silver white, 
 The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 The right-hand horseman, young and fair. 
 His smile was like the morn of May ; 
 
 The left, from eye of tawny glare. 
 Shot midnight's lightning's lurid ray. 
 
 He waved his huntsman's cap on high, 
 Cried, " Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 
 
 What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, 
 To match the princely chase afford ? " 
 
 " Cease thy loud bugle's clanging kneU," 
 Cried the fair youth with silver voice ; 
 
 " And for devotion's choral swell. 
 
 Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise; 
 
 To-day th' ill-omen'd chase forbear. 
 Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 
 
 To-day the warning Spirit hear. 
 
 To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain." 
 
 " Away, and sweep the glades along ! " 
 The sable hunter hoarse replies ; 
 
 " To muttering monks leave matin song. 
 And bells, and books, and mysteries." 
 
 The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed. 
 And, launching forward with a bound, 
 
 " Who, for thy drowsy priestKke rede. 
 Would leave the jovial horn and hound ? 
 
 Hence, if our manly sport offend ! 
 
 With pious fools go chant and pray ; 
 Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend, 
 I Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 
 
 j The V/ildgrave spurr'd his courser light, 
 I O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 
 ! And on the left and on the right, 
 
 Each stranger horseman foUow'd still. 
 
 Up springs from yonder tangled thorn 
 A stag more white than mountain snow ; 
 
 And louder rang the Wildgrave's horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 [Sir W. Scott. 
 
 A heedless wretch has cross'd the way : 
 He gasps, the thundering hoofs below ; 
 
 But live who can, or die who may, 
 
 Still " Forward, forward ! " on they go. 
 
 See where yon simple fences meet, 
 
 A field with autumn's blessing crown'd ; 
 
 See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
 A husbandman, with toil embrown'd. 
 
 " O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 
 
 Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
 " Eam'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd, 
 
 In scorching hour of fierce July." 
 
 Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 Th' impetuous Earl no warning heeds, 
 But furious holds the onward way. 
 
 " Away, thou hound ! so basely bom ! 
 
 Or dread the scourge's echoing blow ! " 
 Then loudly rang his bugle horn, 
 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
 
 So said, so done ; a single bound 
 
 Clears the poor labourer's humble pale ; 
 
 While follows man, and horse, and hound, 
 Like dark December's stormy gale. 
 
 And man, and horse, and hound, and horn, 
 Destructive sweep the field along ; 
 
 While, joying o'er the wasted com, 
 
 Fell Famine marks the maddening throng. 
 
 Again uproused, the timorous prey 
 
 Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill ; 
 
 Hard run, he feels his strength decay, 
 And trusts for life his simple skill. 
 
 Too dangerous solitude appear'd ; 
 
 He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; 
 Amid the flock's domestic herd 
 
 His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 
 
 O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill. 
 His track the steady bloodhounds trace ; 
 
 O'er moss and moor, unwearied still. 
 The furious Earl pursues the chase. 
 
 Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; 
 
 " O spare, thou noble Baron, spare 
 Those herds, a widow's little all ; 
 
 These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care ! " 
 
 Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, 
 But furious keeps the onward way. 
 
 " TJnmanner'd dog ! To stop my sport 
 Vain were thy cant and beggar whine. 
 
 Though human spirits of thy sort 
 
 Were tenants of these carrion kine ! " 
 
 Again he winds his bugle horn, 
 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
 
 And through the herd in ruthless scorn 
 He cheers his furious hounds tp go. 
 
 In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 
 
 Down sinks their mangled herdsman near ; 
 The murderous cries the stag appal, — 
 
 Again he starts new-nerved by fear. 
 
 With blood besmear'd, and white with foam, 
 While big the tears of angnisit pour, 
 
 He seeks amid the forest's gloom 
 
 The humble hermit's hallow' d bower. 
 
 But man, and horse, and horn, and hound, 
 
 Fast ratthng on his traces go ; 
 The sacred chapel rung around 
 
 With " Hark away ! and holla, ho ! " 
 
 All mild amid the rout profane, 
 
 The holy hermit pour'd his prayer ; 
 
 " Forbear with blood God's house to stain; 
 Eevere His altar, and f orbeax ! 
 
 The meanest brute has rights to plead, 
 I Which, wrong' d by cruelty or pride, 
 Draw vengeance on the ruthless head ; — 
 Be wam'd at length, and turn aside." 
 
 Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ; 
 
 The Black, wild whooping, points the prey : 
 Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds. 
 
 But frantic keeps the forward way. 
 
 " Holy or not, or right or wrong. 
 Thy altar and its rights I spurn ; 
 
 Not sainted martyrs' sainted song. 
 
 Not God himself shaU make me turn ! " 
 
 He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
 
 But off on whirlwind's pinions borne, 
 The stag, the hut, the hermit go. 
 
 And horse, and man, and horn, and hound, 
 And clamour of the chase was gone ; 
 
 For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, 
 A deadly silence reign' d alone. 
 
 Wild gazed th' affrighted Earl around ; 
 
 He strove in vain to wake his horn ; 
 In vain to call ; for not a sound 
 
 Could from his anxious lips be borne. 
 
 He listens for his trusty hounds ; 
 
 No distant baying reach' d his ears ; 
 His courser, rooted to the ground. 
 
 The quickening spur unmindful bears. 
 
 Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
 Dark, as the darkness of the grave ; 
 
 And not a sound the still invades, 
 Save what a distant torrent gave. 
 
 High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
 At length the solemn silence broke ; 
 
 And from a cloud of swarthy red, 
 The awful voice of thunder spoke, 
 
 " Oppressor of creation fair ! 
 
 Apostate spirits' harden'd tool ! 
 S comer of God, scourge of the poor ! 
 
 The measure of thy cup is full. 
 
Sir W. Scott.] 
 
 CHEISTMAS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Be chased for ever through the wood ; 
 
 For ever roam th' affrighted wild ; 
 And let thy fate instruct the proud, 
 
 God's meanest creature is His child." 
 
 'Twas hush'd : one flash of sombre glare 
 With yellow tinged the forest's brown ; 
 
 Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 
 And horror chill' d each nerve and bone. 
 
 Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill ; 
 
 A rising wind began to sing ; 
 A louder, louder, louder still, 
 
 Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 
 
 Earth heard the caU ; her .entrails rend ; 
 
 From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
 Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend 
 
 The misbegotten dogs of hell. 
 
 What ghastly huntsman next arose, 
 Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
 
 His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
 His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 
 With many a shriek of helpless woe ; 
 
 Behind him hound, and horse, and horn ; 
 And " Hark away, and hoUa, ho ! " 
 
 Sir W. Scott— Bom 1771, Died 1832, 
 
 I335-— CHEISTMAS. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 
 Loved when the year its course had roU'd, 
 
 And brought blithe Christmas back again, 
 
 With all his hospitable train, 
 
 Domestic and religious rite 
 
 Gave honour to the holy night ; 
 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
 
 That only night in all the year. 
 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 
 The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
 
 The hall was dress' d with hoUy green ; 
 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 
 Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all : 
 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
 
 And Ceremony doff'd his pride. 
 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes. 
 
 That night might village partner choose ; 
 
 The Lord, underogating, share 
 
 The vulgar game of " post and pair." 
 
 All hail'd, with uncontroU'd delight, 
 
 And general voice, the happy night, 
 
 That to the cottage, as the crown. 
 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 Sir W. Scott—Bom 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1236.— HYMN" FOE THE DEAD. 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 When heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 What power shall be the sinner's stay? 
 How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 
 
 When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll ; 
 When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
 Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! 
 
 Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
 When man to judgment wakes from clay. 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 
 Sir W. Scott.— Born 1771, Died 1832. 
 
 1337— TO THOMAS MOOEE. 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here 's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here 's a sigh for those that love tne, 
 And a smile for those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me, 
 Here 's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me, 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround me. 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine. 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — Peace with thine and mine, 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824 
 
 1338.— MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, O, give uie back my heart I 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 Hear my vow before I go. 
 
 By those tresses unconfinod, 
 Woo'd by each JEgoan wind ; 
 By those Hds whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheek«' blooming tinge 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
From 1780 io 1866.] 
 
 THE DEEAM. 
 
 [Lord Bteobt. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone 
 Think of me, sweet, when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul. 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Lonl Byron.— Bot-n 1788, Dieoi 1824. 
 
 [339.— THE GIEL OF CADIZ. 
 
 Oh, never talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
 It has not been your lot to see, 
 
 Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. 
 Although her eyes be not of blue. 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like EngUsh lasses', 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses ! 
 
 Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 
 
 The fire" that through those silken lashes 
 In darkest glances seeirjs to roll, 
 
 From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
 And as along her bosom steal 
 
 In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 
 You'd swear each chastering lock could feel, 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
 III. 
 
 Our English maids are long to woo, 
 
 And frigid even in possession ; 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; 
 But, born beneath a brighter sun. 
 
 For love ordain' d the Spanish maid is, 
 And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 
 
 Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ? 
 
 The Spanish maid is no coquette, 
 
 Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
 And if she love, or if she hate. 
 
 Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
 And, though it will not bend to gold, 
 
 'TwiU love you long, and love you dearly. 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 
 Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
 For every thought is bent to prove 
 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain 
 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
 And should her lover press the plain, 
 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 And when, beneath the evening star, 
 
 She mingles in the gay Bolero ; 
 Or sings to her attuned guitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero ; 
 Or counts her beads with fairy haiid 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hcopeir- 
 Or joins devotion's choral band 
 
 To chant the sweet and haUow'd vesper r 
 
 VII. 
 
 In each her charms the heart must move- 
 
 Of all who venture to behold her. 
 Then let not maids less fair reprove. 
 
 Because her bosom is not colder ; 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 
 
 Where many a soft and melting maid is-^ 
 But none abroad, and few at home, 
 
 May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz- 
 
 Lord Byron.— Boo-n 1788, IHed 1824L 
 
 1340.— STANZAS FOE MUSIC. 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like thee ; 
 And like music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing. 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming-.. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving- 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep,. 
 
 Whose breast is gently heaving, 
 As an infant's asleep ; 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 
 To listen and adore thee. 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1S24L 
 
 [341.— THE DEEAM. 
 
 Our life is twofold : sleep hatli its owe. 
 
 world — 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : sleep hath its owei 
 
 world. 
 And a wide realm of wild reality ; 
 And dreams in their development have 
 
 breath. 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of 
 
 joy; 
 They leave a weight upon our waking 
 
 thoughts ; 
 They take a weight from ofi^ our waking toils ; 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 
Lord Byron.] 
 
 THE DEEAM. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 
 And Isok like heralds of Eternity ; 
 
 They pass like spirits of the past, — they 
 
 speak 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not — what they 
 
 will; 
 They shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
 The dread of vanish' d shadows — are they so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? — the mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 With beings brighter than have been, and 
 
 give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all 
 
 flesh. 
 I would recall a vision, which I dream' d 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth . 
 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 
 Green and of mild declivity ; the last, 
 
 As 'twere the cape, of a long ridge of such. 
 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of 
 
 men 
 Scatter' d at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array — so fix'd. 
 Not by the sport of Nature, but of man : 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing — ^the one on all that was beneath ; 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 
 And both were young — yet not alike in 
 
 youth. . 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers ; but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth. 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 Upon it tUl it could not pass away ; 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his 
 
 sight, 
 For his eye follow' d hers, and saw with hers. 
 Which colour'd all his objects ; — ^he had 
 
 ceased 
 To live within himself ; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and 
 
 flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his 
 
 heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas 
 
 much ; 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him — 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not 
 
 — and why ? 
 Time taught him a deep answer — 'when she 
 
 loved 
 Another. Even now she loved another ; 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 III. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 
 There was an ancient mansion ; and before 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison' d. 
 
 Within an antique oratory stood 
 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro. Anon 
 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen and 
 
 traced 
 Words which I could not guess of ; then he 
 
 lean'd 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook, as 
 
 'twere 
 With a convulsion — then arose again ; 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did 
 
 teal: 
 What he had written ; but he shed no tears. 
 And ho did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet. As he paused. 
 The lady of his love re-enter' d there ; 
 She was serene and smiling then ; and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved ; she 
 knew — 
 ' How quickly comes such knowledge ! that his 
 I heart 
 
 I Was darken' d with her shadow, and she saw 
 ; That he was wretched ; but she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced; and then it faded as it came. 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow 
 
 steps 
 Retired ; ^ut not as bidding her adieu, 
 For they did part with mutual smiles. He j 
 
 pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall ; 
 And, mounting on his steed, he went his 
 
 way; 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood. In the 
 
 wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was 
 
 girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE DEEAM. 
 
 [Loud Btron. 
 
 Himself like what lie had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last lie lay, 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couoh'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping 
 
 side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten' d near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky — 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to bo seen in Heaven. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 The Lady of his love was wed with one 
 Who did not love her better. In her home, 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native 
 
 home, — 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty. But behold ! 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its Kd were charged with unshed tears. 
 What could her grief bo ? — She had all she 
 
 loved ; 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
 Or ill-repress'd affection, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him 
 
 not, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself be- 
 loved ; 
 Nor could he be a part of that wliich proy'd 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 The Wanderer was return' d — I saw him 
 
 stand 
 Before an altar, with a gentle bride ; 
 Her face was fair ; but was not that which 
 
 made 
 The starhght of his Boyhood. As he stood, 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 The self -same aspect, and the 'quivering 
 
 shock 
 That in the antique oratory shook 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced — and then it faded as it came ; 
 And he stood calm and quiet ; and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own 
 
 words ; 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could 
 
 see 
 Not that which was, nor that which should 
 
 have been — 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustom'd 
 
 haU, 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the 
 
 place, 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the 
 
 shade — 
 All things pertaining to that placeman d hour. 
 And her who was his destiny — came back 
 And thrust themselves between him and the 
 
 Hght : 
 What business had they there at such a 
 
 time ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 The Lady of his love — ! she was changed, 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dwelling ; and her 
 
 eyes. 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
 And forms impalpable, and unperceived 
 Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls frenzy ; but the 
 
 wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
 The Wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation — compass' d round 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was 
 
 mix'd 
 In all which was served up to him ; until, 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
 He fed on poisons ; and they had no power, 
 But were a kind of nutriment. He lived 
 Through that which had been death to many 
 
 men; 
 And made him friends of mountains. With 
 
 the stars, 
 And the quick spirit of the Universe, 
 He held his dialogues ! and they did teach 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 My dream was past : it had no further 
 
 change. 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced 
 
 out 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
Lord Bykon.] 
 
 WHRN WE TWO PAETED. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 [342.— WHEN WE TWO PAETED. 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning" 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes- o'er me — 
 
 Why wort thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well. 
 Long, long, shall I rue thee 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? — 
 
 In silence and tears. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and 
 
 chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for 
 
 ever grew still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all 
 
 wide, 
 But throiigh it there roll'd not the breath of 
 
 his pride ; 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 
 
 turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 
 
 surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on his 
 
 mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners 
 
 alone. 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 
 
 wail ; 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of 
 
 Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
 
 sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 
 
 Lord! 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1343.— THE DESTRUCTION OF 
 SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 
 
 the fold, i 
 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 
 
 gold; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars 
 
 on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 
 
 Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer 
 
 is green. 
 That host with their banners at sunset were 
 
 seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 
 
 hath flown. 
 That host on the morrow lay wither' d and 
 
 strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 
 
 the blast. 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he 
 
 pass'd ; 
 
 1344.— SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace — 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon, 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream' d that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salarais ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 And men in nations — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And when the sun set, where were they ? 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
Froin 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 [LoKD Byron. 
 
 The heroic lay is timeless now — 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush P — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopyla) ! 
 
 "What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head, 
 But one, arise — we come, we come ! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — ^in vain ! strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call. 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manher one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave— 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We ^vill not think of themes like these ! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine ; 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still at least our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian \vine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there perhaps some seed is sown 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells ; 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid. 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Snnium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 Lord Byron. — Bom 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1345.— THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vaidt's day less 
 
 gloom — 
 Their country conquers with their martyr- 
 dom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every 
 
 wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod 
 Until his very steps have left a trace, 
 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks 
 
 efface ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 
 Nor grew it white 
 
 In a single night. 
 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose ; 
 For they have been a dijngeon's spoil. 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare. 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffer' d chains and courted death. 
 That father perish' d at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
 We were seven, who now are one — 
 
 Six in youtl'., and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun, 
 
 Proud of persecution's rage; 
 One in fire, and two in field, 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd — 
 Dying as their father died. 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast, 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
Lord Bteon.] 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould, 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
 Dim with a dull imprison' d ray — 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left — 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing. 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away 
 Till I have done with this new day, 
 Which now is painful to these eyes, 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
 I lost their long and heavy score 
 When my last brother droop'd and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 They chain' d us each to a column stone ; 
 And we were three — ^yet, each alone. 
 We could not move a single pace ; 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight ; 
 And thus together, yet apart — 
 Fetter' d in hand, but join'd in heart ; 
 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 And each turn comforter to each — 
 With some new hope, or legend old. 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone. 
 An echo of the dungeon- stone, 
 
 A grating sound — not full and free, 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 It might be fancy — ^but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three ; 
 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 
 I ought to do, and did, my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved. 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven — 
 
 For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
 And truly might it be distrest 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day 
 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being free), 
 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset tiU its summer's gone — 
 
 Its sleepless summer of long light. 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 
 Aild thus he was, as pure s-nd brght, 
 
 And in his natural spirit gay, 
 With tears for naught but other's ills ; 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
 Unless he could assuage the wo 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind. 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy ; but not in chains to pine. 
 His spirit wither' d with their clank ; 
 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 
 And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 
 But yet I forced it on, to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hiUs, 
 
 Had follow'd there the deer and wolf 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, 
 A thousand feet in depth below, 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 
 
 Which round about the wave enthrals ; 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and like a living grave, 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay ; 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd. 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high, 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd ; 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined ; 
 I said his mighty heart declined. 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care. 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat ; 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have moisten' d many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow-men, 
 Like brutes, within an iron den. 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side. 
 ]5ut why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 [Lord Btbon- 
 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock' d his chain, 
 And scoop' d for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; 
 But then within my brain it wrought, 
 That even in death his freebom breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there, 
 The flat and turfless earth above * 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant — 
 Such murder's fitting monument I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower. 
 
 Most cherish' d since his natal hour. 
 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 
 The infant love of aU his race. 
 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 
 My latest care — for whom I sought 
 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 
 Less wretched now, and one day free — 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 
 Was wither' d on the stalk away. 
 
 O God ! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood : 
 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 
 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 
 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 
 Unmix' d with such — but sure and slow. 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 S® tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 "Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur, not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot — 
 
 A Httle talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise ; 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — ^lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most. 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 
 
 I listen' d, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished : 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bo\ind, 
 
 And rush'd to him : I found him not. 
 
 I only stirr'd in this black spot ; 
 
 I only lived — I only drew 
 
 Th' accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last, the sole, the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 AVhich bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 
 My brothers — ^both had ceased to breathe* 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still — 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
 I had not strength to stir or strive, 
 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 What next befell me then and ther 
 I know not well — I never knew. 
 
 First came the loss of light and air, 
 And then of darkness too. 
 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none : 
 
 Among the stones I stood a stone ; 
 
 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
 
 It was not night — it was not day ; 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light. 
 
 So hateful to my heavy sight ; 
 
 But vacancy absorbing space, 
 
 And fixedness, without a place ; 
 
 There were no stars, no earth, no time, 
 
 No check, no change, no good, no crime ; 
 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 
 Which neither was of life nor death — 
 
 A sea of stagnant idleness. 
 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain — 
 
 it was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again — 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise. 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then, by dull degrees, came back 
 My senses to their wonted track : 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before ; 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch' d as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree — 
 A lovely bird with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for mo ! 
 
Lord Btbon.] 
 
 THE PEISONER OF CHTLLON. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 T never saw its like before — 
 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
 
 It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, 
 
 But was not half so desolate ; 
 
 And it was come to love me when 
 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 
 And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine — 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ! — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me j 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 And then 'twas mortal well I knew ; 
 For he would never thus have flo^vn, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone — 
 Lone as the corse within its shroud, 
 Lone as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere. 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue and earth is gay. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate — 
 My keepers grew compassionate. 
 I know not what had made them so — 
 They were inured to sights of woe ; 
 But so it was — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain ; 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun — 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush' d heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall : 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 
 For I had buried one and all 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 
 Aad the whole earth would henceforth be 
 
 A wider prison unto me ; 
 
 No child, no sire, no kin had I, 
 
 No partner in my misery. 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 
 For thought of them had made mo mad ; 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To my barr'd windows, and to be^d 
 
 Once more upon the mountains hio-h 
 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same ; 
 They were not changed, like me, in frame; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide, long lake below, 
 And the blue Ehone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white- wall' d distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle. 
 Which in my very face did smile — 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small, green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing. 
 And on it there were young flowers growing 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seem'd joyous, each and all; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast — 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly ; 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled, and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as in a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days — 
 
 I kept no count, I took no note — 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last came men to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
 It was at length the same to me. 
 Fetter' d or fetterless to be ; 
 
 I learn' d to love despair. 
 And thus, when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a sacred home. 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch' d them in their sullen trade ; 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kUl ; yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn' d to dwell. 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Eegain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Bom 1788, Died 1824. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 APOSTEOPHE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 [LoED Bykon. 
 
 1346.— THE GLADIATOE. 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 
 
 power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight 
 
 hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from 
 
 fear ; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls 
 
 rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 Derives from thee a sense so deep and 
 
 clear, 
 That we become a part of what has been. 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but 
 
 unseen. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow- 
 man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but 
 
 because 
 Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, 
 And the imperial pleasure. "Wherefore 
 
 not? 
 What matters where we faU to fill the 
 
 maws 
 Of worms — on battle plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors 
 rot. 
 
 I see before me the gladiator lie . 
 He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop' d head sinks gradually low : 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing 
 
 slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and 
 
 now 
 The arena swims around him ; he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd 
 
 the wretch who won. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not ; his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far 
 
 away ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay ; 
 There were his young barbarians all at 
 
 play, 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their 
 
 sire. 
 Butcher' d to make a Eoman holiday. 
 All this rush'd with his blood. Shall he 
 
 expire, 
 And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut 
 
 your ire ! 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1347.— APOSTEOPHE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; 
 I love not man the less, but nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I 
 
 steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before. 
 To mingle with the universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all 
 
 conceal. 
 
 EoU on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — 
 
 roU! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 
 
 vain; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his 
 
 control 
 Stops with the shore; upon the watery 
 
 plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 
 
 remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own; 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
 
 groan — 
 Without a grave, unkneU'd, uncoffin'd, and 
 
 unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths — thy 
 
 fields 
 Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 
 
 he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all 
 
 despise. 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the 
 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 
 
 spray. 
 And howling to his gods, where haply 
 
 Kes 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : there let 
 
 him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the 
 
 walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take, — 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war : 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 
 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 
 mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoUs of 
 Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in aU 
 
 save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, — what are 
 
 they? 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were 
 
 free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey, 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 
Lord Byron.] 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF HAIDEE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : not so 
 
 thou; 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 
 
 brow : 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest 
 
 now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 
 
 form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed — ^in breeze, or gale, or 
 
 storm, 
 Icing the pole ; or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and 
 
 sublime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each 
 zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goes forth, dread, fathom- 
 less, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my 
 
 joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a 
 
 boy 
 I wanton' d with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
 For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do 
 
 here. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824.. 
 
 1348.— DESCRIPTION OF HAIDES. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold , 
 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair ; 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were 
 roU'd 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature 
 were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 They nearly reach' d her heels ; and in her 
 air 
 There was a something which bespoke com- 
 mand, 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same 
 hue, 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance 
 flies. 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow 
 flow : 
 'Tis as the' snake late coU'd, who pours his 
 
 length. 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strenQ:th. 
 
 Her brow was white and low; her cheek's 
 pure dye, 
 Like twilight, rosy still with the set sun ; 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us 
 sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors when all's 
 done — 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1349- 
 
 HAIDEE VISITS THE 
 WRECKED DON JUAN. 
 
 SHIP- 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came. 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps 
 drew, 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first 
 flame. 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips v^^ith dew, 
 Taking her for her sister ; just the same 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing fke 
 two. 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair. 
 Had all the advantage too of not being air. 
 
 And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That, like an infant, Juan sweetly slei^t : 
 And then she stopp'd and stood as if in 
 awe 
 (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 
 
 And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
 Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still 
 
 as death. 
 Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce- 
 drawn breath. 
 
 And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 
 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and 
 there 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck' d boy was lying, 
 
 As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
 But Zoe the mean time some eggs was frying. 
 
 Since, after aU, no doubt the youthful pair 
 Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should 
 
 ask it. 
 She drew out her provision from the basket. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers, and of eyes. 
 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 A lesson in her tongue ; but by sui-mise, 
 
 No doubt, less of her language than her 
 look : 
 As he who studies fervently the skies, 
 
 Turns oftener to the stars than to his book : 
 Thus Juan learn' d his alx^ha beta better 
 From Haidee' s glance than any graven letter. 
 
 'Tis pleasing to be school' d in a strange 
 tongue 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean 
 
From 1780 to I860.] HAIDEE AND JTJAN AT THE FEAST. 
 
 [Lord Byroit. 
 
 Wlieii both the teacher and the taught are 
 young; 
 As was the case, at least, where I have 
 been ; 
 
 They smile so when one's right, and when 
 one's wrong 
 They smile still more, and then there in- 
 tervene 
 
 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste 
 kiss ; — 
 
 I Icam'd the little that I know by this. 
 
 LorQl Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1350.— HAIDEE AND JUAN AT THE 
 FEAST. 
 
 Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 
 
 On crimson satin, border'd with paJe blue ; 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 Of the apartment — and appear' d quite 
 new; 
 The velvet cushions — for a throne more 
 meet — 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre 
 grew 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 
 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
 Had done their work of splendour ; Indian 
 mats 
 And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to 
 stain. 
 Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and 
 cats, 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such-like things, 
 that gain 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites — 
 that's 
 To say, by degradation — mingled there 
 As plentiful as in a court or fair. 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
 
 With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 
 Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods 
 made. 
 
 Fretted with gold or silver — by command. 
 The greater part of these were ready spread 
 
 With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 Of all the dresses, I select Haidee' s : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale 
 yellow ; 
 Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
 'Neath which her breast heaved Uke a little 
 billow ; 
 With buttons formed of pearls as large as 
 peas, 
 All gold and crimson shone her j click's 
 fellow, 
 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that 
 
 bound her, 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd 
 
 round her. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely 
 arm, ~ 
 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
 That the hand stretch'd and shut it without 
 harm. 
 
 The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 
 
 And clinging as if loath to lose its hold : 
 The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A light gold bar, above her instep roU'd, 
 Announced her rank; twelve rings were on 
 her hand ; 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's 
 fine fold 
 Below her breast was fasten' d with a band 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce 
 be told ; 
 Her orange-silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
 About the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves, down to her 
 heel 
 Flow'd like an alpine torrent, which the sun 
 Dyes with his morning Hght — and would con- 
 ceal 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run, 
 And still they seem'd resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught 
 
 began 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 Bound her she made an atmosphere of life ; 
 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
 They were so soft, and beautiful, and rife. 
 
 With all we can imagine of the skies, 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, v/ero 
 tinged 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 
 i'or those large black eyes were so blackly 
 fringed, 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 
 And in her native beauty stood avenged : 
 Her nails were touch 'd with henna; but 
 again 
 The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 The henna should be deeply dyed, to make 
 The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 
 She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
 On mountain-tops more heavenly white than 
 her ; 
 
 64 
 
Lord Btron.] 
 
 THE DEATH OF HAIDEE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
 
 She was so like a vision ; I might err, 
 But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly 
 " To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
 But a white baracan, and so transparent 
 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold. 
 Like small stars through the milky- way ap- 
 parent ; 
 
 His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
 An emerald aigrette v/ith Haidee's hair in't 
 
 Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 
 
 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but in- 
 cessant. 
 
 And now they were diverted by their suite, 
 Dwarfs, dancing- girls, black eunuchs, and 
 a poet ; 
 '"Which made their new establishment com- 
 plete ; 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to 
 show it : 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
 And for his theme — he seldom sung below 
 it, 
 He being paid to satirise or flatter, 
 As the Psalms say, " inditing a good matter." 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1351.— THE DEATH OF HAIDEE. 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth, 
 
 Her human clay is kindled ; full of power 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth, 
 The Moorish blood partakes the planet's 
 hour. 
 And, like the soil beneath it, will bring forth : 
 Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's 
 dower ; 
 But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's 
 
 force. 
 Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 
 
 Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray. 
 Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and 
 fair,. 
 
 Till slowly charged with thunder, they display 
 Terror to earth and tempest to the air. 
 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
 But, overwrought with passion and despair. 
 
 The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. 
 
 Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 
 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
 
 Thus much she view'd an instant and no 
 more — 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive 
 groan ; 
 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure 
 dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which 
 ran o'er. 
 And her head droop' d as when tlte lily lies 
 O'ercharged with rain : her summon' d hand- 
 maids bore 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their 
 store : 
 But she defied all means they could employ, 
 Like one life could not hold nor death destroy. 
 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though 
 chill— 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent 
 still; 
 No hideous sign proclaim' d her surely dead : 
 Corruption came not, in each mind to kill 
 
 All hope : to look upon her sweet faice bred 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of 
 
 soul — 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the 
 whole. 
 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there. 
 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
 O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 
 
 O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
 And ever- dying gladiator's air, 
 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame. 
 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 Eather the dead, for life seem'd something 
 new; 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still 
 true 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the 
 
 cause — 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
 On manj'- a token without knowing what ; 
 She saw them watch her without asking why, 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat : 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a 
 sigh 
 Eeheved her thoughts ; duU silence and 
 quick chat 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she 
 
 gave 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 Her father watch' d, she turn'd her eyes 
 
 She recognised no being, and no spot, 
 However dear or cherish' d in their day ; 
 
 They changed from room to room, but all 
 ■ forgot ; 
 Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 [Lord Byron. 
 
 At length those eyes, which they would fain 
 
 be weaning 
 Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful 
 
 meaning. 
 
 And then a slave bethought her of a harp : 
 The hax'per came and tuned his instrument : 
 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent ; 
 
 Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her 
 heart re-sent ; 
 
 And he began a long low island song 
 
 Of ancient days ere tyranny gi'ew strong. 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 In time to his old tune : he changed the 
 theme, 
 And sung of Love ; the fierce name struck 
 through all 
 Her recollection ; on her flash' d the dream 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could caU. 
 
 To be so being : in a gushing stream 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded 
 
 brain, 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in 
 rain. 
 
 Short solace, vain relief ! thought came too 
 quick. 
 And wliirl'd her brain to madness ; she 
 arose 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among th^sick, 
 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards its 
 close ; 
 Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither' d thus ; at 
 last, 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to 
 show 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 
 And they who watch' d her nearest could 
 not know 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the 
 
 black — 
 Oh to possess such lustre, and tlien lack ! 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held within 
 A second principle of life, which might 
 
 Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 
 But closed its little being without light. 
 
 And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
 Blossom and bough ho wither'd with one 
 bUght ; 
 
 In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
 
 The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 
 
 Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
 Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not 
 made 
 Through years or moons the inner weight to 
 
 bear. 
 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are 
 laid 
 By age in earth : her days and pleasures were 
 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 
 Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 By the sea-shore whereon she loved_to ilwell. 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
 
 Its dwellings do\vn, its tenants pass'd away, 
 
 None but her own and father's grave is there; 
 And nothing outward tells of hviman clay ; 
 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair ; 
 No one is there to show, no tongue to say 
 
 What was ; no dirge except the hollow seas 
 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1352.— ALL FOE LOVE. 
 
 O talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our 
 
 glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and- 
 
 twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 
 
 plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow 
 
 that is wrinkled ? 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew 
 
 besprinkled : 
 Then away with all such from the head that 
 
 is hoary — 
 Wliat care I for the wreaths that can only 
 
 give glory ? 
 
 Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy 
 
 praises, 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding 
 
 phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one 
 
 discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love 
 
 her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I 
 
 f oimd thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that 
 
 surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright 
 
 in my story, 
 
 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Lied 1824. 
 
 1353.— SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry sides, 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meets in her aspect and her eyes, 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaveu to gaudy day denies. 
 
 64*. 
 
Lord Bteox.1 
 
 ELEGY ON THYEZiL 
 
 [Seventh Period 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less 
 Had half Impair'd the nameless grace 
 Which waves in every raven tress 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek and o'er that brow 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1354.— ELEGY ON THYEZA. 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And forms so soft and charms so rare 
 
 Too soon return' d to Earth ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask v/hero thou liest low 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved and long must love. 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to toll 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last, 
 
 As fervently as thou 
 Who didst not change through all the past 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in mo. 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be bu.t mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lours 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch' d, 
 
 The leaves must drop away. 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 
 
 Than see it pluck' d to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can boar 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that follow' d such a mom 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last, 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed 
 To think I was not near, to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed : 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again.. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Though thou hast left me free, 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Eeturns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught except its living years. 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1355.— YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 There 's not a joy the world can give like that 
 
 it takes away 
 When the glow of early thought declines in 
 
 feeling's dull decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 
 
 alone which fades so fast. 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 
 
 youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose .gpirits float above the 
 
 wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of 
 
 excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only 
 
 points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver' d sail shall 
 
 never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like 
 
 death itself comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 
 
 dream its own ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain 
 
 of our tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis 
 
 where the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 
 
 mirth distract the breast, 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more 
 
 their former hope of rest ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFOEE WATERLOO. 
 
 [Lord Byron. 
 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret 
 
 Avreathe, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn 
 
 and grey beneath. 
 
 O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I 
 
 have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many 
 
 a vanish' d scene, — 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, aH 
 
 brackish though they be, 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life, those 
 
 tears would flow to me I 
 
 Lord Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1821. 
 
 1356.— VISION OF BELSHAZZAE. 
 
 The King was on his throne. 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall : 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine ! 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look. 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And expound the words of fear. 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good, 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage. 
 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land , 
 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 He heard the king's command. 
 
 He saw that writing's truth ; 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 "Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 He, in the balance weigh' d, 
 
 Is light and worthless clay ; 
 The shroud his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne ! " _ _ 
 Lord Brjron.—Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away 
 
 I357._T0 BELSHAZZAE. 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn. 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
 Behold ! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall, 
 Many a despot men miscall 
 
 Crown' d and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of aU — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 
 
 More than thy very diadem. 
 Where thou hast tarnish' d every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
 Which, worn by thee, even slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
 Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd. 
 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay' d. 
 
 And loft thee but a mass of earth. 
 To Bee thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, hve, or die. 
 
 Lord Bijron.—Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 1358. 
 
 -THE NIGHT BEFOEE 
 BATTLE OF WATEELOO. 
 
 THE 
 
 There was a sound of reveh*y by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 
 
 n>en; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake 
 
 again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a 
 
 rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the 
 
 wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be uncon- 
 
 fined ; 
 No sleep till morn when Youth and 
 
 Pleasure meet 
 
Shelley.] 
 
 OPENING OF QUEEN MAB. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying 
 
 feet— 
 But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in 
 
 once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening 
 
 roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did 
 
 hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 
 
 ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd 
 
 it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too 
 
 well 
 Which stretch' d his father on a bloody 
 
 bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
 
 quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- 
 ing, fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and 
 fro, 
 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of 
 distress. 
 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour 
 ago 
 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveli- 
 ness ; 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such as 
 press 
 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking 
 sighs 
 
 Which ne'er might be repeated; who could 
 
 If ever more should meet those mutual 
 eyes, 
 Since upon nights so sweet such awful mom 
 could rise ? 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the 
 
 steed. 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering 
 
 car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Eoused up the soldier ere the morning 
 
 star ; 
 "While throng' d the citizens with terror 
 
 dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! 
 
 They come ! they come ! " 
 
 And wUd and high the " Cameron's gather- 
 ing" rose! 
 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's 
 hiUs 
 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 
 foes : — 
 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch 
 thrills, 
 
 Savage and shrill! But with the breath 
 which fills 
 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun- 
 taineers 
 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 
 clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green 
 
 leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they 
 
 pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall 
 
 grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder 
 
 cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them frdl of lusty life. 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of 
 
 strife. 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the 
 
 day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder- clouds close o'er it, which 
 
 when rent 
 The earth is cover' d thick with other clay. 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 
 
 pent, 
 Eider and horse, — friend, foe, in one red burial 
 
 blent ! 
 
 Lonl Byron.— Born 1788, Died 1824. 
 
 I359-— OPENING OF QUEEN MAB. 
 
 How wonderful is Death, 
 
 Death and his brother Sleep ! 
 One, pale as yonder waning moon. 
 
 With lips of lurid blue ; 
 The other, rosy as the mom 
 
 When, throned on ocean's wave, 
 
 It blushes o'er the world : 
 Yet both so passing wonderful ! 
 
 Hath then the gloomy Power, 
 
 Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, 
 
 Seized on her sinless soul ? 
 
 Must then that peerless form 
 Which love and admiration cannot view 
 Without a beating heart, those azure veins 
 Which steal like streams along a field of snow. 
 That lovely outline, which is fair 
 
 As breathing marble, perish ? 
 
 Must putrefaction's breath 
 Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 
 
 But loathsomeness and ruin ? 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 [Shelley. 
 
 Spare nothing but a gloomy tlieme 
 On which the lightest heart might moralize ? 
 Or is it only a sweet slumber 
 
 Stealing o'er sensation, 
 Which the breath of roseate morning 
 
 Chaseth into darkness ? 
 
 Will lanthe walce again, 
 And give that faithful bosom joy 
 Wliose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
 Light, life, and rapture from her smile. 
 
 Her dewy eyes are closed. 
 And on their lids, whose texture fine 
 Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, 
 
 The baby Sleep is piUow'd : 
 
 Her golden tresses shade 
 
 The bosom's stainless pride. 
 Curling like tendrils of the parasite 
 
 Around a marble column. 
 
 Hark ! whence that rushing soimd ? 
 
 'Tis like the wondrous strain 
 That round a lonely ruin swells. 
 Which, wandering on the echoing shore, 
 
 The enthusiast hears at evening : 
 'Tis softer than the west wind's sigh ; 
 'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes 
 Of that strange lyre^whose strings 
 The genii of the breezes sweep : 
 
 Those lines of rainbow light 
 Are like the moonbeams when they fall 
 Through some cathedral window, but the teints 
 
 Are such as may not find 
 
 Comparison on earth. 
 
 Behold the chariot of the fairy queen ! 
 Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air ; 
 Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, 
 And stop obedient to the reins of light : 
 
 These the queen of speUs drew in ; 
 
 She spread a charm around the spot. 
 And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, 
 
 Long did she gaze, and silently, 
 Upon the slumbering maid. 
 
 Shellexj.—Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1360.— THE CLOUD. 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that 
 waken 
 
 The sweet birds every one, 
 When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under ; 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 
 And all the night 'tis my piUow white, 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skiej bowers 
 
 Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
 In a cavern under is fetter' d the thunder. 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle SiDtioa, 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the riUs, and the crags, and the hiUs, 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves, remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's bine 
 smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 
 
 When the morning star shines dead. 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle alit, one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings ; 
 And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea 
 beneath, 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love. 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest on mine aii-y nest, 
 
 As stiU as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 Which only the angels hear. 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
 roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
 
 Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
 high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
 swim, 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march. 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are chain'd to my 
 chair. 
 
 Is the million-colour' d bow ; 
 The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove. 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
ShelleIt.] 
 
 TO A SKYLAEK. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 I I am the daughter of the earth and water, 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 i I pass through the pores cf the ocean and 
 j shores ; 
 
 I I change, but I cannot die. 
 
 For after the rain, when, Avith never a stain, 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
 And the winds and sunbfeams, with their con- 
 vex gleams. 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at ray own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
 the tomb, 
 I rise and upbuild it again. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Bled 1822. 
 
 1361.— TO A SKYLAEK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still, and higher, 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of fire ; 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, 
 singest. 
 
 In the golden lightening 
 
 Of the sunken sun. 
 O'er which clouds are brightening. 
 Thou dost float and run, 
 like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven 
 In the broad daylight, 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
 delight. 
 
 Keen are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the white dawn clear. 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her loeams, and heaven is 
 overflow' d. 
 
 What then art we know not ; 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see, 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 
 not. 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows he? 
 bower. 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the floAvors and grass, which screen it 
 from the view. 
 
 Like a rose embower' d 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflower' d. 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
 winged thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Eain-awaken'd flowers, 
 All that ever was 
 Jo3''Ous, and clear, and freeh, thy music doth 
 surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine ; 
 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wane 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal, 
 
 Or triumphal chant, 
 Match' d with thine would be all 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden 
 want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 "\^'liat love of thine own kind P what ignorance 
 of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
 stream ? 
 
From 1780 to ISee.'] 
 
 TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 [Shelley. 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught : 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
 saddest thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
 If we were things born 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever could come 
 near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 Of delight and sound. 
 Better than all treasures 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skiU to poet were, thou scorner of the 
 ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening 
 now. 
 
 Shelley. — Born 
 
 Died 1822 
 
 1562.— LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee 
 In the first sweet sleep of night. 
 When the winds are breathing low 
 And the stars are shining bright : 
 I arise from dreams of thee, 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Has led me — who knows how ? 
 To thy chamber-window, Sweet ! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 On the dark, the silent stream — 
 The champak odours fail 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 The nightingale's complaint 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 As I must die on thine 
 O beloved as thou art ! 
 
 lift me from the grass ! 
 
 1 die, I faint, I fail ! 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 ]\Iy cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 jMy heart beats loud and fast ; 
 O ! press it close to thine again, 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
 Shelley.— Bom 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1363.— I FEAR THY KISSES. 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden j 
 Thou needest not fear mine : 
 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burthen thine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 With which I worship thine. ~^ - 
 
 Shelley.— Bom 1792, Died 1S22. 
 
 1364.— LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix for ever 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single. 
 All things by a law divine 
 In one another's being mingle — 
 Why not I with thine ? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven , 
 And the waves clasp one another ; 
 No sister-flower would be forgiven 
 If it disdain' d its brother : 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
 What are all these kissings worth, 
 If thou kiss not me ? 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1365.— TO THE NIOHT. 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave. 
 
 Spirit of Night ! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave 
 Where all the long and lone daylight 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
 Then Vv^ander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long-sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee ; 
 ^Vhen light rode high, and the dew was 
 
 gone. 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
 Lingering like an unloved guest, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee. 
 
 Tlay brother Death came, and cried 
 
 Wouldst thou me ? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 
 
Shet.t.et.] the flight OF LOYE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
 
 I can give not what men call love ; 
 
 Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 
 No, not thee ! 
 
 The worship the heart Hfts above 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 And the Heavens reject not : 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Soon, too soon — 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, 
 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night- 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow ? 
 
 Swift be thine approaching flight, 
 
 Shelley.— Bom 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 
 
 
 1368.— INVOCATION. 
 Earely, rarely, comest thou, 
 
 
 1366.— THE FLIGHT OF LOVE. 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 
 When the lamp is shatter' d, 
 The light in the dust lies dead ; 
 
 "Wherefore hast thou left me now 
 Many a day and night ? 
 
 When the cloud is scatter' d, 
 
 Many a weary night and day 
 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 
 'Tis since thou art fled away. 
 
 When the lute is broken, 
 
 Sweet tones are remember'd not ; 
 
 When the lips have spoken, 
 
 How shall ever one like me 
 
 Win thee back again ? 
 With the joyous and the free 
 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
 
 As music and splendour 
 
 Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute. 
 
 All but those who need thee not. 
 
 The heart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute — 
 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, 
 
 As a lizard with the shade 
 
 Of a trembhng leaf, 
 Thou with sorrow art dismay'd; 
 
 Or the mournful surges 
 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
 Even the sighs of grief 
 Eeproach thee, that thou art not near. 
 
 
 And reproach thou wiit not hear. 
 
 Wlien hearts have once mingled. 
 
 
 Love flrst leaves the well-built nest ; 
 
 Let me set my mournful ditty 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 
 To a merry measure ; — 
 
 To endure what it once possest. 
 
 Thou wilt never come for pity, 
 
 Love ! who bewailest 
 
 Thou wilt come for pleasure ; — 
 
 The frailty of aU things here, 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 Pity then wiU cut away 
 
 Those cruel wings, and thou wilb stay. 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 
 
 I love all that thou lovest, 
 
 Its passions will rock thee 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high ; 
 
 The fresh Earth in new leaves drest 
 
 Bright reason will mock thco 
 
 And the starry night ; 
 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 
 Autumn evening, and the morn 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 
 When the golden mists are bom. 
 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 Leave thee naked to laughter, 
 
 I love snow and all the forms 
 
 Of the radiant frost ; 
 I love waves, and winds, and storms. 
 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 Everything almost 
 
 
 Which is Nature's, and may be 
 
 
 Untainted by man's misery. 
 
 1367.--ONE WOED IS TOO OFTEN 
 
 I love tranquil solitude, 
 
 PROFANED. 
 
 And such society 
 
 
 As is quiet, wise, and good ; 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 BetAveen thee and me 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 
 What diff' rence ? but thou dost possess 
 
 One feeHng too falsely disdain' d 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 
 The things I seek, not love them less. 
 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 I love Love — ^though he has wings. 
 
 For prudence to smother, 
 
 And like light can flee ; 
 
 And Pity from thee more dea^ 
 
 But above all other things. 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 Spirit, I love thee — 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAE. 
 
 [Shelley. 
 
 Thou art love and life ! O come ! 
 Make once more my heart thy home ! 
 
 Shelley.— Lorn 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1369.— STANZAS WEITTEN IN DEJEC- 
 TION NEAR NAPLES. 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 
 The "waves are dancing fast and bright. 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent light : 
 The breath of the moist air is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'- 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 
 With green and purple sea-weeds strewn ; 
 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 
 Like light dissolved in star -showers 
 
 thrown : 
 I sit upon the sands alone ; 
 The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion — 
 How sweet ! did any heart now share in my 
 
 emotion. 
 
 Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 Nor that Content surpassing wealth 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; 
 Others I see whom these surround — 
 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another 
 measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 j I could lie down like a tired child, 
 
 I And weep away the life of care 
 
 I Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 
 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 I My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 
 I Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
 Shelley.— Bom 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless 
 
 things, 
 The hand that mock'd them and the heart 
 
 that fed ; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : 
 " My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair 1" 
 Nothing beside remains. Eound the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away, 
 
 Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1370.— OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land 
 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of 
 
 stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand 
 Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose 
 
 fro^vn 
 And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
 Tell that its sculptor weU those passions 
 
 read 
 
 1371.— TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
 
 This slave of music, for the sake 
 
 Of him, who is the slave of thee ; 
 
 And teach it all the harmony 
 
 In which thou canst, and only thou. 
 
 Make the delighted spirit glow. 
 
 Till joy denies itself again 
 
 And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 
 
 For by permission and command 
 
 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
 
 Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
 
 Of more than ever can be spoken ; 
 
 Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
 
 From life to life must still pursue 
 
 Your happiness, for thus alone 
 
 Can Ariel ever find his own ; 
 
 From Prospero's enchanted cell. 
 
 As the mighty verses tell, 
 
 To the throne of Naples he 
 
 Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 
 
 Flitting on, your prow before, 
 
 Like a living meteor. 
 
 When you die, the silent Moon 
 
 In her interlunar swoon 
 
 Is not sadder in her cell 
 
 Than deserted Ariel ; 
 
 When you live again on earth, 
 
 Like an unseen Star of birth 
 
 Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
 
 Of life from your nativity : 
 
 Many changes have been run 
 
 Since Ferdinand and you begun 
 
 Your course of love, and Ariel still 
 
 Has track' d your steps and served your 
 
 will. 
 Now in humbler, happier lot, 
 This is all remember' d not ; 
 And now, alas ! the poor si)rite is 
 Imprison' d for some fault of his 
 In a body like a grave — 
 From you he only dares to crave 
 For his service and his sorrow 
 A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 
 
 The artist who this viol wrought 
 To echo aU harmonious thought, 
 Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 
 The woods were in their winter sleep, 
 Kock'd in that repose divine 
 On the wind-swept Apennine ; / 
 
Shelley.] 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 
 
 TSeventh Pekiod. 
 
 And dreaming, some of autumn past, 
 
 And some of spring' approaching' fast, 
 
 And some of April buds and sliowers, 
 
 And some of songs in July bowers, 
 
 And all of love ; and so this tree, — 
 
 O that such our death may be ! — 
 
 Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 
 
 To live in hapx)ier form again : 
 
 From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, 
 
 The artist wrought this loved Guitar ; 
 
 And taught it justly to reply 
 
 To all who question skUfully 
 
 In language gentle as thine own ; 
 
 "Whispering in enamour'd tone 
 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
 
 — For it had learnt all harmonies 
 
 Of the plains and of the skies. 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains, 
 
 And the many- voiced fountains ; 
 
 The clearest echoes of the hills. 
 
 The softest notes of falling riUs, 
 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 
 The murmuring of summer seas, 
 
 And pattering rain, and breathing dew. 
 
 And airs of evening ; and it knew 
 
 That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
 
 Which, driven on its diurnal round. 
 
 As it floats through boundless day, 
 
 Our world enkindles on its way : 
 
 — All this it knows, but will not toll 
 
 To those who cannot question well 
 
 The spirit that inhabits it ; 
 
 It talks according to the wit 
 
 Of its companions ; and no more 
 
 Is heard than has been felt before 
 
 By those who tempt it to betray 
 
 These secrets of an elder day. 
 
 But, sweetly as it answers will 
 
 Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
 
 It keeps its highest holiest tone 
 
 For one beloved Friend alone. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1372.— ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 
 
 being, 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 
 
 dead 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and 
 
 low. 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 With living hues and odours plain and hill : 
 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
 Destroyer and Preserver ; Hear, O hear ! 
 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's' 
 
 commotion. 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are 
 
 shed 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven 
 
 and Ocean, 
 Angels of rain and lightning; there are 
 
 spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
 Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 
 
 verge 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 
 
 dirge 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 Of vapours, from whoso solid atmosphere 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : O 
 
 hear ! 
 
 Thou Avho didst waken from his summer- 
 dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 
 Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 AU overgrown Avith azure moss and flowers 
 So sv/eet, the sense faints picturing thoni ! 
 
 Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far 
 
 below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy v/oods which 
 
 wear 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
 Thy -voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : hear ! 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
 
 share 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than Thou, uncontrollable ! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 
 As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 
 Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have 
 
 striven 
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 
 lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 
 1 fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chain' d and 
 
 bow'd 
 One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and 
 
 proud. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 [Shelley. 
 
 Sweet thougli in sadness. Be thou, Spirit 
 
 fierce, 
 My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth ; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse. 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
 Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1374.— THE WIDOW BIED. 
 
 A widow bird sate mourning for her love 
 
 Upon a wintry bough ; 
 The frozen wind crept on above, 
 
 The freezing stream below. 
 
 There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 
 
 No flower upon the ground. 
 And little motion in the air 
 
 Except the mill-wheel's sound. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1375- 
 
 -HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 1373.— AUTUMN. 
 
 The •warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is 
 
 wailing. 
 The bare boughs are sighin'g, the pale flowers 
 are dying ; 
 
 And the year 
 On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of 
 leaves dead 
 
 Is lying. 
 Come, Months, come away, 
 From November to May, 
 In your saddest array, — 
 Follow the bier 
 
 Of the dead cold year, 1 
 
 And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre, i 
 
 The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is 
 
 crawling, 
 The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
 knelling j 
 
 For the year ; 1 
 
 The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
 each gone 
 
 To his dwelling. 
 Come, Months, come away ; 
 Put on white, black, and gi'ey ; 
 Let your light sisters play ; 
 Ye, foUow the bier 
 Of the dead cold year, 
 And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 The awful shadow of some unseen power 
 Floats, though unseen, among us — visiting 
 This various v/orld with as inconstant wing 
 As summer winds that creep feom. flower to 
 
 flower ; 
 Like moonbeams, that behind some piny 
 mountain shower, 
 It visits with inconstant glance 
 Each human heart and countenance, 
 Like hues and harmonies of evening, 
 
 Like clouds in starlight -widely spread, 
 Like memory of music fled, 
 Like aught that for its grace may be 
 Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 
 
 Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate 
 
 With thine own hues all thou dost shine 
 
 upon 
 Of human thought or form, where art thou 
 gone ? 
 Why dost thou pass away and leave our 
 
 state. 
 This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and 
 desolate ? 
 Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
 Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
 river J 
 Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
 shown ; 
 Wliy fear, and dream, and death, and 
 
 birth 
 Cast on the daylight of this earth 
 Such gloom ; why man has such a scope 
 For love and hate, despondency and hope ? 
 
 No voice from some sublimer world hath 
 ever 
 To sage or poet these responses given ; 
 Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and 
 heaven. 
 Remain the records of thoir vain endeavour — 
 Frail spells, whose uttcr'd charm might not 
 avail to sever 
 From all we hear and all we see 
 Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
 Thy light alone, Kke mist o'er mountains 
 driven. 
 Or music by the night wind sent 
 Through strings of some still instrument. 
 Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
 Gives grace and truth to Kfe's unquiet dream. 
 
 Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds 
 depart, • 
 And come, for some uncertain moments 
 
 lent. 
 Man were immortal and omnipotent 
 Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 
 Keep with thy glorious train firm state within 
 his heart. 
 Thou messenger of sympathies 
 That wax and wane in lover's eyes ! 
 Thou that to human thought art nourishment, 
 
Shelley.] 
 
 MTJTABILITY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Like darkness to a dying- flame ! 
 Depart not as thy shadow came ! 
 Depart not, lest the grave should be, 
 Like life and fear, a dark reality. 
 
 "While yet a boy I sought fop ghosts, and 
 sped 
 Through many a listening chamber, cave, 
 
 and ruin, 
 And starlight wood, with fearful steps 
 pursuing 
 Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
 I call'd on poisonous names with which our 
 youth is fed ; 
 I was not heard ; I saw them not. 
 "^Vhen musing deeply on the lot 
 Of life, at that sweet time when Avinds are 
 wooing 
 All vital things that wake to bring 
 News of birds and blossoming, 
 Sudden thy shadow fell on me — 
 I shriek'd, and clasp' d my hands in ecstasy ! 
 
 1 vow'd that I would dedicate my powers 
 To thee and thine ; have I not kept the 
 
 vow? 
 With beating heart and streaming eyes, 
 even now 
 I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
 Each from his voiceless grave. They have in 
 vision' d bowers 
 Of studious zeal or love's delight 
 Out watch' d with me the envious night : 
 They know that never joy illumed my brow 
 Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst 
 
 free 
 This world from its dark slavery — 
 That thou, O awful loveliness, 
 Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot 
 express. 
 
 The day becomes more solemn and serene 
 "When noon is past ; there is a harmony 
 In Autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
 Wliich through the summer is not heard, nor 
 
 seen. 
 As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
 Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
 Of nature on my passive youth 
 Descended, to my onward life supply 
 
 Its calm — to one who worships thee, 
 And every form containing thee — 
 Wliom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
 To fear himself, and love all human kind. 
 
 Shelley.— Bom 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1 37C.— MUTABILITY. 
 
 The flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow dies ; 
 All that we wish to stay 
 
 Tempts, and then fliers ; 
 What is this world's delight ? 
 Lightning that mocks the night. 
 Brief even as bright. 
 
 Virtue, how frail it is ! 
 
 Friendship too rare ! 
 Love, how it sells poor bliss 
 
 For proud despair ! 
 But we, though soon they fall. 
 Survive their joy, and all 
 Which ours we call. 
 
 Whilst skies are blue and bright. 
 
 Whilst flowers are gay. 
 Whilst eyes that change ere night 
 
 Make glad the day. 
 Whilst yet the calm hours creep. 
 Dream thou ! and from thy sleep 
 Then wake to weep. 
 
 Shelley.— Born 1792, Died 1822. 
 
 1377 —PASSAGE OF THE EED SEA. 
 
 For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, 
 The hireling giiards of Misraim's throne, were 
 
 there. 
 From distant Gush they troop' d, a warrior 
 
 train, 
 Siwah's green isle and Senaar's marly plain : 
 On either wing their fiery coursers check 
 The parch'd and sinewy sons of Amalek ; 
 While close behind, inured to feast on blood, 
 Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shan- 
 
 galla strode. 
 'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with 
 
 gold. 
 Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd ? 
 Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's 
 
 fates. 
 Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her 
 
 hundred gates, 
 Mother of armies ! How the emeralds 
 
 glow'd, 
 Where, flush'd v;ith power and vengeance, 
 
 Pharaoh rode ! 
 And stoled in white, those brazen wheels 
 
 before, 
 Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; 
 And still responsive to the trumpet's cry. 
 The priestly sistrum murmur' d — Victory! '" 
 Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's 
 
 gloom ? 
 Whom come ye forth to combat ? — warriors, 
 
 whom ? 
 These flocks and herds — this faint and weary 
 
 train — 
 Red from the scourge, and recent from the 
 
 chain ? 
 God of the poor, the poor and friendless 
 
 save ! 
 Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! 
 North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds 
 
 fly, 
 
 The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. 
 
 On earth's last margin throng the weeping 
 
 train ; 
 Their cloudy guide moves on: — ''And must 
 
 we swim the main ? " 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL. 
 
 [Bp. Hebee. 
 
 'Mid the light spray their snorting camels 
 
 stood, 
 Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood ; 
 He comes — ^their leader comes ! — the man of 
 
 God 
 O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, 
 And onward treads. The circling waves 
 
 retreat, 
 In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy 
 
 feet ; 
 
 And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 
 The hard wet sand and coral hUls below. 
 j With limbs that falter, and with hearts 
 
 that swell, 
 Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery 
 
 deU; 
 Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd, 
 The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; 
 And flowers that blush beneath the ocean 
 
 green, 
 And caves, and sea-calves' low-roof d haunt, 
 
 are seen. 
 Down, safely do^vn the narrow pass they 
 
 tread ; 
 The beetling waters storm above their head ; 
 While far behind retires the sinking day, 
 And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 
 
 Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light. 
 Or dark to them or cheerless came the night. 
 Still in their van, along that dreadful road. 
 Blazed broad and fierce the brandish' d torch 
 
 of God. 
 Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave 
 On the long mirror of the rosy wave ; 
 W^hile its blest beams a sunlike heat supply. 
 Warm every cheek, and dance in every 
 
 eye — 
 To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train 
 Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain ; 
 Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight 
 
 confine. 
 And tenfold darkness broods above their line. 
 Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led. 
 And range unconscious through the ocean's 
 
 bed; 
 Till midway now — that strange and fiery 
 
 form 
 Sliow'd his dread visage light' ning through 
 
 the storm ; 
 With withering splendour blasted all their 
 
 might. 
 And brake their chariot wheels, and marr'd 
 
 their coursers' flight. 
 "Fly, Misraim, fly!" The ravenous floods 
 
 they see. 
 And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 
 " Fly, Misraim, fly ! " From Edom's coral 
 
 strand 
 Again the prophet stretch' d his dreadful 
 
 wand. 
 With one wild crash the thundering waters 
 
 sweep, 
 And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep ; 
 Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs 
 
 past. 
 As mortal wailing swell' d the nightly blast. 
 
 And strange and sad the whispering breezes 
 
 bore 
 The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 
 
 Oh ! welcome came the morn, where Israel 
 
 stood 
 In trustless wonder by the avenging flood ! 
 Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to 
 
 show 
 The drifted -wreck of Zoan's pride below ! 
 The mangled limbs of men — ^the broken car — 
 A few sad relics of a nation's war ; 
 Alas, how few ! Then, soft as Elim's well. 
 The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. 
 And he, whose harden'd heart ahke had 
 
 borne 
 The house of bondage and the oppressor's 
 
 scorn. 
 The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams 
 
 subdued. 
 In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude, 
 Till kindling into warmer zeal, around 
 The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound ; 
 And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest. 
 The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's 
 
 breast. 
 She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky 
 The dark transparence of her lucid eye, 
 Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet 
 
 harmony. 
 " Where now," she sang, " the tall Egyptian 
 
 spear ? 
 On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, 
 
 where ? 
 Above their ranks the whelming waters 
 
 spread. 
 Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed ! " 
 And every pause between, as Miriam sang. 
 From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, 
 And loud and far tlieir stormy chorus 
 
 spread — 
 " Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath 
 
 triumphed ! " 
 
 Bis1w]p Heler.—Born 1783, Died 1826. 
 
 1378. 
 
 -FROM BISHOP HEBER'S 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 If thou wert by my side, my love, 
 How fast would evening fail 
 
 In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 If thou, my love, wert by my side, 
 
 My babies at my knee. 
 How gaily would our pinnace glide 
 
 O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 
 
 I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
 When on our deck reclined. 
 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay. 
 And woo the cooler wind. 
 
Bp. Hebek.] 
 
 AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 
 
 My twilight steps I giiidc, 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 
 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 I spread my books, my pencil try, 
 
 The lingering noon to cheer, 
 But miss thy kind approving eye, 
 
 Thy meek attentive ear. 
 
 But when of morn or eve the star 
 
 Beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far, 
 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 
 
 My course be onward still ; 
 O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 
 
 O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 
 
 That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 
 
 Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
 For sweet the bhss us both awaits 
 
 By yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
 
 Across the dark-blue sea ; 
 But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
 
 As then shall meet in thee ! 
 
 Bisliop Hcher.—Born 1783, Died 1826. 
 
 I379.-«.AN EVENING WALK IN 
 BENGAL. 
 
 Our task is done ! — on Gunga's breast 
 The sun is sinking down to rest ; 
 And, moor'd beneath the tamai-ind bough, 
 Our bark has found its harbour now. 
 With furled sail and painted side, 
 Behold the tiny frigate ride : 
 Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams. 
 The Moslem's savoury supper steams ; 
 While all apart, beneath the wood, 
 The Hindoo cooks his simpler food. 
 
 Come, walk with me the jungle through- 
 If yonder hunter told us true, 
 Far off, in desert dank and rude, 
 The tiger holds its solitude ; 
 Now (taught by recent harm to shun 
 The thunders of the English gun) 
 I A dreadful guest but rarely seen, 
 Eetums to scare the village green. 
 Come boldly on ; no venom'd snake 
 Can shelter in so cool a brake — 
 Child of the sun, he loves to lie 
 'Midst nature's embers, parch' d and dry, 
 Where o'er some tower in ruin laid. 
 The peepul spreads its haunted shade ; 
 Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, 
 Fit warder in the gate of Death. 
 Come on ; yet pause ! Behold us now 
 Beneath the bamboo's arched bough. 
 Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom, 
 Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom ;. 
 
 And winds our path through many a bower 
 
 Of fragrant tree and giant flower — 
 
 The ceiba's crimson pomp display' d 
 
 O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade. 
 
 And dusk anana's prickly glade ; 
 
 While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, 
 
 The betel waves his crest in air ; 
 
 With pendant train and rushing wings. 
 
 Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs ; 
 
 And he, the bird of hundred dyes. 
 
 Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. 
 
 So rich a shade, so green a sod, 
 
 Our English fairies never trod ! 
 
 Yet who in Indian bowers has stood, 
 
 But thought on England's " good greenwood; " 
 
 And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade, 
 
 Her hazel and her hawthorn glade ; 
 
 And breath'd a prayer (how oft in vain !) 
 
 To gaze upon her oaks again ? 
 
 A truce to thought — the jackal's cry 
 
 Eesounds Hke sylvan revelry ; 
 
 And through the trees yon faiHng ray 
 
 Will scantly serve to guide our way. 
 
 Yet mark, as fade the upper skies, 
 
 Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes — 
 
 Before, beside us, and above. 
 
 The fire-fly lights his lamp of love, 
 
 Eetreating, chasing, sinking, soaring. 
 
 The darkness of the copse exploring ; 
 
 AVhile to this cooler air confest, 
 
 The broad dhatura bares her breast, 
 
 Of fragrant scent and virgin white, 
 
 A pearl around the locks of night ! 
 
 Still as we pass, in soften'd hum 
 
 Along the breezy alleys come 
 
 The village song, the horn, the drum : 
 
 Still as we pass, from bush and brier 
 
 The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; 
 
 And what is she whose liquid strain 
 
 Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ? 
 
 I know that soul-entrancing swell, 
 
 It is — ^it must be — Philomel ! 
 
 Enough, enough, the rustling trees 
 
 Announce a shower upon the breeze, 
 
 The flashes of the summer sky 
 
 Assume a deeper, ruddier dye ; 
 
 Yon lamp that trembles on the stream. 
 
 From forth our cabin sheds its beam ; 
 
 And we must early sleep, to find 
 
 Betimes the morning's healthy wind. 
 
 But oh I with thankfvd hearts confess 
 
 E'en here there may be happiness ; 
 
 And He, the bounteous Sire, has given 
 
 His peace on earth — his hope of heaven. 
 
 Bislwp Heher.—Born 1783, Died 1S2G. 
 
 1380.— EPIPHANY. 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
 Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine 
 aid! 
 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
 Guide where our infant Eedeemer is laid 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] LINES WEITTEN IN A CHUECHYAED. [Herbert Knowles. 
 
 Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining ; 
 
 Low lies His bed with the beasts of the 
 stall; 
 Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 
 
 Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. 
 
 Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 
 
 Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 
 Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the 
 ocean — 
 Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the 
 mine ? 
 
 Vainly we offer each ample oblation. 
 
 Vainly with gold would His favor secure ; 
 
 Eicher by far is the heart's adoration, 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 
 
 Brightest and best of the sous of the morning, 
 Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine 
 aid! 
 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
 Guide where our infant Eedeemer is laid ! 
 
 Bishoxo Ueher.—Born 1783, Died 182C. 
 
 1381.— THOU AET GONE TO THE 
 GEAVE. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — ^^ve no longer 
 dei)lore thee. 
 Though sorrows and darkness encompass 
 the tomb ; 
 The Saviour has passed through its portals 
 before thee, 
 And the lamp of His love is thy guide 
 through the gloom. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer 
 behold thee, 
 Nor tread the rough i)ath of the world by 
 thy side : 
 But the wide r.nns of mercy arc spread to 
 enfold thee, 
 And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has 
 died. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — and, its mansion 
 forsaking, 
 Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt linger' d 
 long, 
 But the sunshine of heaven beam'd bright on 
 thy waking, 
 And the song whieli thou heard' .it was the 
 seraphim's song. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — ^but 'twere wrong 
 to deplore thee, 
 ■\^Tien God was thy ransom, thy guardian, 
 thy guide ; 
 He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will 
 restore thee, 
 Where death hath no sting, since the 
 Saviour hath died. 
 
 Bishop Heher.—Born 1783, Died 1826. 
 
 1382.— SPEING. 
 
 When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the 
 
 laughing soil ; 
 When summer's balmy showers refresh the 
 
 mower's toil ; 
 "When winter binds in frosty chains-the-fallow 
 
 and the flood, — 
 In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his 
 
 Maker good. 
 
 The birds that wake the morning, and those 
 
 that love the shade. 
 The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the 
 
 drowsy glade. 
 The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth 
 
 on his way, 
 The moon and stars their Master's name in 
 
 silent pomp display. 
 
 Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of 
 
 the sky — 
 Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise 
 
 deny ? 
 No; let the year forsake his course, the 
 
 seasons cease to be. 
 Thee, Master, must we always love, and. 
 
 Saviour, honour thee. 
 
 The flowers of spring may wither, the hope 
 
 of summer fade, 
 The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake 
 
 the shade. 
 The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget 
 
 their old decree, — 
 But we, in nature's latest hour, Lord, will 
 
 cling to thee ! 
 
 Bishop Heher. — Bom 1783, Died 1826. 
 
 1383.--LINES WEITTEN IN THE 
 
 CHUECHYAED OF EICHMOND, 
 
 YOEKSHIEE. 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here. 
 If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? 
 
 Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass with 
 
 gloom 
 The abode of the dead and the place of the 
 tomb. 
 
 Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no '. 
 Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 
 
 For see, they would pin him below 
 In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold 
 
 clay. 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets 
 The charms which she wielded before ; 
 
 Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
 The skin which but yesterday foola could 
 
 adore. 
 For the smoothness it held or the tin twhich 
 it wore. 
 
 65 
 
Jas. Montgomery.] NIGHT. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Shall WG build to the purple of Pride, 
 
 Night is the time for dreams ; 
 
 The trappings which dizen the proud ? 
 
 The gay romance of life, 
 
 Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
 
 When truth that is and truth that seems, 
 
 And here's neither dress nor adornments 
 
 Blend in fantastic strife ; 
 
 allow'd. 
 
 Ah ! visions less beguiling far 
 
 But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of 
 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are ! \ 
 
 the shroud. 
 
 
 
 Night is the time for toil ; ! 
 
 To Eiches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain ; 
 
 To plough the classic field, 
 
 Who hid in their turns have been hid ; 
 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 
 The treasures are squandered again ; 
 
 Its wealthy furrows yield ; j 
 
 And here in the grave are all metals forbid 
 
 Till all is ours that sages taught. 
 
 But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin 
 Hd. 
 
 That poets sang or heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep ; ' 
 
 To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 
 i The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 
 
 Those graves of memory where sleep 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 
 But th« guests are all mute as their pitiful 
 
 Hopes that were angels in their birth. 
 
 cheer, 
 
 But perish' d young like things on earth ! 
 
 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 
 
 
 
 Night is the time to watch ; 
 
 Shall we bmld to Affection and Love ? 
 
 On ocean's dark expanse 
 
 Ah no ! they have wither'd and died, 
 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above. 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance, 
 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by 
 
 That brings unto the home-sick mind ^ 
 
 side. 
 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 
 
 Night is the time for care ; 
 
 Unto Sorrow ? — the Dead cannot grieve ; 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent, * 
 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 
 
 To see the spectre of despair 
 
 Which Compassion itself could relieve. 
 
 Come to our lonely tent ; 
 
 Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or 
 
 Tiike Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, 
 
 fear; 
 
 Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. 
 
 Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one 
 
 
 here. 
 
 Night is the time to rnxxse ; 
 
 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 
 Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
 
 Takes flight, and with expanding views 
 
 Ah no ! for his empire is known. 
 
 Beyond the starry pole. 
 
 And here there are trophies enow ! 
 
 Descries athwart the abyss of night , 
 
 Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark 
 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 stone. 
 
 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may 
 
 Night is the time to pray ; 
 
 disown. 
 
 Our Saviour oft withdrew 
 
 
 To desert mountains far away ; 
 
 The first tabernacle to Hope we ^vill build. 
 
 So will his followers do ; 
 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 
 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 
 The second to Faith, which insures it ful- 
 fiU'd; 
 1 And the third to the Lamb of the great 
 
 And hold communion there with God, 
 
 Night is the time for death ; 
 
 sacrifice, 
 
 When all around is peace, 
 
 Who bequeath' d us them both when He rose 
 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath. 
 
 to the skies. 
 
 From sin and suffering cease : 
 
 
 Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 
 Herhert Knoivles.—Born 1798, Died 1817. 
 
 To parting friends — such death be mine ! 
 
 
 James Montgomery. — Born 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 1384.— NIGHT. 
 
 
 Night is the time for rest ; 
 
 1385.— THE GliAVE. 
 
 How sweet, when labours close, 
 
 
 To gather round an aching breast 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep, 
 
 The curtain of repose, 
 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found, 
 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
 
 They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
 
 Upon our own delightful bed ! 
 
 1 
 
 Low in the ground. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 [Jas. Montgomeet. 
 
 Tlie storm that wrecks the wmter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose, 
 Than summer evening's latest sigh 
 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 I long to lay this painful head 
 And aching heart- beneath the soil, 
 To slumber in that dreamless bed 
 
 From all my toil. 
 
 For misery stole me at my birth, 
 And cast me helpless on the wild : 
 I perish ; O, my mother earth ! 
 
 Take home thy child ! 
 
 On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 
 Shall gently moulder into thee ; 
 Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
 Resembling me. 
 
 Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear ; 
 My pulse, my brain runs wild — I rave : 
 Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 
 •' I am the Grave ! 
 
 The Grave, that never spake before, 
 Hath found at length a tongue to chide : 
 
 listen ! I will speak no more : 
 
 Be silent, pride ! 
 i 
 Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn, 
 The victim of consuming care ? 
 Is thy distracted conscience torn 
 By.fell despair ? 
 
 Do foul misdeeds of former times 
 Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
 And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
 
 Murder thy rest ? 
 
 Lash'd by the furies of the mind. 
 
 From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou 
 
 flee? 
 Ah ! think not, hope not, fool ! to find 
 A friend in me. 
 
 By all the terrors of the tomb, 
 Beyond the power of tongue to tell ! 
 By the dread secrets of my womb ! 
 
 By death and hell ! 
 
 1 charge thee live ! repent and pray ; 
 In dust thine infamy deplore ; 
 There yet is mercy ; go thy way. 
 
 And sin no more. 
 
 Art thou a mourner ? Hast thou known 
 The joy of innocent delights ? 
 Endearing days for ever flown, 
 
 And tranquil nights ? 
 
 live ! and deeply cherish still 
 The sweet remembrance of the past : 
 Rely on Heaven's unchanging wiU 
 
 For peace at last. 
 
 Art thou a wanderer ? Hast thou seen 
 O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? 
 A shipwreck' d sufferer, hast thou been 
 Misfortune's mark ? 
 
 Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
 Condemn' d in wretchedness to roam. 
 Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
 A quiet home. 
 
 To friendship didst thou trust thyfame^P 
 And was thy friend a deadly foe, 
 "Who stole into thy breast, to aim 
 A surer blow ? 
 
 Live ! and repine not o'er his loss, 
 A loss unworthy to be told : 
 Thou hast mistaken soi-did dross 
 
 For friendship's gold. 
 
 Go, seek that treasure, seldom found, 
 Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, 
 And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
 With heavenly balm. 
 
 bid woman's charms thy youth beguile. 
 And did the fair one faithless prove ? 
 Hath she betray' d thee with her smile, 
 And sold thy love ? 
 
 Live ! 'twas a false bewildering fire : 
 Too often love's insidious dart 
 Thrills the fond soul with wild desire. 
 But kills the heart. 
 
 Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, 
 To gaze on listening beauty's eye ! 
 To ask — and pause in hope and fear 
 Till she reply ! 
 
 A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
 A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
 Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
 In woman's love. 
 
 Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, 
 Confess thy folly, kiss the rod. 
 And in thy chastening sorrows see 
 The hand of God. 
 
 A bruised reed he will not break ; 
 AflBictions all his children feel ; 
 He wounds them for his mercy's sake ; 
 He wounds to heal ! 
 
 Humbled beneath his mighty hand, 
 Prostrate his Providence adore : 
 'Tis done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand. 
 To fall no more. 
 
 Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! 
 To realms of everlasting light, 
 Through time's dark wilderness of years, 
 Pursue thy flight. 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
 And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
 Low in the ground ; 
 
 The soul, of origin divine, 
 God's glorious image, freed from clay. 
 In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
 A star of day I 
 
Jas. Montgomery.] ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 The san is but a spark of fire, 
 
 He loved — but whom he loved the grave 
 
 A transient meteor in the sky ; 
 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
 
 The soul, immortal as its sire, 
 
 she was fair ! but nought could save 
 
 Shall never die." 
 
 Her beauty from the tomb. 
 
 James Montgomery. — Born 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 
 
 
 Encounter' d all that troubles thee : 
 
 
 He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
 He is — what thou shalt be. 
 
 
 1386.— ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Higher, higher wiU we climb, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 Up to the mount of glory, 
 
 Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
 
 ! That our names may live through time 
 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 j In our country's story ; 
 
 1 Happy, when her welfare calls, 
 
 1 He who conquers, he who falls. 
 
 1 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
 
 That once their shades and glory threw. 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 
 1 Deeper, deeper let us toil 
 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 ! In the mines of knowledge ; , 
 
 The annals of the human race. 
 
 1 Nature's wealth and learning's spoil 
 
 Their ruins, since the world began, 
 
 Win from school and coUege ; 
 
 Of him afi^ord no other trace 
 
 Delve v*e there for richer gems 
 
 Than this — there lived a man ! 
 
 Than the stars of diadems. 
 
 
 
 James Montgomery. — Born 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 Onward, onward may we press 
 
 
 Through the path of duty ; 
 Virtue is true happiness, 
 
 
 
 Excellence true beauty. 
 
 1388.— PEAYEp.. 
 
 Minds are of celestial birth, 
 
 Make we then a heaven of earth. 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 
 
 Closer, closer let us knit 
 
 Utter'd or unexpress'd; 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 
 Hearts and hands together, 
 
 That trembles in €110 breast. 
 
 ■\Vhere our fireside comforts sit, 
 
 
 In the wildest weather ; 
 
 Prayer is the burthen of a sigh. 
 
 ! they wander wide who roam 
 
 The falling of a tear ; 
 
 For the joys of life from home. 
 
 The upward glancing of an eye, 
 
 Jarnes Montgomery. — Born 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 When none but God is near. 
 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 
 
 That infant lips can try ; 
 Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
 
 
 1387.— THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 
 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past, 
 
 The Christian's native air ; 
 
 There lived a man : and who was he ? 
 
 His watchword at the gates of death : 
 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 
 He enters heaven by prayer. 
 
 That man resembled thee. 
 
 ' 
 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 
 Returning from his ways ; 
 
 The land in which he died unkno^vn : 
 
 While angels in their songs rejoice. 
 
 i His name has perish'd from the earth, 
 
 And say " Behold he prays 1 " 
 
 This truth survives alone : 
 
 
 
 The saints in prayer appear as one, 
 
 That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear. 
 
 In word, and deed, and mind, 
 
 Alternate triumph' d in his breast ; 
 
 When with the Father and his Son 
 
 His bliss and woe — a smile, a tear ! 
 
 Their fellowship they find. 
 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 Nor prayer is made on earth alone : 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
 
 The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
 
 The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 
 
 And Jesus, on the eternal throne. 
 
 We know that these were felt by him. 
 
 For sinners intercedes. 
 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
 Thou, by whom we come to God, 
 
 He suflTer'd — but his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way, 
 
 Enjoy'd— but his delights are fled ; 
 
 The path of prayer thyself hast Lrod : 
 
 Had friends — ^his friends are now no more ; 
 
 Lord, teach us how to pray ! 
 
 And foes — ^his foes are dead. 
 
 James Montgomery.— Born 1771, Died 1854... 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A DAISY. 
 
 [Jas. Montqomert. 
 
 1389.— HOME. 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, 
 Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth : 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting 
 
 shores. 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
 In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
 Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that 
 
 pole; 
 For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace. 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
 "Where man, creation's tyrant, casta aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 While in his soften'd looks benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, 
 
 friend ; 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, 
 
 wife, 
 Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of 
 
 life! 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet. 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be 
 
 found ? 
 Ai-t thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
 O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps 
 
 roam. 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy 
 
 home ! 
 James Montgomery. — Born 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 1390.— A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 A Mother's Love, — how sweet the name 
 
 What is a Mother's love ? 
 — A noble, pure, and tender flame. 
 
 Enkindled from above. 
 To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
 The warmest love that can grow cold ; 
 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 To bring a helpless babe to light. 
 
 Then, while it lies forlorn, 
 To gaze upon that dearest sight. 
 
 And feel herself new-born. 
 In its existence lose her own, 
 And live and breathe in it alone ; 
 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 Its weakness in her arms to bear ; 
 
 To cherish on her breast, 
 Feed it from Love's own fountain there, 
 
 And hill it there to rest ; 
 
 Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath. 
 As if to guard from instant death ; 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 To mark its growth from day to day. 
 Its opening charms admire, 
 
 Catch from its eye the earliest ray ~ 
 Of intellectual fire ; 
 
 To smile and listen while it talks. 
 
 And lend a finger when it walks ; 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 And can a Mother's Love grow cold ? 
 
 Can she forget her boy ? 
 His pleading innocence behold, 
 
 Nor weep for grief — for joy ? 
 A Mother may forget her child, 
 While wolves devour it on the wild ; 
 
 Is this a Mother's Love ? 
 
 Ten thousand voices answer " No ! '* 
 
 Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; 
 Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow r 
 
 Yet, ah ! remember this, — 
 The infant, rear'd alone for earth. 
 May live, may die, — to curse his birth ; 
 
 — Is this a Mother's Love ? 
 
 A parent's heart may prove a snare ; 
 
 The child she loves so well, 
 Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 
 
 Down the smooth road to hell ; 
 Nourish its frame, — destroy its mind : 
 Thus do the blind mislead the blind. 
 
 Even with a Mother's Love. 
 
 Blest infant ! whom his mother taught 
 
 Early to seek the Lord, 
 And pour'd upon his dawning thought 
 
 The day-spring of the word ; 
 This was the lesson to her son 
 — Time is Eternity begun : 
 
 Behold that Mother's Love. 
 
 Blest Mother ! who, in wisdom's path 
 
 By her own parent trod. 
 Thus taught her son to flee the wrath. 
 
 And know the fear, of God : 
 Ah, youth ! like him enjoy your prime ; 
 Begin Eternity in time, 
 
 Taught by that Mother's Love. 
 
 That Mother's Love ! — ^how sweet the name ! 
 
 What was that Mother's Love ? 
 — The noblest, purest, tenderest flame. 
 
 That kindles from above. 
 Within a heart of earthly mould. 
 As much of heaven as heart can hold. 
 Nor through eternity grows cold : 
 
 This was that Mother's Love. 
 
 James Montgomery. — Bom 1771, Died 1854, 
 
 1 39 1. —TO A DAISY. 
 
 There is a flower, a little flower 
 With silver crest and golden eye. 
 
Jas. Montgomery.] THE EEIGN OF CHRIST ON EAETH. [S^sventh Period. 
 
 That welcomes every changing hour, 
 And weathers every sky. 
 
 The prouder beauties of the field, 
 In gay but quick succession shine ; 
 Race after race their honours yield, 
 They flourish and decline. 
 
 But this small flower, to Nature dear. 
 While moons and stars their courses run, 
 Enwreathes the circle of the year, ■ 
 Companion of the sun. 
 
 It smiles upon the lap of May, 
 To sultry August spreads its charm. 
 Lights pale October on his way, 
 And twines December's arm. 
 
 The purple heath and golden broom. 
 On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
 O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
 The violet in the vale. 
 
 But this bold floweret climbs the hill. 
 Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
 Plays on the margin of the rill, 
 Peeps round the fox's den. 
 
 Within the garden's cultured round 
 It shares the sweet carnation's bed; 
 And blooms on consecrated ground 
 In honour of the dead. 
 
 The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
 The wild bee murmurs on its breast ; 
 The blue-fly bends its pensile stem. 
 Light o'er the skylark's nest. 
 
 'Tis Flora's page — in every place. 
 In every season, fresh and fair ; 
 It opens with perennial grace, 
 And blossoms everywhere. 
 
 On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
 Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
 The rose has but a summer reign ; 
 The Daisy never dies ! 
 
 James Montgomery. — Bom 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 1392. 
 
 -THE REIGN OF CHRIST ON 
 EARTH. 
 
 Hail to the Lord's anointed — 
 
 Great David's greater Son ! 
 Hail, in the time appointed. 
 
 His reign on earth begun ! 
 He comes to break oppression, 
 
 To set the captive free, 
 To take away transgression. 
 
 And rule in equity. 
 
 He comes with succour speedy 
 To those who suffer wrong ; 
 
 To help the poor and needy, 
 And bid the weak be strong ; 
 
 To give them songs for sighing, 
 Their darkness turn to light, 
 
 Whose souls, condemn' d and dying, 
 Were precious in His sight. 
 
 By such shall He be feared 
 
 "While sun and moon endure — 
 Beloved, obey'd, revered ; 
 
 For He shall judge the poor, 
 Through changing generations. 
 
 With justice, mercy, truth, 
 While stars maintain their stations 
 
 Or moons renew their youth. 
 
 He shall come down like showers 
 
 Upon the fruitful earth, 
 And love, joy, hope, like flowers, 
 
 Spring in His path to birth ; 
 Before Him, on the mountains. 
 
 Shall Peace, the herald, go, 
 And Righteousness, in fountains, 
 
 From hill to valley flow. 
 
 Arabia's desert-ranger 
 ■ To Him shall bow the knee, 
 The Ethiopian stranger 
 
 His glory come to see ; 
 With offerings of devotion 
 
 Ships from the isles shall meet, 
 To pour the wealth of ocean 
 
 In tribute at His feet. 
 
 Kings shall fall down before Him, 
 
 And gold and incense bring ; 
 All nations shall adore Him, 
 
 His praise all people sing ; 
 For He shall have dominion 
 
 O'er river, sea, and shore. 
 Far as the eagle's pinion 
 
 Or dove's light wing can soar. 
 
 For Him shall prayer unceasing, 
 
 And daily vows, ascend — 
 His kingdom still increasing, 
 
 A kingdom without end ; 
 The mountain-dews shall nourish 
 
 A seed in weakness sown, 
 Whose fruit shall spread and floxu'ish, 
 
 And shake like Lebanon. 
 
 O'er every foe victorious, 
 
 He on His throne shall rest, 
 From age to age more glorious, 
 
 All-blessing and all-blest ; 
 The tide of time shall never 
 
 His covenant remove ; 
 His name shall stand for ever ; 
 
 That name to us is — Love. 
 
 James Montgomery . — Boriv 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 1393.— THE STRANGER AND HIS 
 FRIEND. 
 
 A poor wayfaring man of grief 
 Hath often cross' d me on my way, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BETH GfiLEET. 
 
 [Hon. "W. E. Spencek. 
 
 Wlao sued so humbly for relief 
 
 That I could never answer " Nay." 
 I had not power to ask His name, 
 Wliither He went, or whence He came ; 
 Yet there was something in His eye 
 That won my love, — I knew not why. 
 
 Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
 He enter' d. Not a word He spake. 
 
 Just perishing for want of bread, 
 
 I gave Him all ; He bless' d it, brake, 
 
 And ate ; — but gave me part again. 
 
 Mine was an angel's portion then ; 
 
 For while I fed with eager haste, 
 
 That crust was manna to my taste. 
 
 I spied Him whore a fountain burst 
 
 Clear from the rock; His strength was 
 gone ; 
 The heedless water mock'd His thirst j 
 
 He heard it, saw it hurrying on. 
 I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
 Thrice from the stream He drain' d my cup, 
 Dipp'd, and return' d it running o'er ; — 
 I drank and never thirsted more. 
 
 'Twas night ; the floods were out, — it blew 
 
 A winter hurricane aloof ; 
 I heard His voice abroad, and flew 
 
 To bid Him welcome to my roof ; 
 I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest — 
 Laid Him on my own couch to rest ; 
 Then made the earth my bed, and seem'd 
 In Eden's garden whOe I dream'd. 
 
 Stripp'd, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 
 
 I found Him by the highway side ; 
 I roused His pulse, brought back His breath, 
 
 Revived His spirit, and supplied 
 Wine, oil, refreshment ; He was heal'd. 
 I had, myself, a )vound conceal' d — 
 But from that hour forgot the smart. 
 And peace bound up my broken heart. 
 
 In prison I saw Him next, condemn'd 
 To meet a traitor's doom at mom ; 
 
 The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd, 
 
 And honour' d Him 'midst shame and 
 scorn. 
 
 My friendship's utmost zeal to try, 
 
 He ask'd if I for him would die ; 
 
 The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, 
 
 But the free spirit cried, " I will." 
 
 Then in a moment, to my view. 
 
 The stranger darted from disguise ; 
 
 The tokens in His hands I knew — 
 My Saviour stood before mine eyes. 
 
 He spake ; and my poor name he named — 
 
 " Of Me thou hast not been ashamed ; 
 
 These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 
 
 Fear not ! thou didst them unto Me." 
 
 James Montrjomery. — Borii 1771, BiedL 1854. 
 
 1394.— THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Sow in the morn thy seed. 
 
 At eve hold not thine hand — 
 To doubt and fear give thou no heed — 
 
 Broad-cast it o'er the land. 
 
 Beside all waters sow, ^ 
 
 The highway furrows stock — 
 Drop it where thorns and thistles grow, 
 
 Scatter it on the rock. 
 
 The good, the fruitful ground 
 
 Expect not here nor there, 
 O'er hUl and dale by plots 'tis found : 
 
 Go forth, then, everywhere. 
 
 Thou know'st not which may thrive — 
 
 The late or early sown ; 
 Grace keeps the precious germs alive, 
 
 When and wherever strown. 
 
 And duly shall appear, 
 
 In verdure, beauty, strength. 
 The tender blade, the stalk, the ear. 
 
 And the full corn at length. 
 
 Thou canst not toil in vain — 
 Cold, heat, and moist, and dry 
 
 Shall foster and mature the grain 
 For gamers in the sky. 
 
 Thence, when the glorious end. 
 
 The day of God is come, 
 Thb angel-reapers shall descend, 
 
 And heaven cry " Harvest home ! " 
 
 James Montgomery. — Bom 1771, Died 1854. 
 
 1 393 .—BETH GELERT, OR THE GRAVE 
 OF THE GREYHOUND. 
 
 The spearmen heard the bugle sound. 
 
 And cheerly smiled the mom ; 
 And many a brach, and many a hound, 
 
 Obeyed Llewelyn's horn. 
 
 And still he blew a louder blast. 
 
 And gave a lustier cheer, 
 " Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 
 
 Llewelyn's horn to hear. 
 
 Oh where doth faithful Gelert roam. 
 
 The flower of all his race ; 
 So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 
 
 A lion in the chase ? " 
 
 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 
 
 The faithful Gelert fedj 
 He watch' d, he served, he cheer'd his lord, 
 
 And sentinel'd his bed. 
 
 In sooth he was a peerless hound, 
 
 The gift of royal John ; 
 But now no Gelert could be fibund. 
 
 And all the chase rode on. 
 
Hon. W. E. Spencek.] WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. [Seventh Pekiod.— 
 
 And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 
 
 The gallant chidings rise, 
 All Snowden's craggy chaos yells 
 
 The many-mingled cries ! 
 
 That day Llewelyn little loved 
 
 The chase of hart and hare ; 
 And scant and small the booty i^roved, 
 
 For Gelert was not there. 
 
 Unpleased Llev/elyn homeward hied, 
 
 When, near the portal seat, 
 His truant Gelert he espied, 
 
 Bounding his lord to greet. 
 
 But, when he gain'd his castle-door. 
 
 Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
 The hound all o'er was smear' d with gore ; 
 
 His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 
 
 Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise ; 
 
 Unused such looks to meet, 
 His favourite check'd his joyful guise. 
 
 And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. 
 
 Onward, in haste, Llewelyn pass'd, 
 
 And on went Gelert too ; 
 And still, where'er his eyes he cast, 
 
 Fresh blood-gouts shock' d his view. 
 
 O'ertum'd his infant's bed he found, 
 With blood-stain'd covert rent ; 
 
 And all around the walls and ground 
 With recent blood besprent. 
 
 He caU'd his child — no voice replied — 
 
 He search' d with terror wild ; 
 Blood, blood he found on every side. 
 
 But nowhere found his child. 
 
 *' HeU-hound ! my child's by thee devour'd,' 
 
 The frantic father cried ; 
 And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
 
 He plunged in Gelert' s side. 
 
 His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, 
 
 No pity could impart ; 
 But still his Gelert' s dying yell 
 
 Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. 
 
 Aroused by Gelert's dying yeU, 
 Some slumberer waken' d nigh : 
 
 What words the parent's joy could tell 
 To hear his infant's cry ! 
 
 Conceal' d beneath a tumbled heap 
 His hurried search had miss'd. 
 
 All glowing from his rosy sleep. 
 The cherub boy he kiss'd. 
 
 Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread. 
 
 But, the same couch beneath, 
 Ley a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 
 
 Tremendous stiU in death. 
 
 Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 
 
 For now the truth was clear ; 
 His gallant hound the wolf had slain 
 
 To save Llewelyn's heir : 
 
 Vain, vain was aU Llewelyn's wo ; 
 
 " Best of thy kind adieu ! 
 The frantic blow which laid thee low 
 
 This heart shall ever rue." 
 
 And now a gallant tomb they raise, 
 With costly sculpture deck'd ; 
 
 And marbles storied with his praise 
 Poor Gelert's bones protect. 
 
 There, never could the spearman pass. 
 
 Or forester unmoved ; 
 There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
 
 Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 
 
 And there he hung his horn and spear, 
 
 And there, as evening fell. 
 In fancy's ear he oft would hear 
 
 Poor Gelert's dying yell. 
 
 And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old, 
 And cease the storm to brave, 
 
 The consecrated spot shall hold 
 The name of " Gelert's Grave." 
 
 Hon. W. E. Silencer.— Born 1770, Blcil 1834. 
 
 1396.— WIFE, CHILDREN, AND 
 FRIENDS. 
 
 When the black-lctter'd list to the gods was 
 presented 
 (The list of what fate for each mortal 
 intends). 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess 
 relented. 
 And slipp'd in three blessings — wife, 
 children, and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, 
 For justice divine could not compass its 
 ends ; 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was 
 defeated, 
 For earth becomes heaven with — wife, 
 children, and friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands 
 vested, 
 The fund ill secured, oft in bankruptcy 
 ends ; 
 But the heart issues bills which are never 
 protested. 
 When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Though valour still glows in his life's dying 
 embers, 
 The death-wounded tar, who his colours 
 defends, 
 Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 How bless' d was his home with — wife, 
 children, and friends. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD. [Leigh Hunt. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal iu 
 
 Though thy small blind eyes pursue it ; 
 
 story, 
 
 Nor the arms that draw thee to it ; 
 
 AVhom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
 
 Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee. 
 
 Witli transport would barter old ages of glory 
 
 Never can enough behold thee ! 
 
 For one happy day with — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. — Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 Thoucrh spice-breathing gales on his caravan 
 hover, 
 Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends. 
 
 
 
 The merchant stiU thinks of the woodbines 
 
 1398.— TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, 
 
 that cover 
 
 DURING A SICKNESS. 
 
 The bower where he sat with — wife, 
 children, and friends. 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
 
 
 My little patient boy ; 
 
 The day-spring of youth still unclouded by 
 
 And balmy rest about thee 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 Smooths off the day's annoy. 
 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 
 I sit me down, and think 
 
 But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow 
 
 Of aU thy winning ways : 
 
 No warmth from the smile of — wife, children. 
 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
 
 and friends. 
 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Lot the breath of renown ever freshen and 
 
 Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness, 
 
 nourish 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid. 
 
 The laurel which o'er the dead favourite 
 
 Thy heart in pain and weakness. 
 
 bends ; 
 
 Of fancied faults afraid ; 
 
 Over me wave the willow, and long may it 
 
 The little trembling hand 
 
 flourish, 
 
 That wipes thy quiet tears, 
 
 Bedew'd with the tears of— wife, children. 
 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 
 and friends. 
 
 Dread memories for years. 
 
 Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and 
 graver, 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 
 Sorrows I've had severe ones, 
 I >vill not think of now ; 
 
 And calmly 'midst my dear ones, 
 
 Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue 
 
 Have wasted with dry brow ; 
 
 shall flavotir 
 
 But when thy fingers press 
 
 The glass which I fill to — wife, children, 
 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 
 and friends. 
 
 I cannot bear the gentleness — 
 
 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
 Hon. W. B. Sjpenccr. — Born 1770, Died 1834. 
 
 
 
 Ah ! firstborn of thy mother, 
 
 
 When life and hope were new, 
 Kind playmate of thy brother, 
 
 
 
 Thy sister, father, too ; 
 
 1 397 -—ON THE BIETH OF THE 
 
 My light where'er I go. 
 
 PEINCESS ROYAL. 
 
 My bird, when prison-bound. 
 
 
 My hand in hand companion — no. 
 
 Behold where thou dost lie, 
 
 My prayers shall hold thee round. 
 
 Heeding naught, remote on high ! 
 
 
 Naught of all the news we sing 
 
 To say " He has departed "— 
 
 Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing ; 
 
 " His voice" — "his face " — "is gone;" 
 
 Naught of planet's love nor people's ; 
 
 To feel impatient-hearted, 
 
 Nor dost hear the giddy steeples 
 
 Yet feel we must bear on ; 
 
 Carolling of thee and thine, 
 
 Ah, I could not endure 
 
 As if heaven had rain'd them wine ; 
 
 To whisper of such wo. 
 
 Nor dost care for all the pains 
 
 Unless I felt this sleep insure 
 
 Of iishers and of chamberlains. 
 
 That it will not be so. 
 
 Nor the doctor's learned looks. 
 Nor the very bishop's books. 
 Nor the lace that wraps thy chin. 
 No, nor for thy rank a pin. 
 E'en thy father's loving hand 
 Nomse dost thou vmderstand, 
 When he makes thee feebly grasp 
 His finger with a tiny clasp ; 
 Nor dost thou know thy very mother's 
 
 Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping ! 
 
 This silence too the while — 
 Its very hush and creeping 
 
 Seem whispering as a smile : 
 Something divine and dim 
 
 Seems going by one's ear. 
 Like parting wings of cherubim. 
 
 Who say, " We've finish'd here." 
 
 Balmy bosom from another's. 
 
 Leigh Hunt.— Born 1784, Died 1850. 
 
Leigh Hunt.] 
 
 THE GEASSHOPPER AND THE CEICKET. [Seventh Pebiod.- 
 
 I399._T0 THE GEASSHOPPEE AND 
 THE CEICKET. 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
 Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy 
 noon, 
 "When even the bees lag at the summoning 
 
 brass ; 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
 With those who think the candles come too 
 
 soon, 
 Loving the fire, and with your tricksome 
 tnne 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; 
 Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 
 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 
 Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, 
 are strong 
 At your clear hearts ; and both were sent on 
 earth 
 To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 
 In-doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. — Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 1400.— CHOEUS OF FLOWEES. 
 
 We are the sweet flowers. 
 Born of sunny showers, 
 (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 
 saith ;) 
 Utterance, mute and bright, 
 Of some unknown delight, 
 We fill the air -svith pleasure, by our simple 
 breath : 
 All who see us love us — 
 We befit all places ; 
 Unto sorrow we give smiles — and unto graces, 
 graces. 
 
 Mark our ways, how noiseless 
 All, and sweetly voiceless, 
 Though the March-winds pipe to make our 
 passage clear ; 
 Not a whisper tells 
 Where our small seed dwells. 
 Nor is known the moment green when our 
 tips appear. 
 We thread the earth in silence. 
 In silence build our bowers — 
 And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 
 a-top, sweet flowers. 
 
 The dear lumpish baby, 
 Humming with the May-bee, 
 Hails us with liis bright star, stumbling 
 through the grass ; 
 The honey-dropping moon, 
 On a night in June, 
 Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the 
 bridegi'oom pass. 
 Age, the wither' d dinger, 
 On us mutely gazes, 
 And wraps the thought of his last bed in his 
 childhood's daisies. 
 
 See (and ecom aU dnller 
 Taste) how Heaven loves colour ; 
 How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 
 green ; 
 What sweet thoughts she thinks 
 Of violets and pinks, 
 And a thousand flushing hues made solely to 
 be seen : 
 See her whitest lilies 
 Chill the silver showers, 
 And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman 
 of her flowers. 
 
 Uselessness divinest, 
 
 Of a use the finest, 
 Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 
 
 Travellers, weary-eyed, 
 
 Bless us, far and wide ; 
 Unto sick and prison 'd thoughts we give sud- 
 den truce : 
 
 Not a poor town window 
 
 Loves its sickliest planting, 
 But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylo- 
 nian vaunting. 
 
 Sagest yet the uses 
 
 Mix'd with our sweet juices. 
 
 Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm ; 
 As fair fingers heal'd 
 Knights from the olden field, 
 
 We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 
 wildest calm. 
 Even the terror, poison, 
 Hath its plea for blooming ; 
 
 Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to 
 the i^resuming. 
 
 And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 
 
 That thief, the honey-maker. 
 What a house hath he, by the thymy glen i 
 
 In his talking rooms 
 
 How the feasting fumes, 
 Tin the gold cups overflow to the mouths of 
 men ! 
 
 The butterflies come aping 
 
 Those fine thieves of ours. 
 And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 
 flowers with flowers. 
 
 See those tops, how beauteous ! 
 What fair service duteous 
 Eouud some idol waits, as on their lord the 
 Nine. 
 Elfin court 't would seem, 
 And taught, perchance, that dream 
 Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 
 nights divine. 
 To expound such wonder 
 Human speech avails not, 
 Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a 
 glory exhales not. 
 
 Think of all these treasures. 
 Matchless works and pleasures. 
 Every one a marvel, more than thotught can 
 say; 
 Then think in what bright showers 
 We thicken fields and bowers, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 JAFFAE. 
 
 [Leigh Hunt 
 
 And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 
 wanton May ; 
 Think of the mossy forests 
 By the bee-birds haunted, 
 And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying 
 as enchanted. 
 
 Trees themselves are ours ; 
 
 Fruits are born of flowers ; 
 Peach, and rougliest nut, were blossoms in 
 
 , the Spring ; 
 
 The lusty bee knows well 
 
 The news, and comes pell-mell, 
 And dances in the gloomy thicks with dark- 
 some antheming ; 
 
 Beneath the very burden 
 
 Of planet-pressing ocean, 
 We wash our smiling cheeks in peace — a 
 thought for meek devotion. 
 
 Tears of Phoebus — missings 
 Of Cytherea's kissings, 
 Have in us been found, and wise men find 
 them still ; 
 Drooping grace unfurls 
 Still Hyacinthus' curls, 
 And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish 
 riU; 
 Thy red lip, Adonis, 
 Still is wet with morning ; , 
 
 And the step that bled for thee the rosy brier 
 adorning. 
 
 O ! true things are fables, 
 Fit for sagest tables, 
 And the flowers arc true things — yet no 
 fables they ; 
 Fables were not more 
 Bright, nor loved of yore — 
 Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every 
 old pathway ; 
 Grossest hand can test us — 
 Fools may prize us never — 
 Yet we rise, and rise, and rise — marvels sweet 
 for ever. 
 
 Who shall say that flowers 
 Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 
 Who its love, without us, can fancy — or sweet 
 floor? 
 Who shall even dare 
 To say we sprang not there — 
 And came not down, that Love might bring 
 one piece of heaven the more ? 
 O ! pray believe that angels 
 From those blue dominions 
 Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt 
 their golden pinions. 
 
 Leigh Runt— Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 140 1. —THE NUN. 
 
 If you become a nun, dear, 
 A friar I will be ; 
 
 In any cell you run, dear, 
 
 Pray look behind for me. 
 The roses all turn pale, too ; 
 The doves all take the veil, too ; 
 
 The blind will see the show : 
 What ! you become a nun, nty dear? 
 
 I'll not believe it, no ! 
 
 II. 
 
 If you become a nun, dear, 
 
 The bishop Love will be ; 
 The Cupids every one, dear. 
 
 Will chant, " We trust in thee ! '* 
 The incense will go sighing. 
 The candles fall a dying, 
 
 The water turn to wine : 
 What ! you go take the vows, my dear ? 
 
 You may — ^but they'll be mine. 
 
 Leigh Hunt.— Born 17 84<y Died 1859. 
 
 1402.— ABOU BEN ADHEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
 And saw within the moonlight in hite room. 
 Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
 An angel writing in a book of gold : 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
 And to the Presence in the room he said, 
 " What writest thou ?" — The vision raised its 
 
 head. 
 And, with a look made of ail sweet accord. 
 Answer' d — " The names of those who love 
 
 the Lord." 
 " And is mine one ? " said Abou ; " Nay, not 
 
 so," 
 Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low. 
 But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, 
 
 then. 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 
 The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next 
 
 night 
 It came again, with a great wakening light, 
 And show'd the names whom love of God had 
 
 bless'd — 
 And, lo ! Ben Adhem' s name led all the rest ! 
 
 Leigh Hunt.— Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 1403.— JAFFAR. 
 
 Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, 
 
 The poor man's hope, the friend without a 
 
 peer. 
 Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; 
 And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust 
 Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say, 
 Ordain'd that no man hving from that day 
 Should dare to speak his name on pain of 
 
 death. 
 All Araby and Persia held their breath. 
 
Leigh Hunt.] 
 
 MAHMOUD. 
 
 [Sevehtth Period. — 
 
 All but the brave Mondeer. — He, proud to 
 
 show 
 How far for love a grateful soul could go, 
 And facing death for very scorn and grief 
 (For his great heart wanted a great relief), 
 Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square 
 Where once had stood a happy house, and 
 
 there 
 Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar 
 On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 
 
 " Bring me this man," the caliph cried : the, 
 
 man 
 Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes 
 
 began 
 To bind his arms. " Welcome, brave cords !" 
 
 cried he ; 
 " From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver' d me ; 
 From wants, from shames, from loveless 
 
 household fears ; 
 Made a man's eyes friends with delicious 
 
 tears ; 
 Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a par 
 Wifch his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" 
 
 Haroun, who felt that on a soul Hke this 
 The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, 
 Now deign' d to smile, as one great lord of 
 
 fate 
 Might smile upon another half as great. 
 He said, " Let worth grow frenzied if it will ; 
 The caliph's judgment shall be master stiU. 
 Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this 
 
 gem. 
 The richest in the Tartar's diadem, 
 And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." 
 
 *' Gifts ! " cried the friend. He took ; and 
 
 holding it 
 High toward the heavens, as though to meet 
 
 his star, 
 Exclaim'd, " This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar," 
 
 Leigh Hunt— Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 1404.— MAHMOUD. 
 
 There came a man, making his hasty moan 
 Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne. 
 And crying out — " My sorrow is my right, 
 And I will see the Sultan, and to-night." 
 
 "Sorrow," said Mahmoud, "is a reverend 
 
 tiling : 
 I recognise its right as king with king ; 
 Speak on." "A fiend has got into my 
 
 house," 
 Exclaim'd the staring man, " and tortures us : 
 One of thine ofticors ; — he comes, the ab- 
 
 horr'd, 
 And takes possession of my house, my board. 
 My bed : — I have two daughters and a wife. 
 And the wild villain comes and makes me 
 
 mad with hfe." 
 
 "Is he there now ? " said Mahmoud. " No, 
 
 he left 
 The house when I did, of my wits bereft ; 
 And laugh' d me down the street because I 
 
 vow'd 
 I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his 
 
 shroud. 
 I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery, 
 And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries 
 
 out for thee ! " 
 
 The Sultan comforted the man and said, 
 
 " Go home, and I will send thee wine and 
 
 bread 
 (For he was poor), and other comforts. Go ; 
 And should the wretch return let Sultan 
 
 Mahmoud know." 
 
 In two days' time, with haggard eyes and 
 
 beard, 
 And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared. 
 And said, " He's come." — Mahmoud said not 
 
 a word, 
 But rose and took four slaves each with a 
 
 sword. 
 And went with the vext man. They reach 
 
 the place, 
 And hear a voice and see a female face. 
 That to the window flutter'd in affright. 
 " Gp in," said Mahmoud, " and put out the 
 
 light; 
 But tell the females first to leave the room ; 
 And when the drunkard follows them, we 
 
 come." 
 
 The man went in. . There was a cry, and 
 
 hark ! 
 A table falls, the window is struck dark ; 
 Forth rush the breathless women, and behind 
 With curses comes the fiend in desperate 
 
 mind. 
 In vain : the sabres soon cut short the strife. 
 And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his- 
 
 bloody life. 
 
 "Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud. 
 'Twas done ; he took it in his hand and bow'd 
 Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face ; 
 Then tum'd and knelt beside it in the place^. 
 And said a prayer, and from his Hps there 
 
 crept 
 Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept. 
 
 In reverent silence the spectators wait, 
 Then bring him at liis call both wine and 
 
 meat; 
 And when ho had refresh' d his noble heart. 
 He bade his host be blest, and rose up to 
 
 depart. 
 
 The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears. 
 Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers, 
 And begg'd him to vouchsafe to teU his slave. 
 The reason first of that command he gave 
 About the light : then when he saw the face. 
 Why he knelt down ; and lastly, how it was 
 That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the 
 place. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 [John Clare. 
 
 The Sultan said, with much humanity, 
 
 " Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy 
 
 cry, 
 I could not rid me of a dread that one 
 By whom such daring- villanics were done, 
 Must be some lord of mine, perhajis a lawless 
 
 son. 
 "Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd 
 A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd. 
 For this I had the light put out. But when 
 I saw the face and foimd a stranger slain, 
 I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter. 
 Whose work I had perform' d through pain 
 
 and fear. 
 And then I rose and was refresh' d with food. 
 The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st 
 
 my solitude." 
 
 Leiyh Hunt— Born 1784, Died 1859. 
 
 1405.— TO THE GLOWWORM. 
 
 Tasteful illumination of the night, 
 
 Bright scatter'd, twinkling star of spangled 
 
 earth ! 
 Hail to the nameless colour'd dark and light, 
 The witching nurse of thy illumined l)irth. 
 In thy still hour how dearly I delight 
 To rest my weary bones, from labour free ; 
 In lone spots, out of hearing, out of sight, 
 To sigh day's smother'd pains ; and pause on 
 
 thee, 
 Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree. 
 Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear ; 
 Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to see. 
 Gilding and glistering in the dewdrop near : 
 O still-hour's mate ! my easing heart sobs 
 
 free, 
 While tiny bents low bend with many an 
 
 added tear. 
 
 John Clare— Born 1793, Died 18G4. 
 
 1406.— FROM "THE FATE OF AMY.' 
 
 The flowers the sultry summer kills 
 
 Spring's milder suns restore ; 
 But innocence, that fickle charm. 
 
 Blooms once, and blooms no more. 
 
 The awains who loved no more admire, 
 Their hearts no beauty warms; 
 
 And maidens triumph in her fall 
 That envied once her charms. 
 
 Lost was that sweet simplicity ; 
 
 Her eyes bright lustre fled ; 
 And o'er her cheeks, where roses bloom' d, 
 
 A sickly paleness spread. 
 
 So fades the flower before its time, 
 
 ■Where cankerworm^s assail ; 
 So droops the bud upon its stem 
 
 Beneath its sickly gale. 
 
 John Clare.— Born 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 1407.— WHAT IS LIFE ? 
 
 And what is Life ? An hour-glass on the run, 
 A mist retreating from the morning sun, 
 A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. 
 
 Its length ? A minute's pause, a moment's 
 thought. — — 
 
 And Happiness ? A bubble on the stream, 
 
 That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. 
 
 And what is Hope? The puffing gale of 
 morn. 
 That robs each flowret of its gem — and 
 dies ; 
 A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn. 
 Which stings more keenly through the thin 
 disguise. 
 
 And what is Death ? Is stiU the cause nn- 
 
 f ound ? 
 
 That dark mysterious name of horrid sound ? 
 
 A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. 
 
 And Peace ? Where can its happiness 
 
 abound ? 
 
 No where at all, save; heaven and the grave. 
 
 Then what is Life ? When stripp'd of its 
 disguise, 
 
 A thing to be desired it cannot be ; 
 Since everything that meets our foolish eyes 
 
 Gives proof sufficient of its vanitj'. 
 'Tis but a trial all must undergo, 
 
 To teach unthankful mortal how to prize 
 That happiness vain man's denied to know, 
 
 Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies. 
 
 John Clare.— Born 1793, Died 1804. 
 
 i4o8.~SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, 
 Or list the giggling of the brook ; 
 
 Or, stretch'd beneath the shade of trees. 
 Peruse and pause on nature's book. 
 
 Wlien nature every sweet prepares 
 To entertain our wish'd delay — 
 
 The images which morning Avears, 
 The wakening charms of early day ! 
 
 Now let me tread the meadow paths, 
 Where glittering dew the ground illumes, 
 
 As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths 
 Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes. 
 
 And hear the beetle sound his horn, 
 And hear the skylark whistling nigh. 
 
 Sprung from his bed of tufted com, 
 A hailing minstrel in the sky. 
 
 First sunbeam, calling night away 
 
 To see how sweet thy summons seems ; 
 
 Split by the willow's wavy gray. 
 And sweetly dancing on the streams. 
 
i John Clare."] 
 
 THE PRIMEOSE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 How fine the spider's web is spun, 
 
 Unnoticed to vulgar eyes ; 
 Its silk thread glittering in the sun 
 
 Art's bungling vanity defies. 
 
 Roaming while the dewy fields 
 
 'Neath their morning burthen lean. 
 
 While its crop my searches shields, 
 Sweet I scent the blossom'd bean. 
 
 Making oft remarking stops ; 
 
 Watching tiny nameless things 
 Climb the grass's spiry tops 
 
 Ere they try their gauzy wings. 
 
 So emerging into light, 
 
 From the ignorant and vain 
 Fearful genius takes her flight, 
 
 Skimming o'er the lowly plain. 
 
 John Clare.— Born 1793, I>led 1864. 
 
 1409.— THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 Welcome, pale primrose ! starting up between 
 Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that 
 
 strew 
 The every lawn, the wood, and spinney 
 through, 
 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; 
 How much thy presence beautifies the 
 ground ! 
 How sweet thy modest unafTocted pride 
 Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm 
 side ! 
 And where thy fairy floWers in groups are 
 found, 
 Tlie schoolboy roams enchantedly along, 
 
 Plucking the fairest with a rude delight : 
 
 While the meek shepherd stops his simple 
 
 song, 
 
 . To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; 
 
 O'erjoy'd to see the flowers that truly bring 
 
 The welcome news of sweet returning spring. 
 
 John Clare. — Born 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 1410.— THE THRUSH'S NEST. 
 
 A SONNET, 
 
 Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush 
 That overhung a molehill largo and round, 
 I heard from mom to mom a meiTy thrush 
 Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the 
 sound 
 With joy — and oft an unintruding guest, 
 
 I watch' d her secret toils from day to day ; 
 How tme she warp'd the moss to form her 
 nest, 
 And modell'd it within with wood and 
 clay. 
 
 And by and by, like heath-bells gUt with dew, 
 There lay her shining eggs as bright as 
 
 flowers, 
 Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue ; 
 And there I witness'd, in the summer 
 hours, 
 A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, 
 Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 
 
 John Clare. — Born 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 141 1.— FIRST-LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 First-love wiU with the heart remain 
 
 When its hopes are all gone by ; 
 As frail rose-blossoms still retain 
 
 Their fragrance when they die : 
 And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind 
 
 With the shades 'mid which they sprung, 
 As summer leaves the stems behind 
 
 On which spring's blossoms hung. 
 
 Mary, I dare not call thee dear, 
 
 I've lost that right so long ; 
 Yet once again I vex thine ear 
 
 With memory's idle song. 
 I felt a pride to name thy name, 
 
 But now that pride hath flown. 
 And burning blushes speak my shame. 
 
 That thus€ love thee on. 
 
 How loth to part, how fond to meet, 
 
 Had we two used to be ; 
 At sunset, with what eager feet 
 
 I hasten' d unto thee ! 
 Scarce nine days pass'd us ere we met 
 
 In spring, nay, wintry weather ; 
 Now nine years' suns have risen and set. 
 
 Nor found us once together. 
 
 Thy face was so familiar grown, 
 
 Thyself so often nigh, 
 A moment's memory when alone. 
 
 Would bring thee in mine eye ; 
 But now my very dreams forget 
 
 That witching look to trace ; 
 Though there thy beauty lingers yet, 
 
 It wears a stranger's face. 
 
 When last that gentle check I prest. 
 
 And heard thee feign adieu, 
 I little thought that seeming jest 
 
 Would prove a word so true ! 
 A fate like this hath oft befell 
 
 Even loftier hopes than ours ; 
 Spring bids full many buds to swell. 
 
 That ne'er can grow to flowers. 
 
 John Clare.— Bom 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 141 2.— D AWNINGS OF GENIUS. 
 
 In those low paths which poverty surrounds, 
 The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow 
 grounds 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SCENES AND MUSINGS. 
 
 [John Claee. 
 
 (That necessary tool of wealth and pride), 
 While moil'd and sweating, by some pasture's 
 
 side. 
 Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace 
 The opening beauties of a daisy's face ; 
 Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes. 
 The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles 
 
 rise ; 
 And often bent, as o'er some magic spell, 
 He'll pause and pick liis shaped stone and 
 
 sheU : 
 Eaptures the while his inward powers inflame. 
 And joys delight him which lie cannot name ; 
 Ideas picture pleasing views to mind, 
 For which his language can no utterance 
 
 find; 
 Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight, 
 Unfold new charms, and witness more de- 
 
 hght; 
 So while the present please, the past decay, 
 And in each other, losing, melt away. 
 Thus pausing wild on all he saunters b}'. 
 He feels enraptured, though he knows not 
 
 why; 
 And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain. 
 And dwells on something which he can't 
 
 explain. 
 The bursts of thought with which his soul 's 
 
 perplex' d 
 Are bred one moment, and are gone the 
 
 next ; 
 Yet still the heart will kindling sparks re- 
 tain. 
 And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive 
 
 So have I mark'd the dying ember's light, 
 When on the hearth it fainted from my 
 
 sight, 
 With glimmering glow oft redden up again, 
 And sparks crack brightening into life in 
 
 vain ; 
 Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise, 
 Till faint, and fainting, the last twinkle dies. 
 Dim burns the soul, and throbs the flutter- 
 ing heart, 
 Its painful pleasing feelings to impart ; 
 Till by successless sallies wearied quite, 
 The memory fails, and Fancy takes her 
 
 flight: 
 The wick, confined within its socket, dies, 
 Borne down and smother' d in a thousand 
 sighs. 
 
 Jolin Clare— Bom 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 1413.— SCENES AND MUSINGS OF THE I 
 PEASANT POET. j 
 
 Each opening season, and each opening I 
 
 scene. 
 On his wild view still teem'd with fresh 
 
 delight ; 
 E'en winter's storms to him have welcome 
 
 been. 
 
 That brought him comfort in its long dark 
 
 night. 
 As joyful listening, while the fire burnt 
 
 bright, 
 Some neighbouring labourer's superstitious 
 
 tale, __ _ 
 
 How " Jack-a-lantern," with his wisp 
 
 alight. 
 To drown a 'nighted traveller once did fail, 
 i He knowing well the brook that whimper'd 
 
 down the vale. 
 
 I And tales of fairy -land he loved to hear, 
 I Those mites of human forms, like skimming 
 I bees. 
 
 That fly and flirt about but everywhere ; 
 The mystic tribes of night's unnerving 
 j breeze. 
 
 That through a lock-hole even creep with 
 
 ease : 
 The freaks and stories of this elfin crew, 
 kh ! Lubin gloried in such things as these ; 
 How they rewarded industry he knew. 
 And how the restless slut was pinched black 
 and blue. 
 
 How ancient dames a fairy's anger fear'd. 
 
 From gossip's stories Lubin often heard ; 
 
 How they on every night the hearthstone 
 clear' d, 
 
 And, 'gainst their visits, all things neat 
 prepared, 
 
 As fays nought more than cleanliness re- 
 gard; 
 
 When in the morn they never fail'd to 
 share 
 
 Or gold or silver as their meet reward, 
 
 Dropt in the water superstition's care. 
 To make the charm succeed, had cautious 
 placed there. 
 
 And thousands such the village keeps 
 
 alive ; 
 Beings that people superstitious earth. 
 That e'er in rural manners will survive. 
 As long as wild rusticity has birth 
 To spread their wonders round the cottage- 
 hearth. 
 On Lubin' s mind these deeply were im- 
 
 press'd ; 
 Oft fear forbade to share his neighbour's 
 
 mirth : 
 And long each tale, by fancy newly dress'd, 
 Brought fairies in his dreams, and broke his 
 infant rest. 
 
 He had his dreads and fears, and scarce 
 
 could pass 
 A churchyard's dreary mounds at silent 
 
 night, 
 But footsteps trampled through the rustling 
 
 grass, 
 And ghosts 'hind grave-stones stood in 
 
 sheets of white ; 
 Dread monsters fancy moulded on his 
 
 sight ; 
 
John Clake.] 
 
 SCENES AND MUSINGS.. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Soft would he step lest they his tread 
 
 should hear, 
 And creep and creep till past his wild 
 
 affright ; 
 Then on wind's wings would rally, as it 
 
 were, 
 So swift the wild retreat of childhood's 
 
 fancied fear. 
 
 And when fear left him, on his corner- seat 
 Much would he chatter o'er each dreadful 
 
 tale ; 
 Tell how he heard the sound of 'proaching 
 
 feet. 
 And warriors jingling in their coats of 
 
 mail ; 
 And lumping knocks as one would thump a 
 
 flail; 
 Of spirits conjured in the charnel floor ; 
 And many a mournful shriek and hapless j 
 
 wail, 
 "Where maids, self-murder'd, their false 
 
 loves deplore ; 
 And from that time would vow to tramp on j 
 
 nights no more. 
 
 O ! who can speak his jcys when spring's 
 
 young morn, 
 From wood and pasture, open'd on his 
 
 view ! 
 When tender green buds blush upon the 
 
 thorn. 
 And the first primrose dips its leaves in 
 
 dew : 
 Each varied charm how joy'd would he 
 
 pursue. 
 Tempted to trace their beauties through 
 
 the day ; 
 Grey-girdled eve and morn of rosy hue 
 Have both beheld him on his lonely way, 
 Far, far remote from boys, and their un- 
 
 pleasing play. 
 
 Sequester' d nature was his heart's delight ; 
 Him v/ould she lead through wood and 
 
 lonely plain, 
 Searching the pooty from the rushy dike ; 
 And while the thrush sang her long-silenced 
 
 strain. 
 He thought it sweet, and mock'd it o'er 
 
 again ; 
 And while he pluck' d the primrose in its 
 
 pride. 
 He ponder'd o'er its bloom 'tween joy and 
 
 pain ; 
 And a rude sonnet in its praise he tried, 
 Where nature's simple way the aid of art 
 
 supplied. 
 
 The freshen'd landscapes round, his routes 
 
 unfurl' d, 
 The fine-tinged clouds above, the woods 
 
 bdlow, 
 Each met his eye a new-revealing world, 
 Delighting more as more he learn' d to 
 
 know ; 
 Each journey sweeter, musing to and fro. 
 
 Surrounded thus, not Paradise more sweet ; 
 
 Enthusiasm made his soul to glow ; 
 
 His heart ^\ith wild sensations used to 
 
 beat ; 
 As nature seemly sang, his mutterings would 
 
 repeat. 
 
 Upon a molehill oft he dropt him down, 
 To take a prospect of the circKng scene, 
 Marking how much the cottage roof's 
 
 thatch brown 
 Did add its beauty to the budding green 
 Of sheltering trees it humbly peep'd be- 
 tween ; 
 The stone-rock' d waggon with its rumbling 
 
 sound; 
 The windmill's sweeping sails at distance 
 
 seen ; 
 And every form that crowds the circliii','- 
 round, 
 j Wliere the sky, stooping, seems to kiss the 
 meeting ground. 
 
 And dear to him the rural sports of May, 
 When each cot-threshold mounts its hailing 
 
 bough, 
 And ruddy milkmaids weave their garlands 
 
 gay, 
 Upon the green to crown the earliest cow ; 
 When mirth and pleasure wear a joyful 
 
 brow ; 
 And join the tumult with unbounded glee, 
 The humble tenants of the pail and plouj,''h : 
 He loved " old sports," by them revived, to 
 
 see. 
 But never cared to join in their rude revelry. 
 
 O'er brook-banks stretching, on the pasture- 
 sward 
 He gazed, far distant from the jocund 
 
 crew ; 
 'Twas but their feats that ciaim'd a slight 
 
 regard ; 
 'Twas his — his pastimes lonely to pursue — 
 Wild blossoms creeping in the grass to 
 
 view, 
 
 Scarce peeping up the tiny bent as high, 
 
 Betingod with' glossy yellow, red or blue. 
 
 Unnamed, unnoticed but by Lubin's eye, 
 
 That like low genius sprang, to bloom their 
 
 day and die. 
 
 O ! who can tell the sweets of Maj^-day's 
 morn. 
 
 To waken rapture in a feeling mind ; 
 
 When the gilt east unveils her dappled 
 dawn. 
 
 And the gay woodlark has its nest re- 
 sign' d. 
 
 As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind ; 
 
 Morn reddening round, and daylight's spot- 
 less hue, 
 
 As seemingly with rose and lily lined ; 
 
 While all the prospect round beams fair to 
 view, 
 Like a sweet opening flower with its unsullied 
 dew. 
 
Frovi 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE THEATRE. 
 
 [Jas. and Horace b'MiTH. 
 
 Ah ! often brushing through the dripping 
 
 Has he been seen to catch this early 
 charm, 
 
 Listening the " love-song " of the healthy- 
 lass 
 
 Passing with milk-pail on her well-turn' d 
 arm ; 
 
 Or meeting objects from the rousing 
 farm — 
 
 The jingling plough-teams driving down the 
 steep, 
 
 Waggon and cart ; and shepherd-dogs' 
 alarm, 
 
 Eaising the bleatings of unfolding sheep. 
 As o'er the mountain top the red sun 'gins to 
 peep. 
 
 Nor could the day's decline escape his 
 
 gaze ; 
 He loved the closing as the rising day. 
 And oft would stand to catch the setting 
 
 rays, 
 Whose last beams stole not unperceived 
 
 away ; 
 When, hesitating hke a stag at bay, 
 The bright unwearied sun seem'd loath to 
 
 drop. 
 Till chaos' night-hounds hurried him away. 
 And drove him headlong from the mountain 
 
 top, 
 Ajid shut the lovely scene, and bade all nature 
 
 stop. 
 
 With contemplation's stores his mind to 
 
 fill, 
 O doubly happy would he roam as then, 
 When the blue eve crept deeper round the 
 
 hill, 
 While the coy rabbit ventured from his 
 
 den, 
 And weary labour sought his rest again ; 
 Lone wanderings led him haply by the 
 
 stream, 
 Where unperceived he 'joy'd his hours at 
 
 will. 
 Musing the cricket twittering o'er its 
 
 dream. 
 Or watching o'er the brook the moonlight's 
 
 dancing beam. . 
 
 And here the rural muse might aptly say, 
 As sober evening sweetly siles along, 
 How she has chased black ignorance away. 
 And warm'd his artless soul with feelings 
 
 strong, 
 To teach his reed to warble forth a song ; 
 And how it echoed on the even-gale, 
 All by the brook the pasture-flowers 
 
 among : 
 But ah ! such trifles are of no avail — 
 There 's few to notice him, or hear his simple 
 
 tale. 
 
 O Poverty ! thy frowns were early dealt 
 O'er him who moum'd thee, not by fancy 
 led 
 
 To whine and wail o'er woes he never felt, 
 Staining his rhymes with tears he never 
 
 shed. 
 And heaving sighs a mock song only bred : 
 Alas ! he knew too much of every pain 
 That shower'd full thick on his unshelter'd 
 
 head ; 
 And as his tears and sighs did erst com- 
 plain. 
 His numbers took it up, and wept it o'er 
 again. 
 
 John Clare.-^Bom 1793, Died 1864. 
 
 1414.--THE THEATRE.— BY THE EEV. 
 G. C. [CEABBE.] 
 
 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six. 
 Our long wax candles, with short cotton 
 
 wicks. 
 Touch' d by the lamplighter's Promethean art, 
 Start into light, and make the lighter start : 
 To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane 
 Tinge witti his beam the beams of Drury 
 
 Lane, 
 While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit. 
 And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they 
 
 sit. * * 
 What various swains our motley walls con- 
 tain ! 
 Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick 
 
 Lane ; 
 Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, 
 Bankrupts from Golden Square and Eiches 
 
 Court ; 
 From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain. 
 Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water 
 
 Lane ; 
 The lottery cormorant, the auction shark. 
 The full-price master, and the half-price 
 
 clerk ; 
 Boys who long linger at the gallery door. 
 With pence twice five, they want but two- 
 pence more. 
 Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, 
 And sends them jumping up the gallery 
 
 stairs. 
 Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk 
 But talk their minds, we wish they'd min 
 
 their talk ; 
 Big worded bullies, who by quarrels live, 
 Who give the lie, and tell the He they give ; 
 Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, 
 That for old clothes they'd even axe St. 
 
 Mary; 
 And bucks with pockets empty as their pate. 
 Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; 
 Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse 
 With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. 
 Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy 
 
 bestow. 
 Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten 
 
 woe. 
 John Eichard William Alexander Dwyer 
 Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; 
 
 66 
 
JAS. AND Horace Smith.] 
 
 THE BABY'S DEBUT. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod. — 
 
 But when John Dwyer listed in the Bines, 
 
 Emannel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. 
 
 Emanuel Jennings brought liis youngest boy 
 
 Up as a corn cutter — a, safe employ ; 
 
 In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred 
 
 (At number twenty- seven, it is said), 
 
 Facing the pump, and near the Granby's 
 
 Head. 
 He would have bound him to some shop in 
 
 town, 
 But with a premium he could not come 
 
 down : 
 Pat was the urchin's name, a red- hair' d 
 
 youth, 
 Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than 
 
 truth. 
 Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in 
 
 awe. 
 The muse shall tell an accident she saw. 
 Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat ; 
 But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat ; 
 Down from the gallery the beaver flew. 
 And spurn'd the one, to settle in the two. 
 How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery door 
 Two sliillings for what cost when new but 
 
 four ? 
 Or till half price, to save his shilling, wait. 
 And gain his hat again at half-past eight ? 
 Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 
 John Mullins whispers, " Take my handker- 
 chief." 
 "Thank you;" cries Pat, "but one won't 
 
 make a Hne." 
 " Take mine," cried Wilson. " And," cried 
 
 Stokes, "take mine." 
 A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, 
 Where Spitalfields with real India vies. 
 Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, 
 Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and 
 
 blue. 
 Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. 
 George Green below, with palpitating hand. 
 Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band ; 
 Upsoars the prize ; the youth, with joy un- 
 
 feign'd, 
 Eegain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd, 
 While to the applauding galleries grateful 
 
 Pat 
 Made a low bow, and' touch' d the ransom' d 
 
 hat. * * 
 
 James and Horace Smith. — About 1812. 
 
 141 5.— THE BABY'S DEBUT.— BY W. W. 
 [WORDSWOETH.] 
 
 My brother Jack was nine in May, 
 And I was eight on New Year's Day; 
 
 So in Kate Wilson's shop 
 Papa (he 's my papa and Jack's) 
 Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, 
 
 And brother Jack a top. 
 
 Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is, 
 
 He thinks mine came to more than his. 
 
 So to my drawer he goes. 
 Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars ! 
 He pokes her head between the bars, 
 
 And melts off half her nose ! 
 
 Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, 
 And tie it to his peg-top's peg, 
 
 And bang, with might and main, 
 Its head against the parlour door : 
 Off flies the head, and hits the floor, 
 
 And breaks a window-pane. 
 
 This made him cry with rage and spite ; 
 Well, let him cry, it serves him right. 
 
 A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
 If he 's to melt, all scalding hot, 
 Half my doll's nose, and I am not 
 
 To draw his peg-top's tooth ! 
 
 Aunt Hannah heard the window break, 
 And cried, " O naughty Nancy Lake, 
 
 Thus to distress your aunt : 
 No Drury Lane for you to-day ! " 
 And while papa said, " Pooh, she may ! " 
 
 Mamma said, " No, she shan't ! " 
 
 Well, after many a sad reproach, 
 They got into a hackney coach. 
 
 And trotted down the street. 
 I saw them go : one horse was blind ; 
 The tails of both hung down behind ; 
 
 Their shoes were on their feet. 
 
 The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
 Used to be drawn to Pentonville, 
 
 Stood in the lumber room : 
 I wiped the dust from off the top, 
 While Molly mopp'd it with a mop, 
 
 And brush'd it with a broom. 
 
 My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, 
 Came in at six to black the shoes 
 
 (I always talk to Sam) : 
 So what does he, but takes and drags 
 Me in the chaise along the flags, 
 
 And leaves me where I am. 
 
 My father's walls are made of brick. 
 But not so tall, and not so thick 
 
 As these ; and, goodness me ! 
 My father's beams are made of wood. 
 But never, never half so good 
 
 As these that now I see. 
 
 What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! 
 The carpet, when they lay it down. 
 
 Won't hide it, I'll be bound : 
 And there 's a row of lamps ; my eye ! 
 How they do blaze I I wonder why 
 
 They keep them on the ground. 
 
 At first I caught hold of the wing, 
 And kept away ; but Mr. Thing- 
 
 Urabob, the prompter man. 
 Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, 
 And said, " Go on, my pretty love; 
 
 Speak to 'em, little Nan. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A TALE OF DRUEY LANE. [Jas. and Horace Smith:. 
 
 You've only got to curtsey, whisp- 
 er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, 
 
 And then you're sure to take : 
 I've known the day when brats not quite 
 Thirteen got fifty pounds a night. 
 
 Then why not Nancy Lake ? " 
 
 But while I'm speaking, where 's papa ? 
 
 And where 's my aunt ? and where 's mamma ? 
 
 Where 's Jack ? Oh, there they sit ! 
 They smile, they nod ; I'll go my ways, 
 And order round poor Billy's chaise, 
 
 To join them in the pit. 
 
 And now, good gentlefolks, I go 
 To join mamma, and see the show ; 
 
 So, bidding you adieu, 
 I curtsey, like a pretty miss. 
 And if you'll blow to me a kiss, 
 
 I'll blow a kiss to you. 
 
 James and Horace Smith. — About 1812. 
 
 1416.— A TALE OF DEURY LANE.— BY 
 W. S. [SCOTT.] 
 * * # # 
 
 As chaos which, by heavenly doom, 
 Had slept in everlasting gloom, 
 Started with terror and surprise, 
 When light first flash' d upon her eyes : 
 So London's sons in nightcap woke, 
 
 In bedgown woke her dames, 
 For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, 
 And twice ten hundred voices spoke, 
 
 " The playhouse is in flames." 
 And lo ! where Catherine Street extends, 
 A fiery tale its lustre lends 
 
 To every window-pane : 
 Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, 
 And Barbican, moth-eaten fort. 
 And Covent Garden kennels sport, 
 
 A bright ensanguined drain ; 
 Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, 
 Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height 
 
 Where patent shot they sell : 
 The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, 
 Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, 
 The Ticket Porters' house of call, 
 Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, 
 Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, 
 
 And Richardson's hotel. 
 
 Nor these alone, but far and wide, 
 Across the Thames' s gleaming tide, 
 To distant fields the blaze was borne ; 
 And daisy white and hoary thorn, 
 In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham 
 The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. 
 
 To those who on the hills around 
 
 Beheld the flames from Drury's mound. 
 As from a lofty altar rise. 
 
 It seem'd that nations did conspire, 
 
 To offer to the god of fire 
 Some vast stupendous sacrifice ! 
 
 The summon' d firemen woke at call, 
 And hied them to their stations all. 
 Starting from short and broken snoose, 
 Each sought his ponderous hobnail' d shoes : 
 But first his worsted hosen plied. 
 Plush breeches next in crimson dyed, 
 
 His nether bulk einbraced ; 
 Then jacket thick of red or blue. 
 Whose massy shoulder gave to view 
 The badge of each respective crew, 
 
 In tin or copper traced. 
 The engines thunder' d through the street. 
 Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete. 
 And torches glared, and clattering feet 
 
 Along the pavement paced. * * 
 
 E'en Higginbottom now was posed. 
 For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed ; 
 Without, within, in hideous show, 
 Devouring flames resistless glow. 
 And blazing rafters downward go. 
 And never halloo " Heads below ! " 
 
 Nor notice give at all : 
 The firemen, terrified, are slow 
 To bid the pumping torrent flow, 
 
 For fear the roof should fall. 
 Back, Robins, back ! Crump, stand aloof ! 
 
 Whitford, keep near the walls ! 
 Huggins, regard your own behoof. 
 For, lo ! the blazing rocking roof 
 
 Down, down in thunder falls ! 
 
 An awful pause succeeds the stroke, 
 And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, 
 Rolling around its pitchy shroud, 
 Conceal'd them from the astonish'd crowd. 
 At length the mist awhile was clear' d, 
 When lo ! amid the wreck uprear'd. 
 Gradual a moving head appear' d. 
 
 And Eagle firemen knew 
 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, 
 
 The foreman of their crew. 
 Loud shouted all in signs of woe, 
 " A Muggins to the rescue, ho ! " 
 
 And pour'd the hissing tide : 
 Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain. 
 And strove and struggled all in vain. 
 For rallying but to fall again. 
 
 He totter' d, sunk, and died ! 
 Did none attempt, before he feU, 
 To succour one they loved so well ? 
 Yes, Higginbottom did aspire 
 (His fireman's soul was all on fire) 
 
 His brother chief to save ; 
 But ah ! his reckless generous ire 
 
 Served but to share his grave ! 
 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, 
 Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke. 
 
 Where Muggins broke before. 
 But sulphury stench and boiling drench 
 Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite ; 
 
 He sunk to rise no more. 
 Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved. 
 His whizzing water-pipe he waved ; 
 " Whitford and Mitford ply your pumps ; 
 You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps ; 
 
 66* 
 
James Smith.] 
 
 THE UPAS IN MAEYBONE LANE. 
 
 [■Seventh Pebiod. — 
 
 Why are you in such doleful dumps ? 
 
 A fireman, and afraid of bumps ! 
 
 What are they fear'd on ? fools — 'od rot 
 
 'em ! " 
 Were the last words of Higginbottom. * * 
 
 James and Horace Smith. — About 1812. 
 
 1417.— THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE. 
 
 A tree grew in Java, whose pestilent rind 
 
 A venom distill' d of the deadliest kind ; 
 
 The Dutch sent their felons its juices to 
 
 draw, 
 And who return' d safe, pleaded pardon by 
 
 law. 
 
 Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale, 
 
 Advancing from windward to 'scape the death- 
 gale; 
 
 How few the reward of their victory earn'd ! 
 
 For ninety-nine perish' d for one who re- 
 turn' d. 
 
 Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, 
 
 Removed it through Holland, and planted it 
 here ; 
 
 'Tis now a stock -plant of the genus wolf's- 
 bane, 
 
 And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane. 
 
 The house that surrounds it stands first in the 
 
 row, 
 Two doors at right angles swing open below ; 
 And the children of misery daily steal in, 
 And the poison they draw they denominate 
 
 Gin. 
 
 There enter the prude, and the reprobate 
 
 hoy, 
 The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy. 
 The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man 
 
 stout. 
 They quickly steal in, and tbey slowly reel 
 
 out. 
 
 Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth 
 
 erect, 
 Apparently baffling its deadly effect ; 
 But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives, 
 And ninety-nine perish for one who survives. 
 
 They cautious advance with slouch' d bonnet 
 
 and hat, 
 They enter at this door, they go out at that ; 
 Some bear off their burden with riotous glee, 
 But most sink in sleep at the foot of the tree. 
 
 Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart. 
 
 This compound of crime at a sovereign a 
 quart ; 
 
 Let gin fetch per bottle the price of cham- 
 pagne, 
 
 And hew down the Upas in Marybone Lane. 
 Jam,es Smith.— Bom 1775, Died 1839. 
 
 1418.— ADDEF]SS TO THE MUMMY IN 
 BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 
 
 And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a 
 story I) 
 In Thebes' streets three thousand years 
 ago, 
 When the Memnonium was in all its glory. 
 
 And time had not begun to overthrow 
 Those temples, palaces, and pUes stupendous, 
 Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 
 
 Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted 
 
 dumby ; 
 Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its 
 
 tune; 
 Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, 
 
 mummy ! 
 Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon. 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 
 But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and 
 
 features. 
 
 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recoUect — 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
 fame ? 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
 
 Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 
 Is Pompey's pUlar really a misnomer ? 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
 Homer ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden 
 By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 
 Then say, what secret melody was hidden 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 
 play'd ? 
 Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my 
 
 struggles 
 Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its 
 juggles. 
 
 Perchance that very hand, now pmion'd flat. 
 Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to 
 
 Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat, 
 Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido 
 pass, 
 Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 
 
 I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd, 
 Has any Roman soldier manl'd and 
 knuckled. 
 For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
 balm' d, 
 Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 
 Antiquity appears to have begun 
 Long after thy primeval race was run. 
 
 Thou couldst develop, if that wither' d 
 tongue 
 Might tell us what those sightless orbs have 
 seen. 
 How the world look'd when it was fresh and 
 young, 
 And the great deluge still had left it green ; 
 
From 1780 io 1866.] 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLOWEES. 
 
 [Horace Smith. 
 
 Or was it then so old, that history's pages 
 Contain' d no record of its early ages ? 
 
 Still silent, incommunicative elf ! 
 
 Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
 But prithee tell us something of thyself ; 
 Eeveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
 Since in the world of spirits thou hast slum- 
 
 ber'd, 
 What hast thou seen — what strange ad- 
 ventures number" d ? 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
 We have, above ground, seen some strange 
 
 mutations ; 
 The Eoman empire has begun and ended, 
 New worlds have risen — we have lost old 
 
 nations, 
 And countless kings have into dust been 
 
 humbled, 
 Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has 
 
 crumbled. 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
 When the great Persian conqueror, Cam- 
 byses, 
 March' d armies o'er thy tomb with thundering 
 tread, 
 O'erthrew Osiris, Or us, Apis, Isis, 
 And shook the pyramids with fear and 
 
 wonder, 
 When, the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 
 
 If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd. 
 
 The nature of thy private life unfold : 
 A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern 
 breast. 
 And tears adown that dusky cheek have 
 roU'd : 
 Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd 
 
 that face ? 
 What was thy name and station, age and 
 race? 
 
 Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! 
 Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
 
 Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow 
 bed. 
 And standest undecay'd within our pre- 
 sence. 
 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment 
 morning. 
 
 When the great trump shall thrill thee ^vith 
 its warning. 
 
 Why should this worthless tegument endure, 
 If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 
 
 Oh, let us keep the soul embalm' d and pure 
 In living virtue, that, when both must 
 sever. 
 
 Although corruption may our frame consume. 
 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 
 
 Horace Smith. — Born 1779, Died 1849. 
 
 14 1 9.— HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to 
 twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
 As a libation ! _^ 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun — God'slidlesseye — 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high ! 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 
 The floor of Nature's temple tessellate. 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloister'd boughs, each floral bell that 
 Bwingeth 
 And toUs its perfume on the passing air. 
 Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
 column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
 But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
 Which God hath plann'd ; 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
 supply — 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
 thunder, 
 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There — as in solitude and shade T wander 
 Through the green aisles, or, stretch' d upon 
 the sod. 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God — 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living 
 I preachers, 
 
 j Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
 I Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 j From loneliest nook. 
 
 [ Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendour 
 
 } " Weep without woe, and blush without a 
 
 I crime," 
 
 ; may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 
 ' Your lore sublime ! 
 
 " Thou wort not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, 
 Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like 
 ours; 
 How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
 Are human flowers ! " 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly 
 Artist ! 
 With which thou paintest Nature's wide- 
 spread hall. 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all. 
 
Horace Smith.] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GEOEGE III. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. 
 
 Not useless are ye, Flowers ! though made 
 for pleasure : 
 Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and 
 night, 
 Prom every source your sanction bids me 
 treasure 
 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 For such a world of thought could furnish 
 scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in 
 earth, 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I, God, in churchless lands remaining. 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines. 
 My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 
 Horace Smith.— Born 1779, Died. 1849. 
 
 1420.— ON THE DEATH OF GEOEGE III. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE. 
 
 I saw him last on this terrace proud, 
 Walking in health and gladness, 
 
 Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 
 Not a single look of sadness. 
 
 Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — 
 
 Blithely the birds were singing ; 
 The cymbals replied to the tambourine, 
 
 And the bells were merrily ringing. 
 
 I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 
 When not a word was spoken — 
 
 When every eye was dim with a tear, 
 And the silence by sobs was broken. 
 
 I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
 To the muffled drums, deep rolling, 
 
 While the minute gun, with its solemn roar. 
 Drown' d the death-bells' tolling. 
 
 The time — since he walk'd in his glory thus, 
 To the grave till I saw him carried — 
 
 Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
 But to him a night unvaried. 
 
 A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, 
 And a son's sole child, have perish' d ; 
 
 And sad was each heart, save only the one 
 By which they were fondest cherish' d ; 
 
 For his eyes were seal'd and his mind was 
 . dark, 
 
 And he sat in his age's lateness — 
 Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 
 
 Of the frailty of human greatness ; 
 
 His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 
 
 Unvex'd by life's commotion, 
 Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 
 
 On the calm of a frozen ocean. 
 
 StiU o'er him Oblivion's waters lay, 
 
 Though the stream of life kept flowing ; 
 
 When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to 
 say 
 The old man's strength was going. 
 
 At intervals thus the waves disgorge. 
 
 By weakness rent asunder, 
 A piece of the Avreck of the Eoyal George, 
 
 To the people's pity and wonder. 
 
 He is gone at length — he is laid in the dust, 
 Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; 
 
 For the coffin' d sleep of the good and just 
 Is a sure and bKssful waking. 
 
 His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 
 
 And should sculptured stone be denied him, 
 There will his name be found, when in turn 
 
 We lay our heads beside him. 
 
 Horace Smith. — Born 1779, Died 1849. 
 
 142 1. —TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 Art thou a thing of mortal birth. 
 Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
 Does human blood with life imbue 
 Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, 
 That stray along that forehead fai-r, 
 Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ? 
 Oh ! can that light and airy breath 
 Steal from a being doom'd to death ; 
 Those features to the grave be sent 
 In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; 
 Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
 A phantom of a blessed dream ? 
 
 A human shape I feel thou art — 
 I feel it at my beating heart. 
 Those tremors both of soul and sense 
 Awoke by infant innocence ! 
 Though dear the forms by Fancy wove, 
 We love them with a transient love ; 
 Thoughts from the living world intrude 
 Even on her deepest solitude : 
 But, lovely child ! thy magic stole 
 At once into my inmost soul, 
 With feelings as thy beauty fair, 
 And left no other vision there. 
 
 To me thy parents are unknown ; 
 Glad would they be their child to own ! 
 And well they must have loved before. 
 If since thy birth they loved not more. 
 Thou art a branch of noble stem. 
 And, seeing thee, I figure them. 
 What many a childless one would give, 
 If thou in their still home wouldst live ! 
 Though in thy face no family line 
 Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine ! " 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 [John Wilson. 
 
 In time thou wouldst become the same 
 As their own child, — all but the name. 
 
 How happy must thy parents be 
 Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
 Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
 Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, 
 And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
 By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 
 What joy must in their souls have stirr'd 
 When thy first broken words were heard — 
 Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd 
 The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
 And for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow, 
 Even while I gaze, are kindhng now. 
 
 I caU'd thee duteous ; am I wrong ? 
 No ! truth, I feel, is in my song : 
 Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move 
 To God, to nature, and to love ! 
 To God ! — for thou, a harmless child, 
 Hast kept his temple undefiled : 
 To nature ! — for thy tears and sighs 
 Obey alone her mysteries : 
 To love I — for fiends of hate might see 
 Thou dwell' st in love, and love in thee. 
 Wliat wonder then, though in thy dreams 
 Thy face with mystic meaning beams ? 
 
 Oh! that my spirit's eye could see 
 Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
 That light of dreaming soul appears 
 To play from thoughts above thy years ; 
 Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring 
 To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. 
 And who can tell what visions high 
 May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? 
 What brighter throne can brightness find 
 To reign on, than an infant's mind. 
 Ere sin destroy, or error dim, 
 The glory of the seraphim ? 
 
 But now thy changing smiles express 
 Intelligible happiness. 
 I feel my soul thy soul partake. 
 What grief ! if thou wouldst now awake ! 
 With infants happy as thyself 
 I see thee bound, a playful elf ; 
 I see thou art a darling child. 
 Among thy playmates bold and wild ; 
 They love thee well ; thou art the queen 
 Of aU their sports, in bower or green ; 
 And if thou livest to woman's height, 
 In thee wiU friendship, love, delight. 
 
 And live thou surely must ; thy Hfe 
 Is far too spiritual for the strife 
 Of mortal pain ; nor could disease 
 Find heart to prey on smiles like these. 
 Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright — 
 To those thou lovost, a saving light — 
 The staff of age, the help sublime 
 Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; 
 And when thou goest to heaven again. 
 Thy vanishing be like the strain 
 Of airy harp — so soft the tone 
 The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! 
 
 Thrice blessed he whose stars design 
 His pure spirit to lean on thine. 
 And watchful share, for days and years, 
 Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears ! 
 
 For good and guiltless as thou art. 
 
 Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — 
 
 Griefs that along thy alter' d face 
 
 Will breathe a more subduing grace 
 
 Than even those looks of joy that lie 
 
 On the soft cheek of infancy. 
 
 Though looks, God knows, are cradled there. 
 
 That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. 
 
 Oh ! vision fair ! that I could be 
 Again as young, as pure, as thee ! 
 Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form 
 May view, but cannot brave, the storm ; 
 Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
 That paint the bird of Paradise ; 
 And years, so Fate hath order' d, roU 
 Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. 
 Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, 
 Such as the gladness of thy face, 
 O sinless babe, by God are given 
 To charm the wanderer back to heaven. 
 
 No common impulse hath me led 
 To this green spot, thy quiet bed, 
 Where, by mere gladness overcome. 
 In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. 
 When to the lake I would have gone, 
 A wondrous beauty drew me on — 
 Such beauty as the spirit sees 
 In glittering fields and moveless trees. 
 After a vrarm and silent shower 
 Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. 
 What led me hither, all can say 
 Who, knowing God, his will obey. 
 
 Thy slumbers now cannot be long j 
 Thy little dreams become too strong 
 For sleep — too like realities ; 
 Soon shall I see those hidden eyes. 
 Thou wakest, and starting from the ground, 
 In dear amazement look'st around , 
 Like one who, little given to roam. 
 Wonders to find herself from home ! 
 But when a stranger meets thy view, 
 Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. 
 A moment's thought who I may be, 
 Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. 
 
 Fair was that face as break of dawn, 
 When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn, 
 Like a thin veil that half conceal'd 
 The light of soul, and half reveal'd. 
 While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought. 
 Each trembling eyelash moved with thought; 
 And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, 
 Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek — 
 Such summer-clouds as travel light. 
 When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright — 
 Till thou awoke st ; then to thine eye 
 Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy ! 
 And lovely is that heart of thine. 
 Or sure those eyes could never shine 
 With such a wild, yet bashful glee, 
 Gay, half-o'ercome timidity ! 
 Nature has breathed into thy face 
 A spirit of unconscious grace — 
 A spirit that Hes never still. 
 And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will : 
 As sometimes o'er a sleeping lake 
 Soft airs a gentle rippling make. 
 
John Wilson.] 
 
 THE SABBATH DAY. 
 
 [Seventh Period, — 
 
 Till, ere we know, the strangers fly, 
 And water blends again with sky 
 
 O happy sprite ! didst thou but know 
 What pleasures through my being flow 
 From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling 
 From their blue light could ne'er be stealing ; 
 But thou wouldst be more loth to part, 
 And give me more of that glad heart. 
 Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence 
 The glory of thy innocence. 
 But with deep joy I breathe the air 
 That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair, 
 And feel, though fate our lives must sever. 
 Yet shall thy image live for ever ! 
 
 John Wilson,— Born 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1422.— THE SABBATH-DAY. 
 
 When by God's inward light, a happy child, 
 
 I walk'd in joy, as in the open air. 
 
 It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath 
 
 smiled 
 With glory and with love. So still, so fair, 
 The heavens look'd ever on that hallow' d 
 
 mom. 
 That, without aid of memory, something 
 
 there 
 Had surely told me of its glad return. 
 How did my little heart at evening burn. 
 When, fondly seated on my father's knee. 
 Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the 
 
 prayer. 
 Warm from the fount of infant piety ! 
 Much is my spirit changed ; for years have 
 
 brought 
 Intenser feeling and expanded thought ; 
 — Yet, must I envy every child I see ! 
 
 John Wilson.— Born 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1423.— LINES WRITTEN IN A LONELY 
 BURIAL-GROUND IN THE HIGH- 
 LANDS. 
 
 How mournfully this burial-ground 
 Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound, 
 Who rolls his bright and sunny waves 
 All round these deaf and silent graves ! 
 The cold wan light that glimmers here, 
 The sickly wild flowers may not cheer ; 
 If here, with solitary hum. 
 The wandering mountain-bee dotl» come, 
 'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay, 
 To brighter leaves he booms away. 
 The sea-bird, with a wailing sound, 
 Alighteth softly on a mound, 
 And, like an image, sitting there 
 For hours amid the doleful air, 
 Seeraeth to tell of some dim union. 
 Some wild and mystical communion. 
 Connecting with his parent sea 
 This lonesome stoneless cemetery. 
 
 This may not be the burial-place 
 Of some extinguish' d kingly race. 
 Whose name on earth no longer known, 
 Hath moulder d with the mouldering stone. 
 That nearest grave, yet brown with mould. 
 Seems but one summer- twilight old ; 
 Both late and frequent hath the bier 
 Been on its mournful visit here : 
 And yon green spot of sunny rest 
 Is waiting for its destined guest. 
 
 I see no little kirk — no beU 
 
 On Sabbath tiukleth through this dell ; 
 
 How beautiful those graves and fair. 
 
 That, lying round the house of prayer, 
 
 Sleep in the shadow of its grace ! 
 
 But death hath chosen this rueful place 
 
 For his own undivided reign ! 
 
 And nothing tells that e'er again 
 
 The sleepers wiU forsake their bed — 
 
 Now, and for everlasting dead. 
 
 For Hope with Memory seems fled ! 
 
 Wnd- screaming bird ! unto the sea 
 Winging thy flight reluctantly. 
 Slow floating o'er these grassy tombs 
 So ghost-hke, with thy snow-white plumes. 
 At once from thy wild shriek I know 
 What means this place so steep' d in woe I 
 Here, they who perish' d on the deep 
 Enjoy at last unrocking sleep ; 
 For ocean, from his wrathful breast. 
 Flung them into this haven of rest. 
 Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie — 
 'Tis the shipwreck' d seaman's cemetery. 
 
 Here seamen old, with grizzled locks. 
 
 Shipwreck' d before on desert rocks. 
 
 And by some wandering vessel taken 
 
 From sorrows that seem God-forsaken, 
 
 Home-bound, here have met the blast 
 
 That wreck' d them on death's shore at last ! 
 
 Old friendless men, who had no tears 
 
 To shed, nor any place for fears 
 
 In hearts by misery fortified. 
 
 And, without terror, sternly died. 
 
 Here many a creature moving brig,'ht 
 
 And glorious in fuU manhood's might, 
 
 Who dared with an untroubled eye 
 
 The tempest brooding in the sky. 
 
 And loved to hear that music rave. 
 
 And danced above the mountain-wave. 
 
 Hath quaked on this terrific strand, 
 
 AH flung like sea- weeds to the land ; 
 
 A whole crew lying side by side, 
 
 Death-dash'd at once in all their pride. 
 
 And here the bright-hair' d fair-faced boy, 
 
 Who took with him all earthly joy. 
 
 From one who weeps both night and day 
 
 For her sweet son borne far away. 
 
 Escaped at last the cruel deep. 
 
 In all his beauty lies asleep ; 
 
 While she would yield all hopes of grace 
 
 For one kiss of his pale cold face ! 
 
 Oh ! I could wail in lonely fear, 
 
 For many a woeful ghost sits here. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PLAGUE SCENES. 
 
 [John Wilson. 
 
 All weeping with their fixed eyes ! 
 And what a dismal sound of sighs 
 Is mingling with the gentle roar 
 Of small waves breaking on the shore ; 
 While ocean seems to sport and play- 
 In mockery of its wretched prey ! 
 
 And lo ! a white-^ving'd vessel sails 
 In sunshine, gathering all the gales 
 Fast freshening from yon isle of pines 
 That o'er the clear sea waves and shines. 
 I turn me to the giiostly crowd, 
 All smear' d with dust, without a shroud. 
 And silent every blue swoUen lip ! 
 Then gazing on the sunny ship, 
 And listening to the gladsome cheers 
 Of all her thoughtless mariners, 
 I seem to hear in every breath 
 The hollow under-tones of death, 
 Who, all unheard by those who sing. 
 Keeps tune with low wild murmuring, 
 And points with his lean bony hand 
 To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand, 
 Then dives beneath the rushing prow. 
 Till on some moonless night of woe 
 He drives her shivering from the steep, 
 Down — down a thousand fathoms deep. 
 
 John Wilson. — Born 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1424.— THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN. 
 
 It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous 
 
 sea, 
 Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven 
 
 discloses. 
 While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
 Far down within the watery sky reposes. 
 As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd 
 With inward Hfe, a sound is heard, 
 Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep ; 
 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, 
 That lies like a garment floating fair 
 Above the happy deep. 
 The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd 
 By evening freshness from the land. 
 For the land it is far away ; 
 But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze 
 In the centre of the loneliest seas 
 Should ever sport and play. 
 The mighty Moon she sits above, 
 Encircled with a zone of love, 
 A zone of dim and tender light 
 That makes her wakeful eye more bright : 
 She seems to shine with a sunny ray, 
 And the night looks like a mellow'd day ! 
 The gracious Mistress of the Main 
 Hath now an undisturbed reign, 
 And from her silent throne looks down, 
 As upon children of her own. 
 On the waves that lend their gentle breast 
 In gladness for her couch of rest ! 
 
 John Wilson. — Born 1788, Died ISo-l. 
 
 1425.— THE EVENING CLOUD. 
 
 A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : 
 Long had I watch' d the glory moving on 
 O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
 Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! 
 Even in its very motion there was rest : 
 While every breath of eve that chanced to 
 
 blow 
 Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. 
 Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! 
 To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is 
 
 given ; 
 And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
 Eight onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, 
 Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies. 
 And tells to man his glorious destinies. 
 
 John Wilso'ii. — Born 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1426.— PLAGUE SCENES. 
 
 Together wiU ye walk through long, long 
 streets. 
 All standing silent as a midnight church. 
 You will hear nothing but the broAvn red 
 
 Eusthng beneath your feet ; the very beating 
 Of your own hearts will awe you ; ^he smafl 
 
 voice 
 Of that vain bauble, idly counting time. 
 Will speak a solemn language in the desert. 
 Look up to heaven, and there the sultry 
 
 clouds, 
 Stni threatening thunder, lour with grim 
 
 delight. 
 As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there. 
 Darkening the city with the shadows of death. 
 Know ye that hideous hubbub ? Hark, far off 
 A tumult like an echo ! On it comes. 
 Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning 
 
 prayer ; 
 And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy. 
 The passing storm hath left the silent streets. 
 But are these houses near you tenantless ? 
 Over your heads, from a window, suddenly 
 A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death 
 With voice not human. Who is lie that flies. 
 As if a demon dogg'd him on his path ? 
 With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot 
 
 eyes, 
 Eaving, he rushes past you ; till he falls, 
 As if struck by lightning, down upon th6 
 
 stones, 
 Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, 
 Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof, 
 And let the Pest's triumphant chariot 
 Have open way advancing to the tomb. 
 See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry 
 Of earthly kings ! a miserable cart, ° 
 Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along 
 By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies ! 
 And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch, 
 
John Wilson.] 
 
 ADDEESS TO A WILD DEER. 
 
 Seventh Period. — 
 
 Doom'd never to return from the foul pit, 
 Whither, with oaths, he drives liis load of 
 
 horror. 
 Would you look in ? Gray hairs and golden 
 
 Wan shriveU'd cheeks that have not smiled 
 
 for years, 
 And many a rosy visage smiling still ; 
 Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary 
 
 wrapt, 
 With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone ; 
 And youthful frames, august and beautiful. 
 In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all. 
 Embraced in ghastliness ! But look not long, 
 For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there, 
 The well-known cheek of some beloved friend 
 Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white 
 
 hand, 
 Bright with the ring that holds her lover's 
 
 hair. 
 Let me sit down beside you. I am faint 
 Talking of horrors that I look'd upon 
 At last without a shudder. 
 
 John Wilson.— Bom 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1427.— ADDEESS TO A WILD DEEE. 
 
 Magnificent creature ! so stately and bright ! 
 In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy 
 
 flight ; 
 For what hath the child of the desert to 
 
 dread. 
 Wafting up his own mountains that far beam- 
 ing head ; 
 Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ! 
 Hail ! king of the wild and the beautiful ! — 
 
 haU! 
 Hail ! idol divine ! — whom nature hath borne 
 O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the 
 
 morn. 
 Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on moun- 
 tain and moor, 
 As the vision glides by him, may blameless 
 
 adore : 
 For the joy of the happy, the strength of the 
 
 free, 
 Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. 
 Up ! up to yon cliff ! like a king to his 
 
 throne ! 
 O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and 
 
 lone — 
 A throne which the eagle is glad to resign 
 Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as 
 
 thine. 
 There the bright heather springs up in love of 
 
 thy breast, 
 Lo ! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at 
 
 rest; 
 And the race of the wild winds is o'er on 'the 
 
 hill! 
 In the hu«h of the mountains, ye antlers lie 
 
 still! — 
 
 Though your branches now toss in the storm 
 
 of delight, 
 Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless 
 
 height. 
 One moment — thou bright apparition — 
 
 delay ! 
 Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun frqm 
 
 the day. 
 
 His voyage is o'er — as if struck by a spell. 
 He motionless stands in the hush of the 
 
 dell; 
 There softly and slowly sinks down on his 
 
 breast, 
 In the midst of his pastime enamour'd of 
 
 rest. 
 A stream in a clear pool that endeth its 
 
 race — 
 A dancing ray chain' d to one sunshiny 
 
 place — 
 A cloud by the winds to calm solitude 
 
 driven — 
 A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven. 
 
 Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee : 
 
 Magnificent prison enclosing the free ; 
 
 With rock- wall encircled — with precipice 
 
 crown' d — , 
 
 Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at 
 I a bound, 
 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature 
 
 doth keep 
 One bright spot of green for her favourite's 
 
 And close to that covert, as clear to the skies 
 When their blue depths are cloudless, a little 
 
 lake lies. 
 Where the creature at rest can his image 
 
 behold. 
 Looking up through the radiance as bright and 
 
 as bold. 
 
 Yes : fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in 
 
 repose — 
 In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes. 
 Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, 
 With a haughty defiance to come to the war. 
 No outrage is war to a creature like thee ; 
 The buglehom fills thy wild spirit with glee. 
 As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the 
 
 wind, 
 And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling be- 
 hind. 
 In the beams of thy forehead, that gUtter 
 
 with death. 
 In feet that draw power from the touch of the 
 
 heath — 
 In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its 
 
 roar — 
 In the cliff that once trod, must be tr(d\ n 
 
 no more — 
 Thy trust — 'mid the dangers that threa ea 
 
 thy reign : 
 — But what if the stag on the mountain be 
 
 slain? 
 
Fo'om 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WIDOWED MOTHEE. 
 
 [John Wilson. 
 
 On the brink of the rock — lo ! lie standeth at 
 
 bay, 
 Like a victor that falls at the close of the 
 
 day — 
 While the hunter and hound in their terror 
 
 retreat 
 From the death that is spurn 'd from his 
 
 furious feet ; 
 And his last cry of anger comes back from the 
 
 skies, 
 As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 
 
 John Wilson.— Bom 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1428.— MAEY. 
 
 Three days before my Mary's death, 
 We walk'd by Grassmere shore ; 
 
 "Sweet Lake!" she said, with faltering 
 breath, 
 " I ne'er shall see thee more ! " 
 
 Then turning round her languid head. 
 
 She look'd me in the face. 
 And whisper' d, " When thy friend is dead, 
 
 Eemember this lone place." 
 
 Vainly I struggled at a smile, 
 
 That did my fears betray ; 
 It seem'd that on our darling isle 
 
 Foreboding darkness lay. 
 
 My Mary's words were words of truth ; 
 
 None now behold the Maid ; 
 Amid the tears of age and youth, 
 
 She in her grave was laid. 
 
 Long days, long nights, I ween, were past 
 
 Ere ceased her funeral knell ; 
 But to the spot I went at last 
 
 Where she had breathed " farewell ! " 
 
 Methought, I saw the phantom stand 
 
 Beside the peaceful wave ; 
 I felt the pressure of her hand — 
 
 Then look'd towards her grave. 
 
 Fair, fair beneath the evening sky 
 
 The quiet churchyard lay : 
 The taU pine-grove most solemnly 
 
 Hung mute above her clay. 
 
 Dearly she loved their arching spread, 
 
 Their music wild and sweet, 
 And, as she wish'd on her deathbed, 
 
 Was buried at their feet. 
 
 Around her grave a beauteous fence 
 Of wild-flov/ers shed their breath. 
 
 Smiling Kke infant innocence 
 Within the gloom of death. 
 
 Such flowers from bank of mountain brook 
 
 At eve we used to bring, 
 When every httle mossy nook 
 
 Betray' d returning Spring. 
 
 Oft had I fix'd the simple wreath 
 
 Upon her virgin breast ; 
 But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe 
 
 Around her bed of rest. 
 
 Yet aU within my silent soul, 
 
 As the hush'd air, was calm ; 
 The natural tears that slowly stole, 
 
 Assuaged my grief like balm. 
 
 The air that seem'd so thick and dull 
 
 For months unto my eye ; 
 Ah me ! how bright and beautiful 
 
 It floated on the sky ! 
 
 A trance of high and solemn bliss 
 
 From purest ether came ; 
 'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, 
 
 Death is an empty name ! 
 
 The memory of the past retum'd 
 
 Like music to my heart, — 
 It seem'd that causelessly I mourn' d, 
 
 When we were told to part. 
 
 " God's mercy," to myself I said, 
 
 " To both our souls is given — 
 To me, sojourning on earth's shade ; 
 
 To her — a Saint in heaven ! " 
 
 John Wilson.— Born 1788, Died 1854. 
 
 1429.— THE WIDOWED MOTHEE. 
 
 Beside her babe, who sweetly slept, 
 A widow'd mother sat and wept 
 
 O'er years of love gone by ; 
 And as the sobs thick-gathering came, 
 She murmur' d her dead husband's name 
 
 'Mid that sad lullaby. 
 
 Well might that lullaby be sad, 
 For not one single friend she had 
 
 On this cold-hearted earth ; 
 The sea will not give back its prey — 
 And they were wrapt in foreign clay 
 
 Who gave the orphan birth. 
 
 Steadfastly as a star doth look 
 Upon a little murmuring brook. 
 
 She gazed upon the bosom 
 And fair brow of her sleeping son — 
 " O merciful Heaven ! when I am gone 
 
 Thine is this earthly blossom ! " 
 
 While thus she sat — a sunbeam broke 
 Into the room ; the babe awoke. 
 
 And from its cradle smiled ! 
 Ah me ! what kindhng smiles met there ! 
 I know not whether was more fair. 
 
 The mother or her child ! 
 
 With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, 
 The smiler stretch' d his rosy arms, 
 
 And to her bosom leapt — 
 All tears at once were swept away. 
 And said a face as bright as day, — 
 
 " Forgive me that I wept ! " 
 
EOBT. POLLOK.] 
 
 THUS STOOD HIS MIND. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Sufferings there are from nature sprung, 
 Ear liath not heard , nor poet's tongue 
 
 May venture to declare ; 
 But this as Holy Writ is sure, 
 *' The griefs she bids us here endure 
 
 She can herself repair ! " 
 
 John Wilson.— Born 1788, ]>ied 1854. 
 
 1430.— THUS STOOD HIS MIND. 
 
 Thus stood his mind, when round him came 
 
 a cloud. 
 Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud 
 Of ills we mention not ; enough to say, 
 'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. 
 He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes, 
 One after one, put out, as nearer still 
 It drew his soul ; but fainted not at first, 
 Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man 
 Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst ; 
 Endure whate'er shoiild come, without a sigh 
 Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs. 
 The bitterest cup that Time could measure 
 
 out ; 
 And, having done, look up, and ask for more. 
 
 He call'd Philosophy, and with his heart 
 Eeason'd. He call'd Religion, too, but call'd 
 Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. 
 Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes, 
 He sought, and sought with eye that dimm'd 
 
 apace, 
 To find some avenue to light, some place 
 On which to rest a hope ; but sought in vain, 
 Darker and darker still the darkness grew. 
 At length he sank ; and Disappointment 
 
 stood 
 His only comforter, and mournfully 
 Told all was pass'd. His interest in life, 
 In being, ceased : and now he seem'd to feel, 
 And shudder' d as he felt, his powers of mind 
 Decaying in the spring-time of his day. 
 The vigorous weak became ; the clear, 
 
 obscure ; 
 Memory gave up her charge ; decision reel'd ; 
 And from her flight Fancy return' d, return' d 
 Because she found no nourishment abroad. 
 The blue heavens wither' d ; and the moon 
 
 and sun, 
 And all the stars, and the green earth, and 
 
 morn 
 And evening wither'd ; and the eyes, and 
 
 smiles, 
 And faces of aU men and women, wither'd, 
 Wither'd to him ; and all the universe, 
 Like something which had been, appear' d, but 
 
 now 
 Was dead, and mouldering fast away. He 
 
 tried 
 No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow, 
 Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to 
 
 wish. 
 That was his last ; enjoyment now was done. 
 He had no h'ope, no wish, and scarce a fear. 
 
 Of being sensible, and sensible 
 Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God 
 Had made superfluously, and needed not ' 
 To build creation#vith ; but back again 
 To nothing threw, and left it in the void, 
 With everlasting sense that once it was. 
 Oh ! who can tell what days, what nights 
 
 he spent, 
 Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe ! 
 And who can tell how many, glorious once, 
 To others and themselves of promise full, 
 Conducted to tliis pass of human thought, 
 This wilderness of intellectual death. 
 Wasted, and pined, and vanish' d from the 
 
 earth. 
 Leaving no vestige of memorial there ! 
 
 Robert PolloTc.—Born 1799, Dial 1827. 
 
 143 1. —HELL. 
 
 Equipp'd and bent for heavei^ I left yon 
 
 world, 
 My native seat, which scarce your eye can 
 I reach, 
 
 Rolling around her central sun, far out 
 On utmost verge of light : but first to see 
 Wliat lay beyond the visible creation, • 
 Strong curiositj'' my flight impeli'd. 
 Long was my way, and strange. I pass'd the 
 
 bounds 
 Which God doth set to light, and life, and 
 
 love; 
 Where darkness meets with d&j — where order 
 
 meets 
 Disorder, dreadful, waste, and wild ; and 
 
 down 
 The dark, eternal, uncreated night 
 Ventur'd alone. Long, long on rapid wing 
 I sail'd through empty, nameless regions vast, 
 Where utter Nothing dwells, unform'd and 
 
 void. 
 There neither eye, nor ear, nor any sense 
 Of being most acute, finds object ; there 
 For aught external still you search in vain. 
 Try touch, or sight, or smell ; try what you 
 
 will, 
 You strangely find nought but yourself alone. 
 But why should I in words attempt to tell 
 What that is like, which is and yet is not ? 
 This past, my path descending, led me still 
 O'er unclaim'd continents of desert gloom 
 Immense, where gravitation, shifting, turns 
 The other way ; and to some dread, unknown, 
 Infernal centre downwards weighs : and now, 
 Far travell'd from the edge of darkness, far 
 As from that glorious mount of God, to 
 
 light's 
 Remotest limb, dire sights I saw, dire sounds 
 I heard ; and suddenly, before my eye 
 A wall of fiery adamant sprung up, 
 Wall, mountainous, tremendous, flajning high 
 Above all flight of hope. I paused and 
 
 look'd 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 HELL. 
 
 [EOBT. POLLOK. 
 
 And saw, where'er I look'd upon that mound, 
 Sad figures traced in fire, not motionless, 
 But imitating Ufe. One I remark' d 
 Attentively ; but how shall I describe 
 What nought resembles else my eye hath 
 
 seen ? 
 Of worm or serpent kind it something look'd, 
 But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads, 
 Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath ; 
 And with as many tales, that twisted out 
 In horrid revolution, tipp'd with stings ; 
 And all its mouths, that wide and darkly 
 
 gaped. 
 And breathed most poisonous breath, had each 
 
 a sting, 
 Fork'd, and long, and venomous, and sharp ; 
 And in its writhings infinite, it grasp'd, 
 Malignantly, what seem'd a heart, swollen, 
 
 black, 
 And quivering with torture most intense ; 
 And still the heart, with anguish throbbing 
 
 high. 
 Made effort to escape, but could not ; for, 
 Howe'er it tum'd — and oft it vainly turn'd — 
 These complicated foldings held it fast. 
 And still the monstrous beast, with sting of 
 
 head 
 Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore. 
 What this could image, much I search' d to 
 
 know; 
 And while I stood and gazed, and wonder'd 
 
 long, 
 A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one 
 I saw, distinctly whisper' d in my ear 
 Those words : " This is the worm that never 
 
 dies." 
 Fast by the side of this unsightly thing 
 Another was portray'd, more hideous stOl ; 
 Who sees it once, shall wish to see'tnomore : 
 For ever undescribed let it remain ! 
 Only this much I may or can unfold : 
 Far out it thrust a dart, that might have 
 
 made 
 The knees of terror quake, and on it hung. 
 Within the triple barbs, a being, pierced 
 Through soul and body both. Of heavenly 
 
 make 
 Original the being seem'd, but fallen, 
 And worn and wasted with enormous woe 
 And still around the everlasting lance 
 It writhed convulsed, and utter'd mimic 
 
 groans ; 
 And tried and wish'd, and ever tried and 
 
 wish'd 
 To die : but could not die. Oh ! horrid sight ! 
 I trembling gazed, and listen'd, and heard 
 
 this voice 
 Approach my ear : " This is eternal death." 
 Nor these alone : upon that burning wall, 
 In horrible emblazonry, were limn'd 
 An shapes, aU forms, all modes of wretched- 
 ness. 
 And agony, and grief, and desperate woe. 
 And prominent in characters of fire. 
 Where'er the eye covdd light, these words you 
 
 read: 
 
 " Who comes this way behold, and fear to 
 
 sin ! " 
 Amazed I stood ; and thought such imagery 
 Foretoken'd within a dangerous abode. 
 But yet to see the worst, a wish arose : 
 For Virtue, by the holy seal of God 
 Accredited and stamp' d, imm6rtal aU, _ 
 And all invulnerable, fears no hurt. 
 As easy as my wish, as rapidly, 
 I through the horrid rampart pass'd, un- 
 scathed 
 And unopposed ; and, poised on steady wing, 
 I hovering gazed. Eternal Justice ! Sons 
 Of God ! tell me, if you can teH, what then 
 I saw — what then I heard ! Wide was the 
 
 place, 
 And deep as wide, and ruinous as deep. 
 Beneath, I saw a lake of burning fire, 
 With tempest toss'd perpetually ; and still 
 The waves of fiery darkness 'gainst the rocks 
 Of dark damnation broke, and music made 
 Of melancholy sort ; and overhead 
 And aU around, wind warr'd with wind, storm 
 
 howl'd 
 To storm, and lightning, fork'd-lightning 
 
 cross 'd, 
 And thunder answer' d thunder, — muttering- 
 
 sounds 
 Of sullen wrath, and far as sight could pierce, 
 Or down descend in caves of hopeless depth, 
 Through aU that dungeon of unfading fire, 
 I saw most miserable beings walk. 
 Burning continually, yet unconsumed ; 
 For ever wasting, yet enduring stiU ; 
 Dying perpetually, yet never dead. 
 Some wander' d lonely in the desert flames. 
 And some, in fell encounter, fiercely met. 
 With curses loud and blasphemous, thab 
 
 made 
 The cheek of darkness pale; and as they 
 
 fought 
 And cursed, and gnash'd their teeth, and 
 
 wish'd to die, 
 Their hollow eyes did utter streams of woe. 
 And there were groans that ended not, and 
 
 sighs 
 That always sigh'd, and tears that ever wept, 
 And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. 
 And Sorrow, and Eepentance, and Despair 
 Among them walk'd ; and to their thirsty 
 
 lips 
 Presented frequent cups of burning gall. 
 And as I listen'd, I heard these beings curse 
 Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and 
 
 curse 
 The earth, the resurrection morn ; and seek. 
 And ever vainly seek, for utter death ! 
 And to their everlasting anguish still. 
 The thunders from above responding spoke 
 These words, which, through the caverns of 
 
 perdition 
 Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear : 
 '•' Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
 And back again recoil' d a deeper groan : 
 A deeper groan ! oh, what a groan was that ! 
 I waited not, but swift on speediest wing. 
 
EOBT. POLLOK.] 
 
 A SCENE OF EAELY LOVE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 With Tinaccustoin'd thoughts conversing, back 
 Retraced my venturous path from dark to 
 light. 
 
 RoheH Polloh.—Born 1799, Died 1827. 
 
 1432.— A SCENE OF EAELY LOVE. 
 
 It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood ; 
 The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver 
 
 light, 
 Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand. 
 And all the winds slept soundly. Nature 
 
 seem'd. 
 In silent contemplation, to adore 
 Its Maker. Now and then, the aged leaf 
 Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground ; 
 And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. 
 On vale and lake, on wood and mountain 
 
 high, 
 With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly 
 
 Thought 
 Conversing with itself. Vesper look'd forth 
 From out her western hermitage, and smiled ; 
 And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon. 
 With all her stars, gazing on earth intense. 
 As if she saw some wonder walking there. 
 
 Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene, 
 When, by a hermit thorn that on the hiU 
 Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass, 
 A damsel kneel'd, to offer up her prayer — 
 Her prayer nightly offer' d, nightly heard. 
 This ancient thorn had been the meeting- 
 place 
 Of love, before his country's voice had call'd 
 The, ardent youth to fields of honour, far 
 Beyond the wave ; and hither now repair' d. 
 Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye 
 Seen only, while she sought this boon alone — 
 Her lover's safety and his quick return. 
 In holy humble attitude she kneel'd, 
 And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, press'd 
 One hand, the other lifted up to heaven. 
 Her eye, upturn' d, bright as the star of 
 
 mom. 
 As violet meek, excessive ardour streara'd. 
 Wafting away her earnest heart to God. 
 Her voice, scarce utter' d, soft as zephyr sighs 
 On morning lily's cheek, though soft and low, 
 Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. 
 A tear-drop wander' d on her lovely face ; 
 It was a tear of faith and holy fear, 
 Pure as the drops that hang at dawning time, 
 On yonder willows, by the stream of life. 
 On her the moon look'd steadfastly ; the stars. 
 That circle nightly round the eternal throne. 
 Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting 
 
 love 
 Gave gracious audience to her prayers sincere. 
 
 O had her lover seen her thus alone, 
 Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him ! 
 Nor did he not ; for ofttimes Providence, 
 With unexpected joy, the fervent prayer 
 Of faith surprised. Return' d from long delay 
 
 With glory crown'd of righteous actions won' 
 The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first 
 
 sought 
 The youth, and found it at the happy hour. 
 Just when the damsel kneel'd herself to pray. 
 Wrapp'd in devotion, pleading with her God, 
 She saw him not, heard not his foot approach. 
 All holy images seem'd too impure 
 To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneel'd, 
 Beseeching for his ward, before the throne, 
 Seem'd fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was 
 
 the thought ! 
 But sweeter still the kind remembrance came. 
 That she was flesh and blood, form'd for him- 
 self, 
 The plighted partner of his future life. 
 And as they met, embraced, and sat, em- 
 bower' d 
 In woody chambers of the starry night, 
 Spirits of love about them minister'd, 
 And God, approving, bless'd the holy joy ! 
 
 Robert Pollok.—Born 1799, Died 1827. 
 
 1433.— THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Our sighs were numerous, and profuse our 
 
 tears. 
 For she we lost was lovely, and we loved 
 Her much. Fresh in her memory, as fresh 
 As yesterday, is yet the day she died: 
 It was an April day ; and blithely all 
 The youth of nature leap'd beneath the sun, 
 And promised glorious manhood; and our 
 
 hearts 
 Were glad, and round them danced the light- 
 some blood. 
 In healthy merriment, when tidings came 
 A child was bom ; and tidings came again, 
 Tiat she who gave it birth was sick to death : 
 So swift trode sorrow on the heels of joy ! 
 We gather' d round her bed, and bent our 
 
 knees 
 In fervent supplication to the Throne 
 Of Mercy, and perfumed our prayers with 
 
 sighs 
 Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 
 Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 
 An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe 
 For heaven ; and Mercy, in her love, refused : 
 Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least ! 
 Most gracious, when she seem'd the most to 
 
 frown ! 
 The room I well remember and the bed 
 On which she lay, and all the faces, too, 
 That crowded dark and mournfully around. 
 Her father there and mother, bending stood; 
 And down their aged cheeks feU many drops 
 Of bitterness. Her husband, too, was there, 
 And brothers, and they wept ; her sisters, too, 
 Did weep, and sorrow comfortless ; and I, 
 Too, wept, though not to weeping given ; and 
 
 all 
 
Prom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 [ROBT. POLLOK 
 
 Within the house was dolorous and sad. 
 This I remember well ; but better still 
 I do remember, and will ne'er forget, 
 The dying eye ! That eye alone was bright. 
 And brighter grew as nearer death approach' d : 
 As I have seen the gentle little flower 
 Look fairest in the silver beam which fell 
 Reflected from the thunder-cloud that soon 
 Came down, and o'er the desert scatter'd far 
 And wide its loveliness. She made a sign 
 To bring her babe ; 'twas brought, and by her 
 
 placed ; 
 She look'd upon its face, that neither smiled, 
 Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon't, and 
 
 laid 
 Her hand upon its little breast, and sought 
 For it, with look that seem'd to penetrate 
 The heavens, unutterable blessings, such 
 As God to dying parents only granted, 
 For infants left behind them in the world. 
 " God keep my child ! " we heard her say, and 
 
 heard 
 No more. The Angel of the Covenant 
 Was come, and, faithful to his promise, stood 
 Prepared to walk with her through death's 
 
 dark vale. 
 And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter 
 
 stiU, 
 Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
 With many tears, and closed without a cloud. 
 They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
 Not down behind the darken'd west, nor hides 
 Obscured among the tempest of the sky, 
 But melts away into the light of heaven. 
 
 Robert PolloTc.—Born 1799, IHed 1827. 
 
 1434.— FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Not unremember'd is the hour when friends 
 Met. Friends, but few on earth, and there- 
 fore dear ; 
 Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain ; 
 Yet always sought, so native to the heart, 
 So much desired and coveted by all. 
 Nor wonder those — thou wonderest not, nor 
 
 need'st. 
 Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair, 
 Than face of faithful friend, fairest when 
 
 In darkest day ; and many sounds were sweet, 
 Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear ; 
 But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend, 
 Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest 
 
 storm. 
 Some I remember, and will ne'er forget ; 
 My early friends, friends of my evil day ; 
 Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery 
 
 too; 
 Friends given by God in mercy and in love ; 
 My counsellors, my comforters, and guides; 
 My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy ; 
 Companions of my young desires ; in doubt. 
 My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. 
 O, I remember, and will ne'er forget 
 
 Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours. 
 Our burning words that utter' d all the soul. 
 Our faces beaming with unearthlj' love ; 
 Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope 
 Exulting, heart embracing, heart entire. 
 As birds of social feather helping each 
 His fellow's flight, we soar'd into -tlie skies, 
 And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and 
 
 earth. 
 With all her tardy leaden-footed cares, 
 And talk'd the speech, and ate the food of 
 
 heaven ! 
 These I remember, these selectest men. 
 And would their names record ; but what 
 
 avails 
 My mention of their named? Before the 
 
 throne 
 They stand illustrious 'mong the loudest harps. 
 And will receive thee glad, my friend and 
 
 theirs — 
 For all are friends in heaven, all faithful 
 
 friends ; 
 And many friendships in the days of time 
 Begun, are lasting here, and growing still ; 
 So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine. 
 Nor is the hour of lonely walk forgot 
 In the wide desert, where the view was large. 
 Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me 
 The solitude of vast extent, untouch' d 
 By hand of heart, where nature sow'd herself. 
 And reap'd her crops ; whose garments were 
 
 the clouds ; 
 Whose minstrels brooks; whose lamps the 
 
 moon and stars ; 
 Whose organ-choir the voice of many waters ; 
 Whose banquets morning dews ; whose heroes 
 
 storms ; 
 Whose warriors mighty winds ; whose lovers 
 
 flowers ; 
 Whose orators the thunderbolts of God ; 
 Whose palaces the everlasting hills ; 
 Whose ceUing heaven's unfathomable blue ; 
 And from whose rocky turrets battled high 
 Prospect immense spread out on all sides 
 
 round, 
 Lost now beneath the welkin and the main, 
 Now wall'd with hills that slept above the 
 
 storm. 
 Most fit was such a place for musing men. 
 Happiest sometimes when musing without 
 
 aim. 
 It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss 
 The lonely bard enjoy'd when forth he walk' d, 
 Unpurposed ; stood, and knew not why ; sat 
 
 down, 
 And knew not where ; arose, and knew not 
 
 when ; 
 Had eyes, and saw not; ears, and nothing 
 
 heard ; 
 And sought — sought neither heaven nor earth 
 
 — sought nought. 
 Nor meant to think ; but ran meantime through 
 
 vast 
 Of visionary things, fairer than aught 
 That was ; and saw the distant tops of 
 
 thoughts, 
 
EOBT. POLLOK.] 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 [Seventh Period, — 
 
 Whicli men of common stature never saw, 
 Greater than aught that largest worlds could 
 
 hold, 
 Or give idea of, to those who read. 
 He enter' d into Nature's holy place, 
 Her inner chamber, and beheld her face 
 Unveiled ; and heard unutterable things, 
 And incommunicable visions saw ; 
 Things then unutterable, and visions then 
 Of incommunicable glory bright ; 
 But by the lips of after-ages form'd 
 To words, or by their pencil pictured forth ; 
 Who, entering farther in, beheld again, 
 And heard unspeakable and marvellous things, 
 Which other ages in their turn reveal' d, 
 And left to others greater wonders stiU. 
 
 Rolert Polloli.—Born 1799, Died 1827. 
 
 1435.— HAPPINESS. 
 
 Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets 
 Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems 
 In vain to ask ; her nature makes it vain ; 
 Though poets much, and hermits, talk'd and 
 
 sung 
 Of brooks and crystal founts, and weeping 
 
 dews, 
 And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales. 
 And with the nymph made assignations there, 
 And woo'd her with the love-sick oaten reed ; 
 And sages too, although less positive. 
 Advised their sons to court her in the shade. 
 Delirious babble all ! Was happiness. 
 Was self -approving, God approving joy. 
 In drops of dew, however pure ? in gales, 
 However sweet ? in wells, however clear ? 
 Or groves, however thick with verdant shade ? 
 True, these were of themselves exceeding 
 
 fair; 
 How fair at morn and even ! worthy the walk 
 Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within 
 Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss ; 
 But were the occasion, not the cause of joy. 
 They waked the native fountains of the soul 
 Which slept before, and stirr'd the holy 
 
 tides 
 Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink 
 From its own treasures draughts of perfect 
 
 sweet. 
 The Christian faith, which better knew the 
 
 heart 
 Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus 
 Declared : Who finds it, let him find it there ; 
 Who finds it not, for ever let him seek 
 In vain; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. 
 
 True Happiness had no localities. 
 No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 
 Where Duty went, she went, with Justice 
 
 went. 
 And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
 Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 
 Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 
 Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 
 
 Of honest suffering soothed, or injury 
 Eepeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
 Where'er an evil passion was subdued, 
 Or Virtue's feeble embers fann'd ; where'er 
 A sin was heartily abjured and left ; 
 Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
 A pious prayer, or wish'd a pious wish ; 
 There was a high and holy place, a spot 
 Of sacred Hght, a most religious fane. 
 Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 
 
 But there apart, in sacred memory lives 
 The mom of life, first morn of endless days, 
 Most joyful mom ! Nor yet for nought the 
 
 joy. 
 A being of eternal date commenced, 
 A young immortal then was bom ! And who 
 Shall tell what strange variety of bliss 
 Burst on the infant soul, when first it look'd 
 Abroad on God's creation fair, and saw 
 The glorious earth and glorious heaven, and 
 
 face 
 Of man sublime, and saw aU new, and felt 
 All new ! when thought awoke, thought never 
 
 more 
 To sleep ! when first it saw, heard, reasoned, 
 
 will'd. 
 And triumph' d in the warmth of conscious 
 
 Hfe! 
 Nor happy only, but the cause of joy, 
 Which those who never tasted always mourn' d. 
 What tongue ! — no tongue shall tell what 
 
 bliss o'erflow'd 
 The mother's tender heart while round her 
 
 hung 
 The offspring of her love, and lisp'd her name 
 As living jewels dropp'd unstain'd from 
 
 heaven, 
 That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem 
 Than every ornament of costliest hue ! 
 And who hath not been ravish' d, as she 
 
 pass'd 
 With all her playful band of little ones. 
 Like Luna with her daughters of the sky. 
 Walking in matron majesty and grace ? 
 All who had hearts here pleasure found : and 
 
 oft 
 Have I, when tired with heavy task, for tasks 
 Were heavy in the world below, relax'd 
 My weary thoughts among their guiltless 
 
 sports, 
 And led them by their little' hands a-field. 
 And watch them run and crop the tempting 
 
 flower — 
 Which oft, unask'd, they brought me, and 
 
 bestow' d 
 With smiHng face, that waited for a look 
 Of praise — and answer' d curious questions, 
 
 put 
 In much simplicity, but ill to solve ; 
 And heard their observations strange and 
 
 new ; 
 And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon 
 Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. 
 And still E look'd upon their loveliness, 
 And sought through nature for similitudes 
 Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE TEE UEES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 [Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 And fairest imagery around me throng' d ; 
 Dewdropsat day-spring on a seraph's locks, 
 Roses that bathe about the well of life, 
 Young Loves, young Hopes, dancing on 
 
 morning's cheek, 
 Gems leaping in the coronet of Love ! 
 So beautiful, so full of life, they seem'd 
 As made entire of beams of angels' eyes. 
 Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely little things ! 
 Playing around the den of sorrow, clad 
 In smiles, beheving in their fairy hopes, 
 And thinking man and woman true ! all joy, 
 Happy all day, and happy all the night ! 
 
 Robert Pollol.—Born 1799, Died 1827. 
 
 1436.— THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The stately Homes of England, 
 
 How beautiful they stand ! 
 Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 
 
 O'er all the pleasant land. 
 The deer across their greensward bound 
 
 Through shade and sunny gleam. 
 And the swan glides past them with the sound 
 
 Of some rejoicing stream. 
 
 The merry Homes of England ! 
 
 Around theix- hearths by night. 
 What gladsome looks of household love 
 
 Meet in the ruddy light ! 
 There woman's voice flows forth in song. 
 
 Or childhood's tale is told. 
 Or lips move tunefully along 
 
 Some glorious page of old. 
 
 The blessed Homes of England ! 
 
 How softly on their bowers 
 Is laid the holy quietness 
 
 That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! 
 Solemn, yet sweet, the church-beU's chime 
 
 Floats through their woods at morn ; 
 All other sounds, in that still time, 
 
 Of breeze and leaf are born. 
 
 The cottage Homes of England ! 
 
 By thousands on her plains, 
 Thej'- are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 
 
 And round the hamlet-fanes. 
 Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 
 
 Each from its nook of leaves, 
 And fearless there the lowly sleep. 
 
 As the bird beneath their eaves. 
 
 The free, fair Homes of England ! 
 
 Long, long, in hut and hall. 
 May hearts of native proof be rear'd 
 
 To guard each hallow' d wall ! 
 And green for ever be the groves. 
 
 And bright the flowery sod, 
 ■\Vhere first the child's glad spirit loves 
 
 Its country and its God ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. — Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1437.— THE TREASUEES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and 
 cells, 
 Thou hoUow-sounding and mysterious main ? 
 Pale gUstening pearls, and rainbow-colour' d 
 shells, 
 Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and 
 in vain. 
 Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
 
 We ask not such from thee. 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more ! What 
 wealth untold. 
 Far down, and shining through their still- 
 ness, lies ! 
 Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
 
 Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. 
 Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 
 main ! 
 
 Earth claims not these again ! 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves 
 have roll'd 
 Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
 Sand hath fiU'd up the palaces of old, 
 
 Sea-weed o'ergrown the haUs of revelry ! 
 Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play, 
 Man yields them to decay ! 
 
 Yet more ! the billows and the depths have 
 more ! 
 High hearts and brave are gather' d to thy 
 breast ! 
 They hear not now the booming waters roar — 
 The battle-thunders will not break their 
 rest. 
 Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy 
 grave ! 
 
 Give back the true and brave ! 
 
 Give back the lost and lovely ! Those for 
 whom 
 The place was kept at board and hearth so 
 long ; 
 The prayer went up through midnight's breath- 
 less gloom. 
 And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal 
 song ! 
 Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'er- 
 thrown — 
 
 But all is not thine own ! 
 
 To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; 
 Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble 
 head, 
 O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 
 crown ! 
 Yet must thou hear a voice — Eestore the 
 Dead! 
 Earth shall reclaim her precious things from 
 thee !— 
 
 Eestore the Dead, thou Sea ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Barn 1793, B^cd 1835. 
 67 
 
Mrs. Hemans.] 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPEING. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 1438.— THE VOICE OF SPEING. 
 
 I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long, 
 
 I come o'ec the mountains with light and 
 
 song ; 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening 
 
 earth. 
 By the mnds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
 By the green leaves opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the chest- 
 nut-flowers 
 
 By thousands have burst from the forest- 
 bowers : 
 
 And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
 
 Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains. 
 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
 
 To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 
 
 I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy 
 
 North, 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 
 And the reindeer bounds through the pasture 
 
 free, 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
 And the moss looks bright where my step has 
 
 been. 
 
 I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle 
 
 sigh, 
 And caird out each voice of the deep-blue sky. 
 From the night bird's lay through the starry 
 
 time, 
 In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
 To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
 When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed 
 
 the chain ; 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
 They are flashing down from the mountain- 
 brows, 
 They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs. 
 They are bursting fresh from their sparry 
 
 caves, 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 
 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
 Where the violets lie may now be your home. 
 Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye. 
 And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ; 
 With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous 
 
 lay, 
 Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. 
 
 Away from the dwellings of careworn men, 
 The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
 Away from the chamber and dusky hearth. 
 The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
 Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood 
 
 strains, 
 And Youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 
 The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, 
 Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the 
 com: 
 
 For me I depart to a brighter shore — 
 Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more. 
 I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
 And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well, 
 farewell ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1439.— THE GEAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They grew in beauty, side by side. 
 They fill'd one home with glee ; 
 
 Their graves are sever' d, far and wide, 
 By mount, and stream, and sea. 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night 
 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
 She had each folded flower in sight — 
 
 Where are those dreamers now ? 
 
 One, 'midst the forest of the west. 
 
 By a dark stream is laid — 
 The Indian knows his place of rest, 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
 The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
 
 He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 He was the loved of all, yet none 
 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd 
 
 Above the noble slain : 
 He wrapt his colours round his breast. 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 
 And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
 Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; 
 
 She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
 
 Beneath the same green tree ; 
 Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 
 
 Around one parent knee ! 
 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
 And cheer' d with song the hearth — 
 
 Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
 And nought beyond, on earth ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1440.— MAEGUEEITE OF FEANCE. 
 
 The Moslem spears were gleaming 
 
 Eound Damietta's towers. 
 Though a Christian banner from her wall 
 
 Waved free its lily-flowers. 
 Ay, proudly did the banner wave, 
 
 As queen of earth and air ; 
 But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds 
 
 In anguish and despair. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 [Mrs, Hema-ns. 
 
 Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon 
 
 Their kingly chieftain lay, 
 And low on many an eastern field 
 
 Their knighthood's best array. 
 'Twas mournful when at feasts they met, 
 
 The wine-cup round to send ; 
 For each that touch'd it silently 
 
 Then miss'd a gallant friend ! 
 
 And mournful was their vigil 
 
 On the beleaguer'd wall, 
 And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 
 
 Of slow defeat and fall. 
 Yet a few hearts of chivalry 
 
 Rose high to breast the storm, 
 And one — of all the loftiest there — 
 
 Thrill'd in a woman's form. 
 
 A woman meekly bending 
 
 O'er the slumber of her child, 
 With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, 
 
 As the Virgin Mother's mild. 
 Oh ! roughly cradled was thy babe, 
 
 'Midst the clash of spear and lance, 
 And a strange, wild bower was thine, young 
 queen ! 
 
 Fair Marguerite of France ! 
 
 A dark and vaulted chamber, 
 
 Like a scene for wizard-^ell, 
 Deep in the Faracenic gloom 
 
 Of the warrior citadel ; 
 And there 'midst arms the couch was spread, 
 
 And with banners curtain' d o'er. 
 For the daughter of the minstrel-land 
 
 The gay Proven9al shore ! 
 
 For the bright queen of St. Louis, 
 
 The star of court and hall ! 
 But the deep strength of the gentle heart 
 
 Wakes to the tempest's call ! 
 Her lord was in the Paynim's hold. 
 
 His soul with grief oppress' d. 
 Yet calmly lay the desolate, 
 
 With her young babe on her breast ! 
 
 There were voices in the city, 
 
 Voices of wrath and fear — 
 " The walls grow weak, the strife is vain — 
 
 We will not perish here ! 
 Yield ! yield ! and let the Crescent gleam 
 
 O'er tower and bastion high ! 
 Our distant homes are beautiful — 
 
 We stay not here to die ! " 
 
 They bore those fearful tidings 
 
 To the sad queen where she lay — 
 They told a tale of wavering hearts, 
 
 Of treason and dismay : 
 The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek, 
 
 The sparkle to her eye — 
 " Now call me hither those recreant knights 
 
 From the bands of Italy ! " 
 
 Then through the vaulted chambers 
 
 Stern iron footsteps rang ; 
 And heavily the sounding floor 
 
 Gave bank the sabre's clang. 
 
 They stood around her — steel-clad men, ' 
 
 Moulded for storm and fight, 
 But they quail' d before the loftier soul 
 
 In that pale aspect bright. 
 
 Yes ! as before the falcon shrinksL^ _ 
 
 The bird of meaner wing, 
 So shrank they from the imperial glance 
 
 Of her — that fragile thing ! 
 And her flute-like voice rose clear and high 
 
 Through the din of arms around — 
 Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, 
 
 As a silver clarion's sound. 
 
 " The honour of the Lily 
 
 Is in your hands to keep. 
 And the banner of the Cross, for Him 
 
 Who died on Calvary's steep : 
 And the city which for Christian prayer 
 
 Hath heard the holy bell — 
 And is it these your hearts would yield 
 
 To the godless infidel ? 
 
 Then bring me here a breastplate 
 
 And a helm, before ye fly. 
 And I will gird my woman's form, 
 
 And on the ramparts die ! 
 And the boy whom I have borne for woe. 
 
 But never for disgrace, 
 Shall go within mine arms to death 
 
 Meet for his royal race. 
 
 Look on him as he slumbers 
 
 In the shadow of the lance ! 
 Then go, and with the Cross forsake 
 
 The princely babe of France ! 
 But tell your homes ye left one heart 
 
 To perish undefiled ; 
 A woman, and a queen, to guard 
 
 Her honour and her child ! " 
 
 Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves 
 
 When winds are in the wood ; 
 And a deepening murmur told of men 
 
 Roused to a loftier mOod, 
 And her babe awoke to flashing swords^ 
 
 Unsheathed in many a hand, 
 As they gather' d round the helpless One, 
 
 Again a noble band ! 
 
 " We are thy warriors, lady ! 
 
 True to the Cross and thee ; 
 The spirit of thy kindling w®rds 
 
 On every sword shall be ! 
 Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast ! 
 
 Rest — we will guard thee well ! 
 St. Denis for the Lily-flower 
 
 And the Christian citadel ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. — Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 144 1. —BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 Bring flowers, young flowers, for the fostal 
 
 board. 
 To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd ! 
 
 67* 
 
Mrs. Hemans.] 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Bftng flowers ! they are springing in wood and 
 
 vale : 
 Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
 And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 
 
 rose, 
 To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 
 
 Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's 
 
 path ! 
 He hath shaken thrones with his stormy 
 
 wrath : 
 He <5omes with the spoils of nations back. 
 The vines lie crush'd in his dhariot's track, 
 The turf looks red where he won the day. 
 Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 
 
 Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell ! 
 They have tales of the joyous woods to tell — 
 Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
 And the bright world shut from his languid 
 
 eye; 
 They will bear him a thought of the sunny 
 
 hours, 
 And the dream of his youth. Bring him 
 
 flowers, wild flowers ! 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to 
 
 wear! 
 They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
 She is leaving the home of her childhood's 
 
 mirth. 
 She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
 Her place is now by another's side. 
 Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young 
 
 bride ! 
 
 Bring" flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to 
 
 shed, 
 A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 
 For this through its leaves hath the white 
 
 rose burst, 
 For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
 Though they smile in vain for what once was 
 
 ours, 
 They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, 
 
 pale flowers ! 
 
 Bring flowers to the shrine where wo kneel in 
 
 prayer — 
 They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
 They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 
 With a voice of promise they come and part. 
 They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
 They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, 
 
 bright flowers ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1442.— CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 Whence all but he had fled ; 
 
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
 
 As born to rule the storm ; 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A brave though childlike form. 
 
 The flames roll'd on — he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, faint in death below. 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 He call'd aloud — " Say, father, say 
 
 If yet my task is done ! " 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 " Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone ; " 
 And but the booming shots replied, 
 
 And fast the flames roU'd on. 
 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
 
 And in liis waving hair, 
 And look'd from that lone post of death 
 
 In still yet brave despair. 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My father, must I stay ? " 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild. 
 
 They caught the flag on high. 
 And stream' d above the gallant child, 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a biu'st of thunder-sound — 
 
 The boy ! — oh, where was he ? 
 Ask of the winds, that far around 
 
 With fragments strew' d the sea ! — 
 
 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
 That well had borne their part ; 
 
 But the noblest thing that perish' d there 
 Was that young faithful heart. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. — Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1443.— THE HOUE OF PRAYER. 
 
 Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
 While the red light fades away ; 
 Mother, with thine earnest eye. 
 Ever following silently ; 
 Father, by the breeze of eve 
 Call'd thy harvest- work to leave — 
 Pray : ere yet the dark hours bo, 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
 Far from thine own household band ; 
 Mourner, haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone ; 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
 Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
 Lift the heart and bend the knco. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A FATHEE BEADING THE BIBLE. 
 
 [Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 "Warrior that, from battle won, 
 Breathest now at set of sun ; 
 Woman, o'er the lowly slain, 
 "Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
 Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
 Kindred by one holy tie. 
 Heaven's first star alike ye 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Bom 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1444.— PASSING AWAY. 
 
 It is written on the rose, 
 
 In its glory's fuU array ; 
 Bead what those buds disclose — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the skies 
 
 Of the soft blue summer day ; 
 It is traced on sunset's dyes — 
 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the trees, 
 
 As their young leaves glistening play, 
 And on brighter things than these — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the brow, 
 
 Where the spirit's ardent ray 
 Lives, bums, and triumphs now — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the heart, 
 Alas ! that there Decay 
 Should claim from Love a part — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 Friends ! friends ! — oh ! shaU we meet 
 
 In a land of purer day, 
 "Where lovely things and sweet 
 Pass not away ? 
 
 Shall we know each other's eyes, 
 
 And the thoughts that in them lay 
 When we mingled sympathies 
 
 "Passing away?" 
 
 Oh ! if this may be so. 
 
 Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
 How blest from earth's vain show 
 To pass away ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. — Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1445.— THE BETTEE LAND. 
 
 I hear thee speak of the better land, 
 Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
 Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 
 Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle 
 boughs ? 
 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
 Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
 And strange bright birds on their starry 
 
 wings 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious tmng^^ 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Is it far away in some region old, 
 "Wliere the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine. 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from tho coral 
 
 strand — 
 Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy, 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair. 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; 
 For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb. 
 It is there ; it is there, my child. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Bom 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1446.— A FATHEE EEADING THE 
 BIBLE. 
 
 'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd 
 
 Soft through a quiet room. 
 That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd, 
 
 StiU, but with nought of gloom. 
 For there, serene in happy age, 
 
 Whose hope is from above, 
 A Father communed with the page 
 
 Of Heaven's recorded love. 
 
 Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 
 
 On his gray holy hair, 
 And touch' d the page with tenderest hght, 
 
 As if its shrine were there ! 
 But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 
 
 With something lovelier far — 
 A radiance all the spirit's own, 
 
 Caught not from sun or star. 
 
 Some word of life e'en then had met 
 
 His calm benignant eye ; 
 Some ancient promise, breathing yet 
 
 Of Immortality ! 
 Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 
 
 Of quenchless faith survives : 
 While every feature said — " I know 
 
 That my Eedeemer lives ! " 
 
 And silent stood his children by, . 
 
 Hushing their very breath. 
 Before the solemn sanctity 
 
 Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
 Silent — yet did not each young breast 
 
 With love and reverence melt ? 
 
Mrs. Hemans.] 
 
 TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod. — 
 
 Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 
 That home where God is felt ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1447.— TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 What household thoughts around thee, as 
 
 their shrine, 
 CUng reverently ? — of anxious looks be- 
 guiled, 
 My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 
 Each day were bent — her accents gravely 
 
 mild. 
 Breathed out thy love : whilst I, a dreamy 
 
 child. 
 Wander' d on breeze-like fancies oft away. 
 To some lene tuft of gleaming spring-flowers 
 
 wild. 
 Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland 
 
 play, 
 Some secret nest : yet would the solemn 
 
 Word 
 At times, with kindlings of young wonder 
 
 heard, 
 Fall on my waken' d spirit, there to be 
 A seed not lost ; — for which, in darker 
 
 years, 
 O Book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful 
 
 tears. 
 Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1448.— THE CHILD'S FIEST GEIEF. 
 
 " Oh ! call my Brother back to me ! 
 
 I cannot play alone ; 
 The summer comes with flower and bee — 
 
 Where is my Brother gone ? 
 
 The butterfly is glancing bright 
 
 Across the sunbeam's track ; 
 I care not now to chase its flight — 
 
 Oh ! call my Brother back ! 
 
 The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd 
 
 Around our garden tree ; 
 Our vine is drooping with its load — ■ 
 
 Oh ! call him back to me !" 
 
 " He could not hear thy voice, fair child, 
 
 He may not come to thee ; 
 The face that once like spring-time smiled 
 
 On earth no more thou'lt see. 
 
 A rose's brief bright life of joy, 
 
 Such unto him was given ; 
 Go — thou must play alone, my boy ! 
 
 Thy Brother is in heaven !" 
 
 " And has he left his birds and flowers, 
 
 And must I call in vain ? 
 And, through the long, long summer hours, 
 
 Will he not come again ? 
 
 And by the brook, and in the glade, 
 
 Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
 Oh ! while my Brother with me play'd. 
 
 Would I had loved him more." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1449.— WILLOW SONG. 
 
 Willow ! in thy breezy moan 
 
 I can hear a deeper tone ; 
 
 Through thy leaves come whispering low 
 
 Faint sweet sounds of long ago — 
 
 Willow, sighing willow I 
 
 Many a mournful tale of old 
 Heart-sick Love to thee hath told. 
 Gathering from thy golden bough 
 Leaves to cool his burning brow — 
 
 Willow, sighing willow 1 
 
 Many a swan-like song to thee 
 
 Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; 
 
 Many a lute its last lament 
 
 Down thy moonlight stream hath sent — 
 
 Willow, sigliing willow I 
 
 Therefore, wave and murmur on. 
 Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
 And for tuneful voices fled. 
 And for Love, whose heart hath bled. 
 
 Ever, willow, willow ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
 1450.— THE WANDERING WIND. 
 
 The Wind, the wandering Wind 
 
 Of the golden summer eves — 
 Whence is the thrilling magic 
 
 Of its tones amongst the leaves ? 
 Oh ! is it from the waters, 
 
 Or from the long, tall grass ? 
 Or is it from the hollow rocks 
 
 Through which its breathings pass ? 
 
 Or is it from the voices 
 
 Of all in one combined. 
 That it wins the tone of mastery ? 
 
 The Wind, the wondering Wind ! 
 No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 
 
 That with it come and go. 
 They are not from the osiers. 
 
 Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 
 
 They are not of the waters. 
 
 Nor of the cavern' d hill ; 
 'Tis the human love within us 
 
 That gives them power to thrill : 
 They touch the links of memory 
 
 Around our spirits twined. 
 And we start, and weep, and tremble, 
 
 To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 [Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 145 1. —THE LANDING OF THE PILGEIM 
 FATHEES in NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The breaking waves dash'd high 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 Their giant branches toss'd ; 
 
 And the heavy night hnug dark, 
 
 The hiUs and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 
 
 On the wild New-England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roU of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; . 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear : — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
 rang 
 To the anthem of the free ! 
 
 The ocean eagle soar'd 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — 
 
 This was their welcome home ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod. 
 They have left unstain'd what there 
 found — 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, IHed 1835. 
 
 they 
 
 1452.— THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 " Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle 
 
 child ? 
 Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild — 
 A straw-roof'd cabin, with lowly wall ; 
 Mine is a fair and pillar' d hall, 
 Where many an image of marble gleams, 
 A.nd the sunshine of pictures for ever streams." 
 
 " Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers 
 play, 
 
 Through the long bright hours of the sum- 
 mer's day ; 
 
 They find the red cup-moss where they climb. 
 
 And they chase the bee o'er the scented 
 thyme, _ 
 
 And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 
 they know : 
 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 " Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell ; 
 Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest 
 
 well : 
 Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
 Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
 And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
 Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain 
 
 heard." 
 
 " Oh ! my mother sings at the twilight's fall, 
 A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
 She sings it under our own green tree 
 To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
 I dreamt last night of that music low — 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 " Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest ; 
 She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
 Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no 
 
 more. 
 Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
 Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
 And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest 
 
 dye." 
 
 " Is my mother gone from her home away ? — 
 But I know that my brothers are there at 
 
 play— 
 I know they are gathering the fox-glove's 
 
 bell, 
 Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
 Or they launch their boats where the bright 
 
 streams flow — 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 " Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now ; 
 They sport no more on the mountain's brow; 
 They have left the fern by the spring's green 
 
 side. 
 And the streams where the fairy barks were 
 
 tied. 
 Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
 For the cabin home is a lonely spot." 
 
 " Are they gone, all gone from the sunny 
 
 hill ?— 
 But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it 
 
 still ; 
 And the red-deer bound in their gladness free. 
 And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
 And the waters leap, and the fresh winds bio w 
 Lady, kind lady ' 0, let me go." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.— Born 1793, Died 1835, 
 
Bernard Barton.] 
 
 POWER AND GENTLENESS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 I453._P0WER AND GENTLENESS, OR 
 THE CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET. 
 
 Noble the mountain stream, 
 Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground ; 
 
 Glory is in its gleam 
 Of brightness — thunder in its deafening 
 sound! 
 
 Mark, how its foamy spray, 
 Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes, 
 
 Mimics the bow of day 
 Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ; 
 
 Thence, in a summer-shower, 
 Steeping the rocks around — ! tell me where 
 
 Could majesty and power 
 Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair ? 
 
 Yet lovelier, in my view, 
 The streamlet flowing silently serene ; 
 
 Traced by the brighter hue, 
 And livelier growth it gives — itself unseen ! 
 
 It flows through flowery meads, 
 Gladdening the herds which on its margin 
 browse ; 
 
 Its quiet beauty feeds 
 The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. 
 
 Gently it murmurs by 
 The village churchyard : its low, plaintive 
 tone, 
 
 A dirge-like melody. 
 For worth and beauty modest as its own. 
 
 More gaily now it sweeps 
 By the small school-house in the sun-shine 
 bright ; 
 
 And o'er the pebbles leaps, 
 Like happy hearts by holiday made light. 
 
 May not its course express. 
 In characters which they who run may read. 
 
 The charms of gentleness. 
 Were but its still small voice allow'd to plead ? 
 
 What are the trophies gain'd 
 By power, alone, with aU its noise and strife. 
 
 To that meek wreath, unstain'd, 
 Won by the charities that gladden life ? 
 
 Niagara's streams might fail. 
 And human happiness be undisturb'd : 
 
 But Egypt would turn pale. 
 Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curb'd I 
 
 Bernard Barton. — Born 1784, IHed 1849. 
 
 1454.— TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
 
 Fair flower that shunn'st the glare of day, 
 Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold, 
 
 To evening's hues of sober gray, 
 The cup of paly gold ; 
 
 Be thine the offering owing long 
 To thee, and to this pensive hour, 
 
 Of one brief tributary song. 
 Though transient as thy flower. 
 
 I love to watch, at silent eve. 
 
 Thy scatter' d blossoms' lonely light, 
 
 And have my inmost heart receive 
 The influence of that sight. 
 
 I love at such an hour to mark 
 
 Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill. 
 And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark, 
 
 The garden's glory still. 
 
 For such, 'tis sweet to think the while. 
 When cares and griefs the breast invade, 
 
 Is friendship's animating smile 
 In sorrow's dark'ning shade. 
 
 Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup, 
 Glist'ning amid its dewy tears. 
 
 And bears the sinking spirit up 
 Amid its chilling fears. 
 
 But still more animating far, 
 
 If meek Religion's eye may trace, 
 
 Even in thy glimmering earth-bom star, 
 The holier hope of Grace. 
 
 The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom 
 Expands to glad the close of day, 
 
 So through the shadows of the tomb 
 May break forth Mercy's ray. 
 
 Bema/rd Barton. — Born 1784, Died 1849. 
 
 1455.— THERE BE THOSE. 
 
 There be those who sow beside 
 The waters that in silence glide, 
 Trusting no echo will declare 
 Whose footsteps ever wander'd there. 
 
 The noiseless footsteps pass away. 
 The stream flows on as yesterday ; 
 Nor can it for a time be seen 
 A benefactor there had been. 
 
 Yet think not that the seed is dead 
 Which in the lonely place is spread ; 
 It lives, it lives — the Spring is nigh, 
 And soon its life shall testify. 
 
 That silent stream, that desert ground, 
 No more unlovely shall be found ; 
 But scatter'd flowers of simplest grace 
 Shall spread their beauty round the place. 
 
 And soon or late a time will come 
 When witnesses, that now are dumb. 
 With grateful eloquence shall tell 
 From whom the seed, there scatter'd, fell. 
 
 Bernard Barton. — Born 1784, Died 1849. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE SOLITAEY TOMB. 
 
 [Bernard Bakton. 
 
 1456.— NOT OUES THE VOWS. 
 
 Not ours the vows of such as plight 
 
 Their troth in sunny weather, 
 While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
 
 To walk on flowers together. 
 
 But we have loved as those who tread 
 
 The thorny path of sorrow. 
 With clouds above, and cause to dread 
 
 Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 
 
 That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
 Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 
 
 And render'd us, by sorrow's ties, 
 Each to the other dearer. 
 
 Love, bom in hours of joy and mirth, 
 With mirth and joy may perish ; 
 
 That to which darker hours gave birth 
 Still more and more we cherish. 
 
 It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
 And through death's shadowy portal ; 
 
 Made by adversity sublime, 
 By faith and hope immortal. 
 
 Bernard Bwrton. — Born 1784, Died 1849. 
 
 i457._STANZAS ON THE SEA. 
 
 Oh ! I shall not forget, until memory depart, 
 When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart ; 
 The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole 
 
 o'er me, 
 Wlien its billowy boundlessness open'd before 
 
 me. 
 As I stood on its margin, or roam'd on its 
 
 strand, 
 I felt new ideas within me expand, 
 Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour. 
 And my spirit was mute in the presence of 
 
 power ! 
 In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it 
 
 round, 
 In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's 
 
 rebound, 
 In its white-drifted foam, and its dark -heaving 
 
 green, 
 Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty was 
 
 seen. 
 And thus, while I wander' d on ocean's bleak 
 
 shore, 
 And survey'd its vast surface, and heard its 
 
 waves roar, 
 I seem'd wrapt in a dream of romantic delight, 
 And haunted by majesty, glory, and might ! 
 
 Bernard Barton. — Bom 1784, Died 1849. 
 
 1458.— THE SOLITAEY TOMB. 
 
 Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me 
 was stirr'd, 
 Though a breath might have moved it so 
 lightly; 
 
 Not a farewell note from a sweet singing bird 
 Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly. 
 
 The sky was cloudless and calm, except 
 
 In the west, where the sun was descending ; 
 
 And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, 
 As his beams with their beanty were 
 blending. 
 
 And the evening star, with its ray so clear, 
 
 So tremulous, soft, and tender. 
 Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its 
 sphere 
 
 Its dewy dehghtful splendour. 
 
 And I stood all alone on that gentle hill, 
 With a landscape so lovely before me ; 
 
 And its spirit and tone, so serene and still, 
 Seem'd silently gathering o'er me. 
 
 Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood 
 By its winding banks was sweeping ; 
 
 And just at the foot of the hill where I stood 
 The dead in their damp graves were sleepiag. 
 
 How lonely and lovely their resting-place 
 seem'd ! 
 An enclosure which care could not enter ; 
 And how sweetly the gray lights of evening 
 gleam 'd 
 On the solitary tomb in its centre ! 
 
 When at morn or at eve I have wander'd near, 
 
 And in various lights have view'd it. 
 With what difi'ering forms, unto friendship 
 
 Has the magic of fancy endued it ! 
 
 Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail, 
 A white spot on the emerald billow ; 
 
 Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale, 
 Stretch' d in peace on its verdant pillow. 
 
 But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife, 
 Has it ever given birth to one minute ; 
 
 For lamented in death, as beloved in life, 
 Was he who now slumbers within it. 
 
 He was one who in youth on the stormy seas 
 Was a far and a fearless ranger ; 
 
 Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the 
 breeze, 
 Counted lightly of death or of danger. 
 
 Yet in this rude school had his heart still 
 kept 
 All the freshness of gentle feeling ; 
 Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever 
 slept 
 More of softness and kindness reveahng. 
 
 And here, when the bustle of youth was past. 
 He lived, and he loved, and he died too ; 
 
 Oh ! why was affection, which death could 
 outlast, 
 A more lengthen' d enjoyment denied to 
 
Bernard Barton.] 
 
 BISHOP HUBEET. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 But here he slumbers ! and many there are 
 Who love that lone tomb and revere it ; 
 
 And one far off who, hke eve's dewy star, 
 Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it. 
 
 Berna/rd Barton. — Bom 1784, Died 1849. 
 
 1459- 
 
 -BISHOP HUBEET. 
 
 'Tis the hour of even now, 
 
 When, with pensive, thoughtful brow. 
 
 Seeking truths as yet unknown. 
 
 Bishop Hubert walks alone. 
 
 Eain would he, by earnest thought, 
 
 Nature's secret laws be taught ; 
 
 Learn the destinies of man. 
 
 And Creation's wonders scan. 
 
 From these data he would trace 
 
 Hidden mysteries of grace, 
 
 Dive into a deeper theme, 
 
 Solve Eedemption's glorious scheme. 
 
 So he flings aside to-day 
 
 Mitre's pomp and crozier's sway, 
 
 Seeks the desert's silent scene 
 
 And the marge of ocean green. 
 
 Far he has not roam'd before, 
 
 On that soHtary shore, 
 
 He has found a little child. 
 
 By its seeming play beguiled. 
 
 On the drifted, barren sand 
 
 It has scoop'd, with baby hand. 
 
 Small recess, in wliich might float 
 
 Sportive Fairy's tiny boat. 
 
 From a hollow shell, the while, 
 
 See ! 'tis filling, with a smile. 
 
 Pool, as shallow as may be. 
 
 With the waters of the sea. 
 
 Hear the smihng Bishop ask, 
 
 What can mean such infant task ? 
 
 Mark that infant's answer plain : 
 
 " 'Tis to hold yon mighty main ! " 
 
 *' Foolish trifler," Hubert cries, 
 
 " Open, if thou canst, thine eyes. 
 
 Can a shallow scoop'd by thee 
 
 Hope to hold yon boundless sea ? 
 
 Know'st thou not its space transcends 
 
 All thy fancy comprehends ? 
 
 Ope thy childish eyes, and know 
 
 Fathomless its depths below." 
 
 Soon that child, on ocean's brim, 
 
 Opes its eyes, and turns to Him ! . 
 
 Well does Hubert read its look — 
 
 Glance of innocent rebuke ; 
 
 While a voice is heard to say : 
 
 " If the pool, thus scoop'd in play. 
 
 Cannot hold yon mighty sea, 
 
 Vain must thy researches be. 
 
 Canst thou hope to make thine own 
 
 Secrets known to God alone ? 
 
 Can thy faculties confined 
 
 Fathom the Eternal Mind ? " 
 
 Bishop Hubert turns away ; 
 
 He has learnt enough to-day — 
 
 Learnt how little man can know 
 
 While a pilgrim here below. 
 
 Bernard Barton. — Born 1784, DiecZ 1349. 
 
 1460.— FEOM THE IMPEOVISATEICE. 
 
 I loved him as young Genius loves, 
 
 When its own wild and radiant heaven 
 Of starry thought burns with the light. 
 
 The love, the life, by passion given. 
 I loved him, too, as woman loves — 
 
 Eeckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : 
 Life had no evil destiny 
 
 That, with him, I could not have borne ! 
 I had been nursed in palaces ; 
 
 Yeb earth had not a spot so drear. 
 That I should not have thought a home 
 
 In Paradise, had he been near ! 
 How sweet it would have been to dwell. 
 Apart from all, in some green dell 
 Of sunny beauty, leaves, and flowers ; 
 And nestling birds to sing the hours 1 
 Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade, 
 But of the woven branches made : 
 Our vesper hymn, the low wone wail 
 The rose hears from the nightingale ; 
 And waked at morning by the call 
 Of music from a waterfall. 
 But not alone in dreams like this. 
 Breathed in the very hope of bliss, 
 I loved : my love had been the same 
 In hush'd despair, in open shame. 
 I would have rather been a slave, 
 
 In tears, in bondage by his side, 
 Than shared in all, if wanting him. 
 
 This world had power to give beside ! 
 My heart was wither' d — and my heart 
 
 Had ever been the world to me : 
 And love had been the first fond dream, 
 
 Whose life was in reality. 
 I had sprung from my solitude. 
 
 Like a young bird upon the wing, 
 To meet the arrow ; so I met 
 
 My poison' d shaft of suffering. 
 And as that bird, with drooping crest 
 And broken wing, will seek his nest. 
 But seek in vain : so vain I sought 
 My pleasant home of song and thought. 
 There was one spell upon my brain, 
 Upon my pencil, on my strain ; 
 But one face to my colours came ; 
 My chords replied but to one name — 
 Lorenzo ! — all seem'd vow'd to thee. 
 To passion, and to misery ! 
 
 L. E. Landon.—Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1461.— CEESCENTIUS. 
 
 I look'd upon his brow — no sign 
 Of guilt or fear was there ;. 
 
■ — I 
 From 1780 to 1866.] LITTLE EED EIDING HOOD. [L. E. Landon. 
 
 He stood as proud by tliat death-shrine 
 
 Of the future dreaming. 
 
 As even o'er despair 
 
 Weary of the past, 
 
 He had a power ; in his eye 
 
 For the present scheming — 
 
 There was a quenchless energy, 
 
 AH but what thou hast. 
 
 A spirit that could dare 
 
 
 The deadliest form that death could take, 
 
 No, thou art delighting 
 
 And dare it for the daring's sake. 
 
 In thy summer home ; ~" 
 
 
 Where the flowers inviting 
 
 He stood, the fetters on his hand, 
 
 • Tempt the bee to roam ; 
 
 He raised them haughtily ; 
 
 Where the cowslip, bending 
 
 And had that grasp been on the brand, 
 
 With its golden bells. 
 
 It could not wave on high 
 
 Of each glad hour's ending 
 
 With freer pride than it waved now ; 
 
 With a sweet chime tells. 
 
 Around he look'd with changeless brow 
 
 
 On many a torture nigh ; 
 
 All wild creatures love him 
 
 The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 
 
 When he is alone ; 
 
 And, worst of all, his own red steel. 
 
 Every bird above him 
 
 
 Sings its softest tone. 
 
 I saw him once before ; he rode 
 
 Thankful to high Heaven, 
 
 Upon a coal-black steed, 
 
 Humble in thy joy. 
 
 And tens of thousands throng'd the road. 
 
 Much to thee is given, 
 
 And bade their warrior speed. 
 
 Lowly shepherd boy. 
 
 His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, 
 And graved with many dint, that told 
 
 L. E. Lcmdon.—Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 Of many a soldier's deed ; 
 
 
 The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 
 
 
 
 And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 
 
 
 But now he stood chain'd and alone, 
 
 1463.— LI'i'l'LE EED EIDING HOOD. 
 
 The headsman by his side, 
 
 
 The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; 
 
 Come back, come back together. 
 
 The sword, which had defied 
 
 All ye fancies of the past, 
 
 The mightiest, lay broken near ; 
 
 Ye days of April weather, 
 
 And yet no sign or sound of fear 
 
 Ye shadows that are cast 
 
 Came from that lip of pride ; 
 
 By the haunted hours before ! 
 
 And never king or conqueror's brow 
 
 Come back, come back, my Childhood ; 
 
 Wore higher look than did his now. 
 
 Thou art summon' d by a spell 
 
 
 From the green leaves of the wildwood. 
 
 He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 
 
 From beside the charmed well, 
 
 With an uncover' d eye ; 
 
 For Eed Eiding Hood, the darhng, 
 
 A wild shout from the numbers broke 
 
 The flower of fairy lore ! 
 
 Who throng'd to see him die. 
 
 
 It was a people's loud acclaim. 
 
 The fields were cover'd over 
 
 The voice of anger and of shame. 
 
 With colours as she went ; 
 
 A nation's funeral cry, 
 
 Daisy, buttercup, and clover 
 
 Eiome's wail above her only son, 
 
 Below her footsteps bent ; 
 
 Her patriot and her latest one. 
 
 Summer shed its shining store ; 
 
 L. E. Landon.— Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 She was happy as she press'd them 
 Beneath her little feet ; 
 
 
 She pluck' d them and caress' d them ; 
 They were so very sweet. 
 
 
 
 They had never seem'd so sweet before. 
 
 1462.— THE SHEPHEED BOY. 
 
 To Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 
 
 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Like some vision olden 
 
 
 Of far other time. 
 
 How the heart of childhood dances 
 
 When the age was golden, 
 
 Upon a sunny day ! 
 
 In the young world's prime. 
 
 It has its own romances. 
 
 Is thy soft pipe ringing. 
 
 And a wide, wide world have they ! 
 
 lonely shepherd boy : 
 
 A world where Phantasie is king, 
 
 Y\7^hat song art thou singing. 
 
 Made all of eager dreaming ; 
 
 In thy youth and joy ? 
 
 When once grown up and tall — 
 
 
 Now is the time for scheming — 
 
 Or art thou complaining 
 
 Then we shall do them all ! 
 
 Of thy lonely lot. 
 
 Do such pleasant fancies spring 
 
 And thine own disdaining. 
 
 For Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 
 
 Dost ask what thou hast not ? 
 
 The flower of fairy lore ? 
 
L. E. Landon.] 
 
 NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 She seems like an ideal love, 
 
 The poetry of childhood shown, 
 And yet loved with a real love, 
 
 As if she were our own — 
 
 A younger sister for the heart ; 
 Like the woodland pheasant, 
 
 Her hair is brown and bright ; 
 And her smile is pleasant, 
 
 With its rosy light, 
 
 Never can the memory part 
 With Red Eiding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Did the painter, drea mi ng 
 
 In a morning hour, 
 
 Catch the fairy seeming 
 
 Of this fairy flower ? 
 
 Winning it with eager eyes 
 From the old enchanted stories. 
 Lingering with a long delight 
 On the unf orgotten glories 
 Of the infant sight ? 
 
 Giving us a sweet surprise 
 In Eed Eiding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore ! 
 
 Too long in the meadow staying. 
 
 Where the cowslip bends, 
 With the buttercups delaying 
 As with early friends. 
 
 Did the little maiden stay. 
 Sorrowful the tale for us ; 
 " We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers, 
 A little while so glorious. 
 
 So soon lost in darker hours. 
 
 All love lingering on their way. 
 Like Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 L. E. Landon.—Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 Hurried and anxious, my vex'd life has 
 
 And memory wears a soft accusing brow. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I thiiik of you ? 
 
 The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 
 Athwart the shadowy sails that swell 
 above ; 
 I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them 
 
 At the same moment with a mutual love. 
 They shine not there, as here they now are 
 shining ; 
 The very hours are changed. — Ah, do ye 
 ,p 
 
 1464.— NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 
 Has vanish'd from the waters, where it 
 • flung 
 A royal colour, such as gems are throwing 
 
 Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
 'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming. 
 Thro' the slight vapour trembles each dim 
 star ; 
 I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 
 Of scenes they do not hght, of scenes afar. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping, 
 Farther am I from old dear friends removed j 
 TOl the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 
 I did not know how much you were be- 
 loved. 
 How m.any acts of kindness little heeded. 
 Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproach- 
 ful now ! 
 
 O'er each home pillow midnight is declining- 
 May some kind dream at least my image 
 keep ! 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Yesterday has a charm. To-day could never 
 Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till 
 it parts 
 How it turns back with tenderest endeavour 
 To fix the past within the heart of hearts. 
 Absence is full of memory, it teaches 
 
 The value of all old familiar things ; 
 The strengthener of affection, while it reaches 
 O'er the dark parting, with an angel's 
 wings. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 The world, with one vast element omitted — 
 
 Man's own especial element, the earth ; 
 Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
 By that great knowledge whence has power 
 its birth. 
 How oft on some strange loveliness while 
 gazing 
 Have I wish'd for you — beautiful as new, 
 The purple waves like some ynld army raising 
 Their snowy banners as the ship cuts 
 through. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Bearing upon its w^ings the hues of morning. 
 Up springs the flying fish like life's false 
 joy, 
 Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning 
 
 Whose very light is fated to destroy. 
 Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion 
 Spring from the depths of an unkindly 
 world ; 
 So spring sweet fancies from the heart's 
 dominion — 
 Too soon in death the scorch' d-up wing is 
 furl'd. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Whate'er I see is link'd with thoughts 
 of you. 
 
 No life is in the air, but in the waters 
 
 Are creatures, huge, and terrible and 
 strong ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. 
 
 [L. E. Landon. 
 
 The sword-fish and the shark pursue their 
 slaughters, 
 War universal reigns these depths along, 
 like some new island on the ocean springing, 
 Floats on the surface some gigantic whale. 
 From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, 
 Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 I read such fairy legends while with 
 you. 
 
 Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading. 
 
 The moon is whitening the dusky sails, 
 From the thick bank of clouds she masters, 
 shedding 
 The softest influence that o'er night pre- 
 vails. 
 Pale is she like a young queen pale with 
 splendour, 
 Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, 
 too deep ; 
 The very glory that she wears is tender, 
 The very eyes that watch her beauty fain 
 would weep. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning 
 Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling 
 eyes; 
 The spirits mount to glad endeavour, scorning 
 
 What toil upon a path so sunny Ues. 
 Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their 
 weather 
 Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 
 But memory and moonhght go together, 
 Eeflected in the light that either brings. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you thmk of me, then ? I think 
 of you. 
 
 The busy deck is hush'd, no sounds are waking 
 
 But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 
 The waves against the sides incessant break- 
 ing, 
 And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. 
 Tlie topmast- sail, it seems like some dim pin- 
 nacle 
 Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; 
 While red and fitful gleams come from the 
 binnacle, 
 The 'only light on board to guide us — 
 where ? 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Far from my native land, and far from 
 you. 
 
 On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's 
 shimmer 
 In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea. 
 But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale 
 glimmer 
 Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves 
 to be. 
 
 1 All that the spirit keeps of thought and 
 I feeling, 
 
 I Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; 
 
 But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing, 
 I start — remembrance has a keener power : 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 From the fair dream I start to think of 
 you. 
 
 A dusk line in the moonlight — I discover 
 
 What all day long vainly I sought to catch ; 
 Or is it but the varying clouds that hover 
 
 Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that 
 watch ? 
 No : well the sailor knows each speck, ap- 
 pearing. 
 
 Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; 
 To that dark line our eager ship is steering. 
 
 Her voyage done — to-morrow we shall land. 
 
 L. E. Landon.— Bom 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1465.— THE AWAKENING OF 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees waihng 
 roxmd him, 
 Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth 
 is laid ; 
 Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound 
 hhn. 
 Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, 
 is undecay'd. 
 
 When Avill he awaken ? 
 
 When will he awaken? a loud voice hath 
 been crying 
 Night after night, and the cry has been in 
 vain; 
 Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for 
 replying. 
 But the tones of the beloved ones were 
 never heard again. 
 
 When will he awaken ? 
 Ask'd the midnight's silver queen. 
 
 Never mortal eye has look'd upon his sleep- 
 ing; 
 Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourn' d 
 for him as dead ; 
 By day the gather' d clouds have had him in 
 their keeping, 
 And at night the solemn shadows round his 
 rest are shed. 
 
 When will he awaken ? 
 
 Long has been the cry of faithful Love's im- 
 ploring ; 
 Long has Hope been watching with soft 
 eyes fix'd above ; 
 When will the Fates, the life of life restoring, 
 Own themselves vanquish'd by much- 
 enduring Love ? 
 
 When will he awaken ? 
 Asks the midnight's weary queen. 
 
L 'E. Landon.] 
 
 HANNIBAL'S OATH. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Beautiful the sleep that she has watch' d 
 untiring, 
 Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant 
 sky, 
 Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, 
 Soften'd by a woman's meek and loving 
 sigh. 
 
 When will he awaken ? 
 
 He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 
 And the Poet's world has enter' d in his 
 soul; 
 He has grown conscious of life's ancestral 
 
 glories, 
 When sages and when kings first upheld the 
 mind's control. 
 
 When wiU he awaken ? 
 Asks the midnight's stately queen. 
 
 Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour 
 is fated ! 
 It is Endymion's planet that rises on the 
 air; 
 How long, how tenderly his goddess love has 
 waited, 
 Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
 Soon he will awaken. 
 
 Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, 
 Tones that seem the lute's from the breath- 
 ing flowers depart ; 
 Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos 
 but is bringing 
 Music that is murmur' d from Nature's 
 inmost heart. 
 
 Soon he will awaken 
 To his and midnight's queen ! 
 
 Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the 
 hour is holy ; 
 Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal 
 joy; 
 Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
 slowly 
 O'er the fair and sculptured forehead ' of 
 that yet dreaming boy. 
 
 Soon he will awaken ! 
 
 Eed as the red rose towards the morning 
 turning, 
 Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's 
 near his own ; 
 While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and 
 burning 
 With a life more glorious than, ere they 
 closed, was known. 
 
 Yes, he has awaken'd 
 For the midnight's happy queen ! 
 
 What is this old history, but a lesson given. 
 How true love still conquers by the deep 
 strength of truth — 
 How all the impulses, whose native home is 
 heaven. 
 Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and 
 youth ? 
 
 'Tis for such they waken ! 
 
 When every worldly thought is utterly for- 
 saken. 
 Comes the starry midnight, felt by |^iife's 
 gifted few ; 
 Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep 
 awaken 
 To a being more intense, more spiritual, 
 and true. 
 
 So doth the soul awaken, 
 Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 
 
 L. E. Lomdon.—Bom 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1466.— HANNIBAL'S OATH. 
 
 And the night was dark and calm. 
 There was not a breath of air ; 
 
 The leaves of the grove were still. 
 
 As the presence of death was there ; — 
 
 Only a moaning sound 
 
 Came from the distant sea ; 
 It was as if, like life, 
 
 It had no tranquillity. 
 
 A warrior and a child 
 
 Pass'd through the sacred wood, 
 Which, like a mystery. 
 
 Around the temple stood. 
 
 The warrior's brow was worn 
 
 With the weight of casque and plume. 
 And sun-burnt was his cheek, 
 
 And his eye and brow were gloom. 
 
 The child was young and fair. 
 But the forehead large and high, 
 
 And the dark eyes' flashing light 
 Seem'd to feel their destiny. 
 
 They enter'd in the temple. 
 
 And stood before the shrine ; 
 It stream'd with the victim's blood, 
 
 With incense and with wine. 
 
 The ground rock'd beneath their feet. 
 
 The thunder shook the dome ; 
 But the boy stood firm, and swore 
 
 Eternal hate to Eome. 
 
 There's a page in history 
 
 O'er which tears of blood were wept, 
 And that page is the record 
 
 How that oath of hate was kept. 
 
 L. E. Landon.— Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1467.— THE GEASP OF THE DEAD. 
 
 'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale 
 moon 
 Look'd down on the dead and dying ; 
 And the wind pass'd o'er with a dirge and a 
 wail, 
 Where the young and brave were lying. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LAST VEESES OF L. E. L. 
 
 [L. E. Landon. 
 
 With his father's sword in his red right hand, 
 And the hostile dead around him, 
 
 Lay a youthful chief: but his bed ^as the 
 ground, 
 And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. 
 
 A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, 
 Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking. 
 
 Careless he stept, where friend and foe 
 Lay aUke in their life-blood reeking. 
 
 Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword. 
 
 The soldier paused beside it : 
 He wrench' d the hand with a giant's strength, 
 
 But the grasp of the dead defied it. 
 
 He loosed his hold, and his English heart 
 Took part with the dead before him ; 
 
 And he honour' d the brave who died sword in 
 hand. 
 As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him. 
 
 " A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, 
 
 A soldier's grave won by it : 
 Before I would take that sword from thine 
 hand. 
 
 My own life's blood should dye it. 
 
 Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, 
 Or the wolf to batten o'er thee ; 
 
 Or the coward insult the gallant dead. 
 Who m life hath trembled before thee." 
 
 Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, 
 Where his warrior foe was sleeping ; 
 
 And he laid him there in honour and rest, 
 With his sword in his own brave keeping ! 
 
 L. E. Landon.— Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1468.— THE TROUBADOUE. 
 
 He raised the golden cup from the board, 
 It sparkled with purple wealth, 
 
 He kiss'd the brim her lip had prest, 
 And drank to his ladye's health. 
 
 Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name. 
 To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine ; 
 
 Ever the smile of beauty should light 
 The victor's blood-red wine. 
 
 There are some flowers of brightest bloom 
 
 Amid thy beautiful hair. 
 Give me those roses, they shall be 
 
 The favour I will wear. 
 
 For ere their colour is wholly gone. 
 Or the breath of their sweetness fled, 
 
 They shall be placed in thy curls again, 
 But dyed of a deeper red. 
 
 The warrior rode forth in the morning light. 
 And beside his snow-white plume 
 
 Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew. 
 Like pearls on their crimson bloom. 
 
 The maiden stood on her highest tower, 
 
 And watch'd her knight depart ; 
 She dash'd her tear aside, but her hand 
 
 Might not still her beating heart. 
 
 AU day she watch'd the distant clouds 
 
 Float on the distant air, 
 A crucifix upon her neck. 
 
 And on her lips a prayer. 
 
 The sun went down, and twilight came 
 With her banner of pearlin grey. 
 
 And then afar she saw a band 
 Wind down the vale their way. 
 
 They came like victors, for high o'er their 
 ranks 
 
 Were their crimson colours borne , 
 And a stranger pennon droop'd beneath, 
 
 But that was bow'd and torn. 
 
 But she saw no white steed first in the ranks. 
 
 No rider that spurr'd before ; 
 But the evening shadows were closing fast, 
 
 And she could see no more. 
 
 She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower 
 
 In haste to reach the hall, 
 And as she sprang down the winding stair, 
 
 She heard the drawbridge fall. 
 
 A hundred harps their welcome rung. 
 
 Then paused, as if in fear ; 
 The ladye enter' d the hall, and^saw 
 
 Her true knight stretch'd on his bier. 
 
 L. E. Landon.— Bom 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1469.— LAST VEESES OF L. E. L. 
 
 A star has left the kindling sky— 
 
 A lovely northern Kght ; 
 How many planets are on high. 
 
 But that has left the night. 
 
 I miss its bright familiar face, 
 
 It was a friend to me ; 
 Associate with my native place. 
 
 And those beyond the sea. 
 
 It rose upon our English sky, 
 
 Shone o'er our English land, 
 And brought back many a loving eye. 
 
 And many a gentle hand. 
 
 • 
 
 It seem'd to answer to my thought. 
 
 It call'd the past to mind. 
 And with its welcome presence brought 
 
 AU I had left behind. 
 
 The voyage it lights no longer ends 
 
 Soon OQ a foreign shore ; 
 How can I but recall the friends 
 
 That I may see no more ? 
 
Joanna Baillie ] 
 
 ADDEESS TO MISS AGNES BAILLIE. [Seventh Period.- 
 
 Fresh from the pain it was to part — 
 
 How could I bear the pain ? 
 Yet strong the omen in my heart 
 
 That says — ^We meet again. 
 
 Meet with a deeper, dearer love ; 
 
 For absence shows the worth 
 Of an from which we then remove, 
 
 Friends, home, and native earth. 
 
 Thou l©vely polar star, mine eyes 
 
 Still turn'd the first on thee. 
 Till I have felt a sad surprise. 
 
 That none look'd up with me. 
 
 But thou hast sunk upon the wave. 
 Thy radiant place unknown ; 
 
 I seem to stand beside a grave. 
 And stand by it alone. 
 
 Farewell ! ah, would to me were given 
 
 A power upon thy light ! 
 What words upon our English heaven 
 
 Thy loving rays should write ! 
 
 Kind messages of love and hope - 
 
 Upon thy rays should be ; 
 Thy shining orbit should have scope 
 
 Scarcely enough for me. 
 
 Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond, 
 
 And little needed too ; 
 My friends ! I need not look beyond 
 
 My heart to look for you. 
 
 L. E. Landon.—Born 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1470.— ADDEESS TO MISS AGNES 
 BAILLIE ON HEE BIETHDAY. 
 
 Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with 
 
 tears 
 O'er us have glided almost sixty years 
 Since we on Both well's bonny braes were 
 
 seen 
 By those whose eyes long closed in death ha,VG 
 
 been — 
 Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop' d to gather 
 The slender harebell on the purple heather ; 
 No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem. 
 That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. 
 Then every butterfly that cross'd our view 
 With joyful shout was greeted as it flew ; 
 And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright, 
 In sheeny gold, were each a wonci'ous sight. 
 Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side, 
 AmoEg the sunny shallows of the Clyde, 
 Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin. 
 Swimming in mazy rings the pool within. 
 A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent. 
 Seen in the power of early wonderment. 
 
 A long perspective to my mind appears. 
 Looking behind me to that line of years ; 
 
 And yet through every stage I still can trace 
 Thy vision' d form, from childhood's morning 
 
 grace 
 To woman's early bloom — changing, how 
 
 soon! 
 To the expressive glow of woman's noon ; 
 And now to what thou art, in comely age, 
 Active and ardent. Let what will engage 
 Thy present moment — whether hopeful seeds 
 In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds 
 From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore 
 In chronicle or legend rare explore, 
 Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play, 
 Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way 
 To gain with hasty steps some cottage door. 
 On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor — 
 Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye 
 Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by. 
 Though oft of patience brief and temper 
 
 Well may it please me, in life's later scene. 
 To think what now thou art and long to me 
 hast been. 
 
 'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look 
 Upon the page of printed book. 
 That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address 
 Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness. 
 When all too old become with bootless haste 
 In fitful sports the precious time to waste. 
 Thy love of tale and story was the stroke 
 At which my dormant fancy first awoke, 
 And ghosts and witches in my busy brain 
 Arose in sombre show a motley train. 
 This new-found path attempting, proud was I 
 Lurking approval on thy face to spy, 
 Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, 
 '•' What ! is this story all thine own inven- 
 tion ? " 
 
 Then, as advancing through this mortal span. 
 
 Our intercourse with the mix'd world began ; 
 j Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy 
 I (A truth that from my youthful vanity 
 I Lay not conceal' d) did for the sisters twain, 
 
 Where'er we went, the greater favour gain ; 
 
 While, but 'for thee, vex'd with its tossing 
 I tide, 
 
 j I from the busy world had shrunk aside. 
 I And now, in later years, with better grace, 
 ! Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place 
 j With those whom nearer neighbourhood have 
 I made 
 
 The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. 
 
 With thee my humours, whether gi-ave or 
 
 gay, 
 Or gracious or untoward, have their way. 
 Silent if dull — oh, precious privilege ! — 
 I sit by thee ; or if, cull'd from the page 
 Of some huge ponderous tome which, but 
 
 thyself. 
 None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf, 
 Thou read'st me curious passages to speed 
 The winter night, I take but little heed. 
 And thankless say, " I cannot listen now," 
 'Tis no offence ; albeit, much do I owe 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 [Joanna Baillie. 
 
 To these, thy nightly offerings of affection, 
 Drawn from thy ready talent for selection ; 
 For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift 
 The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift. 
 
 By daily use and circumstance endear' d, 
 Things are of value now that once appear' d 
 Of no account, and without notice pass'd. 
 Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast ; 
 To hear thy morning steps the stair descend- 
 in?, 
 Thy voice with other sounds domestic blend- 
 ing; 
 After each stated nightly absence, met 
 To see thee by the morning table set, 
 Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream 
 Which sends from saucer' d cup its fragrant 
 
 steam : 
 To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand. 
 On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand 
 For garden- work prepared; in winter's gloom 
 From thy cold noonday walk to see thee 
 
 come, 
 In furry garment lapt, with spatter' d feet, 
 And by the fire resume thy wonted seat ; 
 Ay, even o'er things like these soothed age has 
 
 thrown 
 A sober charm they did not always own — 
 As winter hoarfrost makes minutest spray 
 Of bush or hedgeweed sparkle to the day 
 In magnitude and beauty, which, bereaved 
 Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived. 
 
 The change of good and evil to abide, 
 As partners link'd, long have we, side by 
 
 side. 
 Our earthly journey held ; and who can say 
 How near the end of our united way ? 
 By nature's course not distant ; sad and 'reft 
 Will she remain — the lonely pilgrim left. 
 If thou art taken first, who can to me 
 Like sister, friend, and home-companion be ? 
 Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn. 
 Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall 
 
 mourn? 
 And if I should be fated first to leave 
 This earthly house, though gentle friends may 
 
 grieve, 
 And he above them all, so truly proved 
 A friend and brother, long and justly loved. 
 There is no living wight, of woman bom. 
 Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt 
 
 Thou ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling 
 The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing 
 With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing 
 The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow 
 
 caring — 
 Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day. 
 An unadorn'd, but not a careless lay. 
 Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid 
 From tardy love proceeds, though long de- 
 
 lay'd. 
 Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd, 
 The latest spoken still are deem'd the beste 
 
 Few arc the measured rhymes I now may 
 
 write ; 
 These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. — Born 1762, Bied 1851. 
 
 147 1. —THE BLACK COCK. 
 
 Good-morrow to thy sable beak, 
 And glossy plumage, dark and sleek ; 
 Thy crimson moon and azure eye — 
 Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
 I see thee slowly cowering through 
 That wiry web of silver dew. 
 That twinkles in the morning air 
 Like casement of my lady fair. 
 
 A maid there is in yonder tower, 
 Who, peeping from her early bower. 
 Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, 
 Her braided hair and morning smile. 
 The rarest things, with wayward will, 
 Beneath the covert hide them still ; 
 The rarest things, to light of day. 
 Look shortly forth and break away. 
 
 One fleeting moment of delight 
 
 I warm'd me in her cheering sight ; 
 
 And short, I ween, the time will be 
 
 That I shall parley hold with thee. 
 
 Through Snowdon's mist, red beams the day; 
 
 The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ; 
 
 The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
 
 Thou art already on the wing. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. — Bom 1762, Bied 1851. 
 
 1472.— THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 All white hung the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet 
 
 stream, 
 And pale from its banks the long icicles 
 
 gleam ; 
 The first peep of morning just peers through 
 
 the sky, 
 And here, at thy door, gentle Mary, am I. 
 
 With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of 
 
 the light, 
 The one that best loves thee stands first in thy 
 
 sight ; 
 Then welcomed, dear maid, with my gift let 
 
 me be, 
 A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee ! 
 
 Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my 
 
 part. 
 The new year before it I gave thee my heart ; 
 And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again, 
 When only this hand and a blessing remain ! 
 
 Though time should run on with his sack full 
 
 of care. 
 And wrinkle thy cheek, maid, and whiten thy 
 
 hair, 
 
 68 
 
Joanna Baillie.] 
 
 THE KITTEN. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.— 
 
 Yet still on this morn shall my offering be 
 A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee ! 
 
 Joanna Baillie. — Born 1762, Died 1851. 
 
 1473.— THE KITTEN. 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play- 
 Beguiles the rustic's closing day, 
 When drawn the evening fire about, 
 Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, 
 And child upon his three-foot stool. 
 Waiting till his supper cool ; 
 And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose. 
 As bright the blazing fagot glows, 
 Who, bending to the friendly light. 
 Plies her task with busy sleight ; 
 Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. 
 Thus circled round with merry faces. 
 
 Backward coil'd, and crouching low. 
 With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 
 The housewife's spindle whirling round. 
 Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
 Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
 Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
 Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring 
 Upon the futile, faithless thing. 
 Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, 
 Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still. 
 As oft beyond thy curving side 
 Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 
 Till, from thy centre starting fair, 
 Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air, 
 Erected stiff, and gait awry, 
 Like madam in her tantrums high : 
 Though ne'er a madam of them all, 
 Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, 
 More varied trick and whim displays. 
 To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 
 « # # # 
 
 The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, 
 To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
 Who every limb and sinew strains 
 To do what costs thee little pains ; 
 For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
 Requites him oft with plaudits loud. 
 But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play, 
 Applauses, too, thy feats repay : 
 For then beneath some urchin's hand. 
 With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, 
 Wliile many a stroke of fondness glides 
 Along thy back and tabby sides. 
 Dilated swells thy glossy fur, 
 And loudly sings thy busy pur. 
 As, timing well the equal sound, 
 Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 
 And all their harmless claws disclose, 
 Like prickles of aji early rose ; 
 While softly from thy whisker' d cheek 
 Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 
 
 But not alone by cottage-fire 
 Do rustics rude thy feats admire ; 
 The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
 The widest range of human lore. 
 
 Or, with unfetter' d fancy, fly 
 Through airy heights of poesy. 
 Pausing, smiles with alter' d air 
 To see thee climb his elbow-chair, 
 Or, struggling on the mat below, 
 Hold warfare with his slipper' d toe. 
 The widow' d dame, or lonely maid, 
 Who in the stiU but cheerless shade 
 Of home unsocial spends her age. 
 And rarely turns a letter' d page ; 
 Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
 The rounded cork, or paper-ball. 
 Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
 The ends of ravell'd skein to catch. 
 But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
 Perplexing oft her sobei skill. 
 Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
 In lonely tower or prison pent. 
 Reviews the coil of former days. 
 And loathes the world and all its ways ; 
 What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
 Doth rouse him from his moody dream, 
 Feels, as thou gambol' st round his seat. 
 His heart with pride less fiercely beat, 
 And smiles, a link in thee to find 
 That joins him still to living kind. 
 
 Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
 The magic power to charm us thus ? 
 Is it that in thy glaring eye 
 And rapid movements we descry, 
 While we at ease, secure from ill, 
 The chimney-corner snugly fill, 
 A lion, darting on the prey, 
 A tiger, at his ruthless play ? 
 Or is it, that in thee we trace, 
 With all thy varied wanton grace, 
 An emblem view'd with kindred eye, 
 Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 
 Ah ! many a lightly sportive child, 
 Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, 
 To dull and sober manhood grown. 
 With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
 Even so, poor Kit ! must thou endure, 
 When thou becomest a cat demure, 
 Full many a cuff and angry word, 
 Chid roughly from the tempting board. 
 And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 
 So oft our favour' d playmate been. 
 Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. 
 When time hath spoil' d thee of our love ; 
 Still be thou deem'd, by housewife fat, 
 A comely, careful, mousing cat, 
 "Whose dish is, for the public good, 
 Replenish' d oft with savoury food. 
 
 Nor, when thy span of life is past, 
 Be thou to pond or dunghill cast. 
 But gently borne on good man's spade. 
 Beneath the decent sod be laid, 
 And children show, with glistening eyes. 
 The place where poor old Pussy lies. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. — Born 1762, Died 1861. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE " SONGS OF ISEAEL.' 
 
 [William Knox- 
 
 1474. 
 
 -OPENING OF THE 
 ZION." 
 
 SONGS OF 
 
 Harp of Zion, pure and holy. 
 
 Pride of Judah's eastern land, 
 May a child of guilt and folly 
 
 Strike thee with a feeble hand ? 
 May I to my bosom take thee, 
 
 Trembling from the prophet's touch, 
 And with throbbing heajrt awake thee 
 
 To the strains I love so much ? 
 
 I have loved thy thrilling numbers, 
 
 Since the dawn of childhood's day; 
 Since a mother soothed my slumbers 
 
 With the cadence of thy lay ; 
 Since a little blooming sister 
 
 Clung with transport round my knee, 
 And my glowing spirit bless' d her 
 
 With a blessing caught from thee ! 
 
 Mother — sister — both are sleeping 
 
 Where no heaving hearts respire. 
 Whilst the eve of age is creeping 
 
 Bound the wdow'd spouse and sire. 
 He and his, amid their sorrow. 
 
 Find enjoyment in thy strain : 
 Harp of Zion, let me borrow 
 
 Comfort from thy chords again ! 
 
 Willimi Knox.— Born 1789, Died 1825. 
 
 1475.— DIRGE OF RACHEL. 
 
 And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land, 
 Beneath her lonelj' oak of weeping ; 
 
 With mouldering heart and -withering hand, 
 The sleep of death for ever sleeping. 
 
 The spring comes smiling down the vale, 
 The lilies and the roses bringing ; 
 
 But Rachel never more shall hail 
 
 The flowers that in the world are springing. 
 
 The summer gives his radiant day. 
 
 And Jewish dames the dance are treading ; 
 
 But Rachel on her couch of clay, 
 Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. 
 
 The autumn's ripening sunbeam shines. 
 And reapers to the field is calling ; 
 
 But Rachel's voice no longer joins 
 The choral song at twilight's falling. 
 
 The winter sends his drenching shower, 
 And sweeps liis howling blast around her ; 
 
 But eartlily storms possess no power 
 
 To break the slumber that hath bound her. 
 
 William Ki 
 
 -Born 1789, Died 1825. 
 
 1476.--A VIRTUOUS WOMAN. 
 
 Thou asketh what hath changed my heart, 
 And where hath fled my youthful folly ? 
 
 I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art 
 Hath made my spirit holy. 
 
 Her eye — as soft and blue as even, 
 
 When day and night are calmly meeting — 
 
 Beams on my heart like light from heavenj 
 And purifies its beating. 
 
 The accents fall from Tamar's lip 
 
 Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping, 
 When honey-bees all crowd to sip, 
 
 And cannot cease their sipping. 
 
 The shadowy blush that tints her cheek, 
 
 For ever coming — ever going, 
 May well the spotless fount bespeak 
 
 That sets the stream aflowing. 
 
 Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast 
 Even like the harp-string's holiest measures. 
 
 When dreams the soul of lands of rest 
 And everlasting pleasures. 
 
 Then ask not what hath changed my heart, 
 Or where hath fled my youlMul folly — 
 
 I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art 
 Hath made my spirit holy. 
 
 William Knox.— Born 1789, Died 1825. 
 
 I477._»C0NCLUSI0N OF THE 
 OF ISRAEL." 
 
 SONGS 
 
 My song hath closed, the holy dream 
 That raised my thoughts o'er all below, 
 
 Hath faded like the lunar beam, 
 And left me 'mid a night of woe — 
 
 To look and long, and sigh in vain 
 
 For friends I ne'er shall meet again. 
 
 And yet the earth is green and gay ; 
 
 And yet the skies are pure and bright ; 
 But, 'mid each gleam of pleasure gay, 
 
 Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight ; 
 For weak is now the tenderest tongue 
 That might my simple songs have sung. 
 
 And like Gilead's drops of balm, 
 
 They for a moment soothed my breast ; 
 
 But earth hath not a power to calm 
 My spirit in forgetful rest. 
 
 Until I lay me side by side 
 
 With those that loved me, and have died. 
 
 They died — and this a world of woe, 
 Of anxious doubt and chilling fear ; 
 
 I wander onward to the tomb, 
 
 With scarce a hope to linger here : 
 
 But with a prospect to rejoin 
 
 The friends beloved, that once were mine. 
 
 William Knox.— Born 1789, Died 1825 
 
 68 = 
 
THOMAS PrINQLE.I 
 
 AFAR IN THE DESERT. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 1478.— AFAR IN THE DESERT. 
 
 Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
 And, sick of the present, I turn to the past ; 
 And the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
 From the fond recollections of former years ; 
 And the shadows of things that have long 
 
 since fled, 
 Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the 
 
 dead — 
 Bright visions of glory that vanish' d too 
 
 soon — 
 Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's 
 
 noon — 
 Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft — 
 Companions of early days lost or left — 
 And my Native Land ! whose magical name 
 Thrills to my heart like electric flame ; 
 The home of my childhood — the haunts of my 
 
 prime ; 
 All the passions and scenes of that rapturous 
 
 time. 
 When the feelings were young and the world 
 
 was new, 
 Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening to 
 
 view ! 
 All — all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone ; 
 And I, a lone exile, remember' d of none, 
 My high aims abandon' d, and good acts 
 
 undone — 
 Aweary of all that is under the sun ; 
 With that sadness of heart which no stranger 
 
 may scan, 
 I fly to the Desert afar from man. 
 
 Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
 When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life. 
 With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 
 
 strife ; 
 The proud man's frown, and the base man's 
 
 fear; 
 And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's 
 
 tear; 
 And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and 
 
 foUy, 
 Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
 When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 
 
 high. 
 And my soul is sick with the bondman's 
 
 sigh — 
 Oh, then ! there is freedom, and joy, and 
 
 pride. 
 Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 
 There is rapture to vault on the champing 
 
 steed, 
 And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 
 With the death-fraught firelock in my hand 
 (The only law of the Desert land) ; 
 But 'tis not the innocent to destroy. 
 For I hate the huntsman's savage joy. 
 
 Afar in the Desei-t I love to ride, 
 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
 
 Away — away from the dwellings of men. 
 
 By the wild deer's haunt, and the buffalo's 
 
 glen ; 
 By valleys remote, where the oribi plays ; 
 i Where the gnoo, the gazelle, and the harto- 
 i beest graze ; 
 
 i And the gemsbok and eland unkunted recline 
 i 'By the skirts of gray forests o'ergrown with 
 j wild vine ; 
 
 And the elephant^ browses at peace in his 
 
 wood ; 
 And the river-horse gambols unscared in the 
 
 flood; 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
 In the Vley, where the wild ass is drinking 
 his fill. 
 
 Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 
 O'er the brown Karroo where the bleating 
 cry 
 
 Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
 
 Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
 
 In fields seldom freshen' d by moisture or 
 rain ; 
 
 And the stately koodoo exultingly bound?, 
 
 Undisturb'd by the bay of the hunter's 
 hounds ; 
 
 And the timorous quagha's wild whistling 
 neigh 
 
 Is heard by the brak fountain far away ; 
 
 And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
 
 Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste ; 
 
 And the vulture in circles wheels high over- 
 head, 
 
 Greedy to scent and to gorge on the dead ; 
 
 And the grisly wolf, and the shrieking 
 jackal, 
 
 Howl for their prey at the evening fall ; 
 i And the fiend-like laugh of hyenas grim, 
 
 Fearfully startles the twilight dim. 
 
 Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 
 Away — away in the wilderness vast, 
 
 Where the white man's foot hath never 
 
 pass'd, 
 And the quiver' d Koranna or Bechuan 
 Hath rarely cross' d with his roving clan : 
 A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
 Which man hath abandon' d from famine and 
 
 fear; 
 Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 
 And the bat flitting forth from his old hollov/ 
 
 stone ; 
 "Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,. 
 Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot : 
 And the bitter melon, for food and drink. 
 Is the pilgrim's fare, by the Salt Lake's 
 
 brink : 
 A region of drought, where no river glides, 
 Nor rippling brook with osier'd sides ; 
 Nor reedy pool, nor mossy fountain. 
 Nor shady tree, nor cloud-capp'd mountain, 
 Are found — to refresh the aching eye : 
 But the barren earth and the burning sky. 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 THE STAREY HEAVENS. 
 
 [ROBT. MONTGOMERT. 
 
 And the black horizon round and round, 
 Without a living- sight or sound, 
 Tell to the heart, in its pensive mood, 
 That this is — Nature's Solitude. 
 
 And here — while the night-winds round me 
 
 sigh, 
 And the stars burn bright in the midnight 
 
 sky, 
 
 As I sit apart by the cavern' d stone, 
 j Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone. 
 
 And feel as a moth in the Mighty Hand 
 That spread the heavens and heaved the 
 
 land — 
 A " still small voice " comes through the 
 
 wild 
 (Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
 "Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear — 
 Saying " Man is distant, but God is near ! " 
 
 Thomas Pringlc—Born 1788, Died 1834. 
 
 1479.— THE LION AND GIRAFFE. 
 
 Wouldst thou view the lion's den ? 
 
 Search afar from haunts of men — 
 
 Where the reed-encircled rill 
 
 Oozes from the rocky hill, 
 
 By its verdure far descried 
 
 'Mid the desert brown and wide. 
 
 Close beside the sedgy brim, 
 
 Couchant, lurks the lion grim ; 
 
 Watching till the close of day 
 
 Brings the death-devoted prey. 
 
 Heedless at the ambush' d brink, 
 
 The tall giraffe stoops down to drink ; 
 
 Upon him straight, the savage springs 
 
 With cruel joy. The desert rings 
 
 With clanging sound of desperate strife — 
 
 The prey is strong,' and he strives for life. 
 
 Plunging off with frantic bound 
 
 To shake the tyrant to the ground. 
 
 He shrieks — he rushes through the waste, 
 
 With glaring eye and headlong haste. 
 
 In vain ! — the spoiler on his prize 
 
 Rides proudly — tearing as he flies. 
 
 For life — the victim's utmost speed 
 
 Is muster' d in this hour of need. 
 
 For life — for life — his giant might 
 
 He strains, and pours his soul in flight ; 
 
 And mad with terror, thirst, and pain. 
 
 Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 
 
 "Tis vain ; the thirsty sands are drinking 
 
 His streaming blood — his strength is sinking ; 
 
 The victor's fangs are in his veins — 
 
 His flanks are streak' d with sanguine stains — 
 
 His panting breast in foam and gore 
 
 Is bathed — he reels — his race is o'er. 
 
 He falls — and, with convulsive throe, 
 
 Resigns his throat to the ravening foe ! 
 
 — And lo ! ere quivering life is fled, 
 
 The vultures, wheeling over head. 
 
 Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array. 
 
 Till the gorged tyi-ant quits his prey. 
 
 Thomas Pringle. — Born 1788, Died 1834. 
 
 1480.— THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Our native land — our native vale — 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 
 
 And Cheviot mountains blue. 
 
 Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, 
 And streams renown' d in song — 
 
 Farewell, ye braes and blossom' d meads, 
 Our hearts have loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, the blithesome broomy knowes. 
 Where thyme and harebells grow — 
 
 Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, 
 O'erhung vnth birk and sloe. 
 
 The mossy cave and mouldering tower 
 
 That skirt our native dell — 
 The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, 
 
 We bid a sad farewell ! 
 
 Home of our love ! our father's home ! 
 
 Land of the brave and free ! 
 The sail is flapping on the foam 
 
 That bears us far from thee ! 
 
 We seek a wild and distant shore, 
 
 Beyond the western main — 
 We leave thee to return no more, 
 
 Nor view thy cliffs again ! 
 
 Our native land — our native vale — 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 
 
 And Scotland's mountains blue ! 
 
 Thomas rringle.—Boni 1788, Died 1834. 
 
 148 1. —THE STARRY HEAVENS. 
 
 Ye quenchless stars ! so eloquently bright. 
 Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, 
 While half the world is lapp'd in downy 
 
 dreams. 
 And round the lattice creep your midnight 
 
 beams. 
 How sweet to gaze»upon your placid eyes, 
 I In lambent beauty looking from the skies ! 
 I And when, oblivious of the world, we stray 
 At dead of night along some noiseless way, 
 How the heart mingles jvith the moonlit 
 j hour, 
 
 , As if the starry heavens suffused a power ! 
 Full in her dreamy light, the moon presides. 
 Shrined in a halo, mellowing as she rides ; 
 And far around, the forest and the stream' 
 Bathe in the beauty of her emerald beam ; 
 The lull'd winds, too, are sleeping in their 
 
 caves. 
 No stormy murmurs roll upon the waves ; 
 Nature is hush'd, as if her works adored,' 
 Still'd by the presence of her living Lord ! 
 And now, while through the ocean-mantling 
 
 haze 
 A dizzy chain of yellow lustre plays, 
 
BOBT. MONTaaMERY.] 
 
 PICTTJEE OF WAE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.' 
 
 And moonlight loveliness hath veil'd the 
 
 land, 
 Go, strang-er, muse thou by the wave-worn 
 
 strand : 
 Centuries have glided o'er the balanced earth, 
 Myriads have bless'd, and myriads cursed 
 
 their birth ; 
 Still, yon sky-beacons keep a dimless glare, 
 Unsullied as the God who throned them 
 
 there ! 
 Though swelling earthquakes heave the 
 
 astounded world. 
 And king and kingdom from their pride are 
 
 hurl'd. 
 Sublimely calm, they run their bright career, 
 Unheedful of the storms and changes here. 
 We want no hymn to hear, or pomp to see, 
 For all around is deep divinity ! 
 
 Robert Montgomery. — Born 1807, Died 1855. 
 
 1482.— PICTUEE OF WAE. 
 
 Spirit of light and life ! when battle rears 
 Her fiery broAV and her terrific spears ; 
 When red-mouth' d cannon to the clouds 
 
 uproar. 
 And gasping thousands make their beds in 
 
 gore, 
 While on the billowy bosom of the air 
 Eoll the dead notes of anguish and despair ! 
 Unseen, thou walk'st upon the smoking 
 
 plain. 
 And hear'st each groan that gurgles from the 
 
 slain ! 
 
 List ! war-peals thunder on the battle-field ; 
 And many a hand grasps firm the glittering 
 
 shield. 
 As on, with helm and plume, the warriors 
 
 come. 
 And the glad hills repeat their stormy drum ! 
 And now are seen the youthful and the gray, 
 With bosoms firing to partake the fray ; 
 The first, with hearts that consecrate the 
 
 deed, 
 All eager rush to vanquish or to bleed ! 
 Like young waves racing in the morning sun, 
 That rear and leap with reckless fury on ! 
 
 But mark yon war-worn man, who looks on 
 
 high. 
 With thought and valour mirror' d in his 
 
 eye ! 
 Not all the gory revels of the day 
 Can fright the vision of his home away ; 
 The home of love, and its associate smiles. 
 His wife's endearment, and his baby's \viles : 
 Fights he less brave through recollected bliss. 
 With step retreating, or with sword remiss ? 
 Ah no ! remember' d home's the warrior's 
 
 charm, 
 Speed to his sword, and vigour to his arm ; 
 
 For this he supplicates the god afar, 
 
 Fronts the steel'd foe, and minglea in the 
 
 The cannon 's hush'd ! — nor drum, nor clarion 
 
 sound : 
 Helmet and hauberk gleam upon the ground ; 
 Horseman and horse lie weltering in their 
 
 gore ; 
 Patriots are dead, and heroes dare no more ; 
 While solemnly the moonhght shrouds the 
 
 plain, 
 And lights the lurid features of the slain ! 
 
 And see ! on this rent mound, where daisies 
 
 sprung, 
 A battle-steed beneath his rider flung ; 
 Oh ! never more he'll rear with fierce delight, 
 Eoll his red eyes, and rally for the fight ! 
 Pale on his bleeding breast the warrior lies, 
 While from his ruffled lids the white swell' d 
 
 eyes 
 Ghastly and grimly stare upon the skies ! 
 
 Afar, with bosom bared unto the breeze. 
 White lips, and glaring eyes, and shivering 
 
 knees, 
 A widow o'er her martyr'd soldier moans. 
 Loading the night-wind with delirious groans ! 
 Her blue-eyed babe, unconscious orphan he I 
 So sweetly prattling in his cherub glee, 
 Leers on his lifeless sire with infant wile, 
 And plays and plucks him for a parent's 
 
 smile ! 
 
 But who, upon the battle-wasted plain, 
 Shall count the faint, the gasping, and the 
 
 slain ? 
 Angel of Mercy ! ere the blood-fount chill. 
 And the brave heart be spiritless and stiU, 
 Amid the havoc thou art hovering nigh. 
 To calm each groan, and close each dying 
 
 eye, 
 And waft the spirit to that halcyon shore, 
 Where war's loud thunders lash the winds no 
 
 Rolert Montgomery. — Born 1807, Died 1855, 
 
 1483.— LOST FEELINGS. 
 
 Oh ! weep not that our beauty wears 
 Beneath the wings of Time ; 
 
 That age o'erclouds the brow with cares 
 That once was raised sublime. 
 
 Oh ! weep not that the beamless eye 
 No dumb delight can speak ; 
 
 And fresh and fair no longer Ke 
 Joy- tints upon the cheek. 
 
 No ! weep not that the rvun-trace 
 
 Of wasting time is seen, 
 Around the form and in the face 
 
 Where beauty's bloom has been. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] SONG. [I'^omas Hood. 
 
 But mourn the inward wreck we feel 
 
 Where are ye, early-purling streams, 
 
 As hoary years depart, 
 
 Whose waves reflect the morning beams 
 
 And Time's effacing fingers steal 
 
 And colours of the skies ? 
 
 Young feelings from the heart ! 
 
 My rills are only puddle-drains 
 
 Robert Montgomery. — Bom 1807, Died 1855. 
 
 From shambles, or reflect the stains 
 Of calimanco-dyes ! — _ 
 
 
 Sweet are the little brooks that run 
 
 
 O'er pebbles glancing ia the sun, 
 
 
 Singing in soothing tones : 
 
 14S4.— TOWN AND COUNTEY. 
 
 Not thus the city streamlets flow ; 
 
 
 They make no music as they go, 
 
 Oh ! well may poets ma,ke a fuss 
 
 Though never " off the stones." 
 
 In summer time, and sigh " rus ! " 
 
 
 1 Of London pleasures sick : 
 
 Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep. 
 
 { My heart is all at pant to rest 
 
 That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap 
 
 i In greenwood shades — my eyes detest 
 
 Beside your woolly dams ? 
 
 This endless meal of brick ! 
 
 Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, 
 
 
 My Corydons use iron hooks, 
 
 "What joy have I in June's return ? 
 
 And skin — not shear — the lambs. 
 
 My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn, 
 
 
 I scent no flowery gust ; 
 
 The pipe whereon, in olden day. 
 
 But faint the flagging zephyr springs, 
 
 The Arcadian herdsman used to play 
 
 With diy Macadam on its wings, 
 
 Sweetly — here soundeth not ; 
 
 And turns me " dust to dust." 
 
 But merely breathes unwholesome fumes ; 
 
 
 Meanwhile the city boor consumes 
 
 My sun his daily course renews 
 
 The rank weed — *' piping hot." 
 
 Due east, but with no eastern dews ; 
 
 
 The path is dry and hot ! 
 
 All rural things are vilely mock'd, 
 
 His setting shows more tamely still, 
 
 On every hand the sense is shock' d 
 
 He sinks behind no purple hill, 
 
 With objects hard to bear : 
 
 But down a chimney-pot ! 
 
 Shades— -vernal shades ! — where wine is sold ! 
 
 
 And for a turfy bank, behold 
 
 Oh ! but to hear the milkmaid blithe ; 
 
 An Ingram's rustic chair ! 
 
 Or early mower whet his scythe 
 
 
 The dewy meads among ! 
 
 Where are ye, London meads and bowers, 
 
 My grass is of that sort — alas ! 
 
 And gardens redolent of flowers 
 
 • That makes no hay — called sparrow-grass 
 
 Wherein the zephyr wons ? 
 
 By folks of vulgar tongue ! 
 
 Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more : 
 
 
 See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er ; 
 
 Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet I 
 
 And that bare wood — St. John's. 
 
 I think of cowslip cups — but meet 
 
 
 With very vile rebuffs ! 
 
 No pastoral scenes procure me peace ; 
 
 For meadow-buds I get a whiff 
 Of Cheshire cheese — or only sniff 
 The turtle made at Cuff's. 
 
 I hold no Leasowes in my lease. 
 
 No cot set round with trees : 
 No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; 
 
 
 And omnium furnishes my banks 
 
 How tenderly Eousseau reviewed 
 
 With brokers — not with bees. 
 
 i His periwinkles ! — mine are strewed I 
 My rose blooms on a gown ! 
 I hunt in vain for eglantine. 
 
 Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 
 In summer time, and sigh " rus ! " 
 
 And find my blue-bell on the sign 
 That marks the Bell and Crown. 
 
 Of city pleasures sick : 
 My heart is all at pant to rest 
 In greenwood shades — my eyes detest 
 
 j Where are ye, birds, that blithely wing 
 
 This endless meal of brick ! 
 
 I From tree to tree, and gaily sing 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 Or mourn in thickets deep ? 
 
 
 My cuckoo has some ware to sell. 
 
 
 The watchman is my Philomel, 
 My blackbird is a sweep ! 
 
 
 
 Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush, 
 
 r48s.--SONG. 
 
 That perch on leafy bough and bush, 
 
 j And tune the various song ? 
 
 It was not in the winter 
 
 i Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor 
 
 Our loving lot was cast ; 
 
 Street-Handel grinding at my door, 
 
 It was the time of roses — 
 
 Are all my " tuneful throng." 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 
 
Thomas Hood.] 
 
 A PAEENTAL ODE TO MY SON. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 That churlish season never frowu'd 
 
 On early lovers yet ; 
 Oh no ! — the world was newly crown' d 
 
 With flowers when first we met. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and I bade you gc. 
 
 But still you held me fast ; 
 It was the time of roses — 
 
 We pluck' d them as we pass'd ! 
 
 "WTiat else could peer my glowing dheek, 
 
 That tears began to stud ? 
 And when I ask'd the like of love, 
 'You snatch' d a damask bud — 
 
 And oped it to the dainty core, 
 
 Stni blowing to the last ; 
 It was the time of roses — 
 
 We pluck' d them as we pass'd ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. — Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 i486.— A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, 
 AGED THEEE YEAES AND FIVE 
 MONTHS. 
 
 Thou happy, happy olf ! 
 (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 (My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) 
 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 
 
 With spirits feather light, 
 Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin, 
 (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a 
 pin!) 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
 Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
 (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the 
 stair !) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In love's dear chain so strong and bright a 
 
 link, 
 Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy ! 
 
 There goes my ink !) 
 
 Thou cherub — ^but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, 
 
 In harmless sport and mirth, 
 (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) 
 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows, 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
 (Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 
 
 Thy father's pride and hope ! 
 (He' 11 break the mirror with that skipping- 
 rope !) 
 With pure heart newly stamp' d from nature's 
 mint, 
 
 (Where did he learn that squint ?) 
 
 Thou young domestic dove ! 
 (He'll have that jug off with another shove !) 
 
 Dear nursling of the hymenial nest! 
 
 (Are those torn clothes his best ?) 
 
 Little epitome of man ! 
 (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan i) 
 Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawningf 
 life, 
 
 (He's got a knife I) 
 
 Thou enviable being ! 
 No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky fore- 
 seeing, 
 
 Play on, play on, 
 
 My elfin John ! 
 
 Toss the light ball — ^bestride the stick, 
 (I knew so many cakes would make him sick 1) 
 With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk 
 
 With many a lamblike frisk, 
 (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) 
 
 Thou pretty opening rose ! 
 (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 
 
 nose !) 
 Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 
 (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
 Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
 (I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
 Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, 
 (I'll tell you what, my love, 
 I cannot write unless he's sent above!) 
 
 Tfiomas Hood. — Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1487.— FLOWERS. 
 
 I will not have the mad Clytie, 
 Whose head is turn'd by the sun; 
 The tulip is a courtly quean. 
 Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
 The cowslip is a country Avench, 
 The violet is a nun ; — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose, 
 The queen of every one. 
 
 The pea is but a wanton witch. 
 In too much haste to wed, 
 And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
 The wolfsbane I should dread ; — 
 Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 
 That always mourns the dead : — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose. 
 With her cheeks of tender red. 
 
 The lily is all in white, like a saint, 
 
 And so is no mate for mc — 
 
 And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, 
 
 She is of such low degree ; 
 
 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves. 
 
 And the broom's betrothed to the bee; — 
 
 But I will plight with the dainty rose, 
 
 For fairest of all is she. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 [Thomas Hood. 
 
 1488.— AUTUilN. 
 
 The Autumn is old ; 
 The sere leaves are flying- ; 
 He hath gather'd up gold, 
 And now he is dying : 
 Old age, begin sighing ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe ; 
 The harvest is heaping ; 
 But some that have sow'd 
 Have no riches for reaping : — 
 Poor wretch, fall a- weeping ! 
 
 The year's in the wane ; 
 There is nothing adorning ; 
 The night has no eve. 
 And the day has no morning ; 
 Cold Winter gives warning ! 
 
 The rivers run chill ; 
 The red sun is sinking ; 
 And I am grown old, 
 And life is fast shrinking ; 
 Here's enow for sad thinking ! 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1489.— TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
 Hereafter she may have a son 
 Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 
 II. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes. 
 And mirror back her love for thee, — 
 Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
 To meet them when they cannot see. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes ! 
 
 III. 
 Press her lips the while they glow 
 With love that they have often told,— 
 Hereafter thou may'st press in woe. 
 And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
 Press her, lips the while they glow ! 
 
 Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
 Although it be not silver-gray — 
 Too early Death, led on by Care, 
 May snatch save one dear lock away. 
 Oh ! revere her raven hair ! 
 
 Pray for her at eve and morn, 
 That Heaven may long the stroke defer — 
 For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
 When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
 Pray for her at eve and morn ! 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845, 
 
 I490._T0 MY DAUGHTER, ON HER 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Dear Fanny ! nine long years ago, 
 While yet the morning sun was low,_ 
 And rosy with the eastern glow 
 
 The landscape smiled ; 
 Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds — 
 Sweet as the early song of birds, 
 I heard those first, delightful words, 
 
 " Thou hast a child ! " 
 
 Along with that uprising dew 
 
 Tears glisten' d in my eyes, though few, 
 
 To hail a dawning quite as new 
 
 To me, as Time : 
 It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
 But like a happy maid, though coy. 
 With grief -like welcome, even Joy 
 
 Forestalls its prime. 
 
 So may'st thou live, dear ! many years, 
 
 In all the bliss that life endears. 
 
 Not without smiles, nor yet from tears 
 
 Too strictly kept. 
 When first thy infant littleness 
 I folded in my fond caress. 
 The greatest proof of happiness 
 
 Was this — I wept. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1491.— I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The house where I was born, 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white. 
 
 The violets, and tlie lily-cups — 
 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 
 The lilacs where the robin built. 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then. 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
Thomas Hood.] 
 
 FAm D^S. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 Were close against the sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 But now 'tis little joy- 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1492.— FAIR INES. 
 I. 
 
 saw ye not fair Ines ? 
 She's gone into the west, 
 To dazzle when the sun is down, 
 And rob the world of rest ; 
 She took our daylight with her, 
 The smiles that we love best, 
 With morning blushes on her cheek, 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 II. 
 
 turn again, fair Ines, 
 Before the fall of night. 
 
 For fear the moon should shine alone. 
 
 And stars unrivall'd bright ; 
 
 And bless' d wiU the lover be 
 
 That walks beneath their light, 
 
 And breathes the love against thy cheek 
 
 1 dare not even write ! 
 
 MI. 
 
 Would I had been, fair Ines, 
 
 That gallant cavalier 
 
 Who rode so gayly by thy side. 
 
 And whisper' d thee so near ! — 
 
 Were there no bonnj' dames at home, 
 
 Or no true lovers here, 
 
 That he should cross the seas to win 
 
 The dearest of the dear ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 T saw thee, lovely Ines, 
 
 Descend along the shore. 
 
 With bands of noble gentlemen, 
 
 And banners waved before ; 
 
 And gentle youth and maidens gay, 
 
 And snowy plumes they wore ; — 
 
 It would have been a beauteous dream, 
 
 — ^If it had been no more ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! fair Ines ! 
 
 She went away -with song, 
 
 With music waiting on her steps. 
 
 And shoutings of the throng ; 
 
 But some were sad, and felt no mirth, 
 
 But only Music's wrong, 
 
 In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell 
 
 To her you've loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! 
 
 That vessel never bore 
 
 So fair a lady on its deck. 
 
 Nor danced so light before— 
 
 Alas for pleasure on the sea. 
 
 And sorrow on the shore ! 
 
 The smile that blest one lover's heart 
 
 Has broken many more ! 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1493.— EUTH. 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn 
 Clasp'd by the golden light of morn. 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripen' d ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was born, 
 Like red poppies grown with com. 
 
 Eound her eyes her tresses fell — 
 Which were blackest none could tell ; 
 But long lashes veil'd a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim. 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
 Thus she stood amid the stocks. 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
 Share my harvest and my home. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1494.— THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 'Twas in the prime of summer time, 
 
 An evening calm and cool, 
 And four-and-twenty happy boys 
 
 Came bounding out of school : 
 There v/ere some that ran and some that 
 leapt. 
 
 Like troutlets in a pool. 
 
 Away they sped with gamesome minds, 
 
 And souls untouch' d by sin ; 
 To a level mead they came, and there 
 
 They drave the wickets in : 
 Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
 
 Over the town of Lynn. 
 
 Like sportive deer they coursed about. 
 
 And shouted as they ran — 
 Turning to mirth all things of earth. 
 
 As only boyhood can ; 
 But the Usher sat remote from all, 
 
 A melancholy man ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE DREAM OF EUGENE AEAIVI. 
 
 [Thomas Hood. 
 
 His hat was off, his vest apart, 
 To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; 
 
 For a burning thought was in his brow, 
 And his bosom ill at ease : 
 
 So he lean'd his head on his hands, and 
 read 
 The book between his knees ! 
 
 Leaf after leaf he tum'd it o'er. 
 
 Nor ever glanced aside ; 
 For the peace of his soul he read that book 
 
 In the golden eventide ; 
 Much study had made him very lean, 
 
 And pale, and I«aden-eyed. 
 
 At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 
 
 With a fast and fervent grasp 
 He strain' d the dusky covers close, 
 
 And fix'd the brazen hasp : 
 •' O God ! could I so close my mind, 
 
 And clasp it with a clasp ! " 
 
 Then leaping on his feet upright, 
 
 Some moody turns he took — 
 Now up the mead, then dovnx the mead, 
 
 And past a shady nook — 
 And, lo ! ho saw a little boy 
 
 That pored upon a book ! 
 
 ♦' My gentle lad, what is't you read — 
 
 Eomance or fairy fable ? 
 Or is it some historic page, 
 
 Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 
 The young boy gave an upward glance — 
 
 " It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 
 
 The Usher took six hasty strides. 
 
 As smit with sudden pain — 
 Six hasty strides beyond the place, 
 
 Then slowly back again ; 
 And down he sat beside the lad, 
 
 And talk'd with him of Cain ; 
 
 And, long since then, of bloody men. 
 
 Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
 And lonely folk cut off unseen. 
 
 And hid in sudden graves ; 
 And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 
 
 And murders done in caves ; 
 
 And how the sprites of injured men 
 
 Shriek upward from the sod ; 
 Aj', how the ghostly hand will point 
 
 To show the burial clod ; 
 And unknown facts of guilty acts 
 
 Are seen in dreams from God ! 
 
 He told how murderers Avalk the earth 
 
 Beneath the curse of Cain — 
 With crimson clouds before their eyes, 
 
 And flames about their brain ; 
 For blood has left upon their souls 
 
 Its everlasting stain ! 
 
 " And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, 
 Their pangs must be extreme — 
 
 Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 
 ^Vho spill life's sacred stream ! 
 
 For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 
 A murder, in a dream ! 
 
 One that had never done me wrong — 
 
 A feeble man and old ; 
 I led him to a lonely field — 
 
 The moon shone clear and coid-i — 
 Now here, said I, this man shall die, 
 
 And I will have his gold ! 
 
 Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 
 
 And one with a heavy stone, 
 One hurried gash with a hasty knife — 
 
 And then the deed was done : 
 There was nothing lying at my feet 
 
 But lifeless flesh and bone ! 
 
 Nothing but lifeless flesh and bene, 
 
 That could not do me ill ; 
 And yet I fear'd him all the more. 
 
 For lying there so still : 
 There was a manhood in his look. 
 
 That murder could not kill ! 
 
 And, lo ! the universal air 
 
 Seem'd lit with ghastly flame ; — 
 
 Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
 Were looking down in blame ; 
 
 I took the dead man by his hand. 
 And call'd upon his name ! 
 
 God ! it made me quake to see 
 Such sense within the slain ! 
 
 But when I touch'd the lifeless clay> 
 
 The blood gush'd out amain ! 
 For every clot a burning spot 
 
 Was scorching in my brain ! 
 
 My head was like an ardent coal — 
 
 My heart as solid ice ; 
 My wretched, wretched soul, I knew^ 
 
 Was at the Devil's price. 
 A dozen times I groan'd — the dead 
 
 Had never groan'd but twice ! 
 
 And now, from forth the frowning sky. 
 From the heaven's topmost height, 
 
 1 heard a voice — the awful voice 
 
 Of the blood-avenging sprite : 
 ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 
 And hide it from my sight ! ' 
 
 And I took the dreary body up. 
 
 And cast it in a stream — 
 The sluggish water, black as ink, 
 
 The depth was so extreme : 
 My gentle Boy, remember ! this 
 
 Is nothing but a dream ! 
 
 Down went the corse with a hollow plunge. 
 
 And vanish' d in the pool ; 
 Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 
 
 And wash'd my forehead cool, 
 And sat among the urchins young, 
 
 That evening in the school. 
 
 Heaven ! to think of their white souls. 
 And mine so black and grim ! 
 
Thomas Hood.] 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 I could not share in childish prayer, 
 
 Nor join in evening' hymn ; 
 Like a devil of the pit I seem'd, 
 
 'Mid holy cherubim ! 
 
 And peace went with them, one and all, 
 
 And each calm pillow spread ; 
 But Guilt was my grim chamberlain, 
 
 That lighted me to bed. 
 And drew my midnight curtains round 
 
 With fingers bloody red ! 
 
 All night I lay in agony, 
 
 In anguish dark and deep ; 
 My fever' d eyes I dared not close, 
 
 But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
 Eor Sin had render' d unto her 
 
 The keys of hell to keep ! 
 
 All night I lay in agony, 
 
 From weary chime to chime ; 
 With one besetting horrid hint. 
 
 That rack'd me all the time — 
 A mighty yearning, like the first 
 
 Fierce impulse unto crime — 
 
 One stern tyrannic thought, that made 
 
 All other thoughts its slave ! 
 Stronger and stronger every pulse 
 
 Did that temptation crave — 
 Still urging me to go and see 
 
 The dead man in his grave ! 
 
 Heavily I rose up, as soon 
 
 As light was in the sky, 
 And sought the black accursed pool 
 
 With a wild misgiving eye ; 
 And I saw the dead in the river bed, 
 
 For the faithless stream was dry. 
 
 Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
 
 The dew-drop from its wing ; 
 But I never mark'd its morning flight — 
 
 I never heard it sing ; 
 For I was stooping once again 
 
 Under the horrid thing. 
 
 With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 
 
 I took him up and ran ; 
 There was no time to dig a grave 
 
 Before the day began — 
 In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 
 
 I hid the murder'd man ! 
 
 And all that day I read in school. 
 But my thought was other where ; 
 
 As soon as the mid-day task was done, 
 In secret I was there — 
 
 And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
 And stiU the corse was bare ! 
 
 Then down I cast me on my face, 
 
 And first began to weep. 
 For I knew my secret there was one 
 
 That earth refused to keep — 
 Or land or sea, though he should be 
 
 Ten thousand fathoms deep. 
 
 So wills the fierce avenjring sprite, 
 
 Till blood for blood atones ! 
 Ay, though he's buried in a cave, 
 
 And trodden down with stones, 
 And years have rotted off his flesh — 
 
 The world shall see his bones ! 
 
 O God ! that horrid, horrid dream 
 
 Besets me now awake ! 
 Again — again, with dizzy brain. 
 
 The human life I take ; 
 And my red right hand grows raging hot, 
 
 Like Cranmer's at the stake. 
 
 And still no peace for the restless clay 
 Will wave or mould allow ; 
 
 The horrid thing pursues my soul- 
 It stands before me now ! " 
 
 The fearful Boy look'd up and saw 
 Huge drops upon his brow. 
 
 That very night, while gentle sleep 
 
 The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, 
 Two stem-faced men set out fromi Lynn 
 
 Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
 And Eugene Aram walk'd between, 
 
 With gyves upon his wrist. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Bied 1845. 
 
 1495.— THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 One more Unfortunate, 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashion' d so slenderly — 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing ; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing ! 
 
 Touch her not scornfullj' ! 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 Gently and humanly — 
 Not of the stains of lier ; 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny, 
 Rash and undutif ul ; 
 Past all dishonour. 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers — 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
1 
 From 1780 to 1866.] THE SONG OF THE SHIET. [Thomas Hood. 
 
 Loop up hor tresses 
 
 1 
 Dreadfully staring 
 
 Esca,pecl from the comb — 
 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 
 Her fair auburn tresses — 
 
 As when with the daring 
 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 
 Last look of despairing 
 
 Where was her home ? 
 
 Fix'd on futurity. 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 
 Perishing gloomily, - - 
 
 Who was her mother ? 
 
 Spurn' d by contumely, 
 
 Had she a sister ? 
 
 Cold inhumanity 
 
 Had she a brother ? 
 
 Burning insanity 
 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 
 Into her rest ! 
 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
 As if praying duinbly. 
 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 
 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 
 Under the sun ! 
 
 Her evil behaviour. 
 
 ! it was pitiful ! 
 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly. 
 
 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 
 
 Feelings had changed — 
 
 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 
 1496.— THE SONG OF THE SHIET. 
 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 
 Even God's providence 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
 
 With many a light 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 From vandow and casement, 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 
 From garret to basement, 
 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 " Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 
 And work — work — work. 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
 
 But not the dark arch. 
 
 It's ! to be a slave 
 
 Or the black flowing river ; 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 
 Mad from life's history, 
 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 
 If this is Christian work I 
 
 Swift to be hurl'd — 
 
 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ' 
 
 
 Work — work — work 
 
 In she plunged boldly — 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 The rough river ran — 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam — 
 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 
 
 Picture it — think of it ! 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 Dissolute Man ! 
 
 0, Men, with sisters dear ! 
 
 Lave in it, drink of it. 
 
 0, Men, with mothers and wives I 
 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 It is not linen you're wearing out. 
 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly— 
 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch. 
 
 Lift her with care ! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
 
 Fashion'd so slenderly- 
 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread. 
 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 A shroud as well as a Shirt ! 
 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
 
 But why do I talk of Death— 
 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 
 Decently, kindly, 
 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 
 It seems so like my own — 
 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 
Thomas Hood.] THE DEATH-BED. [Seventh Period. — 
 
 God ! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak. 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 
 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 Work — work— work ! 
 
 To eke her living out. j 
 
 My labour never flags ; 
 
 , , , . ' ! 
 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 A crust of bread— and rags. 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — ! 
 
 That shatter' d roof — and this naked floor — 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 And a wall so blank ray shadow I thank 
 
 
 For sometimes falling there I 
 
 For when the morn came, dim and sad, 
 And chni with early showers. 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 
 From weary chime to chime ! 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 Work — work — work — 
 
 Tlwmas Hood. — Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 Seam, and gusset, and band — 
 
 
 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumb'd, 
 
 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 1498.— THE WATER LADY. 
 
 Work — work — work 
 
 I. 
 
 In the dull December light ' 
 
 Alas ! that moon should ever beam 
 
 And work — work — work. 
 
 To show what man should never see !— 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright ! — 
 
 I saw a maiden on a stream, 
 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 And fair was she ! 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 
 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 II. 
 
 And twit me with the Spring. 
 
 I staid awhile, to see her throw 
 
 Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
 With the sky above my head. 
 
 Her tresses back, that all beset 
 The fair horizon of her brow 
 With clouds of jet. 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ! 
 
 III. 
 
 For only one short hour 
 To feel as I used to feel, 
 
 Before I knew the woes of want, 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 I staid a little while to view 
 Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, 
 The bloom of water — tender blue, 
 Daintily spread. 
 
 Oh I but for one short hour — 
 
 
 A respite however brief ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 
 
 I staid to watch, a little space. 
 
 But only time for Grief ! 
 
 Her parted lips, if she would sing ; 
 
 A little weeping would ease my heart ; 
 
 The waters closed above her face 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 
 With many a ring. 
 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 V. 
 
 Hinders needle and thread ! " 
 
 
 And still I staid a little more — 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 Alas ! she never comes again ! 
 
 And eyelids heavy and red, 
 
 I throw ray flowers from the shore, 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 And watch in vain. 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 
 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 VI. 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 I know my life will fade away — 
 
 And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 
 I know that I must vainly pine ; 
 
 Would that its tone could reach the ricli ! — 
 
 For I am made of mortal clay, 
 
 She sang this "Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 But she's divine. 
 
 Tliomas Hood.—Bo'ni 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 Thomas Hood.—Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 I497-— THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 1499.— SONG. 
 
 We watched her breathing thro' the night, 
 
 Lady, leave thy silken thread 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 
 And flowery tapestrie — 
 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 There 's living roses on the bush, 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 And blossoms on the tree. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] WHEEE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEER HEADS. 
 
 [T. H.Bayly. 
 
 Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 
 
 Some random bud will meet ; 
 Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find 
 
 The daisy at thy feet. 
 
 'Tis like the birthday of the world, 
 
 When earth was bom in bloom ; 
 The light is made of many dyes, 
 
 The air is all perfume ; 
 There 's crimson buds, and white and blue — 
 
 The very rainbow showers 
 Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell, 
 
 And sown the earth with flowers. 
 
 There 's fairy tulips in the east — 
 
 The garden of the sun ; 
 The very streams reflect the hues, 
 
 And blossom as they run ; 
 While morn opes like a crimson rose, 
 
 Still wet with pearly showers : 
 Then, lady, leave the silken thread 
 
 Thou twinest into flowers ! 
 
 Thomas Hood.— Born 1798, Died 1845. 
 
 1500.— TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou never shared my fate, 
 More dark that fate would prove. 
 
 My heart were truly desolate 
 Without thy soothing love. 
 
 But thou hast suffer' d for my sake. 
 
 Whilst this relief I found. 
 Like fearless lips that strive to take 
 
 The poison from a wound. 
 
 My fond affection thou hast seen, 
 
 Then judge of my regret. 
 To think more happy thou hadst been 
 
 If we had never met ! 
 
 And has that thought been shared by 
 thee? 
 
 Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 
 Proves more unchanging love for me 
 
 Than labour'd words could speak. 
 
 But there are true hearts which the sight 
 
 Of sorrow, summons forth ; 
 Though kno^vn in days of past delight, 
 
 We knew not half their worth. 
 
 How unlike some who have profess'd 
 
 So much in friendship's name, 
 Yet calmly pause to think how best 
 
 They may evade her claim. 
 
 But ah ! from them to thee I turn, 
 They'd make me loathe mankind, 
 
 Far better lessons I may learn 
 From thy more holy mind. 
 
 The love that gives a charm to home, 
 
 I feel they cannot take : 
 We'll pray for happier years to come. 
 
 For one another's sake. 
 
 T. Haynes Bayly.— Born 1797, Died 1839. 
 
 1501.— THINK NOT OF THE FUTUEE. 
 
 Think not of the future, the prospect is un- 
 certain ; 
 Laugh away the present, while laughing 
 hours remain : 
 Those who gaze too boldly through Time's 
 mystic curtain. 
 Soon will wish to close it, and dream of joy 
 again, 
 I, like thee, was liappj', and, on hope rely- 
 
 Thought the present pleasure might revive 
 again : 
 But receive my counsel — Time is always 
 flying ; 
 
 Then laugh away the present, while laugh- 
 ing hours remain. 
 
 I have felt unkindness, keen as that which 
 hurts thee ; 
 I have met with friendship, fickle as the 
 wind ; 
 Take what friendship offers, ere its warmth 
 deserts thee ; 
 Well I know the kindest may not long be 
 kind. 
 Would you waste the pleasure of the summer- 
 
 Thinking that the winter must return 
 again ? 
 If our summer 's fleeting, surely that 's a 
 reason 
 For laughing off the present, while laughing 
 hours remain. 
 
 T. Haynes Bayly.— Born 1797, Died 1839. 
 
 1502.— 0! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE 
 THEIR HEADS ? 
 
 ! where do fairies hide their heads, 
 
 When snow lies on the hills — 
 When frost has spoil'd their mossy beds, 
 
 And crystallized their rills ? 
 Beneath the moon they cannot trip 
 
 In circles o'er the plain ; 
 And draughts of dew they cannot sip, 
 
 Till green leaves come again. 
 
 Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells, 
 They plunge beneath the waves, 
 
 Inhabiting the wreathed shells 
 That lie in coral caves. 
 
Coleridge,] 
 
 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Perhaps, in red Vesuvius, 
 
 Carousals they maintain ; 
 And cheer their little spirits thus, 
 
 Till green leaves come again. 
 
 When they return there will be mirth, 
 
 And music in the air, 
 And fairy wings upon the earth, 
 
 And mischief everywhere, 
 The maids, to keep the elves aloof, 
 
 Will bar the doors in vain ; 
 No key-hole will be fairy-proof, 
 
 When green leaves come again. 
 
 T. Haynes Bayly.— Born 1797, Died 1839. 
 
 [503.— THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT 
 MAEINEE. 
 
 It is an ancient mariner, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three ; 
 
 " By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 
 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set ; 
 Mayst hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand ; 
 
 " There was a ship," quoth he. 
 
 " Hold off ; unhand me, gray-beard loon ; " 
 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye— 
 The wedding-guest stood still. 
 And listens like a three-years' child ; 
 The mariner hath his will. 
 
 The wedding-guest sat on a stone, 
 He cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed mariner. 
 
 The shiptwas cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill. 
 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 The sun came up upon the left, 
 Out of the sea came he ; 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day. 
 
 Till over the mast at noon 
 
 The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 Eed as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The wedding-guest he beat his breast. 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed mariner. 
 
 And now the storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong ; 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dripping prow. 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
 
 And forward bonds his head. 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast. 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow. 
 And it grew wondrous cold ; 
 And ice mast-high came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy cliflFs 
 Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around ; 
 
 It crack' d and growl' d, and roar'd and howl'd, 
 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 At length did cross an albatross. 
 Through the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We hail'd it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 And round and round it flew ; 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steer' d us through ! 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind, 
 
 The albatross did follow, 
 
 And every day for food or play. 
 
 Came to the mai-iner's hollo ! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perch' d for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 
 Glimmer' d the white moonshine. 
 
 •' God save thee, ancient mariner, 
 From the fiends that plague thee thus ! 
 Why look'st thou so .^ " With my cross-bow 
 I shot the albatross. 
 
 The sun now rose upon the right, 
 Out of the sea came he ; 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind. 
 But no sweet bird did follow ; 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariner's hollo ! 
 
Fr<yi}i 1780 to 18G6.] THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 
 
 [Coleridge. 
 
 And I had done a hellish thing, 
 And it woitld work 'em wo ; 
 For all averr'd I had kill'd the bird 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 Ah, wretch, said they, the bird to slay- 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious sun uprist ; 
 
 Then all averr'd I had kill'd the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 
 The furrow follow'd free ; 
 
 "We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And Ave did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody sun at noon 
 Eight up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger thaia the moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water everywhere. 
 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water everywhere, 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot ; O Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils. 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was wither' d at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross the albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 There pass'd a weary time. Each throa 
 Was itarch'd, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 ! How glazed each weary eye ! 
 ' When looking westward I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seem'd a little speck, 
 , And then it seem'd a mist ; 
 I It moved and moved, and took at last - 
 ! A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 ! A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist I 
 ; And stUl* it near'd and near'd : 
 I A s if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd. 
 
 ' With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 I We could not laugh nor wail ; 
 I Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; 
 j I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood. 
 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 I With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 ! Agape they heard me call ; 
 Gramercy they for joy did grin. 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 See ! see ! I cried, she tacks no more. 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 Without a breeze, without a tide. 
 She steadies with upright keel. 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame, 
 
 The day was well nigh done, 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Eested the broad bright sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the sun. 
 
 And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, 
 (Heaven's mother send us grace !) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! thought I, and my heart beat loud, 
 How fast she nears and nears ; 
 Are those her sails that glance in the sun 
 Like restless gossameres ? 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate ; ^ 
 
 And is that woman aU her crew ? 
 Is that a death, and are there two ? 
 Is death that woman's mate ? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yeUow as gold ; 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 The nightmare Life-in-death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came. 
 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 
 " The game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! " 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out. 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 69 
 
Coleridge.] 
 
 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 We listen' d and look'd sideways up ; 
 
 Eear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 My life-blood seem'd to sip. 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd 
 
 white; 
 From the saUs the dew did drip — 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The horned moon, with one bright star 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogg'd moon. 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 Four times fifty living men 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropp'd down one by one. 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly — 
 They fled to bliss or wo ! 
 And every soul it pass'd me by 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow. 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient mariner, 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 
 
 As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand so brown." 
 Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest, 
 This body dropp'd not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The many men so beautiful ! 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 Lived on, and so did I. 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting sea. 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I look'd upon the rotting deck, 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 But or ever a prayer had gush'd, 
 A wicked whisper oame, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 
 
 sky. 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 Nor rot nor reek did they ; 
 The look with which they look'd on me 
 Had never pass'd away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 The moving moon went up thp sky, 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 Softly she was going up, 
 And a star or two beside. 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main. 
 Like April hoarfrost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
 The charm' d water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch' d the water snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white. 
 
 And when they rear'd, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch' d their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
 
 They coil'd and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gush'd from my heart, 
 
 And I bless'd them unaware : 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 And I bless'd them xmaware. 
 
 The self-same moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 That had so long remain' d, 
 
 1 dreamt that they were fill'd with dew ; 
 And when I* woke it rain'd. 
 
 ! My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 j My garments all were dank ; 
 
 Sure I had drunken ia my dreams, 
 
 And stiU my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 ! That were so thin and sere. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 
 
 [COLERIDaE. 
 
 The ripper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen ; 
 To and fro they were hurried about ! 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud ; 
 The moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The Hghtning fell Avith never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reach'd the ship, 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and the moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groan' d, they stirr'd, they all uprose, 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise, 
 
 Tlie helmsman steer' d, the ship moved on, 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes 
 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 
 The body and I puU'd at one rope. 
 
 But he said nought to me. 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient mariner ! " 
 
 Be calm, thou wedding-guest ! 
 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 
 Which to their corses came again, 
 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 For when it dawn'd, they dropp'd their arms. 
 
 And cluster' d round the mast; 
 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 
 mouths. 
 And from their bodies pass'd. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mix'd, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 
 I heard the skylark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air, 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the saUs made on 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
 Moved onward from beneath. — — 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 The spirit slid ; and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The sun, right up above the mast, 
 Had fix'd her to the ocean ; 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then, like a pawing horse let go. 
 She made a sudden bound ; 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living life retum'd, 
 I heard and in my soul discem'd 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 " Is'it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the man? 
 By him who died on cross, 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless albatross ! 
 
 The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow." 
 
 The other was a softer voice. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew ; 
 
 Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But tell me ! teU me ! speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the ocean doing ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Still as a slave before his lord. 
 The ocean hath no blast ; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see how graciously 
 She looketh down on him. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But why drives on that ship so fast. 
 Without or wave or wind ? 
 
 69* 
 
Coleridge.] 
 
 THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 Or we shall be belated ; 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 ■\Vhen the mariner's trance is abated. 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather ; 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
 All fix'd on me their stony eyes, 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 Had never pass'd away ; 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 And now this spell was snapt ; once more 
 
 I view'd the ocean green, 
 
 And look'd far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And having once turn'd round, walks on, 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
 Nor sound nor motion made ; 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 Oh ! drearh of joy ! is this indeed 
 The lighthouse top I see ? 
 Is this the hiU ? is this the kirk ? 
 Is this mine own countreo ? 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 O let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 
 I turn'd my eyes upon the deck — 
 
 Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land. 
 Each one a lovely light. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but O ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 1 heard the pilot's cheer ; 
 
 My head was turn'd perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The albatross's blood. 
 
 This hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon and eve — 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, 
 " Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair 
 That signal made but now ? " 
 
 " Strange, by my faith ! " the hermit said — 
 
 " And they answer' d not our cheer ! 
 
 The planks look'd warp'd ! and see those 
 
 sails. 
 How thin they arc and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 HYMN BEFOEE SUNEISE. 
 
 [Coleridge. 
 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snov/, 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young." 
 
 " Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
 (The pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feard " — " Push on, push on ! " 
 Said the hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drown' d 
 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the pilot shriek' d. 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The holy hermit raised his eyes, 
 And pray'd where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : the pilot's boy, 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see. 
 
 The devil knows how to row." 
 
 1 And now, all in my own countree, 
 I I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 The hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 j " O shrieve me, shriere me, holy man ! " 
 
 i The hermit cross' d his brow. 
 
 " Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say 
 What manner of man art thou ? " 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd 
 
 With a woful agony, 
 
 Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour 
 That agony returns ; 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door I 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bridemaids singing are : 
 And hark ! the little vesper bell 
 Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
 O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 
 And all together pray. 
 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And youths and maidens gay I 
 
 Farewell, farewell ; but this I tell 
 To thee, thou wedding-guest : 
 Ho prayeth well who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 I He made and loveth all. 
 
 j The mariner, whose eye is bright. 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone : and now the wedding-gueat 
 Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunn'd, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1504.— HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN 
 THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 In his steep course? so long he seems to 
 
 pause 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
 How silently ! Around thee and above. 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, ■ 
 An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 O dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon 
 
 thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
Coleridge.] 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Did'st vanish from my thought : entranced in 
 
 prayer, 
 I worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet be^iling melody, 
 So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 
 
 thought, 
 Tea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
 As in her natural form, s wetted vast to 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, 
 
 awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the 
 
 vale! 
 O struggling with the darkness all the night. 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky, or when they 
 
 sink ! 
 Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who call'd you forth from night and utter 
 
 death, 
 From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 For ever shatter' d, and the same for ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
 
 your joy. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came), 
 Here let the biUows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 
 
 brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
 
 . voice, 
 And stopp'd at once amid their maddest 
 
 plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of 
 
 heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the 
 
 sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living 
 
 flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at vour 
 
 feet ? 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 
 
 voice ! 
 
 Ye pine groves, with your soft and eoul-liko 
 
 sounds ! 
 And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of 
 
 snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
 
 frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 
 
 nest ! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
 
 clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Once more, hoar mount ! with thy sky- 
 pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 
 
 serene. 
 Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
 Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou. 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base, 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with 
 
 tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 To rise before me — Eise, O ever rise ; 
 Eise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
 Tliou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1505.— LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 Are all but ministers of love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She lean'd against the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and listen'd to my lay 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
Vrom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 [Coleridge. j 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang- an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen' d with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knev/ I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The lady of the land. 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love, 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listen' d with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, 
 And that ho cross'd the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 But sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once, 
 In green and sunny glade. 
 
 There came and look'd him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a fiend, 
 This miserable knight i 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did, 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The lady of the land ; 
 
 And how she wept and clasp'd his knees, 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain. 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 His dying words — but when I reach' d 
 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 
 Disturb'd her soid mth pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrill' d my guileless Genevieve — 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng ; 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherish' d long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight. 
 She blush' d with love and virgin shame; 
 And like the murmur of a dream 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, she stept aside ; 
 As conscious of my look she stept»— 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye. 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She press' d me with a meek embrace. 
 And bending back her head, look'd up 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears ; and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride ! 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1506.— THE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 No cloud, no relict of the sunken day 
 Distinguishes the West ; no long thin slip 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 
 But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still ; 
 A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall 
 
 find 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song — 
 " Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 
 A melancholy bird ! Oh, idle thought ! 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 But some night- wandering man, whose heart 
 
 was pierced 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
 (And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things vnth 
 
 himself. 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 Of his own sorrow) — he, and such as he, 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit — 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 When he had better far have stretch' d his 
 
 limbs 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
 By sun or moonlight ; to the influxes 
 Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements, 
 Surrendering his whole spirit ; of his song 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 Should share in Nature's immortality — 
 A venerable thing ! — and so his song 
 
Coleridge.] 
 
 FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 And youths and maidens most poetical, 
 Who lose the deepening twilights of the 
 
 Spring 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, 
 Full of meek sympathy, must heave their 
 
 sighs 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My friend, and thou, our sister ! we have 
 
 learnt 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance I 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Woidd be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood ; 
 And the trim walks are broken up ; and grass, 
 Thin grass and kingcups grow within the 
 
 paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales. And far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
 They answer and provoke each other's song, 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than 
 
 aU— 
 Stirring the air with such a harmony 
 That, should you close your eyes, you might 
 
 almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both 
 
 bright and fuU, 
 Glistening, while many a glowworm in the 
 
 shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle maid, 
 Who dweUeth in her hospitable homo 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove), 
 Glides through the pathways — she knows all 
 
 their notes, 
 That gentle maid ! and oft, a moment's Space, 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud. 
 Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon. 
 Emerging, hath awaken' d earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
 As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
 A hundred airy harps! And she hath 
 
 watch' d 
 Many a nightingale perch' d giddily 
 
 On blossomy twig still swinging from the 
 
 breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song, 
 Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, warbler ! tiU to-morrow eve ; 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short fare- 
 well ! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
 And now for our dear homes. — That strain 
 
 again ! 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
 To make him Nature's playmate. He knows 
 
 well 
 The evening-star ; and once when he awoke 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 
 
 dream), 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, 
 And he beheld the moon ; and, hush'd at 
 
 once. 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with un- 
 
 dropp'd tears. 
 Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well I — 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven. 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow 
 
 up 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the 
 
 night 
 He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell, 
 Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! 
 
 farewell. 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1507.— FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud — and hark again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
 Have left me to that solitude which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hiU, and wood, 
 This populous village ! — sea, and hill, and 
 
 wood. 
 With all the numberless goings on of life 
 Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which flutter' d on the grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks its motion in this hush of Nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 [Coleridge. 
 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
 By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 And makes a toy of thought. 
 
 But ! how oft. 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft, 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church- 
 tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stu-r'd and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articidate sounds of things to 
 
 come I 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong' d my 
 
 dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following mom, 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fix'd with mock'd study on my swimming 
 
 book — 
 Save if the door half open'd, and I snatcli'd 
 A hasty glance ; and still my heart leap'd up, 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
 My playmate when we both were clothed 
 
 alike ! 
 Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my 
 
 side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep 
 
 calm. 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other 
 
 lore 
 And in far other scenes I For I was rear'd 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
 And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe 1 shalt wander like a 
 
 breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds. 
 Which image in their bidk both lakes and 
 
 shores 
 And mountain crags. So shalt thou see and 
 
 hear 
 Tlio lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher I he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to 
 
 thee : 
 Whether the Summer clothe the general earth 
 With greeimess, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve- 
 drops fall. 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 
 
 Coleridge.— Bom 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1508.— SONG. 
 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
 Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
 So shall the midnight breezes swell 
 With thy deep, long, lingering knell. 
 
 And at evening evermore, 
 
 In a chapel on the shere. 
 
 Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly, 
 
 YeUow tapers burning faintly. 
 
 Doleful masses chaunt for thee — 
 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 Hark ! the cadence dies away 
 
 On the quiet moonlight sea ; 
 The boatmen rest their oars and say, 
 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 1509.— KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree. 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran. 
 Through caverns measureless to man, 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five-miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round ; 
 wAjid there were gardens, bright with sinuoua 
 
 rills. 
 Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing 
 
 tree; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills. 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But O ! that deep romantic chasm, which 
 
 slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedam cover ! 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 
 
 seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were 
 
 breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced, 
 Amid whose swift, half -intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
 Or chajffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ; 
 And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and 
 
 ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale, the sacred river 
 
COLEKIDGE.] 
 
 SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Then reach' d the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a Mfeless ocean : 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war. 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 Floated midway on the waves, 
 There was heard the mingled measure 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device — 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 In a vision once I saw ; 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 And on her dulcimer she play'd, 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 Could I revive within me 
 Her symphony and song, 
 To such a deep delight 'twould mn me 
 That, with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air — 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware ! beware 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 15 lo.— SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love. 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 Shall wholly do away, I wean. 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Coleridge. — Born 1 772, Bied 1834. 
 
 15 1 1. —EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade. 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 
 The opening bud to heaven convey' d, 
 And bade it blossom there. 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 15 12.— ANSWER TO A CHILD'S 
 QUESTION. 
 
 ! Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, 
 j the dove, 
 
 1 The linnet, and thrush say "I love, and I 
 j love ! " 
 
 '■ In the winter they're silent, the wind is so 
 ' strong ; 
 
 What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud 
 
 song. 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny 
 
 warm weather. 
 And singing and loving — all come back to- 
 gether. 
 But the lark is so brimful of gladness and 
 
 love. 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky 
 
 above, 
 That he sings, and he sings, and for ever 
 
 sings he, 
 " I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 Coleridge.— Born 1772, Died 1834. 
 
 15 13.— THE COMMENCEMENT OF 
 "DARTMOOR." 
 
 Lovely Devonia ! land of flowers and songs ! 
 To thee the duteous lay. Thou hast a cloud 
 For ever in thy sky — a breeze, a shower, 
 For ever on thy meads ; — yet where shall 
 
 man, 
 Pursuing Spring around the globe, refresh 
 His eye with scenes more beauteous than 
 
 adorn 
 Thy fields of matchless verdure ! Not the 
 
 south — 
 The glowing south, with all its azure skies. 
 And aromatic groves, and fruits that melt 
 At the rapt touch, and doep-hued flowers that 
 
 light 
 Their tints at zenith suns — has charms like 
 
 thine, 
 Though fresh the gale that ruffles thy wild 
 
 seas. 
 And wafts the frequent cloud. I own the 
 
 power 
 Of local sympathy, that o'er the fair 
 Throws more divine allurement, and o'er all 
 The great more grandeur; and my kindling 
 
 muse. 
 Fired by the universal passion, pours. 
 Haply, a partial lay. Forgive the strain, 
 Enamour'd, for to man in every clime. 
 The sweetest, dearest, noblest spot below. 
 Is that which gives him birth ; and long it 
 
 wears 
 A charm unbroken, and its honour'd name, 
 HaUow'd by memory, is fondly breathed 
 With his last lingering sigh. 
 
 N. T. Carrinqton.—Born 1777, Died 1830, I 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ENGLAND'S LANDSCAPE. 
 
 [N. T. Carringtox. 
 
 1 5 14.— DARTMOOR. 
 
 In sunlight and in shade — 
 Repose and storm, — wide waste ! I since have 
 
 trod 
 Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again 
 I seek thy solitudes profound, in this 
 Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests 
 The sunbeam on thee, and thy desert seems 
 To sleep in the unwonted brightness — calm 
 But stern : for, though the spirit of the spring 
 Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper 
 
 kind 
 Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on 
 A robe of beauby, as the fields that bud 
 And blossom near thee. Yet I love to tread 
 Thy central wastes when not a sound intrudes 
 Upon the ear, but rush of wing, or leap 
 Of the hoarse waterfall. And, oh, 'tis sweet 
 To list the music of thy torrent streams ; 
 For thou too hast thy minstrelsies for him 
 Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights 
 To trace thy waters, as from source to sea 
 They rush tumultuous. 
 
 N. T. Carrington. — Born 1777, DiecZ 1830. 
 
 15 1 5 .—THE PIXIES OF DEVON. 
 
 They are flown, 
 Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove 
 In Superstition's web when Time was young, 
 And fondly loved and cherish' d : they are 
 
 floAvn 
 Before the wand of Science ! Hills and 
 
 vales, 
 Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost 
 The enchantments, the delights, the visions 
 
 all, 
 The elfin visions that so bless' d the sight 
 In the old days romantic. Nought is heard, 
 Now, in the leafy world, but earthly j 
 
 strains — 
 Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and 
 
 brook. 
 And waterfall ; the day is silent else, 
 And night is strangely mute ! the hymnings 
 
 high — 
 The immortal music, men of ancient times 
 Heard ravish' d oft, are flown ! ye have 
 
 lost. 
 Mountains, and moors, and meads, the ra- 
 diant throngs 
 That dwelt in your green solitudes, and fiU'd 
 The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy 
 Intense ; with a rich mystery that awed 
 The mind, and flung around a thousand 
 
 hearths 
 Divinest tales, that through the enchanted 
 
 year 
 Found passionate listeners ! 
 
 The very streams 
 Brighton'd with visitings of these so sweet 
 Ethereal creatures ! They were seen to rise 
 
 From the charm'd waters, which still brighter 
 
 grew 
 As the pomp pass'd to land, until the eye 
 Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they 
 
 trod, 
 Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, 
 
 arose, — _ 
 
 And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, 
 Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes 
 Look'd on their revels all the luscious night ; 
 And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms 
 Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, 
 Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp 
 Elysian ! 
 
 And by gifted eyes were seen 
 Wonders — in the still air ; and beings bright 
 And beautiful, more beautiful than throng 
 Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now 
 The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale 
 Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they 
 
 touch 'd 
 The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades 
 Seem'd greener, fairer — and the enraptured 
 
 woods 
 Gave a glad leafy murmur — and the rills 
 Leap'd in the ray for joy ; and all the birds 
 Threw into the intoxicating air their songs, 
 All soul. The very archings of the grove, 
 Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age. 
 Lighten' d with living splendours ; and the 
 
 flowers. 
 Tinged with new hues and lovelier, upsprung 
 By millions in the grass, that rustled now 
 To gales of Araby ! 
 
 The seasons came 
 In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade ; 
 The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as 
 
 1 5 1 6.— ENGLAND' S LANDSCAPE. 
 
 Fair is thy level landscape, England, fair 
 As ever nature form'd ! Away it sweeps, 
 A ^vide, a smiling prospect, gay with flowers 
 And waving grass, and trees of amplest 
 
 growth. 
 And sparkling rills, and rivers winding slow 
 
 These potent elves. They steer'd the giant 
 
 cloud 
 Through heaven at will, and with the meteor 
 
 flash 
 Came down in death or sport ; ay, when the 
 
 storm I 
 
 Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow 
 
 wings. 
 The tempest ; and, anon, they rein'd its rage 
 In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown. 
 Beautiful fictions of our fathers ! — flown 
 Before the wand of Science, and the hearths 
 Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, 
 Are passionless and silent ! 
 
 N. T. Carrington.—Born 1777, Died 1830. 
 
N. T. Carrington.] 
 
 BIED, BEE, AND BUTTEEFLY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Through all the smooth immense. Upon the 
 
 eye 
 Arise the village and the village spire, 
 The clustering hamlet and the peaceful cot 
 I Clasp'd by the woodbine, and the lordly dome, 
 Proud peering 'mid the stately oak and elm 
 Leaf-loving. Sweet the frequent lapse of 
 
 brook, 
 The poetry of groves, the voice of bells 
 From aged towers, and labour's manly song 
 From cultured fields ups welling. Sweet the 
 
 hues 
 Of all the fertile land ; and when the sun 
 And shower alternate einpire hold, how fresh, 
 How gay, how all-enchanting to the view. 
 Beheld at first, the broad champaign appears ! 
 
 N. T. Carrington.— Born 1777, Died 1830. 
 
 15 1 7.— BIRD, BEE, AND BUTTEEFLY. 
 
 Bird, bee, and butterfly — the favourite three 
 That meet us ever on our summer path ! 
 And what, with all her forms and hues divine, 
 Would summer be without them ? Though 
 
 the skies 
 Were blue, and blue the streams, and fresh 
 
 the fields. 
 And beautiful, as now, the waving woods. 
 And exquisite the flowers ; and though the 
 
 sun 
 Beam'd from his cloudless throne from day to 
 
 day, 
 And, with the breeze and shower, more love- 
 liness 
 Shed o'er this lovely world; yet all would 
 
 want 
 A charm, if those sweet denizens of earth 
 And air made not the great creation teem 
 With beauty, grace, and motion ! Who would 
 
 bless 
 The landscape, if upon his morning walk 
 He greeted not the feathery nations, perch' d, 
 For love or song, amid the dancing leaves ; 
 Or wantoning in flight from bough to bough. 
 From field to field : ah ! who would bless thee, 
 
 June, 
 If silent, songless were the groves, — unheard 
 The lark in heaven ? — And he who meets the 
 
 bee 
 Rifling the bloom, and listless hears his hum. 
 Incessant ringing through the glowing day ; 
 Or loves not the gay butterfly that swims 
 Before him in the ardent noon, array 'd 
 In crimson, azure, emerald, and gold ; 
 With more magnificence upon his wing — 
 His little wing — than ever graced the robe 
 Gorgeous of royalty — is like the kine 
 That wander 'mid the flowers which gem the 
 
 meads, 
 Unconscious of their beauty. 
 
 N. T. Ca.rrinrjton. — Born 1777, Died 1830. 
 
 1 5 18.— LOVE AND NATUEE. 
 
 Long 
 He wooed a maid all innocence and truth. 
 And lovely as the loveliest nymph that treads 
 Thy banks, swift rushing Ehone ; and she 
 
 return' d 
 His passionate suit, and every day that came 
 Strengthen'd the indissoluble charm that 
 
 wound 
 Itself round their young hearts. Thy skies 
 
 are blue, 
 Fair Provence, and thy streams are clear, and 
 
 fringed 
 By the lush vine, that in thy quiet vales 
 Hangs out its full frank clusters, glowing 
 
 deep 
 With richest amethystine tint ; and thou 
 Hast songs of witching minstrelsy from 
 
 bowers 
 Of fragrance ; and amid the deepening shade 
 Of groves, sweet cots — abodes of health and 
 
 peace 
 By woodbine, rose, and myrtle sweetly deck'd. 
 But love has power to fling an added charm 
 I Even on the beautiful ; and when these met. 
 
 At magic eve, the soft, the sunny south 
 I Yet more enchanting seem'd ; — the hills, the 
 I vales 
 
 j Wore an unearthly charm ; — the crystal 
 j streams 
 
 j EoU'd on with new-born minstrelsies ; — the 
 j woods 
 
 I Were greener, fairer ; and this world arose 
 I To their quick-beaming and delighted eyes, 
 I With all the hues and forms of Paradise. 
 
 N. T. Carrington.— Born 1777, Died 1830. 
 
 1519.— PEAYEE. 
 
 Like the low murmur of the secret stream. 
 Which through dark alders winds its shaded 
 way. 
 My suppliant voice is heard : Ah ! do not 
 deem 
 i That on vain toys I throw my hours away. 
 
 In the recesses of the forest vale, 
 j On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod, 
 j Where the fresh breezes of the mom prevail, 
 j I v/ander lonely, communing with God. 
 
 ' When the faint sickness of a wounded heart 
 I Creeps in cold shudderings through my 
 j sinking frame, 
 
 j I turn to thee — that holy peace impart. 
 
 Which soothes the invokers of thy awful 
 name ! 
 
 ) O all-pervading Spirit ! sacred beam ! 
 I Parent of life and light ! Eternal Power ! 
 Grant me through obvious clouds one transient 
 gleam 
 Of thy bright essence in my dying hour ! 
 
 W. Bcckford.—Born 1760, Died 1844. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BEKNAEDO AND ALPHONSO. 
 
 [J. G. LOCKHART. 
 
 1520.— ECHO ANJ) SILENCE. 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 
 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, 
 As 'mid -wild scenes I chanced the Muse to 
 woo. 
 Through glens untrod, and woods thatfrown'd 
 
 on high, 
 Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I 
 spy! 
 And, lo, she's gone ! — In robe of dark-green 
 
 hue 
 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew, 
 For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the 
 
 sky! 
 In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
 
 Not so her sister, — Hark ! for onward still, 
 "With far-heard step, she takes her listening 
 way. 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to 
 
 hill. 
 Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play. 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest 
 fill! 
 
 Sir Egcrton Bnjdgcs.—Boni 17G2, Died 1837. 
 
 1 52 1. —TO AUTUMN, NEAE HEE 
 DEPAETUEE. 
 
 Thou Maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove 
 vest, 
 And russet cincture ; thy loose pale-tinged 
 
 hair; 
 Thy melancholy voice, and languid air, 
 As if, shut up within that pensive breast, 
 Some ne'er-to-be-divulged grief was prest ; 
 Thy looks resign' d, that smiles of patience 
 
 wear. 
 While Winter's blasts thy scatter'd tresses 
 tear; 
 Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have 
 
 blest ! 
 Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight 
 That dazzling Summer shall of her be bom ; 
 Let Summer blaze ; and Winter's stormy train 
 Breathe awful music in the ear of Night ; 
 
 Thee will I court, sweet dying Maid forlorn, 
 And from thy glance will cjitch the inspired 
 strain. 
 
 Sir Egerton Brydges.—Born 1762, Died 1837. 
 
 1522.— BEENAEDO AND ALPHONSO. 
 
 With some good ten of his chosen men, Ber- 
 nardo hath appear' d 
 
 Before them all in the Palace hall, the lying 
 King to beard : 
 
 With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came 
 in reverend guise, 
 
 But ever and anon he frown'd and flame broke 
 from his eyes. 
 
 " A curse upon thee ! " cries the King, " who 
 com'st unbid to me ; 
 
 But what from traitor's blood should spring, 
 save traitors like to the© ? 
 
 His sire. Lords, had a traitor's heart ; per- 
 chance our Champion brave 
 
 May think it were a pious part to share Don 
 Sancho's grave." 
 
 " W^hoever told this tale the King hath rash- 
 ness to repeat," 
 
 Cries Bernard, " Here my gage I fling before 
 The Liar's feet ! 
 
 No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in 
 mine doth lie — 
 
 Below the throne what knight will own the 
 coward calumny ? 
 
 The blood that I like water shed, when Roland 
 
 did advance. 
 By secret traitors hii*ed and led, to make us 
 
 slaves of France ; — 
 The life of King Alphonso I saved at Eon- 
 
 ceval, — . 
 Your words. Lord King, are recompense 
 
 abundant for it all. 
 
 Your horse was down — your hope was flown — 
 
 I saw the faulchion shine, 
 That soon had drank your royal blood, had I 
 
 not ventured mine ; 
 But memory soon of service done deserteth 
 
 the ingrate, 
 And ye've thank'd the son for life and crown 
 
 by the father's bloody fate. 
 
 Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don 
 Sancho free. 
 
 But, curse upon your paltering breath, the 
 light he ne'er did see ; 
 
 He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Al- 
 phonso' s base decree, 
 
 And visage blind, and stiffen' d limb, were all 
 they gave to me. 
 
 The King that swerveth from his word hath 
 
 stain' d his purple black, 
 No Spanish Lord will draw the sword behind 
 
 a liar's back ; 
 But noble vengeance shall bo mine, an open 
 
 hate I'll show — 
 The King hath injured Carpio's line, and 
 
 Bernard is his foe." 
 
 " Seize— seize him I " — loud the King doth 
 
 scream — "There are a thousand here — 
 Let his foul blood this instant stream — What ! 
 
 caitiffs, do ye fear ? 
 Seize — seize the traitor!" — But not one to 
 
 move a finger dareth, — 
 Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his 
 
 sword he bareth. 
 
 He drew the faulchion from the sheath, and 
 held it up on high, 
 
 And all the hall was still as death : cries Ber- 
 nard, "Here am I, 
 
J. G. LOCKHART.I 
 
 ZARA'S EAE-RINGS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 And here is the sword that owns no lord, 
 
 excepting Heaven and me ; 
 Fain would I know who dares his point — 
 
 King, Conde, or Grandee ! " 
 
 Then to his mouth the horn he drew — (it hung 
 
 below his cloak) — 
 His ten true men the signal knew, and through 
 
 the ring they broke ; 
 With helm on head, and blade in hand, the 
 
 knights the circle brake, 
 And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the 
 
 false king to quake. 
 
 "Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what 
 
 means this warlike guise ? 
 Ye know full well I jested — ^ye know your 
 
 worth I prize." — 
 But Bernard turn'd upon his heel, and smiling 
 
 pass'd away — 
 Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting 
 
 of that day. 
 
 J. Q. LocTcTiart—Bom 1794, Died 1854. 
 
 [523.— ZARA'S EAE-RINGS. 
 
 i *' |ily ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt 
 
 into the well, 
 And what to say to Mu9a, I cannot, cannot 
 
 tell."— 
 *Twas thus Granada's fountain by, spoke 
 
 Albuharez' daughter, — 
 *' The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath 
 
 the cold blue water — 
 To me did Mu9a give them, when he spake his 
 
 sad farewell. 
 And what to say when he comes back, alas ! 
 
 I Cannot teU. 
 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls 
 
 in silver set, 
 That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er 
 
 shoiild him forget, 
 That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor 
 
 smile on other's tale. 
 But remember he my lips had kiss'd, pure as 
 
 those ear-rings pale — 
 "When he comes back and hears that I have 
 
 dropt them in the well, 
 Oh what will Mu^a think of me, I cannot, 
 
 cannot tell. 
 
 My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they 
 
 should have been, 
 Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and 
 
 glittering sheen. 
 Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining 
 
 clear. 
 Changing to the changing light, with radiance 
 
 insincere — 
 That changeful mind unchanging gems are not 
 
 befitting well — 
 Thus will he think, — and what to say, alas ! 
 
 I cannot tell. 
 
 He'll think when I to market went, I loiter' d 
 
 by the way ; 
 He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 
 I might say ; 
 
 j He'll think some other lover's hand among my 
 I tresses noosed, 
 
 ! From the ears where he had placed them, my 
 
 rings of pearl unloosed ; 
 I He'll think when I was sporting so beside this 
 I marble well. 
 
 My pearls fell in, — and what to say, alas ! I 
 cannot tell. 
 
 He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the 
 
 same; 
 He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper 
 
 of his flame — 
 But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth 
 
 had broken. 
 And thought no more of Muga, and cared not 
 
 for his token. 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! oh ! luckless, 
 
 luckless well ! 
 For what to say to Muca, alas ! I cannot 
 
 tell. 
 
 I'll tell the truth to Mu9a, and I hope he will 
 
 believe — 
 That I have thought of him at morning, and 
 I thought of him at eve : 
 
 [ That musing on my lover, when down the sun 
 i was gone, 
 
 I His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the 
 I fountain all alone : 
 
 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from 
 
 my hand they fell, 
 And that deep his love lies in my heart, as 
 they lie in the well." 
 
 /. G. LocTchart.—Born 1794, Died 1851. 
 
 1524. — THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF 
 THE CID. 
 
 It was when from Spain across the main the 
 Cid had come to Rome, 
 
 He chanced to see chairs four and three be- 
 neath Saint Peter's dome. 
 
 " Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they ? " — 
 " Seven kings to sit thereon. 
 
 As well doth suit, aU at the foot of the holy 
 Father's throne. 
 
 The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they 
 
 may kiss his toe, 
 Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make 
 
 a gallant show ; 
 For his great puissance, the King of France, 
 
 next to the Pope may sit, 
 The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their 
 
 station fit." — 
 
From 1780 to 18GG.] 
 
 THE CONVICT SHIP. 
 
 [T. K. Hervet. 
 
 " Ha ! " quoth the Cid, " now God forbid ! it 
 
 is a shame, I wiss, 
 To see the Castle planted beneath the Flower- 
 
 de-lys. 
 No harm, I hope, good Father Pope — although 
 
 I move thy chair." — 
 In pieces small he kick'd it all ('twas of the 
 
 ivory fair). 
 
 The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick 
 
 it far away, 
 And the Spanish chair he planted upon its 
 
 place that day ; 
 Above them all he planted it, and laugh'd 
 
 right bitterly ; 
 Looks sour and bad, I trow ho had, as grim as 
 
 grim might be. 
 
 Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was 
 an angry man. 
 
 His lips that night, with solemn right, pro- 
 nounced the awful ba,n ; 
 
 The curse of God, who died on rood, was on 
 that sinner's head — 
 
 To hell and woe man's soul must go, if once 
 that curse be laid. 
 
 I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a 
 
 woeful man was he, 
 At dawn of day he came to pray, at the 
 
 blessed Father's knee : 
 "Absolve, blessed Father, have pity upon 
 
 me. 
 Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin 
 
 will dree." 
 
 *' Who is the sinner," quoth the Pope, " that 
 
 at my foot doth kneel ? " 
 — "I am Eodrigo Diaz — a jpoor Baron of 
 
 CastiUe."— 
 Much marvell'd all were in the hall, when that 
 
 name they heard him say. 
 — " Else up, rise up," the Pope he said, " I do 
 
 thy guilt away; — 
 
 I do thy guilt away," he said — " and my curse 
 
 I blot it out — 
 God save Eodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion 
 
 stout ; — 
 I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had 
 
 been sore, 
 To curse Euy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge 
 
 upon the Moor." 
 
 J. G. Loclhart.—Born 1794, Died 1854. 
 
 1525.— THE CONVICT SHIP. 
 
 Morn on the waters ! and, purple and bright, 
 Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ; 
 O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 
 See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 
 Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, 
 And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in 
 the gale ; 
 
 The winds come around her, in murmur and 
 
 song. 
 And the surges rejoice as they bear her 
 
 along: 
 See ! she looks up to the golden-edged 
 
 clouds, 
 And the sailor sings gaily aloft, in the 
 
 shrouds : 
 Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray. 
 Over the watera-r-away, and away ! 
 Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, 
 Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! 
 Who — as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, 
 Music around her, and sunshine on high — 
 Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow. 
 Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking 
 
 below ! 
 
 Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on 
 
 high, 
 Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky, 
 Treading its depths in the power of her 
 
 might. 
 And tiirning the clouds, as they pass her, to 
 
 light ! 
 Look to the waters ! — asleep on their breast, 
 Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? 
 Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
 Like a heart-cherish' d home on some desolate 
 
 plain! 
 Who — as she smiles in the silvery light, 
 Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
 Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
 A phantom of beauty — could deem with a 
 
 sigh, 
 That so lovely a thing is the mansion of 
 
 sin. 
 And that souls that are smitten lie bursting 
 
 within ? 
 Who, as he watches her silently gliding, 
 Eemembers that wave after wave is dividing 
 Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not 
 
 sever. 
 Hearts which are parted and broken for 
 
 ever ? 
 Or deems that he watches, afloat on the 
 
 wave, 
 The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's 
 
 grave ? 
 
 'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, 
 Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and 
 
 song! 
 Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world. 
 With streamers afloat, and with canvas un- 
 
 furl'd ; 
 All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes. 
 Yet charter' d by sorrow, and freighted ynth. 
 
 sighs : 
 Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 
 As the smiles we put on, just to cover our 
 
 tears ; 
 And the withering thoughts which the world 
 
 cannot know, 
 Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below ; 
 
T. K. Hervey.] 
 
 DRY UP THY TEARS, LOVE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate j 
 
 shore, \ 
 
 Where the dreams of our childhood are va- 
 nish' d and o'er. | 
 
 T. K. Hervey.— Born 1804, Died 1859. 
 
 1526.--DEY UP THY TEARS, LOVE. 
 
 Dry up thy tears, love ! — I fain would be gay ! 
 Sing me the song of my early day ! 
 Give me the music, so witchingly wild, 
 That solaced my sorrows when I was a child ! — 
 Years have gone by me, both lonely and long, 
 Since my spirit was soothed by thy voice in 
 
 that song ! 
 Years have gone by! — and life's lowlands 
 
 are past. 
 And I stand on the hill which I sigh'd for, at 
 
 last: 
 But I turn from the summit that once was my 
 
 star, 
 To the vale of my childhood, been dimly and 
 
 far; — 
 Each blight on its beauty seems softeu'd and 
 
 gone, 
 Like a land that we love, in the light of the 
 
 mom ! 
 There are the flowers that have withered 
 
 away. 
 And the hopes that have faded, like fairies at 
 
 play ; 
 And the eyes that are dimm'd, and the smiles 
 
 that are gone, 
 And thou, too, art there ! — but thou still art 
 
 mine own ; 
 Fair as in childhood, and fond as in youth, 
 Thou, only thou, wert a spirit of truth ! 
 Time hath been o'er thee, and darken'd 
 
 thine eye. 
 And thoughts are within thee more holy and 
 
 high ; 
 Sadder thy smile than in days that are o'er. 
 And lovelier all that was lovely before ; 
 That which thou wert is not that which thou 
 
 art, 
 Thou, too, art alter' d in all — but in heart ! 
 
 Lie on my bosom, and lead me along 
 Over lost scenes, by the magic of song ! 
 What if I weep at the vision of years ? 
 Sighs are not sorrows — and joy has her tears ! 
 Sad is my brow, as thy music is sad. 
 But oh ! it is long since my heart was so 
 
 glad! 
 But all that is left me of life's promise is 
 
 here, — 
 Thou, my young idol, in sorrow more dear ! 
 But thy murmurs remind me of many away, 
 And though I am glad, love! I cannot be 
 
 gay !— 
 All have depai-ted that offer' d like truth, 
 Save thou — only thou — and the song of my 
 
 youth ! 
 
 T. K. Hervey. —Born 1804, Died 1859. 
 
 1527.— I AM ALL ALONE. 
 
 I am all alone ! — and the visions that play 
 Round life's young days, have pass'd away ; 
 And the songs are hush'd that gladness sings, 
 And the hopes that I cherish' d have made 
 
 them wings ; 
 And the light of my heart is dimm'd and gone, 
 As I sit in my sorrow — and all alone ! 
 
 And the forms which I fondly loved are 
 
 flown. 
 And friends have departed — one by one j 
 And memory sits, whole lonely hours, 
 And weaves her wreath of hope's faded 
 
 flowers. 
 And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no or.e is 
 
 near 
 To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear ! 
 And the hour of my childhood is distant 
 
 far, 
 And I walk in a land where strangers are ; 
 And the looks that I meet, and the sounds 
 
 that I hear. 
 Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my 
 
 ear; 
 And sunshine is round me — which I cannot 
 
 see. 
 And eyes which beam kindness — but not for 
 
 me ! 
 And the song goes round, and the glowing 
 
 smile. 
 But I am desolate all the while ! 
 And faces are bright and bosoms glad. 
 And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad ! 
 And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom. 
 While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom ! 
 
 I wander about like a shadow of pain. 
 With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my 
 
 brain ; 
 And I list, with a start, to the gushing of 
 
 gladness, — 
 Oh ! how it grates on a bosom all sadness ! — 
 So, I turn from a world where I never was 
 
 knoAvn, 
 To sit in my sorrow — and all alone. 
 
 T. K. Hervey. —Born 1804, Died 1859. 
 
 1528.— AT HIS SISTER'S GRAVE. 
 
 The feeling is a nameless one 
 With which I sit upon thy stone, 
 And read the tale I dare not breathe, 
 Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath, 
 A simple tablet bears above 
 Brief record of a father's love, 
 And hints, in language yet more brief, 
 The story of a father's grief : — 
 
 Lost spirit ! — thine was not a breast 
 To struggle vainly after rest ! 
 Thou wert not made to bear the strife, 
 Nor labour through the storms of life ; 
 Thy heart was in too warm a mould 
 To mingle with the dull and cold. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 
 
 [Caroline Southey- 
 
 And every though^ that wrong'd thy truth | 
 Fell like a blight upon thy youth ! — { 
 
 Thou shouldst have been, for thy distress, j 
 Less pure — and oh, more passionless ! | 
 
 For sorrow's wasting mildew gave j 
 
 Its tenant to my sister's grave ! 
 
 But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er I 
 Thy fair blue eye shall weep no more ! 
 'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form 
 Lies safe from every future storm ! — 
 Oft, as I haunt the dreamy gloom 
 That gathers round thy peaceful tomb, 
 I love to see the lightning stream 
 Along thy stone with fitful gleam ; 
 To fancy in each flash are given 
 Thy spirit's visitings from heaven ; — 
 And smile to hear the tempest rave 
 Above my sister's quiet grave ! 
 
 T. K. Hervey.—Born 1804, Died 1859. 
 
 1529.— PARTING. 
 
 My early love, and must we part ? 
 Yes ! other wishes win thee now ; 
 New hopes are springing in thy heart. 
 New feelings brightening o'er thy brow ! 
 And childhood's light and childhood's home 
 Are all forgot at glory's call. 
 Yet, cast one thought in years to come 
 On her who loved thee o'er them all. 
 
 When pleasure's bowl is fiU'd for thee-, 
 And thou hast raised the cup to sip, 
 I would not that one dream of me 
 Should chase the chalice from thy lip : 
 But should there mingle in the draught 
 One dream of days that long are o'er. 
 Then — only then — the pledge be quaff 'd 
 To her who ne'er shall taste it more ! 
 
 When love a;id friendship's holy joys 
 Within their magic circle bind thee, 
 And happy hearts and smiling eyes, 
 As all must wear who are around thee ! 
 Remember that an eye as bright 
 Is dimm'd — a heart as true is broken. 
 And turn thee from thy land of light. 
 To waste on these some little token. 
 But do not weop ! — I could not bear 
 To stain thy cheek with sorrow's trace, 
 I would not draw one single tear, 
 For worlds, down that beloved face. 
 As soon would I, if power were given, 
 Pluck out the bow from yonder sky, 
 And free the prison' d floods of heaven, 
 As call one tear-drop to thine eye. 
 
 Yet oh, my love ! I know not why 
 It is a woman's thought ! — but while 
 Thou offer' st to my memory. 
 The tribute should not be — a smile ! 
 For, though I would not see thee weep, 
 The heart, methinks, should not be gay, 
 That would the fast of feeling keep 
 For her who loves it, far away. 
 
 No ! give me but a single sigh, 
 
 Pure as we breathed in happier hours, 
 When very sighs were wing'd with joy. 
 Like gales that have swept over flowers ; 
 That uttering of a fond regret, 
 That strain my spirit long must pour ; 
 A thousand dreams may wait us yet : 
 Our holiest and our first is o'er. 
 
 T. K. Hcrvey.—Born 1804, Died 1859. 
 
 1530.— AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
 
 Those few pale Autumn flowers. 
 
 How beautiful they are ! 
 Than all that went before. 
 Than all the Summer store. 
 
 How lovelier far ! 
 
 And why ? — They are the last I 
 The last ! the last 1 the last ! 
 Oh ! by that little word 
 How many thoughts are stirr'd 
 That whisper of the past I 
 
 Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
 
 Ye' re types of precious things ; 
 Types of those bitter moments. 
 That flit, like life's enjoyments. 
 
 On rapid, rapid wings : 
 
 Last hours with parting dear ones 
 (That Time the fastest spends), 
 
 Last tears in silence shed. 
 
 Last words half utter'd, 
 Last looks of dying friends. 
 
 Who but would fain compress 
 
 A life into a day, — 
 The last day spent -with one 
 Who ere the morrow's sun 
 
 Must leave us, and for aye ? 
 
 precious, precious moments ! 
 
 Pale flowers ! ye' re types of those ; 
 The saddest, sweetest, dearest. 
 Because, like those, the nearest 
 
 To an eternal close. 
 
 Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
 I woo your gentle breath — 
 
 1 leave the Summer rose 
 For younger, blither brows ; 
 
 Tell me of change and death. 
 
 Caroline Southey. — Born 1786, Died 1854. 
 
 [531.— THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 
 
 Tread softly ! bow the head — 
 In reverent silence bow ! 
 
 No passing bell doth toll ; 
 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 Is passing now. 
 
 70 
 
Caroline Southey.] THE LAST JOURNEY. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Stranger, however great, 
 
 0, friend ! I go from thee — 
 
 With lowly reverence bow ! 
 
 Where the worm feasteth free, 
 
 There's one in that poor shed — 
 
 Darkly to dwell ; 
 
 One by that paltry bed — 
 
 Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? i 
 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Friend ! is it come to this ? 
 
 
 0, friend, farewell ! " 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 
 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 
 
 Uplift your load again ! 
 
 Enter ! — ^no crowds attend — 
 
 Take up the mourning strain — 
 
 Enter ! — no guards defend 
 
 Pour the deep wail ! 
 
 This palace gate. 
 
 Lo ! the expected one 
 
 That pavement damp and cold 
 
 To his place passeth on — 1 
 
 Gm.vp ' bifl him lin.il ' B 
 
 No smiling courtiers tread j 
 
 \AXCU1 V . Kfi-KA II 1 1 1 1 AltMXJ, • U 
 
 One silent woman stands. 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move ! f 
 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 A dying head. 
 
 Fast from our sight — 
 
 No mingling voices sound — 
 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppress' d — again 
 
 Let the air breathe on him, . 
 And the sun beam on him 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 That short deep gasp — and then 
 
 Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
 
 The parting groan ! 
 
 Lay the departed low. 
 
 0! change — 0! wondrous change ! 
 
 Even at his gate ! 
 
 Burst are the prison bars 1 
 
 Will the dead speak again— 
 
 This moment there, so low. 
 
 Utt'ring proud boasts, and vain 
 
 So agonized — and now 
 
 Last words of hate ? ^ 
 
 Beyond the stars ! 
 
 Lo ! the cold lips unclose — 
 
 ! change— stupendous change ! 
 
 List ! list ! what sounds are those, 
 
 There lies the soulless clod ! 
 
 Pla,intive and low ? 
 
 The sun eternal breaks ; 
 
 " 0, thou, mine enemy ! 
 
 The new immortal wakes — 
 
 Come forth and look on me, 
 
 Wakes with his God. 
 
 Ere hence I go. 
 
 Caroline Southey.-^Bom 1786, Died 1854. 
 
 Curse not thy foeman now — 
 
 
 Mark ! on his pallid brow 
 
 
 Whosjp spal i«; set ' 
 
 
 Pardoning I pass thy way ; 
 
 
 Then wage not war with clay- 
 
 . 1532.--THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Pardon — forget ! " 
 
 • Slowly, with measured tread, 
 
 Now all his labour 's done ! 
 
 Onward we bear the dead 
 
 Now, now the goal is -won ! 
 
 To his lone home ; 
 
 0, grave, we come ! 
 
 Short grows the homeward road — 
 
 Seal up the precious dust — 
 
 On -svith your mortal load ! — 
 
 Land of the good and just, 
 
 0, grave ! we come. 
 
 Take the soul home ! 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 
 
 Caroline Southey ..—Born 1786, Died 1854 
 
 Past each remember'd spot 
 
 
 Where he hath been — 
 Where late he walk'd in glee. 
 
 
 
 These from henceforth to be 
 
 
 Never more seen I 
 
 • 1533.— MAEINER'S HYMN. 
 
 East ye — set down the bier I 
 
 Launch thy bark, mariner ! 
 
 One he loved dwelleth here ; 
 
 Christian, God speed thee ! 
 
 Let the dead lie 
 
 Let loose the rudder-bands — 
 
 A moment that door beside. 
 
 Good angels lead thee ! " 
 
 Wont to fly open wide 
 
 Set thy sails warily, 
 
 Ere he drew nigh. 
 
 Tempests ^vill come ; 
 
 Hearken ! — he speaketh yet ! — 
 
 Steer thy course steadily ; 
 Christian, steer home ! 
 
 " 0, friend ! Avilt thou forget 
 
 
 (Friend — more than brother !) 
 
 Look to the weather-bow. 
 
 How hand in hand we've gone, 
 
 Breakers are round thee ; 
 
 Heart with beai-t link'd in or.c — 
 
 Let fall the plummet now. 
 
 All to each other ? 
 
 Shallows may ground thee. 
 
t'mn 1780 to 186G.] 
 
 CASA WAPPY. 
 
 [D. M. MoiR. 
 
 Eeef in the foresail, there ! 
 
 Hold the helm fast ! 
 So — let the vessel wear — ■ 
 
 There swept the blast. 
 
 " What of the night, watchman ? 
 
 What of the night ? " 
 " Cloudy — all quiet — 
 
 No land j^et — all's right." 
 Be wakeful, be vigilant — 
 
 Danger may be 
 At an hour when all seemeth 
 
 Securest to thee. 
 
 How ! gains the leak so fast ? 
 
 Clean out the hold — 
 Hoist up thy merchandise. 
 
 Heave out thy gold ; 
 There — let the ingots go — 
 
 JNow the ship rights ; 
 Hurra ! the harbour 'b near — 
 
 Lo ! the red lights ! 
 
 Slacken not sail yet 
 
 At inlet or island ; 
 Straight for the beacon steer, 
 
 Straight for the high land ; 
 Crowd all thy canvas on, 
 
 Cut through the foam — 
 Christian ! cast anchor now — 
 
 Heaven is thy home ! 
 
 Caroline Southey. — Bom 1786, Died 1854. 
 
 1534.— CASA WAPPY. 
 
 And haet thou sought thy heavenly home, 
 
 Our fond, dear boy — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death as at thy birth. 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our death, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell. 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 When thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of our unfathom'd agony, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight, 
 
 A type of heaven : 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self than a part 
 Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright brief day kne^v no decline, 
 
 'Twas cloudless joy; 
 Sunrise and night alone were thinC; 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 
 This mom beheld thee blithe and gay, 
 That found thee prostrate in decay, 
 And e'er a third shone, clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 of our hearth, our household pride. 
 Earth' s undefiled ; 
 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 
 Our dear, sweet child ! 
 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
 
 Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Do what I may, go where I will. 
 
 Thou meet'st my sight ; 
 There dost thou glide before me still — 
 
 A form of light ! 
 I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
 I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
 Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 
 
 With glance of stealth ; 
 The hair thrown back from thy full brow 
 
 In buoyant health : 
 I see thine eyes' deep violet light, 
 Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright, 
 Thy clasping arms so round and wliite, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The nurseiy shows thy pictured wall, 
 
 Thy bat, thy bow, 
 Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball j 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 A corner holds thine empty chair. 
 Thy playthings idly scatter' d there. 
 But speak to us of our despair, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Even to the last thy every word — 
 
 To glad, to grieve — 
 Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 
 
 On summer's eve ; 
 In outward beauty undecay'd, 
 Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
 And like the rainbow thou didst fade, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 We mourn for thee when blind blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee when morn's first light 
 
 Reddens the hills : 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
 All, to the wall-flower and vnld pea, 
 Are changed — we saw the world through 
 thee, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 And though, perchance, a smile may gleam. 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 
 
 An inward birth : 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We miss thee at thine evening i^rayer I 
 All day we miss thee, everywhere, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 70* 
 
D. M. MoiB.j 
 
 LANGSYNE. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 
 
 In life's spring bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below, 
 
 The silent tomb. 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 The cuckoo and " the busy bee," 
 Return — ^but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'Tis so; but can it be (while flowers 
 
 Revive again) — 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours 
 
 For aye remain ? 
 Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
 The grass renew' d, should yearly wave. 
 Yet Grod forget our child to save ? — 
 Casa Wappy I 
 
 It cannot be : for were it so 
 
 Thus man could die, 
 Life were a mockery. Thought were woe. 
 
 And Truth a lie ; 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 
 Religion frenzy. Virtue vain. 
 And all our hopes to meet again, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 
 
 With beam of love, 
 A star, death's uncongenial wild 
 
 Smiling above ; 
 Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
 The skyward path, the seraph's road. 
 That led thee back from man to God, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair. 
 
 Fond, fairest boy, 
 That heaven is God's, and thou art there, 
 
 With him in joy : 
 There past are death and all its woes. 
 There beauty's stream for ever flows, 
 And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 
 
 Pride of my heart ! 
 It cannot be that long we dwell. 
 
 Thus torn apart : 
 Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : 
 And, dark howe'er life's night may be. 
 Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
 Casa Wappy I 
 
 D. M. Moir.—Born 1798, Died 1851. 
 
 1535.— LANGSYNE. 
 
 Langsjme ! — how doth the word come back 
 
 With magic meaning to the heart. 
 
 As memory roams the sunny track, 
 
 From which hope's dreams were loath to part! 
 
 No joy like by-past joy appears ; 
 
 For what is gone we fret and pine. 
 
 Were life spun out a thousand years 
 
 It could not match Langsyne ! 
 
 Langsyne ! — the days of childhood warm. 
 When, tottering by a mother's knee. 
 Each sight and sound had power to charm, 
 And hope was high, and thought was free. 
 Langsyne ! — ^the merry schoolboy days — 
 How sweetly then life's sun did shine ! 
 Oh ! for the glorious pranks and plays, 
 The raptures of Langsyne. 
 
 Langsyne ! — yes, in the sound I hear 
 The rustling of the summer grove ; 
 And view those angerfeatures near 
 Which first awoke the heart to love. 
 How sweet it is in pensive mood. 
 At windless midnight to recline. 
 And fill the mental solitude 
 With spectres from Langsyne ! 
 
 Langsyne ! — ah, where are they who shared 
 With us its pleasures bright and blithe .^ 
 Kindly with some hath fortune fared ; 
 And some have bowed beneath the scythe 
 Of death ; while others scatter' d far 
 O'er foreign lands at fate repine. 
 Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star, 
 To muse on dear Langsyne ! 
 
 Langsyne ! — the heart can never be 
 Again so full of guileless truth.; 
 Langsyne ! — the eyes no more shall see. 
 Ah no ! the rainbow hopes of youth. 
 Langsyne ! — with thee resides a speU 
 To raise the spirit, and refine. 
 Farewell ! — there can be no farewell 
 To thee, loved, lost Langsyne ! 
 
 D. M. Moir.—Born 1798, Died 1851. 
 
 I536._THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 I Who sleeps below ? who sleeps below ? 
 
 It is a question idle all ! 
 Ask of the breezes as they blow, 
 
 Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ? 
 They murmur in the trees around, 
 And mock thy voice, an empty sound ! 
 
 A hundred summer suns have shower' d 
 
 Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright ; 
 
 A hundred winter storms have lower' d 
 With piercing floods, and hues of night. 
 
 Since first this remnant of his race 
 
 Did tenant his lone dwelling-place. 
 
 Say, did he come from East, from West ? 
 
 From Southern climes, or where the Pole, 
 With frosty sceptre, doth arrest 
 
 The howling billows as they roll ? 
 Within what realm of peace or strife 
 Did he first draw the breath of life ? 
 
 Was he of high or low degree ? 
 
 Did grandeur smile upon his lot ? 
 Or, bom to dark obscurity. 
 
 Dwelt he within some lowly cot. 
 
F»-om 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PEEICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 [George Crolt. 
 
 And, from his youth to labour wed, 
 
 From toil-strung limbs -wrung daily bread ? 
 
 Say, died he ripe, and full of years, 
 Bow'd down, and bent by hoary eld, 
 
 When sound was silence to his ears, 
 And the dim eyeball sight withheld ; 
 
 Like a ripe apple falling down. 
 
 Unshaken, 'mid the orchard brown; 
 
 When all the friends that bless' d his prime, 
 Were vanish' d like a morning dream ; 
 
 Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time, 
 And scatter'd in oblivion's stream ; 
 
 Passing away all silently. 
 
 Like snow-flakes melting in the sea : 
 
 Or, 'mid the summer of his years, 
 
 When round him throng' d his children 
 young. 
 When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears, 
 
 And anguish dwelt on every tongue. 
 Was he cut off, and left behind 
 A widow' d wife, scarce half resign' d ? 
 
 Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring, 
 
 Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down ; 
 
 When she, his chosen, blossoming 
 In beauty, deom'd him all her own, 
 
 And forward look'd to happier years 
 
 Than ever bless' d this vale of tears ? 
 
 By day, by night, through calm and storm, 
 O'er distant oceans did he roam, 
 
 Far from his land, a lonely form, 
 
 The deck his walk, the sea his home : 
 
 Toss'd he on wild Biscayan wave, 
 
 Or whera smooth tides Panama lave ? 
 
 Slept ho within the tented field. 
 
 With pillowing daisies for his bed ? 
 
 Captived in battle, did he yield ? 
 Or plunge to victory o'er the dead ? 
 
 Oft, 'mid destruction, hath he broke 
 
 Through reeking blades and rolling smoke ? 
 
 Perhaps he perish' d for the faith — 
 
 One of that persecuted band. 
 Who suffer' d tortures, bonds, and death, 
 
 To free from mental thrall the land, 
 And, toiling for the martyr's fame. 
 Espoused his fate, nor found a name ! 
 
 Say, was he one to science blind, 
 A groper in Earth's dungeon dark ? 
 
 Or one who with aspiring mind 
 Did, in the fair creation, mark 
 
 The Maker's hand, and kept his soul 
 
 Free from this grovelling world's control? 
 
 Hush ! wild surmise ! — 'tis vain — 'tis vain — 
 The summer flowers in beauty blow, 
 
 And sighs the wind, and floods the rain, 
 O'er some old bones that rot below ; 
 
 No other record can wo trace 
 
 Of fame or fortune, rank or race l 
 
 Then, what is life, when thus we see 
 No trace remains of life's career ? — 
 
 Mortal ! whoe'er thou art, for thee 
 A moral lesson gloweth here ; 
 
 Putt'st thou in aught of earth thy trust ? 
 
 'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix witiuiust. 
 
 What doth it matter, then, if thus. 
 Without a stone, without a name, 
 
 To impotently herald us. 
 
 We float not on the breath of fame ; 
 
 But, like the dewdrop from the flower, 
 
 Pass, after glittering for an hour ? 
 
 The soul decays not, freed from earth, 
 And earthly coils, it bursts away ; — 
 
 Eeceiving a celestial birth. 
 
 And spurning off its bonds of clay, 
 
 It soars, and seeks another sphere, 
 
 And blooms through Heaven's eternal year ! 
 
 Do good ; shun evil ; live not thou, 
 
 As if at death thy being died ; 
 Nor error's siren voice allow 
 
 To draw thy steps from truth aside ; 
 Look to thy journey's end — the grave ! 
 And trust in Him whose arm can save. 
 
 D. M. Moir.—Born 1798, Died 1851. 
 
 1537.— HYMN. 
 
 Father in Heaven ! who gave me breath. 
 And made this world for such as me, 
 
 Eemind me, I must give, at death. 
 Account of all my deeds to Thee ! 
 
 If from the track of duty e'er 
 
 My thoughts would roam, my feet would 
 slide, 
 Still may I feel that Thou art near. 
 
 And pray Thee, Lord, to be my guide. 
 
 Yes ! from Thine eye's unsleeping lid. 
 And from Thy presence none can flee ; 
 
 The secret places are not hid, 
 
 And darkness is as light to Thee ! 
 
 So when I wake to morninf? light. 
 
 My prayers to Thee shall still ascend ; 
 
 And I will ask Thee, every night. 
 To bless my slumbers, and defend ! 
 
 D.M. Moir.—Born 1798, Died 1851. 
 
 1538.— PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 This was the ruler of the land. 
 
 When Athens was the land of fame ; 
 
 This was the light that led the band, 
 When each was like a living flame ; 
 
 The centre of earth's noblest ring, 
 
 Of more than men, the more than king. 
 
Geokge Ckoly.] 
 
 THE FEENCH AEMY IN RUSSIA. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
 His sovereignty was held or won : 
 
 Feared — bat alone as freemen fear; 
 Loved — but as freemen love alone ; 
 
 He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 
 
 By nature's first great title — mind ! 
 
 Resistless words were on his tongue, 
 Then Eloquence first flash' d below ; 
 
 Full arm'd to life the portent sprung, 
 Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 
 
 And his the sole, the sacred hand, 
 
 That shook her jEgis o'er the land. 
 
 And throned immortal by his side, 
 A woman sits with eye sublime, 
 
 Aspasia, all his spirit's bride; 
 
 But, if their solemn love were crime, 
 
 Pity the beauty and the sage, 
 
 Their crime was in their darken' d age. 
 
 He perish' d, but his wreath was won ; 
 
 He perish' d in his height of fame : 
 Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun. 
 
 Yet still she conquer' d in his name. 
 Fill'd with his soul, she could not die ; 
 Her conquest was Posterity ! 
 
 George Croly.—Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like 
 
 the flood, 
 When mighty torrents from their channels 
 
 leap, 
 Rush'd through the land the haughty multi- 
 tude, 
 Billow on endless billow ; on through wood, 
 O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale. 
 The death-devoted moved, to clangour rude 
 Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of 
 mail, 
 Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam 
 pale. 
 
 Again they reach'd thee, Borodino ! still 
 Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay. 
 
 ^539-— THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 
 
 Magnificence of ruin ! what has time 
 In all it ever gazed upon of war, 
 Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime. 
 Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com- 
 pare? 
 How glorious shone the invader's pomp 
 
 afar ! 
 Like pamper' d lions from the spoil they 
 
 came ; 
 The land before them silence and despair. 
 The land behind them massacre and flame ; 
 Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they 
 now ? A name. 
 
 Homeward by hundred thousands, column- 
 
 The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and 
 
 chill, 
 Friend, foe, stretch' d thick together, clay to 
 
 clay ; 
 In vain the startled legions burst away ; 
 The land was all one naked sepulchre .: 
 The shrinking eye still glanced on grim 
 
 decay, 
 StiU did the hoof and wheel their passage 
 
 tear. 
 Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses 
 
 mouldering drear. 
 
 The field was as they left it ; fosse and fort 
 Steaming with slaughter still, but desolate ; 
 The cannon flung dismantled by its port ; 
 Each knew the mound, the black ravine 
 
 whose strait 
 Was won and lost, and throng'd with dead, 
 
 tiU fate 
 Had fix'd upon the factor — half undone. 
 There was the hiU, from which their eyes 
 
 elate 
 Had seen the burst of Moscow's golden 
 
 zone ; 
 But death was at their heels ; they shudder'd 
 
 and rush'd on, 
 
 ITie hour of vengeance strikes. Hark to 
 
 the gale ! 
 As it bursts hollow through the rolling 
 
 clouds. 
 That from the north in sullen grandeur 
 
 sail 
 Like floating Alps. Advancing darknesB 
 
 broods 
 Upon the wild horizon, and the woods. 
 Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill, 
 As the gust sweeps them, and those upper 
 
 floods 
 Shoot on their leafless boughs the sleet- 
 drops chill. 
 That on the hurrying crowds in freezing 
 
 showers distil. 
 
 They reach the wilderness ! The majesty 
 Of solitude is spread before their gaze. 
 Stern nakedness — dark earth and wrathful 
 
 sky. 
 If ruins were there, they long had ceased to 
 
 blaze ; 
 If blood was shed, the ground no moro 
 
 betrays, 
 Even by a skeleton, the crime of man ; 
 Behind them rolls the deep and drenching 
 
 haze. 
 Wrapping their rear in night ; before their 
 
 van 
 The struggling daylight shows the unmea- 
 
 sured desert wan. 
 
 Still on they sweep, as if their hurrying 
 
 march 
 Could bear them from the rushing of His 
 
 wheel 
 Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven' a 
 
 clear arch 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 EEBELLION. 
 
 [George Croly* 
 
 At once is cover' d with a Kvid veil ; 
 
 In mix'd and fighting heaps the deep olouds 
 
 reel; 
 Upon the dense horizon hangs the snn, 
 In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel ; 
 The snows wheel down through twihght, 
 
 thick and dun ; 
 Now tremble, men of blood, the judgment has 
 
 begun'. 
 
 The trumpet of the northern winds has 
 
 blown, 
 And it is answer' d by the dying roar 
 Of armies on that boundless field o'er- 
 
 thrown : 
 Now in the awful gusts the desert hoar 
 Is tempested, a sea without a shore. 
 Lifting its feathery waves. The legions 
 
 fly; 
 Volley on volley down the hailstones pour ; 
 Blind, famish' d, frozen, mad, the wanderers 
 
 die. 
 And djdng, hear the storm but wilder thunder 
 
 by. 
 
 Such is the hand of Heaven ! A human 
 
 blow 
 Had crush'd them in the fight, or flung the 
 
 chain 
 Uound them where Moscow's stately towers 
 
 were low 
 And all bestill'd. But Thou ! thy battle- 
 plain 
 "Was a whole empire ; that devoted train 
 Must war from day to day with storm and 
 
 gloom 
 (Man following, like the wolves, to rend the 
 
 slain). 
 Must he from night to night as in a tomb. 
 Must fly, toil, bleed for home ; yet never see 
 
 that home. 
 
 George Crohj. — Bom 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1540.— TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY. 
 
 High peace to the soul of the dead, 
 
 From the dream of the world she has gone ! 
 On the stars in her glory to tread, 
 
 To be bright in the blaze of the throne. 
 In youth she was lovely ; and Time, 
 
 When her rose with the cypress he twined, 
 Left the heart all the warmth of its prime, 
 
 Left her eye all the light of her mind. 
 The summons came forth — and she died ! 
 
 Yet her parting was gentle, for those 
 Whom she loved mingled tears at her side — 
 
 Her death was the mourner's repose. 
 Our weakness may weep o'er her bier, 
 
 But her spirit has gone on the ^ving 
 To triumph for agony here, 
 
 To rejoice in the joy of its King. 
 
 George Crolij.—-Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1541.—COME, EVENING GALE ! 
 
 (A.D. 1500.) 
 
 Come, eveninge gale ! the orimsonne rose 
 Is drooping for thy sighe of dewe ; 
 The hyacinthe moves thy kisse to close 
 In slumber sweeto its eye of blue. — - 
 
 Shone, eveninge starre ! the valley- streame 
 Hath loste the tinges of the sunne, 
 And lingers for thy pearHe beame, 
 To tell its bosome daye is done. 
 
 Rise, eveninge moone ! thy holie raye 
 To telle of heavenlie hours is giv^en, 
 Whenne earthe shall on our eye decaye, 
 And alle our path, Uke thine, be heavenne. 
 
 George Croly.—Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1542.— THE PAINTER. 
 
 That rock's his haunt. There's not in all 
 
 our hills 
 A hunter that can climb like him. He'll 
 
 watch 
 Before the lark is up ; and, staff in hand. 
 For hours stand gazing, by the eagle's nest, 
 Like one enamour' d of the rising sun ; 
 And then he'll make his couch beside a rill, 
 Which, in his fantasy, he strews with shells, 
 And hangs with garlands of the weedy 
 
 flowers. 
 Some think him love-crost; others that he 
 
 deals 
 With spirits : for all such seek loneliness. 
 And yet I think him holy, for he loves 
 Our convent walls ; and many an evening 
 
 strays 
 To see the sunset sleeping on its roof 
 And its whole arches ; or but turns away 
 To pore upon its image in the stream ; 
 And then he'll spread his book upon his 
 
 And make a thousand things of beauty; 
 then 
 I He'll tear the page, and fling it to the mnd. 
 
 George Crohj.—Bom 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1543.— REBELLION. 
 
 I had a vision : evening sat in gold 
 Upon the bosom of a boundless plain, 
 Cover' d with beauty ; — garden, field, and 
 
 fold, 
 Studding the billowy sweep of ripening grain, 
 Like islands in the purple summer main. 
 And temples of pure marble met the sun. 
 That tinged their white shafts with a golden 
 
 stain ; 
 And sounds of rustic joy, and labour done, 
 Hallow'd the lovely hour, until her pomp was 
 
 gone. 
 
George Ceoly.] 
 
 A LOWERING EVE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 The plain was hush'd in twilight, as a child 
 Slumbers beneath its slow-drawn canopy ; 
 But sudden tramplings came, and voices wild, 
 And tossings of rude weapons caught the 
 
 eye; 
 And on the hills, like meteors in the sky. 
 Burst sanguine fires ; and ever and anon 
 To the clash' d spears the horn gave fierce 
 
 reply ; 
 And round their beacons trooping thousands 
 
 shone, 
 Then sank like evil things, and all was dark 
 
 and lone. 
 
 'Twas midnight : there was wrath in that 
 
 wild heaven ; 
 Eai-th was sepulchral dark. At once a roar 
 Peal'd round the mountain-tops, like ocean 
 
 driven 
 Before the thunders on the eternal shore : 
 Down rush'd, as if a sudden earthquake tore 
 The bowels of the hills, a flood of fire : 
 Like lava, mingled spears and torches pour. 
 The plain is deluged ; higher still and higher 
 Swell blood and flame, till all is like one 
 
 mighty pyre. 
 
 *Twas dawn : and still the black and bloody 
 
 smoke 
 Eoll'd o'er the champaign like a vault of 
 
 stone ; 
 But as the sun's slow wheels the barrier 
 
 broke. 
 He lit the image of a fearful one, 
 Throned in the central massacre, alone — 
 An iron diadem upon his brow, 
 A naked lance beside him, that yet shone 
 Purple and warm with gore ; and crouching 
 
 low, 
 All men in one huge chain, alike the friend 
 
 and foe. 
 
 The land around him, in that sickly light, 
 Show'd like th' upturning of a mighty grave ; 
 Strewn with crush' d monuments and remnants 
 
 white 
 Of man ; all loneliness ; but when some slave, 
 With faint, fond hand, the hurried burial 
 
 gave, 
 Then died. The Despot sat upon his throne. 
 Scoffing to see the stubborn traitors wave 
 At his least breath. The good and brave 
 
 were gone 
 To exile or the tomb. Their country's life 
 
 was done ! 
 
 George Croly.—Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1544.— A LOWERING EVE. 
 
 There is a gloomy grandeur in the sun, 
 That levels his last light along the shore ; 
 The clouds are rolling downwards, stern and 
 dun: 
 
 The long, slow wave is streak'd with red, Kke 
 
 gore 
 On some vast field of battle ; and the roar 
 Of wave and wind comes like the battle's 
 
 sound. 
 
 # # * # 
 
 And now the sun sinks deeper; and the 
 
 clouds. 
 In folds of sullen fire, still heavier lower, 
 TiU the whole storm the shore and ocean 
 
 shrouds. 
 
 George Croly. — Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1545.— A CALM EVE. 
 
 Look on these waters, with how soft a kiss 
 They woo the pebbled shore! then steal 
 
 away, 
 Like wanton lovers — ^but to come again, 
 And die in music ! There, the bending skies 
 See aU their stars, — and the beach-loving 
 
 trees. 
 Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers, 
 That wreathe their pale roots round the 
 
 ancient stones, 
 Make pictures of themselves ! 
 
 George Croly. — Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1546.— SATAN. 
 
 FROM A PICTURE BY SIR J. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Prince of the fallen ! around thee sweep 
 The billows of the burning deep, 
 Above thee bends the vaulted fire, 
 Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire ; 
 And on thy sleepless vision rise 
 Hell's living clouds of agonies. 
 
 But thou dost like a mountain stand, 
 The spear uplifted in thy hand ; 
 Thy gorgeous eye — a comet shorn, 
 Calm into utter darkness borne ; 
 A naked giant, stem, sublime, 
 Aim'd in despair, and scorning Time. 
 
 On thy curl'd lip is throned disdain. 
 That may revenge, but not complain : 
 Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale. 
 There smote the blast of fiery hail. 
 Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there. 
 The wreck of an archangel's sphere. 
 
 No giant pinions round thee cling ; 
 Clouds and the thunder are thy wing ; 
 Thy forehead wears no diadem. 
 The King is in thine eyeballs' laeam ; 
 Thy form is grandeur unsubdued. 
 Sole chief of Hell's dark multitude. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 NOTEE DAME. 
 
 [George Cboly. 
 
 Yet brighter than thy brightest hour 
 
 Shall rise in glory and in power 
 
 The lowliest of the lowly dead, 
 
 HIS ransom' d, who shall bruise thy head, 
 
 The myriads for HIS blood forgiven ; 
 
 Kings of the stars, the loved of Heaven ! 
 
 George Croly.^Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1547.— THE POET'S HOUE. 
 
 When day is done, and clouds are low, 
 
 And flowers are honey-dew. 
 And Hesper's lamp begins to glow 
 
 Along the western blue ; 
 And homeward wing the turtle-doves, 
 Then comes the hour the poet loves. 
 
 For in the dimness curtain'd round, 
 
 He hears the echoes all 
 Of cosy vale, or grassy mound. 
 
 Or distant waterfall ; 
 And shapes are on his dreaming sight. 
 That keep their beauty for the night. 
 
 And still, as shakes the sudden breeze 
 
 The forest's deepening shade. 
 He hears on Tuscan evening seas 
 
 The silver serenade : 
 Or, to the field of battle borne, 
 Swells at the sound of trump and horn. 
 
 The star that peeps the leaves between, 
 
 To him is but the light 
 That, from some lady's bower of green, 
 
 Shines to her pilgrim knight : 
 Who feels her spell around him twine, 
 And hastens home from Palestine. 
 
 Or, if some wandering peasant's song 
 
 Come sweeten'd on the gale, 
 He sees the cloister's saintly throng — 
 
 The crozier, cross, and veil ; 
 Or hears the vespers of the nun, 
 World-weary, lovely, and undone. 
 
 And thus he thinks the hours away 
 
 In sweet unworldly folly. 
 And loves to see the shades of grey, 
 
 That feed his melancholy : 
 Finding sweet speech and thought in all, 
 Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall ! 
 
 Qeorge Crohj.—Bom 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1548.— NOON. 
 
 Come, ye brown oaks, and stoop your heavy 
 
 boughs. 
 Making sweet eve around my sultry brows ! 
 Wave your white beauty, lilies ; hyacinths, 
 
 sigh ; ^ _ 
 And, woodbine, from your blossora'd canopy. 
 
 Stirring the smoothness of this quiet stream. 
 Shed on my eyes some deep, Elysian dream ; 
 And come, thou young and silken-pinion' d 
 
 Wind, 
 That the pale Virgin May sends forth to 
 
 find _ 
 
 Her flowers, in Winter's frozen Bosom 
 
 sleeping ; 
 Wing round this leafy bed, in whispers 
 
 creeping 
 Like softest music on my slumbering ear ; 
 Until the murmur of the grasshopper. 
 And the fresh odours of the rose's breath. 
 Tell me that Day is faint, and nigh to death. 
 And the small stars are waking one by one ; 
 And to fair Thetis' couch the weary sun is 
 
 gone! 
 
 George Croly.—Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1549.— NOTEE DAME. 
 
 The organ peals ; at once, as some vast 
 wave, 
 Bend to the earth the mighty multitude. 
 Silent as those pale emblems of the grave 
 In monumental marble round them strew'd, 
 Low at the altar, forms in cope and hood 
 Superb Avith gold- wrought cross and diamond 
 
 twine, 
 Life in their uptum'd visages subdued. 
 Toss their untiring censers round the 
 shrine. 
 Where on her throne of clouds the Virgin sits 
 divine. 
 
 But only kindred faith can fitly tell 
 Of the high ritual at that altar done. 
 When clash' d the arms, and rose the chorus- 
 swell. 
 Then sank, as if beneath the grave 'twere 
 
 gone ; 
 Till broke the spell the mitred abbot's tone. 
 Deep, touching, solemn, as he stood in 
 
 prayer, 
 A dazzling form upon its topmost stone, 
 And raised, with hallow'd look, the Host in 
 air. 
 And bless'd with heavenward hand the thou- 
 sands kneeling there. 
 
 Pompous ! but love I not such pomp of 
 prayer ; 
 111 bends the heart 'mid mortal luxury, 
 Eather Jet me the meek devotion share, 
 Where, in their silent glens and thickets 
 
 high, 
 England, thy lone and lowly chapels lie. 
 The spotless table by the eastern wall. 
 The marble, rudely traced with names gone 
 
 by, 
 The pale-eyed pastor's simple, fervent all ; 
 Those deeper wake the heart, where heart is 
 all in all. 
 
Geoege Ckolt.] 
 
 JACOB. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod.- 
 
 If pride be evil ; if the holiest sighs 
 Must come from humblest hearts-; if man 
 
 must turn 
 FuU on his wreck of nature to be wise : 
 If there be blessedness for those who 
 
 mourn; 
 What sijeak the purple gauds that round us 
 
 bum ? 
 Ask of that kneeling crowd whose glances 
 
 stray- 
 So restless round an altar, vestment, urn ; 
 Can guilt weep there ? can mild repentance 
 
 pray? 
 Ask, when this moment's past, how runs their 
 Sabbath-day ? 
 
 Their Sabbath-day ! alas ! to France that 
 day 
 Comes not ; she has a day of looser dress, 
 A day of thicker crowded ball and play, 
 A day of folly's hotter, ranker press ; 
 She knoweth not its hallow'd happiness, 
 Its eve of gather'd hearts and gentle 
 
 cheer. 
 
 George Crohj.—Born 1780, LiedlSGl. 
 
 1550.— JACOB. 
 
 The sun was sinking on the mountain- 
 zone 
 That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine ! 
 And lovely from the desert rose the moon. 
 Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line, 
 Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine. 
 Up Padan- Aram's height, abrupt and bare, 
 A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline 
 Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious 
 air ; 
 I The summit gain'd, he knelt and breathed his 
 evening prayer. 
 
 He spread his cloak and slumber'd — 
 darkness fell 
 Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound 
 Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to 
 
 swell ; 
 Clouds heavy with the tempest gather'd 
 
 round, 
 Yet was the whirlmnd in its caverns 
 
 bound ; 
 Still deeper roU'd the darkness from on 
 
 high. 
 Gigantic volume upon volume wound — 
 Above, a pillar shooting to the sky : 
 Below, a mighty sea, that spreads in- 
 cessantly. 
 
 Voices are hoard — a choir of golden 
 strings ; 
 Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the 
 
 rose; 
 Then chariot-wheels — the nearer rush of 
 
 wings ; 
 
 Pale lightning round the dark pavilion 
 
 glows : 
 It thunders — the resplendent gates unclose. 
 Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er 
 
 height 
 Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crown'd 
 
 brows, 
 Millions on millions, brighter and more 
 
 bright. 
 Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled 
 light. 
 
 But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim 
 stand, 
 Like cherub-kings, with lifted, mighty 
 
 plume, 
 Fix'd, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high 
 
 command : 
 They tell the patriarch of his glorious 
 
 doom ; 
 Father of countless myriads that shall 
 
 come. 
 Sweeping the land like billows of the sea, 
 Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's 
 
 gloom, 
 Till He is given whom angels long to see, 
 And Israel's splendid line is crown' d with 
 Deity. 
 
 George Crohj .—Born 1780, BiedL 1861. 
 
 155 1.— THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD. 
 
 There's glory on thy mountains, proud Bengal, 
 "When on their temples bursts the morning 
 
 sun! 
 There's glory on thy marble -tower' d wall, 
 Proud Ispahan, beneath his burning noon ! 
 There's glory — when his golden course is done, 
 Proud Istamboul, upon thy waters blue ! 
 But fall'n Damascus, thine was beauty's 
 
 throne, 
 In mom, and noon, and evening's purple dew. 
 Of all from ocean's marge to mighty Himmalu. 
 
 East of the city stands a lofty mount, 
 
 Its brow with lightning delved and rent in 
 
 sunder ; 
 And through the fragment rolls a little fount. 
 Whose channel bears the blast of fire and 
 
 thunder ; 
 And there has many a pilgrim come to wonder; 
 For there are flowers unnumber'd blossoming. 
 With but the bare and calcined marble under ; 
 Yet in all Asia no such colours spring, 
 No perfumes rich as in that mountain's rocky 
 
 ring. 
 
 And some, who pray'd the night out on the 
 
 hill, 
 Have said they heard — unless it was their 
 
 dream. 
 Or the mere murmur of the babbling rill, — 
 Just as the morn-star shot its first slant beam, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD. 
 
 [George Cboly. 
 
 A sornid of music, such as they might deem 
 The song of spirits — that would sometimes 
 
 sail 
 Close to their ear, a deep, delicious stream, 
 Then sweep away, and die with a low wail ; 
 Then come again, and thus, till Lucifer was 
 
 pale. 
 
 And some, but bolder still, had darod to turn 
 
 That soil of mystery for hidden gold ; 
 
 But saw strange, stifling blazes round them 
 
 bum, 
 And died : — ^by few that venturous tale was 
 
 told. 
 And wealth was found ; yet, as the pilgrims 
 
 hold, 
 Though it was glorious on the mountain's 
 
 brow, 
 Brought to the plain it crumbled into mould, 
 The diamonds molted in the hand Uke snow ; 
 So none molest tliat spot for gems or ingots 
 
 now. 
 
 But one, and ever after, round the hill 
 
 He strayed: — they said a meteor scorch'd Ms 
 
 sight; 
 Blind, mad, a warning of Heaven's fearful 
 
 wiU. 
 'Twas on the sacred evening of " the Flight," 
 His spade tum'd up a shaft of marble white, 
 Fragment of some kiosk, the chapiter 
 A crystal circle, but at morn's first light 
 Rich forms began within it to appear, 
 Sceptred and wtng''d, and then it sank in 
 
 water clear. 
 
 Yet once upon that guarded mount, no foot 
 But of the Moslem true might press a flower. 
 And of them none, but with some solemn 
 
 suit 
 Beyond man's help might venture near the 
 
 bower : 
 For, in its shade, in beauty and in power. 
 For judgment sat the Angel of the World : 
 Sent by the Prophet, till the destined hour 
 That saw in dust Arabia's idols hurl'd. 
 Then to the skies again his wing should be 
 
 uafurl'd. 
 
 It came at last. It came mth trumpets' 
 
 sounding. 
 It came with thunders of the atabal. 
 And warriors' shouts, and Arab chargers' 
 
 bounding. 
 The sacred standard cro^vn'd Medina's wall! 
 From palace roof and minaret's golden ball 
 Ten thousand emerald banners floated free. 
 Beneath, hke sunbeams, through the gateway 
 
 tall, 
 The emirs led their steel-mail' d chivalry. 
 And the whole city rang with sports and soldier 
 
 glee. 
 
 Tliis was the eve of eves, the end of war. 
 Beginning of Dominion, first of Time ! 
 When, swifter than the shooting of a star, 
 Mahommed saw the "Vision's" pomps sub- 
 lime ; 
 
 Swept o'er the rainbow'd sea — the fiery clime, 
 Heard from the throne its will in thunders 
 
 roll'd ; 
 Then glancing on our world of woe and crime, 
 Saw from Arabia's sands his banner's fold 
 Wave o'er the brighten'd globe its sacred, 
 
 conquering gold. 
 
 The sun was slowly sinlcing to the west, 
 Pavihon'd with a thousand glories' dyes ; 
 The turtle-doves were winging to the nest 
 Along the mountain's soft declivities ; 
 The fresher breath of floAvers began to rise. 
 Like incense, to that sweet departing sun ; 
 Faint as the hum of bees the city's cries : 
 A moment, and the lingering disk was gone ; 
 Then were the Angel's task on earth's dim 
 I orbit done. 
 
 I Oft had he gazed upon that lovely vale, 
 But never gazed -svith gladness such as now ; 
 When on Damascus' roofs and turrets palQ 
 He saw the solemn stinlight's fainter glow> 
 With joy he heard Immauns' voices flow 
 Like breath of silver trumpets on the air ; 
 The vintagers' sweet song, the camels' low, 
 As home they stalk'd from pasture, pair by 
 
 pair, 
 Flinging their shadows tall in the steep sun- 
 set glare. 
 
 Then at his sceptre's wave, a rush of plumes 
 Shook the thick dew-drops from the rosea' 
 
 dyes; 
 And, as embodying of their waked perfumes, 
 A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes, 
 And flower-crown'd hair, and cheeks of Pa- 
 radise, 
 Circled the bower of beauty on the wing ; 
 And all the grove was rich with symphonies 
 Of seeming flute, and horn, and golden string. 
 That slowly rose, and o'er the mount hung 
 hovering. 
 
 The Angel's flashing eyes were on the vault. 
 That now with lamps of diamonds all was 
 
 hung; 
 His mighty wings like tissues heavenly. 
 
 wrought. 
 Upon the bosom of the air were hung. 
 The solemn hymn's last harmonies were sung, 
 The sun was crouching on the distant zone : 
 "Farewell" was breathing on the Angel's 
 
 tongue. — 
 He glanced below. There stood a suppliant 
 
 one. 
 The impatient Angel sank in wrath upon his 
 
 throne. 
 
 Yet all was quickly soothed — this labour 
 
 past, 
 " His coronet of tenfold light was one." 
 His glance again upon the form was cast, 
 That now seem'd dying on the dazzling stone ; 
 He bade it rise and speak. The solemn tone 
 Of earth's high sovereign mingled joy with 
 
 fear, 
 As summer vales of rose by lightning shown ; 
 
George Croly.1 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WOELD. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod.- 
 
 As the night-fountain in the desert drear ; 
 His voice seein'd sudden life to that fall'n 
 sujipliant's ear. 
 
 The form arose — the face was in a veil, 
 
 The voice was low, and often check' d with 
 
 sighs ; 
 The tale it utter' d was a simple tale : 
 " A vow to close a dying parent's eyes 
 Had brought its weary steps from Tripolis ; 
 The Arab in the Syrian mountains lay, 
 The caravan was made the robber's prize, 
 The pilgrim's little wealth was swept away, 
 Man's help was vain." Here sank the voice 
 
 in soft decay. 
 
 " And this is Earth ! " the Angel, frowning, 
 
 said; 
 And from the ground he took a matchless gem, 
 And flung it to the mourner, then outspread 
 His pinions, like the lightning's rushing beam. 
 The pilgrim started at the diamond's gleam, 
 Glanced up in prayer, then, bending near the 
 
 throne, 
 Shed the quick tears that from the bosom 
 
 stream. 
 And tried to speak, but tears were there 
 
 alone ; 
 The pitying Angel said, "Be happy and be- 
 gone." 
 
 The weeper raised the veil ; a ruby lip 
 
 First dawn'd : then glow'd the young cheek's 
 
 deeper hue. 
 Yet delicate as roses when they dip 
 Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew. 
 Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living 
 
 blue; 
 HaK shaded by the curls of glossy hair, 
 That turn'd to golden as the light wind threw 
 Clusters in the western golden glare. 
 Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were 
 
 standing there. 
 
 He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze 
 Sought from his glance sweet refuge on the 
 
 ground ; 
 But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze ; 
 And, as the soul had felt some sudden wound, 
 Her bosom heaved above its silken bound. 
 He look'd again ; the cheek was deadly pale ; 
 The bosom sank with one long sigh profound ; 
 Yet still one lily hand upheld the veil. 
 And still one pross'd her heart— that sigh told 
 
 all the tale. 
 
 She stoop' d, and from the thicket pluck' d a 
 flower. 
 
 And fondly kiss'd, and then with feeble hand 
 
 She laid it on the footstool of the bower ; 
 
 Such was the ancient custom of the land. 
 
 Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd ; 
 
 The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet ; 
 
 Yet even that sweet, slight boon, 'twas' Hea- 
 ven's command, 
 
 He must not touch ; from her, though doubly 
 
 sweet, 
 No earthly gift must stain that hallow'-d 
 
 judgment seat. 
 
 Still lay the flower upon the splendid spot, 
 
 The pilgrim turn'd away, as smote with shame; 
 
 Her eye a glance of self-upbraiding shot ; 
 
 'Twas in his soul a shaft of living flame. 
 
 Then bow'd the humbled one, and bless'd his 
 name, 
 
 Cross'd her white arms, and slowly bade fare- 
 well. 
 
 A sudden faintness o'er the Angel came ; 
 
 The voice rose sweet and solemn as a spell, 
 
 She bow'd her face to earth, and o'er it dropp'd 
 her veil. 
 
 Beauty, what art thou, that thy slightest gaze 
 
 Can make the spirit from its centre roll ; 
 
 Its whole long course, a sad and shadowy 
 
 maze? 
 Thou midnight or thou noontide of the soul ; 
 One glorious vision lighting up the whole 
 Of the wide world ; or one deep, wild desire, 
 By day and night consuming, sad and sole ; 
 Till Hope, Pride, Genius, nay, till Love's ovm 
 
 fire 
 Desert the weary heart, a cold and mouldering 
 
 pyre. 
 
 Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams ; 
 
 Companionship divine, stern solitude ; 
 
 Thou serpent, colour' d with the brightest 
 
 gleams 
 That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food ; 
 Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude, 
 Victim of visions that life's purpose steal, 
 Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued, 
 Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must 
 
 heal — 
 Proud Angel, was it thine that mortal woe to 
 
 feel? 
 
 Stni knelt the pilgrim cover' d with her veil, 
 But all her beauty living on his eye ; 
 Still hyacinth the clustering ringlets fell, 
 Wreathing her forehead's poUsh'd ivory ; 
 Her cheek unseen still wore the rosebud's dye ; 
 She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him 
 
 swell. 
 He glanced around — no spirit hover' d nigh — 
 Touch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd 
 
 " farewell ! " 
 What sound has stunn'd his ear ? A sudden 
 
 thunder-peal. 
 
 He look'd on heaven — 'twas calm, but in the 
 
 vale 
 A creeping mist had girt the mountain round. 
 Making the golden minarets glimmer pale ; 
 It scaled the mount — the feeble day was 
 
 drown' d. 
 The sky was with its livid hue embrown' d, 
 But soon the vapours grew a circling sea, 
 Reflecting, lovely, from its blue profound. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WOELD. 
 
 [George Cboly. 
 
 Mountain, and crimson clouu, and blcssom'd 
 tree ; 
 
 Another heaven and earth in bright tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe, 
 That like a wild swan sported on the tide ; 
 The silken sail that canopied its poop 
 Show'd one that look'd an Houri in her pride ; 
 Anon came spurring up the mountain's side 
 A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail, 
 That to his country's doubtful battle hied. 
 He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale, 
 And answer' d with his own : for beauty will 
 prevail. 
 
 But now in storm uprose the vast mirage ; 
 Where sits she now who tempted him to roam ? 
 How shall the skiff with that wild sea engage ? 
 In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home. 
 Darkening above the piles of tumbling foam, 
 Eushes a shape of woe, and through the roar 
 Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom. 
 Doivn plunges the chaloupe. — The storm is 
 
 o'er; 
 Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to 
 
 the shore. 
 
 The Angel's heart was smote — but that touch' d 
 
 flower, 
 Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly 
 
 sweet, 
 He felt it strangely chain him to the bower. 
 He dared not then that pilgrim's eye to meet, 
 But gazed upon the small unsandall'd feet 
 Shinuig like silver on the floor of rose. 
 At length he raised his glance : — the veil's 
 
 light net 
 Had floated backward from her pencill'd 
 
 brows, 
 Her eye was fix'd on heaven, in sad, subUme 
 
 repose. 
 
 A simple Syrian lyre was on her breast, 
 And on her crimson lip was murmuring 
 A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest 
 Is heard in Araby round many a spring, 
 "When down the twilight vales the maidens 
 
 bring 
 The flocks to some old patriarchal well ; 
 Or where beneath the pahns some desert-king 
 Lies, with his tribe around him as they fell ! 
 The thunder bm-st again — a long, deep, crash- 
 ing peal. 
 
 The Angel hoard it not, as round the range 
 Of the blue hill-tops roar'd the volley on. 
 Uttering its voice with wild aerial change ; 
 Now sinking in a deep and distant moan, 
 Like the last echo of a host o'erthrown ; 
 Then rushing with new vengeance down again, 
 Shooting the fiery flash and thunder- stone ; 
 TiU flamed, like funeral pyres, the mountain 
 
 chain. 
 The Angel heard it not ; its wisdom all was 
 
 vain. 
 
 He heard not even the strain, though it had 
 
 changed 
 From the calm sweetness of the holy hymn. 
 His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious 
 
 ranged. 
 Yet all within was dizzy, strange, and dim ; 
 A mist seem'd spreading between heaven and 
 
 him ; 
 He sat absorb' d in dreams ; a searching tone 
 Came on his ear — oh, how her darlc eyes swim 
 "Who breathed that echo of a heart undone, 
 The song of early joys, delicious, dear, and 
 
 gone ! 
 
 Again it changed. — But now 'twas wild and 
 
 grand — 
 The praise of hearts that scorn the world's 
 
 control, 
 Disdaining all but love's delicious band, 
 The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of sotJ. 
 Again strange paleness o'er her beauty stole, 
 She glanced above, then stoop' d her glowing 
 
 eye. 
 Blue as the star that glitter'd by the pole ; 
 One tear-drop gleam' d : she dash'd it quickly 
 
 by, 
 And dropp'd the lyre, and turn'd — as if she 
 
 turn'd to die. 
 
 The night-breeze from the mountains had 
 
 begun ; 
 And as it wing'd among the clouds of even, 
 Where, like a routed king, the sultan sun 
 Stni struggled on the fiery verge of heaven ; 
 Their volumes in ten thousand shapes were 
 
 driven ; 
 Spreading away in boundless palace halls. 
 Whose lights from gold and emerald lamps 
 
 Avere given ; 
 Or airy citadels and battled walls ; 
 Or sunk in valleys sweet, with silver water- 
 falls. 
 
 But, for those sights of heaven the Angel's 
 
 heart 
 Was all imsettled ; and a bitter sigh 
 Burst from his burning lip, and with a start 
 He cast upon the earth his conscious eye. 
 The whole horizon from that summit high 
 Spread out in vision, from the paUid line 
 Where old Palmyra's pomps in ruin lie, 
 Gilding the Arab sands, to where supine 
 The western lustre tinged thy spires, lost 
 
 Palestine ! 
 
 Yet, loveliest of the vision was the vale 
 That sloped beneath his own imperial bowers ; 
 Sheeted with colours like an Indian mail, 
 A tapestry sweet of all sun-painted flowers, 
 Balsam, and clove, and jasmines' scented 
 
 showers. 
 And the red glory of the Persian rose, 
 Spreading in league on league around the 
 
 towers. 
 Whore, loved of heaven, and hated of its foes. 
 The Queen of Cities shines, in calm and proud 
 
 repose. 
 
George Croly.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WOELD. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 And still he gazed — and saw not that the eve 
 Was fading into night. A sudden thought 
 Struck to his dreaming heart, that made it 
 
 heave : 
 Was he not there in Paradise ? — that spot 
 Was it not lovely as the lofty vault 
 That rose above him ? In his native skies, 
 Could he be happy till his soul forgot — 
 Oh ! how forget the being whom his eyes 
 Loved as their light of light ? He heard a 
 
 tempest rise. 
 
 Was it a dream ? the vale at once was bare, 
 
 And o'er it hung a broad and sulphurous cloud ; 
 
 The soil grew red and rifted with its glare ; 
 
 Down to their roots the mountain cedars bow'd ; 
 
 Along the gi'ound a rapid vapour flow'd, 
 
 Yellow and pale, thick seam'd with streaks of 
 flame; 
 
 Before it sprang the vulture from the shroud ; 
 
 The lion bounded from it scared and tame ; 
 
 Behind it, darkening heaven, the mighty whirl- 
 wind came. 
 
 Like a long tulip bed, across the plain, 
 A caravan approach' d the evening well, 
 A long, deep mass of turban, plume, and vaue; 
 And lovely came its distant, solemn swell 
 Of song, and pilgrim-horn, and camel-bell. 
 The sandy ocean rose before their eye ; 
 In thunder on their bending host it fell. 
 Ten thousand lips sent up one fearful cry ; 
 The sound was still' d at once — ^beneath its 
 wave they He. 
 
 But two escaped that up the mountain sprung. 
 At those the dead men's treasure downwards 
 
 drew; 
 One, with slow steps, but beautiful and young 
 Was she, who round his neck her white arms 
 
 threw ; 
 Away the tomb of sand like vapour flew ; 
 There, naked, lay the costly caravan, 
 A league of piles of silk and gems that threw 
 A rainbow Ught, and 'mid them, stiff and wan, 
 Stretch' d by his camel's flank their transient 
 
 master, man. 
 
 The statelier wand'rer from the height was 
 
 won. 
 And cap and sash soon gleam'd with plunder'd 
 
 gold. 
 But now the desert rose, in pillars dun. 
 Glowing with fire like iron in the mould. 
 That wings with fiery speed, recoil' d, sprang, 
 
 roll'd ; 
 Before them waned the moon's ascending 
 
 phase. 
 The clouds above them shrank the redd'niasr 
 
 fold: 
 On rush'd the giant columns blaze on blaze. 
 The sacrilegious died, wrapp'd in the burning 
 
 haze. 
 
 The Angel sat enthroned within a dome 
 Of alabaster raised on pillars slight, 
 Cm-tain'd Avith tissues of no earthly loom ; 
 For spirits Avove the web of blossoms bright, 
 
 Woof of aU flowers that drink the morning 
 I light. 
 
 And with their beauty figured all the stone 
 I In characters of mystery and might, 
 
 A more than mortal guard around the throne, 
 I That in their tender shade one glorious dia- 
 ; mond shone. 
 
 I And every bud round pedestal and plinth, 
 j As fell the evening, turu'd a living gem. 
 
 Lighted its purple lamp the hyacinth ; 
 I The dahlia pour'd its thousand-colour' d gleam ; 
 I A ruby torch, the wond'ring eye might deem, 
 i Hung on the brow of some night-watching 
 I tower. 
 
 Where upwards climb'd the broad magnolia's 
 stem. 
 
 An urn of lovely lustre every flower. 
 
 Burning before the king of that illumined 
 bower. 
 
 And nestling in that arbour's leafy twine. 
 From cedar's top to violet's perfumed bell, 
 Were birds, now hush'd, of forms and plumes 
 
 divine. 
 That, ever as the rays upon them fell. 
 Shot back such hues as stain the Indian shell. 
 Touching the deep green shades with light 
 
 from eyes 
 lacinth, and jet, and blazing carbuncle. 
 And gold-dropt coronets, and wings of dyes 
 Touch' d by the flowers and stars of their own 
 
 Paradise. 
 
 The Angel knew the warning of that storm ; 
 
 But saw the shuddering minstrel's step draw 
 near, 
 
 And felt the whole deep witchery of her form, 
 
 Her sigh was music's echo to his ear; 
 
 He loved — and true love ever banish'd fear. 
 
 Now night had droop'd on earth her raven 
 wing ; 
 I But in the arbour all was splendour clear ; 
 I And like twin spirits in its charmed ling, 
 j Shone that sweet child of earth, and that star- 
 I diadem'd king. 
 
 For whether 'twas the light's unusual glow. 
 Or that some natural change had on her come, 
 Her look, though lovely still, was loftier now. 
 Her tender cheek was flush' d with brighter 
 
 bloom ; 
 Yet in her azure eye there gather'd gloom, 
 Like evening's clouds across its own blue star, 
 Then would a sudden flash its depths illume ; 
 And wore she but the wing and gemm'd tiar. 
 She seem'd instinct with power to make the 
 
 clouds her car. 
 
 She slowly raised her arm, that, bright as 
 
 snow, 
 Gleam'd like a rising meteor through the air, 
 Shedding white lustre on her turban' d brow ; 
 She gazed on heaven, as wrapt in solemn 
 
 prayer ; 
 She still look'd woman, but more proudly fair; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WOELD. 
 
 [Geor&e Croly. 
 
 And as she stood and pointed to the sky, 
 With that fix'd look of loveliness and care, 
 The Angel thought and check'd it with a sigh, 
 He saw some spirit fallen from immortality. 
 
 The silent prayer was done, and now she 
 
 moved 
 Faint to his footstool, and, npon her knee, 
 Besought her lord, if in his heaven they loved, 
 That, as she never more his face must see, 
 She there might pledge her heart's fidelity. 
 She tum'd, and pluck'd a cluster from the 
 
 vine. 
 And o'er a chalice waved it, with a sigh. 
 Then with bow'd forehead, rear'd before the 
 
 shrine 
 The crystal cup. The Angel rose in wrath — 
 
 'twas wine ! 
 
 She stood ; she shrp.nk ; she totter'd. Down 
 
 he sprang, 
 With one hand clasp' d her waist, with one 
 
 upheld 
 The vase — his ears with giddy murmurs rang. 
 His eye upon her dying cheek was spell'd ; 
 He glanced upon the brim — its bright draught 
 
 swell' d 
 Like liquid rose, its odour touch'd his brain ; 
 He knew his ruin, but his soul was quell'd ; 
 He shudder' d — gazed upon her cheek again. 
 Press' d her pale lip, and to the last that cup 
 
 did drain. 
 
 Th' enchantress smiled, as still in some sweet 
 
 dream. 
 Then waken'd in a long, delicious sigh. 
 And on the bending spirit fix'd the beam 
 Of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye. 
 The undone Angel gave no more reply. 
 Than hiding his pale forehead in the hair 
 That floated on her neck of ivory, 
 And breathless pressing, with her ringlets fair, 
 From his bright eyes the tears of passion and 
 
 despair. 
 
 The heaven was one blue vault, inlaid with 
 
 gems 
 Thick as the concave of a diamond mine,' 
 But from the north now shot quick phosphor 
 
 beams 
 That o'er the mount their purple net entwine ; 
 The smallest stars through that sweet lustre 
 
 shine ; 
 It shakes — it spreads, its glorious streamers 
 
 die : 
 Again light quivers on the horizon's line, 
 A surge of violet lustre fills the sky, 
 Then sinks, still flashing, dancing everlast- 
 ingly. 
 
 But wilder wonder smote their shrinking eyes : 
 A vapour plunged upon the vale from heaven, 
 Gloomy as night ; it tower' d of mountain 
 
 size ; 
 From its high crater column' d smokes were 
 
 driven ; 
 It heaved within, as if pent flames had striven 
 
 With mighty winds to burst their prison hold, 
 Till from the summit to the vale 'twas riven 
 With angry light, that seem'd in cataracts 
 
 roll'd, 
 Silver and sanguine steel, and the fierce 
 
 burning gold. 
 
 The black volcano gave a hollow roar,^ 
 
 An earthqualce groan, that told convulsion 
 
 near: 
 Out rush'd the burthen of its burning core, 
 Myriads of fiery globes, as daylight clear, 
 The sky was fiU'd with flashing sphere on 
 
 sphere, 
 Shooting straight upAvards to the zenith's 
 
 crown. 
 The stars were blasted in that splendour drear. 
 The land beneath in wild distinctness shone 
 From the far billow to the Desert's pale red 
 
 zone. 
 
 The globes have gone to heights above all 
 
 And now returning, look like moonlight rain ; 
 But half-way down, again ont-flash their 
 
 rays; 
 War floods the sky, they cross, whirl, burst in 
 
 twain. 
 Like mighty serpents draw the mazy train. 
 Gigantic sweeps of green, gold, scarlet spires, 
 With pearl and diamond heads instinct with 
 
 living fires. 
 
 The storm of light is on the clouds receding. 
 The purple streamers wander pale and thin, 
 But o'er the pole an amber flame is spreading. 
 In shooting starry points, and far within 
 Revolves a stooping splendour crystalline. 
 It opens ; but who sits upon that throne ? 
 The Angel knew the punisher of sin. 
 Check'd on his lip the self -upbraiding groan, 
 Strain'd with wild arms his love, and joy'd to 
 be undone. 
 
 And once, 'twas but a moment, on her cheek 
 He gave a glance, then sank his hurried eye, 
 And press' d it closer on her dazzling neck. 
 But even in that swift. gaze he could espy 
 A look that made his heart's blood backwards 
 
 fly. 
 
 Was it a dream ? There echoed in his ear 
 A stinging tone — a laugh of mockery ! 
 It was a dream — it must be. Oh ! that fear, 
 When the heart longs to know, v/hat it is 
 death to hear. 
 
 He glanced again — her eye was upward still 
 Fix'd. on the stooping of that burning car ; 
 But through his bosom shot an arrowy thrill 
 To see its solemn, stern, unearthly glare ; 
 She stood, a statue of subhme despair, 
 But on her lip sat scorn. His spirit froze, — 
 His footstep reel'd — his wan lip gasp'd for 
 
 air; 
 She felt his throb, and o'er him stoop'd with 
 
 brows 
 As evening sweet, and kiss'd him with a lip of 
 
 rose. 
 
Oeorge Croly.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE WOELD. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Again she was all beauty, and they stood 
 Still fonder clasp' d, and gazing with the eye 
 Of famine gazing on the poison' d food 
 That it must feed on, or abstaining die ; 
 There was between them now no tear nor 
 
 sigh; 
 Theirs was the deep communion of the soiil ; 
 Passion's absorbing, bitter luxury ; 
 What was to them or heaven or earth, the 
 
 whole 
 Was in that fatal spot where they stood sad, 
 
 and sole. 
 
 Th' enchantress first shook off the silent 
 
 trance, 
 And in a voice sweet as the murmuring 
 Of summer streams beneath the moonlight's 
 
 glance, 
 Besought the desperate one to spread the 
 
 wing 
 Beyond the power of his vindictive king. 
 Slave to her slightest word, he raised his 
 
 plume 
 A purple cipud, and stood in act to spring 
 Through that fierce upward sea of storm and 
 
 foam. 
 She wildly kiss'd his hand, and sank, as in a 
 
 tomb. 
 
 The Angel cheer' d her. " No ! let Justice 
 
 wreak 
 Her wrath upon them both, or him alone." 
 The flame of love's pure crimson lit her cheek ; 
 She whisper' d, and his stoop' d ear drank the 
 
 tone 
 With mad delight. " Oh, there is one way, one, 
 To save us both. Are there not mighty 
 
 words 
 Graved on the magnet throne where Solomon 
 Sits ever guarded by the genii swords, 
 To give thy servant wings like her resplendent 
 
 lord's ? " 
 
 This was the sin of sins ! the first, last crime 
 In earth and heaven, unnamed, unnameable ; 
 This from his gorgeous throne, before all time 
 Had smitten Eblis brightest first that fell. 
 He started back. What urged him to rebel ? 
 What led that soft seducer to his bower ? 
 Could sJlo have laid upon his soul that spell. 
 Young, lovely, fond — yet but an earthly 
 
 flower ? 
 But for that fatal cup he had been free that 
 
 hour. 
 
 But still its draught was fever in his blood. 
 He caught the upward, humble, weeping 
 
 gleam 
 Of woman's eye, by passion all subdued — 
 He sigh'd, and at his sigh he saw it beam : 
 Oh ! the sweet frenzy of the lover's dream ! 
 A moment's lingering, and they both mus;t 
 
 die. 
 The lightning round them shot a broader 
 
 stream ; 
 He felt her clasp his knees in agony ; 
 He spoke the words of might— the thunder 
 
 gave reply ! 
 
 Away ! away ! the sky is one black cloud. 
 Shooting the lightnings down in spire on 
 
 spire ; 
 Now, round the mount its canopy is bow'd, 
 A vault of stone on columns of red fire. 
 The stars, like lamps, along its roof expire ; 
 But through its centre bursts an orb of rays ; 
 The Angel knew the Avenger in his ire I 
 The hill-top smoked beneath the stooping 
 
 blaze, 
 The culprits dared not there their guilty eye- 
 balls raise. 
 
 And words were utter' d from that vhirling 
 
 sphere 
 That mortal sense might never hear and live. 
 They pierced like arrows through the Angel's 
 
 ear ; 
 He bow'd his head ; 'twas vain to fiy or 
 
 strive, 
 Down comes the final wrath ; the thunders 
 
 give 
 The doubled peal — the rain in cataracts sweep, 
 Broad fiery bars the sheeted deluge rive ; 
 The mountain summits to the valley leap, 
 Pavilion, garden, grove, smoke up one ruin'd 
 
 heap. 
 
 The storm stands still ! a moment's pause of 
 
 terror ! 
 All dungeon dark ! Again the lightnings 
 
 yawn. 
 Showing the earth as in a quivering mirror ; 
 The prostrate Angel felt but that the one 
 Whose love had lost him Paradise was 
 
 gone : 
 He dared not see her corpse ! he closed his 
 
 eyes ; 
 A voice burst o'er him, solemn as the tone 
 Of the last trump — he glanced upon the 
 
 skies. 
 He saw what shook his soul with terror, 
 
 shame, surprise. 
 
 Th' enchantress stood before him ; two broad 
 plumes 
 
 Spread from her shoulders on the burthen' d 
 air, 
 
 Her face was glorious still, but love's young 
 blooms 
 
 Had vanish' d for the hue of bold despair ; 
 
 A fiery circle crown' d her sable hair ; 
 
 And, as she look'd upon her prostrate prize, 
 
 Her eyeballs shot around a meteor glare, 
 
 Her form tower' d up at once to giant size ; 
 
 'Twas Eblis, king of hell's relentless sovereign- 
 ties. 
 
 The tempter spoke — "Spirit, thou mightst 
 
 have stood. 
 But thou hast fall'n a weak and Avilling slave. 
 Now were thy feeble heart our serpent's 
 
 food, 
 Thy bed our burning ocean's sleepless wave, 
 But haughty Heaven controls the power it 
 
 gave, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE EXCIJESION. 
 
 [Ebenezer Ellio': 
 
 Yet art thou doom'd to wander from thy 
 
 sphere 
 Till the last trumpet reaches to the grave, 
 Till the sun rolls the grand concluding year, 
 Till earth is paradise ; then shall thy crime 
 
 be clear." 
 
 The Angel Hsten'd — risen upon one knee 
 
 Eesolved to hear the deadliest undismay'd; 
 
 His gold-starr'd plume hung round him 
 droopingly. 
 
 His brow, like marble, on his hand was staid. 
 
 Still through the auburn lock's o'erhanging 
 shade 
 
 His face shone beautiful : he heard his ban ; 
 
 Then came the words of mercy, sternly said ; 
 
 He plunged within his hands his visage wan 
 
 And the first wild sweet tears from his heart- 
 pulses ran. 
 
 The giant grasp'd him as he fell to earth. 
 And his black vanes upon the air were flung, 
 A tabernacle dark ; and shouts of mirth. 
 Mingled with shriekings, through the tempest 
 
 s^vung ; 
 His arm around the fainting Angel clung. 
 Then on the clouds he darted with a groan ; 
 A moment o'er the Mount of Ruin hung, 
 Then burst through space, like the red comet's 
 
 cone, 
 Leaving his track on heaven a burning, 
 
 endless zone. 
 
 George Croly.—Born 1780, Died 1861. 
 
 1552.— TO THE BEAMBLE FLOWER. 
 
 Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
 
 Wild bramble of the brake ! 
 So put thou forth thy small white rose ; 
 
 I love it for his sake. 
 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
 
 O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 
 
 Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
 For dull the eye, the heart is duU, 
 
 That cannot feel how fair, 
 Amid all beauty beautiful. 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ! 
 Hov*^ delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem ! 
 How soft thy voice when woods are still, 
 
 And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 
 While silent showers are falling slow. 
 
 And 'mid the general hush, 
 A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
 
 Lone whispering through the bush ! 
 The primrose to the grave is gone ; 
 
 The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
 The violet by the moss'd grey stone 
 
 Hath laid her weary head ; 
 But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 
 
 In all their beauteous power. 
 The fresh green days of life's fair spring. 
 
 And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
 
 Scorn' d bramble of the brake ! once more 
 
 Thou bidd'st me be a boy, 
 To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 
 
 In freedom and in joy. 
 
 Ehenezer Elliott.— Born 1781, Died 1849. 
 
 1553.— THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Bone-weary, many-childed, trouble-tried ! 
 Wife of my bosom, wedded to my soul ! 
 Mother of nine that live, and two that died ! 
 This day, drink health from nature's mountain 
 
 bowl; 
 Nay, why lament the doom which mocks 
 
 control ? 
 The buried are ncffc lost, but gone before. 
 Then dry thy tears, and see the river roll 
 O'er rocks, that crown'd yon time-dark heights 
 
 of yore. 
 Now, tyrant-like, dethroned, to crush the weak 
 
 no more. 
 
 The young are with us yet, and we with 
 them : 
 
 thank the Lord for all he gives or takes — 
 
 The wither'd bud, the living flower, or gem ! 
 
 And he wiU bless us when the world for- 
 sakes ! 
 
 Lo ! where thy fisher-born, abstracted, takes, 
 
 With his fix'd eyes, the trout he cannot see ! 
 
 Lo ! starting from his earnest dream, he 
 wakes ! 
 
 While our glad Fanny, with raised foot and 
 knee, 
 
 Bears down at Noe's side the bloom-bow' d 
 hawthorn-tree. 
 
 Dear children ! when the flowers are full of 
 
 bees; 
 When sun-touch'd blossoms shed their fragrant 
 
 snow; 
 When song speaks like a spirit from the 
 
 trees 
 Whose kindled greenness hath a golden 
 
 glow ; 
 When, clear as music, rill and river flow, 
 With trembling hues, all changeful, tinted 
 
 o'er 
 By that bright pencil which good spirits 
 
 know 
 Alike in earth and heaven — 'tis sweet, once 
 
 more, 
 Above the sky-tinged hills to see the storm- 
 bird soar 
 
 'Tis passing sweet to wander, free as air, 
 Blithe truants in the bright and breeze-bless' d 
 
 day, 
 Far from the town — where stoop the sons of 
 
 care 
 O'er plans of mischief, tiU their souls turn 
 
 grey, ^^ 
 
Ebbnezer Elliott.1 
 
 PICTUEES OF NATIVE GENIUS. [Seventh Period.- 
 
 And dry as dust, and dead-alive are they — 
 Of aU self -buried thing's the most unbless'd : 
 O Morn ! to them no blissful tribute pay ! 
 O Night's long-courted slumbers ! bring no 
 
 rest 
 To men who laud man's foes, and deem the 
 
 basest best ! 
 
 God ! would they handcuff thee ? and, if they 
 
 could. 
 Chain the free air, that, like the daisy, goes 
 To every field ; and bid the warbling wood 
 Exchange no music with the willing rose 
 For love-sweet odours, where the woodbine 
 
 blows 
 And trades with every cloud, and every beam 
 Of the rich sky ! Their gods are bonds and 
 
 blows, 
 Eocks, and blind shipwreck ; and they hate 
 
 the stream 
 That leaves them still behind, and mocks their 
 
 changeless dream. 
 
 They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome 
 
 me. 
 Thus glad to meet, by trouble parted long ! 
 They never saw ye — never may they see 
 Your dewy beauty, when the throstle's song 
 Floweth like starlight, gentle, calm, and 
 
 strong ! 
 Still, Avarice, starve their souls ! still, lowest 
 
 Pride, 
 Make them the meanest of the basest throng ! 
 And may they never, on the green hill's side, 
 Embrace a chosen flower, and love it as a 
 
 bride ! 
 
 Blue Eyebright ! loveliest flower of all that 
 
 grow 
 In flower-loved England ! Flower, whose 
 
 hedge-side gaze 
 Is like an infant's ! What heart doth not 
 
 know 
 Thee, cluster' d smiler of the bank ! where 
 
 plays 
 The sunbeam with the emerald snake, and 
 
 strays 
 The dazzling rill, companion of the road 
 Which the lone bard most loveth, in the days 
 When hope and love are young ? O come 
 
 abroad, 
 Blue Eyebright ! and this rill shall woo thee 
 
 with an ode. 
 
 Awake, blue Eyebright, while the singing 
 
 wave 
 Its cold, bright, beauteous, soothing tribute 
 
 drops 
 From many a grey rock's foot and dripping 
 
 cave ; 
 While yonder, lo ! the starting stone-chat 
 
 hops ! 
 While here the cotter's cow its sweet food 
 
 crops ; 
 While black-faced ewes and lambs are bleating 
 
 there : 
 
 And, bursting through the briars, the wild ass 
 
 stops — 
 Kicks at the strangers — then turns round to 
 
 stare — 
 Then lowers his large red ears, and shakes his 
 
 long dark hair. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott.— Born 1781, Died 1849. 
 
 1554.— PICTURES OF NATIVE GENIUS. 
 
 O faithful love, by poverty embraced ! 
 Thy heart is fire, amid a wintry waste ; 
 Thy joys are roses, born on Hecla's brow ; 
 Thy home is Eden, Avarm amid the snow ; 
 And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the 
 
 storm, 
 Clings then most fondly to thy guardian 
 
 form ; 
 E'en as thy taper gives intensest light. 
 When o'er thy bow'd roof darkest falls the 
 
 night. 
 Oh, if thou e'er hast wrong'd her, if thou 
 
 e'er 
 From those mild eyes hast caused one bitter 
 
 tear 
 To flow unseen, repent, and sin no more ! 
 For richest gems, compared with her, are 
 
 poor; 
 Gold, weigh'd against her heart, is light — is 
 
 vile ; 
 And when thou sufferest, who shall see her 
 
 smile ? 
 Sighing, ye wake, and sighing, sink to sleep, 
 And seldom smile, without fresh, cause to 
 
 weep 
 (Scarce dry the pebble, by the wave dash'd 
 
 o'er. 
 Another comes, to wet it as before) ; 
 Yet while in gloom your freezing day de- 
 clines. 
 How fair the wintry sunbeam when it shines '. 
 Your foliage, where no summer leaf is seen. 
 Sweetly embroiders earth's white veil with 
 
 green ; 
 And your broad branches, proud of storm- 
 tried strength, 
 Stretch to the winds in sport their stalwart 
 
 length, 
 And .calmly wave, beneath the darkest hour, 
 The ice-bom fruit, the frost-defying flower. 
 Let luxury, sickening in profusion's chair, 
 Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir, 
 And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble 
 
 too! 
 But love and labour, blush not, fear not you ! 
 Your children (spHnters from the mountain's 
 
 side). 
 With rugged hands, shall for themselves 
 
 provide. 
 Parent of valour, cast away thy fear ! 
 Mother of men, be proud without a tear ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 [Ebenezer Elliott 
 
 WMle round your hearth, the woe-nursed 
 
 virtues move, 
 And all that manliness can ask of love ; 
 Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair ; 
 Remember Arkwright, and the peasant Claxe, 
 Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood- 
 notes wild. 
 And richest Shakspere was a poor man's 
 
 chHd. 
 Sire, green in age, nuld, patient, toil-inured, 
 Endure thine evils as thou hast endured. 
 Behold thy wedded daughter, and rejoice ! 
 Hear hope's sweet accents in a grandchild's 
 
 voice ! 
 See freedom's bulwarks in thy sons arise, 
 And Hampden, Eussell, Sydney, in their 
 
 eyes ! 
 And should some new Napoleon's curse 
 
 subdue 
 All hearths but thine, let him behold them 
 
 too, 
 And timely shun a deadlier Waterloo. 
 
 Northumbrian vales ! ye saw, in silent 
 
 pride, 
 The pensive brow of lowly Akenside, 
 When, poor, yet leam'd, he wander'd young 
 
 and free, 
 And felt within the strong divinity. 
 Scenes of his youth, where first he woo'd the 
 
 Nine, 
 His spirit still is with you, vales of Tyne ! 
 As when he breathed, your blue-bell' d paths 
 
 along, 
 The soul of Plato into British song. 
 
 Born in a lowly hut an infant slept. 
 Dreamful in sleep, and, sleeping, smiled or 
 
 wept : 
 Silent the youth — the man was grave and shy : 
 His parents loved to watch his wondering 
 
 eye: 
 And lo I he waved a prophet's hand, and 
 
 gave, 
 "Where the winds soar, a pathway to the 
 
 wave ! 
 From hill to hill bade air-hung rivers stride. 
 And flow through mountains with a conqueror's 
 
 pride : 
 O'er grazing herds, lo ! ships suspended sail, 
 And Brindley's praise hath wings in every 
 
 gale ! 
 The worm came up to drink the welcome 
 
 shower ; 
 The redbreast quaff'd the raindrop in the 
 
 bower ; 
 The flaskering duck through freshen' d lilies 
 
 swam ; 
 The bright roach took the fly below the dam ; 
 Ramp'd the glad colt, and cropp'd the pensile 
 
 spray ; 
 No more in dust uprose the sultry way ; 
 The lark was in the cloud; the woodbine 
 
 hung 
 More sweetly o'er the chaflmch while he 
 
 sung; 
 And the wild rose, from every dripping bush, 
 Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirror' d blush ; 
 
 When calmly seated on his pannier'd ass. 
 
 Where travellers hear the steel hiss as they 
 pass, 
 
 A milkboy, sheltering from the transient 
 storm. 
 
 Chalk' d, on the grinder's wall^ an infant's 
 form ; ~ - 
 
 Young Chantrey snuled ; no critic praised or 
 blamed ; 
 
 And golden promise smiled, and thus ex- 
 claim' d : — 
 " Go, child of genius ! rich be thine 
 increase ; 
 
 Go — be the Phidias of the second Greece ! " 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott.— Born 1781, Died 1849. 
 
 1555.— APOSTROPHE TO FUTURITY. 
 
 Ye rocks ! ye elements I thou shoreless main. 
 In whose blue depths, worlds, ever voyaging. 
 Freighted with life and death, of fate com- 
 plain. 
 Things of immutability ! ye bring 
 Thoughts that with terror and with sorrow 
 
 wring 
 The human breast. Unchanged, of sad 
 
 decay 
 And deathless change ye speak, like prophets 
 
 old, 
 Foretelling evil's ever-present day ; 
 And as when Horror lays his finger cold 
 Upon the heart in dreams, appal the bold. 
 O thou Futurity I our hope and dread, 
 Let me unveil thy features, fair or foul ! 
 Thou who shalt see the grave untenanted. 
 And commune with the re-embodied soul ! 
 Tell me thy secrets, ere thy ages roll 
 Their deeds, that yet shall be on earth, in 
 
 heaven, 
 And in deep heU, where rabid hearts with 
 
 pain 
 Must purge their plagues, and learn to be 
 
 forgiven ! 
 Show me the beauty that shall fear no stain, 
 And still, through age-long years, unchanged 
 
 remain ! 
 As one who dreads to raise the pallid sheet 
 Which shrouds the beautiful and tranquil 
 
 face 
 That yet can smile, but never more shall 
 
 meet, 
 With kisses warm, his ever fond embrace ; 
 So I draw nigh to thee, with timid pace. 
 And tremble, though I long to lift thy veil. 
 
 Ehenez&r ElUott.—Bom 1781, IHed 1849. 
 
 1556.— A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies- 
 The Poet of the Poor. 
 
Ebenezer Elliott.] 
 
 A POET'S PEAYEE. 
 
 [Seventh Pesiod. — 
 
 His books were rivers, woods, and skiea, 
 
 The meadow and the moor ; 
 His teachers were the torn heart's wail 
 
 The tyrant and the slave. 
 The street, the factory, the gaol, 
 
 The palace — and the grave ! 
 Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 
 
 And is thy brother blamed ? 
 From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 
 
 He no exemption claim' d. 
 The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 
 
 He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
 But, honouring in a peasant's form 
 
 The equal of the great. 
 He bless' d the steward, whose wealth makes 
 
 The poor man's little, more ; 
 Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 
 
 From plunder'd Labour's store. 
 A hand to do, a head to plan, 
 
 A heart to feel and dare — 
 Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 
 
 Who drew them as they are. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott— Born 1781, Died 1849. 
 
 1557.— A POET'S PEAYEE. 
 
 Almighty Father ! let thy lowly child. 
 
 Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold — 
 
 A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, 
 
 Let him live usefully, and not die old ! 
 
 Let poor men's children, pleased to read his 
 
 lays, 
 Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath 
 
 been. 
 And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, 
 Let him be buried where the grass is green. 
 Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late 
 To hear the bee his busy note prolong ; 
 There let him slumber, and in peace await 
 The dawning mom, far from the sensual 
 
 throng, 
 Who scorn the windflower's blush, the red- 
 breast's lonely song. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott— Born 1781, Died 1849, 
 
 1558.— COWPEE'S GEAVE. 
 
 It is a place where poets crown' d 
 
 May feel the heart's decaying — 
 It is a place where happy saints 
 
 May weep amid their praying — 
 Yet let the grief and humbleness 
 
 As low as silence languish ; 
 Earth surely now may give her calm 
 
 To whom she gave her anguish. 
 
 poets ! from a maniac's tongue 
 Was pour'd the deathless singing ! 
 
 O Christians ! at your cross of hope 
 
 A hopeless hand was clinging ! 
 men ! this man in brotherhood, 
 
 Your weary paths beguiling, 
 Groan' d inly while he taught you peace, 
 
 And died while ye were smiling. 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read 
 
 Through dimming tears his story — 
 How discord on the music fell, 
 
 And darkness on the glory — 
 And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds 
 
 And wandering lights departed, 
 He wore no less a loving face, 
 
 Because so broken-hearted. • 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify 
 
 The poet's high vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down 
 
 In meeker adoration ; 
 Nor ever shall he be in praise 
 
 By wise or good forsaken ; 
 Named softly as the household name 
 
 Of one whom God hath taken ! 
 
 With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 
 
 I learn to think upon him ; 
 With meekness that is gratefulness, 
 
 On God, whose heaven hath won him. 
 Who suffer' d once the madness-cloud 
 
 Towards his love to blind him ; 
 But gently led the blind along. 
 
 Where breath and bird could find him ; 
 
 And wrought within his shatter' d brain 
 
 Such quick poetic senses, 
 As hills have language for, and stars 
 
 Harmonious influences ! 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass 
 
 His own did calmly number ; 
 And silent shadow from the trees 
 
 Fell o'er him like a slumber. 
 
 The very world, by God's constraint, 
 
 From falsehood's chill removing, 
 Its women and its men became 
 
 Beside him true and loving ! 
 And timid hares were drawn from woods 
 
 To share his home-caresses, 
 Uplooking in his human eyes. 
 
 With sylvan tendernesses. 
 
 But while in darkness he remain' d, 
 
 Unconscious of the guiding, 
 And things provided came without 
 
 The sweet sense of providing, 
 He testified this solemn truth, 
 
 Though frenzy desolated — 
 Nor man nor nature satisfy 
 
 Whom only God created. 
 
 3Irs. Broivning.—Born 1809, Diea 1861, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BERTHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 [Mks. Browning. 
 
 [559.— THE CHILD AND THE WATCHEE. 
 
 Sleep on, baby on the floor, 
 
 Tired of all thy playing — 
 Sleep with smile the sweeter for 
 
 That you dropp'd away in ; 
 On your curls' fair roundness stand 
 
 Golden lights serenely ; 
 One cheek, push'd out by the hand, 
 
 Folds the dimple inly — 
 Little head and little foot 
 
 Heavy laid for pleasure ; 
 Underneath the lids half- shut 
 
 Plants the shining azure ; 
 Open-soul'd in noonday sun, 
 
 So, you lie and slumber ; 
 Nothing evil having done, 
 
 Nothing can encumber. 
 
 I, who cannot sleep as well, 
 
 Shall I sigh to view you ? 
 Or sigh further to foretell 
 
 All that may undo you ? 
 Nay, keep smiling, little child, 
 
 Ere the fate appeareth ! 
 I smile, too ; for patience mild 
 
 Pleasure's token weareth. 
 Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 
 
 I shaU sleep, though losing 
 As by cradle, so by cross, 
 
 Sweet is the reposing. 
 
 And God knows, who sees us twain, 
 
 Child at childish leisure, 
 I am aU as tired of pain 
 
 As you are of pleasure. 
 Very soon, too, by His grace 
 
 Gently wrapt around me, 
 I shaU show as calm a face, 
 
 I shall sleep as soundly — 
 Differing in this, that you 
 
 Clasp your playthings sleeping, 
 While my hand must drop the few 
 
 Given to my keeping — 
 
 Differing in this, that I, 
 
 Sleeping, must be colder, 
 And, in waking presently. 
 
 Brighter to beholder — 
 Differing in this beside 
 
 (Sleeper, have you heard me? 
 Do you move, and open wide 
 
 Your great eyes toward me ?), 
 That whUe I you draw withal 
 
 From this slumber solely. 
 Me, from mine, an angel shall, 
 
 Trumpet-tongued and holy ! 
 
 Mrs. Browning. — Born 1809, Died 1861. 
 
 1560.— BEETHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 Put the broidery-frame away. 
 For my sewing is all done ! 
 
 The last thread is used to-day. 
 And I need not join it on. 
 Though the clock stands at the noon, 
 I am weary ! I have sewn, 
 Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 
 
 Sister, help me to the bed, ~ - 
 
 And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 
 
 Do not shrink nor be afraid. 
 Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
 No one standeth in the street ! — 
 By God's love I go to meet, 
 Love I thee with love complete. 
 
 Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
 These two hands, that I may hold 
 
 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
 Stroking back the curls of gold. 
 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
 Larger eyes and redder mouth 
 Than mine were in my first youth ! 
 
 Thou art younger by seven years — 
 Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze 
 
 That the lashes, hung with tears, 
 Grow too heavy to upraise ! 
 I would wound thee by no touch 
 Which thy shyness feels as such — 
 Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 
 
 Have I not been nigh a mother 
 To thy sweetness — tell me, dear, 
 
 Have we not loved one another 
 Tenderly, from year to year ? 
 Since our dying mother mild 
 Said, with accents undefiled, 
 " Child, be mother to this child ! " 
 
 Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
 Stand up on the jasper sea, 
 
 And be witness I have given 
 All the gifts required of me ; — 
 Hope that bless'd me, bHss that crown'd, 
 Love that left me with a wound. 
 Life itself, that tum'd around ! 
 
 Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
 Thou art standing in the room, — 
 
 In a molten glory shrined. 
 That rays off into the gloom '. 
 But thy smile is tDright and bleak, 
 Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 
 I sob in it, and grow weak. 
 
 Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
 
 One hour longer from my soul — 
 
 For I still am thinking of 
 
 Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! 
 On my finger is a ring 
 Which I still see glittering, 
 When the night hides everything. 
 
 Little sister, thou art pale ! 
 
 Ah, I have a wandering brain — 
 But I lose that fever-bale, 
 
 And my thoughts grow calm again. 
 
 Lean down closer — closer still ! 
 
 I have words thine ear to fill, — 
 
 And would kiss thee at my will. 
 
Mrs. Browning.] 
 
 BEETHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Dear, I heard thee in the spring, 
 
 Thee and Robert — through the trees, 
 
 When we all went gathering 
 
 Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
 Do not start so ! think instead 
 How the sunshine overhead 
 Seem'd to trickle through the shade. 
 
 What a day it was, that day ! 
 
 HiUs and vales did openly 
 Seem to heave and throb away. 
 
 At the sight of the great sky ; 
 
 And the silence, as it stood 
 
 In the glory's golden flood. 
 
 Audibly did bud — and bud ! 
 
 Through the winding hedgerows green, 
 How we wander' d, I and you, — 
 
 With the bowery tops shut in, 
 
 And the gates that show'd the view- 
 How we talk'd there ! thrushes soft 
 Sang our pauses out,— ^or oft 
 Bleatings took them, from the croft. 
 
 Till the pleasure, grown too strong. 
 Left me muter evermore ; 
 
 And, the winding road being long, 
 I walk'd out of sight, before ; 
 And 80, wrapt in musings fond. 
 Issued (past the wayside pond) 
 On the meadow-lands beyond. 
 
 I sat down beneath the beech 
 Which leans over to the lane. 
 
 And the far sound of your speech 
 Did not promise any pain ; 
 And I bless'd you full and free. 
 With a smile stoop' d tenderly 
 O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 
 
 But the sound grew into word 
 
 As the speakers drew more near — 
 
 Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
 What you wish'd me not to hear. 
 Do not weep so — do not shake — 
 Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make 
 Good true answers for my sake. 
 
 Yes, and he too ! let him stand 
 
 In thy thoughts, untouch' d by blame. 
 
 Could he help it, if my hand 
 
 He had claim' d with hasty claim ! 
 That was wrong perhaps — but then 
 Such things be — and will, again ! 
 Women cannot judge for men. 
 
 Had he seen thee, when he swore 
 He would love but me alone ? 
 
 Thou wert absent — sent before 
 To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
 When he saw thee, who art best 
 Past compare, and loveliest, 
 He but judged thee as the rest. 
 
 Could we blame him with grave words, 
 Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 
 
 Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
 Flying straightway to the light ; 
 
 Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
 
 Up the street ! Is none without ? 
 How the poplar swings about ! 
 
 And that hour — ^beneath the beech — 
 When I listen' d in a dream. 
 
 And he said, in his deep speech. 
 That he owed me aU esteem — 
 Each word swam in on my brain 
 With a dim, dilating pain, 
 TiU it burst with that last strain — 
 
 I fell flooded with a dark. 
 In the silence of a swoon — 
 
 When I rose, still, cold and stark, 
 There was night — I saw the moon : 
 And the stars, each in its place. 
 And the May-blooms on the grass, 
 Seem'd to wonder what I was. 
 
 And I walk'd as if apart 
 
 From myself when I could stand — 
 
 And I pitied my own heart. 
 As if I held it in mj hand — 
 Somewhat coldly — with a sense 
 Of fulfill' d benevolence. 
 And a " Poor thing " negligence. 
 
 And I answer'd coldly too, 
 
 When you met me at the door ; 
 
 And I only heard the dew 
 
 Dripping from me to the floor ; 
 And the flowers I bade you see. 
 Were too wither' d for the bee — 
 As my life, henceforth, for me. 
 
 Do not weep so — dear — heart- warm ! 
 It was best as it befell ! 
 
 If I say he did me harm, 
 
 I speak wild — I am not well. 
 AU his words were kind and good — 
 He esteem'd me ! Only blood 
 Euns so faint in womanhood. 
 
 Then I always was too grave — 
 Liked the saddest ballads sung — 
 
 With that look, besides, we have 
 In our faces, who die yoxmg. 
 I had died, dear, all the same — 
 Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
 Is too loud for my meek shame. 
 
 We arq so unlike each other. 
 
 Thou and I ; that none could guess 
 
 We were children of one mother, 
 But for mutual tenderness. 
 Thou art rose-lined from the cold, 
 And meant, verily, to hold 
 Life's pure pleasures manifold, 
 
 I am pale as crocus grows 
 
 Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 
 
 Whosoe'er would reach the rose. 
 Treads the crocus underfoot — 
 I, like May-bloom on thorn tree — 
 Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
 Fit, that I be pluck' d for thee. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 [Mrs. BROWNiNa. 
 
 Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns — 
 
 I have lived my season out — 
 And now die of my own thorns 
 
 Which I could not live without. 
 
 Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
 
 Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
 
 Keep the candles in my sight. 
 
 Are there footsteps at the door ? 
 
 Look out quickly. Yea or nay ? 
 Some one might be waiting for 
 
 Some last word that I might say. 
 
 Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
 
 Stand off clear from deathly road — 
 
 Not to cross the sight of God. 
 
 Colder grow my hands and feet — 
 When I wear the shroud I made, 
 
 Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
 And the rosemary be spread — 
 That if any friend should come 
 (To see thee, sweet !), all the room 
 May be lifted out of gloom. 
 
 And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
 On my hand this little ring, 
 
 Which at nights, when others sleep 
 I can still see glittering. 
 Let me wear it out of sight, 
 In the grave — where it will light 
 All the dark up, day and night. 
 
 On that grave, drop not a tear ! 
 
 Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
 Through the woollen shroud I wear 
 
 I shall feel it on my face. 
 
 Rather smile there, blessed one, 
 
 Thinking of me in the sun — 
 
 Or forget me — smiling on ! 
 
 Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! 
 Kiss me close upon the eyes. 
 
 That the earthly light may go 
 Sweetly as it used to rise — 
 When I watch' d the morning gray 
 Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
 He was sure to come that day. 
 
 So — no more vain words be said ! 
 The hosannahs nearer roll — 
 
 Mother, smile now on thy dead — 
 I am death-strong in my soul ! 
 Mystic Dove aht on cross, 
 Guide the poor bird of the snows 
 Through the snow-wind above loss ! 
 
 Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
 Love's divine self-abnegation — 
 
 Cleanse my love in its self-spending, 
 And absorb the poor libation ! 
 Wind my thread of life up higher, 
 Up through angels' hands of fire I — 
 I aspire while I expire ! — 
 
 Mrs. Browning.— Born 1809, Died 1861. 
 
 1 56 1. —THE SLEEP. 
 
 Of aU the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar, 
 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that any is 
 For gift or grace surpassing this— _ 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 
 
 The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep— 
 The senate's shout to patriot's vows — ■ 
 The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 A little faith, all undisproved — 
 
 A little dust to overweep — 
 And bitter memories, to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake !— 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, 
 But have no tune to charm away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelid creep, 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 earth, so fuU of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices I 
 O delved gold the wallers' heap ! 
 
 strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God makes a silence through you all, 
 
 " And giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 His dew drops mutely on the hill ; 
 His cloud above it saHeth still, 
 
 Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Yea ! men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man 
 
 In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
 But angels say — and through the word 
 
 1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 
 That sees through tears the juggler's leap. 
 Would now its wearied vision close — 
 Would, childlike, on His love repose 
 
 Who "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 And friends ! — dear friends ! — when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me. 
 
 And round my bier ye come to weep. 
 Let one, most loving of you all. 
 Say " Not a tear must o'er her fall " — 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Mrs. Browning. — Born 1809, Died 1861. 
 
Chakles Wolfe.] 
 
 THE BUEIAL OF SIR JOHN MOOEE. [Seventh Pekiod.— 
 
 1562.— THE BURIAL OF SIE JOHN 
 MOOEE. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried : 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 "We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet or in shroud we bound him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said. 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow. 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
 dead, 
 And we bitterly thought on the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed. 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
 his head, 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid hun ; 
 
 But little he'U reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton hais laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
 stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory ! 
 
 Charles Wolfe.— Bom 1791, Ried 1823. 
 
 1563.— THE DEATH OF MAEY. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be ; 
 It never through my mind had pass'd, 
 
 That time would e'er be o'er— r 
 When I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smUe no more. 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook, 
 
 That I must look in vain ; 
 But when I speak thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
 And now I feel, as well I may, 
 
 Sweet Mary, thou art dead. 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 
 
 All cold and all serene, 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smile has been ; 
 While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have. 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own. 
 But there — I lay thee in the grave. 
 
 And now — I am alone. 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I perhaps may soothe this heart 
 
 In thinking stiU of thee ! 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before. 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore. 
 
 Charles Wolfe.— Born 1791, Died 1823. 
 
 1564.— SONG. 
 
 say not that my heart is cold 
 
 To aught that once could warm it — 
 That Nature's form, so dear of old, 
 
 No more has power to charm it ; 
 Or that the ungenerous world can chill 
 
 One glow of fond emotion 
 For those who made it dearer still, 
 
 And shared my wild devotion. 
 
 Still oft those solemn scenes I view 
 
 In rapt and dreamy sadness — 
 Oft look on those who loved them too, 
 
 With fancy's idle gladness ; 
 Again I long'd to view the Hght 
 
 In Nature's features glowing. 
 Again to tread the mountain's height, 
 
 And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 
 
 Stem Duty rose, and, frowning, flung 
 
 His leaden chain around me ; 
 With iron look and suUen tongue 
 
 He mutter' d as he bound me, — 
 " The mountain breeze, the boundless 
 heaven. 
 
 Unfit for toil the creature ; 
 These for the free alone are given — 
 
 But what have slaves with Nature ? '^ 
 
 Charles Wolfe.— Bom 1791, Died 1823. 
 
 1565.— THE BATTLE- OF IVEY. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom 
 
 all glories are ! 
 And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry 
 
 of Navarre ! 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music 
 
 and of dance. 
 Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 
 
 vines, pleasant land of France ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PLAGUE OF HAILSTONES. [Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 And thou, Eochelle, our own Eochelle, proud 
 
 city of the waters, 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 
 
 mourning daughters. 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in 
 
 our joy. 
 For cold, and stiff, and still are they who 
 
 wrought thy walls annoy. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turn'd 
 
 the chance of war, 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry 
 
 of Navarre ! 
 
 Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at 
 
 the dawn of day. 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in 
 
 long array ; 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its 
 
 rebel peers, 
 And Appenzell's stout infantry, and Egmont's 
 
 Flemish spears. 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 
 
 curses of our land ! 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 
 
 truncheon in his hand ; 
 And, as we look'd on them, we thought of 
 
 Seine's empurpled flood, 
 And good Coligni's hoary hair aU dabbled with 
 
 his blood ; 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules 
 
 the fate of war, 
 To fight for his own holy name, and Heoxj of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 The king is come to marshal us, in aU his 
 
 armour drest ; 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon 
 
 his gallant crest. 
 He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in 
 
 his eye ; 
 He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance 
 
 was stern and high. 
 Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd 
 
 from wing to wing, 
 Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God 
 
 save our lord the King." 
 "And if my standard-bearer fall, as faU full 
 
 well he may — 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 
 
 fray — 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, 
 
 amidst the ranks of war, 
 And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of 
 
 Navarre." 
 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the 
 mingled din 
 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
 roaring culverin ! 
 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. 
 Andre's plain. 
 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
 Almayne. 
 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle- 
 men of France, 
 
 Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them 
 with the lance ! 
 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- 
 sand spears in rest, 
 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind 
 the snow-white crest ; 
 
 And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, 
 like a guiding star. 
 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet 
 of Navarre. ~ 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! 
 
 Mayenne hath turn'd his rein. 
 D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The 
 
 Flemish Count is slain. 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 
 
 before a Biscay gale ; 
 The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and 
 
 flags, and cloven mail. 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and all 
 
 along our van, 
 "Eemember St. Bartholomew!" was pass'd 
 
 from man to man ; 
 But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman 
 
 is my foe : 
 Down, down with every foreigner, but let your 
 
 brethren go." 
 Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend- 
 ship or in war. 
 As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier 
 
 of Navarre ! 
 
 Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of 
 
 Lucerne ! 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 
 
 never shall return. 
 Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican 
 
 pistoles. 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for 
 
 thy poor spearmen's sords ! 
 Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that 
 
 your arms be bright ! 
 Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch 
 
 and ward to-night ! 
 For our God hath crush' d the tyrant, our God 
 
 hath raised the slave, 
 And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the 
 
 valour of the brave. 
 Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 
 
 glories are ; 
 And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry 
 
 of Navarre. 
 
 Macaulay.—Born 1800, Died 1859. 
 
 1566.— THE PLAGUE OF HAILSTONES. 
 
 " And Moses stretched forth his rod toward 
 heaven ; and the Lokd sent thunder and hail ; 
 and the fire ran along upon the ground." 
 
 Exodus, ix. 23. 
 
 The impious Monarch sat upon his throne. 
 Defying still the God of Israel. — 
 The sixth foul plague tormented yet the land. 
 Corroding boils and blains : age, sex, nor rank 
 Escaped, The hungry infant from the breast 
 
Edwin Atherstone.] 
 
 THE PLAGUE OF HAILSTONES. 
 
 [Seventh Period, — 
 
 Tum'd, sickening; and the mother from her 
 
 child. 
 On the new bride the bridegroom stared aghast ; 
 She upon him, and lifted up her hands, 
 As at a serpent. Israel's sons alone — 
 So was the hand of God made manifest — 
 Walk'd through the tainted air, and knew no 
 
 spot. 
 
 But Pharaoh still was hardened in his pride 
 And would not let the oppress'd people go. — 
 Then the seventh time the chosen leader came, 
 And spake unto the king : — " hard of heart ! 
 And blind in unbelief ! not yet seest thou 
 That Israel's God is Lord of all the earth ? 
 Six plagues have come on thee, and all the 
 
 land : 
 Yea, do ye stink with very loathsomeness — 
 Wilt thou yet strive against the living God ? 
 And wilt thou yet his chosen nation vex 
 With stripes, and bondage, and task-masters 
 
 hard? 
 Or wilt thou let them go from out the land, 
 That they may sacrifice unto their God ; 
 Even to Jehovah in the wilderness ? " 
 
 The awful prophet ceased; and thus the 
 
 king, 
 With brow like night, and eye-balls flashing 
 
 fire. 
 Upstarting from his golden throne, replied : 
 "Slave and magician! no, they shall not go ! — 
 Who is your God, that I should be afraid 
 And hearken to his voice ? — I know him not ! — 
 Neither shall Israel go. The things thou 
 
 didst. 
 Did not our sorcerers also — or in part — 
 Even in thy sight ? — yet prate they of their 
 
 God? 
 What art thou but a blacker sorcerer ? 
 Or who thy God but him they also serve ? — 
 When from thy rod a living serpent came, 
 Cast they not also every man his rod 
 That tum'd into a serpent ? — When to blood 
 Thy spells had changed the waters, play'd not 
 
 they 
 The cunning trick as well ? — And for thy frogs, 
 Brought they not forth the loathsome reptiles 
 
 too?— 
 And comest thou here to boast of Israel's 
 
 God— 
 ■Their God alone ? — and say unto the king, 
 * Let go thy bondsmen now from out the land 
 That they may sacrifice unto the Lord ? ' — 
 Who then is Israel's God ? I know him not! — 
 And Israel shall not go. — And who art thou 
 That I should hearken thee, and lift not up 
 My hand to punish ? Tell me whence thou art, 
 And show a sign that I may truly know 
 If your Jehovah bo the God indeed, 
 Israel his people, and his prophet thou.'* — 
 
 Then Moses lifted up his hands and spake : 
 *' O ! harder than the millstone ! askest thou 
 A sign that God is God, and Israel 
 His people chosen ? Six signs hast thou had, 
 Yet not -believed ; and the seventh will see, 
 
 And harden yet thy heart, and heavier task 
 The groaning people, and not let them go ; 
 But, at the last, thyself shall send them forth, 
 And own, in tears, that Israel's God is God. 
 But hearken to me now, and I wilj teU 
 Both whence I come, and by what sign I know 
 That I indeed the prophet of the Lord 
 Am chosen to this work. On Horeb's mount, 
 The holy hill, my father Jethro's flocks 
 I led to pasture. Suddenly, behold ! 
 A bush, and in the midst a flame of fire ; 
 A fierce flame, yet the bush was uncousumed : 
 And in the fire the angel of the Lord 
 Appeared unto me ! Trembling I went back, 
 And tum'd aside, that I this wondrous sight 
 Might see, and why the bush was unconsumed ; 
 But, from the fire, I heard the voice of God, 
 That called my name ; and, fearing, I replied — 
 ' Here am I ! ' — Then He spake again, and 
 
 said, 
 ' Draw not nigh hither ; put thy shoes aside 
 From off thy feet, for where thou standest now 
 Is holy ground. I am thy father's God, 
 The God of Abraham, and Isaac's God, 
 The God of Jacob.' — Then I hid my eyes. 
 Lest I should look upon the face of God. 
 And the Lord said, ' I surely have beheld 
 Th' afiiictions of my people, and have heard 
 Their cry, by reason of their task-masters ; 
 For I do know their sorrows, and am come 
 From the Egyptians to deliver them, 
 And bring them from that land unto a land 
 Flowing with milk and honey. Therefore 
 
 come, 
 And I will send thee unto Pharaoh now, 
 That thou my chosen people may'st bring 
 
 forth. 
 The children of Israel, from Egyptian bonds.' 
 
 " Then I bow'd down, and said unto the 
 
 Lord, 
 ' Who am I that to Pharaoh I should go ? — 
 And to the men of Israel when I come, 
 And say unto them " Lo ! your fathers' God 
 Hath sent me to you," if perchance they ask 
 "What is his name?" how shall I answer 
 
 them ? ' 
 Then spake the Almighty. 'I am that I 
 
 am! — 
 Thus to the children of Israel shalt thou 
 
 say, 
 " I AM hath sent me to you, the Lord God, 
 Your father's God, the God of Abraham, 
 The God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, 
 Even he hath sent me to you ; " this my 
 
 name 
 For ever, my memorial to all nations. 
 Go, gather now the elders of Israel, 
 And say to them, " The God of Abraham, 
 The God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, 
 Appear' d unto me saying : — Surely I 
 Have seen that which is done to you in Egypt ; 
 And I will bring you out from your aflBiction 
 Unto a land, a good land, and a large. 
 Flowing with milk and honey." Then go ye — 
 Thou and the elders — to the king, and say, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PLAGUE OF HAILSTONES. 
 
 [Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 " The Lord God of the Hebrews hath appear'd 
 
 Unto us : we beseech thee let us go 
 
 A three days' journey in the wilderness, 
 
 That we may sacrifice unto the Lord." 
 
 But I am sure he will not let you go. 
 
 And I will stretch out then my hand, and smite 
 
 Egypt with all my wonders in the midst 
 
 Whereof which I will do ; and after that 
 
 The king shall let you go.' Then to the Lord 
 
 I answer'd, ' Surely they will not believe, 
 
 Nor hearken to my voice ; for they will say — 
 
 Thou hast not seen the Lord.' Then unto me 
 
 God spake : ' Cast now thy rod upon the 
 
 ground.' 
 Ind, when I cast it, lo ! it was a serpent ! 
 And I fled from it. But he spake again : 
 'Put forth thy hand and take it.' Then I 
 
 stoop'd, 
 And caught the serpent, and it was a rod ! 
 Then said the Lord again : * Put now thy 
 
 hand 
 Into thy bosom.' Then I put my hand 
 Into my bosom : when I took it out, 
 Behold ! my hand was leperous as snow ! 
 Then said the Lord : ' Put now again thine hand 
 Into thy bosom.' Then I put my hand 
 Again into my bosom, and behold ! 
 When I pluck'd forth my hand, it had become 
 Even as my other flesh ! Then said the Lord, 
 ' Surely they may believe their fathers' God, 
 The God of Abraham, atid Isaac's God, 
 The God of Jacob, hath appeared unto thee ! 
 And if they will not hearken to the voice 
 Of the first sign, yet in the second sign 
 They will believe : but if they still are deaf, 
 Then shalt thou take this rod into thy hand. 
 Wherewith thou shalt do signs before the 
 
 king.' 
 
 " And have I not done signs and wonders 
 then ?— 
 Yet art thou harden' d still in unbelief, 
 And wilt not let th' oppressed people go ? — 
 Have I not turn'd your waters into blood ? 
 Cover'd the land with frogs ? and changed to 
 
 lice 
 The dust ? and fill'd the air with swarms of 
 
 flies? 
 All save the land of Goshen, where abide 
 The chosen race, the children of Israel ? — 
 And didst thou not, king ! say : ' Ye shall 
 
 go; 
 Only entreat for me unto your God 
 That he may stay his hand' ? And, after that. 
 Didst thou not harden still thy heart and say : 
 ' The people shall not go ' ? Then sent I not 
 A murrain on your cattle, that they died ? 
 Horses, and asses, camels, oxen, sheep ? — 
 But in the land of Goshen died there one ? — 
 Last, sent I not this plague upon you all, 
 Boils, blains, and blotches, upon man and beast. 
 That the land stinketh with your loathsome- 
 ness ? — 
 And art thou harden'd still, and proud of 
 
 heart. 
 And wilt not let th' oppressed people go ? " 
 
 Then with a stern, hoarse voice the king 
 
 replied : 
 "Wily impostor ! hence ! — out of my sight ! 
 Think not with cunning lies to blind the 
 
 king ! 
 Thee and thy boasted God of Israel 
 I do defy ! haste, sorcerer ! from my-sight ! 
 I will not let the accursed people go ; 
 But will oppress them with a heavier hand. 
 And they shall cry unto their God in vain." 
 He said, and started from his glittering throne, 
 And hurl'd his sceptre down. 
 
 Then Moses spake : 
 " Harden'd and proud f the God of Israel 
 Again shall stretch his rod upon the land, 
 And thou shalt let the afflicted people go. 
 Behold, to-morrow, even about this time. 
 The Lord shall send a very grievous hail, 
 Such as in Egypt never hath been seen. 
 Send therefore now, and gather from the 
 
 fields 
 Thy cattle, and thy sheep, and all thou hast : 
 "For upou every man and beast found there 
 The hail shall come, that they shall surely die. 
 So shalt thou know that Israel's God is God, 
 And shalt repent, and bid the people go." 
 But yet the king was harden'd in his heart, 
 And mock'd at Moses and at Israel's God. 
 
 Then on the morrow unto Moses spake 
 The Lord, and said : " Stretch forth thine hand 
 
 towards the heaven, 
 That upon every man, and beast, and herb. 
 Throughout the land of Egypt, may come hail." 
 
 Then Moses stretched forth his rod towards 
 
 the heaven. 
 And o'er the sky came darkness, that the 
 
 sun. 
 As with a furnace-smoke, quench'd utterly. 
 Blackness and death-like silence all the land 
 Made like a tomb : astonish'd, every tongue 
 Was mute, and every limb with terror shook. 
 
 But 'soon a sound far off was heard in heaven, 
 A sound as of a coming multitude. 
 Horses and chariots, rushing furiously ; 
 Then, like a trumpet opening on the ear 
 Came down a terrible and mighty wind. 
 Wide scattering, fell anon, with heavy stroke, 
 As of a stone from a strong slinger'g arm, 
 The solitary hail ; dark fires at length 
 Amid the black clouds wander' d to and fro ; 
 Earth shook, and heaven with terror seem'd 
 
 to quake — 
 And all the plague was loosed. — The voice of 
 
 God 
 Spake in ten thousand thunders ; fire and hail 
 Shot howling down, and lightning in a flood, 
 Mix'd with the hail, and ran upon the ground ; 
 And with the hail, and thunder, and the fire, 
 A mighty wind, that the huge hailstones smote 
 Like rocks the quivering ground — like shatter- 
 ing rocks, 
 Hurl'd from the mountain to the groaning 
 
 plain — ' 
 Smoking and whirling, rush'd the awful hail, 
 
Edwin Atherstone.] 
 
 NINEVEH. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod. 
 
 Hailstones and fires, tempests and thunders 
 
 mix'd, 
 Fell on the land, that all the people cried, 
 And trembled at the anger of the Lord. 
 And every man, and every beast that stood 
 Within the fields, the hailstones smote and 
 
 slew ; 
 And every herb and every tree brake down 
 In all the land of Egypt. — But the sun 
 Shone in the fields of Goshen pleasantly: 
 Thunder, nor wind, nor fire, nor hailstones fell 
 For there the sons of Israel abode, 
 The favour'd people, chosen of the Lord. 
 
 Then Pharaoh, trembling, unto Moses sent, 
 And Aaron, and besought them bitterly : 
 " Oh ! I have sinn'd ! righteous is the Lord, 
 I and my people wicked. Haste ye now. 
 And pray unto your God that he will hold 
 His mighty thunderings, and his dreadful hail 
 And I will let the chosen people go, 
 And ye shall stay no longer." 
 
 Then to hinj 
 Spake Moses, saying : " When I shall be gone 
 Out of the city, I wiU spread my hands 
 Abroad unto the Lord, and he will stay 
 The thunder and the hail, and they shall cease 
 So may st thou know that all the earth is his ; 
 And 'that Jehovah is the God of Gods. 
 But as for thee, and thine, I know that still 
 Ye wiU not fear the Lord, nor let us go." 
 
 Then Moses went from out the city straight, 
 And spread abroad his hands unto the Lord : 
 The thunders, and the fire, and hailstones 
 
 Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 1566 a.— NINEVEH. 
 
 But joyous is the stirring city now : 
 The moon is clear, the stars are coming 
 
 forth. 
 The evening breeze fans pleasantly. Eetired 
 Within his gorgeous hall, Assjo-ia's king 
 Sits at the banquet, and in love and wine 
 Eevels delighted. On the gilded roof 
 A thousand golden lamps their lustre fling. 
 And on the marble walls, and on the throne 
 Gem-boss'd, that high on jasper steps up- 
 raised, 
 Like to one solid diamond quivering stands, 
 Sun-splendours flashing round. In woman's 
 
 garb 
 The sensual king is clad, and with him sit 
 A crowd of beauteous concubines. They 
 
 sing, 
 And roll the wanton eye, and laugh, arid sigh , 
 And feed his ear -vvith honey' d flatteries. 
 And laud him as a God. AH rarest flowers, 
 Bright-hued and fragrant, in the brilliant light 
 Bloom as in sunshine : like a mountain stream, 
 Amid the silence of the dewy eve 
 
 Heard by the lonely traveller through the 
 
 vale, 
 With dream-like murmuring melodious, ' 
 In diamond showers a crystal fountain falls. 
 All fruits delicious, and of every clime. 
 Beauteous to sight, and odoriferous. 
 Invite the taste ; and wines of sunny light, 
 Rose-hued, or golden, for the feasting Gods 
 Fit nectar : sylph-like girls, and blooming boys, 
 Flower-crown'd, and in api^arel bright as 
 
 spring. 
 Attend upon their bidding. At the sign, 
 From bands unseen, voluptuous music 
 
 breathes. 
 Harp, dulcimer, and, sweetest far of all, 
 Woman's mellifluous voice. What pamper' d 
 
 sense 
 Of luxury most rare and rich can ask. 
 Or thought conceive, is there. 
 
 But, far away, 
 The proud and melancholy queen sits lone 
 In her high chamber, breathing the cool air 
 That fans in vain her hot, indignant brow. 
 She loathes the sensual monarch ; can not 
 
 stoop 
 Her noble soul to share his orgies foul ; 
 Yet once hath loved him, once hath been be- 
 loved ; 
 And now she thinks upon the years gone by, 
 And sighs, and sheds some passionate tears, 
 
 and looks 
 On that gigantic city, spread below 
 Far as the eye can reach, and says, " Alas ! 
 Thou mighty city, am I queen of thee. 
 Yet desolate ? " 
 
 Young Dara, flush' d with love, 
 Through the perfumed shades steals fearfully 
 Of the proud palace gardens ; for his soul 
 Is with Nehushta, daughter of the king. 
 Along the broad, dim, moonlight-dappled path 
 Lightly trips he ; oft stops, and looks around ; 
 And flings his dark hair back, and listens oft. 
 She with two trusted maidens, in a bower 
 Fragrant with all delicious flowers that breathe 
 Their richness to the eve, impatient waits, 
 And blames the murmur of a fountain nigh 
 That drowns his stealthy footstep ; and oft 
 
 looks 
 With eager eye along the chequer' d path. 
 And says, " Oh, Dara, hasten to me, love ! " 
 
 Through all the city sounds the voice of joy 
 And tipsy merriment. On the spacious walls, 
 That, like huge sea-chfl's, gird the city in, 
 Myriads of wanton feet go to and fro : 
 Gay garments rustle in the scented breeze, 
 Crimson and azure, purple, green, and gold ; 
 Laugh, jest, and passing whisper are heard 
 
 there ; 
 Timbrel, and lute, and dulcimer, and song ; 
 And many feet that tread the dance are seen, 
 And arms upflung, and swaying heads plume- 
 crown' d. 
 So is that city steep' d in revelry. 
 
 Edwin Atherstone. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO THE BATTLE. 
 
 [Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 1566 b.— SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 He spake, and raised the goblet to his lips, 
 And pour'd the nectar down : and, when he 
 
 drank, 
 His concubines drank also, every one; 
 And joy was in all eyes. Then went the king-, 
 Flush'd -svith the wine, and in his pride of 
 
 power 
 Glorying ; and with his own strong arm up- 
 raised 
 From out its rest the Assyrian banner broad. 
 Purple and edged with gold; and, standing 
 
 then 
 Upon the utmost summit of the mount, 
 Eound, and yet round — for two strong men a 
 
 task 
 Sufficient deem'd — he waved the splendid flag. 
 Bright as a meteor streaming. 
 
 At that sight 
 The plain was in a stir : the helms of brass 
 Were lifted up, and glittering spear-points 
 
 waved. 
 And banners shaken, and wide trumpet mouths 
 Upturn' d ; and myriads of bright-harness' d 
 
 steeds 
 Were seen uprearing, shaking their proud 
 
 heads ; 
 And brazen chariots in a moment sprang, 
 And clash' d together. In a moment more 
 Up came the monstrous universal shout. 
 Like a volcano's burst. Up, up to heaven 
 The multitudinous tempest tore its way, 
 Eocking the clouds : from all the swarming 
 
 plain 
 And from the city rose the mingled cry, 
 " Long live Sardacapalus, king of kings ! 
 May the king live for ever ! " Thrice the flag 
 The monarch waved ; and thrice the shouts 
 
 arose 
 Enormous, that the solid walls were shook. 
 And the firm ground made tremble. 
 
 At his height, 
 A speck scarce visible, the eagle heard, 
 And felt his strong wing falter : terror-struck. 
 Fluttering and wildly screaming, down he sank 
 Down through the quivering air : another 
 
 shout. 
 His talons droop, his sunny eye grows dark, 
 His strengthless pennons fail, plumb down he 
 
 faUs, 
 Ex'en like a stone. Amid the far off hills, 
 With eye of firo, and shaggy mane uprear'd, 
 The sleeping lion in his den sprang up ; 
 Listen' d awhile — then laid his monstrous 
 
 mouth 
 Close to the floor, and breathed hot roarings out 
 In fierce reply. 
 
 Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 1566 c.— TO THE BATTLE. 
 
 He comes at length— 
 The thickening thunder of the wheels is heard 
 
 Upon their hinges roaring, open fly 
 
 The brazen gates : sounds then the tramp of 
 
 hoofs — 
 And lo ! the gorgeous pageant, like the sun. 
 Flares on their startled eyes. Four snow- 
 white steeds, 
 In golden trappings, barbed all in gold, _ 
 Spring through the gate ; the lofty chariot 
 
 then, 
 Of ebony, with gold and gems thick strewn. 
 Even like the starry night. The spokes were 
 
 gold, 
 With fellies of strong brass ; the naves were 
 
 brass, 
 With bumish'd gold o'erlaid, and diamond 
 
 rimm'd; 
 Steel were the axles, in bright silver case ; 
 The pole was cased in silver : high aloft. 
 Like a rich throne, the gorgeous seat was 
 
 framed. 
 Of ivory part, part silver, and part gold ; 
 On either side a golden statue stood : 
 Upon the right — and on a throne of gold — 
 Great Belus, of the Assj'rian empire first. 
 And worshipp'd as a god ; but, on the left, 
 In a resplendent car by lions drawn, 
 A goddess ; on her head a tower ; and, round, 
 Celestial glory : this the deity 
 Whom most the monarch worshipt ; she whom, 
 
 since, 
 Astarte or Derceto men have named. 
 And Venus, queen of love. Around her waist 
 I A girdle, glittering with all radiant gems, 
 i Seem'd heaving to her breath. Behind the car, 
 I Full in the centre, on the ebon ground, 
 ! Flamed forth a diamond sun ; on either side, 
 
 A horned moon of diamond ; and beyond 
 I The planets, each one blazing diamond. 
 Such was the chariot of the king of kings. 
 
 I Himself in dazzling armour stands aloft, 
 
 i And rules the fiery steeds. His shield of 
 
 I gold, 
 
 ; His spear, his helm, his bow and quiver hang 
 
 ■ Within the roomy car. Thus, like a god, 
 
 I From forth the gates he comes; and every 
 
 I knee 
 
 t Bends to the ground, and every voice cries 
 
 I out, 
 
 ! " Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings ! 
 
 I May the king live for ever!" Thrice he 
 
 i smiles, 
 
 I And waves his hand to all; and thrice the 
 
 shouts 
 ! To heaven go up. Then on his starting horse 
 I Springs every rider ; every charioteer 
 I Leaps to his car ; and through the sounding 
 streets 
 
 The pageant flames, and on the dusty plain 
 
 Pours forth ; and evermore, from street to 
 street, 
 
 Euns on the cry, " The king ! the king comes 
 forth ! 
 
 The king of kings in his war-chariot comes ; 
 
 Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings ! 
 
 May the king live for ever ! " 
 
Edwin Atherstone.] 
 
 NEHUSHTA'S BO WEE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 To the walls 
 The cry flies on, they hear it on the plains, ' 
 The plains cry out, they hear it in the heavens. 
 On through the bowing host the monarch 
 
 drives ; 
 High over all conspicuous, the bright crown, 
 Like an etherial fire, through all the field 
 Flashing perpetual light. From rank to rank, 
 From nation unto nation goes he on ; 
 And still aU knees are bent, all voices raised 
 As to a deity. 
 
 Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 1566 (Z.— NEHUSHTA'S BOWEE. 
 
 Meantime, within the oft-frequented bower, 
 Nehushta sat, and Dara. 'Twas a spot 
 Herself had chosen, from the palace walls 
 Farthest removed, and by no sound disturb' d. 
 And by no eye o'erlook'd ; for in the midst 
 Of loftiest trees, umbrageous, was it hid — 
 Yet to the sunshine open, and the airs. 
 That from the deep shades all around it 
 
 breathed. 
 Cool and sweet-scented. Myrtles, jessamine, 
 Eoses of varied hues — all climbing shrubs. 
 Green-leaved and fragrant, had she planted 
 
 there, 
 And trees of slender body, fruit, and flower ; 
 At early morn had water' d, and at eve. 
 From a bright fountain nigh, that ceaselessly 
 Gush'd with a gentle coil from out the earth, 
 Its liquid diamonds flinging to the sun 
 With a soft whisper. To a graceful arch 
 The pliant branches, intertwined, were bent ; 
 Flowers some, and some rich fruits of gorgeous 
 
 hues, 
 Down hanging lavishly, the taste to please ; 
 Or, with rich scent, the smell ; or that fine 
 
 Of beauty that in forms and cqlours rare 
 Doth take delight. With fragrant moss the 
 
 floor 
 Was planted, to the foot a carpet rich. 
 Or, for the languid limbs, a downy couch, 
 Inviting slumber. At the noontide hour, 
 Here, with some chosen maidens would she 
 
 come, 
 Stories of love to listen, or the deeds 
 Of heroes of old days : the harp, sometimes. 
 Herself would touch, and with her own sweet 
 
 voice 
 Fill all the air with loveliness. But, chief, 
 When to his green-wave bed the wearied sun 
 Had parted, and heaven's glorious arch yet 
 
 shone, 
 A last gleam catching from his closing eye. 
 The palace, with her maidens, quitting then. 
 Through vistas dim of tall trees would she 
 
 pass — 
 Cedar, or waving pine, or giant palm — 
 Through orange groves, and citron, myrtle 
 
 walks, 
 
 Alleys of roses, beds of sweetest flowers, 
 Their richest incense to the dewy breeze 
 Breathing profusely all ; and having reach'^ 
 The spot beloved, with sport, or dance awhile 
 On the small lawn to sound of dulcimer, 
 The pleasant time would pass ; or to the lute 
 Give ear delighted, and the plaintive voice 
 That sang of hapless love ; or, arm in arm. 
 Amid the twilight saunter, listing oft 
 'J'he fountain's murmur, or the evening's sigh. 
 Or whisperings in the leaves, or, in his pride 
 Of minstrelsy, the sleepless nightingale 
 Flooding the air with beauty of sweet sounds ; 
 And, ever as the silence came again, 
 The distant and unceasing hum could hear 
 Of that magnificent city, on ^11 sides 
 Surrounding them. But oft with one alone. 
 One faithful, favoured maiden, would she 
 
 come; 
 At early morn sometimes, whUe every flower, 
 In diamonds glittering, with its proud weight 
 
 bow'd ; 
 When through the glistering trees the golden 
 
 beams 
 Aslant their bright flood pour'd, and every 
 
 bird 
 In his green palace sitting sang aloud, 
 •And all the air with youthful fragrance teem'd. 
 Fresh as at Nature's birth : her pastime then. 
 The flowers to tend, to look upon the sky. 
 And on the earth, and drink the perfumed air, 
 And in the gladness of all things be glad. 
 But in the placid twilight hour of eve 
 Not seldom came they : Dara then the harp 
 Or dulcimer would touch ; or, happier still, 
 His words of love into her listening ear 
 Distil with sweeter music than from string, 
 Or breathing pipe, though sweet. 
 
 Edivin Atherstone. 
 
 1566 e.— THE TEIUMPHANT EETUEN 
 OF SAEDANAPALUS. 
 
 On sight more gorgeous never sun look'd 
 
 down. 
 A myriad gonfalons of bright hue stream'd, 
 A myriad silver trumpets spake to heaven ; 
 Blazed the bright chariots, the gold-spangled 
 
 steeds 
 Beneath their flaming riders, proudly trode ; 
 Flash' d helm, and shield of gold, and dazzling 
 
 mail. 
 And, with unnumber'd martial instruments 
 Accompanied, unto the mighty Bel, 
 And to Sardanapalus, king of kings, 
 Triumphal hymns the host together sang. 
 
 Her brazen gates wide flung the city then, 
 And on the plain, with acclamations loud 
 The conqueror hailing, countless multitudes, 
 Dense thronging, pour'd, and on her walls the 
 
 throngs 
 Expecting stood, and on her lofty towers. 
 Assyria's damsels there, and peerless dames, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 NASEBT. 
 
 [Macaulat. 
 
 Like tulip beds, in richest vesture clad, 
 Made sunshine seem more bright, and, to the 
 
 breath 
 Of the sweet south, a sweeter fragrance 
 
 breathed. 
 But, beautiful amidst the beautiful, 
 Amid a bright heaven the one brightest star, 
 Assyria's goddess queen, in regal state 
 Magnificent, to pomp imparting grace. 
 To triumph majesty, her lord to meet. 
 From the great central eastern gate came forth. 
 High throned upon a car, with gold and gems 
 Refulgent, slowly rode she. Diamond wreaths 
 Amid her ebon locks luxuriant gleam' d, 
 Like heaven's lamps through the dark ; her 
 
 ample robe, 
 Sky-hued, like to a waving sapphire glow'd ; 
 And round one graceful shoulder wreathed, one 
 
 arm 
 Of rose-tinged snow, a web-like drapery, 
 Bright as a ruby streak of morning, hung. 
 Beneath her sweUing bosom, chastely warm, 
 A golden zone, with priceless gems thick 
 
 starr'd, 
 Flash' d gentle lightnings. The unresting fire 
 Of diamond, and the ruby's burning glow, 
 With the pure sapphire's gentle beam mix'd 
 
 there ; 
 The flamy topaz, with the emerald cool, 
 Like sunshine dappling the spring meadows, 
 
 play'd ; 
 Gold was the clasp, and diamond. Bracelets 
 
 %ht, 
 Of emerald, and diamond, and gold. 
 On each fine taper' d, pearly wrist she wore ; 
 And, round her pillar'd neck, majestical, 
 A slender chain of diamond, the weight 
 Sustaining of one priceless diamond. 
 Like dawn faint blushing, radiant as the morn, 
 That on her creamy bosom, like a spark 
 Of sun-fire on rich pearl embedded, lay. 
 With graceful ease and perfect dignity, 
 Yet womanly softness, like a shape of heaven, 
 In majesty of beauty, pale, serene. 
 With eye oft downcast, yet with swelhng 
 
 heart 
 Proudly exultant, on her gorgeous seat 
 Reclined, of Tyrian purple, golden fringed, 
 Of all eyes mutely worshipp'd, she rode on. 
 So, when, victorious o'er the giant brood. 
 Back to Olympus came the Thunderer, 
 Imperial Juno, on her golden car, 
 By clouds of fire upborne, with smile of love, 
 Her lord to meet, and ether- brightening 
 
 brow. 
 Through heaven's wide open' d portals proudly 
 
 rode. 
 In s hini ng cars, behind Assyria's queen, 
 The sons and daughters also of the king, 
 To grace the triumph of the conqueror, came. 
 
 He in his blazing chariot, like a god, 
 Exulting rode. His helm and mail laid by, 
 The sunlike crown upon his head, in robes 
 Attired, that like one waving gem appear'd, 
 Amid the thunder of applauding hosts. 
 Onward he came. His coursers' arching necks 
 
 With gems and gold were hung ; and, far 
 
 before, 
 Behind, and round his chariot, glittering bright 
 With gold and gems, like a phosphoric sea, 
 His choicest captains, and his royal guard, 
 On their proud treading steeds rode gallantly. 
 
 The chariot of the queen at hand beheld. 
 To right and left disparting, ample space 
 In midst the horsemen left. Low bow'd each 
 
 head. 
 As the bright vision pass'd, and silence deep 
 Of admiration weigh' d upon all lips. 
 But, when the royal chariots, meeting, paused, 
 Then first, with blushing cheek, stood up the 
 
 queen, 
 And welcome proud unto the conqueror gave. 
 
 Edwin Atherstone. 
 
 1567.— NASEBY. 
 
 O ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from 
 
 the North, 
 With your hands and your feet, and your 
 
 raiment all red ? 
 And wherefore do your rout send forth a 
 
 joyous shout ? 
 And whence are the grapes of the wine-press 
 
 that ye tread ? 
 
 O ! evil was the root, and bitter was the 
 
 fruit, 
 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
 
 we trod ; 
 For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 
 
 and the strong. 
 Who sate in the high places and slew the 
 
 saints of God. 
 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
 
 June, 
 That we saw their banners dance and their 
 
 cuirasses shine. 
 And the Man of Blood was there, with his 
 
 long essenced hair. 
 And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert 
 
 of the Rhine. 
 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and 
 
 his sword, 
 The General rode along us to form us for the 
 
 fight; 
 When a murmuring sound broke out, and 
 
 swell' d into a shout 
 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
 
 right. 
 
 And hark ! like the roar of the billow on the 
 
 shore. 
 The cry of battle rises along their charging 
 
 line : 
 For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for 
 
 the Laws ! 
 For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of 
 
 the Rhine ! 
 
Macaulat.] 
 
 SEEMON IN A CHUECHYAED. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 The furious German comes, with his trumpets 
 
 and his drums, 
 His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- 
 
 haU; 
 They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your 
 
 pikes ! Close your ranks ! 
 For Eupert never comes, but to conquer, or to 
 
 faU. 
 
 They are here — they rush on — we are broken 
 
 — we are gone — 
 Our left is borne before them like stubble on 
 
 the blast. 
 Lord, put forth thy might ! Lord, defend 
 
 the right ! 
 Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight 
 
 it to the last ! 
 
 Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath 
 
 given ground. 
 But hark! what means this trampling of 
 
 horsemen in the rear ? 
 What banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he ! thank 
 
 God ! 'tis he, boys ! 
 Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is 
 
 here ! 
 
 Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all 
 
 in a row : 
 Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on 
 
 the dykes. 
 Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the 
 
 Accurst, 
 And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his 
 
 pikes. 
 Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook 
 
 to hide 
 Their coward heads, predestined to rot on 
 
 Temple Bar. 
 And he — he turns ! he flies ! shame to those 
 
 cruel eyes 
 That bore to look oii torture, and dare not look 
 
 on war. 
 
 Ho, comrades ! scour the p.ain, and ere ye 
 
 strip the slain, 
 First give another stab to make the quest 
 
 secure ; 
 Then shake from sleeves and pockets their 
 
 broad pieces and lockets, 
 Th« tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
 
 poor. 
 
 Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and 
 your hearts were gay and bold. 
 
 When you kiss'd your lily hands to your lemans 
 to-day ; 
 
 And to-morrow shall the fox from her cham- 
 bers in the rocks 
 
 Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
 prey. 
 
 Where •bo your tongues, that late mock'd at 
 
 heaven, and hell and fate ? 
 And the fingers that once were so busy with 
 
 your blades ? 
 
 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and 
 
 your oaths ? 
 Your stage-plays and your sonnets ? your 
 
 diamonds and your spades ? 
 
 Down ! down ! for ever down, with the mitre 
 and the crown ! 
 
 With the Belial of the Court, and the Mam- 
 mon of the Pope I 
 
 There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in 
 Durham stalls ; 
 
 The Jesuit smites^his bosom, the Bishop rends 
 his cope. 
 
 And she of the Seven Hills shall movirn her 
 
 children's ills, 
 And tremble when she thinks on the edge of 
 
 England's sword ; 
 And the Kings of earth in fear shall tremble 
 
 when they hear 
 Wliat the hand of God hath wrought for the 
 
 Houses and the Word ! 
 
 Macaulay. — Born 1800, Died 1859. 
 
 1568.— SEEMON IN A CHUECHYAED 
 
 Let pious Damon take his seat, 
 
 With mincing step, and languid smile, 
 And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, 
 
 Sabffian odours o'er the aisle ; 
 And spread his little jewelled hand, 
 
 And smile round all the parish beauties, 
 And pat his curls and smooth his band. 
 
 Meet prelude to his saintly duties. 
 
 Let the thronged audience press and stare. 
 
 Let stifled maidens ply the fan, 
 Admire his doctrines and his hair. 
 
 And whisper " What a good young man ! " 
 While he explains what seems most clear, 
 
 So clearly that it seems perplexed, 
 I'll stay and read my sermon here ; 
 
 And skulls, and bones, shall be the text. 
 
 Art thou the jilted dupe of fame ? 
 
 Dost thou with jealous anger pine 
 Whene'er she sounds some other name, 
 
 With fonder emphasis than thine ? 
 To thee I preach ; draw near ; attend ! 
 
 Look on these bones, thou fool, and see 
 Where all her scorns and favours end. 
 
 What Byron is, and thou must be. 
 
 Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust 
 
 Some clod like those that here we spurn ; 
 Something that sprang like thee from dust, 
 
 And shall like thee to dust return ? 
 Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits. 
 
 At one sear leaf, or wandering feather ? 
 Behold the black, damp, narrow pits. 
 
 Where they and thou must lie together. 
 
 Dost thou beneath the smile or frown 
 Of some vain woman bend thy knee ? 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SONNETS TO A FKIEND. 
 
 [Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 Here take thy stand, and trample down 
 Things that were once as fair as she. 
 
 Here rave of her ten thousand graces. 
 Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, 
 
 While, as in scorn, the fleshloss faces 
 Of Hamiitons and Waldegraves grin. 
 
 Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, 
 
 Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, 
 Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, 
 
 That prompt thy baby smiles and tears ; 
 Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, 
 
 In one short hour of placid thought, 
 A stoicism, more deep, more stern, 
 
 Than ever Zeno'a porch hath taught. 
 
 The plots and feats of those that press 
 
 To seize on titles, wealth, or power, 
 Shall seem to thee a game of chess. 
 
 Devised to pass a tedious hour. 
 What matters it to him who fights 
 
 For shows of unsubstantial good, 
 Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, 
 
 Be things of flesh, or things of wood ? 
 
 We check, and take ; exult, and fret ; 
 
 Our plans extend, our passions rise, 
 Till in our a.rdour we forget 
 
 How worthless is the victor's prize. 
 Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night : 
 
 Say will it not be then the same, 
 Whether we played the black or white, 
 
 Whether we lost or won the game ? 
 
 Dost thou among these hillocks stray, 
 
 O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan ? 
 Know that thy foot is on the clay 
 
 Of hearts once wretched as thy own. 
 How many a father's anxious schemes, 
 
 How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, 
 How many a mother's cherished dreams, 
 
 The swelling turf before thee covers ! 
 
 Here for the living, and the dead. 
 
 The weepers and the friends they weep, 
 Hath been ordained the same cold bed. 
 
 The same dark night, the same long sleep ; 
 Whyshouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave 
 
 O'er those with whom thou soon must be ? ! 
 Death his own sting shall cure — the grave 
 
 Shall vanquish its own victory. 
 
 Here learn that all the griefs and joys. 
 
 Which now torment, which now beguile, 
 Are children's hurts and children's toys. 
 
 Scarce worthy of one bitter smile. 
 Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press. 
 
 Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail. 
 That Science is a blind man's guess, 
 
 And History a nurse's tale. 
 
 Here learn that glory and disgrace, 
 
 AVisdom and folly, pass away. 
 That mirth hath its appointed space. 
 
 That sorrow is but for a day ; 
 That all we love, and all we hate, 
 
 That all we hope, and all we fear, 
 
 Each mood of mind, each turn of fate. 
 Must end in dust and silence here. 
 
 Macaulay.—Born 1800, Died 1859. 
 
 1569.— SONNET. 
 
 What was't awaken'd first the untried ear 
 Of that sole man who was all humankind ? 
 Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, 
 Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ? 
 The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so 
 
 near. 
 Their lulling murmurs all in one combined ? 
 The note of bird unnamed ? The startlod 
 
 hind 
 Bursting the brake — ^in wonder, not in fear, 
 Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground 
 Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
 The gracious presence of immaculate feet ? 
 Did viewless seraphs rustle all around, 
 Making sweet music out of air as sweet ? 
 Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 
 
 Hartley Colendgc.—Born 1796, Died 1849. 
 
 1570.--ON SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 The soul of man is larger than the sky, 
 Deeper than ocean — or the abysmal dark 
 Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that ark, 
 Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, 
 O'er the drown'd hiUs, the human family. 
 And stock reserved of every living kind. 
 So, in the compass of the single mind, 
 The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, 
 Thr^t make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy 
 
 art 
 To know thyself, and in thyself to be 
 Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, 
 Of the firm fatal purpose of the heart 
 Oan make of man. Yet thou wert still the 
 
 same, 
 Serene of thought, unhiirt by thy own flame. 
 
 HaHloy CoUridye.—Born 1796, Died 1849. 
 
 1571- 
 
 -SONNETS TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When we were idlers with the loitering rills, 
 The need of human love we little noted : 
 Our love was nature ; and the peace that 
 
 floated 
 On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills. 
 To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills : 
 One soul was ours, one mind, one heart 
 
 devoted, 
 That, wisely doting, ask'd not why it doted, 
 And ours the unknown joy, which knowing 
 
 kiUs. 
 
 72 
 
Haktley Coleridge.] TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. 
 
 [Seventh Pesioi).- 
 
 But now I find how dear thou wert to me ; 
 That man is more than half of nature's 
 
 treasure, 
 Of that fair beauty which no eye can see, 
 Of that sweet music which no ear can 
 
 measure ; 
 And now the streams may sing for others' 
 
 pleasure. 
 The hills sleep on in their eternity. 
 
 In the great city we are met again, 
 
 Where many souls there are that breathe and 
 
 die, 
 Scarce knowing more of Nature's potency 
 Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or 
 
 rain — 
 The sad vicissitude of weary pain : 
 For busy man is lord of ear and eye, 
 And what hath Nature but the vast void sky, 
 And the throng' d river toiling to the main ? 
 Oh ! say not so, for she shall have her part 
 In every smile, in every tear that falls. 
 And she shall hide her in the secret heart, 
 Where love persuades, and sterner duty 
 
 calls : 
 But worse it were than death, or sorrow's 
 
 smart, 
 To live without a friend within these walls. 
 
 We parted on the mountains, as two streams 
 From one clear spring pursue their several 
 
 ways ; 
 And thy fleet course hath been through many 
 
 In foreign lands, where silveiy Padus gleams 
 To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams 
 Biighten'd the tresses that old poets praise ; 
 Where Petrarch's patient love and artful 
 
 lays, 
 And Ariosto's song of many themes. 
 Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook, 
 As close pent up within my native dell. 
 Have crept along from nook to shady nook. 
 Where flow' rets blow and whispering Naiads 
 
 dwell. 
 Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide. 
 O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge.— Born 1796, Died 1849. 
 
 1572.--TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. 
 
 Restless forms of living light. 
 
 Quivering on your lucid wings. 
 
 Cheating still the curious sight 
 
 With a thousand shadowings ; 
 
 T^ Various as the tints of even. 
 
 Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, 
 Reflected on your native streams 
 In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams. 
 Harmless warriors clad in mail 
 Of silver breastplate, golden scale ; 
 
 Mail of Nature's own bestowing, 
 
 With peaceful radiance mildly glowing 
 
 Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 
 
 Sport ye in your sea so narrow. 
 
 Was the sun himself your sire ? 
 
 Were ye born of vital fire ? 
 
 Or of the shade of golden flowers, 
 
 Such as we fetch from eastern bowei 
 
 To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
 
 Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
 
 Weaving many a mazy dance ; 
 
 Seeming still to grow in size. 
 
 When ye would elude our eyes. 
 
 Pretty creatures ! we might deem 
 
 Ye were happy as ye seem. 
 
 As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe. 
 
 As light, as loying, and as lithe. 
 
 As gladly earnest in your play. 
 
 As when ye gleam' d in fair Cathay ; 
 
 And yet, since on this hapless earth 
 
 There 's small sincerity in mirth. 
 
 And laughter oft is but an art 
 
 To drown the outcry of the heart, 
 
 It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, 
 
 Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, 
 
 Your restl&ss roving round and round 
 
 The circuit of your crystal bound, 
 
 Is but the task of weary pain. 
 
 An endless labour, dull and vain ; 
 
 And while your forms are gaily shining, 
 
 Your little lives are inly pining ! 
 
 Nay — but still I fain would dream 
 
 That ye are happy as ye seem. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge.— Born 1796, Died 1849. 
 
 1573.-SONG. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 
 
 That bids a blithe good-morrow ; 
 But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark 
 
 To the soothing song of sorrow. 
 Oh nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 
 
 And is she sad or jolly ? 
 For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 
 
 So like to melancholy. 
 
 The merry lark, he soars on high, 
 
 No worldly thought o'ertakes him ; 
 He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, 
 
 And the daylight that awakes him. 
 As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, 
 
 The nightingale is trilling; 
 With feeling bliss, no less than his, 
 
 Her little heart is thrilling. 
 
 Yet ever and anon a sigh 
 
 Peers through her lavish mii-th ; 
 For the lark's bold song is of the sky. 
 
 And hers is of the earth. 
 By night and day, she tunes her lay. 
 
 To drive away all sorrow ; 
 For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass. 
 
 And woe may come to-morrow. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge.— Born 1796, Died 1849. 
 
From, 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MY BONNIE MAEY. 
 
 [Robert Burns. 
 
 1574.— XOVEMBEE. 
 
 The mellow year is hasting to its close 
 The little birds have almost sung their last, 
 Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 
 That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; 
 The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 
 Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly 
 
 glass' d, 
 Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
 And makes a little summer where it grows. 
 In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
 The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
 The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
 Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 
 And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
 Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 
 
 Hartley Colcrithjc—Borii 1796, Died 1849. 
 
 1575.— TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my power, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet, 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet. 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' speckled breast, 
 "When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
 
 The purj)ling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane, 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There in thy scanty mantle clad. 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 Sweet flowret of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betray' d, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard, 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'dl 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
 
 Who long with wants and woes has striven. 
 
 By human pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink, 
 Till wrench' d of every stay but Heaven, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Even thou who mourn' st the daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Euin's ploughshare drives, elate. 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till crush' d beneath the furrow's weight. 
 
 Shall be thy doom. 
 
 Robert Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1576.— AE FOND KISS 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 
 Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him. 
 While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her was to love her : 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never loved sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! 
 Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! 
 
 Robert Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1577.— MY BONNIE MAEY. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 
 And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
 That I may drink, before I go, 
 
 A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the FeiTy ; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 72* 
 
Robert Burns.] 
 
 MARY MOEISON. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar. 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 "Wad make me langer \vish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 Robert Bums.^Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1578.— MARY MORISON. 
 
 Oh Mary, at thy window be, 
 
 It is the Avish'd, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see, 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor : 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string 
 
 The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison, 
 
 B'}bcrt Burns.— Born 1759, Died 179G. 
 
 ■S79'- 
 
 -BRUCE' S ADDRESS. 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 Or to victory ! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
 See the front o' battle lour ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power- 
 Chains and slavery ! 
 
 Wlia will be a traitor knave ? 
 Who can fiU a coward's grave? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wlia for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
 Let him follow me I 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins. 
 But they shall be free ! 
 
 Lay the proxid usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 ' Bolert Burns.— Born 1750, Died 1796. 
 
 1580.— MY HEART'S IN THE HIGH- 
 LANDS. 
 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
 
 here ; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the 
 
 deer; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
 
 North, 
 The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
 Farewell to the mountains high cover" d with 
 
 snow ; 
 Farewell to the straths and green valleys 
 
 below ; 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
 
 woods ; 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
 
 floods. 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
 
 here. 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 
 
 deer ; 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
 
 Robert Bur: 
 
 -Born 1759, Died 1796, 
 
 1581.— AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
 But we've wander' d mony a weary foot 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BONNIE LESLIE. 
 
 [Egbert Burns. 
 
 We twa hae paidl'fc i' the burn 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught 
 
 For auld land syne ! 
 
 V, 
 
 And surely ye'U be your i^int-stowp, 
 
 And surely I'll be mine ; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 Far auld lang syne ! 
 
 RohcH Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1583.— OF A' 
 
 THE AIRTS 
 CAN BLAW. 
 
 THE WIND 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west ; 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives,- 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best. 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And monie a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air ; 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green — 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 Bohcrt BHrns.—Bora 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1 5 82. —C A' THE YOWES TO THE 
 KNOWES. 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 
 Oa' them where the heather grows, 
 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Hark the mavis' evening sang 
 Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
 Then a faulding let us gang, 
 
 My bonnie deai'ie. 
 
 We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
 
 To the moon sae clearly. 
 
 Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
 Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
 O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
 Fairies dance sae cheery. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
 Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art. 
 Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
 I can die — but canna part 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 While waters wimple to the sea, 
 While day blinks in the lift sae hie, 
 Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee. 
 Ye shall be my dearie. 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Rohcrt Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1584.— A EED, RED ROSE. 
 
 O, my luve 's like a red, red rose, 
 That's newly sprung in June ; 
 
 O, my luve 's like the melodic 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
 
 So deep in luve am I ; 
 And I Avill luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry — 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry; my dear, 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
 
 I will luve thee still, mj' dear, 
 While the sands of life shall run. 
 
 And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel a while ! 
 And I will come again, my luve, 
 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 Rohcrt Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1585.— BONNIE LESLIE. 
 
 O saw ye bonnie Leslie 
 
 As she gaed o'er the border ? 
 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 
 To see her is to love 'ler, 
 And loi'-e but her for ever ; 
 
 For Nature made her what she is, 
 And ne'er made sic anither. 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Leslie — 
 Thy subjects we, before thco ; 
 
 Thou art divine, fair Leslie — 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
Robert Burns] 
 
 HIGHLAND MAEY. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod.- 
 
 The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 
 He'd look into thy bonuie face, 
 And say, " I canna wrang thee." 
 
 The powers aboon will tent thee ; 
 
 Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
 Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 
 
 Eetum again, fair Leslie ! 
 
 Eetum to Caledonia ! 
 That we may brag we hae a lass 
 
 There's nane again sae bonnie. 
 
 Robert Burns. — Bom 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1586.— HIGHLAND MAEY. 
 
 Te banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfald her robes 
 
 And there the langest tarry ! 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom' d the gay green birk ! 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
 As underneath their fragrant shade 
 
 I clasp' d her to my bosom ? 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace 
 
 Our parting was f u' tender ; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore ourselves asunder ; 
 But, O ! fell Death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary 1 
 
 pale, pale now, those rosy lips 
 
 I. aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly 1 
 And moxild'ring now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly I 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 Robert Burns.— Bom 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1587.— TO MAEY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
 That lov'st to greet the early mom. 
 
 Again thou usherest in the day 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 
 O Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
 breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget. 
 
 Can I forget the hallow' d grove. 
 Where by the winding Ayr Ave met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past — 
 Thy image at our last embrace ! 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, 
 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be press' d 
 The birds sang love on every spray, 
 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 Proclaim' d the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but th' impression deeper makes. 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 
 
 Whore is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend liis 
 breast ? 
 
 Robert Burns.— Bor.i 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1588.— MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
 THING. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never lo'ed a dearer, 
 
 And neist my heart I'll wear her. 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonnie wee thing. 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 The warld's Avrack, we share o't, 
 The warstle and the care o't, 
 Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 Robert Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TAM 0' SHANTEE. 
 
 [EOBEBT BUSNS. 
 
 1589.— JOHN ANDEESON. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we Avere first acquent. 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonny brow was brout ; 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snow ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill theg-ither, 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither ; 
 Now we maun totter doun, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go. 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 Jolm Anderson, my jo. 
 
 RoheH Bums.— Born 1750, Died 1796. 
 
 1590.— HEEE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 
 THAT'S AWA. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 
 
 May never guid luck be their fa' ! 
 It's guid to be merry and wise, 
 
 It's guid to be honest and true, 
 It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
 
 And bide by the buff and the blue. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the 
 clan, 
 
 Altho' that his band be sma'. 
 May liberty meet wi' success ! 
 
 May prudence protect her fra evil ! 
 May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
 
 And wander their way to the devil ! 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland 
 laddie. 
 That lives at the lug o' the law ! 
 Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
 Here's freedom to him that wad write . 
 j There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 
 
 be heard 
 I But they wham the truth wad indite. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa : 
 Here's Maitland and Wycombe, and wha does 
 na like 'em 
 We'll build in a hole o' the wa'. 
 Here's timmer that's red at the heart, 
 I Here's fruit that's sound at the core I 
 
 May he that would turn the buff and blue 
 coat 
 Be turn'd to the back o' the door. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 
 gowd, 
 Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
 Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 
 And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed ; 
 And wha would betray old Albion's rights, 
 I May they never eat of her bread ! 
 
 Eolert Bxmis.—Bom 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1591.— TAM O' SHANTEE. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street, 
 And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
 As market-days are wearing late, 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
 An' getting fou and unco happy, 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. 
 That lie between us and our hame, 
 Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame. 
 Gathering her brows like gathermg storm, 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 Tliis truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
 As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
 For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
 
 O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise 
 As taen thy uin wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou was a skeHum, 
 A bleth'ring, blust'rinp;, drunken blellum , 
 That frae November till October, 
 Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
 That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 That everj- naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
 The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
 That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 1'hou drank wi' Kirton Jean tUl Monday. 
 She prophesied that, late or soon, 
 Thou would be found deep drown' d in Doon 
 Or catch' d wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
 To think how monie counsels sweet, 
 How monie lengthen' d sage advices, 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market night 
 Tam had got planted unco right. 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinelj' ; 
 And at his elboAV souter Johany, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony — 
 Tam lo'cd him like a vera brither — 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter 
 And ay the ale was growing better. 
 The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious 
 
Egbert Burns.] 
 
 TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Oare, mad to see a man sae happy, 
 E'en drown' d himself amang the nappy ; 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
 Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
 A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 That flit ere you can point their place ; 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
 Evanishing amid the storm. 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
 The hour approaches Tam maun ride — 
 That hour o' night's black arch the keystane, 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
 And sic a night he takes the road in 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 'twad blaw its last ; 
 The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; 
 That night a child might understand 
 The Deil had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg 
 (A better never lifted leg), 
 Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire — 
 Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
 Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
 "VVhyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
 Lest bogles catch him tinawares ; 
 Kirk- Alio way was drawing nigh, 
 Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
 And past the birks and meikle stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck banc ; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 "Whare hunters fand the murder' d bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods : 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
 When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
 Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil ! — 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
 Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish' d, 
 She ventured forward on the light ; 
 And. v.'ow ! Tam saw an unco sight — 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
 
 Nae cotillion brent new frae France^ 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 A winnock-bunker in the east. 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — 
 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large — 
 
 To gie them music was his charge ; 
 
 He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 
 
 Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl. 
 
 Coffins stood round like open presses, 
 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 
 And by some devilish cantrips sleight. 
 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light — 
 
 By which heroic Tam was able 
 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 
 A murderer's bancs in gibbet aiiTiS ; 
 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new cutted fra a rape, 
 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 
 
 Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 
 A garter which a babe had strangled •; 
 
 A knife a father's throat had mangled. 
 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 
 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
 
 Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
 
 Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout ; 
 
 And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 
 
 Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk : 
 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and a^vfu', 
 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amazed, and curious. 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reel'd, they set,they cross'd, they cleckit. 
 Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
 And coost her duddies to the wark. 
 And linket at it in her sark. 
 
 Now Tam, O Tam ! had they been queans 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens : 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie fiannen. 
 Been snaw- white seventeen-hundcr linen ; 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
 That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles, 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 
 
 But wither' d beldams, auld and droll, 
 Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
 Lowping an' flinging on a crummock — 
 I wonder did na turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlle. 
 There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
 That night inlisted in the core 
 (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore I 
 For monie a beast to dead she shot, 
 And perish' d monie a bonnie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and beer 
 And kept the country-side in fear). 
 Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn. 
 That while a lassie she had worn — 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
 It was her best and she was vauntic. 
 Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend gi-anni?! 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 
From 1780 to 18GG.] 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 [Robert Burns- 
 
 Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) — 
 Wao. ever graced a dance o' witches ! 
 
 But here my Muse her wing maun cowr, 
 Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
 To sing Yiovr Nannie lap and flang 
 (A souple jad she was and Strang) ; 
 And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
 And thought his very een enrich'd. 
 Ev'n Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd f\i' fain, 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main ; 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither — 
 Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
 And roars out, Weel done, Cutty-sark I 
 And in an instant a' was dark ; 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
 "When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
 When plundering herds assail their bylcc ; 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, 
 When pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd, 
 When Catch the thief ! resounds aloud ; 
 So Maggie runs — the witches follow, 
 Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 
 
 Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairia' ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — 
 Kate soon will be a woefu* woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss — 
 A running stream they dare na cross. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ; 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
 Ae spring brought aff her master haie, 
 But left behind her ain grey tail : 
 The carlin claught her by the rump, 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
 Ilk man and mother's son take heed ; 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy tl e joys o'er dear, 
 Remember Tam o' Chanter's mare. 
 
 Rohcrt Burns.— Born 1759, Dial 1796. 
 
 1592. 
 
 -THE COTTER'S SATURDAY 
 NIGHT. 
 
 My loved, myhonour'd, much-respected friend ! 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
 With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 
 
 My dearest meed a friend's esteem and 
 praise. 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
 
 "The lowly train in life's sequester' d scene ; 
 The native feelings strong,,the guileless ways — 
 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
 
 Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
 there, I ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 
 The short' ning winter day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
 pose. 
 The toil-worn cotter frae his labour-goes — 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end — 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
 hoes. 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend ; 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
 hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher 
 thro' 
 To meet their dad wi' fiichterin noise and 
 glee. 
 His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie. 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wific's 
 smile. 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour and 
 his toil. 
 
 Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in — 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentic 
 rin , 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
 e'e, 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new 
 gown, 
 Or dcposite her sair-won penny fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if thoj- in hard- 
 ship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unxeign'd, brothers and sisters meet. 
 An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; 
 1 The social hours, swift-wing' d, imnoticed fleet ; 
 ' Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 ! The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years — 
 i Anticipation forward points the view. 
 1 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
 i Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
 new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due : 
 
 Their masters' and their mistresses' command 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey. 
 
 An' mind their labours wi' an oydent hand. 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' siglit, to jauk or -nlay ; 
 
 An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night 
 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sougl^t the 
 Lord aright ! 
 
 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 
Egbert Burns.] 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his 
 name, 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae 
 wild, worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben — 
 A strappan youth, he taks the mother's 
 eye; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
 kye ; 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflowa wi' 
 joy. 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
 have ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 
 
 grave — 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected 
 like the lave. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
 pare ! 
 I've paced much this weary mortal round. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare — 
 If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasui'e 
 spare, 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
 the evening gale. 
 
 Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 
 
 A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling 
 smooth ! 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
 
 child- 
 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
 traction wild ? 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple 
 board : 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
 food ; 
 The soup their only hawkio does afford. 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
 cud ; 
 The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck 
 feU, 
 An' aft he's press' d, and aft he ca's it good ; 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was 
 i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, m' serious face 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide j 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 
 The big Ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride: 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 
 His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
 glide 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God ! " he says with 
 solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
 
 aim ; 
 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures 
 
 rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy o' the name ; 
 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame — 
 
 The sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays ; 
 Compared with these, Itahan trills are tame ; 
 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 
 
 raise — 
 Nae unison hae they vv^ith our Creator's 
 praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page : 
 How Abraham was the friend of God on 
 high; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
 ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 I Or rapt Isaiah's wUd, seraphic fire ; 
 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 
 lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
 shed ; 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
 name, 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
 How His first followers and servants sped — 
 The precepts sage they ^vrote to many a 
 land; 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
 by Heaven's command. 
 
 Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 
 The saint, the father, and the husband 
 prays : 
 
 Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear — 
 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 In such society, yet still more dear, 
 "While circling time moves round in an 
 
 eternal sphere. 
 
 Compared with this^, how poor rehgion's prido. 
 In all the pomp of method and of art. 
 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 Devotion's every grace except the heart ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 A PEDLAE'S STOEY. 
 
 [A. Wilson. 
 
 I 
 
 Tlie Power, incensed, the pag-eant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
 
 soul, 
 And in His book of life the inmates poor 
 enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proifer up to Heaven the warm re- 
 quest 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flowerjr pride, 
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them and for tl^eir little ones provide — 
 
 But chiefly in their hearts with grace di- 
 vine preside. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
 springs, 
 That makes her loved at home, revered 
 abroad. 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings — 
 "An honest man's the noblest work of 
 God;" 
 Andj certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Stixdied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- 
 fined ! 
 
 Scotia ! my dear, my native soU ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
 sent! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
 content I 
 And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
 vent 
 From luxury's contagion weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
 loved isle. 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream' d through Wallace's undaunted 
 heart — 
 
 Who dared to noblj^ stem tyrannic pride. 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part — 
 
 (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art — 
 His friend, inspircr, guardian, and reward !) 
 
 O never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
 
 But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament 
 and guard ! 
 
 Rolcrt Burns.— Born 1759, Died 1796. 
 
 1593.— A VILLAGE SCOLD SUEPRISING 
 HEE HUSBAND IN AN ALE-HOUSE. 
 
 I' the thrang o' stories tellin, 
 Shakin hands and jokin queer, 
 
 Swith ! a chap comes on the hallan— ^ 
 " Mungo ! is our Watty here ? " 
 
 Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry 
 Darted through him like a knife : 
 
 Up the door flew — like a fury 
 In came Watty's scoldin wife. 
 
 " JNasty, gude-for-naething being! 
 
 O ye snuffy drucken sow ! 
 Bringin wife and weans to ruin, 
 
 Drinkin here wi' sic a crew ! 
 
 " Eise ! ye drucken beast o' Bethel ! 
 
 Drink 's your night and day's desire ; 
 Eise, this precious hour ! or faith I'll 
 
 Fling your whisky i' the fire ! " 
 
 Watty heard her tongue tinhallow'd, 
 
 Paid his groat wi' little din, 
 Left the house, while Maggy fallow' d,. 
 
 Flyting a' the road behin'. 
 
 Folk frae every door came lampin, 
 
 Maggy curst them ane and a', 
 Clapp'd wi' her hands, and stampin, 
 
 Lost her bauchels i' the snaw. 
 
 Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel, 
 
 AVi' a face as white's a clout, 
 Eagin like a very devil, 
 
 Kickin stools and chairs about. 
 
 " Ye'U sit wi' your limmers round ye — 
 Hang you, sir, I'll be your death! 
 
 Little hands my hands, confound you, 
 But I cleave you to the teeth ! " 
 
 Watty, wha, 'midst this oration. 
 
 Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, 
 
 Sat, like patient Eesignation, 
 
 Trembling by the ingle-cheek. , 
 
 Sad his wee drap brose he sippet 
 (Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell), 
 
 Quietly to his bed he slippet, 
 Sighin aften to himsel — 
 
 "Nane are free frae some vexation, 
 
 Ilk ane has his ills to dree ; 
 But through a' the hale creation 
 
 Is nae mortal vex'd like me." 
 
 A. Wilson.— Born 1766, Died 1813. 
 
 1594.— A PEDLAE'S STOEY. 
 
 I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat, 
 Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat ; 
 I've carried packs as big's your meikle table ; 
 I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable : 
 Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen. 
 And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain. 
 
Hector Macneill.] 
 
 THE ALE-HOUSE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Ay ! tliae were days indeed, that gar'd me 
 
 hope, ' 
 
 Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop ; 
 And as a wife aye in my noddle ran, 
 I kenn'd my Kate wad grapple at me than. 
 Oh, Kate was past compare I sic cheeks ! 
 
 sic een ! 
 Sic smihng looks ! were never, never seen. 
 Dear, dear I loed her, and whene'er we met. 
 Pleaded to have the bridal day but set ; 
 Stapp'd her pouches fa' o' preens and laces, 
 And thought mysel weel paid wi' twa three 
 
 kisses : 
 Yet still she put it aff f rae day to day, 
 And aften kindly in my lug would say, 
 " Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop, 
 We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop." 
 
 Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair. 
 They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care : 
 Wha wadna toil to please the lass he ices ? 
 A lover true minds this in all he does. 
 Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent. 
 And that I couldna get her to relent. 
 There was nought left but quietly to resign. 
 To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign ; 
 And as the Highlands was the place for meet, 
 I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet. 
 Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the 
 
 snaw 
 For three hale days incessantly did fa' ; 
 Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift, 
 Where nought was seen but mountains and 
 
 the lift, 
 I lost my road and wander' d mony a mile, 
 Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and 
 
 toil. 
 Thus wandering, east or Avest, I kenn'd na 
 
 where, 
 My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black 
 
 despair, 
 Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at ance, forsooth, 
 Dovm through a Avreath o' snaw up to my 
 
 mouths 
 Clean owre my head my precious wallet flew. 
 But whar it gaed, Lord kens — I never knew ! 
 What great misfortunes are pour'd down 
 
 on some ! 
 I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come ! 
 Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast. 
 Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last ; 
 For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun', 
 I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down ; 
 Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull, 
 I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole. 
 
 Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack. 
 Till night and hunger forced me to come back. 
 For three lang hours I wander' d up and down, 
 Till chance at last convey' d me to a town ; 
 There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate 
 A sad account of a' my luckless fate. 
 But bade her aye bo kind, and no despair. 
 Since life was left, I soon would gather mair, 
 Wi' whilk I hoped, within a towmont's date. 
 To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate. 
 
 Fool that I was ! how little did I think 
 That love would soon be lost for f aut o' clink ! 
 
 The loss o' fair-won wealth, though hard to 
 
 bear. 
 Afore this — ne'er had power to force a tear. 
 I trusted time would bring things round again, 
 And Kate, dear Kate ! would then be a' mine 
 
 ain : 
 , Consoled my mind in hopes o' better luck — 
 j But, oh ! what sad reverse ! how thunder- 
 struck ! 
 When ae black day brought Avord frae Eab 
 
 my brither. 
 That — Kate was cried and married on anitlier ! 
 Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade 
 
 sweet, 
 At ance had drapp'd cauld dead at my feet ; 
 Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful 
 
 ca', 
 Nae deeper horror owre my heart could fa' : 
 I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate, 
 And grat — and sabbing cried, Oh Kate ! oh 
 
 Kate ! 
 Frae that day forth I never mair did wecl, 
 But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil ! 
 My siller vanish'd, far frae hame I pined, 
 But Kate for ever ran across my mind ; 
 In her were a' my hopes — these hopes were 
 
 vain, 
 And now I'll never see her like again. 
 
 A. Wilson.— Bom 1766, Died 1813. 
 
 1595.— THE ALE-HOUSE. 
 
 In a howm whose bonny burnie 
 
 Whimpering row'd its crystal flood. 
 
 Near the road where travellers turn aye, 
 Neat and beild a cot-house stood : 
 
 White the wa's wi' roof new theekit. 
 Window broads just painted red ; 
 
 Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit 
 Haflins seen and haflins hid. 
 
 Up the gavel-end thick spreading 
 Crap the clasping ivy green, 
 
 Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin, 
 Raised a' round a cosey screen. 
 
 Down below a flowery meadow 
 Join'd the burnie' s rambling line ; 
 
 Here it was that Howe the widow 
 The same day set up her sign. 
 
 i Brattling down the brae, and near its 
 ' Bottom, Will first marvelling sees 
 " Porter, Ale, and British Spirits," 
 Painted bright between twa trees. 
 
 " Godsake, Tam ! here's walth for drinking ! 
 
 Wha can this new»comcr be ? " 
 " Hout," quo' Tam, " there's drouth in think- 
 ing — 
 
 Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see." 
 
 Hector MoxnelU.—Born 1746. Dnid 1818 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. 
 
 [Hector Macneill. 
 
 1596.— THE HUSBAND'S RETURN. 
 
 Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin', 
 Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth ; 
 
 On a cart, or in a wagon, 
 
 Hirpling aye towards the north. 
 
 Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly, 
 
 Pondering on his thraward fate, 
 In the bonny month o' July, 
 
 Willie, heedless, tint his gate. 
 
 Saft the southland breeze was blawing, 
 Sweetly sughed the green aik wood ; 
 
 Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing, 
 Straek the ear wi' thundering thud : 
 
 Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating ; 
 
 Linties chirp' d on ilka tree ; 
 Fraethe west the sun, near setting. 
 
 Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie. 
 
 Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny I 
 Craigs and water, woods and glen I 
 
 Rofilin's banks unpeer'd by ony, 
 Save the Muses' Hawthomden ! 
 
 Ilka sound and charm delighting. 
 
 Will (though hardly fit to gang) 
 Wander' d on through scenes inviting, 
 
 Listening to the mavis' sang. 
 
 Faint at length, the day fast closing, 
 
 On a fragrant strawberry steep, 
 Esk's sweet dream to rest composing, 
 
 Wearied nature drapt asleep. 
 
 " Soldier, rise ! — the dews o' e'ening 
 
 Gathering, fa' wi' deadly skaith ! — 
 Wounded soldier ! if complaining. 
 
 Sleep na here, and catch your death." 
 # * * 
 
 Silent step he on, poor falloAv ! 
 
 Listening to his guide before. 
 O'er green knowo and flowery hallow, 
 
 Till they reach' d the cot-house door. 
 
 Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble ; 
 
 Deck'd wi' honeysuckle round ; 
 Clear below Esk's waters rumble, 
 
 Deep glens murmuring back the sound. 
 
 Melville's towers sae white and stately, 
 
 Dim by gloaming glint to view ; 
 Through Lass wade's dark woods keek sweetly 
 
 Skies sae red and lift sae blue. 
 
 Entering now in transport mingk 
 
 Mother fond and happy wean. 
 Smiling round a canty ingle 
 
 Blcezing on a clean hearthstane. 
 
 " Soldier, welcome ! come be cheerio — 
 Here ye'se rest and tak' your bed — 
 
 Faint, waes me ! ye seem, and weary, 
 Pale's your cheek sae lately red ! " 
 
 " Changed I am," sigh'd Willie till her ; 
 
 " Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be ; 
 Yet, alas ! does Jeanie Miller 
 
 Nought o' Willie Gairlace see ? " 
 
 Hae ye mark'd the dew o' morning 
 
 Glittering in the sunny ray. 
 Quickly fa', when, without warning. 
 
 Rough blasts came and shook the spray ? 
 
 Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing, 
 
 Drap when pierced by death mair^flflat^? 
 
 Then see Jean wi' colour deeing, 
 Senseless drap at Willie's feet. 
 
 After three lang years' afiliction 
 (A' their waes now hush'd to rest), 
 
 Jean ance mair, in fond affection. 
 Clasps her Willie to her breast. 
 
 Hector Macneill— Born 1746, Died 1818. 
 
 1597. 
 
 -MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. 
 
 Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, 
 
 Saw ye my true love down on yon lea — 
 Cross' d she the meadow yestreen at the 
 gloaming. 
 Sought she the bumie where flowers the 
 haw-tree ; 
 Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk- 
 white. 
 Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e ; 
 Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses. 
 Where could my wee thing wander f rao me ? 
 
 I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain 
 thing. 
 Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea ; 
 But I met my bonnie thing late in the 
 gloaming, 
 Down by the bumie where flowers the haw- 
 troe : 
 Her hair it was lint-Avhite, her skin it was 
 milk-white. 
 Dark was the blue of her soft rolling oe ; 
 Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than 
 roses — 
 SAveet were the kisses that she gave to me. 
 
 It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain 
 thing, 
 
 It was nae my true love ye met by the tree : 
 Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature. 
 
 She never loved ony till ance she loed me. 
 Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary, 
 
 Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee : 
 Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer. 
 
 Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to 
 thee. 
 
 It was then your-Mary ; she's frae Castlo-Cary, 
 
 It was then your true love I met by the tree ; 
 Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. 
 Sair gloom' d his dark brow, blood-red his cheek 
 grew, 
 
 Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e : 
 Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and 
 your scorning. 
 
 Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie. 
 
EoBT. Tannahill.] 
 
 THE BRAES 0' BALQUHITHER. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Away wi' beg-uilin?, cried the yonth, smiling — 
 Off went the bonnet, the lint- white locks flee, 
 The l)elted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom 
 shawing, 
 Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark 
 rolling e'e. 
 Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, 
 
 Is it my true love here that I see ? 
 Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me, 
 111 never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee. 
 Hector MacneilL—Born 1746, Died 1818. 
 
 [598.— THE BEAES O' BALQUHITHER. 
 
 Let ns go, lassie, go, 
 
 To the braes o' Balquhither, 
 Where the blae-berries grow 
 
 "Mang the bonnie Highland heather; 
 Where the deer and the roe, 
 
 Lightly bounding together, 
 Sport the lang summer day 
 
 On the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 I will twine thee a bower 
 
 By the clear siller fountain, 
 And I'll cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; 
 I will range through the wilds. 
 
 And the deep glens sae di'earie. 
 And return wi' the spoils 
 
 To the bower o* my dearie. 
 
 "When the rude wintry win' 
 
 Idly raves round our dwelling, 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night breeze is swelling, 
 So merrily we'll sing, 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us. 
 Till the dear shieling ring 
 
 Wi' the light lilting chorus. 
 
 Kow the summer 's in prime 
 
 Wi' the flowers richly blooming. 
 And the wild mountain thyme 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming • 
 To our dear native scenes 
 
 Let us journey together. 
 Where glad innocence reigns 
 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 BoheH Tannahill. — Born 1774, Died 1810. 
 
 1599.— THE BRAES 0' GLENIFFER. 
 
 Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, 
 The auld castle turrets are cover'dwith snaw; 
 How changed frae the time when I met wi' 
 my lover 
 Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green 
 shaw ! 
 The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae 
 bonnie. 
 The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken 
 tree; 
 
 But far to the camp they hae march' d my 
 dear Johnnie, 
 And now it is winter wi' nature and me. 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and 
 cheerie, 
 Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and 
 braw ; 
 Now naething is heard but the wind whistling 
 drearie. 
 And naething is seen but the wide-spreading 
 snaw. 
 The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and 
 dowie; 
 They shake the cauld drift frae their wings 
 as they flee ; 
 And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for 
 my Johnnie ; 
 'Tis "winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. 
 
 Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak 
 mountain, 
 And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky 
 brae, 
 While down the deep glen bawls the snaw- 
 flooded foimtain, 
 That murmur' d sae sweet to my laddie and me. 
 It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind 
 swellin', 
 ' It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my 
 e'e; 
 For oh ! gin I saw but my bonnie Scot's callan, 
 The dark days o' winter were summer to me. 
 
 RohcH Tannahill— Born 1774, Died 1810. 
 
 1600.— THE FLOWER O' DUMBLAXE. 
 
 The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben- 
 lomond. 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
 scene, 
 While lanely I stray in the calm summer 
 gloamin, 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' 
 blossom ! 
 And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's 
 bonnie ; 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain : 
 And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
 Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower 
 o' Dumblane. 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the 
 e'ening ; 
 Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood 
 glen: 
 Sac dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower o 
 Dumblane. 
 

 F'.om 1780 to 1866.] * FAKE WELL TO AYRSHIRE. [Eichard Gall. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my 
 
 Towering o'er the Newton woods, 
 
 
 Jessie ! 
 
 Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds ; 
 
 
 The sports o' the city seem'd foolish aud 
 
 Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, 
 
 
 vain; 
 
 Adorn the banks sae brierie 0. 
 
 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear 
 
 Round the sylvan fairy nooks. 
 
 
 lassie. 
 
 Feathery brekans fringe the rocks. 
 
 
 Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o" 
 
 Neath the brae the burnie joukS; - 
 
 
 Dumblane. 
 
 And ilka thing is cheerie 0. 
 
 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest 
 
 Trees may bud, and birds may sing, 
 
 
 grandeur, 
 
 Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, 
 
 
 Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, 
 
 Joy to me they canna bring. 
 
 
 And reckon as naething the height o' its 
 
 Unless wi' thee, my dearie 0. 
 
 
 splendour. 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
 
 Rohcrt TannahilL—Borii 1774, Died 1810. 
 
 
 blane. 
 Bolert Tannah ill— Born 1774, Died 1810. 
 
 
 
 
 
 1603.— MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE 0. 
 
 Thy cheek is 0' the rose's hue. 
 
 
 
 i6oi.— THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON 
 
 My only jo and dearie ; 
 
 
 THE BURN. 
 
 Thy neck is like the siller-dew 
 Upon the banks sae briery , 
 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn ; 
 
 Thy teeth are 0' the ivory, 
 
 
 The dews begin to fa' ; 
 
 sweet's the twinkle 0' thine ee ! 
 
 
 The pairtricks down the rushy holm 
 
 Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, 
 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca'. 
 
 My only jo and dearie 0. 
 
 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 
 
 
 
 Rings through the briery shaw, 
 
 The birdie sings upon the thorn 
 
 
 While flitting gay the swallows play 
 
 Its sang 0' joy, fu' cheerie 0, 
 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 Rejoicing in the summer morn, 
 Nae care to mak it eerie ; 
 
 
 Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 
 
 But little kens the sangster sweet 
 
 
 The mavis mends her lay ; 
 
 Aught 0' the cares E hae to meet, 
 
 
 The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, 
 
 That gar my restless bosom beat, 
 
 
 To charm the hng'ring day ; 
 
 My only jo and dearie 0. 
 
 
 "While weary yaldrins seem to wail 
 
 
 
 Their Httle nestlings torn. 
 
 Wban we were baimies on yon brae, 
 
 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 And youth was blinking bonnie 0, 
 
 
 Gaes jinking through the thorn. 
 
 Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day, 
 Our joys fu' sweet and mony ; 
 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves. 
 
 Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea. 
 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
 
 And round about the thorny tree. 
 
 
 The honeysuckle and the birk 
 
 Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, 
 
 
 Spread fragrance tlu-ough the dell. 
 
 My only jo and dearie 0. 
 
 
 Let others crowd the giddy court 
 
 
 
 Of mirth and revelry, 
 
 I hae a wish I canna tine. 
 
 
 The simple joys that Nature yields 
 
 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me ; 
 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 I wish thou wert for ever mine. 
 And never mair to leave me : 
 
 1 
 
 Robert Tannahill.—Born 1774, Died 1810. 
 
 Then I wad daut thee night and day. 
 Nor ither warldly care wad hae. 
 Till life's warm stream forgot to play, 
 My only jo and dearie 0. 
 
 
 
 
 i6o2.— GLOOMY Wn^TEE'S NOW AWA. 
 
 Richard Gall— Born 1776, Died 1801. 
 
 
 Gloomy winter's now awa, 
 Saft the westlin breezes blaw : 
 
 
 
 
 'Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw 
 
 1604.— FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 
 
 
 The mavis sings fu' cheerie 0. 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 Sweet the craw-flower's early bell 
 
 Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
 
 I 
 
 ' Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, 
 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew ; 
 
 ■ 
 
 Blooming like thy bonnie sel'. 
 
 Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure. 
 
 ■ 
 
 My young, ray artless dearie 0. 
 
 Now a sad and last adieu ! 
 
 I 
 
 Come, my lassie, let us stray. 
 
 Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming. 
 
 I 
 
 O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae. 
 
 Fare thee weel before I gang — 
 
 I 
 
 ! Blithely spend the gowden day 
 
 Bonny Doon, where, early roaming. 
 
 1 
 
 'Midst joys that never wearie 0. 
 
 First I weaved the rustic si nj- 1 
 
John Mayne,] 
 
 LOGAN BEAES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Bowers, adieu ! where love decoying, 
 
 First enthrall'd tliis heart o' mine ; 
 There the saftest sweets enjoying, 
 
 Sweets that memory ne'er sliall tine ! 
 Friends so dear my bosom ever. 
 
 Ye hae render' d moments dear ; 
 But, alas ! when forced to sever, 
 
 Then the stroke, oh ! how severe ! 
 
 Friends, that parting tear reserve it, 
 
 Though 'tis doubly dear to me ; 
 Could I think I did deserve it, 
 
 How much happier would I be ! 
 Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew ; 
 Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
 
 Now a sad and last adieu ! 
 
 Richard Gail— Bom 1776, Died 1801. 
 
 1605.— LOGAN BEAES. 
 
 By Logan streams that rin sae deep, 
 Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep ; 
 Herded sheep and gather' d slaes, 
 Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. 
 But wae's my heart, thae days are gane, 
 And I wi' grief may herd alane, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 Nao mair at Logan kirk will he 
 Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; 
 Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk. 
 Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. 
 I weel may sing thae days are gane : 
 Frae kirk and fair I come alane. 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, 
 I datiner out and sit alane ; 
 Sit alane beneath the tree 
 Where aft he kept his ti-yst wi' me. 
 Oh ! could I see thae days again, 
 My lover skaithless, and my ain ! 
 Beloved by friends, revered by faes, 
 We'd live in bliss on Logan braes ! 
 
 John Mayne.— Bom 1761, Died 1836. 
 
 1606.— HELEN OF KIEKCONNEL. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies. 
 For, night and day, on me she cries ; 
 And, like an angel, to the skies 
 
 Still seems to beckon me ! 
 For me she lived, for me she sigh'd. 
 For me she wish'd to be a bride ; 
 For me in life's sweet mom she died 
 
 On fair Kirkconnel-lee ! 
 
 Where Kirtle-waters gently wind, 
 As Helen on my arm reclined, 
 A rival with a ruthless mind. 
 Took deadly aim at me : 
 
 My love, to disappoint the foe, 
 Eush'd in between me and the blow; 
 And now her corse is lying low 
 On fair Kirkconnel-lee ! 
 
 Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, 
 I curse the hand by which she fell — 
 The fiend who made my heaven a hell 
 
 And tore my love from me ! 
 For if, where all the graces shine — 
 Oh ! if on earth there's aught divine, 
 My Helen ! all these charms were thine — 
 
 They center' d all in thee ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails it that, amain, 
 
 I clove the assassin's head in twain ? 
 
 No peace of mind, my Helen slain, 
 
 No resting-place for me : 
 I see her spirit in the air — 
 I hear the shriek of wild despair, 
 When Murder laid her bosom bare, 
 
 On fair Kirkconnel-lee ! 
 
 Oh ! when I'm sleeping in my grave. 
 And o'er my head the rank weeds wave. 
 May He who life and spirit gave 
 
 Unite my love and me 1 
 Then from this world of doubts and sighs, 
 My soul on wings of peace shall rise ; 
 And, joining Helen in the skies. 
 
 Forget Kirkconnel-lee ! 
 
 John Mayne.— Born 1761, Died 1836. 
 
 1607.— TO THE EIVEE NITH. 
 
 Hail, gentle stream ! for ever dear 
 Thy rudest murmurs to mine ear ! 
 Tom from thy banks, though far I rovOj 
 The slave of poverty and love, 
 Ne'er shall thy bard, where'er he be, 
 Without a sigh remember thoe ! 
 For there my infant years began. 
 And there my happiest minutes ran , 
 And there to love and friendship true. 
 The blossoms of affection grew. 
 
 Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream 
 That ever nursed a poet's dream ! 
 Oft have I in forbidden time 
 (If youth could sanctify a crime). 
 With hazel rod and fraudful fly. 
 Ensnared thy unsuspecting fry ; 
 In pairs have dragg'd them from their den, 
 Till, chased by lurking fishermen. 
 Away I've flown as fleet as wind. 
 My lagging followers far behind, 
 And when the vain pursuit was o'er, 
 Eeturn'd successful as before. 
 
 John Mayne.— Born 1761, Died 1836. 
 
 1608.— MUSTEEING OF THE TEADE3 TO 
 SHOOT FOE THE SILLEE GUN. 
 
 The lift was clear, the morn serene, 
 The sun just glinting ovrre the scene, 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 JENNY DANG THE WEAVER. 
 
 [Sir a. Boswell. 
 
 When James M'Noe began again 
 
 To beat to arms, 
 Rousing the heart o' man and wean 
 
 Wi' war's alarms. 
 
 Frae far and near the country lads 
 (Their joes ahint them on their yads) 
 Flock'd in to see tht show in squads ; 
 
 And, what was dafter, 
 Their pawky mithers aild their dads 
 
 Cam trotting after ! 
 
 And mony a beau and belle were there, 
 
 Doited wi' dozing on a chair ; 
 
 For lest they'd, sleeping, spoil their hair, 
 
 Or miss the sight. 
 The gowks', like bairns before a fair, 
 
 Sat up a' night ! 
 
 Wi' hats as black as ouy raven. 
 
 Fresh as the rose, their beards new shaven, 
 
 And a' their Sunday's deeding having 
 
 Sae trim and gay. 
 Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving 
 
 To wair that day. 
 
 Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, 
 Weel may he bruik his new apparel ! 
 And never dree the bitter snarl 
 
 O' scowling wife ! 
 But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel. 
 
 Be blithe through life ! 
 
 Hech, sirs ! what crowds cam into town, 
 To see them mustering up and down ! 
 Lasses and lads, sun-burnt and brown — 
 
 Women and weans, 
 Gentle and semple, mingling, crown 
 
 The gladsome scenes ! 
 
 At first, forenent ilk Deacon's hallan, 
 His ain brigade was made to fall in ; 
 And, while the muster-roll was calling, 
 
 And joybells jowing, 
 Het-pints, weel spiced, to keep the saul in, 
 
 Around were flo\ving I 
 
 Broil'd kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham. 
 Laid the foundation for a dram 
 O' whisky, gin frae Rotterdam, 
 
 Or cherry brandy ; 
 Wliilk after, a' was fish that cam 
 
 To Jock or Sandy : 
 
 ! weel ken they wha loe their chapin, 
 Drink maks the auldest swack and strapping 
 Gars Care forget the ills that happen — 
 
 The blate look spruce — 
 And even the thowless cock their tappin. 
 
 And craw fu' croose ! 
 
 The muster owre, the different bands 
 
 File aft' in parties to the sands ; 
 
 ■V^^lere, 'mid loud laughs and clapping hands, 
 
 Gley'd Geordy Smith 
 Reviews them, and their line expands 
 
 Alang the Nith 1 
 
 But ne'er, for uniform or air. 
 
 Was sic a group review' d elsewhere ! 
 
 The short, the tall ; fat folk, and spare ; 
 
 Syde coats, and dockit ; 
 Wigs, queues, and clubs, and curly hair ; 
 
 Round hats, and cockit ! — _ 
 
 As to their guns — thae fell engines. 
 Borrow' d or begg'd, were of a' kinds 
 For bloody war, or bad designs, 
 
 Or shooting cushies — 
 Lang fowling-pieces, carabines. 
 
 And blunderbusses I 
 
 Maist feck, though oil'd to mak them glimmer, 
 Hadna been shot for mony a simmer ; 
 And Fame, the story-telling kimmer, 
 
 Jocosely hints 
 That some o' them had bits o' timmer 
 
 Instead o' flints ! 
 
 Some guns, she threeps witliin her ken. 
 Were spiked, to let nae priming ben ; 
 And, as in twenty there were ten 
 
 Worm-eaten stocks, 
 Sae, here and there, a rozit-end 
 
 Held on their locks 1 
 
 And then, to show what difference stands 
 Atween the leaders and their bands, 
 Swords that, unsheathed since Prostonpans 
 
 Neglected lay. 
 Were furbish'd up, to grace the hands 
 
 O' chiefs this day I 
 
 " Ohon ! " says George, and ga'e a grane, 
 " The age o' chivalry is gane ! " 
 Syne, having ovrre and owre again 
 
 The hale survey' d. 
 Their route, and a' things else, made plain. 
 
 He snuff 'd, and said : 
 
 " Now, gentlemen ! now, mind the motion. 
 And dinna, this time, mak a botion : 
 Shouther yol^r arms ! O ! lia'd them tosh on, 
 
 And not athraw ! 
 Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean. 
 
 And march awa I " 
 
 Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound, 
 Fifes, clarionets, and hautboys sound ! 
 Through crowds and crowds, collected round. 
 
 The Corporations 
 Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drown' d 
 
 In acclamations ! 
 
 John Moyne. — Born 1761, DieU 1836. 
 
 1609.— JENNT DANG THE WEAVER. 
 
 At Willie's wedding on the green, 
 
 The lassies, bonny witches ! 
 Were a' dress'd out in aprons clean, 
 
 And braw white Sunday mutches : 
 Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent. 
 
 But Jock would not believe her ; 
 
SIR A. BOSWELL.] 
 
 JENNY'S BAWBEE. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 But soon the fool his folly kent, 
 For Jenny dang the weaver. 
 And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, 
 
 Jenny dang the weaver ; 
 But soon the fool his folly kent, 
 For Jenny dang the weaver. 
 
 At ilka country dance or reel, 
 
 Wi' her he would be bobbing ; 
 When she sat down, he sat down. 
 
 And to her would be gabbing ; 
 Where'er she gaed, baith butt and ben, 
 
 The coof would never leave her ; 
 Aye keckling like a clocking hen, 
 
 But Jenny dang the weaver 
 Jenny dang, &c. 
 
 Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind, 
 
 I troth I needna swither ; 
 You've bonny een, and if you're kind, 
 
 I'll never seek ahither : 
 He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried, Peugh, 
 
 And bade the coof not deave her ; 
 Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, - 
 And dang the silly weaver. 
 And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, 
 
 Jenny dang the weaver ; 
 Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, 
 And dang the silly weaver. 
 
 Sir A. Boswell.—Born 1775, Died 1822. 
 
 1610.— JENNY'S BAWBEE. 
 
 I met four chaps yon birks amang, 
 Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang ; 
 I speer'd at neibour Bauldy Strang, 
 Wha's thae I see ? 
 
 Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel, 
 Thought himsel' cunnin' as the de'il, 
 And here they cam, awa to steal 
 Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 The first, a captain tiU his trade, 
 Wi' skull ill lined, and back well clad, 
 March'd round the barn, and by the shed, 
 And pappit on his knee. 
 
 Quo' he, " My goddess, nymph, and queen, 
 Your beauty 's dazzled baith my een ; "" 
 But de'il a beauty he had seen 
 But — Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, 
 Wha speeches wove like ony Avab, 
 In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab, 
 And a' for a fee : 
 
 Accounts he had through a' the town, 
 
 And tradesmen's tongues nao mair could 
 
 drown ; 
 Haith now he thought to clout his gown 
 Wi' Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 A Norland laird neist trotted up, 
 Wi' bawsen'd naig and siller whup. 
 Cried, " There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, 
 Or tie't till a tree. 
 
 What's gowd to me ? — I've walth o' Ian' ; 
 Bestow on ane o' worth your han' ; " 
 He thought to pay what he was awn 
 Wi' Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 A' spruce frae ban' boxes and tubs, 
 A Thing cam neist (but life has rubs), 
 Foul were the roads, and fou' the dubs. 
 Ah ! waes me ! 
 
 A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, 
 He gim'd, " I' faith a bonnie lass ! " 
 He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, 
 Jenny's bawbee. 
 
 She bade the laird gang comb his wig, 
 The sodger not to strut sae big. 
 The lawyer not to be a prig, 
 
 The fool cried, " Tehee, 
 
 I kent that I could never fail ! " 
 She prined the dish-clout till his tail, 
 And cool'd him wi' a water-pail. 
 And kept her bawbee. 
 
 Sir A, ■BoswelL—Born 1775, Died 1822. 
 
 161 1. —GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE 
 WI' YE A'. 
 
 Good night, and joy be wi' ye a' ; 
 
 Your harmless mirth has charm'd my heart ; 
 May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw ! 
 
 In sorrow may ye never part ! 
 My spirit lives, but strength is gone ; 
 
 The mountain-fires now blaze in vain : 
 Eemember, sons, the deeds I've done, 
 
 And in your deeds I'll live again I 
 
 When on yon muir our gallant clan 
 
 Frae boasting foes their banners tore, 
 Wha show'd himself a better man. 
 
 Or fiercer waved the red claymore ? 
 But when in peace — then mark me there — 
 
 When through the glen the wanderer came, 
 I gave him of our lordly fare, 
 
 I gave him here a welcome hame. 
 
 The auld will speak, the young maun hear ; 
 
 But cantie, but be good and leal ; 
 Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, 
 
 Anither's aye hae heart to feel. 
 So, ere I set, I'll see you shine, 
 
 I'll see you triumph ere I fa' ; 
 My parting breath shall boast you mine — 
 
 Good night, and joy be wi' you a'. 
 
 Sir A. Boswdl.—Born 1775, Died 1822. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] THE MOON WAS A-WANING. [James Hogg 
 
 1612.— WHEM THE KYJK COMES HAME. 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 Come all ye jolly shepherds 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 That whistle throngh the glen, 
 
 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk. 
 
 I'll tell ye of a secret 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 That courtiers dinna ken ; 
 
 James Hogg. — Born 1772, Bied-1835. 
 
 j What is the greatest bliss 
 
 
 { That the tongue 0' man can name ? 
 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie 
 
 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 1613. — THE SKTLAEK. 
 
 When the kye comes hame, 
 
 
 1 When the kye comes hame, 
 
 Bird of the wilderness. 
 
 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, 
 
 Blithesome and cumberless, 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 'Tis not beneath the coronet, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 
 Nor canopy of state, 
 
 to abide in the desert -with thee ! 
 
 'Tis not on couch of velvet, 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud, 
 
 Nor arbour of the great — 
 
 Far in the downy cloud, 
 
 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, 
 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth; 
 
 In the glen without the name, 
 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 
 ^Vhen the kye comes hame. 
 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 There the blackbird bigs his nest 
 
 O'er feU and fountain sheen. 
 
 For the mate he lo'es to see. 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 
 And on the topmost bough, 
 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
 
 0, a happy bird is he ! 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim, 
 
 Then he pours his melting ditty, 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim, 
 
 And love is a' the theme, 
 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 And he'll woo his bonnie lassie 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 Low in the heather blooms, 
 
 
 Sweet vnR thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 When the blewart bears a pearl. 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 And the daisy turns a pea. 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 
 And the bonnie lucken gowan 
 
 to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 Has fauldit up her ee, 
 Then the lavrock frae the blue lift. 
 
 James Hogg.— Bom 1772, Died 1835. 
 
 Draps down, and thinks nae shame 
 To woo his bonnie lassie 
 
 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 1 614.— THE MOON WAS A-WANING. 
 
 See yonder pawky shepherd 
 
 The moon was a- waning. 
 
 That lingers on the hill— 
 
 The tempest was over j 
 
 1 His yowes are in the fauld, 
 
 Fair was the maiden. 
 
 And his lambs are lying still ; 
 
 And fond was the lover ; 
 
 Yet he downa gang to bed, 
 
 But the snow was so deep 
 
 For his heart is in a flame 
 
 That his heart it grew weary ; 
 
 To meet his bonnie lassie 
 
 And he sunk down to sleep. 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 In the moorland so dreary. 
 
 When the little wee bit heart 
 
 Soft was the bed 
 
 Eises high in the breast. 
 
 She had made for her lover, 
 
 And the little wee bit starn 
 
 White were the sheets 
 
 Eises red in the east, 
 
 And embroider' d the cover ; 
 
 there's a joy sae dear, 
 
 But his sheets are more white, 
 
 That the heart can hardly frame, 
 
 And his canopy grander ; 
 
 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie. 
 
 And sounder he sleeps 
 
 When the kye comes hame. 
 
 Where the hill-foxes wander. 
 
 Then since all nature joins 
 
 Alas, pretty maiden, 
 
 In this love without alloy, 
 
 What sorrows attend you ! 
 
 0, wha wad prove a traitor 
 
 I see you sit shivering, 
 
 To nature's dearest joy ? 
 
 With lights at your window ; 
 
 Or wha wad choose a crown. 
 
 But long may you wait 
 
 Wi' its perils and its fame, 
 
 Ere your arms shall enclose him ; 
 
 And miss his bonnie lassie 
 
 For still, still he lies, 
 
 When the kye comes ha.uie. 
 
 With a wreath on his bosom ! 
 7i* 
 
James Hogg.1 
 
 KILMENY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 How painful the task 
 
 The sad tidings to tell you ! 
 An orphan you were 
 
 Ere this misery befell you ; 
 And far in yon wild, 
 
 Where the dead-tapers hover, 
 So cold, cold and wan, 
 
 Lies the corpse of your lover ! 
 
 James Hogg.— Born 1772, Died 1835. 
 
 1615.— KILMENY. 
 
 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 
 But it wasnato meet Duneira's men, 
 Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 
 For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
 It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, 
 And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 
 The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry. 
 And the nut that hung frae the hazel-tree ; 
 For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
 But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', 
 And lang may she seek i' the green-wood 
 
 shaw ; 
 Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
 And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 
 
 When many a day had come and fled. 
 When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, 
 When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
 When the bedes-man had pray'd, and the dead- 
 bell rung. 
 Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, 
 When the fringe was red on the westlin hiL, 
 The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
 The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
 Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane — 
 Wlxen the ingle low'd with an eiry leme, 
 Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 
 
 " Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 
 Lang hae we sought both holt and den — 
 By linn, by ford, and green- wood tree ; 
 Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
 Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
 That bonny snood of the birk sae green ? 
 And these roses, the fairest that ever was 
 
 seen? 
 Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? " 
 
 Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, 
 But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face: 
 As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, 
 As the stillness that lay on the emcrant lea. 
 Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
 For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 
 And Kilmeny had seen what she could not 
 
 declare ; 
 Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 
 Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 
 
 blew ; 
 But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had 
 
 rung. 
 And the airs of heayen play'd round her 
 
 tongue. 
 
 When she spake of the lovely forms she had 
 
 seen, 
 And a land where sin had never been — 
 A land of love, and a land of light, 
 Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
 Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
 And the light a pure celestial beam : 
 The land of vision it would seem, 
 A still, an everlasting dream. 
 
 In yon green- Avood there is a waik, 
 And in that waik there is a wene, 
 
 And in that wene there is a maike, 
 That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 
 
 And down in yon green- wood he walks his 
 lane. 
 
 In that green wene, Kilmeny lay, 
 Her bosom happ'd wi' the flowerets gay ; 
 But the air was soft, and the silence deep, 
 And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
 She kenn'd nae mair, nor open'd her e'e, 
 Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 
 
 She ' waken' d on a couch of the silk sae slim, 
 All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim 
 And lovely beings around were rife. 
 Who erst had traveU'd mortal life ; 
 And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer : 
 " What spirit has brought this mortal here ! " 
 
 / 
 
 Ij , " Lang have I journey' d the world wide," 
 
 [ A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
 " Baith night and day I have watch'd the fair 
 
 I Eident a thousand years and mair. 
 
 ,' Yes, I have watch'd o'er ilk degree, 
 
 \ Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
 
 : But sinless virgin, free of stain, 
 In mind and body, fand I nane. 
 Never, since the banquet of time, 
 Found I a virgin in her prime. 
 Till late this bonny maiden I saw, 
 As spotless as the morning snaw. 
 Full twenty years she has lircd as free 
 As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 
 I have brought her away frae the snares of 
 
 men. 
 That sin or death she may never ken." 
 
 They clasp' d her waist and her hands sae fair; 
 They kiss'd her cheek, and they kemed her 
 
 hair ; 
 And round came many a blooming fere, 
 Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here; 
 Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
 O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
 Now shall the land of the spirits see. 
 Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
 Many a lang year in sorrow and pain, 
 Many a lang year through the world we've 
 
 gane, 
 Commission'd to watch fair womankind, 
 For it's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
 We have watch'd their steps as the dawning 
 
 shone, 
 And deep in the green-wood walks alone ; 
 By lily bower and silken bed 
 The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
 
From 1780 to ISGG.] 
 
 KILMENY. 
 
 [James Hogo. 
 
 Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, 
 
 Or left the couch of love to weep. 
 
 We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time 
 
 must come, 
 And the angels will weep at the day of doom I 
 
 " O, would the fairest of mortal kind 
 Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 
 That kindred spirits their motions see, 
 Who watch their ways with anxious e'o, 
 And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 
 O, sweet to heaven the maiden's prayer, 
 And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
 And dear to heaven the words of truth 
 And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
 And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
 The minds that kythe as the body fair ! 
 
 " O, bonny Kilmony 1 free frae stain, 
 If ever you seek the world again — 
 That world of sin, of sorrow and fear — 
 O, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
 And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
 Of the times that are now, and the times that 
 
 shall be." — 
 They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 
 And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day ; 
 The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
 The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
 The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
 And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
 Then deep in the stream her body they laid, j 
 That her youth and beauty never might fade ; i 
 And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her i 
 
 lie I 
 
 In the stream of life that wander' d by. j 
 
 And she heard a song — she heard it sung, 
 She kenn'd not where ; but sae sweetly it rung. 
 It fell on her ear like a dream of the mom — 
 " ! blest be the day Kilmeny was born ' 
 Now shall the land of the spirits see. 
 Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
 The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
 A borrow 'd gleid frae the fountain of light ; 
 And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
 Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun — 
 Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair ; 
 And the angels shall miss them, travelling the 
 
 air. 
 But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
 When the sun and the world have died away, 
 When the sinner has gane to his waesome 
 
 doom, 
 Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" — 
 
 They bore her away, she wist not how. 
 For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 
 But so swift they wain'd her through the 
 
 Hght, 
 'Twas like the motion of sound or sight ; 
 They seem'd to split the gales of air. 
 And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 
 Unnumber'd groves below them grew ; 
 They came, they past, and backward fie\\ , 
 Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 
 Li moment seen, in moment gone. 
 
 O, never vales to mortal view 
 
 Appear' d like those o'er which they flew 
 
 That land to human spirits given, 
 
 The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 
 
 From whence they can view the world below. 
 
 And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow — 
 
 More glory yet unmeet to know. ^ ~ 
 
 They bore her far to a mountain green. 
 To see what mortal never had. seen ; 
 And they seated her high on a purple sward. 
 And bade her heed what she saw and heard. 
 And note the changes the spirits "wrought ; 
 l'"or nov/ she lived in the land of thought. 
 She look'd, and she saw nor sun nor skies. 
 But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes ; 
 She look'd, and she saw nae land aright. 
 But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
 And radiant beings went and came. 
 Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
 She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 
 She look'd again, and the scene was new. 
 
 She saw a sun on a summer sky. 
 And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
 A lovely land beneath her lay. 
 And that land had glens and mountains gray ; 
 And that land had valleys and hoary piles. 
 And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
 Its fields were speckled, its forests green, 
 And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 
 Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 
 The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray. 
 Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung; 
 On every shore they seem'd to be hung ; 
 For there they were seen on their downward 
 
 plain 
 A thousand times and a thousand again ; 
 In winding lake and placid firth — 
 Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 
 
 Kilmeny sigh'd and seem'd to grieve. 
 For she found her heart to that land did cleave ; 
 She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 
 She saw the deer run down the dale ; 
 She saw the plaid and the broad claymore. 
 And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 
 And she thought she had seen the land before. 
 
 She saw a lady sit on a throne. 
 The fairest that ever the sun shone on ! 
 A lion lick'd her hand of milk. 
 And she held him in a leish of silk, 
 And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee. 
 With a silver wand and melting e'e — 
 Her sovereign shield, till Love stole in, 
 And poison'd aU the fount within. 
 
 Then a gruff, untoward bedes-man came, 
 And hundit the lion on his dame ; 
 And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e, 
 She dropp'd a tear and left her knee ; 
 And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled. 
 Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead ; 
 A coffin was set on a distant plain. 
 And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 
 Then bonny Kilmeny' s heart grew sair. 
 And she turn'd away, and could look nae mair 
 
James Hogg. 
 
 TO THE COMET OF 1811. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Then the gruff, grim carle girned amain, 
 And they trampled him down — ^but he rose 
 
 again ; 
 And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, 
 Till he lapp'd the blood to the kingdom dear : 
 And, weening his head was danger-preef 
 When crown'd with the rose and clover leaf, 
 He growl' d at the' carle, and chased him away 
 To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. 
 He growl'd at the carle, and he geck'd at 
 
 Heaven ; 
 But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
 Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 
 She look'd again, and the scene was new. 
 
 She saw below her, fair unfurl' d, 
 One half of all the glowing world, 
 Where oceans roll'd and rivers ran, 
 To bound the aims of sinful man. 
 She saw a people fierce and fell. 
 Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
 There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
 And she herked on her ravening crew. 
 Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze. 
 And the thunder it roar'd o'er- the lands and 
 
 the seas. 
 The widows they wail'd, and the red blood ran, 
 And she threaten'd an end to the race of man ; 
 She never lened, nor stood in awe, 
 Till caught by the Kon's deadly paw 
 Oh ! then the eagle swink'd for life, 
 And brainzell'd up a mortal strife ; 
 But flew she noi-th, or flew she south, 
 She met wi' the growl of the lion's moutk. 
 
 With a mooted wing and waefu' maen, 
 
 The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
 
 But lang may she cower in her bloody nes-, 
 
 And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast. 
 
 Before she sey another flight, 
 
 To play wi' the norland lion's might. 
 
 But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, 
 So far surpassing Nature's law. 
 The singer's voice wad sink away. 
 And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
 But she saw till the sorrows of man were by. 
 And all was love and harmony ; 
 Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, 
 Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 
 
 Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see 
 The friends she had loft in her own countryc. 
 To tell of the place where she had been, 
 And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
 To warn the living maidens fair. 
 The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, 
 That all whose minds unmeled remain 
 Shall bloom in beauty when Time is gano. 
 
 With distant music, soft and deep, 
 They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
 And when she awaken' d, she lay her lane, 
 All happ'd with flowers in the green- wood 
 
 wene. 
 When seven long years had come and fled ; 
 When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
 
 When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny 's name, 
 Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny came hame ! 
 And O, her beauty was fair to see. 
 But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
 Such beauty bard may never declare, 
 For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
 And the soft desire of maidens' een. 
 In that mild face could never be seen. 
 Her seymar was the lily flower. 
 And her cheek the mos3-ro?e in the shower ; 
 And her voice like the distant melodye 
 That floats along the twilight sea. 
 But she loved to raike the lanely glen. 
 And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
 Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
 To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 
 But wherever her peaceful form appear' d, 
 The wild beasts of the hills were cheer' d ; 
 The wolf play'd blithely round the field, 
 The lordly bison low'd and kneel'd ; 
 The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, 
 And cower'd aneath her lily hand. 
 And when at even the Avoodlands rung, 
 When hymns of other worlds she sung 
 In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
 Oh, then the glen was aU in motion ! 
 The wild beasts of the forest came. 
 Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, 
 And goved around, charm' d and amazed ; 
 Even the dull cattle oroon'd and gazed, 
 And raurmur'd and look'd with anxious pain, 
 For something the mystery to explain, 
 ' The buzzard came with the throstle-cock, 
 The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
 The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
 The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
 The wolf and the kid their raike began ; 
 And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 
 The hawk and the hem attour them hung, 
 And the merl and the mavis forhooy'd their 
 
 young ; 
 And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd : 
 It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 
 
 When a month and day had come and gane, 
 Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
 There laid her down on the leaves sae green. 
 And Kilmeny on eai-th was never mair seen. 
 But oh, the words that fell from her mouth 
 Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
 But all the land were in fear and dread. 
 For they kenn'd na whether she was living or 
 
 dead. 
 It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
 She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
 And return' d to the land of thought again. 
 
 James Hogg. — Born 1772, Died 1835. 
 
 i6i6.— TO THE COMET OF 1811. 
 
 How lovely is this wilder' d scene, 
 As twilight from her vaults so blue 
 
 Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, 
 To sleep embalm' d in midnight dew ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MY NANIE 
 
 [Allan Cunningham. 
 
 All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, 
 Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky I 
 
 And thou, mysterious guest of night, 
 Dread traveller of immensity ! 
 
 Stranger of heaven ! I bid thee hail ! 
 
 Shred from the pall of glory riven, 
 That flashest in celestial gale, • 
 
 Broad pennon of the King of Heaven ! 
 
 Art thou the flag of woe and death, 
 From angel's ensign-staff unfurl' d ? 
 
 Art thou the standard of his wrath 
 Waved o'er a sordid sinful world ? 
 
 No, from that pure pellucid beam, 
 
 That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone. 
 
 No latent evil we can deem. 
 
 Bright herald of the eternal throne ! 
 
 Whate'er portends thy front of fire. 
 Thy streaming locks so lovely pale — 
 
 Or peace to man, or judgments dire, 
 Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail ! 
 
 Where hast thou roam'd these thousand 
 years ? 
 
 Why sought these polar paths again, 
 From wilderness of glowing spheres, 
 
 To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ? 
 
 And when thou scalest the Milky Way, 
 And vanishest from human view, 
 
 A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray 
 Through wilds of yon empyreal blue ! 
 
 Oh ! on thy rapid prow to glide ! 
 
 To sail the boundless skies with thee, 
 And plough the twinkling stars aside. 
 
 Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea ! 
 
 To brush the embers from the sun, 
 
 The icicles from off the pole ; 
 Then far to other systems run. 
 
 Where other moons and planets roll ! 
 
 Stranger of heaven ! O let thine eye 
 Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream; 
 
 Eccentric as thy course on high. 
 And airy as thine ambient beam ! 
 
 And long, long may thy silver ray 
 Our northern arch at eve adorn ; 
 
 Then, wheeling to the east away. 
 Light the gray portals of the morn ! 
 
 James Hogg.— Born 1772, Died 1835. 
 
 1617.— HAME, HAME, HAME. 
 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
 When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is 
 
 on the tree. 
 The larks shall sing me hame in my ain 
 
 countrie ; 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
 
 The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', 
 The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; 
 But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping 
 
 tyrannie. 
 An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countjie ! 
 
 O there's naught frae ruin my country can 
 
 save. 
 But the keys o' kind heaven to open the 
 
 grave. 
 That a' the noble martyrs wha died for 
 
 loyaltie, 
 May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
 
 The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to 
 
 save. 
 The new grass is springing on the tap o' their 
 
 grave ; 
 But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in 
 
 my e'e, 
 " I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.'* 
 Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie I 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 1618.— MY NANIE 0. 
 
 Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, 
 
 Mirk is the night and rainie O, 
 Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, 
 
 I'll gang and see my Nanie O ; 
 My Nanie O, my Nanie ; 
 
 My kind and winsome Nanie O, 
 She holds my heart in love's dear bands, 
 
 And nane can do't but Nanie 0. 
 
 In preaching time sae meek she stands, 
 
 Sae saintly and sae bonnie O, 
 I cannot get ae glimpse of grace. 
 
 For thieving looks at Nanie O ; 
 My Nanie O, my Nanie O ; 
 
 The world's in love with Nanie ; 
 That heart is hardly worth the wear 
 
 That wadna love my Nanie O. 
 
 My breast can scarce contain my heart. 
 
 When dancing she moves finely O ; 
 I guess what hea\ en is by her eyes, 
 
 They sparkle sae divinely ; 
 My Nanie O, my Nanie O ; 
 
 The flower o' Nithsdale 's Nanie ; 
 Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair, 
 
 And says, I dwell with Nanie O. 
 
 Tell not, thou star at gray daylight. 
 
 O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie O, 
 My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 
 
 When coming frae my Nanie O ; 
 My Nanie 0, my Nanie O ; 
 
 Nane ken o' me and Nanie O ; 
 
A. Cunningham. J 
 
 THE YOUNG MAXWELL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 The stars and moon may tell't aboon, 
 They winna wrang my Nanie O ! 
 
 Allaji Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 1619.— THE YOUNG MAXWELL. 
 
 *' Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle ? 
 
 And what do ye carry there ? ' ' 
 •' I'm gaun to the hill-side, thou sodger gentle- 
 man, 
 
 To shift my sheep their lair." 
 
 Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, 
 
 An' a gude lang stride took ho : 
 "I trow thou to be a feck auld carle, 
 
 Will ye shaw the way to me ? " 
 
 And he has gane Avi' the silly auld carle, 
 
 Adown by the greenwood side ; 
 " Light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, 
 
 For here ye canna ride." 
 
 He drew the reins o' his bonnie gray steed, 
 
 An' lightly down he sprang : 
 Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, 
 
 Whare the gowden tassels hang. 
 
 He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld 
 carle, 
 
 An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree ; 
 An' wha was it but the young Maxwell ! 
 
 An' his gude brown sword drew he ! 
 
 *' Thou kill'd my father, thou vile Southron 
 An' ye kill'd my brethren three ! 
 
 Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, 
 I loved as the light o' my e'e ! 
 
 Draw out yere sword, thou vile Southron I 
 
 Eed wat wi' blude o' my kin ! 
 That sword it crapp'd the bonniest flower 
 
 E'er lifted its head to the sun ! 
 
 There's ae sad stroke for my dear old father ! 
 
 There's twa for my brethren three ! 
 An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, 
 
 Wham I loved as the light o' my ee." 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 1620.— FEAGMENT. 
 
 Gane were but the winter-cauld, 
 And gane were but the snaw, 
 
 I could sleep in the wild woods, 
 Where primroses blaw. 
 
 Cauld's the snaw at my head. 
 
 And cauld at my feet, 
 And the finger o' death's at my een. 
 
 Closing them to sleep. 
 
 Let nane tell my father. 
 
 Or my mither sae dear, 
 I'll meet them baith in heaven 
 
 At the spring o' the year. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784 Died 1842. 
 
 I 1621.— SHE'S GANE TO DWELL IN 
 , HEAVEN. 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven : 
 Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, 
 
 For dwalling out o' heaven ! 
 
 what'U she do in heaven, my lassie ? 
 
 what'll she do in heaven ? 
 
 She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs. 
 An' make them mair meet for heaven. 
 
 She was beloved by a', my lassie. 
 
 She was beloved by a' ; 
 But an angel fell in love wi' her. 
 
 An' took her frae us a'. 
 
 I Low there thou lies, my lassie, 
 I Low there thou lies ; 
 
 A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 
 } Nor frae it will arise ! 
 
 I Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 
 ' Fu' soon I'U follow thee ; 
 Thou left me nought to covet ahin'. 
 But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 
 
 1 look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
 
 1 look'd on thy death-cold face ; 
 Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud, 
 
 An' fading in its place. 
 
 I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
 
 I look'd on thy death- shut eye ; 
 An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
 
 Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 
 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, 
 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
 But gane was the holy breath o' heaven 
 
 To sing the evening psalm. 
 
 There's naught but dust now mine, lassie. 
 There's naught but dust now mine ; 
 
 My saul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave. 
 An' why should I stay behin' ! 
 
 Allan Cunningham.— Born 1784, DictZ 1842. 
 
 1622.— THE POET'S BEIDAL-DAY SONG. 
 
 Oh ! my love 's like the steadfast sun. 
 Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
 Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
 Nor moments between sighs and tears — 
 Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 
 Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain — 
 
Ftom 1780 to 1866.] THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTEY CHILD. [A. Cunningham. 
 
 Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 
 
 To sober joys and soften woes, 
 
 Can make my heart or fancy flee 
 
 One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 
 
 Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
 
 In maiden bloom and matron wit — 
 
 Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 
 
 Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 
 
 Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
 
 As when, beneath Arbigland tree. 
 
 We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon 
 
 Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
 
 Or linger' d 'mid the falling dew, 
 
 When looks were fond and words were few. 
 
 Though I see smiling at thy feet 
 Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; 
 And time, and care, and birth-time woes 
 Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose ; 
 To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
 All that charms me of tale or song ; 
 When words come down like dews unsought, 
 With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
 And fancy in her heaven flies free — 
 They come, my love, they come from the 
 
 Oh, when more thought we gave of old 
 
 To silver than some give to gold ; 
 
 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
 
 What things should deck our humble bower ! 
 
 'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee 
 
 The golden fruit from Fortune's tree ; 
 
 And sweeter still to choose and twine 
 
 A garland for these locks of thine — 
 
 A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 
 
 While rivers flow and woods are green. 
 
 At times there come, as come there ought, 
 Grave moments of sedater thought — 
 When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
 One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
 And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
 Shines like the rainbow through the shower, 
 Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, 
 A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; 
 And proud resolve and purpose meek 
 Speak of thee more than words can speak : 
 I think the wedded wife of mine 
 The best of all that's not divine. 
 
 Allan Cuyminghqm. — lioni 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 [623.— A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING 
 SEA. 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast. 
 And fills the white and rustling sail. 
 
 And bends the gallant mast ; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 
 
 While, like the eagle free, 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 I heard a fair one cry ; 
 
 But give to me the snoring breeze, 
 And white waves heaving high ; 
 
 And white waves heaving high, my 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon homed moon, ~^ 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud ; 
 And hark the music, mariners, 
 
 The wind is piping loud ; 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
 
 The lightning flashing free — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 Allan Cunnmgham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 [624.- 
 
 ■THE TOWN CHILD AND 
 COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 Child of the Country ! free as air 
 
 Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 
 
 Bom like the lily, where the dew 
 
 Lies odorous when the day is new ; 
 
 Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee, 
 
 Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 
 
 LuU'd in the breast to that sweet tune 
 
 Which winds make 'mong the woods of June : 
 
 I sing of thee : — 'tis sweet to sing 
 
 Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 
 
 Child of the Town ! for thee I sigh ; 
 
 A gilded roof 's thy golden sky, 
 
 A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
 
 A narrow street thy boundless wood, 
 
 Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp 
 
 Of watchmen, thy best light 's a lamp, — 
 
 Through smoke, and not through treUised 
 
 vines 
 And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : 
 I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
 Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair ? 
 
 Child of the Country ! thy small feet 
 Tread on strawberries red and sweet : 
 With thee I wander forth to see 
 The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
 The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
 In April while she nursed her young ; 
 The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
 She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
 The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue-bells, 
 Where brown bees build their balmy cells, 
 The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
 Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
 The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
 A portion of the sheltering tree. 
 And other marvels which my verse 
 Can flnd no language to rehearse. 
 
 Child of the Town ! for thee, alas ! 
 Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; 
 Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
 Glad streams come singing as they run : 
 
A. Cunningham.] 
 
 THOU HAST VOW'D. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree ; 
 A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
 Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
 The poulterer dwells, beside the hare -. 
 Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound 
 Hawk'd, clamorous, o'er the city round : 
 No roses, twin-born on the stalk, 
 Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
 No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
 The mingled din of cars and drums, 
 And startling cries, such as are rife 
 When wine and wassail waken strife. 
 
 Child of the Country ! on the lawn 
 I see thee like the bounding fawn, 
 Bhthe as the bird which tries its wing 
 The first time on the wings of Spring ; 
 Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
 He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
 Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
 Now groping trouts in lucid streams, 
 Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
 Now hunting Echo's empty sound, 
 Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
 For climbing' s sake — 'Tis sweet to thee 
 To sit where birds can sit alone, 
 Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 
 
 Child of the Town and bustling street. 
 What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
 Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
 Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
 Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
 Wliich shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 
 And thou art cabin' d and confined, 
 At once from sun, and dew, and wind, 
 Or set thy tottering feet but on 
 Thy lengthen' d walks of slippery stone. 
 The coachman there careering reels. 
 With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 
 And Commerce pours each prosing son 
 In pelf's pursuit, and halloos " Run ! " 
 While flush' d with wine, and stung at play, 
 Men rush from darkness into day. 
 The stream 's too strong for thy small bark ; 
 There nought can sail, save what is stark. 
 Fly from the town, sweet child ! for health 
 Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
 There is a les.son in each flower ; 
 A story in each stream and bower ; 
 On every herb o'er which you tread 
 Are written words which, rightly read, 
 WiU lead you, from earth's fragrant sod, 
 To hope and holiness, and God. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 I And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 
 [ And by that kind heart o' thine, 
 
 / By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven, 
 I That thou shalt aye be mine ! 
 
 Then foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands, 
 
 And the heart wad part sic love ; 
 But there's nae hand can loose the band, 
 
 But the finger of Him above. 
 Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield. 
 
 An' my clothing e'er so mean, 
 I should lap up rich in the faulds of love, 
 
 Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow to me, 
 
 Far softer than the down ; 
 And Love wad winnow o'er us, his kind, kind 
 wings. 
 
 And sweetly we'd sleep, an' soun'. 
 Come here to me, thou lass whom I love. 
 
 Come here and kneel wi' me ; 
 The mom is full of the presence of God, 
 
 And I canna pray but thee. 
 
 The morn- wind is sweet amang the new flowers : 
 
 The wee birds sing saft on the tree, 
 Our gudeman sits in the bonnie sunshine 
 
 And a blithe auld bodie is he. 
 The Beuk maun beta' en whan he comes hame, 
 
 Wi' the holy psalmodie ; 
 And I will speak of thee whan I pray. 
 
 And thou maun speak of me. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 1625.— THOU HAST VOW'D BY THY 
 FAITH, MY JEANIE. 
 
 Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie, 
 By that pretty white hand o' thine. 
 
 And by all the lowing stars in heaven, 
 That thou wad aye be mine ! 
 
 1626.— GENTLE HUGH HERRIES. 
 
 Go seek in the wild glen 
 
 Where streamlets are falling ! 
 Go seek on the lone hill 
 
 Where curlews are calling ! 
 Go seek when the clear stars 
 
 Shine down without number. 
 For there shall ye find him. 
 
 My true love, in slumber. 
 
 They sought in the wild glen — 
 
 The glen was forsaken ; 
 They sought on the mountain, 
 
 'Mang lang lady-bracken ; 
 And sore, sore they hunted. 
 
 My true love to find him. 
 With the strong bands of iron 
 
 To fetter and bind him. 
 
 Yon green hill I'U give thee, 
 
 Where the falcon is flying. 
 To show me the den where 
 
 This bold traitor 's lying ; 
 O make me of Nithsdale's 
 
 Fair princedom the heiress- 
 Is that worth one smile of 
 
 My gentle Hugh Herries ? 
 
 The white bread, the sweet milk, 
 And ripe fruits I found him, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FEOM ANSTEE FAIE. 
 
 [WlLLIAai Tennant. 
 
 And safe in my fond arms 
 I clasp' d and I wound him ; 
 
 I •warn you g-o not where 
 My true lover tarries, 
 
 For sharp smites the sword of 
 My gentle Hugh Horries. 
 
 They rein'd their proud war-steeds — 
 
 Away they Avent sweeping ; 
 And behind them dames wail'd, and 
 
 Fair maidens went weeping ; 
 But deep in yon wild glen, 
 
 'Mang banks of blae-berries, 
 I dwell with my loved one, 
 
 My gentle Hugh Herries. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 1627.— THE SUN EISES BEIGHT IN 
 FEANCE. 
 
 The sun rises bright in France, 
 
 And fair sets he ; 
 But he has tint the blithe blink ho had 
 
 In my ain countrie. 
 O gladness comes to many, 
 
 But sorrow comes to me, 
 As I look o'er the wide ocean 
 
 To my ain countrie. 
 
 O it's nae my ain ruin 
 
 That saddens aye my e'e. 
 But the love I left in Galloway, 
 
 Wi' bonnie bairnies three. 
 My hajnely hearth burnt bonnie, 
 
 An' smiled my fair Marie : 
 I've left my heart behind mo 
 
 In my ain countrie. 
 
 The bud comes back to summer. 
 
 And the blossom to the bee ; 
 But I'll win back — never, 
 
 To my ain countrie. 
 I'm leal to the high Heaven, 
 
 Wliich will be leal to me, 
 An' there I'll meet ye a' sune 
 
 Frae my ain countrie. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. — Born 1784, Died 1842. 
 
 The saffron-elbow'd Morning up the slope 
 Of heaven canaries in her jewell'd shoes, 
 
 And throws o'er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top 
 Her golden apron dripping kindly dews ; 
 
 And never, since she first began to hop 
 
 Up heaven's blue causev/ay, of her beams 
 profuse, . __ 
 
 Shone there a dawn so glorious and su gay, 
 
 As shines the merry dawn of Anster market- 
 day. 
 
 1628.— FEOM ANSTEE FAIE. 
 
 I wish I had a cottage snug and neat 
 
 Upon the top of many-fountain' d Ide, 
 That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet 
 The bright-gown' d Morning tripping up her 
 side : 
 And when the low Sun's glory -buskin' d feet 
 
 Walk on the blue wave of the iEgean tide. 
 Oh ! I would kneel me down, and worship 
 
 there 
 The God who garnish' d out a world so bright 
 and fair ! 
 
 Eound through the vast circumference of sky 
 One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, 
 
 Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye, 
 That strike the hem of heaven with woolly 
 gold, 
 
 "Whereon are happy angels wont to lie 
 Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enroU'd, 
 
 That they may spy the precious light of God, 
 
 Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair 
 Earth abroad. 
 
 The fair Earth laughs through all her bound- 
 less range. 
 Heaving her green hills high to greet the 
 beam ; 
 City and village, steeple, cot, and grange, 
 
 Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf -gold seem ; 
 The heaths and upland muirs, and fallows, 
 change 
 Their barren brovv-n into a ruddy gleam, 
 And, on ten thousand dew-bent leaves and 
 
 sprays. 
 Twinkle ten thousand suns, and fling their 
 petty rays. 
 
 Up from their nests and fields of tender com 
 
 Full merrily the little skylarks spring. 
 And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne, 
 Mount to the heaven's blue key-stone 
 flickering ; 
 They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the 
 mom, 
 And hail the genial light, and cheer'ly sing ; 
 Echo the gladsome hills and valleys round, 
 As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell 
 the sound. 
 
 For when the first upsloping ray was flung 
 On Anster- steeple's swallow-harbouring top, 
 
 Its bell and all the bells around were rung 
 Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop ; 
 
 For, toilingly, each bitter beadle swung. 
 
 Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy 
 rope, 
 
 And almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in 
 
 The mom of Anster Fair with tinkle- tankling 
 din. 
 
 And, from our steeple's pinnacle outspread. 
 The town's long colours flare and flap on 
 high, 
 Whose anchor, blazon' d fair in green and rod. 
 Curls, pliant to each breeze that whistles 
 by; 
 Whilst on the boltsprit, stern, and topmast 
 head 
 Of brig and sloop that in the harbour lie, 
 
William Tennant.] THE HEROINE OF ANSTER FAIR. [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Streams the red gaudery of flags in air, 
 All to salute and grace the morn of Anster 
 Fair. 
 
 William Tennant— Born 1785, Died 1848. 
 
 1629.— THE HEROINE OF ANSTER FAIR. 
 
 Her form was as the Morning's blithesome 
 star, 
 That, capp'd with lustrous coronet of j 
 beams. 
 Rides up the dawning orient in her car. 
 
 New- wash' d, and doubly fulgent from the 
 streams — 
 The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar, 
 
 And on his knees adores her as she gleams ; 
 So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder, 
 And so the admiring crowds pay homage and 
 applaud her. 
 
 Each little step her trampling i)alfrey took, 
 Shaked her majestic person into grace. 
 
 And as at times his glossy sides she strook 
 Endearingly with whip's green silken lace 
 
 (The prancer seem'd to court such kind rebuke, 
 Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace), 
 
 By Jove, the very waving of her arm 
 
 Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and 
 charm ! j 
 
 Her face was as the summer cloud, whereon \ 
 
 The dawning sun delights to rest his rays ! 
 Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'er- 
 grown 
 "With flaunting roses, had resign' d its 
 praise ; 
 For why ? Her face with heaven's own roses 
 shone, 
 Mocking the morn, and witching men to 
 • gaze ; 
 And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, 
 That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked ! 
 beneath the Pole. i 
 
 j 
 
 Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, j 
 
 Lay on her lily temples, fairly Jangling, \ 
 
 And on each hair, so harmless to l)ehol<l, ! 
 
 A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; 
 The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold 
 
 The tresses in their arms so slim and 
 tangling. 
 And thrid in sport these lovor-noosing snares, 
 And play'd at hide-and-seek amid the golden 
 hairs. 
 
 Her eye was as an honour' d palace, where 
 A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance ; 
 
 "What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'cr. 
 Got dignity and honour from the glance ; 
 
 Woo to the man on wliom she unaware 
 Did the dear witchery of her eye elance ! 
 
 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard — 
 
 May Heaven from such a look preserve each 
 tender bard ! 
 
 So on she rode in virgin majesty, 
 
 Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, 
 And with the light and grandeur of her eye 
 Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse ; 
 While round her presence clustering far and 
 nigh, 
 On horseback some, with silver spurs and 
 whips. 
 And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles. 
 Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with 
 horny knuckles. 
 
 William Tennant. — Born 1785, Died 1848. 
 
 I G30. — DESCRIPTION OF THE COMERS 
 TO THE FAIR. 
 
 Comes next from Ross-shire and from Suther- 
 land 
 The homy-knuckled kilted Highlandman : 
 From where upon the rocky Caithness strand 
 Breaks the long wave that at the Polo 
 began. 
 And where Lochfine from her prolific sand 
 Her herrings gives to feed each bordering 
 clan, 
 Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye, 
 Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy 
 thigh. 
 
 They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks. 
 Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth ; 
 
 Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe. 
 Are left to rust above the smoky hearth ; 
 
 Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks ; 
 Their teeth are set most desperately for 
 mirth; 
 
 And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung 
 
 Great wallets, cramm'd with cheese and 
 bannocks and cold tongue. 
 
 Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie 
 
 To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed ; 
 From Jura, Arran, Barra, XJist, and Skye, 
 Piping they come, unshaved, unbreech'd, 
 unhosed ; 
 And from that Isle, whose abbey, structured 
 high. 
 Within its precincts holds dead kings en- 
 closed. 
 Where St. Columba oft is seen to waddle 
 Gown'd round with flaming fire upon the spire 
 astraddle. 
 
 Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr 
 (Sweet Ayr ! with crops of ruddy damsels 
 blest, 
 That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair, 
 
 Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west !) ; 
 And from Dumfries, and from Kilmarnock 
 (where 
 Are nightcaps made, the cheapest and the 
 best). 
 Blithely they ride on ass and mule, with sacks 
 In lieu of saddles placed upon their asses* 
 backs. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 JEANIE MOREISON. 
 
 [Motherwell 
 
 Close at their heels, bestriding well-trapp'd 
 nag, 
 Or humbly riding asses' backbone bare, 
 Come Glasgow's merchants, each with money- 
 bag, 
 To purchase Dutch lintseed at Anster Fair — I 
 Sagacious fellows all, who well may brag ' 
 
 Of virtuous industry and talents rare ; 
 
 The accomplish' d men o' the counting-room ' 
 
 confest, j 
 
 And fit to crack a joke or argue with the | 
 
 best. i 
 
 Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that 
 
 stay 
 Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little 
 
 Liddel, 
 Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play, 
 
 And wake the unsobcr spirit of the fiddle ; 
 Avow'd freebooters, that have many a day i 
 
 Stolen sheep and cow, yet never own'd they i 
 
 did ill ; 
 Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a ' 
 
 rogue I 
 
 That blots the eighth command from Moses' , 
 
 decalogue. | 
 
 And some of them in sloop of tarry side. 
 
 Come from North-Berwick harljour sailing : 
 
 out ; ! 
 
 Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide, \ 
 
 Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, j 
 
 And eastward now from long Kirkaldy ride, ! 
 
 Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout, j 
 
 While dangling at their backs are bagpipes i 
 
 hung. 
 
 And dangling hangs a tale on every rhymer's ; 
 tongue. 
 
 William Tcnnant.—Born 1785, Died 1848. 
 
 1 63 1. —JEANIE MOEEISON. 
 
 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west. 
 
 Through many a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve of life's young day ! 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 dear, dear Jcanie Morrison, 
 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 Still fling their shadows owre my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears ! 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine, 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'Twas then we tvrn did part ; 
 Sweet time ! — sad time I — twa bairns at 
 schule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To lear ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, 
 
 Remember' d ever mair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 
 
 What our wee heads could think. 
 When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, 
 
 Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, 
 
 We cleek'd thegither hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The schule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran aff to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ? 
 
 My head rins round and round about. 
 
 My heart flows like a sea. 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
 
 0' schule-time and o' thee. 
 Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve ! 
 
 Oh, lichtsome days and lang, 
 ^Vhen hinnied hopes around our hearts, 
 
 Like simmer blossoms, sprang ! 
 
 Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun. 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its water croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wud 
 
 The throssil Avhusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wud. 
 
 The burn sung to the trees. 
 And we with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn, 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' vera gladness grat ! 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek. 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time^ a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 
 When freely gush'd all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung } 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye hae been to me ? 
 Oh ! tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ; 
 Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 
 
MOTHEKWELL.] 
 
 SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN EAUDI. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae tbis heart. 
 
 Still travels on its way ; 
 And channels deeper as it rins. 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sinder'd young, 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 ,Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 
 
 O' bygane days and me ! 
 
 Motlienvcll—Born 1797, Died 1835. 
 
 1632.— SWOEB CHANT OF THORSTEIN 
 EAUDI. 
 
 'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain 
 
 and mere ; 
 'Tis not the fleet hound's course, tracking the 
 
 deer ; 
 'Tis not the light hoof -print of black steed or 
 
 gray. 
 Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's 
 
 day, 
 Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as 
 
 mine: 
 
 Ha ! ha I 'tis the good brand 
 I clutch in my strong hand. 
 That can their broad marches and numbers 
 
 define. 
 
 Land Givek I I kiss thee. 
 
 Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth, 
 Gaping, ask me what lordships I own'd at my 
 
 birth; 
 But the pale fools wax mute when I point 
 
 with my sword 
 East, west, north, and south, shouting, " There 
 
 am I lord! " 
 Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, 
 and stream. 
 
 Trembling bow to my sway, 
 In the fierce battle fray, 
 When the star that rules fate is this falchion's 
 red gleam. 
 
 Might Giver ! I kiss thee. 
 
 I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower 
 
 and hall ; 
 I've drunk the sweet music that bright lips 
 
 let f aU ; 
 I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small 
 
 birds sing ; 
 But away with this idle and cold jargoning ! 
 The music I love is the shout of the brave, 
 
 The yell of the dying, | 
 
 The scream of the flying, I 
 
 When this arm wields death's sickle, and 
 gamers the grave. 
 
 Joy Giver ! I kiss thee. 
 
 Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath 
 
 known, 
 And wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have 
 
 shone. 
 Great sword of my father, stem joy of his 
 
 hand! 
 Thou hast carved his name deep on the 
 
 stranger's red strand, 
 And won him the glory of undying son. 
 Keen cleaver of gay crests. 
 Sharp piercer of broad breasts. 
 Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the 
 strong ! 
 Fame Giver ! I kiss thee. 
 
 In a love more abiding than that the heart 
 knows 
 
 For maiden more lovely than summer's first 
 rose. 
 
 My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for 
 thee ; 
 
 In dreamings of gladness thou'rt dancing with 
 me, 
 
 Brave measures of madness, in some battle- 
 field, 
 
 Wliere armour is ringing. 
 And noble blood springing. 
 
 And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and 
 shield. 
 
 Death Giver ! I kiss thee. 
 
 The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart ; 
 And light is the faith of fair woman's heart ; 
 Chsmgeful as hght clouds, and wayward as 
 
 wind. 
 Be the passions that govern weak woman's 
 
 mind. 
 But thy metal 's as true as its polish is bright : 
 When ills wax in number. 
 Thy love will not slumber ; 
 But, starlike, bums fiercer the darker the 
 night. 
 
 Heart Gladdener ! I kiss thee. 
 
 My kindred have perish' d by war or by wave ; 
 Now, childless and sireless, I long for the 
 
 grave. 
 ^Vhen the path of our glory is shadow' d in 
 
 death. 
 With me thou wilt slumber below the brown 
 
 heath j 
 Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it 
 decay ; 
 
 While harps shall be ringing. 
 And Scalds shall be singing 
 The deeds we have done in our old fearless 
 day. 
 Song Giver ! I kiss thee. 
 
 Motherwell.— Born 1797, Died 1835. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WATER ! THE WATEE ! 
 
 [MOTHEEWELL. 
 
 1633.— THEY COME ! THE MERRY 
 SUMMER MONTHS. 
 
 They come ! the merry summer months of 
 
 beauty, song, and flowers ; 
 They come ! the gladsome months that bring 
 
 thick leafiness to bowers. 
 Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling 
 
 cark and care aside ; 
 Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful 
 
 waters glide ; 
 Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarobal 
 
 tree. 
 Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in 
 
 rapt tranquillity. 
 
 The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful 
 to the hand ; 
 
 And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze 
 is sweet and bland ; 
 
 The daisy and the buttercup are nodding 
 courteously ; 
 
 It stirs their blood with kindest love, to Wess 
 and welcome thee : 
 
 And mark how with thine own thin locks^ — 
 they now are silvery gray — 
 
 That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whis- 
 pering, " Be gay ! " 
 
 There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of 
 
 yon sky. 
 But hath its own wing'd mariners to give it 
 
 melody : 
 Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 
 
 gleaming like red gold ; 
 And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their 
 
 merry course they hold. 
 God bless them all, those little ones, who, far 
 
 above this earth. 
 Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent 
 
 a nobler ijjirth. 
 
 But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound — from 
 
 yonder wood it came ! 
 The spirit of the dim green blade did breathe 
 
 his own glad name ; 
 Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart from 
 
 all his kind, 
 Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft 
 
 western wind ; 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — ^his notes 
 
 are void of art ; 
 But simplest strains do soonest sound the 
 
 deep founts of the heart. 
 
 Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought- 
 crazed wight like me. 
 
 To smell again these summer flowers beneath 
 this summer tree ! 
 
 To suck once more in every breath their little 
 souls away, 
 
 And feed my fancy with fond dreams of 
 youth's bright summer day, 
 
 When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the 
 reckless, truant boy 
 
 Wander' d through greenwoods all day long, a 
 mighty heart of joy I 
 
 I'm sadder now — I have had cause ; but O ! 
 
 I'm proud to think 
 That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet 
 
 deUght to drink ; — 
 Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the 
 
 calm, unclouded sky, 
 Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the 
 
 days gone by. 
 When summer's loveliness and light fall round 
 
 me dark and cold, 
 I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse — a heart 
 
 that hath wax'd old ! 
 
 Mothenvell.—Bom 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1634.— THE WATER! THE WATER! 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The joyous brook for me, 
 That tuneth through the quiet night 
 
 Its ever-living glee. 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 That sleepless, merry heart, 
 Which gurgles on unstintedly, 
 
 And loveth to impart. 
 To all around it, some small measure 
 Of its own most perfect pleasure. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The gentle stream for me. 
 That gushes from the old gray stone 
 
 Beside the alder-tree. 
 The Water ! the Waler ! 
 
 That ever-bubbling spring 
 I loved and look'd on while a child, 
 
 In deepest wondering, — 
 And ask'd it whence it came and went. 
 And when its treasures would be spent. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The merry, wanton brook 
 That bent itself to pleasure me. 
 
 Like mine old shepherd crook. 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 That sang so sweet at noon, 
 And sweeter still all night, to win 
 
 Smiles from the pale, proud moon, 
 And from the little fairy faces 
 That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The dear and blessed thing, 
 That all day fed the little flowers 
 
 On its banks blossoming. 
 The Water 1 the Water ! 
 
 That murmur' d in my ear 
 Hymns of a saint-like purity, 
 
 That angels well might hear. 
 And whisper in the gates of heaven. 
 How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 Where I have shed palt tears, 
 In loneliness and friendliness, 
 
 A thing of tender years. 
 
Motherwell.] 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 Where I have happy been, 
 And shower'd upon its bosom flowers 
 
 Cull'd from each meadow green ; 
 And idly hoped my life would be 
 So crown'd by love's idolatry. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 My heart yet bums to think 
 How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, 
 
 For parched lip to drink. 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 Of mine own native glen — 
 The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, 
 
 But ne'er shall hear again, 
 Though fancy fills my ear for aye 
 With sounds that live so far away ! 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The mild and glassy wave, 
 Upon whose broomy banks I've long'd 
 
 To find my silent grave. 
 The Water! the Water ! 
 
 0, blest to me thou art ! 
 Thus sounding in life's solitude 
 
 The music of my heart, 
 And filling it, despite of sadness, 
 With dreamings of departed gladness. 
 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 The mournful, pensive tone 
 That whisper' d to my heart how soon 
 
 This weary life was done. 
 The Water ! the Water ! 
 
 That roU'd so bright and free. 
 And bade me mark how beautiful 
 
 Was its soul's purity ; 
 And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
 As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 
 
 Motherwell.— Bom 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1635.— THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 
 
 Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
 
 This midnight wind doth sigh, 
 Like some sweet, plaintive melody 
 
 Of ages long gone by ! 
 It speaks a tale of other years, 
 
 Of hopes that bloom'd to die. 
 Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 
 
 And loves that mouldering lie ! 
 
 Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
 
 This midnight wind doth moan ! 
 It stirs some chord of memory 
 
 In each dull, heavy tone ; 
 The voices of the much-loved dead 
 
 Seem floating thereupon — 
 AU, all my fond heai-t cherish'd 
 
 Ere death had made it lone. 
 
 ^Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
 This midnight wind doth swell 
 
 With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy — 
 Hope's passionate farewell 
 
 To the dreamy joys of early years. 
 
 Ere yet grief's canker fell 
 On the heart's bloom — ay ! well may Lear 3 
 
 Start at that parting knell I 
 
 Motherivcll.—Born 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1636.— THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 
 
 A steed ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 
 
 A sword of metal keene ! 
 All else to noble heartes is drosse, 
 
 All else on earth is meane. 
 The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde. 
 
 The rowlinge of the drum. 
 The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 
 
 Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
 And ! the thundering presse of knightes, 
 
 Whenas their war cryes swell, 
 May tole from heaven an angel bright, 
 
 And rouse a fiend from hell. 
 
 Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants all, 
 
 And don your helmes amaine : 
 Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 
 
 Us to the field againe. 
 No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 
 
 When the sword-hilt 's in our hand — 
 Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 
 
 For the fayrest of the land ; 
 Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 
 
 Thus weepe and puling crye ; 
 Our business is like men to fight. 
 
 And hero-like to die ! 
 
 2Iotherwcn.~Born 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1637.--THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY 
 CHEEK, MARY. 
 
 The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 
 As spring's rath blossoms die ; 
 
 And sadness hath o'ershadow'd now 
 Thy once bright eye ; 
 
 But look ! on me the prints of grief 
 Still deeper lie. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary ; 
 
 Thy step is sad and slow ; 
 The mom of gladness hath gone by 
 
 Thou erst did know : 
 I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 
 
 For very woe. 
 Farewell 
 
 It seems as 'twere but j'esterday 
 
 We were the happiest twain, 
 When murmur'd sighs and joyous tears, 
 
 Dropping like rain, 
 Discoursed my love, and told how loved 
 
 I w^as again. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
From 1780 io 1866.] THE COVENANTEES' BATTLE-CHANT. [Motherwell. 
 
 'Twas not in cold and measured plaraso 
 
 0, dinna mind my words, WiUie — 
 
 We gave our passion name ; 
 
 I downa seek to blame ; 
 
 Scorning such tedious eloquence, 
 
 But 0, it's hard to live, Willie, 
 
 Our hearts' fond flame 
 
 And dree a warld's shame ! 
 
 And long-imprison' d feelings fast 
 
 Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. 
 
 In deep sobs came. 
 
 And hailin' ower your chin : 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Why weep ye sae for worthlessncss, 
 
 
 For sorrow, and for sin ? 
 
 Would that our love had been the love 
 
 
 That merest worldlings know, 
 
 I'm weary 0' this warld, WiUie, 
 
 When passion's draught to our doom'd lips 
 
 And sick wi' a' I see, 
 
 Turns utter woe, 
 
 I canna Uve as I ha'e Uved, 
 
 And our poor dream of happiness 
 
 Or be as I should be. 
 
 Vanishes so ! 
 
 But fauld unto your heart, WiUie, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 The heart that stiU is thine— 
 
 
 And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 
 
 But in the wreck of all our hopes 
 
 Ye said was red langsyne. 
 
 There's yet some touch of bliss, 
 Since fate robs not our wretchedness 
 
 A stoun' gaes through my held, WiUie — 
 
 Of this last kiss : 
 
 A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
 
 Despair, and love, and madness meet 
 
 0, hand me up and let me kiss 
 
 In this in this. 
 
 Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Anither, and anither yet ! — 
 
 
 How fast my life-strings break ! — 
 
 Motherv:ell~Bom 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirkyard 
 
 
 Step lichtly for my sake ! 
 
 
 The lav'rock in the lift, WUHe, 
 
 
 That lUts far ower our held. 
 
 1638.— MY HEID IS LIKE TO EEND, 
 
 Will sing the morn as merrilie 
 Abune the^lay-cauld deid ; 
 
 WILLIE. 
 
 And this green turf we're sittin' on. 
 
 My held is like to rend, WiUie — 
 
 Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
 
 My heart is like to break ; 
 I'm wearin' aff my feet, WiUie — 
 
 WiU hap the heart that luvit thee 
 As warld has seldom seen. 
 
 I'm dyin' for your sake ! 
 
 But 0, remember me, Willie, 
 
 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 
 
 On land where'er ye be — 
 
 Your hand on my briest-bane — 
 
 And 0, think on the leal, leal heart, 
 
 0, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 
 
 That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
 
 When I am deid and gane ! 
 
 And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools 
 
 
 That file my yeUow hair — 
 
 It's vain to comfort me, Willie — 
 
 That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 
 
 Sair grief maun ha'e its wiU ; 
 
 Ye never saU kiss mair. 
 
 But let me rest upon your briest 
 To sab and greet my fill. 
 
 Motherwell— Born 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 Let me sit on your knee, Willie — 
 Let me shed by your hair. 
 
 
 
 And look into the face, Willie, 
 
 
 I never sail see mair ! 
 
 1639.— THE COVENANTEES' BATTLE- 
 
 
 CHANT. 
 
 I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 
 
 For the last time in my life — 
 A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 
 
 A mither, yet nae wife. 
 Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 
 
 And press it mair and mair — 
 Or it will burst the silken twine, 
 
 Sae Strang is its despair. 
 
 To battle ! To battle ! 
 
 To slaughter and strife ! 
 For a sad, broken covenant 
 
 We barter poor life. 
 The great God of Judah 
 
 Shall smite with our hand, 
 And break down the idols 
 
 That cumber the land. 
 
 0, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 
 
 Uplift every voice 
 
 When we thegither met — 
 
 In prayer, and in song ; 
 
 0, wae's me for the time, Willie, 
 
 Eemember the battle 
 
 That our first tryst was set I 
 
 Is not to the strong. 
 
 0, wae's me for the loanin' green 
 
 Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 
 
 Where we were wont to gae — 
 
 And onward they come. 
 
 And wae's me for the destinie 
 
 To the vain noise of trumpet, 
 
 That cart me luve thee sae ! 
 
 Of cymbal, and drum. 
 
 !7A 
 
MOTHEEWELL.] W:HEN I BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH. [Seventh Period.- 
 
 They haste to the onslaught, 
 
 With hagbut and spear ; 
 They lust for a banquet 
 
 That 's deathful and dear. 
 Now horseman and footnaan 
 
 Sweep down the hill-side ; 
 They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 
 
 To die in their pride ! 
 
 See, long plume and pennon 
 Stream gay in the air ! 
 
 They are given us for slaughter- 
 Shall God's people spare ? 
 
 Nay, nay ; lop them off — 
 Friend, father, and son 
 
 All earth is athirst till 
 The good work be done. 
 
 Brace tight every buckler, 
 
 And lift high the sword I 
 For biting must blades be 
 
 That fight for the Lord. 
 Remember, remember, 
 
 How saints' blood was shed, 
 As free as the rain, and 
 
 Homes desolate made ! 
 
 Among them ! — among them ! 
 
 Unburied bones cry : 
 Avenge us — or, like us. 
 
 Faith's true martyi^ die I 
 Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 
 
 Slay on, and spare none ; 
 Then shout forth in gladness. 
 
 Heaven's battle is won ! 
 
 Motherwell— Bom 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1640.— WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD 
 RED EARTH AM SLEEPING. 
 
 When I beneath the cold red earth am sleep- 
 ing, 
 
 Life's fever o'er, 
 Win there for me be any bright eye weeping 
 
 That I'm no more ? 
 Will there be any heart stiU memory keeping 
 
 Of heretofore ? 
 
 When the great winds, through leafless forests 
 rushing, 
 
 Like full hearts break — 
 When the swoll'n streams, o'er crag and guUy 
 gushing, 
 
 Sad music make — 
 Will there be one, whose heart Despair is 
 crushing. 
 
 Mourn for my sake ? 
 
 When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 
 
 With purest ray, 
 And the small flowers, their buds and blos- 
 soms twining, 
 
 Burst through that clay — 
 Will there be one stiU on that spot repining 
 
 Lost hopes all day ? 
 
 When the Night shadows, with the ample 
 sweeping 
 
 Of her dark pall, 
 The world and all its manifold creation sleep- 
 ing— 
 
 The great and small — 
 Will there be one, even at that dread hour, 
 weeping 
 
 For me — ^for all ? 
 
 When no star twinkles with its eye of glory 
 
 On that low mound. 
 And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 
 
 Its loneness crown'd, 
 Will there be then one, versed in misery's story. 
 
 Pacing it round ? 
 
 It may be so — but this is selfish sorrow 
 
 To ask such meed — 
 A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow 
 
 From hearts that bleed 
 The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 
 
 Shall never need. 
 
 Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling. 
 
 Thou gentle heart ! 
 And, though thy bosom should with grief be 
 swelling, 
 
 Let no tear start ; 
 It were in vain — for Time hath long been 
 knelling — 
 
 Sad one, depart ! 
 
 Motherwell— Bom 1797, Died 1836. 
 
 1 64 1. —SONG OF THE DANISH SEA- 
 KING. 
 
 Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright 
 
 blades in our hand. 
 Our birthright is the ocean vast — we scorn the 
 
 girdled land ; 
 And the hollow wind is our music brave, and 
 
 none can bolder be 
 Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er 
 
 a proud and swelling sea ! 
 
 Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall 
 
 masts quivering bend 
 Before the gale, which hails us now with the 
 
 hollo of a friend ; 
 And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurl'd 
 
 billow's foam, 
 While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, 
 
 cheer old Ocean as our home ! 
 
 Our eagle- wings of might we stretch before 
 the gaUant wind, 
 
 And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a 
 dim, mean speck behind ; 
 
 We shoot into the untrack'd* deep, as earth- 
 freed spirits soar. 
 
 Like stars of fire through boundless space — 
 through realms without a shore ! 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 WE AEE BEETHEEN A'. 
 
 [Egbert Nicoll* 
 
 Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, 
 
 Ve bound free, 
 The haughty elements alone dispute our 
 
 sovereignty ; 
 No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law 
 
 of man can mete 
 The sky which arches o'er cur head — the waves 
 
 which kiss our feet ! 
 
 The warrior of the land may back the wild 
 
 horse, in his pride ; 
 But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast — the 
 
 untamed ocean tide ; 
 And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells 
 
 the saucy wave, 
 While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep 
 
 the glories of the brave. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the wind is up — it bloweth 
 
 fresh and free. 
 And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud 
 
 its fearless glee ; 
 Big swell the bosom'd sails with joy, and they 
 
 madly kiss the spray, 
 As proudly, through the foaming surge, the 
 
 Sea-King bears away ! 
 
 Motherwell— Born 1797, IHed 1836. 
 
 1642.— THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN 
 
 High thoughts ! 
 They come and go. 
 
 Like the soft breathings of a listening 
 maiden. 
 While round me flow 
 
 The winds, from woods and fields with 
 gladness laden : 
 When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come — 
 "When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum — 
 When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky. 
 Watch over all with soft and loving eye — 
 While the leaves quiver 
 By the lone river. 
 And the quiet heart 
 From depths doth call 
 And garners aU — 
 Earth grows a shadow 
 
 Forgotten whole. 
 And Heaven lives 
 In the blessed soul ! 
 
 High thoughts ! 
 They are with me, 
 
 When, deep within the bosom of the 
 forest, 
 Thy morning melody 
 
 Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, 
 pourest. 
 When the young sunbeams glance among the 
 
 trees — 
 When on the ear comes the soft song of bees — 
 When every branch has its own favourite 
 
 bird 
 And songs of summer, from each thicket 
 heard ! — 
 
 Where the owl flitteth. 
 Where the roe sitteth, 
 And hohness 
 
 Seems sleeping there ; 
 While Nature's prayer 
 Goes up to heaven 
 
 In purity. 
 Till aU is glory ^^ 
 
 And joy to me ! 
 
 High thoughts ! 
 They are my own 
 
 When I am resting on a mountain's 
 bosom. 
 And see below me strown 
 
 The huts and homes where humble virtues 
 blossom ; 
 When I can trace each streamlet through the 
 
 meadow — 
 When I can follow every fitful shadow — 
 When I can watch the winds among the com. 
 And see the waves along the forest borne ; 
 Where blue-bell and heather 
 Are blooming together, 
 And far doth come 
 The Sabbath bell, 
 O'er wood and fell ; 
 I hear the beating 
 
 Of Nature's heart ; 
 Heaven is before me — 
 God ! Thou art ! 
 
 High thoughts ! 
 They visit us 
 
 In moments when the soul is dim and 
 darken' d ; 
 They come to bless. 
 
 After the vanities to which we hearken'd r 
 When weariness hath come upon the spirit — 
 (Those hours of darkness which we all 
 
 inherit) — 
 Bursts there not through a glint of warmt 
 
 sunshine 
 A winged thought, which bids us not repine ? 
 In joy and gladness, 
 In mirth and sadness. 
 Come signs and tokens ; 
 Life's angel brings 
 Upon its wings 
 Those bright communings 
 
 The soul doth keep — 
 Those thoughts of heaven 
 So pure and deep ! 
 
 Bolert Nicoll.—Born 1814, Died 1837. 
 
 1643.— WE AEE BEETHEEN A'. 
 
 A happy bit hame this auld world would be, 
 If men, when they're here, could make shift to- 
 
 agree, 
 An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha% 
 "Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren, 
 
 a'-" 74* 
 
Robert Nicoll.] 
 
 WILD FLOWEES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 I ken na why ane vrV anither should fight, 
 When to 'gree would make a body cosie an' 
 
 right, 
 When man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way 
 
 ava. 
 To say, " Gi'e me your hand — we are brethren 
 
 My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine. 
 And I maun drink water, while you may drink 
 
 wine ; 
 But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to 
 
 shaw : 
 Sae gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' 
 
 deride ; 
 Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on 
 
 your side ; 
 Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a 
 
 straw ; 
 Then gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or 
 
 man; 
 I hand by the right aye, as weel as I can ; 
 We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a' ; 
 Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers canlo'e ; 
 An ' mine has done for me what mithers can 
 
 do; 
 We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be 
 
 twa : 
 Sae gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ; 
 Hame ! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are 
 
 there ! 
 Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we 
 
 draw — 
 Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us 
 
 baith. 
 An' creeping alang at his back will be death ; 
 Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa' : 
 Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. 
 
 Rolert Nicoll.—Born 1814, Died 1837. 
 
 1644.— WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Beautiful children of the woods and fields ! 
 That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid 
 
 the heather. 
 Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, 
 gather ; 
 Or where by hoary rocks you make your 
 bields. 
 And sweetly flourish on through summer 
 weather : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem 
 From the Almighty hand that fashion'd.all, 
 Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; 
 And I can image you, as in a dream. 
 
 Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets 
 small : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth 
 Are fix'd, as in a queenly diadem ; 
 Though lowly ye, and most without a name. 
 Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come 
 forth, 
 As light erewhile into the world came : — 
 I love ye aU ! 
 
 Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow ! 
 The wild red rose — the speedwell's peeping 
 
 eyes — 
 Our own bluebell — the daisy, that doth 
 rise 
 Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; 
 And thousands more, of blessed forms and 
 dyes : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful nurslings of the early dew ! 
 
 Fann'd in your loveliness, by every breeze. 
 And shaded o'er by green and arching 
 trees ; 
 I often wish that I were one of you, 
 DweUing afar upon the grassy leas : — 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful watchers i day and night ye wake ! 
 The evening star grows dim and fades 
 
 away. 
 And morning comes and goes, and then the 
 day 
 Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; 
 But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we 
 stray : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love ! 
 The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to 
 
 see, 
 And in your native woods and wilds to be. 
 All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move ; 
 Ye are so passing fair — so passing free : — 
 I love ye all I 
 
 Beautiful children of the glen and dell — 
 The dingle deep — the moorland stretching 
 
 wide. 
 And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side ! 
 Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome 
 spell ; 
 And, though the worldling, scorning, may 
 deride : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Robert Nicoll.—Bot^ 1814, Died 1837. 
 
From 1780 to 18C6.] 
 
 THE EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 [Egbert Gilfillan. 
 
 1645.— DEATH. 
 
 The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, 
 Through which the modest daisy blushing 
 peeps ; 
 The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, 
 A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps ; 
 But I, who love them all, shall never be 
 Again among the woods, or on the moorland 
 leal 
 
 The sun shines sweetly — sweeter may it 
 
 shine ! — 
 
 Bless'd is the brightness of a summer day ; 
 
 It cheers lone hearts ; and why should I repine, 
 
 Although among green fields I cannot stray ! 
 
 Woods ! I have grown, since last I heard you 
 
 wave, 
 Familiar with death, and neighbour to the 
 grave ! 
 
 These words have shaken mighty human 
 souls — 
 Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound — 
 E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls 
 
 The ivied remnants of old ruins round. 
 Yet wherefore tremble ? Can the soul decay ? 
 Or that which thinks and feels, in aught e'er 
 fade away ? 
 
 Are there not aspirations in each heart 
 
 After a better, brighter world than this ? 
 Longings for beings nobler in each part — 
 Things more exalted — steep'd in deeper 
 bliss? 
 Who gave us these ? What are they ? Soul, 
 
 in thee 
 . The bud is budding now for immortality ! 
 
 Death comes to take me where I long to be ; 
 One pang, and bright blooms the immortal 
 flower ; 
 Death comes to lead me from mortality. 
 
 To lands which know not one unhappy hour; 
 I have a hope, a faith — from sorrow here 
 I'm led by Death away — why should I start 
 and fear ? 
 
 If I have loved the forest and the field. 
 Can I not love them deeper, better there ? 
 
 If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield 
 Something of good and beauty — something 
 fair — 
 
 Freed from the grossness of mortality, 
 
 May I not love them all, and better ail enjoy? 
 
 A change from woe to joy — from earth to 
 
 heaven 
 Death gives me this — it leads me calmly 
 
 where 
 The souls that long ago from mine were riven 
 May meet again ! Death answers many a 
 
 prayer. 
 Bright day, shine on ! be glad : days brighter 
 
 far 
 Are stretch' d before my eyes than those of 
 
 mortals are ! 
 
 Robert NicoU.—Born 1814, Died 1837. 
 
 1646.— IN THE DAYS 0' LANGSYNE. 
 
 In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were 
 
 young, 
 An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung ; 
 When we made our ain bannocks, gjgd brew'd 
 
 our ain yill. 
 An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white 
 
 on the hiU ; 
 ! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart 
 
 aye fill! 
 
 In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free, 
 Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea ! 
 To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we 
 
 were kind. 
 An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did 
 
 find 
 Th^ banner of Scotland float high in the wind ! 
 
 In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang 
 By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes 
 
 amang ; 
 Our lads busk'd braw, and our lasses look'd 
 
 fine, 
 An' the sun on our mountains seem'd ever to 
 
 shine ; 
 ! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne ? 
 
 In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale. 
 Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale ; 
 An' ilka wee bum had a sang o' its ain. 
 As it trotted alang through the valley or plain ; 
 Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets 
 again? 
 
 In the days o' langsyne there were feasting 
 and glee, 
 
 Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee ; 
 
 And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild 
 seem'd to tyne, 
 
 It was your stoup the nicht, and the mom 
 'twas mine : 
 
 O ! the days o' langsyne — O ! the days o' lang- 
 syne. 
 
 Robert Gilfillan.— Born 1814, IXed 1837. 
 
 1647.— THE EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 Oh ! why left I my hame ? 
 
 Why did I cross the deep ? 
 Oh ! why left I the land 
 
 Where my forefathers sleep ? 
 I sigh for Scotia's shore. 
 
 And I gaze across the sea. 
 But I canna get a blink 
 
 O' my ain countrie ! 
 
 The palm-tree waveth high. 
 
 And fair the myrtle springs; 
 And, to the Indian maid, 
 
 The bulbul sweetly sings. 
 But I dinna see the broom 
 
 Wi' its tassels on the lea, 
 Nor hear the lintie's sang 
 
 O' my ain countrie ! 
 
Thomas Cunningham.] 
 
 THE HILLS 0' GALLOWA'. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Oh ! here no Sabbath bell 
 
 Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
 Nor song of reapers heard 
 
 Amang the yellow corn : 
 For the tyrant's voice is here, 
 
 And the wail of slaverie ; 
 JBut the sun of freedom shines 
 
 Li my ain countrie ! 
 
 There's a hope for every woe, 
 
 And a balm for every pain ; 
 But the first joys o' our heart 
 
 Come never back again. 
 There's a track upon the deep 
 
 And a path across the sea ; 
 But the weary ne'er return 
 
 To their ain countrie ! 
 JRoh&rt Qiljillan.—Born 1814, Died 1837. 
 
 1648.— THE HILLS 0' GALLOWA'. 
 
 Amang the birks sae blithe and gay, 
 
 I met my Julia hameward gaun ; 
 'The linties chantit on the spray, 
 
 The lammies loupit on the lawn ; 
 On ilka howm the sward was mawn, 
 
 The braes wi' gowans buskit braw, 
 And gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn 
 
 Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'. 
 
 Wi' music wild the woodlands rang. 
 
 And fragrance wing'd alang the lea, 
 As down we sat the flowers amang, 
 
 Upon the banks o' stately Dee. 
 My Julia's arms encircled me. 
 
 And saftly slade the hours awa', 
 Till dawin coost a glimmerin' ee 
 
 Upon the hills o' Gallowa'. 
 
 It isna owsen, sheep, and kye, 
 
 It isna gowd, it isna gear, 
 TlTiia lifted ee wad hae, quoth I, 
 
 The warld's drumUe gloom to cheer. 
 IBnt gi'e to me my Julia dear, 
 
 Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', 
 And O ! sae blithe through life I'll steer, 
 
 Amang the hills o' Gallowa'. 
 
 "Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill. 
 
 And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, 
 Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill 
 
 That owre the muir meandering rows ; 
 Or, tint amang the scroggy knowes. 
 
 My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw. 
 And sing the streams, the straths, and howes. 
 
 The hiUs and dales o' Gallowa'. 
 
 And when auld Scotland's healthy hills, 
 
 Her rural nymphs and joyous swains, 
 Her flowery wilds and wimpling rilla, 
 
 Awake nae mair my canty strains ; 
 Whare friendship dwells and freedom reigns, 
 
 Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw, 
 O ! dig my grave, and hide my banes 
 
 Amang the hiUs o' Gallowa'. 
 Thoma-i Cunningham. — Bom 18 ? Died 1834. 
 
 1649.— LUCY'S FLITTIN'. ' 
 
 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree 
 was fa' in, 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound up the 
 year. 
 That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' 
 in't, 
 And left her auld maister and neibours sao 
 dear: 
 For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer ; 
 She cam there afore the bloom cam on the 
 pea; 
 An orphan was she, and they had been gude 
 till her, 
 Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to 
 her ee. 
 
 She gaed by the stable where Jamie was 
 stannin' ; 
 Eicht sair was his kind heart her flittin' 
 to see ; 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy! " quo' Jamie, and ran 
 in; 
 The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. 
 As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her 
 flittin', 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's 
 sang; 
 She heard the craw sayin't, high on the trees 
 sittin', 
 And Eobin was chirpin't the brown leaves 
 
 " Oh ! what is't that pits my puir heart in a 
 flutter ? 
 And what gars the tears come sae fast to 
 my ee? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 
 
 Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
 I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; 
 Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can 
 see; 
 I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, 
 Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 
 
 Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the 
 ribbon, 
 The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me ; 
 Yestreen, when ho gae me't, and saw I was 
 sabbin', 
 I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
 Though now he said nae thing but "Fare ye 
 weel, Lucy ! " 
 It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor 
 see : 
 He couldna say mair but just, " Fare ye weel, 
 Lucy!" 
 Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. 
 
 The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's 
 droukit ; 
 The hare likes the brake and the braird on 
 the lea ; 
 But Lucy likea Jamie; — she turn'd and she 
 lookit, 
 She thocht the dear place she wad never 
 mair see. 
 
From 1780 to 1866. 
 
 THE BROWNM OF BLEDNOCH. 
 
 [W. Nicholson. 
 
 Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and I But the canny auld wife cam till her breath, 
 
 cheerless ! | And she deem'd the Bible might ward aff 
 
 And weel may he greet on the bank o' the I scaith, 
 
 burn ! Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith — 
 
 For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peer- 
 less, 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will never 
 return ! 
 
 William Laidlaw. — Bom 1810. 
 
 1650.— THE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCH. 
 
 There cam a strange wight to our town-en', 
 An' the fient a body did him ken ; 
 He tirled na lang, but he glided ben 
 Wi' a dreary, dreary hum. 
 
 His face did glow like the glow o' the west, 
 When the drumly cloud has it half o'ercast ; 
 Or the struggling moon when she's sair dis- 
 trest. 
 
 0, sirs ! 'twas Aiken-drum. 
 
 T trow the bauldest stood aback, 
 
 Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did 
 
 crack, 
 As the shapeless phantom mum' ling spak — 
 Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ? 
 
 O ! had ye seen the bairns' fright, 
 
 As they stared at this wild and unyirthly 
 
 wight ; 
 As they skulkit in 'tween the dark and the 
 
 Hght, 
 
 And graned out, Aiken-drum ! 
 
 The black dog growling cower'd his tail, 
 The lassie swart'd, loot fa' the pail ; 
 Rob's lingle brak as he men't the flail, 
 At the sight o' Aiken-drum. 
 
 his matted head on his breast did rest, 
 A lang blue beard wan'er'd down like a vest ; 
 But the glare o' his ee hath nae bard exprest, 
 Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum. 
 
 Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen 
 But a philabeg o' the rashes green. 
 An' his knotted knees piay'd aye knoit 
 between — 
 
 What a sight was Aiken-drum ! 
 
 On his wauchie arms three claws did meet, 
 As they trail' d on the grun' by his taeless 
 
 feet ; 
 E'en the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat, 
 To look at Aiken-drum. 
 
 But he drew a score, himsel' did sain. 
 The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane ; 
 While the young ane closer clasp' d her wean, 
 And turn'd frae Aiken-drum. 
 
 But it fear'd na Aiken-drum. 
 
 " His presence protect us ! " quoth the auld 
 
 gudeman ; 
 " What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by 
 
 Ian' ? 
 I conjure ye — speak — by the beuk in my 
 
 han' ! " 
 
 What a grane ga'e Aiken-drum ! 
 
 " I lived in a Ian' where we saw nae sk}'', 
 I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by ; 
 But I'se dwall now wi' you if ye like to 
 try — 
 
 Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ? 
 
 I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the momin' sune, 
 I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moou. 
 An' ba the bairns wi' an unkenn'd tune. 
 If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum. 
 
 I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade, 
 I'll kirn the kirn, an' I'll turn the bread ; 
 An' the wildest filly that ever ran rede, 
 I'se tame't," quoth Aiken-drum. 
 
 " To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell, 
 To gather the dew frae the heather bell. 
 An' to look at my face in your clear crystal 
 well. 
 
 Might gi'e pleasure to Aiken-drum. 
 
 I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark ; 
 I use nae beddin', shoon, nor sark ; 
 But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' 
 dark 
 
 Is the wage o' Aiken-drum." 
 
 Quoth the wylie auld wife, " The thing speaks 
 
 weel ; 
 Our workers are scant — we hae routh o' 
 
 meal; 
 Gif he'll do as he says — be he man, be he 
 deil— 
 
 Wow ! we'll try this Aiken-drum." 
 
 But the wenches skirled, " He's no be here I 
 His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear ; 
 An' the feint a ane will the house come near. 
 If they think but o* Aiken-drum," 
 
 j " Puir clipmalabors ! ye hae little wit ; 
 i Is'tna hallo wmas now, an' the crap out yet ?" 
 j Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her 
 fit— 
 
 " Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum." 
 
 Roun' a' that side what wark was dune 
 
 By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' tho 
 
 moon; 
 A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune, 
 Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum. 
 
Joseph Train.] 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree, 
 For mony a day a toil'd wight was he ; 
 While the bairns play'd harmless roun' his 
 knee, 
 
 Sae social was Aiken-drum. 
 
 But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks, 
 Fond o' a' things feat for the five first weeks, 
 Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks 
 By the brose o' Aiken-drum. 
 
 Let the learned decide when they convene. 
 What spell was him an' the breeks between ; 
 For frae that day forth he was nae mair 
 seen, 
 
 An' sair-missed was Aiken-drum. 
 
 He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve, 
 Crying, "Lang, lang now may I greet an' 
 
 grieve ; 
 For, alas ! I hae gotten baith fee an' leave — 
 O ! luckless Aiken-drum ! " 
 
 Awa, ye wrangling sceptic tribe, 
 W^i' your pros an' your cons wad ye decide 
 'Gain the sponsible voice o' a hale country 
 side. 
 
 On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum ? 
 
 Though the " Brownie o' Blednoch " lang be 
 
 gane. 
 The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane ; 
 An' mony a wife an' mony a wean 
 Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum. 
 
 E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer 
 At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear. 
 At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear. 
 An' look'd roun* for Aiken-drum. 
 
 An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright. 
 
 When the moon was set, an' the stars gied 
 
 nae light. 
 At the roaring linn, in the howe o' the night, 
 
 Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum. 
 
 William Nicholson. — Born 1805. 
 
 165 1. —SONG. 
 
 Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang, 
 
 I left my goats to wander wide ; 
 And e'en as fast as I could bang, 
 
 I bicker' d down the mountain side. 
 My hazel rung and haslock plaid 
 
 Awa' I flang wi' cauld disdain, 
 Eesolved I would nae langer bide 
 
 To do the auld thing o'er again. 
 
 Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise 
 
 Aboon the wild woods white wi' snaw, 
 I trow the laddies ye may prize, 
 
 Wha fight your battles far awa'. 
 Wi' them to stan', wi' them to fa'. 
 
 Courageously I cross' d the main ; 
 To see, for Caledonia, 
 
 The auld thing weel done o'er again. 
 
 Eight far a-fiel' I freely fought, 
 
 'Gainst mony an outlandish loon ; 
 An' wi' my good claymore I've brou 
 
 Mony a beardy birkie down : 
 While I had pith to wield it roun', 
 
 In battle 1 ne'er met wi' ane 
 Could danton me, for Britain's crown, 
 
 To do the same thing o'er again. 
 
 Although I'm marching life's last stage, 
 
 Wi' sorrow crowded roun' my brow ; 
 An' though the knapsack o' auld age 
 
 Hangs heavy on my shoulders now 
 Yet recollection, ever new, 
 
 Discharges a' my toil and pain, 
 When fancy figures in my view 
 
 The pleasant auld thing o'er again. 
 
 Joseph Train. — Bom 1810. 
 
 1652.— THE CAMEEONIAN'S DEEAM. 
 
 In a dream of the night I was wafted away 
 To the muirland of mist where the martyrs 
 
 lay; 
 Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are 
 
 seen. 
 Engraved on the stone where the heather 
 
 grows green. 
 
 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and 
 
 blood. 
 When the minister's home was the mountain 
 
 and wood ; 
 When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard 
 
 of Zion, 
 All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was 
 
 lying. 
 
 'Twas morning ; and summer's young sun from 
 
 the east 
 Lay in loving repose on, the green mountain's 
 
 breast ; 
 On Wardlaw and Caimtable the clear shining 
 
 dew 
 Glisten'd there 'mong the heath beUs and 
 
 mountain flowers blue. 
 
 And far up in heaven, near the white sunny 
 
 cloud. 
 The song of the lark was melodious and loud, 
 And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthen' d 
 
 and deep. 
 Were the whistling of plovers and bleating 
 
 of sheep. 
 
 And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music 
 
 and gladness. 
 The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and 
 
 redness ; 
 Its daughters were happy to hail the returning. 
 And drink the delights of July's sweet 
 
 morning. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MOUNTAIN CHILDEE:^. 
 
 [Mary Howitt. 
 
 But, oh ! there were hearts cherish' d far other 
 
 feelings, 
 Illumetl by the light of prophetic revealings, 
 "Who drank from the scenery of beauty but 
 
 sorrow, 
 For they knew that their blood would bedew 
 
 it to-morrow. 
 
 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron 
 
 were lying, 
 Conceal' d 'mong the mist where the heathfowl 
 
 was crying, 
 For the horsemen of Earlshall around them 
 
 were hovering^ 
 And their bridle reins rung through the thin 
 
 misty covering. 
 
 Their faces grew pale, and their swords were 
 unsheathed, 
 
 But the vengeance that darken'd their brow 
 was uubreathed ; 
 
 With eyes turn'd to heaven in calm resig- 
 nation, 
 
 They sung their last song to the God of Sal- 
 vation. 
 
 On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is 
 
 gliding, 
 Through the path of the thunder the horsemen 
 
 are riding ; 
 Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is 
 
 before ye, 
 A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory ! 
 
 James Hislop.—Born 1798, Died 1827. 
 
 I 1653.— MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. 
 
 } Dwellers by lake and hill ! 
 
 I Merry companions of the bird and bee ! 
 
 i Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, 
 
 I With unconstrained step and spirits free ! 
 
 i No crowd impedes your way, 
 
 I No city v/all impedes your further bounds ; 
 i Where the wild flock can wonder, ye may 
 
 I stray, 
 
 j The long day through, 'mid summer sights 
 and sounds. 
 
 The hills with the deep, mournful music were 
 
 ringing. 
 The curlew and plover in concert were singing ; 
 But the melody died 'mid derision and 
 
 laughter. 
 As the host of ungodly rushed on to the 
 
 slaughter. 
 
 Though in mist and in darkness and fire they 
 
 were shrouded, 
 Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and 
 
 unclouded. 
 Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, firm and 
 
 unbending, 
 They stood like the rock which the thunder 
 
 is rending. 
 
 The muskets were flashing, the blue swords 
 
 were gleaming. 
 The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was 
 
 streaming. 
 The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was 
 
 rolling. 
 When in Well wood's dark muirlands the 
 
 mighty were falling. 
 
 When the righteous had fallen, and the combat 
 
 was ended, 
 A chariot of fire through the dark cloud 
 
 descended ; 
 Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, 
 And its burning wheels turn'd on axles of 
 
 brightness. 
 
 A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, 
 All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, 
 And the souls that came forth, out of great 
 
 tribulation, 
 Have mounted the chariots and steeds of 
 
 salvation. 
 
 I The sunshine and the flowers, 
 
 j And the old trees that cast a solemn shade ; 
 
 j The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy 
 
 ■ hours, 
 
 j And the green hills whereon your fathers 
 
 I play'd. 
 
 The gray and ancient peaks 
 Round which the silent clouds hang day and 
 I night ; 
 
 j And the low voice of water as it makes, 
 
 I Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight, 
 
 { These are your joys ! Go forth — 
 
 Give your hearts up unto their mighty power ; 
 For in this spirit God has clothed the 
 earth. 
 And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower. 
 
 The voice of hidden rills 
 Its quiet way into your spirits finds ; 
 
 And awfully the everlasting hUls 
 Address you in their many-toned winds. 
 
 Ye sit upon the earth 
 T"wining its flowers, and shouting full of glee ; 
 
 And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your 
 j mirth, 
 
 ; Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. 
 
 i Hence is it that the lands 
 
 I Of storm and mountain have the noblest 
 
 j sons ; 
 
 Whom the world reverences. The patriot 
 bands 
 Were of the hills like you, ye little ones 'I 
 
 Children of pleasant song 
 Are taught -within the mountain solitudes ; 
 
 For hoary legends to your wilds belong, 
 And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. 
 
Mary Howitt.] 
 
 THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Then go forth — earth and sky- 
 To you are tributary ; joys are spread 
 
 Profusely, like the summer flowers that 
 Ue 
 In the green path, beneath your gamesome 
 tread ! 
 
 Mary Hoiuitt. — Born 1804. 
 
 1654.— THE FAIEIES OF THE CALDON- 
 LOW.— A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. 
 
 *' And where have you been, my Mary, 
 And where have you been from me ? " 
 
 " I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 
 The Midsummer night to see ! " 
 
 " And what did you see, my Mary, 
 
 All up on the Caldon-Low ? " 
 *' I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 
 
 And I saw the merry winds blow." 
 
 " And what did you hear, my Mary, 
 
 All up on the Caldon-Hill ? " 
 " I heard the drops of the water made, 
 
 And the green corn ears to fill." 
 
 *' Oh, tell me all, my Mary — 
 
 All, all that ever you know ; 
 For you must have seen the fairies, 
 
 Last night on the Caldon-Low." 
 
 " Then take me on your knee, mother, 
 
 And listen, mother of mine : 
 A hundred fairies danced last night, 
 
 And the harpers they were nine. 
 
 And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, 
 And their dancing feet so smaU ; 
 
 But, oh, the sound of their talking 
 Was merrier far than all ! " 
 
 " And what were the words, my Mary, 
 
 That you did hear them say ? " 
 "I'll tell you all, my mother — 
 
 But let me have my way ! 
 
 And some they play'd with the water, 
 
 And roU'd it down the hill : 
 ' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 
 
 The poor old miller's mill ; 
 
 For there has been no water 
 
 Ever since the first of May ; 
 And a busy man shall the miller be 
 
 By the dawning of the day ! 
 
 Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, 
 When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
 
 The joUy old miller, how he will laugh, 
 Till the tears fiU both his eyes ! ' 
 
 And some they seized the little winds, 
 
 That sounded over the hill, 
 And each put a horn into his mouth, 
 
 And blew so sharp and shrill : — 
 
 ' And there,' said they, ' the merry winds go, 
 
 Away from every horn ; 
 And those shall clear the mildew dank 
 
 From the blind old widow's corn : 
 
 Oh, the poor, blind old widow — 
 Though she has been blind so long, 
 
 She'U be merry enough when the mildew's gone. 
 And the com stands stiff and strong ! ' 
 
 And some they brought thfe brown lintseed. 
 And flung it down from the Low — 
 
 ' And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise, 
 In the weaver's croft shaU grow ! 
 
 Oh, the poor, lame weaver, 
 ' How will he laugh outright. 
 When he sees his dwindling flax-field 
 All full of flowers by night ! ' 
 
 And then upspoke a brownie. 
 
 With a long beard on his chin — 
 
 ' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 
 ' And I want some more to spin. 
 
 I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 
 
 And I want to spin another — 
 A little sheet for Mary's bed, 
 
 And an apron for her mother ! ' 
 
 And with that I could not help but laugh, 
 And I laugh' d out loud and free ; 
 
 And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
 There was no one left but me. 
 
 And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
 
 The mists were cold and gray. 
 And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
 
 That round about me lay. 
 
 But, as I came down from the hiU-top, 
 
 I heard, afar below. 
 How busy the jolly miller was, 
 
 And how merry the wheel did go ! 
 
 And I peep'd into the widow's field ; 
 
 And, sure enough, was seen 
 The yellow ears of the mildew 'd corn 
 
 All standing stiff and green. 
 
 And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
 
 To see if the flax were high ; 
 But I saw the weaver at his gate 
 
 With the good news in his eye ! 
 
 Now, this is all I heard, mother, 
 
 And all that I did see ; 
 So, prithee, make my bed, mother, 
 
 For I'm tired as I can be ! " 
 
 Mary Hoxoitt.—Bom 180 i 
 
 1655.— THE MONKEY. 
 
 Monkey, little merry fellow. 
 Thou art Nature's Punchinello : 
 Full of fun as Puck could be — 
 Harlequin might learn of theo ! 
 
Froyn 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE BROOM FLOWER. 
 
 [Mary Howitt. 
 
 In the very ark, no doubt, 
 You went frolicking about ; 
 Never keeping in your mind 
 Drowned monkeys left behind ! 
 
 Have you no traditions — none, 
 Of the court of Solomon ? 
 No memorial how ye went 
 With Prince Hiram's armament ? 
 
 Look now at him ! — slyly peep j 
 He pretends he is asleep ! 
 Fast asleep upon his bed. 
 With his arm beneath his head. 
 
 Now that posture is not right, 
 And he is not settled quite ; 
 There ! that's better than before — 
 And the knave pretends to snore ! 
 
 Ha ! he is not half asleep : 
 See, he slyly takes a peep. 
 Monkey, though your eyes were shut, 
 You could see this little nut. 
 
 You shall have it, pigmy brother ! 
 What, another ! and another ! 
 Nay, your cheeks are like a sack — 
 Sit down, and begin to crack. 
 
 There the little ancient man 
 Cracks as fast as crack he can ! 
 Now good-by, you merry fellow, 
 Nature's primest Punchinello. 
 
 Mary Howitt. — Bom 1804. 
 
 1656.— LITTLE STREAMS. 
 
 Little streams are hght and shadow, 
 Flowing tlirough the pasture meadow, 
 Flowing by the green way-side, 
 Through the forest dim and wide, 
 Through the hamlet still and small — 
 By the cottage, by the hall, 
 By the ruin'd abbey still ; 
 Turning here and there a mill, 
 Bearing tribute to the river — 
 Little streams, I love you ever. 
 
 Summer music is there flowing — 
 Flowering plants in them are grooving ; 
 Happy life is in them all. 
 Creatures innocent and small ; 
 Little birds come down to drink, 
 Fearless of their leafy brink ; 
 Noble trees beside them grow. 
 Glooming them with branches low ; 
 And between, the sunshine, glancing, 
 In their" little waves, is dancing. 
 
 Little streams have flowers a many, 
 Beautiful and fair as any ; 
 Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 
 Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ; 
 Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; 
 And the water- violet. 
 
 There the flowering-rush you meet, 
 And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 
 And, in places deep and stilly, 
 Marble-like, the water-lily. 
 
 Little streams, their voices cheery, 
 
 Sound forth welcomes to the weary. 
 
 Flowing on from day to day, 
 
 Without stint and without stay ; 
 
 Here, upon their flowery bank. 
 
 In the old time pilgrims drank — 
 
 Here have seen, as now, pass by, 
 
 King-fisher, and dragon-fly ; 
 
 Those bright things that have their dwelling, 
 
 Where the little streams are welling. 
 
 Down in valleys green and lowly, 
 Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 
 Up in mountain -hollows wild. 
 Fretting like a peevish child ; 
 Through the hamlet, where aU day 
 In their waves the children play ; 
 Running west, or running east, 
 Doing good to man and beast — 
 Always giving, weary never, 
 Little streams, I loye you ever. 
 
 Ma'r-y Howitt — Bom 1804. 
 
 1657.— THE BROOM-FLOWER 
 
 the Broom, the yellow Broom, 
 The ancient poet sung it. 
 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 To lie at rest among it. 
 
 1 know the realms where people say 
 The flowers have not their fellow ; 
 
 I know where they shine out like suns,- 
 The crimson and the yellow. 
 
 I know where ladies live enchained 
 
 In luxury's silken fetters. 
 And flowers as bright as gUttering gems 
 
 Are used for written letters. 
 
 But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 
 
 In modem days or olden ; 
 It groweth on its nodding stem 
 
 Like to a garland golden. 
 
 And all about my mother's door 
 Shine out its glittering bushes. 
 
 And down the glen, where clear as light 
 The mountain-water gushes. 
 
 Take all the rest ; but give me this, 
 And the bird that nestles in it ; 
 
 I love it, for it loves the Broom — 
 The green and yellow linnet. 
 
 Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, 
 And boast of that of Sharon, 
 
 Of lilies like to marble cups. 
 And the golden rod of Aaron 
 
Mary Howitt.] 
 
 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 I care not how these flowers may be 
 
 Beloved of man and woman ; 
 The Broom it is the flower for me, 
 
 That groweth on the common. 
 
 the Broom, the yellow Broom, 
 
 The ancient poet sung it, 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 
 To lie at rest among it. 
 
 Mary Howitt — Bom 1804. 
 
 1658.— SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 Come ye into the summer woods ; 
 
 There entereth no annoy ; 
 All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, 
 
 And the earth is full of joy. 
 
 I cannot tell you half the sights 
 
 Of beauty you may see, 
 The bursts of golden sunshine, 
 
 And many a shady tree. 
 
 There, lightly swung, in bowery glades. 
 
 The honey-suckles twine ; 
 There blooms the rose-red campion, 
 
 And the dark-blue columbine. 
 
 There grows the four-leaved plant, " true- 
 love," 
 
 In some dusk woodland spot ; 
 There grows the enchanter's night-shade. 
 
 And the wood forget-me-not. 
 
 And many a merry bird is there, 
 
 Unscared by lawless men ; 
 The blue-wing'd jay, the woodpecker. 
 
 And the golden-crested wren. 
 
 Come down, and ye shall see them all, 
 
 The timid and the bold ; 
 For their sweet life of pleasantness, 
 
 It is not to be told. 
 
 And far within that summer wood, 
 
 Among the leaves so green. 
 There flows a little gurgling Ijrook, 
 
 The brightest e'er was seen. 
 
 There come the Httlo gentle birds. 
 
 Without a fear of ill ; 
 Down to the murmuring water's edge, 
 
 And freely drink their fill ! 
 
 And dash about and splash about, 
 
 The merry little things ; 
 And look askance with bright black eyes, 
 
 And flirt their dripping wings. 
 
 I've seen the freakish squirrels drop 
 
 Down from their leafy tree, 
 The little squirrels with the old — 
 
 Great joy it was to mo ! 
 
 And down unto the running brook, 
 
 I've seen them nimbly go ; 
 And the bright water seemed to speak 
 
 A welcome kind and low. 
 
 The nodding plants they bowed their heads, 
 
 As if in heartsome cheer ; 
 They spake unto these little things, 
 
 " 'Tis merry living here ! " 
 
 Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy ! 
 
 I saw that all was good. 
 And how we might glean up delight 
 
 All round us, if we would ! 
 
 And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, 
 
 Beneath the old wood shade, 
 And all day long has work to do, 
 
 Nor is of aught afraid. 
 
 The green shoots grow above their heads, 
 
 And roots so fresh and fine 
 Beneath their feet ; nor is there strife 
 
 'Mong them for mine and thine. 
 
 There is enough for every one. 
 
 And they lovingly agree ; 
 We might learn a lesson, all of us, 
 
 Beneath the green-wood tree. 
 
 Mary Howitt. — Born 1804 
 
 1659.— LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Sporting through the forest wide ; 
 Playing by the waterside ; 
 Wandering o'er the heathy fells; 
 Down within the woodland dells ; 
 All among the mountains wild, 
 Dwelleth many a little child ! 
 In the baron's hall of pride ; 
 By the poor man's dull fireside : 
 'Mid the mightj^ 'mid the mean. 
 Little children m.ay be seen, 
 Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
 Bright and countless everywhere 1 
 In the far isles of the main ; 
 In the desert's lone domain ; 
 In the savage mountain-glen, 
 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 
 Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; 
 Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
 On a league of peopled ground. 
 Little children may be found ! 
 Blessings on them ! they in me 
 Move a kindly sympathy, 
 With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
 With their laughter and their tears ; 
 With their wonder so intense, 
 And their small experience ! 
 Little children, not alone 
 On the wide earth are ye known, 
 'Mid its labours and its cares, 
 'Mid its sufferings and its snares ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON. 
 
 [W. E. Attoitn. 
 
 Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
 In the world of love and life, 
 Where no sinful thing hath trod — 
 In the presence of your God, 
 Spotless, blameless, glorified — 
 Little children, ye abide ! 
 
 Manj Hoivitt. — Born 
 
 1804 
 
 1 66o.— CORNFIELDS. 
 
 When on the breath of autumn breeze, 
 From pastures dry and brown, 
 
 Goes floating like an idle thought 
 The fair white thistle-down, 
 
 then what joy to walk at will 
 Upon the golden harvest hill ! 
 
 What joy in dreamy ease to lie 
 
 Amid a field new shorn, 
 And see all round on sun-lit slopes 
 
 The piled-up stacks of com ; 
 And send the fancy wandering o'er 
 All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 
 
 1 feel the day — I see the field, 
 The quivering of the leaves. 
 
 And good old Jacob and his house 
 
 Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
 And at this very hour I seem 
 To be with Joseph in his dream. 
 
 I see the fields of Bethlehem, 
 
 And reapers many a one, 
 Bending unto their sickles' stroke — 
 
 And Boaz looking on ; 
 And Ruth, the Moabite so fair, 
 Among the gleaners stooping there. 
 
 Again I see a little child. 
 
 His mother's sole delight, — 
 God's living gift unto 
 
 The kind good Shunammite ; 
 To mortal pangs I see him yield, 
 And the lad bear him from the field. 
 
 The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 
 
 The fields of Gahlee, 
 That eighteen hundred years ago 
 
 Were full of corn, I see; 
 And the dear Saviour takes his way 
 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 
 
 golden fields of bending com, 
 
 How beautiful they seem ; 
 The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
 
 To me are like a dream. 
 The sunshine and the very air 
 Seem of old time, and take me there. 
 
 Mary Howitt. — Bom 1804. 
 
 i66i.- 
 
 -THE DEPARTURE OF THE 
 SWALLOW. 
 
 And is thff swallow gone ? 
 
 Who beheld it ? 
 
 Which way sailed it ? 
 Farewell bade it none ? 
 
 No mortal saw it go : — 
 
 But who doth hear 
 
 Its summer cheer 
 As it flitteth to and fro ? 
 
 So the freed spirit flies ! 
 
 From its surrounding clay 
 
 It steals away 
 Like the swallow from the skies. 
 
 Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 
 
 'Tis all unknown ; 
 
 We feel alone 
 That a void is left below. 
 
 William Howitt, — Born 1795. 
 
 1662.— MASSACRE OF THE 
 MACPHERSON. 
 
 Fhairshon swore a feud 
 
 Against the clan M'Tavish- 
 Marched into their land 
 
 To mnrder and to rafish ; 
 For he did resolve 
 
 To extirpate the vipers, 
 V/ith four-and-twenty men, 
 
 And five-and-thirty pipers. 
 
 But when he had gone 
 
 Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
 Of his fighting tail 
 
 Just three were remainin'. 
 They were all he had 
 
 To back him in ta battle ; 
 All the rest had gone 
 
 Off to drive ta cattle. 
 
 " Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon- 
 
 " So my clan disgraced is ; 
 Lads, we'll need to fight 
 
 Pefore we touch ta peasties. 
 Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh. 
 
 Coming wi' his faseals — 
 Gillies seventy-three. 
 
 And sixty Dhuine wassails ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Coot tay to you, sir ! 
 
 Are not you ta Fhairshon ? 
 Was you coming here 
 
 To visit any person ? 
 
W. E. Attoun.] the BUEIAL-MAECH OF DUNDEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 You are a plackguard, sir ! 
 
 Good King Eobert's heart — the priceless — 
 
 It is now six hundred 
 
 To our dear Eedeemer's shore ! 
 
 Coot long years, and more, 
 
 Lo ! we bring with us the hero — 
 
 Since my glen was plundered." 
 
 Lo ! we bring the conquering Grasm 
 
 
 Crown' d as best beseems a victor 
 
 V. 
 
 From the altar of his fame ; 
 
 " Fat is tat yon say ? 
 
 Fresh and bleeding from the battle 
 
 Dar you cock your peaver ? 
 
 Whence his spirit took its flight. 
 
 I will teach you, sir, 
 
 Midst the crashing charge of squaduona, 
 
 Fat is good pehaviour ! 
 
 And the thunder of the fight ! 
 
 You shall not exist 
 
 Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 
 
 For another day more ; 
 
 As we march o'er moor and lea ! 
 
 I will shoot you, sir. 
 
 Is there any here will venture 
 
 Or stap you with my claymore ! " 
 
 To bewail our dead Dundee ? 
 
 
 Let the widows of the traitors 
 
 VI. 
 
 Weep until their eyes are dim I 
 
 " I am fery glad . 
 
 Wail ye may full well for Scotland — 
 
 To. learn what you mention, 
 
 Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
 
 Since I can prevent 
 
 See ! above his glorious body 
 
 Any such intention." 
 
 Lies the royal banner's fold — 
 
 So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
 
 See ! his valiant blood is mingled — 
 
 Gave some warlike howls, 
 
 With its crimson and its gold — 
 
 Threw his skhian-dhu, 
 
 See how calm he looks, and stately, 
 
 An' stuck it in his powels. 
 
 Like a warrior on his shield. 
 
 
 Waiting till the flush of morning 
 
 VII. 
 
 Breaks along the battle-field ! 
 
 In this fery way 
 
 See — Oh, never more, my comrades. 
 
 Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 
 
 Shall we see that falcon eye 
 
 Who was always thought 
 
 Eedden with its inward lightning, 
 
 A superior person. 
 
 As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
 
 Fhairshon had a son, 
 
 Never shall we hear the voice that. 
 
 Who married Noah's daughter, 
 
 Clearer than the trumpet's call, 
 
 And nearly spoiled ta Flood 
 
 Bade us strike for King and Country, 
 
 By trinking up ta water — 
 
 Bade us win the field, or fall ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Which he would have done, 
 
 On the heights of Killiecrankie 
 
 Yester-morn our army lay : 
 SloAvly rose the mist in columns 
 
 I at least believe it, 
 
 From the river's broken way ; 
 
 Had ta mixture peen 
 
 Hoarsely roar'd the swollen torrent, 
 
 Only half Glenlivet. 
 
 And the Pass was wrapt in gloom. 
 
 This is all my tale : 
 
 When the clansmen rose together 
 
 Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye ! 
 
 From their lair amidst the broom. 
 
 Here's your fery good healths, 
 
 Then we belted on our tartans, 
 
 And tamn ta whu»Ky tuty ! 
 
 And our bonnets down we drew. 
 
 W. IE. Aytoun.—Born 1813, Died 1865. 
 
 And we felt our broadswords' edges, 
 
 
 And we proved them to be true ; 
 
 
 And we pray'd the prayer of soldiers. 
 And we cried the gathering-cry. 
 
 
 
 And we clasped the hands of kinsmen. 
 
 1663.— THE BUEIAL-MAECH OF 
 
 And we swore to do or die ! 
 
 DUNDEE. 
 
 Then our leader rode before us 
 
 On his war-horse black as night — 
 
 Sound the fife, and cry the slogan — 
 
 Well the Cameronian rebels 
 
 Let the pibroch shake the air 
 
 Knew that charger in the fight !— 
 
 With its wild triumphal music. 
 
 And a cry of exultation 
 
 Worthy of the freight we bear. 
 
 From the bearded warriors rose ; 
 
 Let the ancient hills of Scotland 
 
 For we loved the house of Claver'se, 
 
 Hear once more the battle-song 
 
 And we thought of good Montrose. 
 
 Swell within their glens and valleys 
 
 But he raised his hand for silence — 
 
 As the clansmen march along 1 
 
 " Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
 
 Never from the field pf combat, 
 
 Ere the evening star shall glisten 
 
 Never from the deadly fray. 
 
 On Schehallion's lofty brow. 
 
 Was a nobler trophy carried 
 
 Either we shall rest in triumph, 
 
 Than we bring with us to-day — 
 
 Or another of the Grimes 
 
 Never, since the valia.nt Douglas 
 
 Shall have died in battle-harness 
 
 On his dauntless bosom bore 
 
 For his Country and King James ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] SUMMONS OF THE DESTEOYING ANGEL. 
 
 [H. H. MiLMAN. 
 
 Think upon the Eoyal Martyr — 
 
 Think of what his race endure — 
 Think of him whom butchers murder'd 
 
 On the field of Magus Muir : — 
 By his sacred blood I charge ye, 
 
 By the ruin'd hearth and shrine — 
 By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 
 
 By your injuries and mine — 
 Strike this day as if the anvil 
 
 Lay beneath your blows the while, 
 Be they covenanting traitors, 
 
 Or the brood of false Argyle ! 
 Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 
 
 Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; 
 Let them tell their pale Convention 
 
 How they fared within the North. 
 Let them tell that Highland honour 
 
 Is not to be bought nor sold, 
 That we scorn their prince's anger 
 
 As we loathe his foreign gold. 
 Strike ! and when the fight is over, 
 
 If ye look in vain for me, 
 Where the dead are lying thickest. 
 
 Search for him that was Dundee ! " 
 
 Loudly then the hills re-echoed 
 
 With our answer to his call, 
 But a deeper echo sounded 
 
 In the bosoms of us all. 
 For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 
 
 Not a man who heard him speak 
 Would that day have left the battle. 
 
 Burning eye and flushing cheek 
 Told the clansmen's fierce emotion. 
 
 And they harder drew their breath ; 
 For their souls were strong within them. 
 
 Stronger than the grasp of death. 
 Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 
 
 Sounding in the Pass below, 
 And the distant tramp of horses, 
 
 And the voices of the foe : 
 Down we crouch' d amid the bgcacken, 
 
 Till the Lowland ranks drew near, 
 Panting like the hounds in summer. 
 
 When they scent the stately deer. 
 From the dark defile emerging, 
 
 Next we saw the squadrons come, 
 Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 
 
 Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
 Through the scatter'd wood of birches, 
 
 O'er the broken ground and heath, 
 Wound the long battalion slowly, 
 
 Till they gain'd the plain beneath ; 
 Then we bounded from our covert. — 
 
 Judge how look'd the Saxons then, 
 When they saw the rugged mountain 
 
 Start to life with armed men ! 
 Like a tempest down the ridges 
 
 Swept the hurricane of steel, 
 E-ose the slogan of Macdonald — 
 
 Flash' d the broadsword of Lochiel ! 
 Vainly sped the withering volley 
 
 'Mongst the foremost of our band — 
 On we pour'd until we met them. 
 
 Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
 
 Horse and man went down like drift-wood 
 
 When the floods are black at Yule, 
 And their carcasses are whirling 
 
 In the Garry's deepest pool. 
 Horse and man went down before us — 
 
 Living foe there tarried none 
 On the field of Killiecrankie, 
 
 When that stubborn fight was done ! 
 
 And the evening star was shining 
 
 On Schehallion's distant head, 
 When we wiped our bloody broadswords, 
 
 And return' d to count the dead. 
 There we ^ound him gash'd and gory, 
 
 Stretch' d upon the cumber' d plain. 
 As he told us where to seek him. 
 
 In the thickest of the slain. 
 And a smile was on his visage, 
 
 For within his dying ear 
 Peal'd the joyful note of triumph, 
 
 And the clansmen's clamorous cheer ; 
 So, amidst the battle's thunder, 
 
 Shot, and steel, and scorching flame. 
 In the glory of his manhood 
 
 Pass'd the spirit of the Graeme ! 
 Open wide the vaults of Atholl, 
 
 Where the bones of heroes rest — 
 Open wide the hallow 'd portals 
 
 To receive another guest ! 
 Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 
 
 Last of all that dauntless race, 
 Who would rather die unsulhed 
 
 Than outlive the land's disgrace ! 
 O thou lion-hearted warrior ! 
 
 Eeck not of the after-time : 
 Honour may be deem'd dishonour, 
 
 Loyalty be call'd a crime. 
 Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 
 
 Of the noble and the true. 
 Hands that never fail'd their country, 
 
 Hearts that never baseness knew. 
 Sleep ! — and till the latest trumpet 
 
 Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
 Scotland shall not boast a braver 
 
 Chieftain than our own Dundee ! 
 
 W. E. Aytoun.—Born 1813, Died 1865. 
 
 1664.— SUMMONS OF THE DESTEOYING 
 ANGEL TO THE CITY OF BABYLON. 
 
 The hour is come ! the hour is come ! With 
 
 voice 
 Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee, 
 Cyrus, the Lord's anointed ! And thou river, 
 That flowest exulting in thy proud approach 
 To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls 
 And brazen gates, and gilded palaces, 
 And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks, 
 Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights 
 Fretted and chequer' d like the starry heavens : 
 I do arrest thee in -thy stately course. 
 By Him that pour'd thee from thine ancient 
 
 fountain. 
 
H. H. MiLMAN.] 
 
 THE FAIR EECLUSE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time 
 One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts 
 Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me : thou dost check 
 Abrupt thy waters as the Arab chief 
 His headlong squadrons. Where the un 
 
 observed 
 Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound 
 I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength ; 
 And, through the deep and roaring Nahar 
 
 malcha, 
 Roll on as proudly conscious of fulfilling 
 The omnipotent command ! \Vhile, far away, 
 The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor 
 
 moved, 
 Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on 
 
 high 
 Its foaming surface Kke a whirlpool-gulf. 
 And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide. 
 
 But silent as thy billows used to flow, 
 And terrible, the hosts of Elam move. 
 Winding their darksome way profound, where 
 
 man 
 Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from 
 
 heaven 
 Breathed. Oh ! ye secret and unfathom'd 
 
 depths. 
 How are ye now a smooth and royal way 
 For the army of God's vengeance ? Fellow- 
 slaves 
 And ministers of the Eternal purpose, 
 Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons 
 Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm. 
 Ye come, and spread your banners, and dis- 
 play 
 Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white 
 Beneath the admiring moon. Come on ! the 
 
 gates 
 Are open — not for banqueters in blood 
 Like you ! I see on either side o'erflow 
 The living deluge of arm'd men, and cry. 
 Begin, begin ! with fire and sword begin 
 The work of wrath. Upon my shadowy wings 
 I pause, and float a little while, to see 
 Mine human instruments fulfil my task 
 Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly, 
 And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds, 
 That stars may hear, and all the hosts of 
 
 worlds, 
 That live along the interminable space, 
 Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph ! 
 
 H. H. Milman. — Bom 1791. 
 
 1665.— THE FAIR RECLrSE. 
 
 Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven. 
 
 Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage, 
 
 Moved the meek star of eve ; the wandering 
 
 air 
 Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, 
 
 like man. 
 Slept, weary of the garish, babbling day. 
 
 Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing 
 Droops not in slumber j Lilian, thou alone, 
 
 'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove, 
 Idolatrous of yon majestic moon. 
 That Uke a crystal-throned queen in heaven. 
 Seems with her present deity to hush 
 To beauteous adoration all the earth ? 
 Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops 
 Stand up and worship ! the translucent streams 
 Down the hills glittering, cherish the pure 
 
 light 
 Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung 
 At intervals ; the lake, so silver-white, 
 Glistens ; aU indistinct the snowy swans 
 Bask in the radiance cool. Doth Lilian muse 
 To that apparent queen her vesper hymn ? 
 
 Nursling of solitude, her infant couch 
 Never did mother watch ; within the grave 
 She slept unwaking : scornful turn'd aloof 
 Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys 
 By fathers felt, when playful infant grace, 
 Touch' d with a feminine softness, round the 
 
 heart 
 Winds its light maze of undefined delight, 
 Contemptuous : he with haughty joy behold 
 His boy, fair Malwyn ; him in bossy shield 
 Rock'd proudly, him upbore to mountain steep 
 Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous 
 
 nest 
 To battle with the eagle's clam'rous brood. 
 
 But she, the while, from human tenderness 
 Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up 
 The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, 
 Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone 
 By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild 
 Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew, 
 A lonely child, by not one human heart 
 Beloved, and loving none : nor strange if 
 
 learnt 
 Her native fond affections to embrace 
 Things senseless and inanimate ; she loved 
 All flowrets that with rich embroidery fair 
 Enamel the green earth — the odorous thyme, 
 Wild rose, and roving eglantine ; nor spared 
 To mourn their fading forms with childish 
 
 tears. 
 Gray birch and aspen light she loved, that 
 
 droop 
 Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive 
 
 breeze 
 That wanton'd with her brown and glossy 
 
 locks ; 
 The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank ; ere 
 
 dawn 
 Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve. 
 By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge, 
 Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen. 
 Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce 
 heard. 
 Save of her aged nurse or shepherd maid 
 Soothing the child with simple tale or song. 
 Hence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, 
 Life's sins and sorrows : better known the 
 
 voice 
 Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud 
 Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes 
 Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint 
 By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird- 
 
From 1780 to 186G.1 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 [H. H. MiLMAN. 
 
 Nor tliey of love unconscious, all around 
 Fearless, familiar they tlieir descants sweet 
 Tuned emulous ; her knew all living shapes 
 That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, 
 Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouch' d 
 Courting her fond caress ; nor fled her gaze 
 The brooding dove, but murmur' d sounds of 
 joy. 
 
 IT. H. Milman.—Born 1791. 
 
 1666.— THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Even thus amid thy pride and luxury, 
 O Earth ! shall that last coming burst on 
 thee, 
 That secret coming of the Son of Man, 
 When all the cherub -throning clouds shall 
 
 shine, 
 Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : 
 When that Great Husbandman shall wave 
 
 his fan. 
 Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp 
 
 away ; 
 Still to the noontide of that nightless day 
 Shalt thou thy wanted dissolute course main- 
 tain. 
 Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
 The buyer and the seller still shall meet, 
 And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : 
 Still to the pouring out the cup of woe ; 
 Till earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro. 
 And mountains molten by his burning feet. 
 And heaven his presence own, all red with 
 furnace heat. 
 The hundred-gated cities then, 
 The towers and temples, named of men 
 Eternal, and the thrones "of kings ; 
 The gilded summer palaces, 
 The courtly bowers of love and ease, 
 Where still the bird of pleasure sings : 
 Ask ye the destiny of them ? 
 Go, gaze on falling Jerusalem ! 
 Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 
 'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is 
 
 unfurl' d ; 
 The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll. 
 And one vast common doom ensepulchres the. 
 
 world. 
 Oh ! who shall then survive ? 
 Oh ! v*^ho shall stand and live ? 
 When all that hath been is no more ; 
 When for the round earth hung in air, 
 With all its constellations fair 
 In the sky's azure canopy; 
 When for the breathing earth, and sparkling 
 
 sea, 
 Is but a fiery deluge without shore. 
 Heaving along the abyss profound and dark — 
 A fiery deluge, and Avithout an ark ? 
 Lord of all power, when thou art there alone 
 On thy eternal fiery- wheeled throne, 
 That in its high meridian moon : 
 Needs not the perish' d sun nor moon : 
 
 When thou art there in thy presiding state. 
 Wide-sceptred monarch o'er the realm of 
 
 doom : 
 When from the sea-depths, from earth's 
 
 darkest womb, 
 The dead of all the ages round thee wait, : 
 And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn 
 Like forest-leaves in the autumn of thine ire : 
 Faithful and True ! thou still wilt save thine 
 
 own ! 
 The saints shall dwell within the unharming 
 
 fire. 
 Each white robe spotless, blooming every 
 
 palm. 
 Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side, 
 So shall the church, thy bright and mystic 
 
 bride. 
 Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 
 Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, 
 O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines ; 
 We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam. 
 Almighty to avenge, almightiest to redeem ! 
 
 if. H. Milman.—Born 1791. 
 
 1667.— BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 To the sound of timbrels sweet 
 Moving slow our solemn feet, 
 We have borne thee on the road 
 To the virgin's blest abode ; 
 With thy yellow torches gk-aming. 
 And thy scarlet mantle streaming. 
 And the canopy above 
 Swaying as we slowly move. 
 
 Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
 And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 
 And now we set thee down before 
 The jealously-unclosing door, 
 That the favour'd youth admits 
 Where the veiled virgin sits 
 In the bliss of maiden fear. 
 Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
 And the music's brisker din 
 At the bridegroom's entering in, 
 Entering in, a welcome guest. 
 To the chamber of his rest. 
 
 H. H. Milman.—Born 1791. 
 
 1668.— HYMN 
 
 FOR SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 
 
 When our heads are bow'd with woe, 
 When our bitter tears o'erflow. 
 When we mourn the lost, the dear : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
 Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 
 Thou hast shed the human tear : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 75 
 
H. H. MiLMAN.] 
 
 BEOTHEE, THOU AET GONE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 When the sullen death-bell tolls 
 For our own departed souls — 
 When our final doom is near : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou hast bow'd the dying head, 
 Thou the blood of life hast shed, 
 Thou hast fill'd a mortal bier : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 When the heart is sad within 
 With the thought of all its sin, 
 When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou the shame, the grief hast known ; 
 Though the sins were not Thine own, 
 Thou hast deign' d their load to bear : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 H. H. Milman. — Born 1791. 
 
 May each, like thee, depart in peace, 
 
 To be a glorious, happy guest 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling,- 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 H. H. Milman.— Born 1791. 
 
 1669.— BEOTHEE, THOU AET GONE. 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us. 
 
 And thy saintly soul is flown 
 Where tears are wiped from every eye, 
 
 And sorrow is unknown — 
 From the burden of the flesh. 
 
 And from care and sin released. 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling. 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er. 
 
 And hast borne the heavy load ; 
 But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet 
 
 To reach His blest abode. 
 Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, 
 
 On his Father's faithful breast, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 Sin can never taint thee now. 
 
 Nor can doubt thy faith assail ; 
 Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 
 
 And the Holy Spirit fail. 
 And there thou'rt sure to meet the good. 
 
 Whom on earth thou lovest best, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
 
 Thus the solemn priest hath said — 
 So we lay the turf above thee now, 
 
 And seal thy narrow bed ; 
 But thy spirit, brother, soars away 
 
 Among the faithful blest, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 And when the Lord shall summon us 
 Whom thou now hast left behind, 
 
 May we, untainted by the world. 
 As sure a welcome find : 
 
 1670.— CHOEUS. 
 
 King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
 Thus we move, our sad steps timing 
 To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, 
 Where Thy house its rest accords. 
 Chased and wounded birds are we. 
 Through the dark air fled to Thee — 
 To the shadow of Thy wings, 
 Lord of lords ! and King of kings ! 
 
 Behold, Lord ! the heathen tread 
 The branches of Thy fruitful vine. 
 That its luxurious tendrils spread 
 O'er all the hills of Palestine. 
 And now the wild boar comes to waste 
 Even us — the greenest boughs and last. 
 That, drinking of Thy choicest dew, 
 On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 
 
 No ! by the marvels of Thine hand, 
 Thou wilt save Thy chosen land ! 
 By all Thine ancient mercies shown, 
 By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown, 
 By the Egyptian's car-borne host. 
 Scatter' d on the Eed Sea coast — 
 By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
 Underneath the drowning water. 
 
 Like us, in utter helplessness, 
 In their last and worst distress — 
 On the sand and sea- weed lying — 
 Israel pour'd her doleful sighing ; 
 While before the deep sea flow'd. 
 And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
 To their father's God they pr&y'd, 
 To the Lord of hosts for aid. 
 
 On the margin of the flood 
 
 With lifted rod the prophet stood ; 
 
 And the summon'd east wind blew, 
 
 And aside it sternly threw 
 
 The gather'd waves that took their stand, 
 
 Like crystal rocks, on either hand. 
 
 Or walls of sea-green marble piled 
 
 Eound some irregular city wild. 
 
 Then the light of morning lay 
 On the wonder-paved way, 
 Wliere the treasures of the deep 
 In their caves of coral sleep. 
 The profound abysses, where 
 Was never sound from upper air, 
 Eang with Israel's chanted words : 
 King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
 
 Then v/ith bow and banneii glancing, 
 On exulting Egypt came ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 [P. J. Bailet. 
 
 With her chosen horsemeft prancins', 
 
 And her cars on wheels of flame, 
 In a rich and boastful ring, 
 All around her furious king. 
 
 But the Lord from out His cloud, 
 The Lord look'd down upon the proud ; 
 And the host drave heavily- 
 Down the deep bosom of the sea. 
 
 With a quick and sudden swell 
 
 Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 
 
 Over horse, and over car, 
 
 Over every man of war, 
 
 Over Pharaoh's crown of gold, 
 
 The loud thundering billows roll'd, 
 
 As the level waters spread 
 
 Down they sank — they sank like load 
 
 Down sank without a cry or groan. 
 
 And the morning sun, that shone 
 
 On myriads of bright-arm'd men, 
 
 Its meridian radiance then 
 
 Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore, 
 
 Against a silent, solitary shore. 
 
 H. H. Milman. — Bom 1791. 
 
 1671.— HOW'S MY BOY ? 
 
 " Ho, sailor of the sea ! 
 
 How's my hoy — my boy ? " 
 
 " What's your boy's name, good wife. 
 
 And in what ship sail'd he ? " 
 
 " My boy John — 
 
 He that went to sea — 
 
 What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
 
 My boy's my boy to me. 
 
 *• You come back from sea, 
 
 And not know my John ? 
 
 I might as well have ask'd some landsman, 
 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 
 There's not an ass in all the parish 
 
 But knows my John. 
 
 " How's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 And unless yoxi let me know 
 
 I'll swear you are no sailor, 
 
 Blue jacket or no — 
 
 Brass buttons or no, sailor. 
 
 Anchor and crown or no — 
 
 Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton ' " — 
 
 " Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 
 
 " And why should I speak low, sailor, 
 
 About my own boy John ? 
 
 If I was loud as I am proud 
 
 I'd sing him over the town ! 
 
 Why should I speak low, sailor ? " — 
 
 " That good ship went down." 
 
 '• How's my boy — my boy ? 
 What care I for the ship, sailor — 
 I was never aboard her. 
 Be she afloat or be she aground 
 
 Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 
 
 Her owners can afford her ! 
 
 I say, how's my John ? " — 
 
 " Every man on board went down. 
 
 Every man aboard her." 
 
 " How's my boy — my boy ? 
 What care I for the men, sailor ? 
 I'm not their mother — 
 How's my boy — my boy ? 
 Tell me of him and no other ! 
 How's my boy — my boy ? " 
 
 Sydney Dohell.—Born 1?24. 
 
 1672.— LOVE. 
 
 Love is the happy privilege of the mind — 
 Love is the reason of all living things. 
 A Trinity there seems of principles, 
 Which represent and rule created life — 
 The love of self, our fellows, and our God. 
 In all throughout one common feeling reigns : 
 Each doth maintain, and is maintain' d by the 
 
 other : 
 All are compatible — all needful ; one 
 To life, — to virtue one, — and one to bliss : 
 Which thus together make the power, the end, 
 And the perfection of created Being, 
 From these three principles doth every deed, 
 Desire, and will, and reasoning, good or bad, 
 
 come ; 
 To these they all determine — sum and 
 
 scheme : 
 The three are one in centre and in round ; 
 Wrapping the world of life as do the skies 
 Our world. Hail ! air of love, by which we 
 
 live ! 
 How sweet, how fragrant ! Spirit, though 
 
 unseen — 
 Void of gross sign — is scarce a simple essence, 
 Immortal, immaterial, though it be. 
 One only simple essence liveth — God, — 
 Creator, uncreate. The brutes beneath. 
 The angels high above us, with ourselves, 
 Are but compounded things of mind and form. 
 In all things animate is therefore cored 
 An elemental sameness of existence ; 
 For God, being Love, in love created all, 
 As he contains the whole and penetrates. 
 Seraphs love God, and angels love the good : 
 We love each other ; and these lower lives, 
 Which walk the earth in thousand diverse 
 
 shapes. 
 According to their reason, love us too : 
 The most intelhgent affect us most. 
 Nay, man's chief wisdom's love — the love of 
 
 God. 
 The new religion — final, perfect, pure — 
 Was that of Christ and love. His great com- 
 mand — 
 His all-sufficing precept — was't not love ? 
 Truly to love ourselves we must love God, — 
 To love God we must all his creatures love, — 
 
B. W. Procter. J 
 
 ADDSESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 To love his creatures, both ourselves and Him. 
 Thus love is all that's vnse, fair, good, and 
 happy ! 
 
 PMlijp James Bailey. — Born 1816. 
 
 1673.— ADDEESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 O thou vast Ocean ! ever-sounding Sea ! 
 
 Thou symbol of a drear immensity ! 
 
 Thou thing that -windest round the solid 
 
 world 
 Like a huge animal, which, downward hurl'd 
 From the black clouds, lies weltering and 
 
 alone. 
 Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. 
 Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep 
 Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. 
 Thou speakest in the east and in the west 
 At once, and on thy heavily-laden breast 
 Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no 
 
 Hfe 
 Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. 
 The earth hath nought x>i this : no chance or 
 
 change 
 Euffles its surface, and no spirits dare 
 Give answer to the tempest-waken'd air ; 
 But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range 
 At will, and wound its bosom as they go : 
 Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow : 
 But in their stated rounds the seasons come, 
 And pass like visions to their wonted home ; 
 And come again, and vanish ; the young 
 
 Spring 
 Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming ; 
 And Winter always winds his sullen horn. 
 When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn. 
 Dies in his stormy manhood ; and the skies 
 Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer 
 
 flies. 
 Oh ! wonderful thou art, great element : 
 And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent. 
 And lovely in repose ; thy summer form . 
 Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves 
 Make music in earth's dark and winding 
 
 I love to wander on thy pebbled beach. 
 Marking the sunlight at the evening hour. 
 And hearken to the thoughts thy waters 
 
 teach — 
 Eternity — Eternity — and Power. 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1674.— MAECELIA. 
 
 It was a dreary place. The shallow brook 
 That ran throughout the wood, there took a 
 
 turn 
 And widen' d : all its music died away. 
 And in the place a silent eddy told 
 That there the stream grew deeper. There 
 
 dark trees 
 
 Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, 
 And spicy cedar) cluster' d, and at night 
 Shook from their melancholy branches sounds 
 And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for 
 
 through the day 
 They stood quite motionless, and look'd, me- 
 
 thought. 
 Like monumental things, which the sad earth 
 From its green bosom had cast out in pity, 
 To mark a young girl's grave. The very 
 
 leaves 
 Disown'd their natural green, and took black 
 And mournful hue; and the rough brier, 
 
 stretching 
 His straggling arms across the rivulet, 
 Lay like an arm'd sentinel there, catching 
 With his tenacious leaf straws, wither' d 
 
 boughs, 
 Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses 
 
 which 
 Swam with the current, and with these it hid 
 The poor Marcelia's deathbed. Never may 
 
 net 
 Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope. 
 For not a fish abides there. The slim deer 
 Snorts as he rufiles with his shortened breath 
 The brook, and panting flies the unholy place, 
 And the white heifer lows, and passes on ; 
 The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds 
 Go higher up the stream. And yet I love 
 To loiter there : and when the rising moon 
 Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks 
 Eed and dilated through the evening mists. 
 And chequer' d as the heavy branches sway 
 To and fro with the wind, I stay to listen. 
 And fancy to myself that a sad voice. 
 Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, 
 
 as 'twere 
 For some misdeed. The story goes — that 
 
 some 
 Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world 
 Frown' d upon) once stray' d thither, and 
 
 'twas thought 
 Cast herself in the stream : you may have 
 
 heard 
 Of one Maroelia, poor Nolina's daughter, who 
 I'ell ill and came to want ? No ! Oh, she 
 
 loved 
 A wealthy man, who mark'd her not. He 
 
 wed. 
 And then the girl grew sick, and pined away, 
 And drown' d herself for love. 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1675.— NIGHT. 
 
 Now to thy silent presence. Night ! 
 
 Is this my first song offer'd : oh ! to thee 
 That lookest with thy thousand eyes of light — 
 
 To thee, and thy starry nobility 
 That float with a delicious murmuring 
 
 (Though unheard here, about thy forehead 
 blue; 
 
 And as they ride along in order due. 
 
Frojn 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 AN INVOCATION TO BIEDS. 
 
 [B. W. Proctek. 
 
 Circling the round globe in their wandering-, 
 
 To thee their ancient queen and mother sing. 
 
 Mother of beauty I veil'd queen ! 
 
 Fear'd and sought, and never seen 
 
 Without a heart-imposing feeling. 
 
 Whither art thou gently stealing ? 
 
 In thy smiling presence, I 
 
 Kneel in star-struck idolatry. 
 
 And turn me to thine eye (the moon). 
 
 Fretting that it must change so soon : 
 
 Toying -svith this idle rhyme, 
 
 I scorn that bearded villain Time, 
 
 Thy old remorseless enemy. 
 
 And build my link'd verse to thee. 
 
 Not dull and cold and dark art thou : 
 
 Who that beholds thy clearer brow, 
 
 Endiadcm'd with gentlest streaks 
 
 Of fleecy-silver'd cloud, adorning 
 Thee, fair as when the young sun 'wakes, 
 And from his cloudy bondage breaks, 
 
 And lights upon the breast of morning, 
 But must feel thy powers ; 
 Mightier than the storm that lours, 
 Fairer than the virgin hours 
 
 That smile when the young Aurora scatters 
 Her rose-leaves on the valleys low. 
 And bids her servant breezes blow. 
 Not Apollo, when he dies. 
 In the wild October skies, 
 
 Red and stormy ; or when he 
 In his meridian beauty rides 
 
 Over the bosom of the waters. 
 And turns the blue and burning tides 
 
 To silver, is a peer for thee, 
 full regality. 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 1676.— THE SLEEPING FIGURE OF 
 MODENA. 
 
 Upon a couch of silk and gold 
 A pale enchanted lady lies. 
 And o'er her many a frowning fold 
 Of crimson shades her closed eyes ; 
 And shadowy creatures round her rise ; 
 And ghosts of women masqued in woe ; 
 And many a phantom pleasure flies : 
 And lovers slain — ah, long ago ! 
 
 The lady, pale as now she sleeps. 
 An age upon that couch hath lain. 
 Yet in one spot a spirit keeps 
 His mansion, like a red-rose stain ; 
 And, when lovers' ghosts complain. 
 Blushes like a new-born flower. 
 Or as some bright dream of pain 
 Dawneth through the darkest hour. 
 
 Once — ^but many a thought hath fled, 
 Since the time whereof I speak — 
 Once the sleeping lady bred 
 Beauty in her burning cheek, 
 
 And the lovely morn did break 
 Through the azure of her eyes, 
 And her heart was warm and meek. 
 And her hope was in the skies. 
 
 But the lady loved at last, 
 And the passion pain'd her soul, 
 And her hope away was cast. 
 Far beyond her own control ; 
 And the clouded thoughts that roll 
 Through the midnight of the mind. 
 O'er her eyes of azure stole, 
 Till they grew deject and blind. 
 
 He to whom her heart was given, 
 When May music was in tune, 
 Dared forsake that amorous heaven, 
 Changed and careless soon ! 
 Oh, what is all beneath the moon 
 When his heart will answer not ! 
 What are all the dreams of noon 
 With our love forgot ! 
 
 Heedless of the world she went, 
 Sorrow's daughter, meek and lone. 
 Till some spirit downwards bent 
 And struck her to this sleep of stone. 
 Look ! Did old Pygmalion 
 Sculpture thus, or more prevail. 
 When he drew the living tone 
 From the marble pale ? 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1677.— AN INVOCATION TO BIEDS. 
 
 Come, all ye feathery people of mid air, 
 Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain 
 
 summits 
 Lie down with the wild winds ; and ye who 
 
 build 
 Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos 
 
 cool; 
 And ye who on the flat sands hoard your 
 
 eggs 
 For suns to ripen, come ! O phenix rare ! 
 If death hath spared, or philosophic search 
 Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest. 
 Perfect Arabian — ^lonely nightingale ! 
 Dusk creature, who art silent all day long, 
 But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, 
 
 loosest 
 Thy twiUght music on the dreaming boughs 
 Until they waken ; — and thou, cuckoo bird, 
 Vvlao art the ghost of sound, having no shape 
 Material, but dost wander far and near, 
 Like untouch' d echo whom the woods deny 
 Sight of her love — come all to my slow 
 
 charm ! 
 Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of 
 
 morn. 
 Who springest like a thought unto the sun. 
 And from his golden floods dost gather wealth 
 
B. W. Procter.] 
 
 TO THE SNOWDEOP. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 (Epi ■halamium and Pindarique song), 
 And with it enrich our ears ; come all to me, 
 Beneath the chamber where my lady lies, 
 And, in your several musics, whisper — Love ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born l^DS. 
 
 1678.— TO THE SNOWDEOP. 
 
 Pretty firstling of the year ! 
 
 Herald of the host of flowers ! 
 Hast thou left thy cavern drear, 
 
 In the hope of summer hours ? 
 
 Back unto thy earthen bowers ! 
 Back to thy warm world below, 
 
 Till the strength of suns and showers 
 Quell the now relentless snow ! 
 
 Art still here ? — Alive, and blythe ? 
 
 Though the stormy Night hath fled, 
 And the Frost hath pass'd his scythe 
 
 O'er thy small, unshelter'd head ? 
 
 Ah ! some lie amidst the dead 
 (Many a giant, stubborn tree, — 
 
 Many a plant, its spirit shed), 
 That were better nursed than thee ! 
 
 What iiath saved thee ? Thou wast not 
 
 'Gainst the arrowy winter farr'd, — 
 Arm'd in scale, — but all forgot 
 
 When the frozen winds were stirr'd. 
 
 Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
 Should have hid thee in the earth, 
 
 Till the cuckoo's song was heard, 
 And the Spring let loose her mirth. 
 
 Nature, — deep and mystic word ! 
 
 Mighty mother, still unknown ! 
 Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird 
 
 With an armour all thine own ! 
 
 Thou, who sent'st it forth alone 
 To the cold and sullen season 
 
 (Like a thought at random thrown), 
 Sent it thus for some grave reason ! 
 
 If 'twere but to pierce the mind 
 
 With a single, gentle thought, 
 Who shall deem thee harsh or blind 
 
 Who that thou hast vainly wrought ? 
 
 Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
 From the snowdrop, — reader wise ! 
 
 Good is good, wherever taught, 
 On the ground or in the skies ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1679.— SONG OF WOOD-NTMPHS. 
 
 Come here, come here, and dwell 
 In forest deep ! 
 
 Come here, come here, and tell 
 Why thou dost weep ! 
 
 Is it for love (sweet pain !) 
 
 That thus thou dar'st complain 
 
 Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, 
 
 Where nought else grieves ? 
 
 Come here, come here, and lie 
 
 By whispering stream ! 
 
 Here no one dares to die 
 
 For love's sweet dream ; 
 
 But health all seek, and joy. 
 
 And shun perverse annoy. 
 
 And race along green paths till close of day, 
 
 And laugh — alway ! 
 
 Or else, through half the year. 
 
 On rushy floor. 
 
 We He by waters clear. 
 
 While sky-larks pour 
 
 Their songs into the sun ! 
 
 And when bright day is done. 
 
 We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding 
 
 corn. 
 And dream — till morn ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 1680.— THE BLOOD HOESE. 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed. 
 
 Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
 
 Full of fire, and full of bone, 
 
 With all his line of fathers known ; 
 
 Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 
 
 But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
 
 His mane is like a river flowing, 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 In the darkness of the night. 
 
 And his pace as swift as light. 
 
 Look, — how 'round his straining throat 
 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
 
 Sinewy strength is in his reins, 
 
 And the red blood gallops through his veins, — 
 
 Eicher, redder, never ran 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 
 He can trace his lineage higher 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — . 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelp 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 
 
 He, who hath no peer, was born, 
 
 Here, upon a red March morn ; 
 
 But his famous fathers dead 
 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab bred. 
 
 And the last of that great line 
 
 Trod like one of race divine ! 
 
 And yet, — he was but friend to one. 
 
 Who fed him at the set of sun. 
 
 By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
 
 With him a roving Bedouin, 
 
 He lived (none else would he obey 
 
 Through all the hot Arabian day), — 
 
 And died untamed upon the sands 
 
 Where Balkh amidst the desert stands 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE HUNTEE'S SONG. 
 
 FB. W. Peocter. 
 
 1 68 1. —THE SEA. 
 
 The sea I the sea ! the open sea ! 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 
 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 
 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 
 
 I am where I would ever be ; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue belo^T, 
 
 And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 
 
 If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
 
 What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love, oh, how I love to ride 
 On the fierce, foaming-, bursting tide, 
 When every mad wave drowns the moon. 
 Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
 And tells how goeth the world below. 
 And why the sou' west blasts do blow. 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
 But I loved the great sea more and more. 
 And backward flew to her billowy breast. 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; 
 And a mother she was, and is, to me ; 
 For I was born on the open sea ! 
 
 The waves were white, and red the morn, 
 In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
 And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roU'd, 
 And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild 
 As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 
 
 I've lived since then, in calm and strife, 
 Full fifty summers, a sailor's life. 
 With wealth to spend and a power to range. 
 But never have sought nor sigh'd for change ; 
 And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
 Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 1682.— THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 A thousand miles from land are wo. 
 
 Tossing about on the roaring sea — 
 
 From biUow to bounding bUlow cast. 
 
 Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 
 
 The sails are scatter' d abroad like weeds ; 
 
 The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ; 
 
 The mighty cables and iron chains ; 
 
 The hull, which all earthly strength dis- 
 dains, — 
 
 They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 
 stone 
 
 Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 
 
 Up and down ! — up and down ! 
 
 From the base of the wave to the billow's 
 
 crown. 
 And amidst the flashing and feathery foam, 
 The stormy petrel finds a home ,• 
 
 A home, if such a place may be 
 
 For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 
 
 On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 
 
 And only seeketh her rocky lair 
 
 To warm her young, and to teach them to 
 
 spring 
 At once o'er the waves on their stormy 
 
 wing ! 
 
 O'er the deep I — o'er the deep ! 
 
 Where the whale, and the shark, and the 
 
 sword-fish sleep — 
 Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
 The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
 For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
 Which bringeth him news of the storm un- 
 heard ! 
 Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
 Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; 
 Yet he ne'er falters — so, petrel, spring 
 Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy 
 wingl 
 
 B, W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1683.— THE SEA— IN CALM. 
 
 Look what immortal floods the sunset pours 
 Upon us — Mark ! how stUl (as though in 
 
 dreams 
 Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean 
 
 seems ! 
 How silent are the winds I no bUlow roars ; 
 But all is tranquil as Elysian shores. 
 The silver margin which aye runneth round 
 The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound ; 
 Even Echo speaks not on these radiant 
 
 moors ! 
 What ! is the giant of the ocean dead. 
 Whose strength was all Tonmatch'd beneath 
 
 the sun ? 
 No : he reposes ! Now his toils are done ; 
 More quiet than the babbling brook is he. 
 So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed. 
 And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest 
 
 be! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798 - • 
 
 1684.— THE HUNTER'S SONG. 
 
 Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble mom. 
 The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn. 
 And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten 
 
 hound. 
 Under the steaming, steaming ground. 
 Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by. 
 And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
 Our horses are ready and steady. — So, ho ! 
 I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 
 
 Hark, hark ! — Who calleth the maiden Morn 
 From her sleep in the woods and the stubble 
 corn? 
 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn. 
 
B. W. Procter.] 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 "Seventh Period. — 
 
 Now, through the copse where the fox is 
 
 found, 
 And over the stream at a mighty bound, 
 And over the high lands, and over the low. 
 O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! 
 Away ! — as a hawk flies full at his prey, 
 So flieth the hunter, away, — away ! 
 From the burst at the cover till set of sun, 
 When the red fox dies, and — the day is done ! 
 
 Hark, hark ! — What sound on the wind is 
 
 borne? 
 'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's 
 
 horn: 
 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. 
 
 i 
 Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good 
 What's the gully deep or the roaring flood ? 
 Eight over he bounds, as the wild stag 
 
 bounds. 
 At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
 Oh, what delight can a mortal lack, 
 When he once is firm on his horse's back. 
 With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong. 
 And the blast of the horn for his morning 
 
 song? 
 
 Hark, hark ! — Now, home ! and dream till 
 
 mom 
 Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn ! 
 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's 
 horn ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 1685.— THE OWL. 
 
 In the hollow tree, in the old gray toAver, 
 
 The spectral Owl doth dwell ; 
 Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, 
 
 But at dusk he's abroad and well ! 
 Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him — 
 
 All mock him outright, by day ; 
 But at night, when the woods grow still and 
 dim, 
 
 The boldest will shrink away ! 
 Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, 
 Then, then, is the reign of the Homed Owl ! 
 
 And the Owl hath a bride who is fond and 
 bold. 
 And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 
 And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- 
 stone cold. 
 She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; 
 Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, 
 
 As she waits in her tree so still. 
 But when her heart heareth his flapping 
 wings. 
 She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 
 Oh, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl. 
 Then, then, is the joy of the Homed Owl ! 
 
 Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight ; 
 
 The Owl hath his share of good : 
 If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, - 
 
 He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 
 Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate — 
 
 They are each unto each a pride ; 
 Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange, dark 
 fate 
 Hath rent them from all beside ! 
 So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl. 
 Sing Ho ! for the the reign of the Horned Owl I 
 W^e knoAV not alway 
 Who are kings by day, 
 But the King of the night is the bold brown 
 Owl! 
 
 ^Y. B. Frodcr.—Born 1798. 
 
 1686.— A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. 
 
 When the merry lark doth gild 
 
 With his song the summer hours, 
 And their nests the swallows build 
 
 In the roofs and tops of towers. 
 And the golden broom-flower burns 
 
 All about the waste. 
 And the maiden May returns 
 
 With a pretty haste, — 
 
 Then, how merry are the times 5 
 
 The Summer times ! the Spring times ! 
 
 Now, from off the ashy stone 
 
 The chilly midnight cricket crieth. 
 And all merry birds are flown. 
 
 And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
 Now the once blue laughing sky 
 
 Saddens into gray. 
 And the frozen rivers sigh. 
 
 Pining all away ! 
 
 Now, how solemn are the times ! 
 The Winter times ! the Night times ! 
 
 Yet, be merry : all around 
 
 Is through one vast change revolving : 
 Even Night, who lately frown'd, 
 
 Is in paler dawn dissolving. 
 Earth will burst her fetters strange, 
 
 And in Spring grow free ; 
 All things in the world will change, 
 
 Save — my love for thee ! 
 
 Sing, then, hopeful are all times ! 
 Winter, Summer, Spring times I 
 
 W. B. Procter.— Born 1793. 
 
 [687.- 
 
 -THE POET'S SONG TO HIS 
 WIFE. 
 
 How many summers, love. 
 
 Have I been thine ? 
 How many days, thou dove, 
 
 Hast thou been mine? 
 Time, like the wing'd wind 
 
 When 't bends the flowers. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] A BEIDAL DISGE. [B. W. Procter. 
 
 Hath left no mark beliind, 
 
 ' But now we'll go 
 
 To count the hours ! 
 
 Where the waters flow. 
 
 
 And make us a bed where none shall know. 
 
 Some -weight of thought, though loth, 
 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 
 The world is cruel — the world is untrue ; 
 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Our foes are many, our friends are few ; 
 
 Perhaps he weaves : 
 
 No work, no bread, however Ave sue I 
 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 What is there loft for me to do, 
 
 For joys scarce known ; 
 
 But fly— fxy 
 
 Sweet looks we half forget ; — 
 
 Prom the cruel sky, • 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 And hide in the deepest deeps— and die ? 
 
 Ah ! — With what thankless heart 
 
 W. B. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start. 
 
 
 
 Like sudden Spring ! 
 With tongues all sweet and low, 
 
 1690.— PEACE ! WHAT DO TEARS 
 AVAIL ? 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme, 
 
 They tell how much I owe 
 
 Peace i what can tears avail ? 
 
 To thee and Time ! 
 
 She lies all dumb and pale. 
 
 W. B. Procter. --Born 1798. 
 
 And from her eye 
 
 
 The spirit of lovely life is fading — 
 
 
 And she must die ! 
 
 
 Why looks the lover wroth — the friend up- 
 
 
 braiding ? 
 
 1 688.— SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 BREATH. 
 
 Hath she not dwelt too long 
 
 
 'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? 
 
 Softxy woo away her breath. 
 
 Then why not die ? 
 
 Gentle Death ! 
 
 Why sufi'er again her doom of sorrow. 
 
 Let her leave thee with no strife, 
 
 And hopeless lie ? 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring Life 
 
 Why nurse the trembling dream until to- 
 
 She hath seen her happy day — 
 
 morrow ? 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Xow she pales and shrinks away, 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 Death I Take her to thine arms, 
 In all her stainless charms ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here, 
 
 And with her fly 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 
 To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright- 
 
 Bear her perfect soul above. 
 
 ness, 
 
 Seraph of the skies — sweet Love ! 
 
 The angels lie ! 
 
 Good she was, and fair in youth ; 
 
 Wilt bear her there, Death! in all her 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar, 
 
 whiteness ? 
 
 And her heart was wed to truth : 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Take her, then, for evermore — 
 
 W. B. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 For ever — evermore ! 
 
 W. B. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 
 
 
 1691.— A BRIDAL DIRGE. 
 Weave no more the marriage chain ! 
 
 
 
 All unmated is the lover ; 
 
 1689.— THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. 
 
 Death has ta'en the place of Pain ; 
 Love doth call on love in vain ; 
 
 Sleep ! — The ghostly winds are blowing ! 
 
 Life and years of hope are over ! 
 
 No moon abroad — ^no star is glowing ; 
 
 No more want of marriage bell ! 
 
 The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 
 
 No more need of bridal favour ! 
 
 To the land where you and I are going ! 
 
 Where is she to wear them well ? 
 
 We are going afar. 
 
 You beside the lover, tell ! 
 
 Beyond moon or star. 
 
 Gone — ^with aU the love he gave her I 
 
 To the land where the sinless angel arc ! 
 
 
 Paler than the stone she lies — 
 
 I lost my heart to your heartless sire, 
 
 Colder than the winter's morning ! 
 
 ('T was melted away by his looks of fire) — 
 
 Wherefore did she thus despise 
 
 Forgot my God, and my father's ire, 
 
 (She witli pity in her eyes) 
 
 All for the sake of a man's desire ; 
 
 Mother's care, and lover's warning ? 
 
B. W. Procter.] HERMIONE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Youth and beauty— shall they not 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 Last beyond a brief to-morrow ? 
 
 We've not proud nor soaring wings : 
 
 •^0 — a prayer and then forgot ! 
 
 Our ambition, our content, 
 
 This the truest lover's lot, 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 
 This the sura of human sorrow ! 
 
 Humble voyagers are we. 
 
 J5. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 O'er life's dim, unsounded sea. 
 Seeking only some calm clime : — 
 
 
 Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 . 
 
 1692.— HEEMIONE. 
 Thou hast beauty bright and fair, 
 
 
 
 Manner noble, aspect free, 
 
 
 Eyes that are untouch' d by care : 
 
 1695.— SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. 
 
 What, then, do we ask from thee, 
 
 Hermione, Hermione? 
 
 Sit down, sad soul, and coun^ | 
 The moments flying ; i 
 
 Thou hast reason quick and strong, 
 
 Come — tell the sweet amount 
 
 Wit that envious men admire, 
 
 That's lost by sighing ! 
 
 And a voice, itself a song ! 
 
 How many smiles ? — a score ? 
 
 What then can we still desire ? 
 
 Then laugh, and count no more ; 
 
 Hermione, Hermione. 
 
 For day is dying ! 
 
 Something thou dost want, queen ! 
 
 Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 
 
 (As the gold doth ask alloy). 
 
 And no more measure 
 
 Tears— amid thy laughter seen, 
 
 The flight of Time, nor weep 
 
 Pity mingled with thy joy. 
 
 The loss of leisure ; 
 
 This is all we ask from thee, 
 
 But here, by this lone stream. 
 
 Hermione, Hermione ! 
 
 Lie down with us, and dream 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Born 1798. 
 
 Of starry treasure ! 
 
 
 We dream : do thou the same ; 
 
 
 We love — for ever ; 
 
 
 We laugh, yet few we shame — 
 
 1693.— A POET'S THOUGHT. 
 
 The gentle never. 
 
 TeU me, what is a poet's thought ? 
 
 Is it on the sudden born ? 
 Is it from the starlight caught ? 
 
 Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; 
 Then — hope and happy skies 
 Are thine for ever ! 
 
 Is it by the tempest taught ? 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 Or by whispering morn ? 
 Was it cradled in the brain ? 
 
 
 
 Chain' d awhile, or nursed in night ? 
 
 
 Was it wrought with toil and pain ? 
 
 1696,— TJFE. 
 
 Did it bloom and fade again, 
 
 
 Ere it burst to light ? 
 
 We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
 
 
 We love ; we droop ; we die ! 
 
 No more question of its birth : 
 
 Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 
 
 Eather love its better part ! 
 
 Why do we live or die ? 
 
 'Tis a thing of sky and earth. 
 
 Who knows that secret deep ? 
 
 Gathering all its golden worth 
 
 Alas ! not I. 
 
 From the poet's heart. 
 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
 hy doth the violet spring 
 Unseen by human eye ? 
 
 
 Why do the radiant seasons bring 
 
 
 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
 
 
 Why do our fond hearts cling 
 
 1694.— A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 To things that die ? 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 
 
 We toil — through pain and wrong ; 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 
 We fight— and fly ; 
 
 Gently — as we sometimes glide 
 
 We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 
 
 Through a quiet dream. 
 
 Stone-dead we He. 
 
 Humble voyagers are we, 
 
 A life ! is all thy song : 
 
 Husband, wife, and children three— 
 
 " Endure and — die ! " 
 
 (One is lost — an angel, fled 
 
 
 To the azure overhead !) 
 
 B. W. Procter.— Bom 1798. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE MOTHER'S HAND. 
 
 [Charles Swain, 
 
 1697.— THE DEATH OF THE WAREIOR 
 KING. 
 
 There are noble heads bow'd down and pale, 
 
 Deep sounds of woe arise, 
 And tears flow fast around the couch 
 
 Where a wounded warrior Kes ; 
 The hue of death is gathering dark 
 
 Upon his lofty brov.', 
 And the arm of might and valour falls, 
 
 Weak as an infant's now. 
 
 I saw him 'mid the battling hosts, 
 
 Like a bright and leading star, 
 Where banner, helm, and falchion gleam' d, 
 
 And flew the bolts of war. 
 When, in his plenitude of power 
 
 He trod the Holy Land, 
 I saw the routed Saracens 
 
 Flee from his blood-dark brand. 
 
 I saw him in the banquet hour 
 
 Forsake the festive throng. 
 To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt, 
 
 And give his soul to song ; 
 For dearly as he loved renown. 
 
 He loved that spell- wrought strain 
 Which bade the brave of perish' d days 
 
 Light conquest's torch again. 
 
 Then seem'd the bard to cope with Time, 
 
 And triumph o'er his doom — 
 Another world in freshness burst 
 
 Oblivion's mighty tomb ! 
 Again the hardy Britons rush'd 
 
 Like lions to the fight, 
 While horse and foot — helm, shield, and lance, 
 
 Swept by his vision' d sight ! 
 
 But battle shout and waving plume, 
 
 The drum's heart- stirring beat. 
 The glittering pomp of prosperous war, 
 
 The rush of million feet, 
 The magic of the minstrel's song, 
 
 WTiich told of victories o'er, 
 Are sights and sounds the dying king 
 
 Shall see — shall hear no more ! 
 
 It was the hour of deep midnight. 
 
 In the dim and quiet sky. 
 When, with sable cloak and 'broider'd paH, 
 
 A funeral train swept by ; 
 Dull and sad fell the torches' glare 
 
 On many a stately crest — 
 They bore the noble warrior king 
 
 To his last dark home of rest. 
 
 Charles Sivain. — Bom 1803. 
 
 1698.— THE VOICE OF THE MORNING. 
 
 The voice of the morning is calling to child- 
 hood. 
 From streamlet, and vaUey, and mountain 
 it calls, 
 
 And Mary, the loveliest nymph of the wild 
 wood, 
 Is crossing the brook where the mill water 
 falls. 
 Oh ! lovely is Mary, her face like a vision 
 Once seen leaves a charm that will ever 
 endure ; 
 From her glance and her smile there beams 
 something elysian : 
 She has but one failing — sweet Mary is poor. 
 
 Her bosom is white as the hawthorn, and 
 sweeter, 
 Her form light and lovesome, as maiden's 
 should be ; 
 Her foot like a fairy's — yet softer and fleeter — 
 Oh ! Mary, the morn hath no lily like thee. 
 But narrow and low hangs the roof of her 
 dwelling, 
 Her home it is humble, her birth is obscure ; 
 And though in aU beauty and sweetness 
 excelling. 
 She wanders neglected — for Mary is poor. 
 
 Yet, oh ! to her heart mother Nature hath 
 given 
 The kindest afi'ections that mortal can 
 know; 
 She loves every star that sheds radiance in 
 heaven. 
 She worships the flowers as God's image 
 below. 
 Ah ! sad 'tis to think that a being resembling 
 The fairest in beauty, such lot should endure ; 
 But the dews that like tears on the lilies are 
 trembling. 
 Are types but of Mary — for Mary is poor. 
 
 0. Swain.— Bom, 1803. 
 
 1699.— THE MOTHER'S HAND. 
 
 A wand'ring orphan child was I, — 
 
 But meanly, at the best, attired ; 
 For oh ! my mother scarce could buy 
 
 The common food each week required ; 
 But when the anxious day had fled, 
 
 It seem'd to be her dearest joy. 
 To press her pale hand on my head, 
 
 And pray that God would guide her boy. 
 
 But more, each winter, more and more 
 
 Stern suffering brought her to decay ; 
 And then an angel pass'd her door, 
 
 And bore her lingering soul away ! 
 And I — ^they know not what is grief 
 
 Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed ; 
 All other woe on earth is brief, 
 
 Save that which weeps a mother dead. 
 
 A seaman's life was soon my lot, 
 
 'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate metij 
 
 But still I never quite forgot 
 
 The prayer I ne'er should hear again,- 
 
Charles Swain.] 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. — 
 
 And oft, when half induced to tread 
 
 Such paths as unto sin decoy, 
 I've felt her fond hand press my head, — 
 
 And that soft touch hath saved her boy ! 
 
 Though hard their mockery to receive. 
 Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had 
 striven, 
 Her Avho, on earth, I dared not grieve, 
 
 I could not — would not — grieve in heaven : 
 And thus from many an action dread, 
 
 Too dark for human eyes to scan, 
 The same fond hand upon my head 
 
 That bless' d the boy — hath saved the 
 man! 
 
 C. Swain, — Born 1803. 
 
 1700.— THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 The room is old, — the night is cold, — 
 
 But night is dearer far than day ; 
 For then, in dreams, to him it seems, 
 
 That she's return'd who's gone away ! 
 His tears are pass'd, — he clasps her fast, — 
 
 Again she holds him on her knee ; 
 And, — in his sleep, — he murmurs deep, 
 
 " Oh ! mother, go no more from me ! " 
 
 But morning breaks, the child awakes, — 
 
 The dreamer's happy dream hath fled ; 
 The fields look sere, and cold, and drear, — 
 
 Like orphans, mourning summer dead ! — 
 The wild birds spring, on shivering wing. 
 
 Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree ; 
 And still he cries, with weeping eyes, 
 
 " Oh ! mother dear, come back to me ! " 
 
 Can no one tell where angels dwell ? — 
 
 He's call'd them oft till day grew dim; 
 K they were near, — and they could hear, — 
 
 He thinks they'd bring her back to him ! — 
 " Oh ! angels sweet, conduct my feet," 
 
 He cries, " where'er her home may be ; 
 Oh ! lead me on to where she's gone, 
 
 Or bring my mother back to me ! " 
 
 C. Swain.— Born 1803. 
 
 1 701. —SABBATH CHIMES. 
 
 There's music in the morning air, 
 
 A holy voice and sweet, 
 Far calling to the house of prayer 
 
 The humblest peasant's feet. 
 From hill, and vale, and distant moor, 
 
 Long as the chime is heard, 
 Each cottage sends its tenants poor 
 
 For God's enriching word. 
 
 Where' er the British power hath trod, 
 
 The cross of faith ascends. 
 And, like a radiant arch of God, 
 
 The light of Scripture bends ! 
 
 Deep in the forest wilderness 
 
 The wood-built church is known ; ' 
 
 A sheltering wing, in man's distress, ' 
 Spread like the Saviour's own ! 
 
 The warrior from his armed tent, 
 
 The seaman from the tide. 
 Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent 
 
 In Christian nations wide, — 
 Thousands and tens of thousands bring 
 
 Their sorrows to his shrine, 
 And taste the never-failing spring 
 
 Of Jesus' love divine ! 
 
 If, at an earthly chime, the tread 
 
 Of million, million feet 
 Approach whene'er the Gospel's read 
 
 In God's own temple-seat, 
 How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep, 
 
 To see God's saints arise ; 
 And countless hosts of angels keep 
 
 The sabbath of the skies ! 
 
 C.Si 
 
 -Born 1803. 
 
 1702.— LOVE'S HISTORY. 
 
 By sylvan waves that westward flow 
 A hare-bell bent its beauty low. 
 With slender waist and modest brow, 
 
 Amidst the shades descending. 
 A star look'd from the paler sky — 
 The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh 
 Forgot that love may look too high, 
 
 And sorrow without ending. 
 
 By casement hid, the flowers among, 
 A maiden lean'd and listen'd long ; 
 It was the hour of love and song, 
 
 And early night-birds calling : 
 A barque across the river drew ; — 
 The rose was glowing through and througl 
 The maiden's cheek of trembling hue. 
 
 Amidst the twilight falling. 
 
 She saw no star, she saw no flower — 
 Her heart expanded to the hour ; 
 She reck'd not of her lowly dower 
 
 Amidst the shades descending 
 With love thus fix'd upon a height 
 That seem'd so beauteous to the sight, 
 How could she think of wrong and blight, 
 
 And sorrov/ v.'ithout ending. 
 
 The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, 
 And closed its eye of tender blue ; 
 No sun could e'er its life renew. 
 
 Nor star, in music calling. 
 The autumn leaves were early shed ; 
 But earlier on her cottage bed 
 The maiden's loving heart lay dead, 
 
 Amidst the twilight falling ! 
 
 C. Swain. — Born 1803. 
 
From 17S0 to 186G.] 
 
 FEOM " IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 [A. Tennyson. 
 
 1703.— SONG OF THE BEOOK. 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hem ; 
 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among tlie fern, 
 
 To bicker down a yalley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down, 
 
 Or slip between the ridges ; 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 THl last by Philip's farm I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 
 In little sharps and trebles ; 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. • 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With wiUow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom saiKng, 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 And hero and there a grayling ; 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel, 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel; 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 
 
 I sHde by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, — Born 1810. 
 
 1704.— THE SECONCILIATION. 
 
 As through the land at eve we went. 
 
 And pluck' d the ripen' d ears, 
 vVe fell out, my wife and I, — 
 Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
 
 And kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 For when we came where lies the child 
 
 We lost in other years, 
 There above the little grave. 
 Oh, there above the little grave, 
 
 We kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. — Born 1810. 
 
 1705.— THE WIDOW AND CHILD. 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dexd ; 
 
 She nor swoon' d, nor utter' d cry ; 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 CaU'd him worthy to be loved, 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place, 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept. 
 Took a face-cloth from the face ; 
 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Eose a nurse of ninety years. 
 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
 
 " Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 Alf7-ed Tennyson.— Born 1810. 
 
 1706.— FEOM "IN MEMOEIAM.' 
 
 I envy not, in any moods, 
 
 The captive void of noble rage, 
 The linnet born within the cage, 
 
 That never knew the summer words. 
 
 I envy not the beast that takes 
 His hcense in the field of time, 
 Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 
 
 To whom a conscience never wakes ; 
 
 Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
 TIae heart that never plighted troth. 
 But stagnates in the weeds of sloth- 
 
 Nor any want-begotten rest. 
 
 I hold it true, v/hate'er befall — 
 I feel it, v/hen I sorrow most — 
 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
 
 Than never to have loved at all. 
 
 With trembling fingers did we weave 
 The holly round the Christmas hearth 1 
 A rainy cloud possess' d the earth 
 
 And sadly fell our Christmas eve. 
 
A. Tennyson. 
 
 FEOM " m MEMORIAM. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. 
 
 At our old pastimes in the hall 
 
 We gambol!' d, making vain pretence 
 Of gladness, with an awful sense 
 
 Of one mute Shadow watching all. 
 
 We paused ; the winds were in the beech — 
 We heard them sweep the winter land ; 
 And in a circle hand in hand 
 
 Sat silent, looking each at each. 
 
 Then echo-like our voices rang ; 
 
 We sang, though every eye was dim — 
 A merry song we sang with him 
 
 Last year : impetuously we sang ; 
 
 We ceased. A gentler feeling crept 
 
 Upon us ; surely rest is meet ; 
 
 " They rest," we said, " their sleep is 
 sweet." 
 And silence foUow'd, and we wept. 
 
 Our voices took a higher range ; 
 
 Once more we sang : " They do not die, 
 Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
 
 Nor change to us, although they change : 
 
 Eapt from the fickle and the frail, 
 With gather'd power, yet the same. 
 Pierces the keen seraphic flame 
 
 From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 
 
 Rise, happy mom ! rise, holy morn ! 
 
 Draw forth the cheerful day from night ! 
 
 O Father ! touch the east, and light 
 The light that shone when Hope was born ! 
 
 Dost tho 1 look back on what hath been. 
 As £om3 divinely gifted man, 
 Whose life in low estate began, 
 
 And on a simple village green ? 
 
 Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
 And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
 And breasts the blows of circumstance, 
 
 And grapples with his evil star ; 
 
 Who makes by force his merit known, 
 And lives to clutch the golden keys — 
 To mould a mighty state's decrees. 
 
 And shape the whisper of the throne ; 
 
 And moving up from high to higher. 
 Becomes on Fortune's crowning slono 
 The pUlar of a people's hope, 
 
 The centre of a world's desire ; 
 
 Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
 When all his active powers are still, 
 A distant dearness in the hill, 
 
 A secret sweetness in the stream. 
 
 The limit of his narrower fate, 
 While yet beside its vocal springs 
 He play'd at counsellors and kings, 
 
 With one that was his earliest mate ; 
 
 Who ploughs with pain his native lea. 
 And reaps the labour of his hands. 
 Or in the furrow musing stands : 
 
 " Does my old friend remembe- me ? " 
 
 Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor 
 Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
 And thou, with all thy breadth and height. 
 
 Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 
 
 How often, hither wandering down, 
 My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
 And shook to all the liberal air 
 
 The dust and din and steam of town ! 
 
 He brought an eye for all he saw ; 
 
 He mix'd in all our simple sports ; 
 
 They pleased him, fresh from brawling 
 courts 
 And dusky purlieus of the law. 
 
 joy to him, in this retreat, 
 Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
 To drink the cooler air, and mark 
 
 The landscape winking through the heat 
 
 sound to rout the brood of cares, 
 The sweep of scythe in morning dew. 
 The gust that round the garden flew, 
 
 And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 
 
 bliss, when all in circle drawn 
 About him, heart and ear were fed. 
 To hear him, as he lay and rea ' 
 
 The Tuscan poets on the lawn ; 
 
 Or in the all-golden afternoon 
 A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
 Or here she brought the harp, and flung 
 
 A ballad to the brightening moon ! 
 
 Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, 
 Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
 And break the livelong summer day 
 
 With banquet in the distant woods ; 
 
 Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
 Discuss'd the books to love or hate. 
 Or touch' d the changes of the state. 
 
 Or threaded some Socratic dream. 
 
 But if I praised the busy town. 
 He loved to rail against it still, 
 For " ground in yonder social miU, 
 
 We rub each other's angles down. 
 
 And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
 The picturesque of man and man." 
 We talk'd ; the stream beneath us ran, 
 
 The wine-flask lying couch' d in moss. 
 
 Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
 
 And last, returning from afar. 
 
 Before the crimson-circled star 
 Had fall'n into her father's grave. 
 
 And brushing ankle deep in flowers, 
 We heard behind the woodbine veil 
 The milk that bubbled in the pail, 
 
 And buzzings of the honey'd hours. 
 
 Thy converse drew us with delight, 
 The men of rathe and riper years ; 
 The feeble soul, a haunt of fears ; 
 
 Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LADY CLARE. 
 
 [A. Tennyson. 
 
 On thee the loyal-hearted hung-, 
 
 The proud was half disarm' d of pride ; 
 Nor cared the serpent at thy side 
 
 To flicker with his treble ton^e. 
 
 The stern were mild when thou wert by ; 
 The flippant put himself to school 
 And heard thee ; and the brazen fool 
 
 Was soften' d, and he knew not why ; 
 
 While I, thy dearest, sat apart, 
 And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
 And loved them more, that they were thine, 
 
 The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 
 
 Not mine the sweetness or the skill, 
 But mine the love that will not tire, 
 And, bom of love, the vague desire 
 
 That spurs an imitative will. 
 
 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
 So far, so near, in woe and weal ; 
 Oh, loved the most when most I feel 
 
 There is a lower and a higher ; 
 
 Known and unknown, human, divine ! 
 Sweet human hand and lips and eye, 
 Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
 
 Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ! 
 
 Strange friend, past, present, and to be. 
 Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 
 Behold I dream a dream of good 
 
 And mingle all the world with thee. 
 
 Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 
 
 I hear thee where the waters run ; 
 
 Thou standest in the rising sun, 
 And in the setting thou art fair. 
 
 What art thou, then ? I cannot guess j 
 But though I seem in star and flower 
 To feel thee, some diffusive power, 
 
 I do not therefore love thee less : 
 
 My love involves the love before ; 
 
 My love is vaster passion now ; 
 
 Though mix'd with God and Nature thou 
 I seem to love thee more and more. 
 
 Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
 I have thee still, and I rejoice, 
 I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
 
 I shall not lose thee, though I die. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. — Born 1810. 
 
 1707.— LADY CLAEE. 
 
 Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare, 
 I trow they did not part in scorn ; 
 
 Lord Ronald, her cousin, courted her, 
 And they will wed the morrow morn. 
 
 " He does not love me for my birth. 
 Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 
 
 He loves me for my own true worth. 
 And that is well," said Lady Clare. 
 
 In there came old Alice the nurse. 
 
 Said, " Who was this that went from 
 thee?" 
 " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
 
 " To-morrow he weds with me." 
 
 " O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 
 " That all comes round so just and fair : 
 
 Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
 And you are not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my 
 nurse?" 
 
 Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 
 " As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, 
 
 " I speak the truth : you are my child. 
 
 The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 
 
 I speak the truth as I live by bread ! 
 I buried her like my own sweet child, 
 
 And put my child in her stead." 
 
 *' Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
 
 mother," she said, " if this be true, 
 
 To keep the best man under the sun 
 So many years from his due." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret for your life. 
 
 And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
 When you are man and wife." 
 
 " If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
 " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
 
 Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 
 And fling the diamond necklace by." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret all ye can." 
 
 She said " Not so ; but I will know 
 If there be any faith in man." 
 
 " Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, 
 " The man will cleave unto his right." 
 
 " And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
 " Though I should die to-night." 
 
 " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 
 
 Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
 " O mother, mother, mother ! " she said, 
 
 " So strange it seems to me. 
 
 Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 
 
 My mother dear, if this be so ; 
 And lay your hand upon my head, ._ 
 
 And bless me, mother, ere I go." 
 * 
 She clad herself in a russet gown. 
 
 She was no longer Lady Clare ; 
 She went by dale, and she went by do-wn, 
 
 With a single rose in her hair. 
 
 A lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
 
 Leapt up from where she lay, 
 Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 
 
 And follow'd her all the way. 
 
A. Tennyson.] 
 
 DOEA. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 Down stept Lord Eonald from his tower : 
 " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 
 
 Why come you drest like a village maid, 
 That are the flower of the earth ? " 
 
 " If I come drest like a village maid, 
 
 I am but as my fortunes are : 
 I am a beggar born," she said, 
 
 " And not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
 " For I am yours in word and deed ; 
 
 Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, 
 " Your riddle is hard to read." 
 
 Oh, and proudly stood she up ! 
 
 Her heart within her did not fail ; 
 She look'd into Lord Eonald' s eyes, 
 
 And told him all her nurse's tale. 
 
 He laugh' d a laugh of merry scorn ; 
 
 He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: 
 " If you are not the heiress born, 
 
 And I," said he, " the next of blood — 
 
 If you are not the heiress bom, 
 And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
 
 We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
 And you shall still be Lady Clare." 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. — Born 1610. 
 
 1708.— DOEA. 
 
 With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
 William and Dora. William was his son, 
 And she his niece. He often look'd at them. 
 And often thought, " I'll make them man 
 
 and wife." 
 Now Dora felt her uncle's will in aU, 
 And yearn' d towards William; but the youth, 
 
 because 
 He had been always with her in the house, 
 Thought not of Dora. 
 
 Then there came a day 
 When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My 
 
 son: 
 ' I married late, but I would wish to see 
 My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
 And I have set my heart upon a match. 
 Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
 To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
 She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
 Had once hard words, and parted, and he 
 
 died 
 In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
 His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
 For I have wish'd this marriage, night and 
 
 day. 
 For many years." But William answer'd 
 
 short : 
 " I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
 I wiU not marry Dora." Then the old man 
 Was wroth, and doubled up his liands, and 
 
 said: 
 
 " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer 
 
 thus! 
 But in my time a father's word was law, ' 
 And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
 Consider, William : take a month to think, 
 And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
 Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall 
 
 pack. 
 And never more darken my doors again ! " 
 But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips. 
 And broke away. The more he look'd at 
 
 her 
 The less he liked her; and his ways were 
 
 harsh ; 
 But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
 The month was out he left his father's house. 
 And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
 And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and 
 
 wed 
 A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
 
 Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan 
 
 call'd 
 His niece and said, " My girl, I love you well ; 
 But if you speak with him that was my son. 
 Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
 My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
 And Dora j^romised, being meek. She thought, 
 " It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will change ! " 
 And days went on, and there was born a 
 
 boy 
 To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
 And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. 
 Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
 But Dora stored what little she covld save, 
 And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 
 
 know 
 Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
 On William, and in harvest time he died. 
 
 Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
 And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 
 
 thought 
 Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
 " I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
 And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me 
 This evil came on William at the first. 
 But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone. 
 And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 
 And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
 You know there has not been for these five 
 I years 
 
 So full a harvest ; let me take the boy. 
 And I wUl set him in my uncle's eye 
 Among the wheat ; that when his heart is 
 
 glad 
 Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
 And bless him for the sake of him that 's 
 
 gone." 
 And Dora took the child, and went her way 
 Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
 That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
 Far off the farmer came into the field 
 And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
 Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
 And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
 But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers 
 
 reap'd. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE. 
 
 [W. M. Praed. 
 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
 But when the morrow came, she rose and 
 took 
 The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
 And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
 That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
 To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
 Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
 He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
 And came and said, "Where were you yes- 
 terday .P 
 Whose child is that ? What are you doing 
 
 here ? " 
 So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
 And answer' d softly, " This is William's 
 
 child ! " 
 " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
 Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
 " Do with me as you will, but take the child 
 And bless him for the sake of him that 's 
 
 gone! " 
 And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
 Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
 I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
 You knew my word was law, and yet you 
 
 dared 
 To slight it. Well^for I will take the boy ; 
 But go you hence, and never see me more." 
 
 So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
 And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers 
 
 fell 
 At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
 And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
 More and more distant. She bow'd down her 
 
 head, 
 Eemembering the day when first she came, 
 And all the things that had been. She bow'd 
 
 down 
 And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, 
 And the sun fell, and aU the land was dark. 
 Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 
 stood 
 Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
 Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
 To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
 And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
 But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; 
 He says that he will never see me more." 
 Then answer' d Mary, " This shall never be. 
 That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- 
 self; 
 And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
 For he will teach him harshness, and to slight 
 His mother ; therefore thou and I will go. 
 And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 
 And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
 But if he will not take thee back again. 
 Then thou and I will live -« ithin one house. 
 And work for William's child until he grows 
 Of age to help us." 
 
 So the women kiss'd 
 Each other, and set out and reach'd the farm. 
 The door was off the latch ; they peep'd and 
 
 saw 
 The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knee3, 
 Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
 
 And clapt him on the hands and on the 
 
 cheeks. 
 Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretch' d 
 
 out 
 And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
 From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. 
 Then they came in ; but when the boy belinld 
 His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
 And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : 
 
 " O father ! — if you let me call you so — 
 I never came a-begging for myself. 
 Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
 For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 
 Oh, sir, when William died, he died at peace 
 With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
 He could not ever rue his marrying me. — 
 I had been a patient wife : but, sir, he said 
 That he was wrong to cross his father thus ; 
 ' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never 
 
 know 
 The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then 
 
 he turn'd 
 His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
 But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you 
 Will make him hard, and he will learn to 
 
 slight 
 His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
 And let all this be as it was before." 
 
 So Mary said, -and Dora hid her face 
 By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
 And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 
 " I have been to blame — to blame ! I have 
 
 kill'd my son ! 
 I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear 
 
 son! 
 May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
 Kiss me, my children ! " 
 
 Then they clung about 
 The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 
 
 times 
 And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
 And all his love came back a hundred-fold ; 
 And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's 
 
 child. 
 Thinking of William. 
 
 So those four abode 
 Within one house together ; and as years 
 Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
 But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 
 
 Alfred' Tennyson. — Bom 1810. 
 
 1709.— TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY- 
 NINE. 
 
 I heard a sick man's dying sigh, 
 
 And an infant's idle laughter : 
 The Old Year went with mourning by — 
 
 The New came dancing after ! 
 Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear — 
 
 Let Eevelry hold her ladle ; 
 Bring boughs of cypress for the bier — 
 
 Fling roses on the cradle 
 
 76 
 
Hon. Mrs, Norton. 1 
 
 PICTUEE OF TWILIGHT. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Mutes to wait on the funeral state, 
 
 Pages to pour the wine ; 
 A requiem for Twenty-eight, 
 
 And a health to Twenty-nine I 
 
 Alas for human happiness ! 
 
 Alas for human sorrow ! 
 Our yesterday is nothingness — 
 
 What else will be our morrow ? 
 Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, 
 
 And Knavery stealing purses ; 
 StUl cooks must live by making tarts, 
 
 And wits by making verses ; 
 While sages prate, and courts debate, 
 
 The same stars set and shine .: 
 And the world, as it roU'd through Twenty- 
 eight, 
 
 Must roll through Twenty-nine. 
 
 Some king will come, in heaven's good time, 
 
 To the tomb his father came to ; 
 Some thief wiU wade through blood and crime 
 
 To a crown he has no claim to ; 
 Some suffering land will rend in twain 
 
 The manacles that bound her, 
 And gather the links of the broken chain 
 
 To fasten them proudly round her ; 
 The grand and great wiU love and hate. 
 
 And combat and combine ; 
 And much where we were in Twenty-eight, 
 
 We shall be in Twenty-nine. 
 
 O'Connell will toil to raise the rent, 
 
 And Kenyon to sink the Nation ; 
 And Shiel will abuse the Parliament, 
 
 And Peel the Association ; 
 And thought of bayonets and swords 
 
 Will make ex-Chancellors merry ; 
 And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords 
 
 And throats in the County of Kerry ; 
 And writers of weight will speculate 
 
 On the Cabinet's design ; 
 And just what it did in Twenty-eight 
 
 It will do in Twenty-nine. 
 
 And the goddess of Love will keep her smiles, 
 
 And the god of Cups his orgies ; 
 And there'U be riots in St. Giles, 
 
 And weddings in St. George's ; 
 And mendicants will sup like kings. 
 
 And lords will swear like lacqueys ; 
 And black eyes oft will lead to rings, 
 
 And rings will lead to black eyes ; 
 And pretty Kate will scold her mate. 
 
 In a dialect all divine ; 
 Alas ! they married in Twenty-eight, 
 
 They will part in Twenty-nine. 
 
 My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs. 
 
 And talk of his oils and blubbers ; 
 My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns. 
 
 And rather longer rubbers ; 
 My cousin in parliament will prove 
 
 How utterly ruin'd trade is ; 
 My brother, at Eton, will fall in love 
 
 With half a hundred ladies ; 
 
 My patron wiU sate his pride from plate, 
 And his thirst from Bordeaux wine — 
 
 His nose was red in Twenty-eight, 
 'Twill be redder in Twenty-nine. 
 
 And O ! I shall find how, day by day, 
 
 All thoughts and things look older — 
 How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay, 
 
 And the heart of Friendship colder ; 
 But still I shall be what I have been, 
 
 Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
 And seldom troubled with the spleen. 
 
 And fond of talking treason ; 
 I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate, 
 
 And throw and write mj"- line ; 
 And the woman I worshipp'd in Twenty- 
 eight 
 
 I shall worship in Twenty-nine. 
 
 W. M. Praed.—Bom 1802, Died 1839. 
 
 1 710.— PICTUEE OF TWILIGHT. 
 
 Oh, twilight ! Spirit that dost render birth 
 To dim enchantments ; nlfelting heaven with 
 
 earth. 
 Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
 A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 
 Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and 
 
 sweet 
 Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward 
 
 feet, 
 Who, slow returning from his task of toil. 
 Sees the low sunset gUd the cultured soil, 
 And, though such radiance round him brightly 
 
 glows, 
 Marks the small spark his cottage-window 
 
 throws. 
 Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace. 
 Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
 Eecalls the treasures of his narrow life — 
 His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, 
 To whom his coming is the chief event 
 Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 
 The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, 
 And these poor cottagers have only cast 
 One careless glance on aU that show of pride, 
 Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; 
 But liim they wait for, him they welcome home, 
 Kix'd sentinels look forth to see him come ; 
 The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, 
 The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
 For him the watching of that sturdy boy, 
 For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
 For him — who plods his sauntering way along 
 Whistling the fragment of some village song ! 
 Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweetlight, 
 Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
 As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
 Companion' d only by his beating heart, 
 And with an eager fancy oft beholds 
 The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds. 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Bo7-n 1808. 
 
From 1780 to ISQG.] 
 
 TO FEEDINAND SEYMOUE. 
 
 [Hon. Mrs. Norton. 
 
 1 7 n.— THE MOTHEE'S HEAET. 
 
 When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, 
 My eldest bom, first hope, and dearest 
 treasure. 
 
 My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
 All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
 
 Nor thought that any love again might be 
 
 So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 
 
 Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy 
 years, 
 
 And natural piety that lean'd to heaven ; 
 Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
 
 Yet patient of rebuke when justly given — 
 Obedient, easy to be reconciled. 
 And meeldy cheerful — such wert thou, my child. 
 
 Not willing to be left : still by my side 
 
 Haunting my walks, while summer-day was 
 dying; 
 Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleased to glide 
 Through the dark room, where I was sadly 
 lying ; 
 Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek. 
 Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 
 
 O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
 
 Earth's fragile idols; Hke a tender flower. 
 No strength in all thy freshness — prone to 
 fade — 
 And bending weakly to the thunder 
 shower — 
 Still round the loved, thy heart found force 
 
 to bind, 
 And olmig like woodbine shaken in the wind. 
 
 Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee 
 Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 
 
 With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free. 
 Didst come as restless as a bird's wing 
 glancing, 
 
 EuU of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 
 
 Like a young sunbeam to the gladden' d earth : 
 
 Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of 
 
 joy! 
 
 Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
 
 soundeth ; 
 
 Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy. 
 
 And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
 
 boundeth ; 
 And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
 Lurk'd in the laugliter of thy dark-blue eye ! 
 
 And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
 The cold and stern to joy and fondness 
 warming ; 
 The coaxing smile — the frequent soft caress — 
 The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath dis- 
 arming ! 
 Again my heart a new affection found. 
 But thought that love with thee had reach'd 
 its bound. 
 
 At length thou earnest — thou, the last and 
 least, 
 Nicknamed " the emperor " by thy laughing 
 brothers. 
 
 Because a haughty spirit swell' d thy breast. 
 And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
 others ; 
 Mingling with every playful infant wile 
 A mimic majesty that made us smile. 
 
 And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou 
 
 An eye of resolute and successful scheming — 
 Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless 
 brow — 
 Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's 
 dreaming; 
 And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
 And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 
 
 DiflTerent from both ! yet each succeeding claim, 
 I, that all other love had been forswearing, 
 
 Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
 Nor injured either by this love's comparing. 
 
 Nor stole a fraction for the newer call. 
 
 But in the mother's heart found room for all. 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Born 1808. 
 
 1 712.— TO FEEDINAND SEYMOUE. 
 
 Eosy child, with forehead fair. 
 Coral Hp, and shining hair. 
 In whose mirthful, clever eyes 
 Such a world of gladness lies ; 
 As thy loose curls idly straying 
 O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing, 
 ]i31end her soft lock's shadowy twine 
 With the glittering hght of thine, — 
 ^Vho shall say, who gazes now. 
 Which is fairest, she or thou ? 
 
 In sweet contrast are ye met. 
 Such as heart could ne'er forget : 
 Thou art brilliant as a flower, 
 Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; 
 Merry as a singing-bird, 
 In the green wood sweetly heard ; 
 Bestless as if fluttering wings 
 Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 
 Ignorant of all distress, 
 Full of childhood's carelessness. 
 
 She is gentle ; she hath known 
 Something of the echo'd tone 
 Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, 
 In this world of many woes. 
 On her brow such shadows are 
 As the faint cloud gives the star. 
 Veiling its most holy light. 
 Though it still be pure and bright ; 
 And the colour in her cheek 
 To the hue on thine is weak, 
 Save when flush' d with sweet surprise, 
 Sudden welcomes hght her eyes ; 
 And her softly chisell'd face 
 (But for living, moving grace) 
 Looks like one of those which beam 
 In th' Italian painter's dream, — 
 Some beloved Madonna, bending 
 O'er the infant she is tending ; 
 
 7G^ 
 
Hon. Mrs. Norton.] WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHEE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Holy, bright, and undefiled 
 Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 
 Who, tho' painted strangely fair, 
 Seems but made for holy prayer, 
 Pity, tears, and sweet appeal, 
 And fondness such as angels feel ; 
 Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
 With serenest majesty ! 
 
 Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
 Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
 May that brightly budding life. 
 Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — 
 Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 
 Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 
 And the good thou dost impart 
 Lie deep-treasured in his heart. 
 That, when he at length shall strive 
 In the bad world where we live. 
 Thy sweet name may still be blest 
 As one who taught his soul true rest ! 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton.— Bom 1808. 
 
 1713.— WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS 
 TOGETHEE. 
 
 We have been friends together, 
 
 In sunshine and in shade ; 
 Since first beneath the chestnut trees 
 
 In infancy we play'd. 
 But coldness dwells within thy heart — 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow ; 
 We have been friends together 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been gay together; 
 
 We have laugh'd at little jests ; 
 For the fount of hope was gushing, 
 
 Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 
 But laughter now hath lied thy lip, 
 
 And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
 We have been gay together — 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been sad together — 
 
 We have wept, with bitter tears, 
 O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum- 
 ber' d 
 
 The hopes of early years. 
 The voices which are silent there 
 
 Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
 We have been sad together — 
 
 O ! what shall part us now ? 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Born 1808. 
 
 1714.— ALLAN PERCY. 
 
 It was a beauteous lady richly dress'd ; 
 
 Around her neck are chains of jewels rare ; 
 A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast, 
 
 And a young child is softly slumbering 
 there. 
 
 In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun. 
 She bears him onward to the greenwood 
 tree ; 
 Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless 
 one. 
 The place where an Earl's son should 
 cradled he? 
 
 LuUaby ! 
 
 Though a proud Earl be father to my child, 
 Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall 
 lie; 
 Let the winds lull him with their murmurs 
 wild, 
 And toss the green boughs upwards to the 
 sky. 
 Well knows that Earl how long my spirit 
 pined. 
 I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free ; 
 And had I wedded as my heart inclined, 
 My child were cradled 'neath the green- 
 wood tree. 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Slumber thou still, my innocent — mine own, 
 
 While I call back the dreams of other days. 
 In the deep forest I feel less alone 
 
 Than when those palace splendors mock 
 my gaze. 
 Fear not ! my arm shall bare thee safely back ; 
 
 I need no squire, no page with bended knee, 
 To bear my baby through the wildwood track, 
 
 Where Allan Percy used to roam with me. 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Here I can sit ; and while the fresh wind 
 blows, 
 Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, 
 Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose, 
 
 I can dream dreams that comfort my de- 
 spair ; 
 I can make visions of a different home. 
 
 Such as we hoped in other days might be ; 
 There no proud Earl's unwelcome footsteps 
 come — 
 There, AUan Percy, I am safe with thee ! 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Thou art mine own — I'll bear thee where I 
 list 
 Far from the dull proud tower and donjon 
 keep ; 
 From my long hair the pearl chains I'll un- 
 twist. 
 And with a peasant's heart sit down and 
 weep. 
 Thy guttering broider'd robe, my precious one. 
 
 Changed for a simpler covering shall be ; 
 And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son, 
 And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with 
 me. 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Bom 1808. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE BEOOK-SIDE. 
 
 [Lord Houghton. 
 
 1715.— LOVE NOT. 
 
 Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 
 Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly 
 
 flowers — 
 Things that are made to fade and fall away 
 Ere they have blossom'd for a few short hours. 
 Love not ! 
 
 Love not ! the thing ye love may change ; 
 The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 
 The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, 
 The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
 Love not ! 
 
 Love not ! the thing you love may die — 
 May perish from the gay and gladsome earth : 
 The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
 Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
 Love not ! 
 
 Love not ! oh warning vainly said 
 In present hours as in years gone by ; 
 Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
 Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
 Love not ! 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Born 1808. 
 
 1716.— THE KING OF DBNMAEK'S EIDE. 
 
 Word was brought to the Danish King 
 
 (Hurry!) 
 That the love of his heart lay suffering. 
 And pined for the comfort his voice would 
 bring; 
 
 (O ! ride as though you were flying !) 
 Better he loves each golden curl 
 On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
 Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ; 
 And his Eose of the Isles is dying I 
 
 Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 
 
 (Hurry !) 
 Each one mounting a gallant steed 
 Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 
 
 (O ! ride as though you were flying !) 
 Spurs were struck in the foaming flafik ; 
 Worn-out chargers stagger' d and sank ; 
 Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were burst ; 
 But ride as they would, the king rode first, 
 For his Eose of the Isles lay dying ! 
 
 His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 
 
 (Hurry !) 
 They have fainted, and faltered, and homewara 
 
 gone; 
 His little fair page now follows alone. 
 
 For strength and for courage trying ! 
 The king look'd back at that faithful child ; 
 Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
 They pass'd the drawbridge with clattering 
 
 din, 
 Then ho dropp'd ; and only the king rode in 
 Where his Eose of the Isles lay dying ; 
 
 The king blew a blast on his bugle horn. 
 
 (Silence !) 
 No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
 An echo return' d on the cold grey morn. 
 
 Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
 The castle portal stood grimly wide ;- 
 None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; 
 For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
 The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 
 Who had yearn' d for his voice while dying ! 
 
 The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 
 
 Stood weary. 
 The king return' d from her chamber of rest, 
 The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 
 
 And, that dumb companion eyeing. 
 The tears gush'd forth which he strove tD 
 
 check ; 
 He bow'd his head on his charger's neck : 
 " O, steed — that every nerve didst strain, 
 Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
 To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton. — Bom 1808. 
 
 1717.— THE BEOOK-SIDE. 
 
 I wander'd by the brook-side, 
 
 I wander'd by the mill ; 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow — 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 No chirp of any bird. 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
 
 I watch'd the long, long shade, 
 
 And, as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listen' d for a footfall, 
 
 I listen' d for a word — 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not — 
 The night came on alone — 
 The little stars sat one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening wind pass'd by my cheek. 
 The leaves above were stirr'd — 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 When something stood behind ; 
 A hand was on my shoulder — 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew me nearer — nearer, — 
 We did not speak one word. 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 Lord Houghton. — Born 1809 
 
Lord Houghton.] 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 1718.— THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 I know not that the men of old 
 
 Were better than men now, 
 Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 
 
 Of more ingenuous brow : 
 I heed not those who pine for force 
 
 A ghost of time to raise, 
 As if they thus could check the course 
 
 Of these appointed days. 
 
 Still is it true and over true, 
 
 That I delight to close 
 This book of life self- wise and new, 
 
 And let my thoughts repose 
 On all that humble happiness 
 
 The world has since foregone — 
 The daylight of contentedness 
 
 That on those faces shone ! 
 
 With rights, though not too closely scann'd, 
 
 Enjoy'd as far as known — 
 With will, by no reverse unmann'd — 
 
 With pulse of even tone — 
 They from to-day and from to-night - 
 
 Expected nothing more, 
 Than yesterday and yesternight 
 
 Had proffer' d them before. 
 
 To them was life a simple art 
 
 Of duties to be done, 
 A game where each man took his part, 
 
 A race where all must run ; 
 A battle whose great scheme and scope 
 
 They little cared to know. 
 Content, as men at arms, to cope 
 
 Each with his fronting foe. 
 
 Man now his virtue's diadem 
 
 Puts on, and proudly wears — 
 Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them. 
 
 Like instincts unawares : 
 Blending their souls' sublimest needs 
 
 With tasks of every day. 
 They went about their gravest deed:;, 
 
 As noble boys at play. 
 
 A man's best things are nearest him, 
 
 Lie close about his feet. 
 It is the distant and the dim 
 
 That we are sick to greet : 
 For flowers that grow our hands beneath 
 
 We struggle and aspire — 
 Oar hearts must die, except they breathe 
 
 The air of fresh desire. 
 
 But, brothers, who up reason's hill 
 
 Advance with hopeful cheer — 
 ! loiter not, those heights are chill, 
 
 As chill as they are clear ; 
 And still restrain your haughty gaze, 
 
 The loftier that ye go, 
 Eemembering distance leaves a haze 
 
 On all that lies below. 
 
 Lord Houghton. — Bom 1809. 
 
 1719.— THE LONG-AGO. 
 
 On that deep-retiring shore 
 
 Frequent pearls of beauty lie. 
 Where the passion- waves of yore 
 
 Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
 Sorrows that are sorrows still 
 
 Lose the bitter taste of wo ; 
 Nothing's altogether ill 
 
 In the griefs of Long-ago. 
 
 Tombs where lonely love repines, 
 
 Ghastly tenements of tears, 
 Where the look of happy shrines 
 
 Through the golden mist of years : 
 Death, to those who trust in good, 
 
 Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
 Oh ! we would not, if we could, 
 
 Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 
 
 Though the doom of swift decay 
 
 Shocks the soul where life is strong. 
 Though for frailer hearts the day 
 
 Lingers sad and overlong — 
 Still the weight will find a leaven. 
 
 Still the spoiler's hand is slow. 
 While the future has its heaven, 
 
 And the past its Long-ago. 
 
 Lord Houghton. — Born 1809. 
 
 1720.— THE OLD ARM-CHAIE. 
 
 I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare 
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ; 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 
 I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it 
 
 with sighs. 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat 
 
 there ; 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I linger d near 
 The hallow' d seat with listening ear ; 
 And gentle words that mother would give ; 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 With truth for my creed and God for my 
 
 guide ; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-cliair. 
 
 I sat and watch'd her many a day. 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were 
 
 gray ; 
 And I almost worshipp'd her whex she 
 
 smiled. 
 And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. 
 Years roll'd on ; but the last one sped — 
 My idol was shatter'd ; my earth-star fled : 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE OLD FARM-GATE. 
 
 [Eliza Cook. 
 
 "T is past, 't is past, but I gaze on it now 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she 
 
 died : 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly ; and deem me weak, 
 WhUe the scalding drops start down my 
 
 cheek ; "" 
 
 But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear ■ 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 Eliza Cook.— Born 1817. 
 
 t 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 17,21.— THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. 
 
 There's a magical tie to the land of our 
 
 home, 
 "Which the heart cannot break, though the 
 
 footstep may roam : 
 Be that land where it may, at the Line or the 
 
 Pole; 
 It still holds the magnet that draws back the 
 
 soul. 
 'Tis loved by the freeman, 'tis loved by the 
 
 slave, 
 'Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the 
 
 brave ! 
 Ask of any the spot they like best on the 
 
 earth, 
 And they'll answer with pride, " 'Tis the 
 
 land of my birth." 
 
 Oh, England ! thy white cliflfs are dearer to 
 
 me 
 Than all the famed coasts of a far foreign 
 
 sea; 
 What emerald can peer, or what sapphire can 
 
 vie, 
 With the grass of thy fields or thy summer- 
 day sky ? 
 Tliej'- tell, me of regions where flowers are 
 
 found. 
 Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise 
 
 round ; 
 But brighter to me cannot garland the earth 
 Than those that spring forth in the land of 
 
 my birth. 
 
 Did I breathe in a clime where the bulbul is 
 
 heard, 
 Where the citron-tree nestles the soft hum- 
 ming-bird : 
 Oh! I'd covet the notes of thy nightingale 
 
 still, 
 And remember the robin that feeds at my 
 
 sill. 
 Did my soul find a feast in the gay "land of 
 
 song," 
 In the gondolier's chant, or the carnival's 
 
 throng : 
 Could I ever forget, 'mid their music and 
 
 mirth, 
 The national strain of the land of my birth ? 
 
 My country, I love thee : — though freely I'd 
 
 rove 
 Throfigh the western savannah, or sweet 
 
 orange grove ; 
 Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the 
 
 gale 
 That bore me away with a homeward-bound 
 
 sail. 
 My country, I love thee I — and oh, mayst thou 
 
 have 
 The last throb of my heart, ere 'tis cold in 
 
 the grave ; 
 Mayst thou yield me that g^ave, in thine own 
 
 daisied earth, 
 And my ashes repose in the land of my birth ! 
 
 Eliza Cook. — Born 1817. 
 
 1722.— THE OLD FARM-GATE. 
 
 Where, where is the gate that once served to 
 divide 
 
 The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road- 
 side ? 
 
 I like not this barrier gaily bedight, 
 
 With its glittering latch and its trellis of 
 white. 
 
 It is seemly, I own — yet, oh ! dearer by far 
 
 Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather- 
 warp 'd bar. 
 
 Here are fashion and form of a modernized 
 date, 
 
 But I'd rather have look'd on the Old Farm- 
 gate. 
 
 'Twas here where the urchins would gather to 
 
 play, 
 In the shadows of twilight, or sunny mid-day ; 
 For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks 
 
 of sand, 
 Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could 
 
 withstand. 
 But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and 
 
 ride, 
 Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory, and 
 
 pride ; 
 And the car of the victor, or carriage of 
 
 state, 
 Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm- 
 gate. 
 
 'Twas here where the miller's son paced to 
 
 and fro. 
 When the moon was above and the glow- 
 worms below ; 
 Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick, 
 While the moments grew long and his heart- 
 throbs grew quick. 
 Why, why did he linger so restlessly there, 
 With church-going vestment and sprucely- 
 comb'd hair? 
 j He loved, oh ! he loved, and had promised to 
 
 wait 
 I For the one he adored, at the Old Farm-sate. 
 
Eliza Cook.] 
 
 THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THEEE [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Twas here where the ^ey-headed gossips 
 
 would meet ; 
 And the falling of markets, or goodne'Bs of 
 
 wheat — 
 This field lying fallow — that heifer just 
 
 bought — 
 Were favourite themes for discussion and 
 
 thought. 
 The merits and faults of a neighbour just 
 
 dead — 
 The hopes of a couple about to be wed — 
 The Parliament doings — the Bill and De- 
 bate — 
 Were all canvass' d and weigh' d at the Old 
 
 Farm-gate. 
 
 'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to 
 
 bound 
 With the strength of a steed and the grace of 
 
 a hound. 
 The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might 
 
 swim ; 
 But none could leap over that postern like 
 
 him. 
 When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making 
 
 trip, 
 And the quickly-pull'd willow-branch served 
 
 for a whip, 
 Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for 
 
 his freight, 
 While I climb' d on his back from the Old 
 
 Farm-gate. 
 
 'Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and 
 
 fame 
 May come winging our moments, and gilding 
 
 our name ; 
 But give me the joy and the freshness of 
 
 mind. 
 When, away on some sport — the old gate 
 
 slamm'd behind — 
 I've listen'd to music, but none that could 
 
 speak 
 In such tones to my heart as the teeth-setting 
 
 creak 
 That broke on my ear when the night had 
 
 worn late. 
 And the dear ones came home through the 
 
 Old Farm-gate. 
 
 Oh ! fair is the barrier taking its place, 
 
 But I it darkens a picture my soul long'd to 
 trace. 
 
 I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp, 
 
 And the rails that my growing hand scarcely 
 could clasp. 
 
 Oh ! how strangely the warm spirit grudges to 
 part 
 
 With the commonest relic once link'd to the 
 heart ; 
 
 And the brightest of fortune— the kindliest 
 fate — 
 
 Would not banish my love for the Old Farm- 
 gate. 
 
 Eliza Cool.— Born 1817. 
 
 1723.— THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT 
 THEEE. 
 
 We gather'd round the festive board. 
 
 The crackling fagot blazed ; 
 But few would taste the wine that pour'd, 
 
 Or join the song we raised : 
 For there was now a glass unfill'd — 
 
 A favour 'd place to spare ; 
 All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill' d — 
 
 The loved one was not there. 
 
 No happy laugh was heard to ring, 
 
 No form would lead the dance ; 
 A smother' d sorrow seem'd to fling 
 
 A gloom in every glance. 
 The grave had closed upon a brow, 
 
 The honest, bright, and fair ; 
 We miss'd our mate, we mourn' d the blow — 
 
 The loved one was not there. 
 
 Eliza Cook.— Born 1817. 
 
 17.24— THE OLD WATER-MILL. 
 
 And is this the old mill-stream that ten years 
 
 ago 
 Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow ; 
 Whose musical waters would ripple and shiue 
 With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine ? 
 
 Can this be its bed ? — I remember it weU 
 When it sparkled Hke silver through meauow 
 
 and dell; 
 When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald 
 
 side. 
 And the minnow and perch darted swift through 
 
 its tide. 
 
 Yes ! here was the »Tiiller's house, peaceful 
 
 abode ! 
 Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes 
 
 from the road ; 
 Where roses and jasmine embower'd a door 
 That never was closed to the wayworn or poor. 
 
 Where the miller, God bless him ! oft gave us 
 
 "a dance," 
 And led off the ball with his soul in his glance ; 
 Who, forgetting grey hairs, was as loud in his 
 
 mirth 
 As the veriest youngsters that circled his 
 
 hearth. 
 
 Blind Ralph was the only musician we had, 
 But his tunes — oh, such tunes — ^would make 
 
 any heart glad ! 
 "The Roast Beef of Old England," and " Green 
 
 grow the Rushes," 
 Woke our eyes' brightest beams, and our 
 
 cheeks' warmest flushes. 
 
 No lustre resplendent its brilliancy shed. 
 But the wood fire blazed high, and the board 
 was well spread ; 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 A EEMEMBEANCE. 
 
 [Dean Alford. 
 
 Oar seats were undamask'd, our partners were 
 
 rough, 
 Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough. 
 
 And here was the mill where we idled away 
 
 Our holiday hours on a clear summer day ; 
 
 Where Eoger, the miller's boy, loll'd on a 
 sack, 
 
 And chorus' d his song to the merry click- 
 clack. 
 
 But lo ! what rude sacrilege here hath been 
 
 done ! 
 The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun ; 
 It's course has been turn'd. and the desolate 
 
 edge 
 Is now mournfully cover' d with duckweed and 
 
 The mill is in ruins. No welcoming sound 
 In the mastiff's gruff bark and the wheels 
 
 dashing round ; 
 The house, too, untenanted — left to decay — 
 And the miller, long dead : all I loved pass'd 
 
 away! 
 
 This play-place of childhood was graved on 
 my heart 
 
 In rare Paradise colours that now must de- 
 part ; 
 
 The old water-miU's gone, the fair vision is 
 fled, 
 
 And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the 
 dead. 
 
 Eliza Cool. — Bo-i-n 1817. 
 
 1725.— A HOME IN THE HEART. 
 
 Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, 
 Where marble shines out in the pillars and 
 walls : 
 Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly 
 cold. 
 And joy may not be found in its torch- 
 lighted halls. 
 But seek for a bosom all honest and true. 
 Where love, once awaken' d, will never de- 
 part : 
 Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its 
 nest. 
 And you'll find there's no home like a home 
 in the heart. 
 
 Oh ! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere, 
 That will heighten your pleasure and solace 
 your care \ 
 Find a soul you may trust as the kind and 
 the just, 
 And be sure the wido world holds no 
 treasure so rare. 
 Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow 
 our lot. 
 The cheek-searing tear-drops of Sorrow may 
 start ; 
 
 13 at a star never dim sheds a halo for him 
 Who can turn for repose to a home in the 
 heart. 
 
 Eliza CooJc.—Born 1817. 
 
 1726.— A EEMEMBEANCE. 
 
 Methinks I can remember, when a shade 
 All soft and flow'ry was my couch, and I 
 A little naked child, with fair white flesh. 
 And wings all gold bedropt ; and o'er my 
 
 head 
 Bright fruits were hanging, and tall, balmy 
 
 shrubs 
 Shed odorous gums around me, and I lay 
 Sleeping and waking in that wondrous air. 
 Which seem'd infused with glory — and each 
 
 breeze 
 Bore, as it wander'd by, sweet melodies, 
 But whence I knew not : one delight was 
 ! there, 
 
 i Whether of feeling, or of sight, or touch, 
 ! I know not how — which is not on this earth, 
 I Something all-glorious and aU beautiful, 
 j Of which our language speaketh not, and 
 I which 
 
 Flies from the eager graspings of my thought, 
 I As doth the shade of a forgotten dream. 
 ! All knowledge had I, but I cared not then 
 i To search into my soul, and draw it thence : 
 I The blessed creatures that around me play'd, 
 i I knew them all, and where their resting was. 
 And all their hidden symmetries I knew. 
 And how the form is link'd unto the soul ; 
 I knew it all ; but thought not on it then ; 
 I was so happy. 
 
 And upon a time, 
 I saw an army of bright, beamy shapes. 
 Fair-faced, and rosy-cinctured, and gold- 
 wing' d. 
 Approach upon the air ; they came to me ; 
 And from a crystal chalice, silver-brimm'd, 
 Put sparkhng potion to my lips and stood 
 All around me, in the many blooming shade, 
 Shedding into the centre where I lay 
 A mingling of soft light ; and then they sung 
 Songs of the land they dwelt in ; and the last 
 Lingereth even till now upon mine ear. 
 Holy and blest 
 Be the calm of thy rest. 
 For thy chamber of sleep 
 Shall be dark and deep : 
 They will dig thee a tomb 
 In the dark, deep womb. 
 In the warm, dark womb. 
 
 Spread ye, spread the dewy mist around 
 him ; 
 Spread ye, spread, till the thick, dark night 
 
 surround him — 
 Till the dark, long night has bound him, 
 Which bindeth all before their birth 
 Down upon the nether earth. 
 The firsb cloud is beamy and bright, 
 The next cloud is mellow' d in light. 
 
Dean Alpobd.] 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 The third cloud is dim to the sight, 
 
 And it stretch' d away into gloomy night : 
 
 Twine ye, twine the mystic threads around 
 
 him; 
 Twine ye, twine, tm the fast, firm fate sur- 
 round him — 
 Till the firm, cold fate hath bound him, 
 Which bindeth all before their birth 
 Down upon the nether earth. 
 The first thread is beamy and bright, 
 The next thread is mellow^'d in light, 
 The third thread is dim to the sight. 
 And it stretcheth away into gloomy night. 
 
 Sing ye, sing the spirit song around him ; 
 Sing ye, sing, till the dull, warm sleep sur- 
 round him — 
 Till the warm, damp sleep hath bound him, 
 AVhich bindeth all before their birth 
 Down upon the nether earth. 
 The first dream is beamy and bright, 
 The next dream is mellow' d in light. 
 The third dream is dim to the si;,ht, 
 And it stretcheth away into gloomy night. 
 ■ Holy and blest 
 Is the calm of thy rest, 
 For thy chamber of sleep 
 Is dark and deep ; 
 « They have dug thee a tomb 
 In the dark, deep womb. 
 The warm, dark womb. 
 
 Then dimness pass'd upon me; and that 
 song 
 Was sounding o'er me when I woke again 
 To be a pilgrim on the nether earth. 
 
 Twine ye, twine the mystic threads around 
 him; 
 Twine ye, twine, tiU the fast, firm fate sur- 
 round him — 
 Till the firm, cold fate hath bound him, 
 Which bindeth all before their birth 
 Down upon the nether earth. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1727.— THE PAST. 
 
 Few have lived 
 As we have lived, unsever'd ; our young life 
 Was but a summer's frolic : we have been 
 Like two babes passing hand-in-hand along 
 A sunny bank on flowers — the busy world 
 Goes on around us, and its multitudes 
 Pass by me and I look them in the face 
 But cannot read such meaning as I read 
 In this of thine ; and thou, too, dost but move 
 Among them for a season, but returnest 
 With a light step and smiles to our old seats. 
 Our quiet walks, our solitary bower. 
 Some we love well ; the early presences 
 That were first round us, and the silvery tones 
 Of those most far away, and dreary voices 
 That sounded all aborit us at the dawn 
 Of our young life — these, as the world of 
 
 thinffs 
 
 Sets in upon our being like a tide, 
 Keep with us, and are for ever uppermost. 
 And some there are, tall, beautiful, and wise. 
 Whose step is heavenward, and whose souls 
 
 have past 
 Out from the nether darkness, and been borne 
 Into a new and glorious universe. 
 Who speak of things to come ! but there is 
 
 that 
 i In thy soft eye and long-accustom' d voice 
 W^ould win me from them all. 
 
 For since our birth, 
 I Our thoughts have fiow'd together in one 
 
 stream ; 
 All through the seasons of our infancy 
 The same hills rose about us — the same trees, 
 Now bare, now sprinkled with the tender leaf. 
 Now thick with full dark foliage — the same 
 
 church, 
 Our own dear vUlage church, has seen us pray 
 In the same seat, with hands clasp'd side by 
 
 side, — 
 And we have sung together ; and have walk'd, 
 Full of one thought, along the homeward 
 
 lane ; 
 And so were we built upwards for the storm 
 That on my walls hath fallen unsparingly, 
 Shattering their frail foundations ; and which 
 
 thou 
 Hast yet to look for, but hast found the help 
 Which then I knew not — rest thee firmly 
 
 there ! 
 
 When first I issued forth into the world, 
 WeU I remember — that unwelcome mom 
 When we rose long before the accustom' d 
 
 hour. 
 By the faint taper-light : and by that gate 
 We just now swung behind us carelessly, 
 I gave thee the last kiss ; I travell'd on, 
 Giving my mind up to the world without, 
 'Which pour'd in strange ideas of strange 
 
 things, — 
 New towns, new churches, new inhabitants: 
 And ever and anon some happy child 
 Beneath a rose-trail' d porch play'd as I 
 
 pass'd ; 
 And then the thought of thee swept through 
 
 my soul, 
 And made the hot drops stand in either eye. 
 
 Dean Alford. — Born 1810. 
 
 1728.— ONE SUMMEE'S NIGHT. 
 
 I remember well, one summer's night, 
 A clear, soft, silver moonlight, thou and I 
 Sat a full hour together, silently ; 
 Looking abroad into the pure pale heaven. 
 Perchance thou hast forgotten : but my arm 
 Was on thy shoulder, and thy clustering 
 
 locks 
 Hung lightly on my hand, and my clear eye 
 Glisten' d beside my forehead : and at length 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 [Dean Alpord. 
 
 Thou saidst — " 'Tis time we went to rest ; " 
 
 and then 
 We rose and parted for the night : no words 
 But those were spoken, and we never since 
 Have told each other of that moment. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1729.— MOENING AND EVENING. 
 
 Evening and Morning — those two ancient 
 
 names 
 So link'd with childish wonder, when with arm 
 Fast wound about the neck of one we loved, 
 Oft questioning, we heard Creation's tale — 
 Evening and morning ever brought to me 
 Strange joy ; the birth and funeral of Hght, 
 Whether in clear, unclouded majesty 
 The large sun pour'd his effluence abroad, 
 Or the grey clouds roll'd silently along, 
 Dropping their doubtful tokens as they pass'd 
 Whether above the hills intensely glow'd 
 Bright lines of parting glory in the west, 
 Or from the veil of faintly-redden'd mist 
 The darkness slow descended on the earth ; 
 The passing to a state of things all new — 
 New fears and new enjoyments — this was all 
 Food for my seeking ?pirit : I would stand 
 Upon the jutting hills that overlook 
 Our level moor, and watch the daylight fade 
 Along the prospect : now behind the leaves 
 The golden twinkles of the westering sun 
 Deepen' d to richest crimson : now from out 
 The solemn beech-grove, through the natural 
 
 aisles 
 Of pillar' d trunks, the glory in the west 
 Shew'd like Jehovah's presence fire, 'beheld 
 In olden times above the Mercj'-seat 
 Between the folded wings of Cherubim ; — 
 I loved to wander, -with the evening star 
 Heading my way, till from the palest speck 
 Of virgin silver, evermore Ut up 
 With radiance as by spirits minister'd, 
 She seem'd a living pool of golden light ; 
 I loved to learn the strange array of shapes 
 That pass along the circle of the year ; 
 Some, for the love of ancient yore, I kept : 
 And they would call into my fancy's eye 
 Chaldgean beacons, over the drear sand . 
 Seen faintly from thick-tower' d Babylon, 
 Against the sunset — shepherds in the field, 
 Watching their flocks by night — or shapes of 
 
 men 
 And high-neck'd camels, passing leisurely 
 Along the starr'd horizon, where the spice 
 Swims in the air, in Araby the Blest ; 
 And some, as Fancy led, I figured forth, 
 Misliking their old names ; one circlet bright 
 Gladdens me often, near the northern wain. 
 Which, with a childish playfulness of choice 
 That hath not pass'd away, I loved to call 
 The crown of glory, by the righteous judge 
 Against the day of his appearing, laid 
 In store for him who fought the fight of faith. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1730.— THE CROSS. 
 
 Methinks I could have borne to live my days 
 When by the pathway side, and in the dells, 
 By shading resting-place, or hollow bank 
 ^Vhere cm-ved the streamlet, or 01;^ peeping 
 
 rock, 
 Eose sweetly to the traveller's humble eye 
 The Cross in every corner of our land ; 
 ^Vhen from the wooded valleys morn and eve 
 Pass'd the low murmur of the angel-bell ; 
 Methinks I could have led a peaceful life 
 Daily beneath the triple-vaulted roof. 
 Chanting glad matins, and amidst the glow 
 Of mellow evening towards the village tower 
 Pacing my humble way. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1731.— GENTLEST GIEL. 
 
 Gentlest girl. 
 Thou wert a bright creation of my thought 
 In earliest childhood — and my seeking soul 
 Wander' d ill-satisfied, tUl one blest day 
 Thine image pass'd athwart it — thou wert then 
 A young and happy child, sprightly as life ; 
 Yet not so bright or beautiful as that 
 Mine inward vision ; — ^but a whispering voice 
 Said softly — This is she whom thou didst 
 
 choose ; 
 And thenceforth ever, through the mom of life, 
 Thou wert my playmate — thou my only joy, 
 Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not. — 
 And when my daily consciousness of hfe 
 Was born and died — thy name the last went 
 
 up, 
 Thy name the first, before our Heavenly Guide, 
 For favour and protection. All the flowers 
 Whose buds I cherish' d, and in summer heats 
 Fed with mock showers, and proudly show'd 
 
 their bloom, 
 For thee I rear'd, because all beautiful 
 And gentle things reminded me of thee : 
 Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun. 
 And the fall of evening, and the starry host, 
 If aught I loved, I loved beca.use thy name 
 Sounded about me when I look'd on them. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1732.— ENGLAND. 
 
 We have been dwellers in a lovely land, 
 A land of lavish lights and floating shades. 
 And broad green flats, border' d by woody 
 
 capes 
 That lessen ever as they stretch away 
 Into the distant blue ; a land of hills. 
 Cloud-gathering ranges, on whose ancient 
 
 breast 
 The morning mists repose : each autumn 
 
 tide 
 
Dean Alford.] 
 
 THERE IS AN ANCIENT MAN. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. — 
 
 Deep purple with the heath-bloom ; from whose 
 
 brow 
 We might behold the crimson sun go down 
 Behind the barrier of the western sea ; 
 A land of beautiful and stately fanes. 
 Aerial temples most magnificent, 
 Rising with clusters of rich pinnacles 
 And fretted battlements ; a land of towers, 
 Where sleeps f,he music of deep-voiced bells, 
 Save when in holy day time the joyous air 
 Ebbs to the welling sound ; and Sabbath 
 
 morn, 
 When from a choir of hill-side villages 
 The peaceful invitation churchward chimes. 
 So were our souls brought up to love this 
 
 earth 
 And feed on natural beauty : and the light 
 Of our own sunsets, and the mountains blue 
 That girt around our home, were very parts 
 Of our young being ; link'd with aU we 
 
 knew, 
 Centres of interest for undying thoughts 
 And themes of mindful converse. Happy 
 
 they 
 Who in the fresh and dawning time of youth 
 Have dwelt in such a land, turning their 
 
 souls 
 To the deep melodies of Nature's laws 
 Heard in the after-time of riper thought 
 Eeflective on past seasons of delight. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1733.— THERE IS AN xVNCIENT MAN. 
 
 There is an ancient man who dwells 
 Without our parish bounds. 
 Beyond the poplar-avenue. 
 Across two meadow-grounds ; 
 And whensoe'er our two small beUs 
 To church call merrily, 
 Leaning on our churchyard gate. 
 This old man ye may see. 
 
 He is a man of many thoughts. 
 That long have found their rest. 
 Each in its proper dwelling-place 
 Settled within his breast : 
 A form erect, a stately brow, 
 A set and measured mien — 
 The satisfied unroving look 
 Of one who much hath seen. 
 
 And once, when young in care of souls, 
 I watch'd a sick man's bed. 
 And willing half, and half ashamed. 
 Linger' d, and nothing said : 
 The ancient man, in accents mild, 
 Removed my slaamc away — 
 " Listen ! " he said ; " the minister 
 Prepares to kneel and pray." 
 
 These lines of humble thankfulness 
 Will never meet his eye ; 
 Unknown that old man means to live 
 And unrcmember'd die. 
 
 The forms of life have sever' d us — 
 But v/hen that life shall end, 
 Fain would I hail that reverend man, 
 A father and a friend.^ 
 
 Bean Alford.—Born 181 a 
 
 1734.— THE FATHER AND CHILD. 
 
 " Father, wake — the storm is loud, 
 The rain is falling fast ; 
 Let me go to my mother's grave, 
 And screen it from the blast. 
 She cannot sleep, she will not rest. 
 The wind is roaring so ; 
 We pray'd that she might lie in peace — 
 My father, let us go ! " 
 
 " Thy mother sleeps too firm a sleep 
 To heed the wind that blows ; 
 There are angel-charms that hush the noise 
 From reaching her repose. 
 Her spirit in dreams of the blessed Land 
 Is sitting at Jesu's feet ; 
 Child, nestle thee in mine arms and pray 
 Our rest may be as sweet ! " 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1735.— AUTUMN. 
 
 How soothing is that sound of far-off wheels 
 Under the golden sheen of the harvest-moon ! 
 In the shade-chequer' d road it half reveals 
 A homeward-wending group, with heart in 
 
 tune 
 To thankful merriment ; — father and boy, 
 And maiden with her gleanings on her head ; 
 And the last waggon's rumble heard with joy 
 In the kitchen with the ending-supper spread. 
 But while I listening stand, the sound hath 
 
 And hark, from many voices lustily 
 The harvest home, the prelude to the feast, 
 In measured bursts is pealing loud and high ; 
 Soon all is still again beneath the bright 
 Full moon, that guides me home this autumn 
 night. 
 
 Dean Alford.—Born 1810. 
 
 1736.— MY OWN DEAR COUNTRY. 
 
 My own dear country ! — thy remembrance 
 comes 
 Like softly-flowing music on my heart ; 
 With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes. 
 And cots rose-bower' d, bosom' d in dells apart ; 
 The merry pealing of our village-bells 
 Gush ever and anon upon mine ear ; 
 And is there not a far-off sound that teUs 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MOUENEES. 
 
 [Charles Macka.y. 
 
 Of many- voiced laughter shrill and clear ? 
 Oh ! were I now with thee — to sit and play- 
 Under the hawthorn on the slope o' th' hiU, 
 As I was wont to do ; or pluck all day 
 The cowslip and the flaunting daffodil, 
 Till shepherds whistled homeward, and the 
 
 west 
 Folded the large sun in crimson breast ! 
 
 Dean Alford. — Born 1810. 
 
 1 737-— THE PASTING OF LOVEES. 
 
 Now, from his eastern couch, the sun, 
 
 Erewhile in cloud and vapour hidden, 
 Eose in his robes of glory dight ; 
 And skywards, to salute his light, 
 
 Upsprang a choir, unbidden. 
 Of joyous larks, that, as they shook 
 
 The dewdrops from their russet pinions, 
 Peal'd forth a hymn so glad and clear, 
 That darkness might have paused to hear 
 
 (Pale sentinel on mom's dominions), 
 And envied her the flood of song 
 Those happy minstrels pour'd along. 
 
 The lovers listen' d. Earth and heaven 
 
 Seem'd pleased alike to hear the strain ; 
 And Gilbert, in that genial hour. 
 
 Forgot his momentary pain : 
 "Happy," said he, " beloved maid, 
 
 Our lives might flow 'mid scenes like this ; 
 Still eve might bring us dreams of joy. 
 
 And mom awaken us to bHss. 
 I could forgive thy jealous brother ; 
 
 And Mora's quiet shades might be 
 Bless'd with the love of one another, 
 
 A Paradise to thee and me. 
 
 Yes, Peace and Love might build a nest 
 
 For us amid these vales serene. 
 And Truth should be our constant guest 
 
 Among these pleasant wild-woods green. 
 My heart should never nurse again 
 The once fond dreams of young Ambition, 
 And Glory's light should lure in vain, 
 
 Lest it should lead to Love's perdition ; 
 Another light should round me shine. 
 Beloved, from those eyes of thine ! " 
 
 " Ah, Gilbert ! happy should I be 
 This hour to die, lest fate reveal 
 
 That Hfe can never give a joy 
 Such as the joy that now I feel. 
 
 Oh ! happy ! happy ! now to die. 
 
 And go before thee to the sky ; 
 
 Losing, maybe, some charm of life, 
 
 But yet escaping all its strife ; 
 
 And, watching for thy soul above, 
 
 There to renew more perfect love, 
 
 Without the pain and tears of this — 
 
 Eternal, never palling bliss ! " 
 
 And more she yet would say, and strives to 
 
 speak. 
 But warm, fast tears begin to course her cheek. 
 
 And sobs to choke her ; so, reclining still 
 Her head upon his breast, she weeps her fill ; 
 And aU so lovely in those joyous tears 
 To his impassion'd eyes the maid appears; 
 He cannot dry them, nor one word essay 
 To soothe such sorrow from her heart away. 
 
 At last she lifts her drooping head, 
 
 And, with her deUcate fingers, dashes 
 The tears away that hang hke pearls 
 
 Upon her soft eyes' silken lashes . 
 Then hand in hand they take their way 
 
 O'er the green meadows gemm'd with dew. 
 And up the hill, and through the wood, 
 
 And by the streamlet, bright and blue, 
 And sit them down upon a stone 
 With mantling mosses overgrown. 
 
 That stands beside her cottage door. 
 And oft repeat. 
 When next they meet. 
 
 That time shall never part them more. 
 
 He's gone ! Ah no ! he lingers yet, 
 And all her sorrow, who can tell ? 
 
 As gazing on her face he takes 
 His last and passionate farewell. 
 
 " One kiss ! " said he, " and I depart. 
 
 With thy dear image in my heart : 
 
 One more — to soothe a lover's pain, 
 
 And think of till I come again ! 
 
 One more.' ' Their red lips meet and trembble* 
 
 And she, unskilful to dissemble. 
 
 Allows, deep blushing, while he presses. 
 
 The warmest of his fond caresses. 
 
 Charles Mackay. — Born 1812. 
 
 1738.— THE CHILD AND THE 
 
 MOUENEES. 
 
 A little child, beneath a tree, 
 
 Sat and chanted cheerily 
 
 A little song, a pleasant song. 
 
 Which was — she sang it all day long — 
 
 " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 
 
 But a good God reigns over all." 
 
 There pass'd a lady by the way, 
 Moaning in the face of day : 
 There were tears upon her cheek, 
 Grief in her heart too great to speak ; 
 Her husband died but yester-morn, 
 And left her in the world forlorn. 
 
 She stopp'd and listen'd to the child 
 
 That look'd to heaven, and singing, smiled ; 
 
 And saw not, for her own despair, 
 
 Another lady, young and fair. 
 
 Who also passing, stopp'd to hear 
 
 The infant's anthem ringing clear. 
 
 For she but few sad days before 
 Had lost the little babe she bore ; 
 And grief was heavy at her soul 
 As that sweet memory o'er her stole. 
 And show'd how bright had been the past, 
 The present drear and overcast. 
 
Chaeles Mackat.] 
 
 UNDEE THE HOLLY BOUGH. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod.- 
 
 And as they stood beneath the tree 
 Listening, soothed and placidly, 
 A youth came by, whose sunken eyes 
 Spake of a load of miseries ; 
 And he, aiTested like the twain, 
 Stopp'd to listen to the strain. 
 
 Death had bow'd the youthful head 
 Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 
 Her marriage robes were fitted on, 
 Her fair young face with blushes shone. 
 When the destroyer smote her low, 
 And changed the lover's bliss to woe. 
 
 And these three listen 'd to the song, 
 Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 
 Which that child, the livelong day, 
 Chanted to itself in play : 
 " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 
 But a good God reigns over all." 
 
 The -tvidow's lips impulsive moved ; 
 The mother's grief, though unreproved, 
 Soften'd, as her trembling tongue 
 Repeated what the infant sung ; 
 And the sad lover, with a start, 
 Conn'd it over to his heart. 
 
 And though the child — ^if child it were, 
 And not a seraph sitting there — 
 Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 
 Went on their way resignedly. 
 The song still ringing in their ears — 
 "Was it music of the spheres ? 
 
 Who shall tell ? They did not know. 
 
 But in the midst of deepest woe 
 
 The strain recurr'd,^ when sorrow grew, 
 
 To warn them, and console them too : 
 
 " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 
 
 But a good God reigns over all." 
 
 Charles Mackay. — Born 1812. 
 
 173,9.— TJNDEE THE HOLLY BOUGH. 
 
 A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS. 
 I. 
 
 Ye who have scorn' d each other, 
 Or injured friend or brother. 
 In this fast fading year ; 
 Ye who, by word or deed. 
 Have made a kind heart bleed. 
 Come gather here ! 
 Let sinn'd against, and sinning. 
 Forget their strife's beginning, 
 And join in friendship now — 
 Be links no longer broken ; — 
 Be sweet forgiveness spoken 
 Under the Holly Bough. 
 
 II. 
 Ye who have loved each other, 
 Sister, and friend, and brother, 
 
 In this fast fading year : 
 Mother and sire and child, 
 Young man, and maiden mild. 
 Come gather here ; 
 And let your hearts grow fonder. 
 As memory shall ponder 
 Each past unbroken vow. 
 Old loves and younger wooing 
 Are sweet in the renewing. 
 Under the Holly Bough. 
 
 Ye who have nourish'd sadness, 
 Estranged from hope and gladness, 
 In this fast fading year ; 
 Ye with o'erburden'd mind 
 Made aliens from your kind, 
 Come gather here. 
 Let not the useless sorrow 
 Pursue you night and morrow. 
 If e'er you hoped, hope now — 
 Take heart ; — unclond your faces, 
 And join in our embraces 
 Under the Holly Bough. 
 
 Charles Mackay. — Born 1812. 
 
 1740.— WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 
 
 What might be done if men were \vise — 
 "What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, 
 
 Would they unite 
 
 In love and right. 
 And cease their scorn of one another ? 
 
 Oppression's heart might be imbued 
 
 With kindling drops of loving-kindness ; 
 
 And knowledge pour, 
 
 Erom shore to shore. 
 Light on the eyes of mental bKndness. 
 
 All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs. 
 All vice and crime, might die together ; 
 
 And wine and corn. 
 
 To each man born, 
 Be free as warmth in summer weather. 
 
 The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
 The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow. 
 
 Might stand erect 
 
 In self-respect. 
 And share the teeming world to-morrow. 
 
 What might be done ? This might be done. 
 And more than this, my suffering brother — -. 
 
 More than the tongue 
 
 E'er said or sung. 
 If men were wise and loved each other. 
 
 Charles Mackay. — Bom 1812. 
 
From 1780 to 186G.J THE SAILOE'S WIFE. [Charles Mackay 
 
 1 7 41.— THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 They shall use, and not abuse, 
 
 Tliere's'a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 We may not live to see the day, 
 
 And make all virtue stronger ; 
 The reformation has begun ; — 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 But earth shall glisten in the ray 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 
 A good time coming : 
 
 Cannon balls may aid the truth, 
 
 Let us aid it aU we can, 
 
 But thought 's a weapon stronger ; 
 
 Every vfoman, every man. 
 
 We' 11 win our battle by its aid; — 
 
 The good time coming. 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Smallest helps, if rightly given. 
 
 
 Makes the impulse stronger ; 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 'Twill be strong enough one day ; — 
 
 A good time coming : 
 
 , Wait a little longer. 
 
 The pen shall supersede the sword ; 
 
 
 And Eight, not Might, shall be the lord 
 
 Charles Mackay.— Bom 1812. 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
 
 Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 
 And be acknowledged stronger ; 
 
 
 
 The proper impulse has been given ;— 
 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 1742.— THH SAILOE'S W^IFE. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 A good time coming : 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity 
 
 I've a letter from thy sire, 
 
 Baby mine. Baby mine . 
 I can read and never tire, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 He is sailing o'er the sea — 
 
 Nations shall not quarrel then, 
 
 To prove which is the stronger ; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 He is coming back to thee, 
 He is coming home to me. 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 He's been parted from us long. 
 
 L A good time coming : 
 
 Baby mine, Baby mine ! 
 
 H Hateful rivalries of creed 
 
 But if hearts be true and strong. 
 
 ^ Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
 They shall brave Misfortune's blast, 
 
 Eoligion shall be shorn of pride, 
 
 And be overpaid at last 
 
 And flourish all the stronger ; 
 
 For all pain and sorrow pass'd. 
 
 And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 
 
 Baby mine I 
 
 W^ait a little longer. 
 
 
 
 Oh, I long to see his face. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 Baby mine, Baby mine ! 
 
 A good time coming : 
 
 In his old accustom'd place. 
 
 And a poor man's family 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 Shall not be his misery 
 
 Like the rose of May in bloom. 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
 Like a star amid the gloom. 
 
 wL Every child shall be a help 
 
 Like the sunshine in the room. 
 
 W To make his right arm stronger ; 
 
 Baby mine 1 
 
 The happier he the more he has ; — 
 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Thou wilt see him and rejoice, 
 
 1 
 
 Baby mine. Baby mine ! 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 Thou wilt know him by his voice, 
 
 A good time coming ; 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 i Little children shall not toil 
 
 By his love-looks that endear. 
 
 1 Under, or above, the soil 
 
 . By his laughter ringing clear. 
 
 fc In the good time coming ; 
 
 By his eyes that know not fear. 
 
 P But shall play in healthful fields 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
 
 
 And every one shall read and write ; — 
 
 I'm so glad — I cannot sleep, 
 
 1 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Baby mine, Baby mine ! 
 
 
 I'm so happy — I could weep, 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
 A good time coming : 
 
 He is sailing o'er the sea. 
 
 The people shall be temperate. 
 
 He is coming home to me. 
 
 And shall love instead of hate. 
 
 He is coming back to thee. 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
 Baby mine ! 
 
Alexander Smith.] 
 
 LADY BAEBAEA. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Pakt II. 
 
 O'er the blue ocean g-leaming 
 She sees a distant ship, 
 
 As small to view 
 
 As the white sea-mew 
 Whose wings in the billows dip. 
 " Blow favouring gales, in her answering sails ! 
 Blow steadily and free ! , 
 
 Eejoicing, strong, 
 
 Singing a song, 
 
 Her rigging and her spars among, 
 
 And waft the vessel in pride along, 
 That bears my love to me." 
 
 Nearer — still nearer driving. 
 
 The white sails grow and swell ; 
 Clear to her eyes 
 The pennant flies, 
 And the flag she knows so well. 
 *' Blow favouring gales, in her answering 
 sails ! 
 Waft him, O gentle sea ! 
 And still, O heart ! 
 Thy fluttering start ! 
 Why throb and beat as thou wpuldst 
 
 part. 
 When all so happy and bless'd thou art ? 
 He comes again to thee ! " 
 
 The swift ship drops her anchor — 
 A boat puts off for shore — 
 Against its prow 
 The ripples flow, 
 To tho music of the oar. 
 " And art thou here, mine own, my dear, 
 Safe from the perilous sea ? — 
 Safe, safe at home, 
 No more to roam ! 
 
 Blow, tempests blow — my love has come ! 
 And sprinkle the clouds with your dash- 
 ing foam ! 
 He shall part no more from me ! " 
 
 Charles Machay. — Bom 1812. 
 
 1743.— LADY BAEBAEA. 
 
 Earl Gawain woo'd the Lady Barbara, — 
 High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! 
 'Mong broad-branch' d beeches in the summer 
 
 shaw, 
 In soft green light his passion he has told. 
 When rain-beat winds did shriek across the 
 
 wold. 
 The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear 
 Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold ; 
 Silent she sat his am'rous breath to hear. 
 With calm and steady eyes, her heart was 
 
 otherwhere. 
 
 He sigh'd for her through all the summer 
 
 weeks ; 
 Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs 
 Bore glorious apples with smooth, shining 
 
 cheeks. 
 
 Earl Gawain came and whisper'd, " Lady, 
 
 rouse ! 
 Thou art no vestal held in holy vows ; 
 Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." 
 Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows — 
 He Avho, exulting on the trumpet's breath, 
 Came charging like a star across the lists of 
 
 death, 
 
 Trembled, and pass'd before her high rebuke: 
 And then she sat, her hands clasp' d round 
 
 her knee : 
 Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look, 
 For in a morning cold as misery 
 She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; 
 Before the north 'twas driven Hke a cloud, 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
 The wind was whistling through mast and 
 
 shroud. 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he sing 
 
 aloud : — 
 
 " Didst look last night upon my native vales. 
 Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea hast 
 
 clomb ? 
 Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails, 
 Upon the salt sea must I ever roam. 
 Wander for ever on the barren foam ? 
 Oh ! happy are ye, resting mariners. 
 
 Death, that thou wouldst come and take^ 
 
 me home ! 
 A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, 
 And onward I must float through slow moon- 
 measured years. 
 
 " Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on. 
 Frothing the waters, and along our way, 
 Nor cape nor headland through red mornings 
 
 shone. 
 One wept aloud, one shudder' d down to pray, 
 One howl'd, ' Upon the deep we are astray.' 
 On our wild hearts his words fell like a 
 
 bhght : 
 In one short hour my hair was stricken gray. 
 For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight 
 As we went driving on through the cold staijy 
 
 night. 
 
 " Madness fell on me in my loneliness. 
 The sea foam'd curses, and the reeling sky 
 Became a dreadful face which did oppress 
 Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. 
 It fled, when I burst forth into a cry — 
 A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep ; 
 
 1 hid, but in all corners they did pry, 
 
 And dragg'd me forth, and round did dance 
 
 and leap ; 
 They mouth' d on me in dream, and tore me 
 
 from sweet sleep. 
 
 "Strange constellations burn'd above my head, 
 Strange birds around the vessel shriek'd and 
 
 flew. 
 Strange shapes, like shadows, through the 
 
 clear sea fled, 
 As our lone ship, wide- wing' d, came rippling 
 
 through. 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 LOVE IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 [George Meredith. 
 
 Angering to foam the smootli and sleeping 
 
 blue." 
 The lady sigh'd, '• Far, far upon the sea, 
 My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! 
 The wind blows shrill between my lore and 
 
 me." 
 Pond heart ! the space between was but the 
 
 apple-tree. 
 
 There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands 
 She fled to him, hke worn bird to her nest ; 
 Like washing water on the figured sands, 
 His being came and went in sweet unrest. 
 As from the mighty shelter of his breast 
 The Lady Barbara her head uprears 
 With a wan smile, " Methinks I'm but half 
 
 blest : 
 Now when I've found thee, after weary years, 
 I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with 
 
 tears." 
 
 Alexander Smith. — Born 1830. 
 
 1744.— LOVE IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 Under yonder beech-tree standing on the green 
 sward. 
 
 Couch' d with her arms behind her little head, 
 
 Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her 
 bosom. 
 
 Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
 
 Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her ! 
 
 Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded 
 slow. 
 
 Waking on the instant she could not but em- 
 brace me — 
 
 Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? 
 
 Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the 
 swallow ; 
 
 Swift as the swallow when athwart the western 
 flood 
 
 Circleting the surface he meets his mirror' d 
 winglets — 
 
 Is that dear one in her maiden bud. 
 
 Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine- 
 tops ; 
 
 Gentle— ah ! that she were jealous — as the 
 dove! 
 
 Eull of all the wildness of the woodland crea- 
 tiu'es, 
 
 Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! 
 
 What can have taught her distrust of all I tell 
 her ? 
 
 Can she truly doubt me when looking on my 
 brows ? 
 
 Nature never teaches distrust of tender love- 
 tales — 
 
 What can have taught her distrust of all my 
 vows ? 
 
 No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy evetide 
 
 Whispering together beneath the listening 
 moon, 
 
 I pray'd till her cheek flush'd, implored till 
 
 she falter' d — 
 Flutter' d to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so 
 
 soon ! 
 
 When her mother tends her before the laugh- 
 ing mirror, 
 Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, 
 Often she thinks — were this wild thing wedded, 
 I should have more love, and much less care. 
 When her mother tends her before the bashful 
 
 mirror. 
 Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, 
 Often she thinks — were this Avild thing wedded, 
 I should lose but one for so many boys and 
 girls. 
 
 Clambering roses peep into her chamber ; 
 Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet, 
 White-neck'd swallows, twittering of summer, 
 Fill her with balm and nested peace from head 
 
 to feet. 
 Ah ! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely. 
 When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on the 
 
 leaves ? 
 Will the autumn garners see her still un- 
 
 gather'd, 
 WTien the fickle swallows forsake the weeping 
 
 eaves ? 
 
 Comes a sudden question — should a strange 
 
 hand pluck her ! 
 Oh ! what an anguish smites me at the thought! 
 Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with 
 
 jewels ! — 
 Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? 
 Sometimes the huntsmen prancing down the 
 
 valley 
 Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth; 
 They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! 
 Would she were older and could read my 
 
 worth ! 
 
 Are there not sweet maidens, if she still deny 
 
 me ? 
 Show the bridal heavens but one bright star ? 
 Wlaerefore thus, then, do I chase a shadow, 
 Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar ? 
 So I rhyme and reason till she darts before 
 
 me — 
 Through the milky meadows from flower to 
 
 flower she flies, * 
 
 Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled 
 
 eyehds 
 From the golden love that looks too eager in 
 
 her eyes. 
 
 When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face 
 
 gazes 
 Out on the weather through the window panes. 
 Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-hly 
 Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. 
 When from bed she rises clothed from neck to 
 
 ankle 
 In her long night gown, sweet as boughs of 
 
 May, 
 Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily 
 
 Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 
 
 I 77 
 
Gerald Massey.] 
 
 THE MEN OF FOEXr-EIGHT. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 Happy, happy time, when the gray star 
 
 twinkles 
 Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew ; 
 When the cold-cheek'd dawn grows ruddy up 
 
 the twilight, 
 And the gold sun wakes and weds her in the 
 
 blue. 
 Then when my darling tempts the early 
 
 breezes, 
 She the only star that dies not with the 
 
 dark; 
 Powerless to speak all the ardour of my passion, 
 I catch her little hand as we listen to the 
 
 lark. 
 
 Shall the birds in vain then valentine their 
 
 sweethearts ? 
 Season after season tell a fruitless tale ? 
 Will not the virgin listen to their voices ? 
 Take the honey' d meaning, wear the bridal 
 
 veil? 
 Pears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare 
 
 branches ? 
 Waits she the garlands of Spring for her 
 
 dower ? 
 Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 
 Till the April woodland has built her bridal 
 
 bower ? 
 
 Then come, merry April, with all thy birds 
 
 and beauties ! 
 With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, 
 
 showery glee ! 
 With thy budding leafage and fresh green 
 
 pastures ; 
 And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honey- 
 moon for me ! 
 Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the 
 
 violet ! 
 Come, weeping Loveliness in all thy blue 
 
 delight ! 
 Xo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish 
 
 longer ! 
 Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 
 
 George Meredith. — Born 1828. 
 
 1745.— THE MEN OF FOETY-EIGHT. 
 
 They rose in Freedom's rare sunrise. 
 
 Like giants roused from wine ; 
 And in their hearts and in their eyes 
 
 The god leapt up divine ! 
 Their souls flash'd out like naked swords, 
 
 Unsheath'd for fiery fate ; 
 Strength went like battle with their words— 
 The men of Forty-eight ; 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Dark days have fallen, yet in the strife 
 
 They bate no hope sublime, 
 And bravely works the exultant Hfe, 
 
 Their heart's pulse through the time ; 
 
 As grass is greenest trodden down, 
 
 So suffering makes men great, 
 And this dark tide shall richly crown 
 
 The work of Forty-eight ; 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Some in a bloody burial sleep, 
 
 Like Greeks to glory gone, 
 But in their steps avengers leap 
 
 With their proof-armour on ; 
 And hearts beat high with dauntless trust 
 
 To triumph soon or late, 
 Though they be mouldering down in dust — 
 
 Brave men of Forty-eight ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Oh ! when the world wakes up to worst 
 
 The tyrants once again, 
 And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst, 
 
 Eare music ! on the brain, — 
 With heart to heart, in many a land, 
 
 Ye' 11 find them all elate — 
 Brave remnant of that Spartan band. 
 
 The men of Forty-eight ; 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 1746.- 
 
 -NO JEWELL'D BEAUTY IS MY 
 LOVE. 
 
 No jowell'd beauty is my love, 
 
 Yet in her earnest face 
 There's such a world of tenderness, 
 
 She needs no other grace. 
 Her smiles and voice around my life 
 
 In light and music twine, 
 And dear, oh ! very dear to me 
 
 Is this sweet love of mine. 
 
 Oh joy ! to know there's one fond heart 
 
 Beats ever true to me : 
 It sets mine leaping like a lyre, 
 
 In sweetest melody ; 
 My soul up-springs, a deity i 
 
 To hear her voice divine ; 
 And dear, oh ! very dear to me 
 
 Is this sweet love of mine. 
 
 If ever I have sigh'd for wealth, 
 
 'Twas aU for her, I trow ; 
 And if I win Fame's victor- wreath, 
 
 I'U twine it on her brow. 
 There may be forms more beautiful, 
 
 And souls of sunnier shine, 
 But none, oh ! none so dear to me 
 
 As this sweet love of miae. 
 
 Gerald Massey.— Bom 1828. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SWEET-AND-TWENTY. 
 
 [Gerald Masset. 
 
 1747.— A POOE MAN'S WIFE. 
 
 Her dainty hand nestled in mine, rich and 
 white, 
 
 And timid as trembling dove ; 
 And it twinkled about me, a jewel of light, 
 
 As she garnish' d our feast of love : 
 'Twas the queenliest hand in all lady -land. 
 
 And she was a poor man's wife ! 
 Oh ! httle ye'd think how that wee, white hand 
 
 Could dare in the battle of life. 
 
 Her heart it was lowly as maiden's might be. 
 
 But hath climb'd to heroic height, 
 And buru'd like a shield in defence of me, 
 
 On the sorest field of fight ! 
 And startling as fire, it has often fiash'd up 
 
 In her eyes, the good heart and rare ! 
 As she drank down her half of our bitterest 
 cup, 
 
 And taught me how "to bear. 
 
 Her sweet eyes that seem'd, with their smile 
 subhme. 
 Made to look me and light me to heaven. 
 They have triumph' d through bitter tears 
 many a time, 
 Since their love to my life was given ; 
 And the maiden-meek voice of the womanly 
 wife 
 Still bringeth the heavens nigher : 
 For it rings like the voice of God over my 
 life. 
 Aye bidding me climb up higher. 
 
 I hardly dared think it was human, when 
 
 I first look'd in her yearning face ; 
 For it shone as the heavens had open'd then, 
 
 And clad it with glory and grace ! 
 But dearer its light of healing grew 
 
 In our dark and desolate day, 
 As the rainbow, when heaven hath no break 
 of blue, 
 
 Smileth the storm away. 
 
 Oh ! her shape was the lithest loveliness, — 
 
 Just an armful of heaven to enfold ! 
 But the form that bends flower-like in love's 
 caress. 
 With the victor's strength is soul'd ! 
 In her worshipful presence transfigured I 
 stand, 
 And the poor man's English home 
 She lights with the beauty of Greece the 
 grand, 
 And the glory of regallest Eome. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 One kiss more, sweet I 
 Warm as a morning sunbeam's dewy gold 
 Slips in a red rose's fragrantest fold, 
 Sets its green blood all a-blush, burning up 
 At the fresh feel of life, in its crimson cup ! 
 
 One kiss more, sweet ! 
 Full as the flush of the sea- waves grand 
 Flooding the sheeny fire out of the sand ; 
 On all the shores of my being let bliss 
 Break with its neap-tide sea in a kiss ! 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 1748.— KISSES. 
 
 One kiss more, sweet ! 
 Soft as voluptuous wind of the west, 
 Or silkenest surge of thy purple- vein' d breast, 
 Ripe lips all ruddily melting apart, 
 Drink up the honey and wine of my heart ! 
 
 1 749.— SWEET-AND-TWENTY. 
 
 Oh ! my love's a winsome lady ; 
 
 Sweeter face ne'er fed Love on! 
 In a court, or forest shady, 
 
 Queenlier beauty never shone. 
 
 Like a ladye from a far land 
 
 Came my true love, brave to see ! 
 
 As to heaven its rainbow garland, 
 Is her beauty rich to me. 
 
 In white arms of love she wound me, 
 And I look'd up in her smile : 
 
 In warm arms of love she bound me, 
 As the sea takes some blest isle. 
 
 As some dusky lake may mirror 
 One fair star that shines above, 
 
 So my life — aye growing clearer — 
 Holds this tremulous star of love. 
 
 Oh ! to see her life in blossom, 
 
 With its bloom of bravery ! 
 Pure the dew lies in the bosom 
 
 Of her sweet virginity. 
 
 Nearest to my heart I wear her ; 
 
 As a bark the waves above — 
 Oh ! so proudly do I bear her 
 
 On the bosom of my love ! 
 
 Look you, how she cometh, trilling 
 Out her gay heart's bird-like bliss ! 
 
 Merry as a May-morn, thrilling 
 With the dew and sunshine's kiss. 
 
 Euddy gossips of her beauty 
 
 Are her twin cheeks : and her mouth 
 
 In its ripe warmth smileth, fruity 
 As a garden of the south. 
 
 Ha ! my precious Sweet-and-Twonty, 
 Husband still your virgin pride ! 
 
 Just a month, and this dear, dainty 
 Thing shall be my wedded bride. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Bsm 1828. 
 
 77* 
 
Geeald Masset.] 
 
 SWEET SPIEIT OF MY LOVE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 1750.— SWEET SPIEIT OF MY LOVE. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 Through all the world we walk apart : 
 
 Thou mayst not in my bosom he : 
 I may not press thee to my heart, 
 
 Nor see love-thinkings hght thine eye : 
 Yet art thou with me. All my life 
 
 Orbs out in thy warm beauty's sphere ; 
 My bravest dreams of thee are rife, 
 
 And colour' d with thy presence dear. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 I know how beautiful thou art, 
 
 But never tell the starry thought : 
 I only whisper to my heart, 
 
 " She lights with heaven thy earthhest 
 spot." 
 And birds that night and day rejoice, 
 
 And fragrant winds, give back to me 
 A music ringing of thy voice, 
 
 And surge my heart's love-tide to thee. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 The spring and summer, bloom-bedight, 
 
 That garland earth with rainbow-sliowers, 
 Mom's kissing breath, and eyes of light, 
 
 That wake in smiles the winking flowers, 
 The air with honey' d fragrance fed, 
 
 The flashing waters, — soughing tree, — 
 Noon's golden glory, — sundown red, 
 
 Aye warble into songs of thee. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 When night's soft silence clothes the earth, 
 
 And wakes the passionate bird of love ; 
 And stars laugh out in golden mirth, 
 
 And yearning souls divinelier move ; 
 "When God's breath hallows every spot, 
 
 And, lapp'd in feehng's luxury, 
 The heart's break-full of tender thought ; 
 
 Then art thou with me, still with me. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 I listen for thy footfall,— feel 
 
 Thy look is burning on me, such 
 As reads my heart : I sometimes reel 
 
 And throb, expectant for thy touch ! 
 For by the voice of woods and brooks. 
 
 And flowers with virgin-fragrance wet, 
 And earnest stars with yearning looks, 
 
 I know that we shall mingle yet. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 Strange places on me smile, as thou 
 
 Hadst pass'd, and left thy beauty's tints : 
 The wild flowers even the secret know, 
 
 And light and shade flash mystic hints. 
 Meseems, like olden gods, thou'lt come] 
 
 In cloud ; but mine anointed eyes 
 Shall see the glory burn through gloom, 
 
 And clasp thee, Sweet ! with large sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 1 75 1. —OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 There she sits in her Island-home, 
 
 Peerless among her peers ! 
 And Humanity oft to her arms doth come, 
 
 To ease its poor heart of tears. 
 Old England still throbs with the muffled fire 
 
 Of a past she can never forget ; 
 And again shall she banner the world up 
 higher : 
 
 For there's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 They would mock at her now, who of old 
 look'd forth 
 In their fear, as they heard her afar ; 
 But loud will your wail be, O Kings of the 
 Earth ! 
 When the Old Land goes down to the 
 war. 
 The avalanche trembles, half-launch'd, and 
 half-riven. 
 Her voice will in motion set : 
 Oh ring out the tidings, ye winds of heaven I 
 There's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 The old nursing mother's not hoary yet, 
 There is sap in her Saxon tree ; — 
 Lo ! she lifteth a bosom of glory yet. 
 
 Through her mists, to the sun and the 
 Sea. 
 Fair as the Queen of Love, fresh from the 
 foam, 
 Or a star in a dark cloud set ; 
 Ye may blazon her shame, — ye may leap at 
 her name, — 
 But there's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 Let the storm burst, it will find the Old Land 
 
 Eeady-ripe for a rough, red fray ! 
 She will fight as she fought when she took her 
 stand 
 For the Eight in the olden day. 
 Ay, rouse the old royal soul, Europe's best 
 hope 
 Is her sword-edge by Victory set ! 
 She shall dash Freedom's foes adown Death's 
 gloomy slope ; 
 For there's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 1752.— ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. 
 
 Now, glory to our England, 
 
 As she rises, calm and grand, 
 With the ancient spirit in her eyes. 
 
 The good sword in her hand ! 
 Our royal right on battle ground 
 
 Was aye to bear the brunt : 
 Ho ! brave heart ! for one passionate bound, 
 
 And take thy x^lace in front ! 
 Now glory to our England, 
 
 As she rises, calm and grand, 
 With the ancient spirit in her ej'es, 
 
 The good sword in her hand ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A BELOVED ONE. 
 
 [Gerald Masset. 
 
 Who would not fight for England ? 
 
 Who would not fling a life 
 I' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage, 
 
 And glory in the strife ? 
 Her stem is thorny, but doth burst 
 
 A glorious rose a-top ! 
 And shall our dear rose wither ? First 
 
 We'll drain life's dearest drop ! 
 Who would not fight for England ? 
 
 Who would not fling a life 
 1' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage, 
 
 And glory in the strife ? 
 
 To battle goes our England, 
 
 All as gallant and as gay 
 As lover to the altar, on 
 
 A merry marriage-day. 
 A weary night she stood to watch 
 
 The battle-dawn up-roU'd ; 
 And her spirit leaps within, to match 
 
 The noble deeds of old. 
 To battle goes our England, 
 
 All as gallant and as gay 
 As lover to th(i altar, on 
 
 A merry marriage-day. 
 
 Now. fair befall our England, 
 
 On her proud and perilous road : 
 And woe and wail to those who make 
 
 Her footprints red with blood ! 
 Up with our red-cross banner — roll 
 
 A thunder-peal of drums ! 
 Fight on there, every valiant soul, 
 
 And courage ! England comes ! 
 Now, fair befall our England, 
 
 On her i^roud and perilous road : 
 And woe and wail to those who make 
 
 Her footprints red with blood ! 
 
 Now, victory to our England ! 
 
 And where'er she lifts her hand 
 In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, 
 
 God bless the dear Old Land ! 
 And when the storm has pass'd away, 
 
 In glory and in calm, 
 May she sit down i' the green o' the day, 
 
 And sing her peaceful psalm ! 
 Now, victory to our England ! 
 
 And where'er she lifts her hand 
 In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, 
 
 God bless the dear Old Land ! 
 
 Gerald Masscy. — Born 1828. 
 
 1753- 
 
 -THERE'S NO DEARTH OF 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness 
 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 
 We gather thorns for flowers ! 
 Outward, we are spurning — 
 
 Trampling one another ! 
 While we are inly j-earning 
 
 At the name of " Brother ! " 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness 
 
 Or love among mankind. 
 But in darkling loneness 
 
 Hooded hearts grow blind ! 
 Full of kindness tingling. 
 
 Soul is shut from soul, 
 When they might be mingling 
 
 In one kindred whole ! 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness. 
 
 Though it be unspoken, 
 From the heart it buildeth 
 
 Rainbow-smiles in token — 
 That there be none so lowly, 
 
 But have some angel-touch : 
 Yet, nursing loves unholy, 
 
 We live for self too much ! 
 
 As the wild-rose bloweth. 
 
 As runs the happy river, 
 Kindness freely floweth 
 
 In the heart for ever. 
 But if men will hanker 
 
 Ever for golden dust, 
 Kingliest hearts will canker, 
 
 Brightest spirits rust. 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness 
 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 
 We gather thorns for flowers ! 
 Oh, cherish God's best giving. 
 
 Falling from above ! 
 Life were not worth living. 
 
 Were it not for Love. 
 
 Gerald Massey.-r-Born 1828. 
 
 1754.— TO A BELOVED ONE. 
 
 Heaven hath its crown of stars, the Earth 
 
 Her glory-robe of flowers — 
 The Sea its gems — the grand old Woods 
 
 Their songs and greening showers : 
 The Birds have homes, where leaves and 
 blooms 
 
 In beauty wreathe above ; 
 High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream — 
 
 And we, sweet ! we have love. 
 
 We walk not with the Jewell' d great, 
 
 "Wliere Love's dear name is sold ; 
 Yet have we wealth we would not give 
 
 For all their world of gold ! 
 We revel not in corn and wine. 
 
 Yet have we from above 
 Manna divine, and we'U not pine. 
 
 While we may live and love. 
 
 There's sorrow for the toiling poor, 
 
 On Misery's bosom nursed ; 
 Rich robes for ragged souls, and crowns 
 
 For branded brows Cain-curst ! 
 But Cherubim, with clasping wings. 
 
 Ever about us be. 
 And, happiest of God's happy things, 
 
 There's love for you and me ! 
 
Geeald Masset.] 
 
 A WAIL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Thy lips, that kiss till death, have turn'd 
 
 Life's water into wine ; 
 The sweet life melting through thy looks. 
 
 Hath made my life divine. 
 AU Love's dear promise hath been kept, 
 
 Since thou to me wert given ; 
 A ladder for my soul to climb, 
 
 And summer high in heaven. 
 
 I know, dear heart ! that in our lot 
 
 May mingle tears and sorrow ; 
 But, Love's rich rainbow's built from tears 
 
 To-day, with smiles to-morrow. 
 The sunshine from our sky may die, 
 
 The greenness from Life's tree, 
 But ever, 'mid the warring storm, 
 
 Thy nest shall shelter' d be. 
 
 I see thee ! Ararat of my life, 
 
 Smiling the waves above ! 
 Thou hail'st me victor in the strife. 
 
 And beacon' st me with love. 
 The world may never know, dear heart ! 
 
 What I have found in thee ; 
 But, though nought to the world, dear heart ! 
 
 Thou'rt all the world to me. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Bo^m 1828. 
 
 1755.— A WAIL. 
 
 The day goeth down red darkling, 
 
 The moaning waves dash out the light, 
 
 And there is not a star of hope sparkling. 
 On the threshold of my night. 
 
 The wild winds of autumn go wailing 
 
 Up the valley and over the hill. 
 Like yearning ghosts round the world sailing 
 
 In search of the old love still. 
 
 A fathomless sea is rolling 
 
 O'er the wreck of the bravest bark ; 
 And my pain-muffled heart is toiling 
 
 Its dumb-peal down in the dark. 
 
 The waves of a mighty sorrow 
 
 Have whelmed the pearl of my life : 
 
 And there cometh to me no morrow 
 Shall solace this desolate strife. 
 
 Gone are the last faint flashes, 
 
 Set is the sun of my years ; 
 And over a few poor ashes 
 
 I sit in my darkness and tears.- 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828 . 
 
 1756.— OH, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, 
 DEAE! 
 
 Oh, lay thy hand in mine, dear ! 
 
 We're growing old, we're growing old ; 
 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 
 
 That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow 
 cold. 
 
 'Tis long, long since our nevs^ love 
 Made life divine, made life divine ; 
 
 But age enricheth true love, 
 
 Like noble wine, like noble wine. 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 
 
 And take thy rest, and take thy rest ; 
 Mine arms around thee twine, dear. 
 
 And make thy nest, and make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head, on this dear head ; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid, are surely laid. 
 
 Oh, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 
 
 'Twill shelter thee, 'twill shelter thee. 
 Thou wert a winsome vine, dear. 
 
 On my young tree, on my young tree : 
 And so, till boughs are leafless. 
 
 And songbirds flown, and songbirds 
 flown, , 
 
 We'll twine, then lay us, griefless. 
 
 Together down, together down. 
 
 Gerald Massey. — Born 1828. 
 
 1757.— ALM0N3> BLOSSOM. 
 
 Blossom of the almond-trees, 
 
 April's gift to April's bees, 
 
 Birthday ornament of spring, 
 
 Flora's fairest daughterling ; — 
 
 Coming when no flow' rets dare 
 
 Trust the cruel outer air ; 
 
 When the royal king-cup bold 
 
 Dares not don his coat of gold ; 
 
 And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
 
 Keeps his silver for the May ; — 
 
 Coming when no flow' rets would, 
 
 Save thy lowly sisterhood. 
 
 Early violets, blue and white. 
 
 Dying for their love of light. 
 
 Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
 
 That the spring-days soon will reach us. 
 
 Lest, with longing over-tried, 
 
 We die as the violets died — 
 
 Blossom, clouding all the tree 
 
 With thy crimson broidery. 
 
 Long before a leaf of green 
 
 On the bravest bough is seen ; 
 
 Ah ! when winter winds are swinging 
 
 All thy red bells into ringing. 
 
 With a bee in every bell, 
 
 Almond bloom, we greet thee well. 
 
 Edwin Arnold. — Born 183L 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PHILOMELA. 
 
 [Matthew Arnold, 
 
 I ;58.— WOMAN'S VOICE. 
 
 Not in the swaying of the summer trees, 
 Wlien evening breezes sing their vesper 
 hymn — 
 Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, 
 
 Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim, 
 Is earth's best music ; these may have awhile 
 High thoughts in happy, hearts, and carking 
 cares beguile. 
 
 But even as the swallow's silken wings. 
 
 Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, 
 Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — 
 So doth one sound the sleeping spirit 
 wake 
 To brave the danger, and to bear the 
 
 harm — 
 A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chief est 
 charm. 
 
 An excellent thing it is ! and ever lent 
 
 To truth and love, and meekness ; they who 
 own 
 This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent, 
 
 Ever by quiet step and smile are known ; 
 By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that 
 
 have sorrow'd — 
 By patience never tired, from their own trials 
 borrow'd. 
 
 An excellent thing it is — when first in glad- 
 ness 
 A mother looks into her infant's eyes — 
 
 Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sad- 
 ness — 
 Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries ; 
 
 Its food and sleep, and smiles and little 
 joys — 
 
 All these come ever blent with one low gentle 
 voice. 
 
 An excellent thing it is when life is leaving — 
 Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and 
 
 cares — 
 The strong heart failing, and the high soul 
 
 grieving 
 With strangest thoughts, and wild unwonted 
 
 fears ; 
 Then, then a woman's low soft sympathy 
 Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to 
 
 die. 
 
 But a most excellent thing it is in youth, 
 When the fond lover hears the loved one's 
 tone. 
 That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — 
 How their two hearts are one, and she his 
 own ; 
 It makes sweet human music — oh ! the spells 
 That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed 
 maiden tells ! 
 
 Edwin Arnold. — Born 1831. 
 
 I759-— UEANL^. 
 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh-. 
 While we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; 
 But light the serious visage grew — 
 She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
 Our labour' d puny passion-fits — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 Yet oh, that Fate would let her see 
 One of some worthier race than we — 
 One for whose sake she once might prove 
 How deeply she who scorns can love. 
 
 His eyes be like the starry lights — 
 His voice like sounds of summer nights — ' 
 In all his lovely mien let pierce 
 The magic of the universe ! 
 
 And she to him will reach her hand, 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee. 
 And cry — Long, long I've look'd for thee ! 
 
 Then will she weep — with smiles, till then. 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
 Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. — Born 1822. 
 
 1760.— PHILOMELA. 
 
 Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 
 The tawny -throated ! 
 
 Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 What triumph ! hark — what pain ! 
 Oh, wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 Still — after many years, in distant lands^ 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder' d brain 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world 
 pain — 
 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn, 
 With its cool trees, and night, 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonshine, and the dew, 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold. 
 Here, through the moonlight on this English: 
 
 grass, 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse. 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes, 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 
 shame ? 
 
Matthew Aenold.] 
 
 EUPHEOSYNE. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.- 
 
 Dost thou once more essay 
 Thy flight ; and feel come over thee, 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change ; 
 Once more ; and once more make resound, 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
 Lone Daulis' and the high Cephisian vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through 
 
 the leaves ! 
 Again — thou hear est I 
 Eternal passion ! 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
 Matthew A^">iold. — Born 1822. 
 
 1762.— THE AGE OF WISDOM. 
 
 Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
 
 That never has known the barber's shear. 
 All your wish is woman to win — 
 This is the way that boys begin, — 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
 Sighing and singing of midnight strains. 
 Under Bonnybell's window panes, — 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year. 
 
 1761.— EUPHEOSYNE. 
 
 I must not say that thou wert true, 
 Yet let me say that thou wert fair. 
 And they that lovely face who view, 
 They will not ask if truth be there. 
 
 Truth — what is truth? Two bleeding 
 hearts 
 Wounded by men, by Fortune tried, 
 Outwearied with their lonely parts. 
 Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 
 
 The world to them was stern and drear ; 
 Their lot was but to weep and moan. 
 Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
 For neither could subsist alone ! 
 
 But souls whom some benignant breath 
 Has charm' d at birth from gloom and care, 
 These ask no love — these plight no faith, 
 For they are happy as they are. 
 
 The world to them may homage make. 
 And garlands for their forehead weave ; 
 And what the world can give, they taivc — 
 But they bring more than they receive. 
 
 They smile upon the world ; their ears 
 To one demand alone are coy. 
 They will not give ua love and tears — 
 They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 
 
 On one she smiled, and he was blest ! 
 She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! 
 But 'twas not love that heaved his breast. 
 Fair child ! it was the bliss within. 
 
 Mattheiv Arnold— Bom 1822. 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear, — » . 
 Then you know a boy is an ass. 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty Year. 
 
 Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are grey ; 
 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was past away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed. 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 May pray and whisper, and we not list. 
 Or look away, and never be missed. 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gillian's dead — God rest her bier ! 
 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 Marian's married ; but I sit here. 
 Alone and merry at Forty Year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon vane. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 1763.— DAMAGES, TWO HUKDEED 
 POUNDS. 
 
 Special Jurymen of England ! who admire 
 
 your country's laws, 
 And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the 
 
 realm's applause, 
 Gaily compliment each other at the issue of 
 
 a cause 
 Wliich was tried at Guildford 'sizes, this day 
 
 week as ever was. 
 
 Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman 
 
 in grief — 
 (Special was the British jury, and the judge 
 
 the Baron Chief) — 
 Comes a British man and husband, asking of 
 
 the law relief. 
 For his wife was stolen from him — he'd have 
 
 vengeance on the thief. 
 
 Yes ; his wife, the blessed treasure with the 
 which his life was crowned, 
 
 Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypo- 
 crite profound. 
 
 And he comes before twelve Britons, men for 
 sense and truth renowned, 
 
 To award him for his damage twenty hundred 
 sterling pound. 
 
 He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford 
 
 does appear. 
 Asking damage of the villain who seduced his 
 
 lady dear : 
 But I can't help asking, though the lady's 
 
 guilt was all too clear. 
 And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the 
 
 plaintiff rather queer ? 
 
 First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd 
 
 seen her daughter cry 
 But a fortnight after marriage — early times 
 
 for piping eye. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO A CEICKET. 
 
 [W, C. Bennett. 
 
 Six months after, things were worse, and the 
 
 piping eye was black, 
 And this gallant British husband caned his 
 
 wife upon the back ! 
 
 Three months after they were married, hus- 
 band pushed her to the door, 
 
 Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted 
 her no more ; 
 
 As she would not go, why he went — thrice he 
 left his lady dear ; 
 
 Left her, too, without a penny, for more than 
 a quarter of a year. 
 
 Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very 
 
 well indeed ; 
 She had seen him pull his lady's nose and 
 
 make her lip to bleed ; 
 If he chanced to sit at home, not a single word 
 
 he said ; 
 Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish 
 
 at his lady's head. 
 
 Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the 
 
 jury note 
 How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady 
 
 by the throat ; 
 How he cursed her and abused her, beating 
 
 her into a fit. 
 Till the pitying next-door neighbours crossed 
 
 the wall and witnessed it. 
 
 Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers, a 
 
 butcher, dwelt ; 
 Mrs. Owers' s foolish heart towards this erring 
 
 dame did melt — 
 (Not that she had erred as yet ; crime was '^ 
 
 not developed in her) ; 
 But, being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers 
 
 supplied her dinner : ( 
 
 God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was | 
 
 merciful to this sinner ! J 
 
 Caroline Xaylor was their servant ; said they 
 
 led a wretched life, 
 Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a 
 
 teacup at his wife : 
 He went out to balls and pleasures, and never 
 
 once, in ten months' space, 
 Sate with his wife, or spoke her kindly. This 
 
 was the defendant's case. 
 
 Pollock, C. B., charged the jury, said the 
 
 woman's guilt was clear : 
 That was not the point, however, which the 
 
 jury came to hear. 
 But the damage to determine which, as it 
 
 should true appear, 
 This most tender-hearted husband, who so 
 
 used his lady dear ; 
 
 Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, 
 
 left her starving, year by year, 
 Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung 
 
 her neck, and boxed her ear ; — 
 What the reasonable damage this afflicted 
 
 man could claim, 
 By the loss of the affections of this guilty 
 
 graceless dame ? 
 
 Then the honest British Twelve, to each other 
 
 turning round. 
 Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom 
 
 most profound ; 
 And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the 
 
 foreman wise and sound, _ 
 
 " My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, 
 
 damages two hundred pound." 
 
 So God bless the Special Jury, pride and joy 
 
 of English ground ! 
 And the happy land of England, where true 
 
 justice does a^bound ! 
 British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this 
 
 verdict proper, — 
 If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've 
 
 a right to whop her. 
 
 Though you promised to protect her, though 
 
 you promised to defend her, 
 You are welcome to neglect her, to the devil 
 
 you may send her ; 
 You may strike . her, curse, abuse her, so 
 
 declares our law renowned ; 
 And if after this you lose her — why, you're 
 
 paid two hundred pound. 
 
 W. M. Tliackeray. 
 
 1764. 
 
 -INVOCATION TO EAIN IN 
 SUMMER. 
 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain, 
 
 Let not the silver lily pine. 
 The drooping- lily pine in vain 
 
 To feel that dewy touch of thine — 
 To drink thy freshness once again, 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain ! 
 
 In heat the landscape quivering lies ; 
 
 The cattle pant beneath the tree ; 
 Through parching air and purple skies 
 
 The earth looks up, in vain, for thee ; 
 For thee — for thee, it looks in vain, 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain. 
 
 Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
 And soften all the hills with mist, 
 
 O falling dew ! from burning dreams 
 By thee shall herb and flower be kiss'd. 
 
 And Earth shall bless thee yet again, 
 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain. 
 
 W 0. Bennett.— Born 1820, 
 
 1765.— TO A CEICKET. 
 
 Voice of Summer, keen and shriU, 
 
 Chirping round my winter fire, 
 
 Of thy song I never tire, 
 
 Weary others as they wiU ; 
 
 For thy song with summer's fili'd — • 
 
 Fill'd with sunshine, fiU'd with June ; 
 
 FireKght echo of that noon 
 
 Hears in fields when aU is still' d 
 
W. C. Bennett.] 
 
 BABY MAT. 
 
 TSeventh Period. — 
 
 In the golden light of May, 
 Bringing scents of new-mown hay, 
 Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 
 Prithee, haunt my fireside still. 
 Voice of Summer, keen and shrill ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 1766.— BABY MAY. 
 
 Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
 Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
 Poppies paleness ; round, large eyes 
 Ever great with new surprise ; 
 Miniites fill'd with shadeless gladness ; 
 Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness ; 
 Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 
 Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
 Lights and shadows, swifter born 
 Than on wind-swept autumn corn ; 
 Ever some new tiny notion,. 
 Making every limb all motion ; 
 Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
 Throwings back and small alarms ; 
 Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
 Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
 Kickings up and straining risings ; 
 Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
 Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
 At all things the heavens under ; 
 Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
 That have more of love than lovings ; 
 Mischiefs done with such a winning 
 Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
 Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
 G raspings small at all that passes ; 
 Pullings off of all that's able 
 To be caught from tray or table ; 
 Silences — small meditations 
 Deep as thoughts of cares for nations. 
 Breaking into wisest speeches 
 In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
 All the thoughts of whose possessing 
 Must be woo'd to light by pressing ; 
 Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
 That we'd ever have such dreamings ; 
 Till from sleep we see the breaking. 
 And we'd always have thee waking ; 
 Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
 Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
 Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
 Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
 Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
 Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
 Beauty all that beauty may be : — 
 That's May Bennett — that's my baby ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Bom 1820. 
 
 1767.— BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 Oh those little, those little blue shoes ! 
 Those shoes that no little feet use. 
 
 Oh the price were high 
 That those shoes would buy, 
 Those little blue unused shoes ! 
 
 For they hold the small shape of feet 
 That no more their mother's eyes meet 
 
 That, by God's good will, 
 
 Years since, grew still, 
 And ceased from their totter so svreet. 
 
 And oh, since that baby slept, 
 
 So hush'd, how the mother has kept, 
 
 With a tearful pleasure, 
 
 That little dear treasure, . 
 And o'er them thought and wept ! 
 
 For they mind her for evermore, 
 Of a patter along the floor ; 
 
 And blue eyes she sees 
 
 Look up from her knees 
 With the look that in life they wore. 
 
 As they lie before her there. 
 There babbles from chair to chair 
 
 A little sweet face 
 
 That's a gleam in the place. 
 With its little gold curls of hair. 
 
 Then oh, wonder not that her heart, 
 From all else would rather part, 
 Than those tiny blue shoes 
 That no little feet use. 
 And whose sight makes such fond tears 
 start ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett.— Born 1820. 
 
 1768.— THE WOEN WEDDING-EING. 
 
 Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, 
 
 summers not a few, 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have pass'd 
 
 o'er me and you ; 
 And, love, what changes we have seen — what 
 
 cares and pleasures, too. 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 Oh, blessings on that happy day, the happiest 
 
 of my life, 
 When, thanks to God, your low, sweet " Yes" 
 
 made you my loving wife ; 
 Your heart will say the same, I know; that 
 
 day's as dear to you, — 
 That day that made me yours, dear wife, when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 How well do I remember now your young 
 
 sweet face that day ! 
 How fair you were, how dear you were, my 
 
 tongue could hardly say ; 
 Nor how I doated on you ; ah, how proud I 
 
 was of you ! 
 But did I love you more than now, when this 
 
 old ring was new ? 
 
rom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MOTHEE AND SON. 
 
 [W. C. Bennett, 
 
 No — no ; no fairer were you then than at this 
 
 hour to me ; 
 And, dear as life to me this day, how could 
 
 you dearer be ? 
 As sweet your face might be that day as now 
 
 it is, 'tis true ; 
 But did I know your heart as well when this 
 
 old ring was new ? 
 
 Oh, partner of my gladness, wife, what care, 
 
 what grief is there 
 For me you would not bravely face, with me 
 
 you would not share ? 
 Oh, what a weary want had every day, if 
 
 wanting you, 
 Wanting the love that God made mine when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife — 
 
 young voices that are here, 
 Toung faces round our fire that make their 
 
 mother's yet more dear, 
 Young, loving hearts, your care each day 
 
 makes yet more like to you ; 
 More like the loving heart made mine when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 And, bless'd be God! all He has given are 
 
 with us yet ; around 
 Our table every precious life lent to us still 
 
 is found ; 
 Though cares we've known, with hopeful 
 
 hearts the worst we've struggled through : 
 Bless'd be His name for all His love since this 
 
 old ring was new ! 
 
 The past is dear ; its sweetness stni our me- 
 mories treasure yet ; 
 
 The griefs we've borne, together borne, we 
 would not now forget ; 
 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto 
 heart still true. 
 
 We'll share as we have shared all else since 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and 
 
 daughters to grow old. 
 We know His goodness will not let your heart 
 
 or mine grow cold ; 
 Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've 
 
 still shown to you, 
 And mine in yours all they have seen since 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 And oh, when death shall come at last to bid 
 
 me to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting 
 
 on that breast ; 
 Oh, may my parting gaze be bless'd with the 
 
 dear sight of you. 
 Of those fond eyes — fond as they were when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 1769.— WEDDING WORDS. 
 
 A jewel for my lady's ear, 
 
 A jewel for her finger fine, 
 A diamond for her bosom dear, 
 
 Her bosom that is mine. 
 
 Dear glances for my lady's eyes. 
 
 Dear looks around her form to twine, 
 
 Dear kisses for the lips I prize, 
 Her dear lips that are mine. 
 
 Dear breathings to her, soft and low, 
 Of how my lot she's made divine. 
 
 Dear silences my love that show 
 For her whose love is mine. 
 
 Dear cares no cloud shall shade her way. 
 That gladness only on her shine. 
 
 That she be happy as the May 
 Whose lot is one with mine. 
 
 Dear wishes hovering round her life 
 
 And tending thoughts, and dreams divine, 
 
 To feed with perfect joy the wife 
 Whose happiness is mine. 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 1770.— MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 ■' Mother, the storm, how it shrieks without ! " 
 ■' Fit night for the work, son, we're about." 
 
 •' Mother, the razor's smear'd with blood." 
 " Fling it far where the river comes down in 
 flood." 
 
 ■' Blood on these hands, blood will be seen." 
 " Water, my son, will wash them clean." 
 
 " What will whiten the sheets and bed ? " 
 " I'll wash them in peace now your father's 
 dead." 
 
 " They'll see where the ne.w-turn'd earth looks 
 
 brown." 
 " Son, with my feet I trampled it down." 
 
 " Oh, that dead face ! oh, hide it, night ! " 
 " The quick-lime I strew'd will soon eat that 
 sight." 
 
 " God ! I can see his mangled throat ! " 
 " Silence, boy ! how you drivel and dote." 
 
 " Mother, his blood, it sears my soul ! " 
 " Son, on mine alone be the whole." 
 
 " Oh, would that my father were here again ! " 
 " Thank God ! that wish is wish'd in vain." 
 
 " Here, even to drive us mad with blows." 
 "Thank God! from his heart his life-blood 
 flows ! " 
 
 " Here, though mad-drunk, to kill us he 
 
 swore " 
 "Thank God! such oaths he'll swear no 
 
 more." 
 
W. C. Bennett.] 
 
 TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 " Here again, though he starved us dead." 
 " Thank God ! now my work will bring us 
 bread." 
 
 " Here again, to repent his sin." 
 
 " Thank God ! to heaven never he'U win." 
 
 " Oh, that he were living, and dead were we ! " 
 " Sleep, sleep, my son, and comfort me." 
 
 " How dare I sleep I how dare I dream ! " 
 " Without him, our lives like heaven will 
 
 " Heaven ! — hell, hell, is for you and me ! " 
 " God help us ! there will your father be ! " 
 
 " Hell hereafter ! hell here ! " " Forgot 
 
 " Win be hell's pains if we're where he's not ! " 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Bo^^-n 1820. 
 
 t77i.__TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED-ONE. 
 
 Oh, sunny curls ! oh, eyes of blue ! 
 
 The hardest natures known, 
 Baby, would softly speak to you, 
 
 With strangely tender tone ; 
 What marvel, Mary, if from such 
 
 Your sweetness love would call ? 
 We love you, baby, oh how much ! 
 
 Most dear of all things small ! 
 
 Unborn, how, more than all on earth, 
 
 Your mother yoarn'd to meet 
 Your dream' d-of face ; you, from your birth, 
 
 Most sweet of all things sweet 1 
 Even now, for your small hands' first press 
 
 Of her full happy breast, 
 How oft does she God's goodness bless, 
 
 And feel her heart too blest ! 
 
 You came, a wonder to her eyes. 
 
 That doated on each grace, 
 Each charm, that still with new surprise 
 
 She show'd us in your face. 
 Small beauties ? ah, to her not small ! 
 
 How plain to her blest mind ! 
 Though, baby dear, I doubt if all 
 
 AU that she found could find. 
 
 A year has gone, and, mother, say. 
 
 Through all that year's blest round, 
 In her has one sweet week or day 
 
 Not some new beauty found ? 
 What moment has not fancied one, 
 
 Since first your eyes she met ? 
 And, wife, I know you have not done 
 
 With finding fresh ones yet. 
 
 Nor I ; for, baby, some new charm 
 
 Each coming hour supplies, 
 So sweet, we think change can but harm 
 
 Your sweetness in our eyes, 
 
 Till comes a newer, and we knovr, 
 
 As that fresh charm we see, 
 In you, sweet Nature wills to show 
 
 How fair a babe can be. 
 
 Kind God, that gave this precious gift. 
 More clung-to every day, 
 
 To Thee our ej'-es we trembling lift- 
 Take not Thy gift away ! 
 
 Looking on her, we start in dread, 
 We stay our shuddericg breath. 
 
 And shrink to feel the terror said 
 In that one dark word — death. 
 
 Oh, tender eyes ! oh, beauty strange ! 
 
 When childhood shall depart, 
 Oh, that thou, babe, through every change 
 
 Mayst keep that infant heart ! 
 Oh, gracious God ! oh, this make sure, 
 
 That, of no gi-ace beguiled. 
 The woman be in soul as pure 
 
 As now she is — a child ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 1772.— CEADLE SONG. 
 
 Lullaby — lullaby, baby dear ! 
 Take thy rest without a fear : 
 Quiet sleep, for mother is here. 
 Ever wakeful, ever near, 
 I Lullaby ! 
 
 } Lullaby — ^lullaby ! gone is the light, 
 ! Yet let not darkness my baby fright ; 
 Mother is with her amid the night, 
 Then softly sleep, my heart's delight, 
 LuUaby ! 
 
 JMay thy small dreams no ill things see, 
 Kind Heaven keep watch, my baby, o'er thee ; 
 Kind angels bright thy guardians be. 
 And give thee smiling to day and to me, 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep on ! thy rest is deep ; 
 But, ah ! what wild thoughts on me creep. 
 As by thy side ray watch I keep, 
 To think how like to death is sleep ! 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 But God our Father will hear my prayer, 
 And have thee, dear one, in His care ; 
 Thee, httle one, soft breathing there. 
 To me the Lord's dear love will spare. 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! till glad day break, 
 And with the sunshine gladly wake. 
 Thy mother's day, how blest to make ! 
 Her life, what joy ! through thy dear sake, 
 LuUaby ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] SKETCHES FROM A PAINTEE'S STUDIO. [W. C. Bennett. 
 
 1773— TO W. G. B. 
 
 Soul, not yet from heaven beguiled, 
 Soul, not yet by earth defiled, 
 Dwelling in this littla child, 
 
 Be, oh, to him be 
 
 All we would have thee ! 
 
 Through this hfe of joy and care, 
 If that grief must be his share, 
 Make, oh, make him strong to bear 
 
 All God wiUeth, aU 
 
 That to him must fall. 
 
 Oh, when passions stir his heart. 
 Tempting him from good to part, 
 Make liim from the evil start, 
 
 That he walk aright. 
 
 Soilless in God's sight ! 
 
 Taint him not with mortal sin, 
 
 That heaven's palms his hands may v/in, 
 
 That heaven's gates he enter in, 
 
 Of God's favour sure, 
 
 Pure as he is pure ! 
 
 If he wander from the right, 
 
 Oh, through error's darksome night 
 
 On to heaven's eternal light. 
 
 Guide, oh guide his way, 
 
 To heaven's perfect day 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Bom 1820. 
 
 1774.— THE QUEEN. 
 
 A FIBESIDE SONG. 
 
 Yes, wife, I'd be a throned king. 
 That you might share my royal seat, 
 That titled beauty I might bring. 
 And princes' homage to your feet. 
 How quickly, then, would nobles see 
 Your courtly grace, your regal mien ; 
 Even duchesses all bhnd should be 
 To flaw or speck in you, their queen. 
 
 Poor wish ! wife, a queen you are. 
 To whose feet many a subject brings 
 A truer homage, nobler far 
 Than bends before the thrones of kings. 
 You rule a realm, wife, in this heart, 
 Where not one rebel fancy's seen. 
 Where hopes and smiles, how joyous! start 
 To own the sway of you, their queen. 
 
 How loyal are my thoughts by day ! 
 How faithful is each dream of night ! 
 Not one but lives but to obey 
 Your rule — to serve you, its delight ; 
 My hours — each instant — every breath 
 Are, wife, as all have ever been, 
 Your slaves, to serve you unto death ; 
 O wife, you are indeed a queen ! 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Bom 1820, 
 
 1775.— SKETCHES FEOM A PAINTER'S 
 STUDIO. 
 
 A TALE OF TO-DAY. 
 
 A broad stream, smooth with deep-grass' d 
 
 fields. 
 Through rushy turnings winding slow ; 
 A dam where stirless waters sleep 
 Till shot on the moss'd wheel below 
 A dusty mill, whose shadows fall 
 On the stay'd waters, white o'erall. 
 
 A vine-climb'd cottage, redly-tiled, 
 Deep-nook'd within an orchard's green, 
 Past which a white road -winds away. 
 That hedgerow elms from summer screen ; 
 A busy wheel's near sound that tells 
 Within the thriving miller dwells. 
 
 A cottage parlour, neatly gay. 
 With little comforts brighten' d round, 
 Where simple ornaments, that speak 
 Of more than country taste, abound, 
 Where bookcase and piano well 
 Of more than village polish tell. 
 
 A bluff, blunt miller, well to do. 
 
 Of broad, loud laugh — not hard to please ; 
 
 A kindly housewife, keen and sage — 
 
 And busy as her very bees ; 
 
 A bright-eyed daughter — mirth and health. 
 
 Their pride — their wealth above all wealth. 
 
 A tripping, fair, light-hearted girl, • 
 
 Not yet the ripen'd woman quite. 
 Whose cheerful mirth and thoughtful love 
 Light up the cottage with delight. 
 And with a thousand gentle ways 
 With pleasure brim her parents' days. 
 
 A titled slip of lordly bjood, 
 A few weeks' lounger at the hall, 
 To gain new zest for pall'd delights 
 And squander' d waste of health recall ; 
 An angler in the milldam's water : 
 A chatter with the miller's daughter. 
 
 A meeting 'neath a summer's night ; 
 
 Soft smiles — low words — impassion'd sighs ; 
 
 The trembling clasp of meeting hands ; 
 
 The hot gaze met with downcast eyes ; 
 
 Foul perjuries that pollute the air. 
 
 With burning hopes and doubts heard there. 
 
 A thin, pale face, where autumn sees 
 No more the smiles that lit the spring ; 
 A foot less light upon the stair ; 
 A low voice heard no more to sing ; 
 One now that lost to all things sits. 
 Now starts to over-mirth by fits. 
 
 Dear tongues that ask a gasping girl 
 Of what to utter were to kill ; 
 Looks that she feels upon her fix'd ; 
 Eyes that with tears pursue her still ; 
 Care in the old accustom' d place 
 Of mirth, upon her father's face. 
 
W. C. Bennett.] 
 
 FROM INDIA. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 A dark, small, wliitely-curtain'd room ; 
 A form flung" on the unopen'd bed ; 
 Quick sobs that quiver through the gloom ; 
 Tears rain'd from hot eyes swoU'n and red, 
 And words that through their wild despair 
 Still strive to shape themselves to prayer. 
 
 A winter midnight's stany gloom ; 
 A pausing tread so light, that steals 
 Across the landing — down the stairs. 
 That scarce a creak a step reveals j 
 A stifled sob — a bolt undrawn ; 
 A form — low words — a daughter gone. 
 
 A fresh-turf d, narrow, hoop-bound grave, 
 Heaping a country churchyard's green, 
 On whose white headstone, newly carved. 
 The mill's old master's name is seen. 
 The wayside mill's, that bears no more 
 The well-known name so long it bore. 
 
 A stooping woman, scarcely old, 
 
 Yet with the feeble walk of age, 
 
 The dull, faint sense of whose blank mind 
 
 No thing around her can engage, 
 
 Yet who, when into speech beguiled, 
 
 Will mutter of some absent child. 
 
 A costly-furnish'd west-end room, 
 Whose mirrors — pictures — all things show 
 A stintless and abounding wealth. 
 An easeful luxury few can know ; 
 A flaunting thing its glare within ; 
 A thing of shame, remorse, and sin. 
 
 j\, noise of quarrel ; keen reproach. 
 Fronted with taunt, loud oath and curse, 
 Heap'd out with such vile store of scorn 
 That hate in vain might seek for worse ; 
 Meek j)leadings, stricken to a close 
 With, shame to manhood ! brutal blows. 
 
 A thing that once was woman ; white. 
 Thin, haggard, hollow-eyed, and wan ; 
 A horror that the shuddering eye 
 Starts back aghast from resting on ; 
 Whose only joy now left is drink. 
 Whose fire burns out the power to think. 
 
 A ridge, all winter keen with gusts, 
 
 On whose cold pathways lies the night ; 
 
 Stony and desolate and dark, 
 
 Save round the gas-lamps' flickering light, 
 
 And swept by drifts of icy sleet. 
 
 That numb each houseless wretch they meet. 
 
 A wintry river, broad and black, 
 
 That through dark arches slides along, 
 
 Eing'd, where the gaslights on it play, 
 
 With coiling eddies swirling strong, 
 
 That far below the dizzy height 
 
 Of the dark bridge swim through the night. 
 
 A crouching form that through the gloom 
 Paces its stones a hundred times. 
 That pausing — glancing keenly round, 
 The dark, high balustrade upclimbs ; 
 A plunge — a shriek : — from all its woes 
 A weary soul hath calm repose. 
 
 A long, bright suit of stately rooms. 
 Where to soft music's changeful swell 
 Keeps time the beat of falling feet 
 And all things but of pleasure tell ; 
 Where, partner gay of noblest hands. 
 The suicide's seducer stands. 
 
 W. C. Bennctt.-^Born 1820. 
 
 1776.— FEOM INDIA. 
 
 *' Oh, come you from the Indies, and, soldier, 
 
 can you tell 
 Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe 
 
 and well ? 
 soldier, say my son is safe — for nothing else 
 
 I care. 
 And you shall have a mother's thanks — shall 
 
 have a widow's prayer." 
 
 " Oh, I've come from the Indies — I've just come 
 
 from the war. 
 And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads 
 
 they are ; 
 From colonel down to rank and file, I know 
 
 my comrades well. 
 And news I've brought for you, mother, your 
 
 Eobert bade me tell." 
 
 " And do you know my Eobert, now ? Oh tell 
 
 me, tell me true, 
 soldier, tell me word for word all that he 
 
 said to you ! 
 His very words — my own boy's words — Oh tell 
 
 me every one ! 
 You litttle know how dear to his old mother is 
 
 my son." 
 
 " Through Havelock's fights and marches the 
 
 90th were there ; 
 In all the gallant 90th did, your Eobert did 
 
 his share ; 
 Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch' d by 
 
 steel or ball, 
 And you may bless your God, old dame, that 
 
 brought him safe through all." 
 
 " Oh, thanks unto the living God that heard his 
 
 mother's prayer. 
 The widow's cry that rose on high her only son 
 
 to spare ! 
 Oh, bless' d be God, that turn'd from him the 
 
 sword and shot away ! 
 And what to his old mother did my darlinj; 
 
 bid you say .p" 
 
 "Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and 
 
 bravely it was done ; 
 In the despatch they told it all, and named and 
 
 praised your son; 
 A medal and a pension's his; good luck to 
 
 him I say. 
 And he has not a comrade but will wish him 
 
 weU to-day." 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE BOAT-EACE. 
 
 [W. C. Bennett. 
 
 " Now, soldier, blessing-s on your tongue : O 
 
 husband, that you knew 
 How well our boy pays me this day for all 
 
 that I've gone through, 
 All I have done and borne for him the long 
 
 years since you're dead ! 
 But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my 
 
 Eobert said." 
 
 " He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and 
 
 you'd hardly know him, dame, 
 We've made your boy into a man, but still his 
 
 heart's the same ; 
 For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always 
 
 to one tune — 
 But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll 
 
 be with you soon." 
 
 " Oh is he really coming home, and shall I really 
 
 see 
 My boy again, my own boy, home ? and when, 
 
 when will it be ? 
 Did you say soon?" — "Well, he is home; 
 
 keep cool, old da.me ; he's here." 
 "O Eobert, my own blessed boy!" — "0 
 
 mother — mother dear ! " 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 1777.— THE BOAT-EACE. 
 
 " There, win the cup and you shall have my 
 
 girl. 
 I won it, Ned ; and you shall win it too. 
 Or wait a twelvemonth. Books — for ever 
 
 books ! 
 Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes ! 
 I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and 
 
 strength 
 To breast the world with, and to cleave your 
 
 way, 
 No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care, 
 She needing yours. There — there — I love you, 
 
 Ned, 
 Both for your own, and for your mother's 
 
 sake ; 
 So vsdn our boat-race, and the cup, next month. 
 And you shall have her." With a broad, loud 
 
 laugh, 
 A jolly triumph at his rare conceit. 
 He left the subject ; and, across the wine. 
 We talk'd — or rather, all the talk was his — 
 Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known. 
 Both of his set, and others — Clare, the boast 
 Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell. 
 Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow ; and, to-day. 
 There was young Chester might be named 
 
 with them, 
 ** Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups 
 Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; 
 SmaU chance for you, boy ! " And again his 
 
 laugh. 
 With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to 
 
 gall; 
 Bat yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth 
 
 Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went, 
 But left not. Through the garden-porch I 
 
 turn'd, 
 But, on its sun-fleck' d seats, its Jessamine 
 
 shades 
 Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths 
 Wander' d my eye, in rapid quest of one 
 Sweeter than all its roses ; and across 
 Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells, 
 There, in the orchard's greenness, down 
 
 beyond 
 Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her — found 
 
 her there, 
 A summer blossom that the peering sun 
 Peep'd at through blossoms, — that the summer 
 
 airs 
 Waver' d down blossoms on, and amorous 
 
 gold. 
 Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step. 
 Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path 
 I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to 
 
 count 
 The orchard daisies, in some summer mood 
 Dreaming (was I her thought ?), my murmur'd 
 
 " Kate " 
 Shock' d up the teU-tale roses to her cheek, 
 And lit her eyes with starry lights of love 
 That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her 
 
 all. 
 And told her that her father's jovial jest 
 Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit 
 
 tears 
 Away, and all her little trembling doubts. 
 Until hope won her heart to happy dreams, 
 And all the future smiled with happy love. 
 Nor, till the still moon, in the purphng East, 
 Gleam' d through the twilight, did we stay our 
 
 talk. 
 Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd 
 
 words 
 Eemember'd for a lifetime. Home I went. 
 And in my college rooms what blissful hopes 
 Were mine! — what thoughts, that still'd to 
 
 happy dreams ; 
 Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, 
 Made my years Eden, and lit up my homo 
 (The ivied rectory my sleep made mine). 
 With little faces, and the gleams of curls. 
 And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. 
 Oh, happy night ! Oh, more than happy dreams ! ^ 
 But with the earliest t"witter from the eaves, 
 I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard, 
 As if but boating were the crown of life. 
 Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes, 
 Even my new tragedy upon the stocks, 
 I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and 
 
 curves. 
 And all that makes a wherry sure to win, 
 And furbish' d up the knowledge that I had, 
 Ere study put my boyhood's feats away, 
 And made me bookworm ; all that day my 
 
 hand 
 Grew more and more familiar with the oar. 
 And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach 
 Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight. 
 Its by-laid cunning back ; so, day by day. 
 
W. C. Bennett.] 
 
 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod 
 
 Prom when dawntoucli'd our elm-tops till the 
 
 moon 
 Oleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our 
 
 lawns, 
 I flash' d the flowing Isis from my oars, 
 And dream'd of triumph and the prize to 
 
 come; 
 And breathed myself, in sport, one after one, 
 Against the men with whom I was to row, 
 Until I fear'd but Chester — him alone. 
 So June stole on to July, sun by sun, 
 And the day came ; how well I mind that 
 
 day! 
 Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad 
 To dim the golden greenness of the fields, 
 And all a happy hush about the earth, 
 And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon, 
 Save where along the peopled towing-paths, 
 Banking the river, swarm' d the city out, 
 Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds, 
 Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks, 
 That flush' d with boats and barges, silken- 
 awn' d, 
 Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, 
 Our college toasts, and gay with jest and 
 
 laugh. 
 Bright as their champagne. One, among 
 
 them all, 
 My eye saw only ; one, that morning, left 
 With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart. 
 And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at 
 
 fears — 
 One, that upon my lieck had parting hung 
 Arms white as daisies — on my bosom hid 
 A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart, 
 Fill'd with what fondness ! yearning with what 
 
 love ! 
 O hope, and would the glad day make her 
 
 mine! 
 O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone ? 
 There was a murmur in my heart of "Yes," 
 That sung to slumber every wakening fear 
 That still would stir and shake me with its 
 
 dread. 
 And now a hush was on the wavering crowd 
 That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, 
 A grassy mile, to where we were to turn — 
 A barge moor'd midstream, flush' d with flut- 
 tering flags. 
 And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we 
 
 went. 
 As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd ; 
 Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropp'd ofi", 
 Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I 
 Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern, 
 The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife 
 Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to 
 
 oar. 
 Strain' d tp the work before me. Head to 
 
 head 
 Through the wild-cheering river-banks we 
 
 clove 
 The swarming waters, raining streams of toil; 
 But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor' d 
 
 strength 
 Held on enduring — mine still waning more, 
 
 And parting with the victory, inch by inch, 
 Yet straining on, as if I strove with death. 
 Until I groan'dwith anguish. Chester heard, 
 And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick. 
 And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words: 
 " What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so ? 
 The cup's not worth the moaning of a man, 
 No, nor the triumph. Tush ! boy, I must 
 
 win." 
 Then from the anguish of my heart a cry 
 Burst: "Kate, dearest Kate — O love — we 
 
 lose ! " 
 "Ah ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win," 
 He answer'd ; " Faith ! my boy, I pity you." 
 " Oh, if you lose," I answered, "you but lose 
 A week's wild triumph, and ^ts praise and 
 
 pride ; 
 I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy ! 
 Perchance a Hfe's whole sum of happiness — 
 Wliat years with her that I might call my 
 
 wife! 
 Winning, I win her ! " Oh, thrice noble heart ! 
 I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face ; 
 I saw a nobler light light up his eyes ; 
 I saw the flush of pride die into one 
 Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve ; 
 No word he spoke ; one only look he threw, 
 That told me aU ; and, ere my heart could 
 
 leap 
 In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name, 
 I was before him, through the tracking eyes 
 Of following thousands, heading to the goal. 
 The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering 
 
 name 
 Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foil'd at 
 
 last ! " 
 Oh, how I turn'd to him ! with what a heart ! 
 Unheard the shouts — unseen the crowding 
 
 gaze 
 That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering 
 
 hand 
 With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush 
 
 that told 
 I shamed to hear my name more loud than his, 
 And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife. 
 My own dear wife ; and so I won a friend, 
 Chester, more dear than all but only her, 
 And these, the small ones of my college 
 
 dreams. 
 
 W. C. Bennett— Born 1820. 
 
 I778._THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 
 
 Oh don't go in to-night, John ! 
 
 Now, husband, don't go in ! 
 To spend our only shilling, John, 
 
 Would be a cruel sin. 
 There's not a loaf at home, John ; 
 
 There's not a coal, you know; 
 Though with hunger I am faint, John, 
 
 And cold comes down the snow. 
 
 Then don't go in to-night ! 
 
Frovi 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ALL WELL. 
 
 [HOEATIUS BONAB. 
 
 Ah, John, you must remember, 
 
 And, John, I can't forget, 
 When never foot of yours, John, 
 
 Was in the alehouse set. 
 Ah, those were happy times, John, 
 
 No quarrels then we knew, 
 And none were happier in our lane, 
 
 Than I, dear John, and you. 
 
 Then don't go in to-night ! 
 
 You will not go ! John, John, I mind, 
 
 When we were courting, fcv/ 
 Had arm as strong or step as firm 
 
 Or cheek as red as you : 
 But drink has stolen your strength, John, 
 
 And paled your cheek to white. 
 Has tottering made your young firm tread, 
 
 And bow'd your manly height. 
 
 You'll not go in to-night ! 
 
 You'll not go in ? Think on the day 
 
 That made me, John, your wife. 
 What pleasant talk that day we had 
 
 Of all our future life ; 
 Of how your steady earnings, John, 
 
 No wasting should consume, 
 But weekly some new comfort bring 
 
 To deck our happy room. 
 
 Then don't go in to-night I 
 
 To see us, John, as then we dress'd, 
 
 So tidy, clean, and neat. 
 Brought out all eyes to follow us 
 
 As we went down the street. 
 Ah, little thought our neighbours then. 
 
 And we as little thought, 
 That ever, John, to rags like these 
 
 By drink we should be brought. 
 
 You won't go in to-night 
 
 And will you go ? If not for me. 
 
 Yet for your baby stay ! 
 You know, John, not a taste of food 
 
 Has pass'd my lips to-day ; 
 And tell your father, little one, 
 
 'Tis mine your life hangs on ; 
 You will not spend the shilling, John ? 
 
 You'll give it him ? Come, John, 
 
 Come home with us to-night 
 
 W. C. Bennett.—Bom 1820. 
 
 1779.— A LITTLE WHILE. 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
 Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Beyond the blooming and the fading 
 
 I shall be soon; 
 Beyond the shining and the shading. 
 Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Beyond the rising and the setting 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the calming and the fretting. 
 Beyond remembering and forgetting, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Beyond the gathering and the strowing- 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. 
 Beyond the coming and the going, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Beyond the parting and the meeting 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
 Beyond this pulse's fever-beating, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Beyond the frost-chain and the fever 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the rock-waste and the river, 
 Beyond the ever and the never, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 Horatius Bonar. — Born 1810. 
 
 1780.— ALL WELL. 
 
 No seas again shall sever, 
 
 No desert intervene ; 
 No deep, sad-flowing river 
 
 Shall roU its tide between. 
 
 No bleak cliffs, upward towering. 
 Shall bound our eager sight ; 
 
 No tempest, darkly lowering, 
 Shall wrap us in its night. 
 
 Love, and unsever'd union 
 Of soul with those we love. 
 
 Nearness and glad communion 
 Shall be our joy above. 
 
 No dread of wasting sickness, 
 No thought of ache or pain. 
 
 No fretting hours of weakness, 
 Shall mar our peace again. 
 
 78 
 
Tbances Browne.] 
 
 IF THAT WERE TRUE I 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 No death, our homes o'ershading, 
 Shall e'er our harps unstring : 
 
 For all is life unfading 
 In presence of our King. 
 
 Soratius Bonar. — Born 1810. 
 
 1781.— IF THAT WERE TRUE! 
 
 *Tis long ago — we have toil'd and traded, 
 Have lost and fretted, have gain'd and grieved, 
 Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 
 'B'xt, friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
 G.'he poets' dreams and the peasants' stories — 
 Oh, never will time that trust renew ! 
 Yet they were old on the earth before us, 
 And lovely tales — had they been true ! 
 
 Some spake of homes in the greenwood hidden, 
 Where age was fearless and youth was free — 
 Where none at life's board seem'd guests 
 
 unbidden. 
 But men had years like the forest tree : 
 Goodly and fair and full of summer,. 
 As lives went by when the world was new, 
 Ere ever the angel steps pass'd from her — 
 Oh, dreamers and bards — if that were true ! 
 
 Some told us of a stainless standard — 
 Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 
 Whose march was ever in Freedom's vanguard, 
 And not to be stay'd by steel or gold. 
 The world to their very graves was debtor— 
 The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 
 But there had been neither slave nor fetter 
 This day in her realms — ^had that been true ! 
 
 Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer. 
 They told that life was an honest game. 
 Where fortune favour' d the fairest player. 
 And only the false found loss and blame — 
 That men were honour' d for gifts and graces, 
 And not for the prizes folly drew ; 
 But there would be many a change of places. 
 In hovel and hall — if that were true ! 
 
 Some said to our silent souls. What fear ye ? 
 And talk'd of a love not based on clay — 
 Of faith that would neither wane nor weary, 
 With all the dust of the pilgrim's day ; 
 They said that Fortune and Time were 
 
 changers. 
 But not by their tides such friendship grew ; 
 Oh, we had never been trustless strangers 
 Among our people — if that were true ! 
 
 And yet since the fairy time hath perish'd 
 With all its freshness, from hills and hearts, 
 The last of its love, so vainly cherish'd. 
 Is not for these days of schools and marts. 
 Up, up ! for the heavens still circle o'er us ; 
 There's wealth to win and there's work to do, 
 There's a sky above, and a grave before us — 
 And. brothers, beyond them all is true ! 
 
 Frances Browne. — Born 1818. 
 
 1782.— IS IT COME? 
 
 Is it come? they said, on the banks of the 
 Nile, 
 Who look'd for the world's long-promised 
 day. 
 And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil, 
 
 With the desert's sand and the granite grey. 
 From the pyramid, temple, and treasured 
 dead, 
 We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan; 
 They tell us of the tyrant's dread — 
 
 Yet there was hope when that day begun. 
 
 The Chaldee came, with his starry lore. 
 
 And built up Babylon's crown and creed ; 
 And bricks were stamp' d on the Tigris' shore 
 
 With signs which our sages scarce can read. 
 From Ninus' Temple, and Nimrod's Tower, 
 
 The rule of the old East's empire spread 
 Unreasoning faith and unquestion'd power — 
 
 But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 
 
 The light of the Persian's worshipp'd flame. 
 
 The ancient bondage its splendour threw ; 
 And once, on the West a sunrise came, 
 
 When Greece to her Freedom's trust was 
 true ; 
 With dreams to the utmost ages dear, 
 
 With human gods, and with god-Hke men. 
 No marvel the far-off day seem'd near 
 
 To eyes that look'd through her laurels 
 then. 
 
 The Romans conquer'd and revell'd too, 
 
 Till honour, and faith, and power, were 
 gone; 
 And deeper old Europe's darkness grew. 
 
 As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 
 The gown was learning, the sword was law, 
 
 The people served in the oxen's stead; 
 But ever some gleam the watcher saw, 
 
 And evermore, Is it come ? they said. 
 
 Poet and seer that question caught. 
 
 Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
 It niarch'd with letters, it toil'd with thought, 
 
 Through schools and creeds which the earth 
 forgets. 
 And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, 
 
 And traders barter our world away — 
 Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave. 
 
 And still, at times, Is it come ? they say. 
 
 The days of the nations bear no trace 
 
 Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
 The caxmon speaks in the teacher's place — 
 
 The age is weary with work and gold ; 
 And high hopes wither, and memories wane 
 
 On hearths and altars the fires are dead ; 
 But that brave faith hath not lived 
 vain — 
 
 And this is all that our watcher said. 
 
 Frances Browne. — Born 1818. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 [EoBEKT Browning. 
 
 17S3.— OH, THE PLEASANT DAYS OF 
 OLD! 
 
 Oh, the pleasant days of old. which so often 
 
 people praise ! 
 True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace 
 
 our modem days : 
 Bare floors were strew'd with rushes — the 
 
 walls let in the cold ; 
 Oh, how they must have shiver'd in those 
 
 pleasant days of old ! 
 
 . Oh, those ancient lords of old, how magnifi- 
 cent they were ! 
 
 They threw down and imprison'd kings — to 
 thwart them who might dare ? 
 
 They ruled their serfs right sternly j they took 
 from Jews their gold — 
 
 Above both law and equity were those great 
 lords of old ! 
 
 Oh, the gallant knights of old, for their valour 
 
 so renown' d ! 
 With sword and lance, and armour strong, they 
 
 scour' d the country round ; 
 And whenever aught to tempt them they met 
 
 by wood or wold, 
 By right of sword they seiz'd the prize — 
 
 those gallant knights of old ! 
 
 Oh, the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free 
 
 from fear or pain, 
 Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see 
 
 their champions slain ; 
 They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which 
 
 made them strong and bold — 
 Oh, more like men than women were those 
 
 gentle dames of old ! 
 
 Oh, those mighty towers of old ! Avith their 
 turrets, moat, and keep, 
 
 Their battlements and bastions, their dun- 
 geons dark and deep. 
 
 Full many a baron held his court within the 
 
 castle hold ; 
 . And many a captive languish'd there, in those 
 strong towers of old ! 
 
 ' Oh, the troubadours of old ! with their gentle 
 
 minstrelsie 
 Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er 
 
 their lot might be — 
 For years they served their ladye-love ore 
 
 they their passion told — 
 -Oh, wondrous patience must have had those 
 
 troubadours of old ! 
 
 Oh, those blessed times of old ! with their 
 
 chivalry and state ; 
 I love to read their chronicles, which such 
 
 brave deeds relate ; 
 I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear 
 
 their legends told — 
 But, Heaven be thank' d ! I live not in those 
 
 blessed times of old ! 
 
 Frances Brovme. — Bom 1818. 
 
 I784.~L0SSES. 
 
 Upon the white sea-sand 
 There sat a pilgrim band. 
 
 Telling the losses that their lives had known : 
 While evening waned away 
 From breezy cliff and bay. 
 
 And the strong tides went out with weary 
 moan. 
 
 One spake, with quivering lip, 
 
 Of a fair freighted ship, 
 With all his household to the deep gone 
 down ; 
 
 But one had wilder woe — 
 
 For a fair face, long ago 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 
 
 There were who mourn'd their youth 
 
 With a most loving ruth. 
 For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 
 
 And one upon the West 
 
 Turn'd an eye that would not rest, 
 For far-off hiUs whereon its joys had been. 
 
 Some talk'd of vanish'd gold. 
 
 Some of proud honours told, 
 Some spake of friends that were their trust 
 no more ; 
 
 And one of a green grave. 
 
 Beside a foreign wave. 
 That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 
 
 But when their tales were done, 
 
 There spake among them one, 
 A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
 
 " Sad losses have ye met, 
 
 But mine is heavier j'^et ; 
 For a believing heart hath gone from me." 
 
 " Alas ! " these pilgrims said, 
 " For the living and the dead — 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
 For the wrecks of land and sea ! 
 But, however it came to thee. 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest 
 loss." 
 Frances Browne. — Born 1818. 
 
 1785.— ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 All June I bound the rose in sheaves ; 
 Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, 
 And strew them where Pauline may pass. 
 She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
 Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
 The chance was they might take her eye. 
 
 II. 
 How many a nfbnth I strove to suit 
 These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
 To-day I venture all I know. 
 She will not hear my music ? So ! 
 Break the string — fold music's wing. 
 Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 
 
 78* 
 
Egbert Browning.] IN A YEAE. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 III. 
 
 That was all I meant. 
 
 My whole life long I learn' d to love ; 
 
 —To be just, 
 
 This hour my utmost art I prove 
 
 And the passion I had raisea 
 
 And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell ? 
 
 To content. 
 
 She will not give me heaven ? 'T is well ! 
 
 Since he chose to change 
 
 Lose who may — I still can say, 
 
 Gold for dust, 
 
 Those who win heaven, blest are the}'. 
 
 If I gave him what he praised 
 
 
 Was it strange ? 
 
 Rohert Browning. — Born 1812. 
 
 
 
 Would he lov'd me yet. 
 
 
 On and on, 
 While I found some way undream'd 
 
 
 
 —Paid my debt ! 
 
 1786.— IN A YEAE. 
 
 Gave more life and more, 
 
 Never any more, 
 
 Till, aU gone, 
 
 WhUe I Uve, 
 
 He should smile " She never seem' J 
 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 Mine before. 
 
 As before. 
 
 « What— she felt the while, 
 
 Once his love grown chill, 
 
 Must I think ? 
 
 Mine may strive — 
 
 Love's so different with us men," 
 
 Bitterly we reembrace, 
 
 He should smile. 
 
 Single still. 
 
 " Dying for my sake — 
 
 Was it something said, 
 
 White and pink ! 
 
 Something done, 
 
 Can't we touch these bubbles then 
 
 Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. 
 
 But they break ? " 
 
 Turn of head ? 
 Strange ! that very way 
 
 Love begun. 
 I as little understand 
 
 Love's decay. 
 
 Dear, the pang is brief. 
 
 Do thy part, 
 Have thy pleasure. How perplext 
 
 Grows belief ! 
 Well, this cold clay clod 
 
 When I sew'd or drew, 
 
 I recall 
 How he look'd as if I sang 
 
 Was man's heart. 
 Crumble it — and what comes next ? 
 Is it God ? 
 
 — Sweetly too. 
 
 Rohert Broioning. — Bom 1812. 
 
 If I spoke a word, 
 
 
 First of all 
 
 
 Up his cheek the colour sprang. 
 
 
 Then he heard. 
 
 1787.— SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH 
 
 
 CLOISTEE. 
 
 Sitting by my side, 
 
 
 At my feet, 
 
 I. i 
 
 So he breathed the air I breathed, 
 
 (jr.r.r— there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 
 
 Satisfied ! 
 
 Water your damn'd flower-pots, do ! 
 
 I, too, at love's brim 
 
 If hate kill'd men. Brother Lawrence, 
 
 Touch' d the sweet. 
 
 God's blood, would not mine kiU you ! ' 
 
 I would die if death bequeathed 
 
 What ? your myrtle-bush wants trimming ? 
 
 Sweet to him. 
 
 Oh, that rose has prior claims- 
 
 . 
 
 Needs its leaden vase fiU'd brimming ? 
 
 *' Speak— I love thee best ! " 
 He exclaim' d — 
 
 Hell dry you up with its flames ! 
 
 " Let thy love my own foretell." 
 
 II. 
 
 I confessed : 
 
 At the meal we sit together : 
 
 " Clasp my heart on thine 
 
 Salve tibi ! I must hear 
 
 Now unblam'd. 
 
 Wise talk of the kind of weather, 
 
 Since upon thy soul as well 
 
 Sort of season, time of year : 
 
 Hangeth mine ! " 
 
 Not a plenteous cork-crop ; scarcely 
 
 
 Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt : 
 
 Was it wrong to own, 
 
 What's the Latin name for " parsley ? " 
 
 ' Being truth ? 
 
 What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout ? 
 
 Why should all the giviftg prove 
 
 
 His alone ? 
 
 III. 
 
 I had wealth and ease, 
 
 Whew ! We'll have our platter burnish'd. 
 
 Beauty, youth — 
 
 Laid with care on our own shelf ! 
 
 Since my lover gave mo love 
 
 With a fire-new spoon we're lurnish'd, 
 
 I gave these. 
 
 And a goblet for ourself , 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 [Aubrey de Verb 
 
 Rinsed like something sacrificial 
 Ere 't is fit to touch ouv chaps — 
 
 Mark'd with L. for our initial ! 
 (He, he ! There his lily snaps !) 
 
 Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dolores 
 
 Squats outside the Convent bank, 
 With Sanchicha, telling stories, 
 
 Steeping tresses in the tank, 
 Blue-black, lustrous, thick, like horsehairs, 
 
 — Can't I see his dead eye glow 
 Bright, as 'twere a Barbary corsair's ? 
 
 (That is, if he'd let it show ) 
 
 When he finishes refection. 
 
 Knife and fork he never lays 
 Cross-wise, to my recollection, 
 
 As do I, in Jesus' praise. 
 I the Trinity illustrate, 
 
 Drinking water' d orange-pulp — 
 In three sips the Arian frustrate, 
 
 While he drains his at one gulp ! 
 
 Oh, those melons ! If he's able 
 
 We're to have a feast ; so nice ! 
 One goes to the Abbot's table ; 
 
 All of us get each a slice. 
 How go on your flowers ? None double ? 
 
 Not one fruit- sort can you spy ? 
 Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble, 
 
 Keep 'em close-nipp'd on the sly ! 
 
 There's a great text in Galatians, 
 
 Once you trip on it, entails 
 Twenty-nine distinct damnations — 
 
 One sure, if another fails. 
 If I trip him just a-dying, 
 
 Sure of Heaven as sure can be, 
 Spin him round and send him flying 
 
 Off to Hell, a Manichee ? 
 
 ,0r my scrofulous French novel, 
 
 On gray paper with blunt type ! 
 Simply glance at it, you grovel 
 
 Hand and foot in Belial's gripe : 
 If I double down its pages 
 
 At the woeful sixteenth print. 
 When he gathers his green gages. 
 
 Ope a sieve and slip it in 't ? 
 
 Or, there's Satan ! — one might venture 
 
 Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 
 Such a flaw in the indenture 
 
 As he'd miss, till past retrieve. 
 Blasted lay that rose-acacia 
 
 We're so proud of ! Hy, Zy, Hine . . 
 'St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratia 
 
 Ave Virgo ! Gr-r-r — you swine ! 
 
 Robert Browning. — Born 1812. 
 
 1788.— THE LOST LEADER. 
 I. 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us ; 
 
 Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
 Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 
 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
 They, v/ith the gold to give, doled him out 
 silver. 
 So much was theirs who so little allow'd. 
 How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
 Rags — were they purple, his heart had 
 been proud ! 
 We that had loved him so, follow'd him, 
 honour'd him. 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
 Learn'd his great language, caught his clear 
 accents. 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
 Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us — they Avatch 
 from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks froni the van and the free- 
 men ; 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 
 
 We shall march prospering — not through hia 
 presence ; 
 Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done — while he boasts his 
 quiescence, 
 StiU bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
 aspire. 
 Blot out his name, then — record one lost soul 
 more. 
 One task more declined, one more footpath 
 untrod. 
 One more triumph for devils, and sorrov/ for 
 angels. 
 One wrong more to man, one more insult 
 to (}od ! 
 Life's night begins ; lot him never come back 
 to us ! 
 There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
 Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of 
 twilight. 
 Never glad confident morning again ! 
 Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike 
 gallantly. 
 Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his 
 own; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and 
 wait us, 
 Pardon'd in Heaven, the first by the 
 throne ! 
 
 Robert Browning. — Born 1812. 
 
 1789.— EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The half-seen memories of childish days. 
 When pains and pleasures lightly came and 
 
 went ; 
 The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
 
AUBBET DE VeEE.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 In fearful wanderings througli forbidden 
 
 ways; 
 The vague, but manly, wish to tread the 
 
 Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent, 
 Asking to know for what man here is sent, 
 The bravest heart must often pause, and 
 
 gaze — 
 The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 
 Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature : 
 j Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to 
 I friend 
 
 I With strength no selfish purpose can secure. 
 My happy lot is this, that all attend 
 That friendship which first came, and which 
 shall last endure. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere. — Bam 1814. 
 
 790.— SONG. 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
 That burden treasur'd in your hearts too 
 long; 
 Sing it with voice low-breathed, but 
 never name her : 
 She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
 High thoughts — too high to mate with 
 mortal song — 
 Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do 
 not claim her ! 
 
 Jn twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, 
 She shades the bloom of her unearthly 
 days ; 
 The forest winds alone approach to woo 
 her. 
 Far off we catch the dark gleam of her 
 tresses ; 
 And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where 
 she strays, 
 Intelligible music warbling to her. 
 
 III. 
 
 That spirit charged to follow and defend her, 
 He also doubtless suffers this love-pain ; 
 And she perhaps is sad, hearing his 
 sighing. 
 And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 
 Like some sweet singer's when her sweet- 
 est strain 
 From the heaved heart is gradually 
 dying ! 
 
 Anhrey de Vere. — Bo-ni 1814. 
 
 1791.— -SONNET. 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
 
 Sad are our hopes, for they v/ero sweet in 
 
 sowing — 
 But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the 
 
 wheat ; 
 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 
 
 blowing — 
 And still, still, their dying breath is sweet ; 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft 
 
 us 
 Of that which made our childhood sweeter 
 
 stiUj 
 And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
 A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
 And sweet are all things, when we learn to 
 
 prize them, 
 Not for their sake, but His who grants them 
 
 or denies fchem ! 
 
 Aubrey De Vere. — Born 1814^ 
 
 I792.-~A CHEISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 It was the calm and silent night ! 
 
 Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
 Had Eome been growing up to might. 
 And now was queen of land and sea. 
 No sound was heard of clashing wars — 
 
 Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain : 
 Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 
 
 Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 Centuries ago. 
 • 
 'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 
 
 The senator of haughty Rome, 
 Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, 
 
 From lordly revel rolling home ; 
 Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 
 
 His breast Avith thoughts of boundless sway; 
 What reck'd the Roman what befell 
 A paltry province far away. 
 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 Centuries ago ? 
 
 Within that province far away 
 
 Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
 A streak of Ught before him lay. 
 
 Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
 Across his path. He pass'd — for naught 
 
 Told what was going on within ; 
 How keen the stars, his only thought — 
 
 The air how calm, and cold, and thin. 
 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 O, strange indifference ! low and high 
 
 Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 
 The earth was still — but knew not why 
 
 The world was listening, unawares. 
 How calm a moment may precede 
 
 One that shall thriU the world for ever I 
 To that still moment, none would heed, 
 
 Man's doom was link'd no more to sever- 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] APRIL. [John Keble. 
 
 It is the calm and solemn night ! 
 
 Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 
 
 A thousand beUs ring out, and throw 
 
 Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
 
 Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
 
 And true men, be you, men. 
 
 The darkness — charm' d and holy now ! 
 
 Like those of Ninety-eight ! 
 
 The night that erst no shame had worn, 
 To it a happy name is given ; 
 
 J. K. Ingram.— Born 1820. 
 
 For in that stable lay, new-bom. 
 
 The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
 
 
 
 In the solemn midnight, 
 
 
 Centuries ago ! 
 
 1794.—MOONRISE. 
 
 Alfred DommetL— Bom 1815. 
 
 What stands upon the highla,Tid ? 
 What walks across the rise, 
 
 
 As though a starry island 
 
 Were sinking down the skies ? 
 
 
 
 What makes the trees so golden ? 
 
 1793.— THE MEMORY OF THE DF.AP. 
 
 What decks the mountain side, 
 
 
 Like a veil of silver folden 
 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight ? 
 
 Round the white brow of a bride ? 
 
 Who blushes at the name ? 
 
 
 When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 
 
 The magic moon is breaking, 
 
 Who hangs his head for shame ? 
 
 Like a conqueror, from the east. 
 
 He's all a knave, or half a slave, 
 
 The waiting world awaking 
 
 Who slights his country thus ; 
 
 To a golden fairy feast. 
 
 But a true man, like you, man, 
 
 She works, with touch ethereal. 
 
 WiU fill your glass with us. 
 
 By changes strange to see. 
 
 We drink the memory of the brave, 
 
 The cypress, so funereal. 
 
 The faithful and the few- 
 
 To a lightsome fairy tree ; 
 
 Some lie far off beyond the wave — 
 
 Black rocks to marble turning, 
 
 Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
 
 Like pa,1a,ces of kings ; 
 
 All, all are gone — but still lives on 
 
 On ruin windows burning. 
 
 The fame of those who died — 
 
 A festal glory flings ; 
 
 All true men, like you, men, 
 Remember them with pride. 
 
 The desert halls uplighting, 
 While falling shadows glance, 
 
 Some on the shores of distant lands 
 
 Like courtly crowds uniting 
 
 Their weary hearts have laid, 
 
 For the banquet or the dance ; 
 
 And by the sti-anger's heedless hands 
 
 With ivory wand she numbers 
 
 Their lonely graves were made ; 
 But, though their clay be far away 
 
 The stars along the sky ; 
 And breaks the billows' slumbers 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
 
 With a love glance of her eye 
 
 In true men, like you, men, 
 
 
 Their spirit's still at home. 
 
 Along the cornfields dances,. 
 
 
 Brings bloom upon the sheaf; 
 
 The dust of some is Irish earth ; 
 
 From tree to tree she glances. 
 
 Among their own they rest ; 
 
 And touches leaf by leaf ; 
 
 And the same land that gave them birth 
 
 
 Has caught them to her breast ; 
 And we will pray that from their clay 
 
 FuU many a race may start 
 Of true men, like you, men, 
 
 Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; 
 
 Through their half -close'd eyelids gleq.m s; 
 With her white torch through the meadowa 
 
 Lights the shy deer to the streams. 
 
 To act as brave a part. 
 
 The magic moon is breaking. 
 
 They rose in dark and evil days 
 
 To right their native land ; 
 They kindled here a living blaze 
 
 Like a conqueror, from the east. 
 And the joyous world partaking 
 Of her golden fairy feast. 
 
 That nothing shall withstand. 
 
 Ernest Jones.— Bom 1820, Died 1869. 
 
 Ala.R ! that Might can vanquish Right— 
 
 
 They fell and pass'd away ; 
 
 
 
 But true men, like you, men. 
 
 
 Are plenty here to-day. 
 
 1795.— APRIL. 
 
 Then here's their memory — ^may it be 
 
 Lessons sweet of Spring returuiTic, 
 
 For us a guiding light. 
 
 Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! 
 
 To cheer our strife for liberty, 
 
 May I call ye sense or learning. 
 
 And teach us to unite. 
 
 Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art ? 
 
John Keble.] 
 
 THE ELDER SCRIPTURE, 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Be your title what it may, 
 Sweet and lengthening April day, 
 While with you the soul is free, 
 Ranging wild o'er hill and lea ; 
 
 Soft as Menmon's harp at morning, 
 
 To the inward ear devout, 
 Touch' d by light with heavenly warning, 
 
 Your transporting chords ring out. 
 Every leaf in every nook, 
 Every wave in every brook, 
 Chanting with a solemn voice, 
 Minds us of our better choice. 
 
 Needs no show of mountain hoary, 
 Winding shore or deepening glen, 
 
 WTiere the landscape in its glory, 
 Teaches truth to wandering men. 
 
 Give true hearts but earth and sky, 
 
 And some flowers to bloom and die ; 
 
 Homely scenes and simple views 
 
 Lowly thoughts may best infuse 
 
 See the soft green willow springing 
 Where the waters gently pass, . 
 
 Every way her free arms flinging 
 O'er the moss and reedy grass. 
 
 Long ere winter blasts are fled, 
 
 See her tipp'd with vernal red, 
 
 And her kindly flower display'd 
 
 Ere her leaf can cast a shade. 
 
 Though the rudest hand assail her, 
 
 Patiently she droops awhile. 
 But when showers and breezes hail her. 
 
 Wears again her willing smile. 
 Thus I learn Contentment's power 
 From the slighted willow bower. 
 Ready to give thanks and live 
 On the least tliat Heaven may give. 
 
 If, the quiet brooklet leaving, 
 
 Up the stormy vale I wind, 
 Haply half in fancy grieving 
 
 For the shades I leave behind, 
 By the dusty wayside dear, 
 Nightingales with joyous cheer 
 Sing, my sadness to reprove, 
 Gladlier than in cultured grove 
 
 Where the thickest boughs are twining 
 
 Of the greenest, darkest tree. 
 There they plunge, the light declining — 
 
 All may hear, but none may see. 
 Fearless of the passing hoof. 
 Hardly will they fleet aloof ; 
 So they live in modest ways, 
 Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. 
 
 Jolm KeUe.—Iiovn 1800, Died 1866. 
 
 1796.— THE ELDER SCRIPTURE. 
 
 There is a book, who runs may read. 
 Which heavenly truth imparts, 
 
 And all the lore its scholars need — 
 Pare eyes and loving hearts. 
 
 The works of God, above, below. 
 
 Within us, and around. 
 Are pages in that book, to show 
 
 How God himseK is found. 
 
 The glorious sky, embracing all, 
 
 Is like the Father's love ; 
 Wherewith encompass'd, great and small 
 
 In peace and order move. 
 
 The dew of heaven is like His grace : 
 
 It steals in silence down ; 
 But where it lights, the favour'd place 
 
 By richest fruits is knowQ. 
 
 Two worlds are ours : 'tis only sin 
 
 Forbids us to descry 
 The mystic heaven and earth witliin 
 
 Plain as the earth and sky. 
 
 Thou who hast given me eyes to see 
 
 And love this sight so fair, 
 Give me a heart to find out Thee 
 
 And read Thee everywhere. 
 
 John Kehle.—Born 1800, Died 1866. 
 
 1797.— ST. PETER'S DAY. 
 
 Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved, 
 Watch by Thine own forgiven friend ! 
 
 In sharpest perils faithful proved, 
 Let his soul love Thee to the end. 
 
 The prayer is heard — else why so deep 
 His slumber on the eve of death Y 
 
 And wherefore smiles he in his sleep, 
 As one who drew celestial breath ? 
 
 He loves and is beloved again — 
 Can his soul choose but be at rest ? 
 
 Sorrow hath fled away, and pain 
 Dares not invade the guarded nest. 
 
 He dearly loves, and not alone ; 
 
 For his wing'd thoughts are soaring high 
 Where never yet frail heart was known 
 
 To breathe in vain afi'ection's sigh. 
 
 He loves and weeps ; but more tJian tears 
 Have seal'd Thy welcome and his love — 
 
 One look lives in him, and endears 
 
 Crosses and wrongs where'er he rove — 
 
 That gracious chiding look, Thy call 
 To win him to himself and Thee, 
 
 Sweetening the sorrow of his fall 
 Wliich else were rued too bitterly ; 
 
 Even through the veil of sleep it shines, 
 The memory of that kindly glance ; — 
 
 The angel, watching by, divines. 
 
 And spares awhile his blissful trance. 
 
 Or haply to his native lake 
 
 His vision wafts him back, to talk 
 
 With Jesus, ore his flijjht he take, 
 As in that solemn evening walk, 
 
From 1780 to ISGd.] O MARY, GO AND CALL THE CATTLE HOME. [C. Kingsley 
 
 When to the bosom of his friend, 
 
 The Shepherd, He whose name is Good, 
 
 Did His dear lambs and sheep commend. 
 Both bought and nourish' d with His blood ; 
 
 Then laid on him th' inverted tree. 
 
 Which, firm embraced with heart and arm, 
 
 Might cast o'er hope and memory, 
 O'er life and death, its awful charm. 
 
 With brightening heart he bears it on. 
 His passport through th' eternal gates, 
 
 To his sweet home — so nearly won, 
 He seems, as by the door he waits, 
 
 The unexpressive notes to hear 
 Of angel song and angel motion, 
 
 Rising and falling on the ear 
 
 Like waves in Joy's unbounded ocean. 
 
 His dream is changed — the tyrant's voice 
 Calls to that last of glorious deeds — 
 
 But as he rises to rejoice. 
 
 Not Herod, but an angel leads. 
 
 He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, 
 Glancing around his prison room ; 
 
 But 'tis a gleam of heavenly light 
 That fills up all the ample gloom. 
 
 The flame, that in a few short years 
 Deep through the chambers of the dead 
 
 Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, 
 Is waving o'er his dungeon-bed. 
 
 Touch'd, he upstarts — his chains unbind — 
 Through darksome vault, up massy stair. 
 
 His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind 
 To freedom and cool, moonlight air. 
 
 Thon all himself, all joy and calm. 
 Though for awhile his hand forego. 
 
 Just as it touch'd, the martyr's palm. 
 He turns him to his task below : 
 
 The pastoral stafi", the keys of heaven, 
 To wield awhile in gray-hair' d might — 
 
 Tlien from his cross to spring forgiven, 
 And follow Jesus out of sight. 
 
 John Kehle.-—Born 1800, Died 1866, 
 
 1798.— "IS THIS A TIME TO PLANT 
 AND BUILD?" 
 
 Is this a time to plant and build. 
 Add house to house, and field to field, 
 When round our walls the battle lowers — 
 When mines are hid beneath our towers, 
 And watc hf ul foes are stealing round 
 To search and spoil the holy ground ? 
 
 Is this a time for moonlight dreams 
 Of love and home, by mazy streams — 
 For fancy with her shadowy toys, 
 Aorial hopes and pensive joys. 
 While souls are wandering far and wide, 
 And curses swarm on every side ? 
 
 No — ^rather steel thy melting heart 
 To act the martyr's sternest part — 
 To watch, with firm, unshrinking eye. 
 Thy darling visions as they die, 
 Till all bright hopes, and hues of day, 
 Have faded into twilight gray. 
 
 Yes — let them pass without a sigh 
 
 And if the world seem dull and dry — 
 
 If long and sad thy lonely hours. 
 
 And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers — 
 
 Bethink thee what thou art, and where 
 
 A sinner in a life of care. 
 
 The fire of God is soon to fall — 
 Thou know'st it — on this earthly ball 
 Full many a soul, the j^rice of blood 
 Mark'd by the Almighty's hand for good, 
 To utter death that hour shall sweep — 
 And will the saints in heaven dare weep ? 
 
 Then in His wrath shall God uproot 
 The trees He set, for lack of fruit ; 
 And drown in rude, tempestuous blaze 
 The towers His hand had deign' d to raise. 
 In silence, ere that storm begin, 
 Count o'er His mercies and thy sin. 
 
 Pray only that thine aching heart — 
 From visions vain content to part. 
 Strong for love's sake its woe to hide — 
 May cheerful wait the cross be?ide : 
 Too happy if, that dreadful day. 
 Thy life be given thee for a prey. 
 
 Snatch' d sudden from the avenging rod, 
 Safe in the bosom of thy God, 
 How wilt thou then look back, and smile 
 On thoughts that bitterest seem'd erewhile. 
 And bless the pangs that made thee see 
 This was no world of rest for thee ! 
 
 John KcUe.—Bora 1800 , Died 1866. 
 
 i799._0 MARY, GO AND CALL THE 
 CATTLE HOME. 
 
 " O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home, 
 Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
 The western wind was wild and dank wi* 
 foam 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 And round and round the sand. 
 As far as eye could see ; 
 The blinding mist came down and hid the land : 
 And never home came she. 
 
 " Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
 A tress o' golden hair, 
 O' drowned maiden'e hair — 
 Above the nest at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
Charles Kingslet.] 
 
 THE FISHEEMEN. 
 
 [Seventh Period.-— 
 
 They row'd her in across the rolling foam — 
 The cruel, crawling foain, 
 The cruel, hungry foam — 
 To her grave beside the sea ; 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle 
 home 
 Across the sands o' Dee. 
 
 Clicudes Kingsley. — Bomx 1S19. 
 
 iSoo.— THE FISHERMEN. 
 
 Three fishers went sailing out into the West — 
 
 Out into the West as the sun went down ; 
 Each thought of the woman who loved him 
 the best, 
 And the children stood watching them out 
 of the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep ; 
 And there 's little to earn and many to keep. 
 Though the harbour bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower 
 And trimm'd the lamps as the sun went 
 down ; 
 And they look'd at the squall, and they look'd 
 at the shower, 
 And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and 
 brown ; 
 But men must work, and women must weep, 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
 And the harbour bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 In the moriung gleam as the tide went 
 down, 
 And the women are watching and wringing 
 their Imnds, 
 For those who will never come back to the 
 town ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep— 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to 
 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
 Charles Kingsley. — Born 1819. 
 
 1801.— THE THEEE SONS. 
 
 I have a son. a little son, a boy just five years 
 old. 
 
 With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and 
 mind of gentle mould. 
 
 They tell me that unusual grace in all his 
 ways appears. 
 
 That my child is grave and wise of heart be- 
 yond his childish years. 
 
 I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 
 face is fair — 
 
 And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 
 and serious air : 
 
 I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he 
 
 loveth me ; 
 But loveth yet his mother more with grateful 
 
 fervency. 
 B t that which others most admire, is the 
 
 thought which fills his mind. 
 The food for grave inquiring speech he everj'- 
 
 where doth find. 
 Strange questions doth he ask of mo, when 
 
 we together walk ; 
 He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks 
 
 as children talk. 
 Nor cares he much for chUdish sports, dotes 
 
 not on bat or ball, 
 But looks on manhood's ways and works, and 
 
 aptly mimics all. 
 His little heart is busy stUl, and oftentimes 
 
 perplex' d 
 With thoughts about this world of ours, and 
 
 thoughts about the next. 
 He kneels at his dear motlier's knee — she 
 
 teacheth him to pray, — 
 And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are 
 
 the words wliich he wOl say. 
 Oh, should my gentle child be spared to man- 
 hood's years like me, 
 A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; 
 And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 
 
 thoughtful brow, 
 I dare not think what I should feel, were I to 
 
 lose him now. 
 
 I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 
 
 three ; 
 I'll not declare how bright and fair his little 
 
 features be. 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he 
 
 prattles on my knee ; 
 I do not think his Light-blue eye is, like his 
 
 brother's, keen. 
 Nor his brow so full of childish thought as 
 
 his hath ever been ; 
 But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind 
 
 and tender feeling ; 
 And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 
 
 depths of love revealing. 
 'V\Tien he walks with me, the country folk, 
 
 who pass us in the street. 
 Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks 
 
 so mild and sweet. 
 A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheer- 
 ful tone, 
 Will sing his little song of love, when left to 
 
 sport alone. 
 His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 
 
 home and hearth, 
 To comfort us in all our gi-icfs, and sweeten 
 
 all our mirth. 
 Should he grow up to riper years, God grant 
 
 his heart may prove 
 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 
 
 for earthly love ; 
 And if, beside liis grave, the tears our aching 
 
 eyes must dim, • 
 
 God comfort us for all the love which we 
 
 shall lose in him ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BE PATIENT. 
 
 [R. C. Trench. 
 
 I have a son, a third sweet son; his ago I 
 
 cannot tell, 
 For they reckon not by years and months 
 
 where he is gone to dwell. 
 To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant 
 
 smiles were given ; 
 And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went 
 
 to live in Heaven. 
 I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he 
 
 weareth now, 
 Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his 
 
 shining seraph brow. 
 The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 
 
 bliss which he doth feel, 
 Are number'd with the secret things which 
 
 God will not reveal. 
 But I know (for God hath told me this) that 
 
 he is now at rest, 
 Where other blessed infants be, on their Sa- 
 viour's loving breast. 
 I know his spirit feels no more this weary 
 
 load of flesh. 
 But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams 
 
 of joy for ever fresh. 
 I know the angels fold him close beneath 
 
 their glittering wings, 
 And soothe him with a song that breathes of 
 
 Heaven's divinest things. 
 I know that we shall meet our babe (his 
 
 mother dear and I), 
 Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears 
 
 from every eye. 
 Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss 
 
 can never cease ; 
 Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his 
 
 is certain peace. 
 It may be that the Tempter's ^viles their souls 
 
 from bliss may sever ; 
 But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must 
 
 be ours for ever. 
 When we think of what our darling is, and 
 
 what we still mvist be — 
 When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, 
 
 and this world's misery — 
 When we groan beneath this load of sin, and 
 
 feel this grief and pain — 
 Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have 
 
 him here again. 
 
 Jo 7(31 Moultrie. — Born 1799. 
 
 i8o2.— HAEMOSAN. 
 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the Per- 
 sian throne was done, 
 
 And the Moslem's fiery valour had the crown- 
 ing victory won. 
 
 Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to 
 
 defy, 
 Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 
 
 bringing forth to die. 
 
 Then exclaim'd that noble captive : " Lo, I 
 
 perish in my thirst ; 
 Give me but one drink of water, and let then 
 
 arrive the worst ! " 
 
 In his hand he took the goblet ; hut a while 
 
 the draught forbore. 
 Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the f oemen 
 
 to explore. 
 
 Well might then have paused the bravest — 
 
 for, around him, angry foes 
 With a hedge of naked weapons did that 
 
 lonely man enclose. 
 
 " But what fearest thou ? " cried the Caliph ; 
 " is it, friend, a secret blow ? 
 j Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such 
 treacherous dealing know. 
 
 " Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for 
 thou shalt not die before 
 
 Thou hast drunk that cup of water : this re- 
 prieve is thine — no more ! " 
 
 Quick the Satrap dash'd the goblet down to 
 
 earth with ready hand. 
 And the liquid sunk for ever, lost amid the 
 
 burning sand. 
 
 " Thou hast said that mine mj' life is, till the 
 
 water of that cup 
 I have drain' d : then bid thy servants that 
 
 spill' d water gather up ! " 
 
 For a moment stood the Caliph as by doubt- 
 ful passions stirr'd — 
 
 Then exclaimed, " For ever sacred must re- 
 main a monarch's word. 
 
 " Bring another cup, and straightway to the 
 
 noble Persian give : 
 Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid 
 
 thee drink and live ! " 
 
 Bicliard Chenevix Trench. — Bo'iifi 1807. 
 
 1803.— BE PATIENT. 
 
 Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear 
 
 against the earth ; 
 Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the 
 
 seed has birth — 
 How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its 
 
 little way, 
 Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and 
 
 the blade stands up in the day. 
 
 Be patient ! oh, be patient ! The germs of 
 
 mighty thought 
 Must have their silent undergrowth, must 
 
 underground be wrought ; 
 But as sure as there 's a power that makes 
 
 the grass appear. 
 Our land shall be green with liberty, the 
 
 blade-time shall be here. 
 
 Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — go and watch 
 
 the wheat-ears grow — 
 So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change 
 
 nor throe — 
 
Fkedertck Tennyson.] 
 
 FIRST OF MARCH. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, till the ear is 
 
 fully grown — 
 And then again day after day, till the ripen' d 
 
 field is brown. 
 
 Be patient ! oh, be patient 1 — though yet our 
 
 hopes are green, 
 The harvest fields of freedom shall be crown'd 
 
 with sunny sheen. 
 Be ripening ! be ripening ! — mature your 
 
 silent way, 
 Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire 
 
 on freedom's harvest day. 
 
 Richard Chenevb: Trench. — Born 1807. 
 
 1804.— FIRST OF MARCH. 
 
 Through the gaunt woods the winds are 
 shrilling cold, 
 Down from the rifted rack* the sunbeam 
 
 pours 
 Over the cold gray slopes, and stony moors; 
 The glimmering watercourse, the eastern wold, 
 And over it the whirling sail o' the mill. 
 The lonely hamlet with its mossy spire, 
 The piled city smoking like a pyre, 
 Feteh'd out of shadow gleam with light as 
 chill. 
 
 II. 
 
 The young leaves pine, their early promise 
 stay'd ; 
 The hope-deluded sorrow at the sight 
 Of the sweet blossoms by the treacherous 
 light 
 Flatter'd to death, like tender love betray'd ; 
 And stepdames frown, and aged virgins 
 chide ; 
 Relentless hearts put on their iron mood ; 
 The hunter's dog lies dreaming of the wood. 
 And dozes barking by the ingle-side. 
 
 Larks twitter, martens glance, and curs from 
 far 
 Rage down the wind, and straight are heard 
 
 no more ; 
 Old wives peep out, and scold, and bang the 
 door; 
 And clanging clocks grow angry in the air 
 Sorrow and care, perplexity and pain 
 
 Frown darker shadows on the homeless 
 
 one. 
 And the gray beggar buffeting alone 
 Pleads in the howling storm, and pleads in 
 vain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The field-fires smoke along the champaign 
 drear. 
 And drive before the north wind streaming 
 down 
 
 Bleak hill, and furrow dark, and fallow 
 brown ; 
 Few living things along the land appear 
 The weary horse looks out, his mane astray, 
 With anxious fetlock, and uneasy eye, 
 And sees the market-carts go madly by 
 With sidelong drivers reckless of the way. 
 
 The sere beech-leaves, that trembled dry and 
 red 
 All the long winter on the frosty bough. 
 Or slept in quiet underneath the snow, 
 
 Fly off, like resurrections of the dead ; 
 
 The horny ploughman, and his yoked ox, 
 Wink at the icy blasts ; and beldames bold. 
 Stout, and red-hooded, flee before the cold : 
 
 And children's eyes are blinded by the shocks. 
 
 You cannot hear the waters for the wind ; 
 The brook that foams, and falls, .and bubbles 
 
 Hath lost its voice — but ancient steeples 
 sigh. 
 And belfries moan — and crazy ghosts, •?oDfine<l 
 In dark courts, weep, and shake the shuddering 
 gates, 
 And cry from points of windy pinnacles, 
 Howl through the bars, and 'plain among 
 the bells, 
 And shriek, and wail like voioes of the Fates ! 
 
 And who is IJe, that down the mountain-side, 
 Swift as a shadow flying from the sun, 
 Between the wings of stormy winds doth 
 run. 
 With fierce blue eyes, and eyebrows knit with 
 
 l)ride ; 
 Though now and then I see sweet laughters 
 play^ 
 Upon his lips, like moments of bright heaven 
 Thrown 'twix tlie cruel blasts of morn and 
 even, 
 And golden locks beneath his hood of grey ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sometimes he turns him back to wave fare- 
 well 
 To his pale sire with icy beard and hair ; 
 Sometimes he sends before him through the air 
 A cry of welcome down a sunny dell ; 
 And while the echoes are around him ringing. 
 Sudden the angry wind breathes low and 
 
 sweet, 
 Young violets show their blue eyes at liif^i 
 feet, 
 And the wild lark is heard above him singing ! 
 
 Frederick Tenw/son. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 [Frederick Tennyson.. 
 
 1805.— THE BEIDAL. 
 
 Oh, the bells ! the morning belh; ! 
 
 Sinking, swelling, soft and clear, 
 Glad paean, hark ! it tells 
 Joy is here ; 
 Through light ambrosial dream of earliest 
 morn, 
 
 The melody came wafted from afar, 
 Sweet as the harps of angels earthward 
 borne 
 On some descending star ! 
 
 I ro.^e — I lean'd through woodbines o'er 
 
 the lawn — 
 'Twas early day, right early — and the dawn 
 Wax'd like the springtide of a waveless sea 
 Beyond the dark hills and the umber lea ; 
 And with the breath of the upcoming day, 
 Ten thousand spirits of the blissful May 
 From cowslip slopes, green banks, and heathy 
 
 fells, 
 Did come and go like those sweet morning 
 
 bells. 
 
 Oh welcome, golden dawn, and summer clime, 
 Wild bird and dewy flower, and tuneful chime. 
 Make drunk my sense, and let me dream 
 
 that I 
 Am just newborn in some lost isle of joy, 
 And that the happy gods are hither winging 
 With blossom incense and the sound of singing. 
 Oh welcome, Festal Hours ; I will away, 
 I too will haste me, 'tis a marriage day ! 
 
 There on the hillside is that home of thino 
 Curtain'd in jasmin- wreaths, and curly vino ; 
 And thou too wakest, Rosa, and the light 
 Bathes in thy blue eyes searching for delight ; 
 Thy welcome 'tis, thy jubilee a- ringing ! 
 Yet from the fount of Joy a tear is springing. 
 For oh ! the selfsame Love that lights thine 
 
 eye 
 Shows thee the beauty of the days gone by. 
 
 The marriage bells are ringing, 
 
 The merry winds go by, 
 The summer birds are singing 
 In the sky ! 
 The bridal bells, ah ! merrily, hark ! they 
 ring, 
 Rising and falling like a lover's heart, 
 Over the hills their silver sounds they fling, 
 And valleys far apart ! 
 
 And He too wakes ! the glory of the prime 
 Shines on his brow, and in his heart sublime ; 
 Through charmed light he sees the illumined 
 
 spring. 
 With his own joy he hears the skylark sing ; 
 And the young airs that ripple the treetops 
 Have got their wings from his enchanted 
 
 hopes ; 
 The dazzling dews that on the roses lie, 
 The sunlit streams are kindled at his eye I 
 
 With heedless heart he looks across the land, 
 And far as he can see on either hand 
 Greenwood and garden, and the wealth that 
 
 fills 
 The teeming vales, and robes the summer 
 
 hiUs 
 Are his ; but from his tower he only sees 
 One mossy roof half hid among the trees ; 
 There is the priceless treasure that outweighs 
 All hopes and memories, all delights and praise. 
 
 And if his heart is plumed with sudden 
 
 pride — 
 " Mine is the noble race that lived or died 
 For honour ; mine the name unstain'd of ill, 
 Blown from the lips of Fame, with echoes 
 
 still ; 
 Mine are the sires whom bards have sung— 
 
 who held 
 First i^lace in council, first in battlefield ; 
 Yet all is nought" — he sigh'd — " till thou art 
 
 mine ; ^ 
 
 Kings might give (flrowns for that one ho art 
 of thine ! " 
 
 The bridal bells are pealing ! 
 
 We will rejoice to-day ! 
 The blissful sounds are stealing 
 Hearts away ; 
 The jocund bells are pealing fast and sweet. 
 Softly they come and go like lovers' 
 sighs ; 
 In one glad thought the young and old are 
 met. 
 The simple and the wise. 
 
 They reach the woodman in the morning air, 
 They reach the baron in his carven chair, 
 The dark-eyed damsel bending o'er the spring, 
 The scholar in dim cloister murmuring ; 
 The dusty pilgrim stays across the stile ; 
 The smith upon his anvil leans awhile ; 
 Boys whistle — beggars bustle — shepherds 
 
 sing— 
 The marriage bells ring merrily ; hark, they 
 
 ring! 
 
 The sun is kissing off from woodnymphs' 
 
 eyes 
 Their evening tears, and dewy breathings 
 
 rise 
 From wildflower urns — o'er waving fields of 
 
 wheat 
 Swift shadows stream away, and woodnotcs 
 
 fleet 
 From frolic finches tremble here and there 
 'Mid the loud carols and the breezy air — 
 I hear blithe tongues and tread of rustic feet. 
 The joyous bells are pealing fast and sweet ! 
 
 Of life, and love, and luck the countryfolk 
 Discourse by riverside, and hedgerow oak, 
 Of fairy gifts, and wondrous fortune after, 
 They tell with faith, with antique songs and 
 laughter ; 
 
Frederick Tennyson.] 
 
 THE BEIDAL. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 If one shrewd tongue should jar and seek to 
 
 shame 
 The bride's new honours with her humble name, 
 Thou in her place wouldst merit thine own 
 
 jest," 
 They cry — 'but she is better than their 
 
 best!" 
 
 The happy bells are chiming ; 
 
 Here comes the peerless bride, 
 A mighty host is climbing 
 The hill side ; 
 Through briary byepath and o'er sunny 
 down 
 They haste unto the bridal, for to-day 
 The lord of half the country and the 
 town 
 Shall lead his bride away. 
 Who is the bride ? a simple village maid — 
 Beauty and Truth — a violet in the shade, 
 But she shall show prmid Sin and painted 
 
 Scorn IP 
 
 That Truth and Beauty are to honour born ; 
 He teach proud h^rts to feel, proud eyes to 
 
 see 
 How strong is Nature, winged Love how 
 
 free: 
 Long be their days, their fortunes glad and 
 
 sure — 
 His blood is noble and her heart is pure ! 
 
 Look on her — in that aspect ye may spy 
 Her mirror' d soul where all sweet pictures 
 
 He; 
 Spring, summer, with their changes o'er it 
 
 flit. 
 And morn and eve, twin sisters, look frem 
 
 it; 
 While memories of green woods and tuneful 
 
 streams, 
 Lone songs, and autumn sighs, and April 
 
 gleams 
 In shadows of soft melancholy flow 
 Up from her heart across her crowned brow. 
 
 The little maidens gaze into her face, 
 And store sweet records for the after-days ; 
 And iron men feel tender moments twine 
 Their hearts of oak, like tendrils of the vine ; 
 And the faint lightning of an infant mirth 
 Plays round pale lips — ^the last they feel on 
 
 earth — 
 Of aged women leaning on their staves. 
 Like early roses dropp'd in open graves. 
 
 Hark ! the loud-voiced bells 
 
 Stream on the world around 
 With the full wind, as it swells. 
 Seas of sound ! 
 It is a voice that calls to onward years — 
 'Turn back, and when delight is fled 
 away, 
 Look through the e veningmists of mortal tears 
 On this immortal day.' 
 
 That memory, like the deep light in the west, 
 Shall bathe your hearts, before ye sink to 
 
 rest. 
 Not only with the glow of good things gone, 
 But with the faith, that, when your days bo 
 
 done, 
 Another morn shall rise, but not to set. 
 And ye shall meet once more, as once ye met, 
 Your beauty wrought to glory by the Giver, 
 The joy within ye perfected for ever : 
 Oh ! what rare thoughts are his, oh ! v/hat 
 
 delight 
 To gaze upon her, hold her in his sight, 
 To quaff her smiles, as thirsty bees that sup. 
 Nuzzled within a noonday lily's cup, 
 The last sweets, lest a drop be there in vain ; 
 And in that rapture all remember' d pain 
 Exhales, and for a moment he can see 
 A lightning flash of what the Soul shall be ! 
 
 But she — dear heart — her thoughts are fled 
 
 once more 
 To far-off morns, and summer nights of yore, 
 Mayings, and nuttings, and the old folks' tale, 
 Hayfield and harvest, and the daoice i' the 
 
 dale; 
 Home words she loved — quaint hopes whereon 
 
 she fed. 
 The songs she sung — the faithful words she 
 
 read — 
 Till she has need to look up to his eyes 
 For all their warmth to sun her timeless sighs. 
 
 Softly the sweet bells fail ; 
 
 I hear a linnet sing 
 Among the blossoms pale 
 Of the spring : 
 Alone he sings itpon a whitethorn spray 
 
 And fills the gtisty wind — I see between 
 The odorous branches of the bending May 
 The bridal pass the green. 
 
 " Wliat is more full of hope than infants' 
 
 dreams ? " 
 He sang, "more blest than a green valley 
 
 seems 
 Mid herbless rocks ? more pure than mountain 
 
 streams ? 
 Chaster than light ? warmer than imaged 
 
 beams ? 
 More fall of promise than the vernal heaven ? 
 More peaceful than a starry summer's even P 
 More sweet than moss-rose odours after rain 
 With violets mix'd ? or a two-voiced strain ? 
 
 "What is more welcome than the dawn of day 
 
 To lone men lost in darkness and dismay ? 
 
 To aged e.yes than is the hue of wine ? 
 
 To weary wanderers than the sound and shine 
 
 Of sudden waters in a desert place ? 
 
 To a sad brother than a sister's face ? " 
 
 Oh ! Love, first Love, so full of hope ana 
 
 truth ; 
 A guileless maiden and a gentle youth. 
 
From 1788 to 18GG.1 
 
 THE BLACKBIED. 
 
 [Frederick Tennyson. 
 
 Through arches of wreathed rose they take 
 
 their way, 
 He the fresh Morning, she the better May, 
 'Twixt jocund hearts and voices jubilant 
 And unseen gods that guard on either hand, 
 And blissful tears, and tender smiles that fall 
 On her dear head — great summer over all ! 
 While Envy, of the triumph haK afraid, 
 Slinks, like a dazzled serpent, to the shade. 
 
 Softly the loud peal dies, 
 
 In passing winds it drowns. 
 But breathes, like perfect joys, . 
 
 Tender tones ; 
 But clearer comes the wildbird's eager call, 
 .While the robed pomp is streaming out 
 of sight, 
 But a full sunburst showers the festival, 
 And crowns farewell with light. 
 
 " Farewell ! and while the summers wax and 
 
 wane. 
 In children's children may ye live again ; 
 Oh ! may your beauty from its ashes rise, 
 Yom* strength be theirs, your virtues light 
 
 their eyes ! 
 Tour Charity — green vine that clasps the 
 
 stem 
 Of wither 'd Sorrow — ^bloom and spread in them ; 
 And while soft mosses clothe the forest tree, 
 May Might wed Mercy ; Pride, Humility. 
 
 " Farewell ! and like the echoes of these chimes 
 May your pure concord stir the aftertimes ; 
 Your story be a signal lamp to guide 
 The generations from the waste of pride ; 
 Like the sun beam that flows before your 
 
 path, 
 Your faith right onward scatter clouds of 
 
 wrath ; 
 And live, oh, live, in songs that shall be sung. 
 The first true hearts that made the old world 
 
 young!" 
 
 Farewell ! and other tongues took up the 
 
 sound 
 As though the long-lost Golden Age were found : 
 That shout of joy went up among the hills 
 And reach'd a holy hermit bow'd with ills ; 
 And he breathed up a solitary prayer 
 From his pale lips into the sunny air — 
 " Oh ! that on those young hearts, this day, 
 
 might rest, 
 Father, thy blessing" — and they shall be blest ! 
 
 The winds have hush'd their wings, 
 
 The merry bells are stiU, 
 No more the linnet sings 
 On the hill ; 
 But tender maidens linger with soft eyes 
 
 Under the dim gleam of a throbbing star. 
 Then close their lattices with low sweet 
 sighs, 
 Light as the dewless air. 
 
 With glittering locks, like summer, he 
 
 descends 
 'Mid courteous aspects — flatterers, feers, and 
 
 friends ; 
 Brothers and uncles on his footsteps wait 
 Aunts, sisters, cousins, that must bow to 
 
 Fate ; 
 She takes their forced v,'elcome, and their 
 
 wiles 
 For her own Truth, and lifts her head, and 
 
 smiles ; 
 They shall not change that Truth by any art. 
 Oh ! may her love change them before they 
 
 part. 
 
 The minstrels wait them at the palace-gate. 
 She hears the flood, and sees the flash of 
 
 State ; 
 For all the mirth, the tumult, and the song. 
 Her fond thoughts follow the departing 
 
 throng ; 
 She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears, 
 Her mother's blessing lingers in her ears : 
 "Bless thee, my Child" — the music is unheard. 
 Her heart grows strong on that remember'd 
 
 word. 
 
 Again in dreams I heard the Marriage bells 
 Waving from far sweet welcomes and fare- 
 wells ; 
 And Alleluias from the Deep I heard. 
 And songs of star-brov/'d Seraphim insphcred. 
 That ebb'd unto that Sea without a shore. 
 Leaving vast awe and silence to adore ; 
 But still, methinks, I hear the dying strain — 
 " The crooked straight, and the rough places 
 plain ! " 
 
 Fredericlc Tennyson. 
 
 [806.— THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 How sweet the harmonies of Afternoon ! 
 
 The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze 
 
 His ancient song of leaves, and Summer boon ; 
 
 Eich breath of hayfields streams thro* 
 
 whispering trees ; 
 
 And birds of morning trim their bustling 
 
 wings, 
 And listen fondly — while the Blackbird sings. 
 
 How soft the lovelight of the West reposes 
 On this green valley's cheery solitude. 
 
 On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, 
 On the grey belfry -with its ivy hood, 
 
 And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that 
 flings 
 
 Its bubbling freshness — while the Blackbird 
 
 The very dial on the village church 
 
 Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest ; 
 
Peter Spenceb.J 
 
 LINES TO FANNY. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 The scribbled benches underneath the porch 
 Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ; 
 But the broad casements of the old Throe 
 
 Kings 
 Blaze like a furnace — while the Blackbird sings. 
 
 And there beneath the immemorial elm 
 Three rosy revellers round a table sit, 
 And through gray clouds give laws unto the 
 realm, 
 Curse good and great, but worship their 
 own wit, 
 And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings. 
 Com, colts, and curs — the while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 V. 
 
 Before her home, in her accustom'd seat, 
 The tidy grandam spins beneath the shade 
 
 Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet 
 
 The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid ; 
 
 To her low chair a little maiden clings, 
 
 And spells in silence — while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud 
 
 Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens 
 green, 
 While the far fields with sunlight overflow'd 
 Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; 
 Again the sunshine on the shadow springs. 
 And fires the thicket — whore the Blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor-house. 
 With its peach-cover' d walls, and rookery 
 loud. 
 The trim, quaint garden alleys, screen'd with 
 boughs, 
 The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, 
 The mossy fountain with its murmurings. 
 Lie in warm sunshine — while the Blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The ring of silver voices, and the sheen 
 Of festal garments — and my lady streams 
 
 With her gay court across the garden green ; 
 Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their 
 love-dreams ; 
 
 And one calls for a little page ; he strings 
 
 Her lute beside her — while the Blackbird sings. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A little while — and lo ! the charm is heard ; 
 
 A youth, whose life has been all summer, 
 steals 
 Forth from the noisy guests around the board, 
 
 Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; 
 And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things 
 Into her fond ear — while the Blackbird sings. 
 
 X. 
 
 The smoke- wreaths from the chimneys curl up 
 higher, 
 And dizzy things of eve begin to float 
 Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire. 
 
 Half-way to sunset with a drowsy note 
 The ancient clock from out the valley swings ; 
 The grandam nods — and still the Blackbird 
 
 Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead 
 peal, 
 
 Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; 
 Thro' narrow gates o'erladen waggons reel. 
 
 And barking curs into the tumult run ; 
 While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings 
 The merry tempest — and the Blackbird sings. 
 
 On the high wold the last look of the sun 
 
 Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; 
 The shouts have ceased, the laughter lyid the 
 fun ; 
 The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her 
 dream ; 
 Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; 
 The day is dying — still the Blackbird sings. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Now the good vicar passes from his gate 
 
 Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye 
 Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer 'd 
 Fate, 
 And felt the wings of immortality ; 
 His heart is throng' d with great imaginings, 
 And tender mercies — while the Blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Down by the brook he bends his steps, and 
 through 
 A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands 
 Awful beside the bed of one who grew 
 
 From boyhood with him — who with lifted 
 hands 
 And eyes seems listening to far welcomings 
 And sweeter music — than the Blackbird siufrs. 
 
 Tv/o golden stars, like tokens from the blest, 
 Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun ; 
 His sinking hands seem pointing to the west ; 
 He smiles as though he said " Thy will bo 
 done !" 
 His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; 
 His ears, they heaj not — what the Blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 Frederick Tennyson. 
 
 1807.— LINES TO FANNY, 
 
 WITH A BUNCH OF WHITE PINKS. 
 
 Along the garden-walk I stray'd. 
 To cull a fitting flower for thee ; 
 
 And musing there I long delay'd. 
 
 Uncertain which that flow'r should be. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MANY, MANY YEAES AGO. 
 
 [T. LOKER. 
 
 For, for the maid who wakes my muse, 
 
 In heart so pure, in face so fair, 
 It needful was that I should choose 
 
 The purest and the fairest there. 
 
 At length, beneath the sheltering shade 
 
 Of roses, hiding from the light. 
 By their own fragrant sweets betray 'd, 
 
 These white pinks caught my wandering 
 sight. 
 So chastely delicate their mien, 
 
 So sweetly rich their fragrance rare — 
 " Bright flow'rs! " I cried, " ye are, I ween, 
 
 The purest and the fairest there." 
 
 I cuU'd them, for 'twas known to me. 
 
 Thy sire would hold a feast to-night. 
 And that I there should meet with thee. 
 
 Amid the lords and ladies bright. 
 And still, in simplest garb array'd, 
 
 I find thee here, as everywhere ; 
 Though bright the throng,' beloved maid ! 
 
 The purest and the fairest there. 
 
 Take them ; and may thy breast be found 
 
 As free as they from any blot, 
 And shed its fragrant virtues round 
 
 On those who own a lowlier lot. 
 So shalt thou, when from death's repose 
 
 Thou wakest, heav'nly joys to share. 
 Still shine amid the throng that shows 
 
 The purest and the fairest there. 
 
 Peter Spencer. 
 
 1809.— A THOUGHT AMONG THE 
 EOSES. 
 
 The Eoses grew so thickly, 
 
 I never saw the thorn, 
 Nor deem'd the stem was prickly, 
 
 Until my hand was torn. 
 
 Thus, worldly joys invite us, 
 
 With rosy-colour'd hue ; 
 But, ere they long delight us, 
 
 We find they prick us too. 
 
 Peter Spencer. 
 
 r 
 
 iSoS.— SENT WITH A EOSE TO EOSP 
 
 Go, blushing flow'r ! 
 And tell her this from me, 
 
 That in the bow'r. 
 From which I gather' d thee, 
 At evening I will be. 
 
 And further tell. 
 In tearing thee away, 
 
 A petal fell ; 
 And, falling, seem'd to say— 
 " Thy rose is hurt to-day." 
 
 And, while I stripp'd 
 Thy stem of leaves below, 
 
 A dew-droi) slipp'd, 
 Slipp'd on my hand, to show — 
 "And thou hast dealt the blow." 
 
 But, while I stand. 
 The tear, with subtle art, 
 
 Dries on my hand ; 
 As wishing to impart — 
 "And thou canst heal the smart." 
 
 Then bid her fly. 
 When sun- set skirts the West, 
 
 To me, that I, 
 Upon my happy breast. 
 May soothe her own to rest. 
 
 PeUr Spencer. 
 
 1810.— MANY, MANY YEAES AGO. 
 
 Oh, my golden days of childhood, 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 Ah ! how well do I remember 
 
 What a pride it was to know 
 When my little playmates muster'd 
 
 On this old familiar spot, 
 To select their infant pastimes. 
 
 That my name was ne'er forgot ; 
 When with merry, rosy faces. 
 
 They so eagerly would come. 
 Boasting of the longest top-string. 
 
 Or a top of loudest hum ; 
 Or, as proud and prancing horses. 
 
 Chase each other to and fro, ^ 
 In my golden days of childhood. 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 
 Oh, my balmy days of ^boyhood. 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 When I ranged at will the wild woods, 
 
 For the berry or the sloe ; 
 Or the gentle blue-eyed violet. 
 
 Traced by its own perfume s-w eet ; 
 Or with light and cautious footstep 
 
 Sought the linnet's snug retreat ; 
 Or with little blooming maidens 
 
 To the nutting groves repair'd, 
 And in warmth of purest boy-love, 
 
 The rich clusters with them shared ; 
 Or when hoary-headed winter 
 
 Brought his welcome frost and snow, 
 How we throng'd the frozen streamlets. 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 
 Then my days of dawning manhood. 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 When the future seem'd all brightness 
 
 Lit with Love's enchanting glow ; 
 When what hopes and blissful day-dreams 
 
 Would my buoyant bosom crowd, 
 As I forth led my beloved one. 
 
 She as fair as I was proud ; 
 Led her forth with lightsome footstep, 
 
 Where some happy rustic throng 
 To old Eobin's merry music 
 
 Would so gaily dance along. 
 Or when round came joyous Christmas 
 
 Oft beneath the mistletoe, 
 lave I toy'd with blushing maidens. 
 
 Many, many years ago I 
 
 79. 
 
T. J. OUSELET.] 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE FLOWEES. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. — 
 
 Ah., ye golden days ! departed, 
 
 Yet full oft on memory's wing- 
 Ye return like some bright vision, 
 
 And both joy and sorrow bring. 
 Where are now my boy companions, 
 
 Those dear friends of love and truth ? 
 Death hath seal'd the lips of many, 
 
 Fair and beautiful in youth. 
 Eobin's lute has long been silent, 
 
 And the trees are old and bare ; 
 Silent too the rippling brooklets. 
 
 The old playground is not there ; 
 Time hath stolen my faii; one's beauty, 
 
 And he soon will strike the blow 
 That will break those ties that bound us 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 
 r. Lolcer. 
 
 1811.--THE ANGEL OF THE FLOWEES. 
 
 She comes adown the pale blue depths of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Above her head, an undimn'd wreath of light 
 Spans the deep ether dome. In either hand 
 A vase of frosted silver, whence arise 
 Transparent clouds of incense. On her head 
 A coronal of snowdrops, like gemm'd tears 
 New fallen from sad loving spirits' eyes. 
 Her spotless wings, like sun-illumined snow. 
 Fan the ambrosial air, as seedlings rise 
 In beauty infantine, spreading their leaves 
 To catch the luscious sighs. She gently 
 
 comes, 
 
 To kiss her sister May, 
 Who, robed in hawthorn, white. 
 Like a young fairy sprite, 
 
 Sings her enchanted lay. 
 The honeysuckle bells 
 The air with perfume swells ; 
 
 And from the woodland spray 
 The songster's joy-notes trill. 
 As the low whispering rill 
 Breathes forth its calming music till the close 
 of day. 
 
 The beauteous pansies rise 
 In purple, gold, and blue, 
 With tints of rainbow hue 
 
 Mocking the sunset skies ; 
 The modest violets. 
 Under the hedge-row sets, 
 
 Lift up their soft blue eyes 1 
 And the meek daisies show 
 Their breasts of satin snow, 
 Bedeck' d with tiny stars of gold 'mid perfume 
 sighs. 
 
 Moon-dyed primroses spread 
 Their leaves, her path to cheer, 
 As her step draweth near ; 
 
 And the bronzed wallflowers shed 
 Eich incense ; summer hours 
 Are by the sweet bell-flowers 
 
 Usher' d to life, and fed 
 
 By the young zephyrs' wing, 
 Who elfin music ring, 
 Luring the bees from out their thyme-wove 
 fragrant bed. 
 
 From their calm limpid cells 
 Fair Naiades arise. 
 With laughing, sunny eyes ; 
 
 Casting their witching spells 
 The beauteous one to greet, 
 And lave her ivory feet ; 
 
 At their bright crystal wells 
 Young buds pout forth their leaves — 
 Earth a green garland weaves — 
 Isew life and joy from Nature's lovely bosom 
 swells. 
 
 She comes with smiles upon her blushing 
 
 cheek — 
 With fragrance breathing from her rosy lips ; 
 A paragon of beauty — a desire — 
 An angel she of gladness. * * # * 
 
 Thomas John Ouseley. 
 
 1812.— THE SEASONS OF LIFE. 
 
 SPUING. 
 
 The soft green grass is growing, 
 
 O'er meadow and o'er dale ; 
 The silvery founts are flowing 
 
 Upon the verdant vale ; 
 The pale snowdrop is springing, 
 
 To greet the glowing sun ; 
 The primrose sweet is flinging 
 
 Perfume the fields among ; 
 The trees are in the blossom, 
 
 The birds are in their song, 
 As spring upon the bosom 
 
 Of Nature's bom along. 
 
 So the dawn of human life doth green and 
 
 verdant spring ; 
 It doth little ween the strife that after years 
 
 will bring ; 
 Like the snowdrop it is fair, and like the 
 
 primrose sweet ; 
 But its innocence can't scare the blight from. 
 
 its retreat. 
 
 summer. 
 11. 
 
 The fuU ripe corn is bending 
 
 In waves of golden light ; 
 The new-moAvn hay is sending 
 
 Its sweets upon the night ; 
 The breeze is softly sighing, 
 
 To cool the parched flowers ; 
 The rain, to see them dying. 
 
 Weeps forth its gentle showers ; 
 
From 1780 to ISOG.l 
 
 TIME'S SONG. 
 
 [Anon. 
 
 The merry fish are playing-, 
 
 Acio^vn yon crystal stream ; 
 And night from day is straying-, 
 
 As twilight gives its gleam. 
 
 And thus majihood, in its prime, is full and 
 
 ripe and strong ; 
 And it scarcely deems that time can do its 
 
 beauty wrong. 
 Like the merry fish we play adown the stream 
 
 of life ; 
 And we reck not of the day that gathers what 
 
 is rife. 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 The flowers all are fading, 
 
 Their sweets are rifled now; 
 And night sends forth her shading 
 
 Along the mountain brow ; 
 The bee hath ceased its winging 
 
 To flowers at early mom ; 
 The birds have ceased their singing, 
 
 Sheaf'd is the golden corn ; 
 The harvest now is gather' d, 
 
 Protected from the clime ; 
 The leaves are sear'd and wither' d, 
 
 That late shone in their prime. 
 
 Thus when fourscore years are gone o'er the 
 
 frail life of man, 
 Time sits heavy on his throne, as nfear his 
 
 brow we scan ; 
 Like the autumn leaf that falls, when winds 
 
 the branches wave, 
 Like night-shadows daylight palls, like all, he 
 
 finds a grave. 
 
 WINTEK. 
 
 The snow is on the mountain, 
 
 The frost is on the vale. 
 The ice hangs o'er the fountain, 
 
 The storm rides on the gale ; 
 The earth is bare and naked, 
 
 The air is cold — and drear. 
 The sky with snow-clouds flaked, 
 
 And dense foul fogs appear ; 
 The sun shines not so brightly 
 
 Through the dark murky sides, 
 The nights grow longer — nightly, 
 
 And thus the winter dies. 
 
 Thus falls man, his season past, the blight 
 hath ta'en his bloom ; 
 
 Summer gone, the autumn blast consigns him 
 to the tomb ; 
 
 Then the winter, cold and drear, with pesti- 
 lential breath, 
 
 Blows upon his silent bier, and whispers— 
 This ia Death. 
 
 Thomas John Ouseley. 
 
 1813.— YE'EE A' THE WAEL' TO ME, 
 LASSIE ! 
 
 Oh, ye're a' the warl' to me, lassie ! 
 
 Ye're a' the warl' to me; 
 This heart shall cease to beat for aye, 
 
 E're it proves false to thee ! 
 
 Oh, the soldier loves his country's cause, 
 
 And he stands or falls for Fame; 
 The statesman courts the loud applause 
 
 That bodes a deathless name ; 
 In Pleasure's train the thoughtless sweep ; 
 
 The miser loves his gold ; 
 But they're noiight to me, if I could keep 
 
 That love that thou hast told. 
 For, Ye're a' the warl', &c. 
 
 Can I forget that gloamin' sweet, 
 
 On the banks o' bonny Dee, 
 Where Nature's wildest beauties meet 
 
 To deck the flowery lea ; 
 I wadna gie, I fondly vow. 
 
 For gem o' earth or sea. 
 That sprig o' thyme, though wither'd now, 
 
 Ye puid and gied to me ! 
 
 For, Ye're a' the warl', &c. 
 
 Blow, favouring winds, and fill those sails 
 
 That waft me from this strand. 
 To streams and glens and heath'ry hills, 
 
 My own — my native land ! 
 In foreign climes no more I'll rove, 
 
 But, 'neath our trysting tree. 
 With wither'd flower, I'll claim that love 
 
 Ye, trusting, vow'd to me ! 
 
 For, Ye're a' the warl', &c. 
 
 T. M. Gemmet 
 
 1814.— TIME'S SONG. 
 
 O'er the level plain — where mountains greet 
 
 me as I go ; — 
 O'er the desei-t waste — where fountains at my 
 
 bidding flow; 
 On the boundless stream by day, on the cloud 
 
 by night— 
 I am rushing hence away : who will chain my 
 
 flight ? 
 
 War his weary vv'atch was keeping: I liave 
 
 crushed his spear ; 
 Grief within her bower was weeping : I have 
 
 dried her tear ; 
 Pleasure caught a minute-hold, then I hurried 
 
 by, 
 
 Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet 
 dry. 
 
 Power had won a throne of glory : where is 
 
 now his fame ? 
 Genius said, "I live in story" — who hath 
 
 heard his name ? 
 
 79* 
 
J. Gbeet.] 
 
 HOUSEHOLD TEEASUEES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.' 
 
 Love, beneath a myrtle bough, whispered, 
 
 "Why so fast?" 
 And the roses on his browwither'd as Ipass'd. 
 
 I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild 
 
 wave's bed ; 
 I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle 
 
 fed. 
 Where began my wanderings ? Mem'ry will not 
 
 say. 
 Where shall rest my weary wings ? Science 
 
 turns away. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 1815.— HOUSEHOLD TEEASIIBES. 
 
 Household treasures, household treasures, 
 
 Gems of worth, say, what are they ? 
 Walls of jasper, doors of cedar, 
 
 Arras of superb array ? 
 Caskets of the costliest jewels, 
 
 Cabinets of ancient store, 
 Shrines where Art her incense oflfers, 
 
 Volumes of profoundest lore ? 
 
 Household treasures, home's true jewels, 
 
 Deem I better far than those : 
 Prattling children, blithe and ruddy 
 
 As the dew-bespangled rose. 
 Tempt me not with gold of Ophir, 
 
 Wreathe not gems to deck my head ; 
 Winsome hearthlings, home's fond angels, 
 
 Are the things I crave instead. 
 
 Sweet the song the skylark trilleth, 
 Bright the hue the rose assumes. 
 
 Pure the quiet-wooing lily 
 
 That upon the lakelet blooms ; 
 
 But more sweet, more bright, and purer 
 Seem the lips and heart of youth ; 
 
 Blessed seraphs, sent to utter 
 
 j Syllables of love and truth. 
 
 Joyous creatures, choice possessions, 
 
 May-flowers in Ufe's winter hour ; 
 Beams of sunshine, chasing ever 
 
 Shadows that may cross the door ; 
 Drops of rain, when care or anguish 
 
 Parch the spirit's genial springs ; 
 Soothing minstrels, when unkindness 
 
 Snaps the heart's melodious strings. 
 
 Household treasures, household treasures, 
 
 Gems of worth, say, what are the}'^ ? 
 All that Vv'ealth or grandeur proffer, 
 
 Soon, alas ! must know decay ; 
 But, 'midst amaranths unfading. 
 
 With the rose-stain'd cherubim, 
 Happy children, gone before us, 
 
 Swell the everlasting hymn. 
 
 J. Greet. 
 
 1816.— TO THE FIRST CUCKOO OF THE 
 YEAE. 
 
 The flowers were blooming fresh and fair, 
 
 The air was sweet and still ; 
 A sense of joy in all things beam'd 
 
 From woodland, dale, and hill ; 
 On every spray had fairies hung 
 
 Their sparkling lamps of dew, 
 When first across the meadows rung 
 
 Thy Avelcome voice, cuckoo : 
 " Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " No blither sound 
 In all the songs of birds is found. 
 
 The early sun was mildly bright, 
 
 The woods were sleeping still. 
 And scarce a chirp came from the trees, 
 
 Or murmur from the rill ; 
 It was as Nature paused to hear 
 
 Thy pleasant song again, 
 And in her expectation hush'd 
 
 Each heart-rejoicing strain : 
 *' Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " No blither sound 
 In aU the songs of birds is found. 
 
 And as thy voice rung through the air, 
 
 All Nature fairer grew : 
 The primrose had a brighter tint, 
 
 The violet deeper blue. 
 The cowslip hung a richer bloom. 
 
 More sweetly breathed the May, 
 And greener seem'd the very grass 
 
 In listening to thy lay : 
 " Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " No blither sound 
 In all the songs of birds is found. 
 
 And, wand' ring through the air, thy song 
 
 Was now afar, now near — 
 A song that in its airiness 
 
 Is witchery to hear. 
 And never is the spring complete 
 
 Without thy changeless voice. 
 And in thy coming to our woods, 
 
 O cuckoo, all rejoice. 
 " Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " No blither sound 
 In all the songs of birds is found. 
 
 J. A. Langford. 
 
 1817. — "EENDER TO C^SAE THE 
 THINGS WHICH AEE C^SAE'S. 
 
 " Eender to Cassar things which Caesar's are. 
 But to God God's." Ah ! me, how eagerly, 
 Eushing to the world-Csesar's feet, do we 
 
 Bring the red gold and frankincense from far, 
 
 To render up ! Gold of the heart's young 
 love 
 Bartering for Mammon (prudence, its world- 
 name) ; 
 Pure aspirations for base, fleeting fame ; 
 
 And for false joys of earth, a heaven abovo 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE IVY GEEEN. 
 
 [Charles Dickens. 
 
 What do we lay before "our Fathers" 
 
 throne ? 
 The broken heart the world hath trampled on, 
 But could not heal ; the bruised hopes flung 
 
 back 
 From Caesar's 'throne, when our reward we 
 
 lack ; 
 Hyssop and vinegar : How oft they be 
 Our only tribute, Lord, reserved for Thee ! 
 
 Mary C. Hwne. 
 
 1818.— THE IVY GEEEK 
 Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 
 
 That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
 On right choice food are his meals, I ween, 
 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay'd, 
 
 To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
 And the mouldering dust that years have made, 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 
 
 And a staunch old heart has he { 
 How closely he twineth, how close he clings. 
 
 To his friend the huge Oak Tree ! 
 And slily he traileth along the ground, 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves, 
 As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 
 
 The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
 
 Creeping where grim Death has been, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, 
 
 And nations have scatter'd been ; 
 But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 Shall fatten on the past : 
 For the stateliest building man can raise 
 
 Is the Ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping on where Time lias been, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green 1 
 
 Charles Dickens, — Bom 1812, 
 
POEMS OMITTED TO BE PRINTED IN THEIR 
 PROPER ORDER. 
 
 1819.— FEOM '^ ENDYMION." 
 
 "Wlio thus were ripe for higlx contemplating, 
 r<Iight turn their steps towards the sober ring 
 "Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 
 'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks 
 
 increased 
 The silvery setting of their mortal star. 
 There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 
 That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; 
 And what our duties there : to nightly call 
 Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather ; 
 To summon all the downiest clouds together 
 For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 
 In ministering the potent rule of fate 
 With speed of frre-tail'd exhalations ; 
 To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 
 Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 
 A world of other unguess'd oflfices. 
 Anon they wander'd, by divine converse. 
 Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse 
 Each one his own anticipated bliss. 
 One felt heart-certain that he could not miss 
 His quick-gone love, among fair blossom' d 
 
 boughs, 
 Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 
 Her lips with music for the welcoming. 
 Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 
 To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, 
 Sweeping, eye-earnestly, througli almond 
 
 vales : 
 Who, suddenly, should stoop through the 
 
 smooth wind. 
 And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind ; 
 And, ever after, through those regions be 
 His messenger, his little Mercury. 
 Some were athirst in soul to see again 
 Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide cham- 
 paign 
 In times long past ; to sit with them, and talk 
 Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 
 Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 
 Of happmess, to when iipon the moors, 
 Benighted, close they huddled from the cold. 
 And shared their famish'd scrips. Thus all 
 
 out-told 
 Their tond imaginations, — saving him 
 Whose eyehds curtain'd up their jewels dim, 
 Endymion : yet hourly had he striven 
 To hide the cankering venom that had riven 
 His fainting recollections. Now indeed 
 His senses had swoon'd off : he did not heed 
 
 The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 
 Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 
 Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, 
 Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 
 But in the self-same fixed trance ho kept, 
 Like one who on the earth had never stept. 
 Ay, even as dead-still as a marble man, 
 Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 
 
 Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? 
 Peona, his sweet sister : of all tliose. 
 His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she 
 
 made. 
 And breathed a sister's sorrow to jDersuade 
 A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
 Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 
 She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
 Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, 
 Along a path between tv/o little streams, — 
 Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, 
 From low-grown branches, and his footsteps 
 
 slow 
 From stumbling over stumps and hillocks 
 
 small ; 
 Until they came to where these streamlets 
 
 fall. 
 With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush. 
 Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 
 
 , With crj'stal mocking of the trees and sky. 
 
 I A little shallop, floating there hard by, 
 
 I Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 
 And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, 
 
 I And dipt again, with the young couple's 
 
 I weight, — 
 
 I Peona guiding, through the water straight. 
 Towards a bowery island opposite ; 
 Which gaining presently, she steered light 
 Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove. 
 Where nested was an arbour, overwove 
 By many a summer's silent fingering ; 
 To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 
 Her playmates, with their needle broidery. 
 And mmstrel memories of times gone by. 
 
 So she was gently glad to see him laid 
 Under her favourite bower's quiet shade, 
 On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, 
 Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
 When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, 
 And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. 
 Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest ; 
 But. ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
 
John Keats.] 
 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Peona's busy hand against his lips, 
 And still, a-sleeping, held her fincrer-tips 
 In tender pressure. And as a Avillow keeps 
 A patient watch over the etream that creeps 
 Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
 Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 
 Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 
 Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling 
 Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be 
 heard. 
 
 O magic sleep ! comfortable bird, 
 That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
 Till it is hush'd and smooth ! unconfined 
 Eestraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key 
 To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy. 
 Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled 
 
 caves. 
 Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
 And moonhght ; ay, to all the mazy world 
 Gf silvery enchantment ! — who, upfurl'd 
 Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
 But renovates and lives ? — Thus, in the bower, 
 Endymion was calra'd to life again. 
 Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, 
 He said : "I feel this thine endearing love 
 All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
 Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
 About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
 Such morning incense from the fields of May, 
 As do those brighter drops that twinkling 
 
 stray 
 From those kind eyes, — the very home and 
 
 haunt 
 Of sisterly aflection. Can I want 
 Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such 
 
 tears ? 
 Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
 That, any longer, I will pass my days 
 Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
 My voice upon the mountain-heights ; once 
 
 more 
 Make my horn parley from their foreheads 
 
 hoar : 
 Again my trooping hounds theit tongues shall 
 
 loll 
 Around the breathed boar : again I'll poll 
 The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow ; 
 And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, 
 Again I'll linger in a sloping mead 
 To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
 Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 
 And, if thy lute is here, softly entreat 
 My soul to keep in its resolved course." 
 
 Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
 Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim, 
 And took a lute, from which there pulsing 
 
 came 
 A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
 In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay 
 More subtle-cadenced, more forest wild 
 Than Dry ope' s lone lulling of her child ; 
 And nothing since has floated in the air 
 So mournful strange. Surely some influence 
 
 rare 
 
 Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
 For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd 
 The quick invisible strings, even though she 
 
 saw 
 Entlymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
 Before the deep intoxication. 
 But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
 Her self-possession — swung the lute aside. 
 And earnestly said : "Brother, 'tis vain to hide 
 That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
 Immortal, starry ; such alone could thus 
 Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd 
 
 in aught 
 Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
 A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 
 Thy deathf ul bow against some deer-herd bent, 
 Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
 Her naked limbs among the alders green ; 
 And that, alas ! is death. No, I can trace 
 Something more high perplexing in thy face ! " 
 
 Endymion look'd at her, and press' d her 
 
 hand. 
 And said, " Art thou so pale, who wast so 
 
 bland 
 And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 
 Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss ! 
 Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 
 Wrought suddenly in me. What, indeed, more 
 
 strange ? 
 Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
 Ambition is no sluggard : 'tis no prize. 
 That toiling years would put within my grasp 
 That I have sigh'd for • with so deadly gasp 
 No man e'er panted for a mortal love. 
 So all have set my heavier grief above 
 These things which happen. Eightly have 
 
 they done r 
 I, who still sav/ the horizontal sun 
 Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the 
 
 world, 
 Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
 My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
 I, who, for very sport of heart, would race 
 With my own steed from Araby ; pluck down 
 A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
 A lion into growling, loth retire — 
 To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire, 
 And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast 
 Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 
 
 " This river does not see the naked sky. 
 Till it begins to progress silverly 
 Around the western border of the wood. 
 Whence, from a certain spot, its Avinding flood 
 Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : 
 And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
 Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
 The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
 So dear a picture of his sovereign power, 
 And I could witness his most kingly hour. 
 When he doth tighten up the golden reins, 
 And paces leisurely down amber plains 
 His snorting four. Now, when his chariot last 
 Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 
 There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
 Of sacred dittany, and poppies rod : 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 [John Keats. 
 
 At which I wonder'd greatly, knowing well 
 That but one night had wrought this flowery 
 
 spell ; 
 And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
 What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, 
 
 Morpheus, 
 In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 
 Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 
 Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, 
 Had dipp'd his rod in it : such garland wealth 
 Came not by common growth. Thus on I 
 
 thought, 
 Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
 Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 
 A breeze mosb softly lulling to my soul, 
 And shaping visions all about my sight 
 Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 
 The which became more strange, and strange, 
 
 and dim. 
 And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous swim : 
 And then I fell asleep. AK, can I tell 
 The enchantment that afterwards befel? 
 Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
 That never tongue, although it overteem 
 With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, 
 Could figure out and to conception bring 
 All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
 Watching the zenith, where the Milky Way 
 Among the stars in virgin splendour pours ; 
 And travelling my eye, untii the doors 
 Of heaven appeared to open for my flight, 
 I became loth and fearful to alight 
 From such high soaring by a downward glance: 
 So kept me s bedfast in that airy trance. 
 Spreading Imaginary pinions wide. 
 When, presently, the stars began to glide, 
 And faint away, before my eager view : 
 At Avhich I sigh'd that I could not pursue. 
 And dropp'd my vision to the horizon's verge; 
 And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 
 The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 
 A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did soar 
 So passionately bright, my dazzled soul, 
 Commingling with her argent spheres, did roll 
 Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 
 At last into a dark and vapoury tent — 
 Wliereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 
 Of planets all were in the blue again. 
 To commune with those orbs, once more I 
 
 raised 
 My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 
 B}^ a bright something, sailing down apace. 
 Making me quickly veil my eyes and faoe : 
 Aeain I look'd, and, O ye deities. 
 Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
 Whence that completed form of all com- 
 pleteness ? 
 Whence came that high perfection of all 
 
 sweetness ? 
 Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O 
 
 where, 
 Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 
 Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun ; 
 Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun 
 Such follying before thee — ^yet she had, 
 Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 
 
 And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, 
 Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 
 Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed 
 
 brow; 
 The which were blended in, I know not hovr, 
 With such a paradise of lips and eyes, 
 Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest 
 
 sighs. 
 That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 
 And plays about its fancj'-, till the stings 
 Of human neighbourhood envenom all. 
 Unto what awful power shall I call ? 
 To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering 
 
 feet. 
 More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely 
 
 sweet 
 Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 
 From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 
 Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
 'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million 
 Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed. 
 Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, 
 Handfuls of daisies." — " Endymion, .how 
 
 strange ! 
 Dream within dream ! " — " She took an airy 
 
 range, 
 And then, towards me, like a very maid. 
 Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 
 And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas too 
 
 much; 
 Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 
 Yet held my recollection, even as one 
 Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 
 Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon 
 I felt upmounted in that region 
 Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, 
 And eagles struggle with the buffeting north 
 That balances the heavy meteor-stone ;— 
 Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 
 But lapp'd and luU'd along the dangerous sky. 
 Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high. 
 And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 
 Such as aye muster where grey time has 
 
 scoop'd 
 Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 
 There hollow sounds aroused me, and I sigh'd — 
 To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 
 I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 
 The wooing arms which held me, and did give 
 My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live, 
 To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 
 Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and 
 
 count 
 The moments, by some greedy help that 
 
 seem'd 
 A second self, that each might be redeem'd 
 And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 
 Ah, desperate mortal ! I even dared to press 
 Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 
 And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
 Into a warmer air t a moment more 
 Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 
 Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 
 A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
 Loiter'd around us ; then of honey-ceils. 
 Made delicate from all white-fiowsr beUa 
 
John Keats.] 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 And once, above the edges of our nest, 
 
 An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 
 
 •'"Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd 
 
 me 
 In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see, 
 Far oft, the shadows of his pinions dark, 
 And stare them from me ? But no, like a spark 
 That needs must die, although its little beam 
 Eeflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
 Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
 And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
 A careful moving caught my waking ears, 
 And up I started ; Ah ! my sighs, my teai-s, 
 My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies hung 
 Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
 A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
 Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
 With leaden looks • the solitary breeze 
 Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did tease 
 With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 
 Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 
 Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh- shrilled 
 
 ddieus ! — 
 Away 1 wander' d — all the pleasant hues 
 Ot heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 
 Were deepest dungeons : heaths and sunny 
 
 glades 
 Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless rills 
 Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with upturn'd 
 
 gills 
 Of dying fish , the vermeil rose had blown 
 In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown 
 Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 
 Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and 
 
 stirr'd 
 In little journeys, I beheld in it 
 A disguised demon, missioned to knit 
 My soul with under darkness ; to entice 
 My stumblings down some monstrous 
 
 precipice : 
 Therefore I eager follow'd, and did curse 
 The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 
 ilock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle 
 
 heaven ! 
 These things, with all their comfortings, are 
 
 given 
 To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 
 Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
 Of weary life." 
 
 John Keats.^Born 1795, Lied. 18^0. 
 
 1820.— THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 I. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 The owl, for ail his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the 
 
 frozen grass, 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while 
 
 he told 
 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven mthout a 
 
 death. 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, v.-hile his 
 
 prayer he saith. 
 
 His prayer he saith, tliis loatient, iioly man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 
 
 knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees r 
 The sculptured dead, on each side seem to 
 
 freeze, 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 
 
 mails. 
 
 III. 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little door, 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden 
 
 tongue 
 Flatter' d to tears this a^ed man and poor ; 
 But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
 Another way he*went, and soon among 
 Rough ashes sat lie for his soul's reprieve, 
 And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to 
 
 grieve. 
 
 IV. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard tlie prelude 
 
 soft; 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was 
 
 wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 Stared, where upon their heads the cornice 
 rests, 
 With hair blown back, and wings put cross- 
 wise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with 
 
 triumphs gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
 And turn, soul-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 
 
 day, 
 On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
 As she had heard old dames full many times 
 
 declare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honey' d middle of the night, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 [John Keats. 
 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
 desire. 
 
 Full of this whinf was thoughtful Madeline ; 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
 
 train 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
 And back retired; not cool'd by high 
 
 disdain, 
 But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of 
 
 the year. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She daTiced along with vague, regardless 
 
 eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
 
 short : 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she 
 
 sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng' d resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink' d with faery fancy ; all amort, 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 
 She linger' d still. Meantime, across the 
 
 moors, 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 
 
 fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress' d from moonlight, stands he and 
 
 implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 That he might gaze and worship, all unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth 
 
 such things have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart. Love's feverous 
 
 citadel : 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian 
 
 hordes, 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foal, 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 
 
 soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's 
 
 flame. 
 Behind a Ijroad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
 He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
 Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from 
 this place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
 thirsty race ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 *' Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish 
 
 Hildebrand ; 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 He cursdd thee and thine, both house and 
 
 land : 
 Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a 
 
 whit 
 More tame for his grey hairs — Alas me ! 
 
 fiit! 
 Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, Gossip dear, 
 We're safe enough; here, in this arm-chair 
 
 sit. 
 And tell me how " — " Good Saints ! not 
 
 here, not here ; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be 
 
 thy bier." 
 
 He follow'd through a lowly arched way. 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
 And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day I" 
 He found him in a little moonlight room. 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 " Now tell me Avhere is Madeline," said he, 
 " O ten me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
 piously." 
 
 " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
 To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro !— St. Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
 Tliis very night : good angels her deceive ! 
 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to 
 grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-bcok. 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes . grew brilliant, when she 
 
 told 
 His lady's purpose; and he scarce could 
 
 brook 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantmentK 
 
 cold. 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of 'legends old. 
 
John Keats.] 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 
 
 rose, 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
 " A cruel man and impious thou art : 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and 
 
 dream 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I 
 
 deem 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 
 
 didst seem." 
 
 " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
 Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
 
 prayer. 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my f oemen's ears, 
 And beard them, though they be more fang'd 
 
 than wolves and bears ! " 
 
 " Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard 
 
 thing. 
 Whose passing-beU may ere the midnight 
 
 toll; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each mom and 
 
 evening. 
 Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth 
 
 she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
 
 woe. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Which was to lead him, in close secrecy. 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and their hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty unespied, 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
 While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met. 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous 
 debt. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the 
 
 Dame : 
 *' All cates and dainties shall be stored 
 
 there 
 Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour 
 
 frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to 
 
 spare. 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in 
 
 prayer 
 The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady 
 
 wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the 
 
 dead." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
 The dame retum'd, and whisper'd in his 
 
 ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and 
 
 chaste ; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
 
 brain. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Rose, like a mission' d spirit, unaware : 
 With sUver taper's light, and pious care, 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
 fray'd and fled. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should 
 swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in 
 her dell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
 grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 Aa are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 
 
 wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand he- 
 raldries. 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of 
 queens and kings. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry 
 
 moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
 
 breast, 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 
 
 boon ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 [John Keats. 
 
 Eose-bloom fell on her hands, together 
 
 prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew 
 faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
 taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps mstUng to her knees : 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm 
 is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex 'd she lay. 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress' d 
 Her soothed hmbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
 day ; 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims 
 
 pray ; 
 BKnded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
 again. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
 And Jisten'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he 
 
 bless, 
 And breathed himself : then from the closet 
 
 crept. 
 Noiseless as fear in a wild wilderness, 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — 
 
 how fast she slept. 
 
 Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone :— 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
 gone. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
 While he from forth the closet brought a 
 heap 
 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
 
 gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, ev^ry one. 
 From silken Samarcaud to cedar'd Lebanon. 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing 
 
 hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night. 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
 "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake: 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
 
 ache." 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 j Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight | 
 charm ! 
 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
 
 gleam ; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
 It seem'd he never, never, could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
 So muKcd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phan- 
 tasies. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest 
 
 be. 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
 In Provence called "La belle dame sans 
 
 mercy." 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 
 
 moan : 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
 denly 
 Her blue alFrayed eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
 sculptured stone. 
 
 Her eyes wore open, but she still beheld, 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
 There was a painful change, that nigh 
 
 expell'd 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
 At Avhich fair Madeline began to weep. 
 And moan forth witless words with many a 
 
 sigh; 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would 
 
 keep. 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 
 
 eye. 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 
 
 dreamingly. 
 
John Keats.] 
 
 TRUE BEAUTY IN WOMAN. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod. — 
 
 "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, 
 
 and drear ! 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings 
 
 dear! 
 Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where 
 
 to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
 Ethereal, flush' d, and like a throbbing star 
 Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep 
 
 repose ; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet: meantime the frost- wind 
 
 blows, 
 Like Love's alarum, patt'ringthe sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' raoon 
 hath set. 
 
 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
 sleet : 
 
 "This is no dream, my bride, my Made- 
 line !" 
 
 'Tis dark : the iced gusts stiU rave and 
 beat: 
 
 " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
 pine. — 
 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 
 bring ? 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned 
 wing." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 
 
 bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and' 
 
 vermeil dyed ? 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest. 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famish' d pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
 
 nest 
 Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think' st 
 
 well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise — arise 1 the morning is at hand ; — 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed > 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — ^ 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home 
 for thee." 
 
 XL. 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 
 
 spears — 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 
 
 found, 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each 
 
 door ; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and 
 
 hound, • 
 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
 
 floor. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 
 
 hall! 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 "Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 
 
 his hide. 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
 The chains lie silent on the f ootwoi-n stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
 
 groans. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 And all his v/arrior-guests, with shade and 
 
 form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old, 
 Died palsy- twitch' d with meagre face 
 
 deform ; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes 
 
 cold. 
 John Keats.— Bom 1795, IHed 1820. 
 
 1 82 1. —TRUE BEAUTY IN WOMAN. 
 
 Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain, 
 Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fan- 
 cies; 
 Without that modest softening that enhances 
 The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
 That its mild light creates to heal again ; 
 E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and 
 
 prances, 
 E'en then my soul with exultation dance? 
 For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain-. 
 But when I see thee meek, and kind, and 
 tender. 
 Heavens I how desperately do I adore 
 
Tror.1 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 [John Keats- 
 
 Thy ^riImiBg graces ; — to be thy defender 
 I hotly bum — to be a Calidore — 
 
 A very Bed Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 
 Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. 
 
 Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 
 Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy 
 
 breast ; 
 Are things on which the dazzled senses 
 rest 
 Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. 
 From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot 
 dare 
 To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd 
 They be of what is worthy, — though not 
 drest, 
 In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
 Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; 
 These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I 
 dine, 
 Or thrice my palate moisten ; but when I 
 mark 
 Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
 My ear is open like a greedy shark. 
 To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 
 
 Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 
 Who can forget her half -retiring sweets ? 
 God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that 
 bleats 
 For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
 Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, 
 Will never give him pinions, who intreats 
 Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
 A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no free- 
 ing 
 One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I 
 hear 
 A lay that once I sav/ her hand awake, 
 Her form seems floating palpable, and near : 
 
 Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take 
 A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear. 
 And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture 
 shake. 
 
 John Keats.— Bom 1795, Died 1820. 
 
 1822.— ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
 drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had 
 sunk: 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the 
 trees. 
 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 II. 
 
 for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 
 Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burnt 
 mirth ! 
 for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the 
 brim. 
 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world un- 
 seen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest 
 dim: 
 
 III. 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 What thou among the leaves hast nevei- 
 known. 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other 
 groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey 
 hairs, 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, 
 and dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sor- 
 row 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
 eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and re- 
 tards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
 throne. 
 Cluster' d around by all her starry Fays ; 
 But here there is no light, 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
 blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and -winding 
 mossy ways. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
 boughs. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- 
 tine ; 
 Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 
 eves. 
 
John Keats.] 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I liave been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused 
 rhyme, 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
 abroad 
 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in 
 vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick 
 for home. 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, openinsf on the 
 foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 
 John Keats.— Bom 1795, Died 1820. 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 
 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
 shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 What men or gods are these ? What maidens 
 loath ? 
 What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild 
 ecstasy ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play 
 on; 
 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear' d, 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not 
 leave 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare.; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
 Though winning near the goal — ^yet, do not 
 grieve ; 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not 
 thy bliss, 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring ediou; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 
 For ever piping songs for ever nevr ; 
 More happy love ; more happy, happy love ! 
 For ever warm and still to bo enjoy'd, 
 For ever panting and for ever young ; 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 That leaves a heart high sorrowful and 
 cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parehing 
 tongue. 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands 
 drest ? 
 What little town by river or sea-shore, 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
 Thou, silent form ! dost tease ns out of 
 thought 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste. 
 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 
 
 say'st, 
 
 " Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
 
 know. 
 
 John Keats.— Born 1795, Died 1820 
 
 1824.— SONNET. 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 
 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a 
 prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's 
 content, 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MEECI. 
 
 [John Keats. 
 
 And gentle tale of love and langiiishment ? 
 Keturning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 John Keats.^Born 1795, IHsd 1820. 
 
 1825.— LA BELLE DAME SANS MEECI. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 Alone and palely loitering ? 
 
 The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 So haggard and so woe-begone ? 
 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 I see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever dew, 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 
 Fast withereth too. 
 
 I met a lady in the meads, 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child. 
 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 V. 
 
 I made a garland for her head. 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone : 
 
 She look'd at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed. 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long. 
 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet. 
 And honey wild, and manna dew, 
 
 And sure in language strange she said — 
 " I love thee true." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 
 With kisses four. 
 
 And there she lulled me asleep, 
 
 And there I dream'd— Ah ! woe betide 
 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 I saw pale kmgs and princes too, 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ) 
 
 They cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thraU ! " 
 
 I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 
 And I awoke and found me here. 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here, 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake^ 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 John Keats.— Born 1795, Died 1820. 
 
 80 
 
LATER POEMS. 
 
 1826.— FEOM "LILLIPUT LEVEE." 
 
 They seized the keys, they patrolled the street, 
 They drove the policeman off his beat, 
 They built barricades, they stationed sen- 
 tries — 
 You must give the word, when you come to 
 the entries ! 
 
 They dressed themselves in the Eiflemen's 
 
 clothes. 
 They had pea-shooters, they had arrows and 
 
 bows, 
 So as to put resistance down — 
 Order reigns in Lilliput-town ! 
 
 They made the baker bake hot rolls, 
 They made the wharfinger send in coals, 
 They made the butcher kill the calf. 
 They cut the telegraph-wires in half. 
 
 They went to the chemist's, and with their 
 
 feet 
 They kicked the physic all down the street ; 
 They went to the school-room and tore the 
 
 books, 
 They munched the puffs at the pastrycook's. 
 
 They sucked the jam, they lost the spoons. 
 They sent up several fire-balloons, 
 They let off crackers, they burnt a guy, 
 They piled a bonfire ever so high. 
 
 They offered a prize for the laziest boy, 
 And one for the most Magnificent toy ; 
 They split or burnt the canes off-hand. 
 They made new laws in Lilliput-land. 
 
 Never do to-day what you can 
 
 Put off till to-morrow, one of them ran ; 
 
 Late to bed and late to rise. 
 
 Was another law which they did devise. 
 
 They passed a law to have always plenty 
 Of beautiful things; we shall mention twenty : 
 A magic lantern for all to see. 
 Rabbits to keep, and a Christmas-tree. 
 
 A boat, a house that went on wheels, 
 An organ to grind, and sherry at meals', 
 Drums and wheelbarrows, Roman candles. 
 Whips with whistles let into the handles. 
 
 A real live giant, a roc to fiy, 
 
 A goat to tease, a copper to sky, 
 
 A garret of apples, a box of paints, 
 
 A saw and a hammer and no complaints. 
 
 Nail up the door, slide down the stairs. 
 Saw off the legs of the parlour- chairs — 
 That was the way in Lillipnt-land, 
 The children having the upper hand. 
 
 They made the Old Folks come to school, 
 All in pinafores, — that was the rule, — 
 Saying Eener-deener-diner-duss, 
 Kattler-ivheeler-whiler-wuss ; 
 
 They made them learn all sorts of things 
 That nobody liked. They had catechisings ; 
 They kept them in, they sent them down 
 In class, in school, in Lilliput-town. 
 
 O but they gave them tit-for-tat ! 
 Thick bread-and-butter, and all that ; 
 Stick-jaw pudding that tires your chin 
 With the marmalade spread ever so thin ! 
 
 They governed the clock in Lilliput-land, 
 They altered the hour or the minute-hand, 
 They made the day fast, they made the day" 
 
 slow, 
 Just as they wished the time to go. 
 
 They never waited for king or for cat ; 
 They never wiped their shoes on the ma 
 Their joy was great ; their joy was greater ; 
 They rode in the baby's perambulator ! 
 
 There was a Levee in Lilliput-town, 
 At Pinafore Palace. Smith and Brown, 
 Jones and Robinson had to attend — 
 All to whom they cards did send. 
 
 Every one rode in a cab to the door ; 
 Every one came in a pinafore ; 
 Lady and gentleman, rat-tat-tat, 
 Loud knock, proud knock, opera hat ! 
 
 The place was covered with silver and gold, 
 The place was as full as it ever could hold • 
 The ladies kissed her Majesty's hand; 
 Such was the custom in LUiput-land. 
 
 W. B. Rands, 
 80* 
 
W. B. Eands.] 
 
 BABY. 
 
 [Seventh Period.' 
 
 1827.— BABY. 
 
 O when did Baby come ? 
 When half the world was dumb, 
 Babe was dressed in white, 
 In the black, dead night. 
 
 O Baby came from where ? 
 That place is very fair ; 
 The middle of the skies, 
 The heart of Paradise. 
 
 O who sent Baby here ? 
 It was an angel dear, 
 A spirit of purple flame ; 
 Love is that angel's name. 
 
 O who was Baby's shield 
 Down from the heavenly field 
 Along the pathway dim ? 
 — One of the cherubim ; » 
 His sword he took with him. 
 
 His golden head he bowed 
 To cleave the hindering cloud : 
 A seraph shone behind 
 Singing through the wind. 
 
 Singing and shining thus, 
 They brought the gift to us, 
 And in the dead of night, 
 The child was wrapt in white. 
 
 O God, — who art the Lord 
 Of the cherub with the sword, 
 And the seraph with the lamp, — 
 Let both of them encamp 
 
 Beside the hushing tent 
 Of the creature that is sent 
 From the middle of Thy sky, — 
 To guard, to beautify ; 
 
 To make the inaudible breath 
 More terrible than Death, 
 And light the unconscious face 
 As from a heavenly place 
 With the wonder of Thy ways ! 
 
 Oh, why are your beautiful eyes so red. 
 
 Fair Lady ? 
 
 They have taken my baby out of my bed, 
 
 My baby ! 
 
 Speak sooth, your babe has gone up to God, 
 
 Fair Lady. 
 
 His little feet, little feet were not shod, 
 
 My Baby. 
 
 But the road that leads to the heavenly town 
 Is all over clouds as soft as down, 
 
 Fair Lady. 
 The way of the clouds is long and dim, 
 I would I were there to carry him, 
 
 My Baby. 
 
 He will be holpen by cherubs bright, 
 A fair new star for a lamp they light, 
 
 Sweet Lafly ! 
 
 The way to the heavenly town is long, 
 I would I could sing him a cradle song, 
 
 My Baby. 
 Our Lord stands waiting at heaven's door, 
 And Mary Mother runs on before, 
 
 Sweet Lady. 
 
 he will feel strange in the heavenly street, 
 
 My Baby. 
 
 But the happy Innocents he will meet, 
 
 Fair Lady. 
 
 For the comely food he will cry, and gays, 
 
 My Baby. 
 They make him a feast in the heavenly place, 
 Our Lord will be there to speak the grace. 
 And Mary Mother, with godly gays, 
 
 Fair Lady.. 
 
 The heavenly town will grow so dear, 
 
 He will forget his mother here, 
 
 My Baby. 
 
 He shall think of his mother in all the cheer,^ 
 
 He shall not forget in a thousand year. 
 
 Fair Lady, 
 W. B. Rands. 
 
 1828.-.THE SECEET WAY. 
 (From "The Lost Tales of Miletus.") 
 
 In haste he sent to gather fresh recruits 
 Among the fiercest tribes his fathers ruled. 
 They whom a woman led 
 
 When to her feet they tossed the head of 
 Cyrus. 
 
 And the tribes answered — " Let the Scythian 
 
 King 
 Eeturn repentant to old Scythian ways. 
 And laugh with us at foes. 
 
 Wains know no sieges — Freedom moves 
 her cities." 
 
 Soon came the Victor with his Persian guard?, 
 And all the rallied vengeance of his Medes ; 
 One night, sprang up dread camps 
 
 With lurid watch-lights circling doomed 
 ramparts, 
 
 As hunters round the wild beasts in their lair 
 Marked for the javelin, wind a belt of fire. 
 Omartes scanned his walls 
 
 And said, " Ten years Troy baffled Aga- 
 memnon." 
 
 Yet pile up walls, out-topping Babylon, 
 Manned foot by foot with sleepless sentinels, 
 And to and fro wUl pass, 
 
 Free as the air thro' keyholes. Love and 
 Treason. 
 
 Be elsewhere told the horrors of that siege. 
 The desperate sally, slaughter, and repulse 
 Eepelled in turn the foe. 
 
 With Titan ladders scaling cloud-capt 
 bulwarks, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE APPLE OF LIFE. 
 
 [Egbert Lytton. 
 
 Hurled back and buried under rocks heaved 
 
 down 
 By wrathful hands from scatheless battle^ 
 ments. 
 With words of holy charm, 
 
 Soothing despair and leaving resignation. 
 
 Mild thro' the city moved Argiope, 
 Pale with a sorrow too divine for fear ; 
 And when, at mom and eve, 
 
 She bowed her meek head to her father's 
 blessing, 
 
 Omartes felt as if the righteous gods 
 Could doom no altars at whoso foot she 
 prayed. 
 Only, when all alone. 
 
 Stole from her lips a murmur like com- 
 plaint, 
 
 Shaped in these words, " Wert thou, then, but 
 
 a dream ? 
 Or shall I see thee in the Happy Fields ? " 
 Now came with stony eye 
 
 The livid vanquisher of cities, Famine ; 
 
 And moved to pity now, the Persian sent 
 Heralds with proffered peace on terms that 
 seem 
 Gentle to Asian kings, 
 And unendurable to Europe's Freemen ; 
 
 *' I from thy city will withdraw my hosts. 
 And leave thy people to their chiefs and laws, 
 Taking from all thy realm 
 
 Nought save the river, which I make my 
 border, 
 
 *' If but, in homage to my sovereign throne, 
 Thou pay this petty tribute once a year ; 
 Six grains of Scythian soil, 
 
 One urn of water spared from Scythian 
 fountains." 
 
 And the Scyth answered — " Let the Mede 
 
 demand 
 That which is mine to give, or gold or life ; 
 The water and the soil 
 
 Are, every grain and every drop, my 
 country's : 
 
 '• And no man hath a country where a King 
 Pays tribute to another for his crown." 
 And at this stern reply, 
 
 The Persian doomed to fire and sword the 
 city. 
 
 Lord Lytton, 
 
 1829.— THE APPLE OF LIFE. 
 (From " Chronicles and Characters.") 
 
 So she rose, and went forth thro' the city. 
 
 And with her the apple she bore 
 In her bosom : and stood 'mid the multitude, 
 
 waiting therewith in the door 
 Of the hall where the King, to give judgment, 
 
 ascended at morning his throne : 
 And, kneeling there, cried, "Let the King 
 
 live for ever ! Behold, I am one 
 
 " Whom the vile of themselves count the 
 
 vilest. But great is the grace of my 
 
 lord. 
 And now let my lord on his handmaid look 
 
 down, and give ear to her word." 
 Thereat, in the -witness of all, she drew forth, 
 
 and, uplifting her head, 
 Show'd the Apple of Life, which who tastes, 
 
 tastes not death. " And this apple," she 
 
 said, 
 "Last night was deliver' d to me, that thy 
 
 servant should eat, and not die. 
 But I said to the soul of thy servant, 'Not so. 
 
 For behold, what am I ? 
 That the King, in his glory and gladness, 
 
 should cease from the light of the sun, 
 Whiles I, that am least of his slaves, in my 
 
 shame and abasement live on.' 
 For not sweet is the life of thy servant, unless 
 
 to thy servant my lord 
 Stretch his hand, and show favour ; for surely 
 
 the frown of a king is a sword. 
 But the smile of the King is as honey that 
 
 flows from the clefts of the rock. 
 And his grace is as dew that from Horeb 
 
 descends on the heads of the flock : 
 In the King is the heart of a host: the King's 
 
 strength is an army of men : 
 And the wrath of the King is a lion that 
 
 roareth by night from his den : 
 But as grapes from the vines of En-Gedi are 
 
 favours that fall from his hands. 
 And as towers on the hiU-tops of Shenir the 
 
 throne of King Solomon stands. 
 And for this, it were weU that for ever the 
 
 King, who is many in one. 
 Should sit, to be seen thro' all time, on a 
 
 throne 'twixt the moon and the sun ! 
 For how shall one lose what he hath not ? 
 
 Who hath, let him keep what he hath. 
 Wherefore I to the King give this apple." 
 
 Then great was King 
 
 Solomon's wrath. 
 And he rose, rent his garment, and cried, 
 
 " Woman, whence came this apple to 
 
 thee ? " 
 But when he was 'ware of the truth, then his 
 
 heart was awaken' d. And he 
 Knew at once that the man who, erewhile, 
 
 unawares coming to him, had brought 
 That Apple of Life was, indeed, God's good 
 
 Angel of Death. And he thought 
 
 "In mercy, I doubt not, when man's eyes 
 were open'd and made to see plain 
 
 All the wrong in himself, and the wretched- 
 ness, God sent to close them again 
 
 For man's sake, his last friend upon earth — 
 Death, the servant of God, who is just. 
 
 Let man's spirit to Him whence it cometh 
 return, and his dust to the dust ! " 
 
 Then the Apple of Life did King Solomon seal 
 
 in an urn that was sign'd 
 With the seal of Oblivion : and summon' d the 
 
 Spirits that walk in the wind 
 
Robert Lytton.] 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 Unseen on the summits of mountains, where 
 
 never the eagle yet flew ; 
 And these he commanded to bear far away, — 
 
 out of reach, out of view, 
 Out of hope, out of memory, — higher than 
 
 Ararat buildeth his throne, 
 In the Urn of Oblivion the Apple of Life. 
 
 But on green jaspar-stone 
 Did the King write the story thereof for in- 
 struction. And Enoch, the seer, 
 Coming afterward, search'd out the meaning. 
 And he that hath ears, let him hear. 
 
 Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith). 
 
 1830.— EPILOGUE. 
 (From "Chronicles and Characters.") 
 
 Long of yore, on the mountain, the voice 
 
 Of the merciful Master was heard 
 To the mourners proclaiming " Eejoico " : 
 
 And, rejoicing, they welcomed his word : 
 To the hand of the rich man " Eestore," 
 
 To the heart of the poor man " Be fed," 
 And " Be heal'd," to the souls that were sore, 
 
 And to all men " Be brothers," it said. 
 But, since Christ hath been nail'd to the tree, 
 
 Fruits unripe have our hands gather'd of 
 it: 
 Noisy worship of lip and of knee. 
 
 Niggard love, not of love, but of profit. 
 For the poor is opprest as of old : 
 
 And of all men is no man the brother : 
 And the Churches but gather their gold, 
 
 While the nations destroy one another : 
 Only, all of these things are now done 
 
 In another than Caesar's name : 
 And all wrongs that are Christless go on 
 
 Unashamed of all Christian shame : 
 By the white man despised is the black : 
 
 And the strong hath his heel on the weak : 
 By the burthen still gall'd is the back : 
 
 And the goal is yet distant to seek : 
 Tho', to guide us, its shining is oft, 
 
 Like a fire on the midnight, discern'd : 
 When the hope of man's heart leaps aloft 
 
 From the chain that his anguish hath 
 spurn' d : 
 As in Germany once : when a priest 
 
 Was changed into a man, for man's sake ; 
 And his word, as the dawn fills the East, 
 
 Fill'd the West, till a world was awake ; 
 In the letter a soul was created 
 
 By the breaking the seals of a book ; 
 And man's conscience in man reinstated, 
 
 All conscienceless sovereignties shook. 
 Shook indeed, but not shatter'd ! For straight- 
 way 
 
 When indignant and bold in the breach 
 Thought arose, and sped on thro' the gate- 
 way. 
 
 Whence she beckon' d to all and to each, 
 
 They that loosed her lost heart : and, as 
 onward 
 
 She explored her companionless track 
 To the goal of her destiny — sunward, 
 
 They wrung hands, and shriek'd to her, 
 " Come back ! " 
 So she pass'd from among them for ever, 
 
 And hath left them where, still in the dark,^ 
 Blowing watchfires spent, they shall never 
 
 Blow the ashes thereof to a spark : 
 Once in England: when Hampden's high will, 
 
 Eliot's truth that was true to the death, 
 Pym's large speech, and the sword that hath 
 still 
 
 *' Freedom," graven by Law, on its sheath, 
 Won for England what woe to the day 
 
 When England forgets to revere. 
 Or uuheedfully casts it away. 
 
 Thro' Futurity helmless to steer ! 
 Once in France : when the storm of the sound 
 
 Of the spirits of men rushing free 
 Shook the shores of the nations around. 
 
 As the roar of a jubilant sea ; 
 And the heart of the feeble wax'd strong, 
 
 For his friends were as one flesh and blood 
 In the casting away of time's wrong 
 
 And the gathering up of earth's good ; 
 But dull time goeth deafly since when 
 
 Those rejoicings were mingled by time 
 With the moans of the murders of men, 
 
 And the cursings of carnage and crime ; 
 All is silent and sullen again : 
 
 And again the old cankering forms 
 Reappear, as Vv^hen after the rain 
 
 From the earth reappear the earth-worms. 
 the infinite effort that seems 
 
 But in infinite failure to finish ! 
 Man's belief in the good that he dreams 
 
 Must each fact, he awakes to, diminish ? 
 God forbid ! Whom thank thou for whatever 
 
 Of evil remains — understood 
 As good cause for continued endeavour 
 
 In the battle 'twixt Evil and Good. 
 Heed not what may be gain'd or be lost 
 
 In that battle. Whatever the odds. 
 Fight it out, never counting the cost ; 
 
 Man's the deed is, the consequence God's. 
 
 Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith), 
 
 1 83 1.— THE OWL AND THE BELL. 
 
 " Ring, Rim, Rang, Rome ! " 
 
 Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home. 
 
 Up in the tower, away and unseen. 
 
 In a twilight of ivy, cool and green ; 
 
 With his Ring, Rim, Rang, Rome ! 
 
 Singing bass to himself in his house at home. 
 
 Said the Owl to himself, as he sat below 
 On a window-ledge, like a ball of snow, 
 " Pest on that fellow, sitting up there. 
 Always calling the people to prayer! 
 With his Ring, Rim, Rang, Rome ! 
 Mighty big iji his house at home ! 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 EEQTJIESCAT IN PACE. 
 
 [Jean Ingelow. 
 
 " I will move," said tbe Owl, " But it suits 
 
 me well ; 
 And one may g^t used to it, who can tell ? " 
 So lie slept in the day with all his might, 
 And rose and flapped out in the hush of night. 
 When the Bell was asleep in his tower at 
 
 home, 
 Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Borne ! 
 
 For the owl was born so poor and genteel, 
 He was forced from the first to pick and 
 
 steal ; 
 He scorned to work for honest bread — 
 "Better have never been hatched ! " he said. 
 So he slept all day ; for he dared not roam 
 Till night had silenced the Bing, Bang, 
 
 Borne 1 
 
 When his six little darlings had chipped the 
 
 He must steal the more : 'twas a shame to beg. 
 And they ate the more that they did not sleep 
 
 well : 
 "It's their gizzards," said Ma ; said Pa, 
 
 "It's the Bell ! 
 For they quiver like leaves in a wind-blown 
 
 tome. 
 When the BeU bellows out his Bing, Bang, 
 
 Borne ! " 
 But the Bell began to throb with the fear 
 Of bringing the- house about his one ear ; 
 And his people were patching all day long. 
 And propping the walls to make ^hem strong. 
 So a fortnight he sat, and felt like a mome, 
 For he dared not shout his Bing, Bang, Borne! 
 
 Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said, 
 
 " I do believe the old fool is dead. 
 
 Now — now, I vow, I shall never pounce 
 
 twice; 
 And stealing shall be all sugar and spice. 
 But I'll see the corpse, ere h'e's laid in the 
 
 loam, 
 And shout in his ear Bing, Bim, Bang, 
 
 Borne ! — 
 Hoo ! hoo ! " he cried, as he entered the 
 
 steeple, 
 " They've hanged him at last, the righteous 
 
 people ! 
 His swollen tongue lolls out of his head — 
 Hoo ! hoo ! at last the old brute is dead. 
 There let him hang, the shapeless gnome 1 
 Choked, with his throat full of Bing, Bang, 
 
 Borne ! " 
 
 So he danced about him, singing Too-wlioo ! 
 And flapped the poor Bell, and said, " Is that 
 
 you? 
 Where is your voice with its wonderful tone. 
 Banging poor owls, and making them groan ? 
 A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome ! 
 Too-wlioo is better than Bing, Bang, Borne !" 
 
 So brave was the Owl, the downy and dapper, 
 That he flew inside, and sat on the clapper ; 
 And he shouted Too-whoo ! till the echo 
 
 awoke, 
 Like the sound of a ghostly clapper-stroke : 
 
 "Ah, ha!" quoth the Owl, "I am quite at 
 
 home — 
 I will take your place with my Bing, Bang. 
 
 Borne ! " 
 
 The Owl was uplifted with pride and self- 
 wonder ; 
 He hissed, and then called the echo thunder ; 
 And he sat the monarch of feathered fowl 
 Tai — Bang ! went the Bell — and down went 
 
 the Owl, 
 Like an avalanche of feathers and foam, 
 Loosed by the booming Bing, Bang, Borne ! 
 
 He sat where he fell, as if nought was the 
 
 matter, 
 Though one of his eyebrows was certainly 
 
 flatter. 
 Said the eldest Owlet, " Pa, you were wrong ; 
 He's at it again with his vulgar song." 
 "Be still," said the Owl; "you're guilty of 
 
 pride : 
 I brought him to life by perching inside." 
 
 " But why, my dear P " said his pillowy wife ; 
 " You know he was always the plague of your 
 
 life." 
 " I have given him a lesson of good for evil ; 
 Perhaps the old rufl&an will now be civil." 
 The Owl looked righteous, and raised his 
 
 comb; 
 But the Bell bawled on his Bing, Bang, 
 
 Borne 1 
 
 George Macdonald. 
 
 1832.— EEQUIESCAT IN PACE! 
 
 my heart, my heart is sick awishing and 
 awaiting : , 
 
 The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he 
 went his way ; 
 And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner 
 through the grating 
 Looks and longs and longs and wishes for 
 its opening day. 
 
 On the wild purple mountains, all alone with 
 no other, 
 The strong terrible mountains, he longed, 
 he longed to be ; 
 And he stooped to kiss his father, and he 
 stooped to kiss his mother. 
 And till I said " Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite 
 forgot me. 
 
 He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly 
 capes that screen them, 
 Of the storm winds that beat them, their 
 thunder-rents and scars. 
 And the paradise of purple, and the golden 
 slopes atween them. 
 And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, 
 and His crocus stars. 
 
Jean iNasLow.] 
 
 EEQUIESCAT IN PACE. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.- 
 
 He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on 
 them like fleeces, 
 And make green their fir forests, and feed 
 their mosses hoar ; 
 Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked 
 and go to pieces, 
 Like sloops against their cruel strength : then 
 he wrote no more. 
 
 O the silence that came next, the patience and 
 long aching ! 
 They never said so much as "He was a dear 
 loved son ; " 
 Not the father to the mother moaned, that 
 dreary stillness breaking : 
 " Ah ! wherefore did he leave us so — this, 
 our only one?" 
 
 They sat within, as waiting, until the neigh- 
 bours prayed them. 
 At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace 
 and change to be ; 
 And to Cromer, in their patience, or that 
 urgency affrayed them, 
 Or because the tidings tarried', they came, 
 and took me. 
 
 It was three months and over since the dear 
 lad had started : 
 On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see 
 the view ; 
 On an open space of herbage, where the ling 
 and fern had parted, 
 Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, 
 the old and the new. 
 
 Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was 
 stooping ; 
 And he dyed the waste water, as with a 
 scarlet dye ; 
 And he dyed the lighthouse towers : every bird 
 with white wing swooping 
 Took* his colours, and the cliffs did, and the 
 yawning sky. 
 
 Over grass came that strange flush, and over 
 ling and heather. 
 Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over 
 Cromer town ; 
 And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like 
 a scarlet feather 
 Tom from the folded wings of clouds, while 
 he settled down. 
 
 t 
 
 When I looked, I dared not sigh: — In the light 
 of God's splendour, 
 With His daily blue and gold, who am I ? 
 what am I ? 
 JBut that passion and outpouring seemed an 
 awful sign and tender, 
 Like the blood of the Eedeemer. shown on 
 earth and sky. 
 
 O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt 
 and trouble ! 
 On that sultry August eve trouble had made 
 me meek : 
 
 I was tired of my sorrow — so faint, for it 
 was double 
 In the weight of its oppression, that I could 
 not speak! 
 
 And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed 
 eyes were feeding, 
 And the dull ears with murmur of waters 
 satisfied 
 But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my 
 thoughts and fancy leading 
 Across the bounds of waking life to the 
 other side. 
 
 And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste 
 waters turning, 
 And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to 
 wave tossed on ; 
 And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap 
 of gold lay burning 
 On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the 
 sun was gone. 
 
 Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across 
 the still water — 
 A question as I took it, for soon an answer 
 came 
 From the tall white ruined lighthouse : " If it 
 be the old man's daughter 
 That we wot of," ran the answer, " what 
 then — who's to blame ? " 
 
 I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and 
 storm-broken : 
 A great white bird sat ou it, with neck 
 stretched out to sea ; 
 Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff 
 the bird had spoken. 
 And a trembling seized my spirit, for they 
 talked of me. 
 
 I was the old man's daughter, the bii-d went 
 on to name him ; 
 " He loved to count the starlings as he sat 
 in the sun ! 
 Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story 
 did not shame him : 
 Ay, the old man was a good man — and his 
 work was done." 
 
 The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some 
 moon departed, 
 Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as 
 the red wave she crossed. 
 And the thing within sat paddling, and the 
 crescent dipped and darted. 
 Flying on, again was shouting, but the 
 words were lost. 
 
 I said, " That thing is hooded ; I could hear 
 but that floweth 
 The great hood below its mouth:" then the 
 bird made reply, 
 " If they know not, more's the pity, for the 
 little shrewmouse knoweth. 
 And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the 
 glead and pye." 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 [A. C. SWINBUENE. 
 
 And he stooped to wliet his beak on tlie stones 
 of the coping ; 
 And when once more the shout came, in 
 querulous tones he spake, 
 "What I said was ' more's the pity; * " if the 
 heart be long past hoping, 
 Let it say of death, "I know it," or doubt 
 on and break. 
 
 " Men must die — one dies by day, and near 
 him moans his mother, 
 They dig his grave, tread it down, and go 
 from it full loth ; 
 And one dies about the midnight, and the 
 wind moans, and no other. 
 And the snows give him a burial — and God 
 loves them both. 
 
 " The first hath no advantage — it shall not 
 soothe his slumber 
 That a lock of his brown hair his father aye 
 shall keep; 
 For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall 
 nought his quiet cumber. 
 That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets 
 sleep. 
 
 " Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite 
 and glead know it. 
 And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, 
 tlie lad too ; 
 It was never kept a secret, waters bring it 
 and winds blow it. 
 And he met it on the mountain — why then 
 make ado ? " 
 
 With that he spread his white wings, and 
 swept across the water, 
 I Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all 
 
 went down ; 
 And they laughed as they went under, and I 
 woke, "the old man's daughter," 
 And looked across the slope of grass, and at 
 Cromer Town. 
 
 And I said, " Is that the sky, all grey and 
 silver suited? " 
 And I thought, " Is that the sea that lies 
 so white and wan ? 
 I have dreamed as I remember ; give me time 
 — I was reputed 
 Once to have a steady courage — 0, I fear 
 'tis gone ! " 
 
 And I said, " Is this my heart ? If it be, low 
 'tis beating, 
 So he lies on the mountain, hard by the 
 eagles' brood ; 
 I have had a dream this evening, while the 
 white and gold were fleeting. 
 But I need not, need not tell it — where 
 would be the good ? 
 
 ' Where would be the good to them his father 
 and his mother ? 
 For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth 
 to them still. 
 
 While a lonely watchfire smoulders, who it? 
 dying red would smother, 
 That gives what little light there is to a 
 darksome hill ? " 
 
 I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor 
 falter, 
 But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer 
 town. 
 What can wringing of the hands do that 
 which is ordained to alter ? 
 He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, 
 he would ne'er come down. 
 
 But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose 
 but love thee : 
 0, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy 
 rocky bed ! 
 From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck 
 the down and spread above thee : 
 I would sit and sing thy requiem on the 
 mountain head. 
 
 Fare thee well, my love of loves ! would I had 
 died before thee ! 
 O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I 
 might flow. 
 Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away 
 my being o'fer thee. 
 And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy 
 brow with snow ! 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 1833.— THE SEA. 
 (From " The Triumph of Time.") 
 
 I will go back to the great sweet mother — 
 Mother and lover of men, the Sea. 
 
 I will go down to her, I, and none other 
 Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with 
 me ; 
 
 CHng to her, strive with her, hold her fast ; 
 
 O fair white mother in days long past, — 
 
 Bom without sister, bom without brother, — 
 Let free my soul as thy soul is free. 
 
 fair, green-girdled mother of mine. 
 
 Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the 
 rain. 
 Thy sweet, hard kisses are strong like wine. 
 
 Thy large embraces are keen like pain. 
 Save me and hide me with aU thy waves. 
 Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, — . 
 These pure cold, populous graves of thine, 
 Wrought without hand in a world without 
 stain. 
 
 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships ; 
 
 Change as the winds change, veer in the 
 tide ; 
 My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 
 
 I shall rise with thy rising, with thee sub- 
 side : 
 
A. C. Swinburne.] 
 
 MELEAGEE DYING. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were — 
 Filled full with life to the eyes and the hair, 
 As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips 
 With splendid summer, and perfume, and 
 pride. 
 
 This woven raiment of nights and days, 
 Were it once cast off and unwound from me, 
 
 Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways — 
 Alive and aware of thy ways and thee ; 
 
 Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, 
 
 Clothed with the green and crowned with the 
 foam, — 
 
 A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 
 A vein in the heart of the streams of the 
 Sea. 
 
 Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, 
 
 Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men 
 say 
 Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again. 
 Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. 
 But death is the worst that comes of thee ; 
 Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O Sea. 
 But when hast thou fed on our hearts ? or 
 when. 
 Having given us love, hast thou taken 
 away ? 
 
 0, tender-hearted, 0, perfect lover, 
 
 Thy lips are bitter and sweet thine heart. 
 The hopes that hurt and the dreams that 
 hover 
 Shall they not vanish away and apart ? 
 But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than 
 
 earth ; 
 Thou art strong for death and fruitful of 
 
 birth; 
 Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover 
 From the first thou wert ; in the end thou 
 art. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
 1834.— MELEAGEE (son of (Eneus and 
 Althsea) DYING. 
 
 (From " Atalanta in Caltdon.") 
 
 Pray thou thy days be long before thy death. 
 And fuU of ease and kingdom; seeing in 
 
 death 
 There is no comfort and no aftergrowth. 
 Nor shall one thence look up and see day's 
 
 dawn, 
 Nor light upon the land whither I go. 
 Live thou, and take thy fill of days, and die 
 When thy day comes ; and make not much of 
 
 death. 
 Lest ere thy day thou reap an evil thing. 
 Thou, too, the bitter mother and mother- 
 plague 
 Of this my weary body — thou, too, queen, 
 The source and end, the sower and the scythe. 
 The rain that ripens and the drought that 
 slays. 
 
 The sand that swallows and the spring that 
 
 feeds, 
 To make me and unmake me, — thou, I say, 
 Althsea, since my father's ploughshare, drawn 
 Through fatal seedland of a female field. 
 Furrowed thy body, whence a wheaten ear 
 Strong from the sun and fragrant from the 
 
 rains 
 I sprang and cleft the closure of thy womb. 
 Mother, — I, dying, with unforgetful tongue 
 Hail thee as holy and worship thee as just 
 Who art unjust and unholy; and with my 
 
 Would worship, but thy fire and subtlety 
 Dissundering them, devour me ; for these 
 
 limbs 
 Are as light dust and crurablings from mine 
 
 urn 
 Before the fire has touched them ; and my 
 
 face 
 As a dead leaf or dead foot's mark on snow. 
 And all this body a broken barren tree 
 That was so strong; and all this flower of 
 
 life 
 Disbranched and desecrated miserably. 
 And 'minished all that godlike muscle and 
 
 might 
 And lesser than a man's : for all my veins 
 Fail me, and all my ashen life burns down. 
 I would thou hadst let me live ; but gods 
 
 averse. 
 But fortune, and the fiery feet of change, 
 And time, these would not, — these tread out 
 
 my life, — 
 These, and not thou; me, too, thou hast 
 
 loved, and I 
 Thee ; but this death was mixed with all my 
 
 life. 
 Mine end with my beginning ; and this law. 
 This only, slays me, and not my mother at 
 
 all. 
 And let no brother or sister grieve too sore, 
 Nor melt their hearts out on me with their 
 
 tears, 
 Since ex.trem6 love and sorrowing overmuch 
 Vex the great gods, and overloving men 
 Slay and are slain for love's sake ; and tins 
 
 house 
 Shall bear much better children. Why should 
 
 these 
 Weep ? But in patience let them live their 
 
 lives, 
 And mine pass by forgotten : thou alone 
 Mother, thou sole and only, — thou, not these. 
 Keep me in mind a little when I die. 
 Because I was thy firstborn ; let thy soul 
 Pity me, pity even me gone hence and dead. 
 Though thou wert wroth, and though thou 
 
 bear again 
 Much happier sons, and all men later born 
 Exceedingly excel me ; yet do thou 
 Forget not, nor think shame ; — I was thy son. 
 Time was I did not shame thee ; and time was 
 I thought to live and make thee honourable 
 With deeds as great as these men's ; but they 
 
 live, 
 
From 1780 to 186C.] 
 
 lEIS. THE EAINBOW. 
 
 \R. Buchanan. 
 
 These, and I die ; and what thing should have 
 
 been 
 Surely I know not ; yet I charge thee, seeing 
 I am dead already, not to love me less, — 
 Me, O my mother j I charge thee by these 
 
 gods — 
 My father's, and that holier breast of thine. 
 By these that see me dying, and that which 
 
 nursed, 
 Love me not less, thy first-bom : thou, grief, 
 
 come, 
 Grief only, of me, and of all these great joy, 
 And shall come always to thee ; for thou 
 
 knowest, 
 O mother, O breasts that bare me, for ye 
 
 know, 
 
 sweet head of my mother, sacred eyes, 
 Ye know my soul, albeit I sinned ; ye know 
 Albeit I kneel not, neither touch my knees. 
 But with my lips I kneel, and with my heart 
 
 1 fall about thy feet and worship thee. 
 And ye farewell now, all my friends ; and ye 
 Kinsmen, much younger and glorious more 
 
 than I, 
 Sons of my mother's sister ; and all farewell 
 That were in Colchis with me, and bare down 
 The waves and wars that met us : and though 
 
 times 
 Change, and though now I be not anything, 
 Forget not me among you what I did 
 In my good time ; for even by all those days, 
 Those days and this, and your own living 
 
 souls. 
 And by the light and luck of you that live, 
 And by this miserable spoil, and me 
 Dying, I beseech you let my name not die. 
 But thou, dear, touch me with thy rose-like 
 
 hands. 
 And fasten up my eyelids with thy mouth, 
 A bitter kiss ; and grasp me with thine arms. 
 Printing with heavy lips my light waste flesh 
 Made light and thin by heavy-handed fate, 
 And with thine holy maiden eyes drop dew. 
 Drop tears for dew upon me who am dead. 
 Me who have loved thee ; seeing without sin 
 
 done 
 I am gone down to the empty, weary house 
 Where no flesh is, nor beauty, nor swift eyes. 
 Nor sound of mouth, nor might of hands and 
 
 feet ; 
 But thou, dear, hide my body with thy veil, 
 And with thy raiment cover foot and head, 
 And stretch thyself upon me, and touch hands 
 With hands, and lips with lips : be pitiful 
 As thou art maiden perfect ; let no man 
 Defile me to despise me, saying, 'J'his man 
 Died woman-wise, a woman's otfering, slain 
 Through female fingers in his woof of life. 
 Dishonourable ; for thou hast honoured me. 
 And now, for God's sake, kiss me once and 
 
 twice 
 And let me go ; for the night gathers me. 
 And in the night shall no man gather fruit. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
 1835.— lEIS, THE RAINBOW. 
 
 'Mid the cloud-enshrouded haze 
 
 Of Olympus I arise. 
 With the full and rainy gaze 
 
 Of Apollo in mine eyes ; 
 But I shade my dazzled glance 
 
 With my dripping pinions white, 
 Where the sunlight sparkles dance 
 
 In a many-tinctured light : 
 My foot upon the woof 
 
 Of a fleecy cloudlet small, 
 I glimmer through the roof 
 
 Of the paven banquet hall. 
 And a soft, pink radiance dips 
 
 Through the floating mists divine — 
 Touching eyes and cheeks and lips 
 
 Of the mild- eyed Gods supine ; 
 And the pinky odour rolls 
 
 Eound their foreheads, while I stain 
 With a blush like wine the bowls 
 
 Of foam-crusted porcelain : 
 Till the whole calm place has caught 
 
 A deep gleam of rosy fire — 
 When I darken to the thought 
 
 In the eyes of Zeus the Sire. 
 
 Then Zeus, arising, stoops 
 
 O'er the ledges of t;ie skies, 
 Looking downward through the loops 
 
 Of the starry tapestries : 
 On the evident dark plain 
 
 Speckled with wood and hill and stream. 
 On the wrinkled tawny main, 
 
 Where the ships like snowfiakes gleam , 
 And with finger without swerve 
 
 Slightly lifted, swiftly whirled. 
 He draws a magic curve 
 
 O'er the cirrus of the world ; 
 WTien with waving wings displayed 
 
 On the sun-god's threshold bright 
 I upleap and seem to fade 
 
 In a humi 1 flash of light. 
 But I plunge through vapours dim 
 
 To the dark low -lying land, 
 And I tumble, float, and swim 
 
 On the strange curve of the Hand : 
 From my wings that drip, drip, drip 
 
 With cool rains, short jets of fire, 
 As across green Capes I slip 
 
 With the thought of Zeus the Sire. 
 
 Thence, with drooping wings bedewed, 
 
 Folded close about my form, 
 I alight with feet unviewed 
 
 On the ledges of the storm ; 
 For a moment, cloud- enrolled, 
 
 'Mid the murmurous rain I stand, 
 And with meteor eyes behold 
 
 Vapoury ocean, misty land : 
 Till the thought of Zeus outsprings 
 
 From my ripe mouth with a sigh, 
 And unto my lips it clings 
 
 Like a shining butterfly ; 
 When I brighten, gleam, and glow 
 
 And my glittering wings unfurl, 
 And the melting colours flow 
 
 To my foot of dusky pearl ; 
 
A. H. Clough.] 
 
 INCITEMENT TO PERSEVERANCE. [Seventh Period. 
 
 And the ocean, mile on mile, 
 
 Gleams through capes, and straits, and 
 bays, 
 And the vales and mountains smile. 
 
 And the leaves are wet with rays, — 
 While I wave the humid Bow 
 
 Of my wings with flash of fire, 
 And the tempest, crouched below, 
 
 Knows the thought of Zeus the Sire. 
 
 B. Buchanan. — Born 1841. 
 
 1836.- 
 
 -INCITEMENT TO PERSE- 
 VERANCE. 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain ; 
 
 The enemy faints not nor faileth. 
 As things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes fears may be Hars, 
 It may be in yon smoke concealed , 
 
 Tour comrades chase e'en now the flyers 
 And, but for you, possess the field. - 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no powerful inch to gain. 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only, 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 
 
 In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
 But westward, look, the land is bright. 
 
 A. H, Clough.— Bom 1819, Died 1861. 
 
 1837.— TO A SLEEPING- CHILD. 
 
 Lips, lips, open ! 
 
 Up comes a little bird that lives inside, 
 Up comes a little bird and peeps, and out he 
 flies. 
 
 All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he 
 
 sings, 
 Up he comes and out he goes at night to spread 
 
 his wings. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, whither will you go ? 
 Round about the world while nobody can know. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee ? 
 Far away round the world while nobody can 
 see. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam ? 
 All round the world and around again home. 
 
 Round the round world, and back thro' the air, 
 When the morning comes the little bird is 
 there. 
 
 Back comes the little bird and looks, and in he 
 
 flies, 
 Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird 's away, 
 Little bird will come again by the peep of day. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird must go 
 Round about the world, while nobody can know. 
 
 Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round, 
 Round and round he goes, sleep, sleep sound. 
 
 A. H. Clough.— Born 1819, Died 1861. 
 
 1838.— THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO 
 BALLYSHANNON. 
 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred and 
 
 born ; 
 Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as 
 
 night and morn, 
 The kindly spot, the friendly town, where 
 
 every one is known, 
 And not a face in all the place but partly 
 
 seems my own ; 
 There's not a house or window, there's not a 
 
 field or hill, 
 But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recol- 
 lect them still. 
 I leave my warm heart with you, though my 
 
 back I'm forced to turn — 
 So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding 
 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
 No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter 
 
 down the Mall, 
 When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon 
 
 to the fall. 
 The boat comes straining on her net, and 
 
 heavily she creeps. 
 Cast off, cast off ! — she feels the oars, and to 
 
 her berth she sweeps ; 
 Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering 
 
 up the clue, 
 TiU a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the 
 
 crew. 
 Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many 
 
 a joke and " yarn " ; — 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 
 
 of Erne! 
 
 The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the 
 
 tide, 
 When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from 
 
 side to side — 
 From Portnasum to Bulliebawns, and round 
 
 the Abbey Bay, 
 From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand- 
 hills grey ; 
 While far upon the southern line, to guard it 
 
 like a wall. 
 The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze 
 
 calmly over all. 
 And watch the ship sail up or down, the red 
 
 flag at her stern ; — 
 Adieu to these, adieu to aU the winding banks 
 of Erne! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Farewell to every white cascade from the 
 Harbour to Belleek, 
 
 And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy- 
 shaded creek j 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] FROM " THE LOVES OF GUDEUN. 
 
 [William Mobris. 
 
 The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash 
 
 and holly grow. 
 The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving 
 
 flood below ; 
 The Lough, that winds through islands under 
 
 Turaw mountain green ; 
 And Castle Caldwell's stretching wosds, with 
 
 tranquil bays between ; 
 And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the 
 
 heath and fern, — 
 For I must say adieu — adieu to the winding 
 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
 The thrush will call through Camlin groves 
 
 the livelong summer day ; 
 The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank with 
 
 wild flowers gay ; 
 The girls will bring their work and sing be- 
 neath a twisted thorn. 
 Or stray with sweethearts down the path 
 
 among the growing corn ; 
 Along the river side they go, where I have 
 
 often been, — 
 O, never shall I see again the days that I 
 
 have seen ! 
 A thousand chances are to one I never may 
 
 return, — 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
 William Allingham. 
 
 Who perchance loved not. Is Gudrun too fair 
 To take this thing a queen might long to wear? 
 Upon the day when on the bench ye sit, 
 Hand held in hand, crown her fair head with 
 
 it. 
 And tell her whence thou hadst it. Ah, fa,re- 
 
 well. 
 Lest of mine eyes thou shouldst have worse to 
 
 tell 
 Than now thou hast !" 
 
 Therewith she turned from him 
 And took the coif, wherein the gold was dim 
 With changing silken threads, the linen white, 
 Scarce seen amid the silk and gold delight. 
 With hands that trembled little did she fold 
 The precious thing, and set its weight of gold 
 Within a silken bag ; and then to his 
 She reached her hands, and in one bitter kiss 
 Tasted his tears, while a great wave of thought 
 Of what sweet things the changed years might 
 
 have brought 
 Swept over her— and then she knew him gone, 
 And yet for all that scarcely felt more lone 
 Than for many days past she had felt. 
 So with fixed eyes she drew into her belt 
 Her kirtle, and to this and that thing turned 
 With heart that ever for the long rest yearned. 
 William Morris. 
 
 i839._FEOM " THE LOVES OF 
 GUDRUN." 
 
 Alone she was, her head against the wall 
 Had fallen ; her heavy eyes were shut when he 
 Stood on the threshold ; she rose quietly. 
 Hearing the clash of arms, and took his hand, 
 And thus with quivering lips awhile did stand 
 Regarding him ; but he made little show 
 Of manliness, but let the hot tears flow 
 Fast o'er his cheeks. At last she spake : 
 
 " Weep then I 
 If thou who art the kindest of all men 
 Must sorrow for me, yet more glad were I 
 To see thee leave my bower joyfuUy 
 This last time; that when o'er thee sorrow 
 
 came, 
 And thought of me therewith, thou mightst 
 
 not blame 
 My little love for ever saddening thee. 
 Love ! — ^let me say love once — great shalt thou 
 
 be, 
 Beloved of all, and dying ne'er forgot, 
 Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! and think thou 
 
 not 
 That in my heart there lingers any hate 
 Of her who through these years for thee did 
 
 wait, 
 A weary waiting — three long, long, long years, 
 Well over now ; nay, when of me she hears. 
 Fain were I she should hate me not. Behold, 
 Here is a coif, well wrought of silk and gold 
 By folk of Micklegarth, who had no thought 
 Of thee or me, and thence by merchants brought 
 
 1840.— -FROM "THE LOVES OF 
 GUDRUN." 
 
 Then Gudrun turned 
 Sick-hearted from themj how her longing 
 
 burned 
 Within her heart ! ah, if he died not now. 
 How might she tell whereto his hate would 
 
 grow? 
 Yet a strange hope that longing shot across, 
 As she got thinking what would be the loss 
 If Bodli fell 'neath Kiartan's hand. That day, 
 Like years long told, past Gudrun wore away. 
 She knew not how; but when the next day 
 
 came 
 She cried aloud, "The same, ah, still the 
 
 Shall every day be, now that he is dead ! " 
 She started as she heard her voice, her head 
 Seemed filled with flame : she crawled into her 
 
 bower. 
 And at her mirrored face hour after hour 
 She stared, and wondered what she really 
 
 was. 
 The once-loved thing o'er which his lips would 
 
 pass. 
 Her feet grew heavy at the end of day. 
 Her heart grew faint, upon her bed she lay 
 Moveless for many an hour, until the sun 
 Told her that now the last day was begun ; 
 Then she arose, as one might in a dream, 
 To clothe herself, till a great cloud did seem 
 To draw away from her ; as in bright hell 
 Sunlfess but shadowless she saw full well 
 Her life that was and would be, now she knew 
 The deed unmasked that summer day should 
 
 do. 
 
Dante Gabriel Eosetti.1 FEOM " THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod, 
 
 And then she gnashed her teeth and tore her 
 
 hair, 
 And beat her breast, nor lightened thus despair, 
 As over and over the sweet names she told 
 Whereby he called her in the days of old ; 
 And then she thought of Refna's longing eyes, 
 And to her face a dreadful smile did rise 
 That died amidst its birth, as back again 
 Her thoughts went to the tender longing pain 
 She once had deemed a sweet fair day would 
 
 end ; 
 And therewith such an agony did rend 
 Her body and soul, that all things she forgat 
 Amidst of it; upon the bed she sat 
 Eigid and stark, and deemed she shrieked, yet 
 
 made 
 "No sound indeed ; but slowly now did fade 
 AH will away from her, until the sun 
 Eisen higher, on her moveless body shone, 
 And as a smitten thing beneath its stroke 
 She shrank and started, and awhile awoke 
 To hear the tramp of men about the hall. 
 Then did a hand upon the panel fall ; 
 And in her very soul she heard the ring 
 Of weapons pulled adown, and everything, 
 Yea, even pain, was dead a little space. 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 [841. 
 
 -FEOM "THE BLESSED 
 DAMOZEL." 
 
 The blessed damozel leaned out 
 From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 Of waters stilled at even ; 
 
 She had three lilies in her hand, 
 
 And the stars in her hair were seven. 
 
 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem. 
 No wrought flowers did adorn, 
 
 But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
 For service meetly worn ; 
 
 Her hair that lay along her back* 
 Was yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 It seemed she scarce had been a day 
 
 One of God's choristers; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 
 
 From that still look of hers ; 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rosetti 
 
 1842.— FEOM ♦' THE POETEAIT." 
 
 This is her picture as she was : 
 It seems a thing to wonder on. 
 
 As though mine image in the glass 
 Should tarry when myself am gone. 
 
 I gaze until she seems to stir, — 
 
 Until mine eyes almost aver 
 
 That now, even now, the sweet lips part 
 To breathe the words of the sweet heart :- 
 
 And yet the earth is over her. 
 
 Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray 
 
 That makes the prison-depths more rude, — 
 The drip of water night and day 
 
 Giving a tongue to solitude. 
 Yet this, of all love's perfect prize 
 Eemains ; save what in mournful guise 
 
 Takes counsel with my soul alone ; 
 
 Save what is secret and unknown. 
 Below the earth, above the skies, 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossdti. 
 
 [843.— NEVVBOEN DEATH. 
 
 To-day Death seems to me an infant child 
 Which her worn mother Life upon my knee 
 Has set to grow my friend and play with 
 me ; 
 If haply so my heart might be beguiled 
 To find no terrors in a face so mild, — 
 If haply so my weary heart might be 
 Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee, 
 O Death, before resentment reconciled. 
 How long, Death ? And shall thy feet de- 
 part 
 StUl a young child's with mine, or wilt thou 
 stand 
 Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my heart, 
 What time with thee indeed I reach the 
 strand 
 Of the pale wave which knows thee what thou 
 art. 
 And drink it in the hollow of thy hand ? 
 
 And thou, Life, the lady of all bliss. 
 
 With wj;iom, when our first heart beat full 
 
 and fast, 
 I wandered till the haunts of men were 
 pass'd. 
 And in fair places found all bowers amiss 
 Till only woods and waves might hear our 
 kiss. 
 While to the winds all thought of Death 
 
 we cast : — 
 Ah, Life ! and must I have from thee at 
 last 
 No smile to greet me and no babe but this ? 
 Lo ! Love, the child once ours; and Son ••, 
 whose hair 
 Blew like a flame and blossomed like a 
 wreath ; 
 And Art, whose eyes were worlds by God founa 
 fair — 
 These o'er the book of Nature mixed their 
 breath 
 With neck-twined arms, as oft we watched 
 them there : 
 And did these die that thou mightst bear 
 me Death ? 
 
 Da7ite Gabriel Rossctti. 
 
AMERICAN POETS, 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES, 
 
 PHILIP FEENEAU. 
 
 A MAN of considerable genius. Among Mr. 
 Freneau's poems are illustrations of creative 
 passion which will preserve his name long after 
 authors of more refinement and elegance are 
 forgotten. His best pieces were for the most 
 part written in early life, when he was most 
 ambitious of literary distinction. It is worthy of 
 notice that he was the first of our authors to treat 
 the " ancients of these lands " with a just ap- 
 preciation, and in a truly artistical spirit. His 
 song of "Alknomock" had long the popularity 
 of a national air. Washington Irving has 
 recorded that when he was a youth it was 
 familiar in every drawing-room, and among 
 the earliest theatrical reminiscences of Mr. 
 William B. Wood is its production in charac- 
 ter upon the stage. The once well-known 
 satire, entitled "A New England Sabbath-day 
 Chase," was so much in vogue when Mr. Ir- 
 ving was a school-boy, that he committed it 
 to memory as an exercise in declamation. 
 The political odes and pasquinades which he 
 wrote during the revolution possess much 
 historical interest, and, with his other works, 
 they will sometime undoubtedly be collected 
 and edited with the care due to unique and 
 curious souvenirs of so remarkable an age. — 
 Born 1752, Died 1832. 
 
 JOHN TEUMBULL. 
 This poet was a popular lawyer, and ap- 
 pointed to honourable offices by the people 
 and the government. From 1795, in con- 
 sequence of ill-health, he declined all pub- 
 lic employment, and was for several years 
 an invalid. At length, recovering his custo- 
 mary vigour, he was in 1800 elected a member 
 of the legislature, and in the year following a 
 judge of the Superior Court. In 1808 he was 
 appointed a judge of the Supreme Court of 
 Errors, and held the office until 1819, when 
 he finally retired from public life. His poema 
 were collected and published in 1820, and in 
 1825 he removed to Detroit, where his 
 daughter, the wife of the Honourable William 
 Woodbridge, recently a member of the United 
 States Senate for Michigan, was residing, and 
 
 died there in May, 1831, in the eiglity-first 
 year of his age. — Born 1750, Died 1831. 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 The merits of Dr. D wight as a poet are 
 eminently respectable. Cowper, who wroto 
 a criticism of his " Conquest of Canaan " in 
 the " Analytical Eeview " for 1789, says : — 
 " His numbers imitate pretty closely those of 
 Pope, and therefore cannot fail to be musical ; 
 but he is chiefly to be commended for tha 
 animation with which he writes, and which 
 rather increases as he proceeds than suffers 
 any abatement A strain of fine enthusi- 
 asm runs through the whole seventh book, 
 and no man who has a soul impressible by a 
 bright display of the grandest subjects that 
 revelation furnishes, will read it without somo 
 emotion." — Born 1752, Died 1817. 
 
 DAVID HUMPHEEYS. 
 The principal poems of Colonel Humpfireya 
 are an " Address to the Armies of the United 
 States," written in 1772, while he was in the 
 army; "A Poem on the Happiness of America," 
 written during his residence in London and 
 Paris, as secretary of legation; " The Widow 
 of Malabar, or the Tyranny of Custom, a 
 Tragedy, imitated from the French of M. Le 
 Mierre," written at Mount Vernon; and a 
 " Poem on Agriculture," written while he was 
 minister at the court of Lisbon. The "Address 
 to the Armies of the United States " passed 
 through many editions in America and Europe, 
 and was translated into the French language 
 by the Marquis de Chastellux, and favour- 
 ably noticed in the Parisian gazettes. Tho 
 " Poem on the Happiness of America " waa 
 reprinted nine times in three years; and 
 the "Widow of Malabar" is said, in the dedi- 
 cation of it to the author of "McFingal," to 
 have met with " extraordinary success" on tho 
 stage. The " Miscellaneous Works of Colonel 
 Humphreys " were published in an octavo 
 volume, in New York, in 1790, dedicated to tho 
 Duke de Eochefoucauld, who had been Lis 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period.' 
 
 intimate friend in France. In the Dedication lie 
 says : " In presenting for your amusement the 
 trifles which have been composed during my 
 leisure hours, I assume nothing beyond the 
 negative merit of not having ever written any- 
 thing unfavourable to the interests of religion, 
 humanity, and virtue.'* He seems to have aimed 
 only at an elegant mediocrity, and his pieces 
 are generally simple and correct in thought and 
 language. ' He was one of the " four bards 
 with Scripture names " satirized in some verses 
 published in London, commencing, 
 
 " David and Jonathan, Joel and Timothy, 
 Over the water, set up the hymn of the," &c. 
 
 and is generally classed among the " poets of 
 the Eevolution." The popularity he enjoyed 
 while he lived, and his connection with Trum- 
 bull, Barlow, and Dwight, justify the intro- 
 duction of a sketch of his history and writings 
 into this volume. — Born 1753, Died 1818. 
 
 JOEL BAELOW. 
 
 In the summer of 1808 appeared his 
 "Columbiad," in a splendid quarto volume, 
 surpassing, in the style of its typography 
 and embellishments, any work before that 
 time printed in America. From his earliest 
 years Barlow had been ambitious to raise the 
 epic song of his nation. The " Vision of 
 Columbus," in which the most brilliant events 
 in American history had been described, 
 occupied his leisure hours when in college, and 
 afterward, when, as a chaplain, he followed 
 the standard of the liberating army. That 
 work was executed too hastily and imperfectly, 
 and for twenty years after its appearance, 
 through every variety of fortune, its enlarge- 
 ment and improvement engaged his attention. 
 
 The events of the Eevolution were so recent 
 and so universally known as to be inflexible 
 to the hand of fiction ; and the poem could 
 not therefore be modelled after the regular 
 epic form, which would otherwise have been 
 chosen. It is a series of visions, presented by 
 Hesper, the genius of the western continent, 
 to Columbus, while in the prison at Valladolid, 
 where he is introduced to the reader uttering 
 a monologue on his ill-requited services to 
 Spain. These visions embrace a vast variety 
 of scenes, circumstances, and characters. 
 Europe in the middle ages, with her political 
 and religious reformers; Mexico and the 
 South American nations, and their imagined 
 history ; the progress of discovery ; the settle- 
 ment of the states now composing the fede- 
 ration ; the war of the Eevolution, and 
 establishment of republicanism ; and the chief 
 actors in the great dramas* which he attempts 
 to present. 
 
 The poem, having no unity of fable, no 
 regular succession of incidents, no strong ex- 
 hibition of varied character, lacks the most 
 
 powerful charms of a narrative; and has, 
 besides, many dull and spiritless passages, 
 which would make unpopular a work of much 
 more faultless general design. The versifica- 
 tion is generally harmonious, but mechanical 
 and passionless, the language sometimes in- 
 correct, and the similes often inappropriate 
 and inelegant. Yet there are in it many bursts 
 of eloquence and patriotism, which should 
 preserve it from oblivion. The descriptions 
 of nature and of personal character are 
 frequently condensed and forceful ; and pass- 
 ages of invective, indignant and full of energy. 
 Barlow was much respected in private life 
 for his many excellent social qualities. His 
 manners were usually grave and dignified, 
 though when with his intimate friends he was 
 easy and familiar. He was an honest and 
 patient investigator, and would doubtless have 
 been much more successful as a metaphysical 
 or historical writer than as a poet. As an 
 author he belonged to the first class of his 
 time in America ; and for his ardent patriot- 
 ism, his public services, and the purity of his 
 life, he deserves a distinguished rank among 
 the men of our golden age. — Born 1755, Died 
 1812. 
 
 ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD. 
 
 The poems embraced in the volume of his 
 writings published in 1801 are generally 
 political, and are distinguished for wit and 
 vigour. The longest in the collection was 
 addressed to M. Adet, on his leaving America 
 for France.— JBom 1765, Died 1812. 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 The merits of Mr. Adams as a poet are not 
 great, but he wrote much in verse, and fre- 
 quently with good sense, humour, and scho- 
 larly polish. Among his earlier productions 
 are translations of the seventh and thirteenth 
 satires of Juvenal, written for Dennie's "Port- 
 folio," and Mr. Griswold speaks of a transla- 
 tion of Wieland's "Oberon," which he made 
 while residing officially at Berlin, in 1798. It 
 would have been printed at the time, bad not 
 Wieland informed a friend of Mr. Adams, who 
 exhibited to him the manuscript, of the English 
 version of his poem then just published by 
 Mr. Sotheby, of the existence of which Mr. 
 Adams had not been aware. The longest of 
 Mr. Adams' original poems is " Dermot Mac 
 Morrogh ; or, the Conquest of Ireland, an 
 Historical Tale of the Twelfth Century, in 
 Four Cantos," which appeared in 1832. It is 
 a story of various profligacy and brutality, in 
 which it is difficult to see any poetical ele- 
 ments ; but Mr. Adams deemed the subject 
 suitable for an historical tale ; and to give it 
 " an interest which might invite readers," it 
 appeared '* advisable to present it in the garb 
 of poetry." "Dermot Mac Morrogh" added 
 
From 1780 <o 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 very little to Mr. Adams's literary fame. 
 Reviewers of all parties condemned it as an 
 utter failure in poetry, philosophy, and wit. 
 It is probable that the eminent position of the 
 author was as injurious to him with the 
 critics, as it was advantageous to his book- 
 sellers with the public. A collection of his 
 shorter effusions appeared soon after his 
 death, under the title of " Poems of Eeligion 
 and Society," and the editor expresses an 
 opinion that many of them "are informed 
 with wisdom and various learning," and that 
 some of the illustrious writer's hymns " are 
 among the finest devotional lyrics in our 
 language." This praise is not altogether un- 
 deserved, but perhaps it may be discovered 
 that they are more remarkable for the quality 
 of piety than for that of poetry. — Born 1767, 
 Died 1848. 
 
 JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 
 
 Joseph Hopkinson, LL.D., son of Francis 
 Hopkinson, author of "The Battle of the 
 Kegs," &c., was educated for the bar in the 
 office of his father. He wrote verses with 
 fluency, but had little claim to be regarded as 
 a poet. His " Hail, Columbia !" is, however, 
 one of the very few national songs of America, 
 and is likely to be looked for in all collections 
 of American poetry. At the time of his death, 
 which occurred on the 15th of January, 1842, 
 the author was President of the Pennsyl- 
 vania Academy of the Fine Arts, one of the 
 Vice-Presidents of the American Philosophi- 
 cal Society, and a Judge of the District Court 
 of the United States.— JBom 1770, Died 1842. 
 
 WILLIAM CLIFTON. 
 
 The poetry of Clifton has more energy of 
 thought and diction, and is generally more 
 correct and harmonious, than any which had 
 been previously written in this country. 
 Much of it is satirical, and relates to persons 
 and events of the period in which he lived ; 
 and the small volume of his writings published 
 after his death doubtless contains some pieces 
 which would have been excluded from an 
 edition prepared by himself, for this reason, 
 and because they were unfinished and not 
 originally intended to meet the eye of the 
 world.— Boni 1722, Died 1799. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 Of this artist and poet, Mr. Griswold says 
 that although he " owed his chief celebrity to 
 his paintings, which will preserve for his name 
 a place in the list of the greatest artists of all 
 the nations and ages, his literary works alone 
 would have given him a high rank among men 
 
 of genius. A great painter, indeed, is of neces- 
 sity a poet, though he may lack the power to 
 express fittingly his conceptions in language. 
 Allston had in remarkable perfection all the 
 faculties required for either art. ' The Sylphs 
 of the Seasons,' his longest poem, in which he 
 describes the scenery of spring, summer, 
 autumn, and winter, and the effects of each 
 season on the mind, show that he regarded 
 nature with a curious eye, and had power to 
 exhibit her beauties with wonderful distinct- 
 ness and fidelity. 'The Two Painters' is an 
 admirable satire, intended to ridicule attempts 
 to reach perfection in one excellency in the art 
 of painting, to the neglect of every other. 
 The * Paint King' is a singularly wild, ima- 
 ginative story ; and nearly all his minor poems 
 are strikingly original and beautiful. It was 
 in his paintings, however, that the power and 
 religious grandeur of his imagination were 
 most strongly developed." — Born 1779, Died 
 1843. 
 
 HENEY EOWE SCHOOLCEAFT. 
 
 Dr. Schoolcraft has written voluminously 
 upon the North American Indians, and most 
 American writers are indebted to his labours 
 regarding these tribes. His principal work in 
 this connection is *' Information respecting 
 the History, Condition, and Prospects of the 
 Indian Tribes of the United States," in five 
 
 ! quarto volumes, published by the Government. 
 
 ' -Born 1793. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT. 
 
 When but little more than eighteen years of 
 age he had written his noble poem of " Thana- 
 topsis," which was published in the " North 
 American Eeview " for 1816. In 1821 he 
 delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
 of Harvard College his longest poem, " The 
 Ages," in which, from a survey of the past 
 eras of the world, and of the successive ad- 
 vances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and 
 happiness, he endeavours to justify and conibrm 
 the hopes of the philanthropist for the future 
 destinies of man. It is in the stansa of 
 Spenser's "Faerie Queene." "To a Waterfowl," 
 " Inscription for an Entrance to a Wood," and 
 several other pieces, were likewise written 
 about the same time. In 1832 a collection of 
 all the poems Mr. Bryant had then written 
 was published in New York ; it was soon after 
 reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching 
 Washington Irving, who was then in England, 
 he caused it to be published in London, where 
 it has since passed through several editions. 
 In 1842 he published " The Fountain and 
 other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-footed 
 Deer and other Poems ; " in 1846 an edition 
 of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated 
 with engravings from pictures by Leutze ; and 
 in 1855 another edition, containing his later 
 
 81 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 poems, in two volumes. His "Letters of a 
 Traveller " appeared in 1852, and the last 
 result of his laborious mind is the translation 
 of the " IHad " (1810).— Born 1794, 
 
 FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK.. 
 
 In 1822 and 1823 Mr. Halleck visited Great 
 Britain and the continent of Europe. Among 
 the souvenirs of his travels are two poems, 
 "Burns," and "Alnwick Castle," which, with 
 a few other pieces, he gave to the public in a 
 small volume in 1827. His fame was established 
 by these, and in New York, where his per- 
 sonal qualities are best known, and his poems, 
 from their local allusions, are read by every- 
 body, he has enjoyed a constant popularity. — 
 Born 1795. 
 
 GEOEGE P. MOEEIS. 
 
 General Morris has written a number of 
 popidar songs. That one which represents 
 him here is widely known, but not everybody 
 remembers who is the author. For many 
 years he has been connected with Mr. Willis 
 in journalistic labours. — Born 1801. 
 
 EALPH WALDO EMEESON. 
 
 This American essayist, the son of a Uni- 
 tarian minister of Boston, U.S., was designed 
 for the same profession. The peculiarity of 
 his views, however, led him into other studies, 
 which broke his connection with the religious 
 body to which he belonged. After publishing 
 several essays or orations, he, in 1840, started 
 a publication called the " Dial," devoted to 
 the discussiqji of prominent questions in 
 philosophy, history, and literature. It lived 
 for four years, during which period Mr. Emer- 
 son kept himself before the public by deliver- 
 ing orations upon popular subjects. In 1844 
 he published " Lectures on New England Ee- 
 formers," and subsequently lectured on 
 Swedenborg, Napoleon, and other eminent 
 men. In 1846 appeared a volume of poems, 
 and in 1849 he visited England, where he de- 
 livered a series of lectures, and afterwards 
 published them, under the title of " Eepre- 
 sentative Men." Soon after, he published 
 "English Traits," embodying some of his 
 observations on English manners, customs, 
 and characteristics. Besides these more special 
 labours, he contributed to various reviews and 
 other periodicals. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's sympathy with nature is 
 evinced in everything he has written ; beauty, 
 in external objects, whether it be grandeur, 
 sublimity, splendour, or simple grace, is not 
 with him an illustration merely ; it is an in- 
 Btructing presence, to be questioned and heard 
 as one of the forms or manifestations of 
 
 divinity. The old prayer of Ajax is translated 
 in his verse : 
 
 "Give me of tne true, — 
 Whose ample leaves and tendrils, curl'd 
 Among the silver hills of heaven^ 
 Draw everlasting dew ; 
 Wine of wine. 
 Blood of the world. 
 Form of forms, and mdXild of statures, 
 That I, intoxicated. 
 And by the draught assimilated 
 May float at pleasure through all natures ; 
 The bird-language rightly spell. 
 And that which roses say so well." 
 
 What to others who have repeated the 
 words has been an unmeaning fable, has to 
 him been a truth : he has found 
 
 "Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing," 
 
 and this he says for himself, in a little poem 
 called 
 
 " THE APOLOGY. 
 
 " Think me not unkind and rude 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen •- 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 " Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
 Each cloud that floated in the sky 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 " Chide me not, laborious band. 
 For the idle flowers I brought ; 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 " There was never mystery 
 
 But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 
 Was never secret history 
 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
 " One harvest from thy field 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
 A second crop thy acres yield, 
 Which I gather in a song." 
 Mr. Emerson was born about 1803. — 
 
 Beeton's Dictionary of Biography, 
 
 CHAELES FENNO HOFFMAN. . 
 
 I have endeavoured to define the sphere and 
 dignity of the song : but whatever may be 
 thought of it as an order of writing, I am 
 satisfied that Mr. Hoffman has come as near 
 to the highest standard or idea of excellence 
 which belongs to this species of composition, 
 as any American poet has done in his own 
 department, whatever that department may 
 be. Many of his productions have received 
 whatever testimony of merit is afforded by 
 great and continued popular favour; and 
 though there are undoubtedly some sorts of 
 composition respecting which the applause or 
 silence of the multitude is right or wrong only 
 by accident, yet, as regards a song, popularity 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 appears to me to be the only test, and lasting 
 popularity to be an infallible test of excellence. 
 —Bom 1806. 
 
 HENEY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The most successful of all American poets ; 
 his name is as familiar in English homes as in 
 the Pilgrim States. If his fame is a little 
 exaggerated, he is still entitled to a very re- 
 spectable position in the poetic roll. We can 
 only briefly refer to his works. " Outre Mer, 
 or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," tales and 
 sketches, appeared about 1838 ; in 1839, 
 "Hyperion;" in 1848, "Kavanagh." In 
 1845 " The Poets and Poetry of Europe " was 
 published, which is described by an admirer as 
 " the most comprehensive, complete, and ac- 
 curate review of the poetry of the continental 
 nations that has ever appeared in any lan- 
 guage." The first collection of his own poems 
 was published in 1839, under the title of 
 " Voices of the Night." His " Ballads and 
 other Poems" followed in 1841 ; *'The Spanish 
 Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems on 
 Slavery," in 1844 ; " The Belfry of Bruges and 
 other Poems," in 1845 ; "Evangeline, a Tale 
 of Acadie," in 1847; "The Seaside and the 
 Fireside," in 1849 ; " The Golden Legend," in 
 1851 ; and " The Song of Hiawatha," in 1855. 
 Many editions of his poems have been pub- 
 lished both in England and America. His 
 latest works have been " Miles Standish " 
 and translations from Dante. 
 
 From an American critic we quote the fol- 
 lowing : — " Of all our poets Longfellow best 
 deserves the title of artist. He has studied 
 the principles of verbal melody, and rendered 
 himself master of the mysterious afiBnities 
 which exist between sound and sense, word 
 and thought, feeling and expression. His tact 
 in the use of language is probably the chief 
 cause of his success. There is an aptitude, a 
 gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his 
 stanzas, which at once impress the memory 
 and win the ear and heart. There is in the 
 tone of his poetry little passion, but much 
 quiet earnestness. It is not so much the 
 power of the instrument, as the skill with 
 which it is managed, that excites our sym- 
 pathy. His acquaintance with foreign litera- 
 ture has been of great advantage by rendering 
 him familiar with all the delicate capacities of 
 language, from the grand symphonic roll of 
 Northern tongues, to the ' soft, bastard Latin' 
 of the South, His ideas and metaphors are 
 often very striking and poetical ; but there is 
 no affluence of imagery, or wonderful glow of 
 emotion, such as take us captive in Byron or 
 Shelley : the claim of Longfellow consists 
 rather in the wise and tasteful use of his 
 materials than in their richness or originality. 
 He has done much for the Art of Poetry in 
 this country by his example, and in this re- 
 spect may claim the praise which all good 
 
 critics of English poetry have bestowed on 
 Gray and Collins. The spirit of Longfellow's 
 muse is altogether unexceptionable in a moral 
 point of view. He illustrates the gentler 
 themes of song, and pleads for justice, hu. 
 manity, and particularly the beautiful, with a 
 poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims 
 upon the instinctive recognition of the man." 
 Mr. Longfellow was born in 1807. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 Mr. Willis is better known as a prose writer 
 than a poet. The one poem which represents 
 him here is a fair specimen of his powers. — 
 Born 1807. 
 
 JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIEE. 
 
 When he was twenty, he began literary 
 work as conductor of " The American Manu- 
 factures," a "protection" journal. After- 
 wards he gave himself to politics and agri- 
 culture, and Avrote but little. In 1836, 
 however, he published the poem of "Mogg 
 Megone." In this, as in the ballad of " Cas- 
 sandra Southwick," and in some of his prose 
 writings, he has exhibited in a very striking 
 manner the intolerant spirit of the Puritans, 
 In 1838 Mr. Whittier published a volume of 
 " Ballads ; " " Lays of my Home, and other 
 Poems," in 1845 ; a full collection of his 
 " Poems," in 1849 ; " Songs of Labour," in 
 1851 ; and " The Chapel of the Hermits, and 
 other Poems," in 1852. His prose works, 
 besides "Legends of New England," before 
 mentioned, are " The Stranger in Lowell," a 
 collection of prose essays, 1845 ; " Super- 
 naturalism in New England," 1847 ; Leaves 
 from Margaret Smith's Journal," illustrating 
 the age of the Puritans, 1849 ; "Old Portraits 
 and Modern Sketches," 1850; and "Literary 
 Eecreations and Miscellanies," in 1854. He 
 is thus criticised by Mr. Griswold : — "Al- 
 though boldness and energy are Whittier' s 
 leading characteristics, his works are not 
 without passages scarcely less distinguished 
 for tenderness and grace. He may reasonably 
 be styled a national poet. His works breathe 
 affection for and faith in our republican polity 
 and unshackled religion, but an affection and 
 a faith that do not blind him to our weakness 
 or wickedness. He is of that class of authors 
 whom we most need in America to build up a 
 literature that shall elevate with itself the 
 national feeling and character." — Born 1808. 
 
 OLIVEE WENDELL HOLMES, 
 
 Mr, Griswold thus writes of the author of 
 the " Autocrat of the Breakfast Table .— 
 " The earlier poems of Dr, Holmes appeared 
 in 'The Collegian,' They were little less 
 
 81* 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 - [Seventh Period.— 
 
 distinguislied for correct and melodious versifi- 
 cation than his more recent and most elaborate 
 productions. They attracted attention by 
 their humour and originality, and were widely 
 republished in the periodicals. But a small 
 portion of them have been printed under his 
 proper signature. In 1831 a small volume 
 appeared in Boston, entitled ' Illustrations of 
 the Athenaeum Gallery of Paintings,' and 
 composed of metrical pieces, chiefly satirical, 
 written by Dr. Holmes and Epes Sargent. It 
 embraced many of our author's best humorous 
 verses, afterwards printed among his acknow- 
 ledged works. His ' Poetry, a Metrical Essay,' 
 was delivered before a literary society at 
 Cambridge. It is in the heroic measure, and 
 in its versification it is not surpassed by 
 any poem written in America. It relates to 
 the nature and offices of poetry, and is itself 
 a series of brilliant illustrations of the ideas 
 of which it is an expression. In 1843 Dr. 
 Holmes published ' Terpsichore,' a poem read 
 at the annual dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society in that year ; and in 1846, ' Urania, a 
 Ehymed Lesson,' pronounced before the Mer- 
 cantile Library Association. The last is a 
 collection of brilliant thoughts, with many 
 local allusions, in compact but flowing and 
 harmonious versification, and is the longest 
 poem Dr. Holmes has published since the 
 appearance of his ' Metrical Essay' in 1835. 
 Dr. Holmes is a poet of wit and humour and 
 genial sentiment, with a style remarkable for 
 its purity, terseness, and point, and for an 
 exquisite finish and grace. His lyrics ring and 
 sparkle like cataracts of silver, and his serious 
 pieces — as successful in their way as those 
 mirthful frolics of his muse for which he is 
 best known — arrest the attention by touches 
 of the most genuine pathos and tenderness. 
 All his poems illustrate a manly feeling, and 
 have in them a current of good sense, the 
 more charming because somewhat out of 
 fashion now in works of imagination and 
 fancy." English readers are best acquainted 
 with his " Autocrat " and " Professor." His 
 novels may be considered popular, and there 
 can be no doubt that " Elsie Venner " and 
 " The Guardian Angel" contain original and 
 characteristic portraits, drawn with subtlety 
 and delicacy. As a physician and writer of 
 physiological works, he is much to be admired, 
 for he speaks plainly and seeks to rid the 
 world of many an absurd theory cherished 
 ignorantly and warmly. His principal medical 
 writings are comprised in his " Boylston Prize 
 Essays," "Lectures on Popular Delusions in 
 Medicine," and " The Theory and Practice of 
 Medicine." — Born 1809. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 The wayward life of this wonderful writer 
 we have no space to record. He was at 
 a school in England for four or five years, 
 
 travelled through Great Britain, and returned 
 to the States in 1822. Then he went to Jeffer- 
 son University, Charlottesville, Virginia, and, 
 in 1829, to West Point. Two years later he 
 began his literary career, wrote magazine 
 articles and edited periodicals at Richmond and 
 Philadelphia. In 1841 appeared his "Tales 
 of the Grotesque and Arabesque." 
 
 Near the end of 1844 Mr. Poe removed to 
 New York, where he conducted for several 
 months a literary miscellany called " The 
 Broadway Journal." In 1845 he published a 
 volume of " Tales," and a collection of his 
 " Poems ; " in 1846 wrote a series of literary 
 and personal sketches entitled " The Literati 
 of New York City," which commanded much 
 attention ; in 1848 gave to the public, first as 
 a lecture, and afterwards in print, " Eureka, 
 a Prose Poem ; " and in the summer of 1849 
 delivered several lectures, in Richmond and 
 other cities, and on the 7th October, while on 
 his way to New York, died, suddenly, at 
 Baltimore, aged 38. 
 
 In poetry, as in prose, he was most success- 
 ful in the metaphysical treatment of the 
 passions. His poems are constructed with 
 marvellous ingenuity, and finished with con- 
 summate art. They illustrate a morbid 
 sensitiveness of feeling, a shadowy and gloomy 
 imagination, and a taste almost faultless in 
 the apprehension of that sort of beauty most 
 agreeable to his temper. His rank as a poet 
 is with the first class of his times. " The 
 Raven," " Ulalume," " The Bells," and several 
 of his other pieces, will be remembered as 
 among the finest monuments of the capacities 
 of the English language. — Born 1811, Died 
 1849. 
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 
 
 Mr. Tuckerman has spent a considerable 
 portion of his time in European travel, and in 
 1839 published " Isabel ; or, Sicily, a Pilgrim- 
 age," which, in 1846, was reprinted in London. 
 Subsequently appeared, "Thoughts on the 
 Poets," "Artist Life," "Characteristics of 
 Literature," and some biographies and criti- 
 cisms. A collection of his " Poems " appeared 
 in 1851, but it embraces only a small propor- 
 tion of those he had published in the magazines 
 and newspapers. In his works it has been 
 noted he has occasionally done injustice to 
 his own fine powers by the carelessness with 
 which he has adopted familiar ideas, images, 
 and forms of expression from other writers. — 
 Born 1813. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 The author of the ' ' Biglow Papers " was born 
 at Boston, educated at Harvard, and his first 
 appearance was in 1839, when he printed 
 a class poem recited at Cambridge. It was a 
 composition in heroic verse, which, though it 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 betrayed marks of haste, contained many 
 strokes of vigorous satire, much sharp wit, 
 and occasional bursts of feeling. Two years 
 afterwards he published a rolume of mis- 
 cellaneous poems, under the title of '-A Year's 
 Life." This bore no relationship to his first 
 production. It illustrated entirely different 
 thoughts, feelings, and habits. In 1844 Mr. 
 Lowell published a new volume evincing very 
 decided advancement in thought, and feeling, 
 and execution. The longest of its contents, 
 "A Legend of Brittany," is without any of the 
 striking faults of his previous compositions, 
 and in imagination and artistic finish is the 
 best poem he has yet printed. In the same 
 volume appeared the author's " Prometheus," 
 " EhcBCUs," and some of his most admired 
 shorter pieces. He gave to the public a third 
 collection of his poems in 1848. In this there 
 is no improvement of versification, no finer 
 fancy, or braver imagination, than in the pre- 
 ceding volume; but it illustrates a deeper 
 interest in affairs, and a warm partisanship 
 for the philanthropists and progressists of all 
 classes. Among his subjects are " The Pre- 
 sent Crisis," " Anti-Texas," " The Capture of 
 Fugitive Slaves," " Hunger and Cold," " The 
 Landlord," &c. He gives here the first ex- 
 amples of a peculiar humour, which he has 
 since cultivated with success. In the same 
 year Mr. Lowell published " A Fable for 
 Critics, or a Glance at a Few of our Literary 
 Progenies," a rhymed essay, critical and 
 satirical, upon the principal living writers of 
 the country. Afterwards came the " Biglow 
 Papers," a collection of verses in the Xew 
 England dialect, with introduction and notes 
 by a supposititious, pedantic, but keen-witted 
 and patriotic country parson. " The Vision 
 of Sir LaunfaJ, a Legend of the Holy Grail," 
 was also issued about the same time. — Born 
 1819. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 Dr. English published a collection of his 
 " Poems," in New York, in 1855. " Several 
 of them are ^vritten," says his biographer, 
 "in a style of vigorous declamation, upon 
 subjects to which such a style is suitable. 
 The stirring lyric of " The Gallows-Goers " is 
 the best of his productions, and there are few 
 more effective examples of partisan verse. It 
 was much quoted during the agitation of the 
 death-punishment question in several of the 
 States between 1845 and 1850. Of a more 
 poetical character are various love songs, 
 written carelessly, but with freshness and 
 apparent earnestness. Of one of these, 
 entitled "Dora Lee," the concluding verses 
 display in a creditable manner his abilities for 
 description. — Born 1819. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN EEAD. 
 
 Mr. Eead is a painter as well as a poet, and 
 settled at Florence in 1853. His earliest lite- 
 rary work was a series of lyrics published in 
 the "Boston Courier" in 1843 and 1844. In 
 1847 he printed in Boston the first collection 
 of his "Poems;" in 1848, in Philadelphia, 
 " Lays and Ballads ;" in 1849, in the same 
 city, " The Pilgrims of the Great Saint Ber- 
 nard," a prose romance, in the successive 
 numbers of a magazine ; in 1853 an illustrated 
 edition of his " Poems," comprising, with some 
 new pieces, all he wished to preserve of his 
 other volumes; and in 1855 the longest of his 
 works, " The New Pastoral," in thirty-seven 
 books. His verse, though sometimes irregu- 
 lar, is always musical. Indeed, in the easy 
 flow of his stanzas and in the melody of their 
 cadences, he seems to follow some chimo of 
 sound within his brain. This is the pervading 
 expression of his poems, many of which might 
 more probably be called songs. Though he 
 has written in the dramatic form with freedom 
 and unaffected feeling, and extremely well in 
 didactic and descriptive blank verse, his 
 province is evidently the lyrical. Like most 
 of our poets, in his earlier poems Mr. Eead 
 wrote from the inspiration of foreign song and 
 story, and he seems but lately to have perceived 
 that the most appropriate field for the exer- 
 cise of .his powers is to be found at home. — 
 Bom 1822. 
 
 CHAELES G. LELAND. 
 
 Mr. Leland is best known to English readers 
 as the author of " Meister Karl's Sketch 
 Book," and the translator of Heinrich Heine's 
 poems. An American critic says of him : 
 " His poems are for the most part in a peculiar 
 vein of satirical humour. He has an invincible 
 dislike of the sickly extravagances of small 
 sentimentalists, and the absurd assumptions 
 of small philanthropists. He is not altogether 
 incredulous of progress, but does not look for 
 it from that boastful independence, character- 
 izing the new generation, which rejects the 
 authority and derides the wisdom of the past. 
 He is of that healthy intellectual constitution 
 which promises in every department the best 
 fruits to his industry." He was born in 1824. 
 
 BAYAED TAYLOE. 
 
 Mr. Taylor has travelled very largely, and 
 written excellent accounts of his wanderings. 
 He has published " The American Legend," 
 a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society of Harvard University, in 1850 ; and 
 "Poems of the Orient," which appeared in 
 1854, and embrace only such pieces as were 
 written while he was on his passage round the 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL KOTICES. 
 
 Seventh Period. 
 
 world, and present the more poetical phases 
 of that portion of his experiences. — Born 
 1825. 
 
 E. H. STODDAED. 
 
 He originally was placed in an iron foundry, 
 and in 1847 some verses in the " Union Maga- 
 zine " gave evidence that his mind as well as 
 his body was toiling. The-first was, however, 
 
 the stronger of the two, for in 1848, after 
 publishing a small volume entitled " Foot- 
 prints," his health gave way, and he surren- 
 dered his mechanical occupation. He has 
 furnished a considerable number of pieces to 
 " Putnam's Monthly ". and " Graham's Maga- 
 zine," and to the last, two, " The Burden of 
 Unrest " and " The Squire of Low Degree," in 
 the composition of which he has exercised with 
 suitable care his best abilities. 
 
SEVENTH PERIO 'D-Contimed. 
 
 1844.— THE DYING INDIAN. 
 
 " On yonder lake I spread the sail no more ! 
 yigonr, and youth, and active days are past — 
 Eelentless demons urge me to that shore 
 On whose black forests all the dead are 
 
 cast : — 
 Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song, 
 For I must go to shades below, 
 Where all is strange and all is new ; 
 Companion to the airy throng ! — 
 
 What solitary streams, 
 
 In duU and dreary dreams, 
 All melancholy, must I rove along ! 
 
 To what strange lands must Chequi take his 
 
 way! 
 Groves of the dead departed mortals trace : 
 No deer along those gloomy forests stray, 
 No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase, 
 But all are empty, unsubstantial shades. 
 That ramble through those visionary glades ; 
 No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend, 
 But sickly orchards there 
 Do fruits as sickly bear, 
 And apples a consumptive visage show, 
 And wither' d hangs the whortleberry blue. 
 
 Ah me ! what mischiefs on the dead attend ! 
 Wandering a stranger to the shores below, 
 Where shall I brook or real fountain find ! 
 Lazy and sad deluding waters flow — 
 Such is the picture in my boding mind ! 
 
 Fine tales, indeed, they tell 
 
 Of shades and purling rills, 
 
 Where our dead fathers dwell 
 
 Beyond the western hills ; 
 But when did ghost return his state to show ; 
 Or who can promise half the tale is true ! 
 
 I too must be a fleeting ghost ! — no more — 
 None, none but shadows to those mansions go ; 
 I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore, 
 
 For emptier groves below ! 
 
 Ye charming solitudes, 
 
 Ye tall ascending woods 
 Ye glassy lakes and purling streams, 
 
 Whose aspect still was sweet. 
 
 Whether the sun did greet, 
 Or the pale moon embraced you with her 
 
 Adieu to all 
 
 To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd. 
 The winding stream, the dark sequester'd 
 shade ; 
 Adieu all triumphs here ! 
 Adieu the mountain's lofty swell, 
 Adieu, thou little verdant hill. 
 And seas, and stars, and skies — farewell 
 For some remoter sphere ! 
 
 Perplex' d with doubts, and tortured with de- 
 spair. 
 Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep ? 
 Nature at last these ruins may repair. 
 When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets 
 
 to weep ; 
 Some real world once more may be assign'd, 
 Some new-born mansion for the immortal 
 
 mind! 
 Farewell, sweet lake; farewell, surrounding 
 
 woods : 
 To other groves, through midnight glooms I 
 
 stray, 
 Beyond the mountains and beyond the floods, 
 
 Beyond the Huron bay ! 
 Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, 
 My trusty bow and arrows by my side. 
 The cheerful bottle and the venison store. 
 For long the journey is that I must go. 
 Without a partner, and without a guide." 
 
 He spoke, and bid the attending mourners 
 
 weep. 
 Then closed his eyes, and simk to endless 
 
 sleep ! 
 
 Philip Freneau.-^Born 1752, Died 1832. 
 
 1845— CHAEACTEE OF McFINGAL. 
 
 When Yankees, skill'd in martial rule. 
 First put the British troops to school ; 
 Instructed them in warlike trade. 
 And new manoeuvres of parade ; 
 The true war-dance of Yankee-reels, 
 And manual exercise of heels ; 
 Made them give up, like saints complete. 
 The arm of flesh, and trust the feet. 
 And work, like Christians undissembling, 
 Salvation out by fear and trembling ; 
 Taught Percy fashionable races. 
 And modern modes of Chevy-Chaces : 
 
Timothy Dwight.] 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMEEICA. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 From Boston, in hia best array, 
 Great Squire McFingal took his way. 
 And, graced with ensigns of renown. 
 Steer' d homeward to his native town. 
 His high descent our heralds trace 
 To Ossian's famed Fingalian race ; 
 For though their name some part may lack, 
 Old Fingal spelt it with a Mac ; 
 Which great McPherson, with submission. 
 We hope will add to the next edition. 
 
 His fathers flourish' d in the Highlands 
 Of Scotia's fog-benighted island ; 
 Whence gain'd our squire two gifts by right, 
 Rebellion and the second-sight. 
 Of these the first, in ancient days, 
 Had gain'd the noblest palms of praise ; 
 'Gainst kings stood forth, and many a crown' d 
 
 head 
 With terror of its might confounded ; 
 Till rose a king with potent charm 
 His foes by goodness to disarm ; 
 Whom every Scot and Jacobite 
 Straight fell in love with — at first sight ; 
 Whose gracious speech, with aid of pensions, 
 Hush'd down all murmurs of dissensions. 
 And with the sound of potent metal, 
 Brought all their blust'ring swarms to settle ; 
 Who rain'd his ministerial mannas, 
 Till loud sedition sung hosannas ; 
 The good lord-bishops and the kirk 
 United in the public work ; 
 Eebellion from the northern regions. 
 With Bute and Mansfield swore allegiance, 
 And all combined to raze, as nuisance. 
 Of church and state, the constitutions ; 
 Pull down the empire, on whose ruins 
 They meant to edify their new ones; % 
 
 Enslave the American wildernesses, 
 And tear the provinces in pieces. 
 For these our squire, among the valiant' st, 
 Employ' d his time, and tools, and talents ; 
 And in their cause, with manly zeal. 
 Used his first virtue — to rebel ; 
 And found this new rebellion pleasing 
 As hia old king-destroying treason. 
 
 Nor less avail' d his optic sleight, 
 And Scottish gift of second-sight. 
 No ancient sibyl, famed in rhyme, 
 Saw deeper in the womb of time ; 
 No block in old Dodona's grove 
 Could ever more oracular prove. 
 Nor only saw he all that was. 
 But much that never came to pass ; 
 Whereby all prophets far outwent he. 
 Though former days produced a plenty : 
 For any man with half an eye 
 What stands before him may espy ; 
 But optics sharp it needs, I ween, 
 To see what is not to be seen. 
 As in the days of ancient fame, 
 Prophets and poets were the same. 
 And all the praise that poets gain 
 Is but for what they invent and feign : 
 So gain'd our squire his fame by seeing 
 Such things as never would have being ; 
 
 Whence he for oracles was grown 
 The very tripod of his town. 
 Gazettes no sooner rose a lie in, 
 But straight he fell to prophesying ; 
 Made dreadful slaughter in his course, 
 O'erthrew provincials, foot and horse ; 
 Brought armies o'er by sudden pressings 
 Of Hanoverians, Swiss, and Hessians ; 
 Feasted with blood his Scottish clan, 
 And hang'd all rebels to a man; 
 Divided their estates and pelf, 
 And took a goodly share himself. 
 All this, with spirit energetic, 
 He did by second-sight prophetic. 
 
 Thus stored with intellectual riches, 
 Skill'd was our squire in making speeches, 
 Where strength of brains united centres 
 With strength of lungs surpassing Stentor's. 
 But as some muskets so contrive it, 
 As oft to miss the mark they drive at, 
 And, though well aim'd at duck or plover, 
 Bear wide and kick their owners over : 
 So fared our squire, whose reas'ning toil 
 Would often on himself recoil. 
 And so much injured more his side. 
 The stronger arguments he applied ; 
 As old war-elephants, dismay'd, 
 Trod down the troops they came to aid. 
 And hurt their own side more in battle 
 Than less and ordinary cattle : 
 Yet at town meetings ev'ry chief 
 Pinn'd faith on great McFingal' s sleeve 
 And, as he motion' d, all by rote, 
 Eaised sympathetic hands to vote. 
 
 John Trumlull.—Born 1750, Died 1831. 
 
 1846.— ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 
 
 Soon fleets the sunbright form, by man 
 
 adored ! — 
 Soon fell the head of gold to Time a prey, 
 The arms, the trunk, his cankering tooth 
 
 devour' d. 
 And whirlwinds blew the iron dust away. 
 Where dwelt imperial Timur, far astray 
 Some lonely musing pilgrim now inquires ; 
 And, rack'd by storms and hastening te 
 
 decay, 
 Mohammed's mosque foresees its final fires. 
 And Rome's more lordly temple day by day 
 
 expires. 
 As o'er proud Asian realms the traveller 
 
 winds. 
 His manly spirit, hush'd by terror, falls 
 When some forgotten town'slost site he finds 
 Where ruin wild his pondering eye appals, 
 Where silence swims along the moulder' d 
 
 walls. 
 And broods upon departed Grandeur's tomb, 
 Throughthe lone, hollow aisles, sad Echocalls 
 At each slow step ; deep sighs the breathing 
 
 gloom. 
 And weeping fields around bewail their em- 
 press' d dcom. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 WESTEEN EMIGEATION. 
 
 [David Humphreys 
 
 Where o'er a hundred realms the throne 
 
 uprose 
 The screech-owl nests, the panther builds 
 
 his home ; 
 Sleep the dull newts, the lazy adders doze 
 "Where pomp and luxury danced the golden 
 
 room ; 
 Low lies in dust the sky-resembled dome, 
 Tall grass around the broken column waves, 
 And brambles climb and lonely thistles 
 
 bloom ; 
 The moulder' d arch the weedy streamlet 
 
 jSTow Pleasure sports, and Business want be- 
 guiles, 
 
 And Commerce wings her flight to thousand 
 isles ; 
 
 Culture walks forth, gay laugh the loaded 
 fields. 
 
 And jocundLabour plays his harmless wiles ; 
 
 Glad Science brightens, Art her mansion 
 builds, 
 And Peace uplifts her wand, and Heaven his 
 blessing yields. 
 
 Timothy Dwight—Bom 1752, Died 1817. 
 
 And low resound, beneath, unnumber'd sunken 
 graves. 
 
 In thee, O Albion ! queen of nations, live 
 Whatever splendours earth's wide realms 
 
 have known ; 
 In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive. 
 And Greece her arts, and Eorae her lordly 
 
 throne ; 
 By every wind thy Tyrian fleets are blown ; 
 Supreme, on Fame's dread roll, thy heroes 
 
 stand. 
 All ocean's realms thy naval sceptre own ; 
 Of barda, of sages, how august thy band I 
 And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd 
 
 land. 
 
 But, how vast thy crimes ! Through Hea- 
 ven's great year. 
 
 When few centurial suns have traced their 
 way; 
 
 When Southern Europe, won by feuds 
 severe, 
 
 Weak, doting, fallen, has bow'd to Eussian 
 sway, 
 
 And setting Glory, beam'd her farewell ray, 
 
 To wastes, perchance, thy brilliant fields 
 shall turn; 
 
 In dust thy temples, towers, and towns 
 decay ; 
 
 The forest howl where London turrets burn. 
 And all thy garlands deck thy sad funereal urn. 
 
 Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of 
 
 fame, 
 Sceptred with arts and arms (if I divine), 
 Some unknown wild^ some shore without a 
 
 name, 
 In all thy pomp shall then majestic shine. 
 As silver-headed Time's slow years decline. 
 Not ruins only meet the inquiring eye ; 
 Where round yon mouldering oak vain 
 
 brambles twine. 
 The filial stem, already towering high, 
 Ere long shall stretch his arms, and nod in 
 
 yonder sky. 
 
 ■"^Vhere late resounded the wild woodland 
 
 roar, 
 N».w heaves the palace, now the temple 
 
 smiles ; 
 Where f rown'd the rude rock and the desert 
 
 shore, 
 
 1847.— WESTEEN EMIGEATION. 
 
 With all that's ours, together let us rise. 
 Seek brighter plains, and more indulgent 
 
 Where fair Ohio rolls his amber tide, 
 And nature blossoms in her virgin pride ; 
 Where all that Beauty's hand can form to 
 
 please 
 Shall crown the toils of war with rural ease. 
 
 The shady coverts and the sunny hills, 
 The gentle lapse of ever-murmuring rills. 
 The soft repose amid the noontide bowers, 
 The evening walk among the blushing flowers. 
 The fragrant groves, that yield a sweet per- 
 fume, 
 And vernal glories in perpetual bloom 
 Await you there ; and heaven shall bless the 
 toil : 
 I Your own the produce, and your own the soil. 
 
 I There, free from envy, cankering care and 
 
 I strife, 
 
 ! Flow the calm pleasures of domestic life ; 
 There mutual friendship soothes each placid 
 
 ! breast : 
 
 ' Blest in themselves, and in each other blest. 
 
 I From house to house the social glee extends, 
 
 I For friends in war in peace are doubly friends. 
 
 j There cities rise, and spiry towns increase, 
 
 I With gilded domes and every art of peace. 
 Their Cultivation shall extend his power, 
 Eear the green blade, and nurse the tender 
 
 flower ; 
 Make the fair villa in full splendour smile, 
 And robe with verdure all the genial soil. 
 There shall rich Commerce court the favouring 
 
 And wondering wilds admire the passing sails, 
 Where the bold ships the stormy Huron brave, 
 Where wild Ontario rolls the whitening wave, 
 Where fair Ohio his pure current pours, 
 And Mississippi laves the extended shores. 
 And thou Supreme ! whose hand sustains this 
 
 ball, 
 Before whose nod the nations rise and fall, 
 Propitious smile, and shed diviner charms 
 On this blest land, the queen of arts and arms ; 
 Make the great empire rise on wisdom's plan, 
 The seat of bliss, and last retreat of man. 
 David Humphreys. — Born 1753, Died 1818. 
 
Joel Barlow.] 
 
 BURNING OF NEW ENGLAND VILLAGES. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 1848.-.BURNING OF NEW ENGLAND 
 VILLAGES. 
 
 From the " Columbiad." 
 
 Throngh solid curls of smoke, the bursting 
 fires 
 
 Climb in tall pyramids above the spires, 
 
 Concentring all the winds ; whose forces, 
 driven 
 
 With equal rage from every point of heaven, 
 
 Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour 
 
 The twisting flames, and through the rafters 
 roar ; 
 
 Suck up the cinders, send them sailing far, 
 
 To warn the nations of the raging war ; 
 
 Bend high the blazing vortex, swelFd and 
 curl'd, 
 
 Careering, brightening o'er the Instred world : 
 
 Seas catch the splendour, kindling skies re- 
 sound. 
 
 And falling structures shake the smouldering 
 ground. 
 
 Crowds of wild fugitives, with frantic tread, 
 
 Flit through the flames that pierce the mid- 
 night shade. 
 
 Back on the burning domes revert their eyes, 
 
 Where some lost friend, some perish' d infant 
 lies. 
 
 Their maim'd, their sick, their age-enfeebled 
 sires 
 
 Have sunk sad victims to the sateless fires ; 
 
 They greet with one last look their tottering 
 walls, 
 
 See the blaze thicken, as the ruin falls, 
 
 Then o'er the country train their dumb despair, . 
 
 And far behind them leave the dancing glare ; 
 
 Their own crush' d roofs still lend a trembling 
 , light, 
 
 Point their long shadows and direct their 
 flight. 
 
 Till, wandering wide, they seek some cottage 
 door, 
 
 Ask the vile pittance due the vagrant poor ; 
 
 Or, faint and faltering on the devious road, 
 
 They sink at last, and yield their mortal load. 
 
 Joel Barlow. — Born 1755, Died 1812, 
 
 1849.— CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS. 
 
 Of crimes, empoison'd source of human 
 
 woes, 
 Whence the black flood of shame and sorrow 
 
 flows, 
 How best to check the venom's deadly force, 
 To stem its torrent, or direct its course, 
 To scan the merits of vindictive codes. 
 Nor pass the faults humanity explodes, 
 I sing — what theme more worthy to engage 
 The poet's song, the wisdom of the sage ? 
 Ah ! were I equal to the great design, 
 Were thy bold genius, blest Beccaria I mine, 
 Then should my work, ennobled as my aim. 
 Like thine, receive the meed of deathless 
 
 fame. 
 
 Jay ! deserving of a purer age, 
 
 Pride of thy country, statesman, patriot, 
 
 sage. 
 Beneath whose guardian care our laws as- 
 sume 
 A milder form, and lose their Gothic gloom, 
 Read with indulgent eyes, nor yet refuse 
 This humble tribute of an artless muse. 
 
 Great is the question which the learn'd 
 
 contest, 
 What grade, what mode of punishment is 
 
 best ; 
 In two famed sects the disputants decide, 
 These ranged on Terror's, those on Reason's 
 
 side ; 
 Ancient as empire Terror's temple stood, 
 Capt with black clouds, and founded deep in 
 
 blood ; 
 Grim despots here their trembling honours 
 
 paid, 
 And guilty offerings to their idol made : 
 The monarch led — a servile crowd ensued, 
 Their robes distain'd in gore, in gore imbrued ; 
 O'er mangled limbs they held infernal feast, 
 Moloch the god, and Draco's self the priest. 
 Mild Reason's fane, in later ages rear'd, 
 With sunbeams crown' d, in Attic grace ap- 
 pear' d ; 
 In just proportion finish'd every part. 
 With the fine touches of enlighten'd art. 
 A thinking few, selected from the crowd. 
 At the fair shrine with fiKal rev'rence bow'd ; 
 The sage of Milan led the virtuous choir. 
 To them sublime he strung the tuneful lyre : 
 Of laws, of crimes, and punishments he sung, 
 And on his glowing lips persuasion hung : 
 From Reason's source each inference just he 
 
 drew, 
 While truths fresh polish'd struck the mind 
 
 as new : 
 Full in the front, in vestal robes array'd. 
 The holy form of Justice stood display' d : 
 Firm was her eye, not vengeful, though severe, 
 And e'er she frown' d she check' d the starting 
 
 tear. 
 A sister form, of more benignant face, 
 Celestial Mercy, held the second place ; 
 Her hands outspread, in suppliant guise she 
 
 stood, 
 And oft with eloquence resistless sued ; 
 But where 'twas impious e'en to deprecate, 
 She sigh'd assent, and wept the wretch's fate. 
 
 In savage times, fair Freedom yet unknown, 
 The despot, clad in vengeance, fiU'd the throne; 
 His gloomy caprice scrawl'd the ambiguous 
 
 code, 
 And dyed each page in characters of blood, 
 The laws transgress'd, the prince in judg- 
 ment eat, 
 And Rage decided on the culprit's fate : 
 Nor stopp'd he here, but, skill' d in murderous 
 
 art, 
 The sceptred brute usurp'd the liangman'a 
 part; 
 
,From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WANTS OP MAN. 
 
 [JoHj?r QuiNCT Adamb. 
 
 Witli his own hands the trembling victim 
 
 hew'd, 
 And basely wallow' din a subject's blood. 
 Pleased with the fatal game, the royal mind 
 On modes of death and cruelty refined : 
 Hence the dank caverns of the cheerless mine, 
 "Where, shut from light, the famish'd wretches 
 
 pine ; 
 The face divine, in seams unsightly sear'd, 
 The eyeballs gouged, the wheel with gore be- 
 smear' d. 
 The Russian knout, the suffocating flame, 
 And forms of torture wanting yet a name. 
 Nor was this rage to savage times confined ; 
 It reach'd to later years and courts refined. . 
 Blush, polish' d France, nor let the muse 
 
 relate 
 The tragic story of your Damien's fate ; 
 The bed of steel, where long the assassin lay, 
 In the dark vault, secluded from the day : 
 The quivering flesh which burning pincers 
 
 tore, 
 The pitch, pour'd flaming in the recent sore ; 
 His carcase, warm with life, convulsed with 
 
 pain. 
 By steeds dismember' d, dragg'd along the 
 
 plain. 
 
 As daring quacks, unskill'd in medic lore, 
 Prescribed the nostrums quacks prescribed 
 
 before ; 
 Careless of age or sex, whate'er befall. 
 The same dull recipe must serve for all : 
 Our senates thus, with reverence be it said, 
 Have been too long by blind tradition led : 
 Our civil code, from feudal dross refined, 
 Proclaims the liberal and enlighten'd mind; 
 But till of late the penal statutes stood 
 In Gothic rudeness, smear'd with civic blood ; 
 What base memorials of a barbarous age 
 What monkish whimsies sullied every page ! 
 The clergy's benefit, a trifling brand, 
 Jest of the law, a holy sleight of hand : 
 Beneath this saintly cloak what crimes ab- 
 
 horr'd. 
 Of sable dye, were shelter'd from the lord ; 
 While the poor starveling, who a cent pur- 
 
 loin'd. 
 No reading saved, no juggling trick essoin'd ; 
 His was the servile lash, a foul disgrace. 
 Through time transmitted to his hapless race ; 
 The fort and dure, the traitor's motley doom. 
 Might blot the story of imperial Rome. 
 What late disgraced our laws yet stand to 
 
 stain 
 The splendid annals of a George's reign. 
 
 Say, legislators, for what end design'd 
 This waste of lives, this havoc of mankind ? 
 Say, by what right (one case exempt alone) 
 Do ye prescribe, that blood can crimes atone ? 
 If, when our fortunes frown, and dangers 
 
 press. 
 To act the Roman's part be to transgress j 
 For man the use of life alone commands ; 
 The fee residing in the grantor's hands. 
 
 j Could man, what time the social pact he seal'd, 
 I Cede to the state a right he never held ? 
 
 For all the powers which in the state reside, 
 j Result from cotopact, actual or implied. 
 j Too well the savage policy we trace * 
 I To times remote, Humanity's disgrace ; 
 j E'en while I ask, the trite response recuas, 
 Example warns, severity deters. 
 No milder means can keep the vile in awe, 
 And state necessity compels the law. 
 But let Experience speak, she claims our 
 
 trust ; 
 The data false, the inference is tmjust. 
 Ills at a distance, men but slightly fear ; 
 Delusive Fancy never thinks them near : 
 With stronger force than fear temptations 
 
 draw, 
 And cunning thinks to parry with the law. 
 " My brother swung, poor novice in his art. 
 He blindly stumbled on a hangman's cart ; 
 But wiser I, assuming every shape. 
 As Proteus erst, am certain to escape." 
 The knave, thus jeering, on his skiU relies, 
 For never villain deem'd himself unwise. 
 
 St. John Honeywood. — Born 1765, Died 1798 
 
 1850.— THE WANTS OF MAN. 
 
 " Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 *Tis not with me exactly so. 
 
 But 'tis so in the song. 
 My wants are many, and if told, 
 
 Would muster many a score ; 
 And were each wish a mint of gold, 
 
 I still should long for more. 
 
 What first I want is daily bread. 
 
 And canvas-backs and wine ; 
 And aU the realms of nature spread 
 
 Before me when I dine ; 
 With four choice cooks from France, beside, 
 
 To dress my dinner well ; 
 Four courses scarcely can provide 
 
 My appetite to quell. 
 
 What next I want, at heavy cost, 
 
 Is elegant attire : 
 Black sable furs for winter's frost. 
 
 And silks for summer's fire ; 
 And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels laco 
 
 My bosom's front to deck, 
 And diamond rings my hands to grace, 
 
 And rubies for my neck. 
 
 And then I want a mansion fair, 
 
 A dwelling-house, in style, 
 Four stories high, for wholesome air — 
 
 A massive marble pile ; 
 With halls for banquetings and balls, 
 
 All furnish'd rich and fine ; 
 With high-blood studs in fifty stalls, 
 
 And cellars for my wine. 
 
John Qtjincy Adams.] THE WANTS OF MAN. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 I want a garden and a park, 
 
 To solace all the woes of life, 
 
 My dwelling to surround — 
 
 And all its joys to share ; 
 
 A thousand acres (bless the mark !) 
 
 Of temper sweet, of yielding will. 
 
 With walls encompass'd round — 
 
 Of firm yet placid mind. 
 
 Whore flocks may range and herds may low , 
 
 With all my faults to love me still. 
 
 And kids and lambkins play, 
 
 With sentiment refined. 
 
 And flowers and fruits commingled grow, 
 
 
 All Eden to display. 
 
 And as time's car incessant runs. 
 
 
 And fortune fills my store, 
 
 I want, when summer's foliage falls, 
 
 I want of daughters and of sons 
 
 And autumn strips the trees. 
 
 From eight to half a score. 
 
 A house within the city's walls. 
 
 I want (alas ! can mortal dare 
 
 For comfort and for ease ; 
 
 Such bliss on earth to crave ?) 
 
 But here as space is somewhat scant, 
 
 That all the girls be chaste and fair— 
 
 And acres somewhat rare, 
 
 The boys all wise and brave. 
 
 My house in town I only want 
 
 
 To occupy — a square. 
 
 And when my bosom's darling sings. 
 
 
 With melody divine. 
 
 I want a steward, butler, cooks ; 
 
 A pedal harp of many strings 
 
 A coachman, footman, grooms ; 
 
 Must with her voice combine. 
 
 A library of well-bound books. 
 
 Piano, exquisitely wrought, 
 
 And picture-garnish' d rooms ; 
 
 Must open stand, apart. 
 
 Corregio's Magdalen, and Night, 
 
 That all my daughters may be taught 
 
 The Matron of the Chair ; 
 
 To win the stranger's heart. 
 
 Guide's fleet coursers, in their flight, 
 
 
 And Claudes at least a pair. 
 
 My wife and daughters will desire 
 
 
 Eefreshment from perfumes. 
 
 I want a cabinet profuse 
 
 Cosmetics for the skin require, 
 
 Of medals, coins, and gems ; 
 
 And artificial blooms. 
 
 A printing-press for private use, 
 
 The civet fragrance shall dispense. 
 
 Of fifty thousand ems ; 
 
 And treasured sweets return ; 
 
 And plants, and minerals, and shells ; 
 
 Cologne revive the flagging sense. 
 
 Worms, insects, fishes, birds ; 
 
 And smoking amber burn. 
 
 And every beast on earth that dwells 
 
 
 In solitude or herds. 
 
 And when at night my weary head 
 
 
 Begins to droop and dose. 
 
 I want a board of burnish' d pla,te, 
 
 A chamber south, to hold my bed. 
 
 Of silver and of gold ; 
 
 For nature's sofe repose ; 
 
 Tureens, of twenty pounds in weight, 
 
 With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet, 
 
 And sculpture's richest mould; 
 
 Mattress, and sack of down. 
 
 Plateaus, -svith chandeliers and lamps, 
 
 And comfortables for my feet, 
 
 Plates, dishes — all the same ; 
 
 And pillows for my crown. 
 
 And porcelain vases, with the stamps 
 
 
 Of Sevres and Angouleme. 
 
 I want a warm and faithful friend. 
 
 
 To cheer the adverse hour, 
 
 And maples of fair glossy stain, 
 
 Who ne'er to flatter wiU descend, 
 
 Must form my chamber doors, 
 
 Nor bend the knee to power ; 
 
 And carpets of the Wilton grain 
 
 A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, 
 
 Must cover all my floors ; 
 
 My inmost soul to see ; 
 
 My walls with tapestry bedeck' d, 
 
 And that my friendship prove as strong 
 
 Must never be outdone ; 
 
 For him, as his for me. 
 
 And damask curtains must protect 
 
 
 Their colours from the sun. 
 
 I want a kind and tender heart, 
 
 
 For others* wants to feel ; 
 
 And Diirrors of the largest pane 
 
 A soul secure from fortune's dart, 
 
 From Venice must be brought ; 
 
 And bosom arm'd with steel ; 
 
 And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane, 
 
 To bear Divine chastisement's rod, 
 
 For chairs and tables bought ; 
 
 And, mingling in my plan. 
 
 On all the mantel-pieces, clocks 
 
 Submission to the will of God, 
 
 Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, 
 
 With charity to man. 
 
 And screens of ebony and box 
 
 
 Invite the stranger's hand. 
 
 I want a keen, observing eye. 
 
 I want (who does not want ?) a wife, 
 Affectionate and fair, 
 
 An ever-listening ear, 
 The truth through all disguise to spy, 
 And wisdom's voice to hear; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] TO WILLIAM GIFFOEB, ESQ. [William Clifton. 
 
 A tongue, to speak at virtue's need, 
 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 
 In heaven's sublime st strain j 
 
 Enjoy'd the peace your valour won ! 
 
 And lips, the cause of man to plead, 
 
 Let independence be our boast, 
 
 And never plead in vain. 
 
 Ever mindful what it cost ; 
 
 
 Ever grateful for the prize. 
 
 I want uninterrupted health, 
 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 
 Throughout my long career, 
 
 Firm — united — let us be, 
 
 And streams of never-failing wealth. 
 
 Rallying round our liberty ; 
 
 To scatter far and near — 
 
 As a band of brothers join'd, 
 
 The destitute to clothe and feed, 
 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Free bounty to bestow, 
 
 
 Supply the helpless orphan's need, 
 
 Immortal patriots ! rise once more ; 
 
 And soothe the widow's woe. 
 
 Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 
 
 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 
 
 1 I want the genius to conceive. 
 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 
 The talents to unfold. 
 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 
 Designs, the vicious to retrieve, 
 
 Of toil and blood the well-earn'd prize. 
 
 The virtuous to uphold ; 
 
 While oflfering peace sincere and just. 
 
 Inventive power, combining skill, 
 
 In Heaven we place a manly trust, 
 
 A persevering soul. 
 
 That truth and justice will prevail. 
 
 Of human hearts to mould the will, 
 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 
 And reach from pole to pole. 
 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 I want the seals of power and place. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! \ 
 
 The ensigns of command. 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Charged by the people's unb ought grace, 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause, 
 
 To rule my native land ; 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause : 
 
 Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask. 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 But from my country's will, 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 By day, by night, to ply the task 
 
 With equal skill and godlike power, 
 
 1 Her cup of bliss to fill. 
 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 
 
 Of horrid war ; or guides with ease, 
 
 I want the voice of honest praise 
 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 
 To follow me behind, 
 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 And to be thought, in future days, 
 
 
 The friend of human kind ; 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands 
 
 That after-ages, as they rise. 
 
 Once more to serve his country stands — 
 
 Exulting may proclaim, 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat, 
 
 In choral union to the skies, 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat : 
 
 Their blesRirigs on my name. 
 
 But, arm'd in virtue firm and true, 
 
 
 His hopes are fix'd on heaven and you. 
 
 These are the wants of mortal man ; 
 
 When Hope was sinking in dismay. 
 
 I cannot need them long, 
 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 
 For life itself is but a span, 
 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 
 And earthly bliss a song. 
 
 Resolved on death or liberty. 
 
 My last great want, absorbing all, 
 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 Is, when beneath the sod, 
 And summoned to my final call — 
 
 Joseph Hojplcinson.—Born 1770, Died 1842. 
 
 The mercy of my God. 
 And oh ! while circles in my veins 
 
 
 1852.— TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. 
 
 Of life the purple stream, 
 
 
 And yet a fragment small remains 
 
 In these cold shades, beneath these shifting [ 
 
 Of nature's transient dream. 
 
 skies, 
 
 My soul, in humble hope unscared, 
 
 Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies ; 
 
 Forget not thou to pray. 
 
 Where few and feeble are the muse's strains. 
 
 That this thy want may be prepared 
 
 And no fine frenzy riots in the veins. 
 
 To meet the Judgment-Day. 
 
 There still are found a few to whom belong 1 
 
 J. q. Adams.— Born 1767, Biedi 1848. 
 
 The fire of virtue and the soul of song ; 
 
 Whose kindling ardour still can wake the 
 
 
 
 strings, 
 
 185 1. —HAIL, COLUMBIA. 
 
 When learning triumphs, and when GifFord 
 
 sings. ' 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
 
 To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays, 
 
 Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band ! 
 
 His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys ; 
 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 
 Pleased, if permitted round thy name to bloom ^ 
 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 
 To boast one effort rescued from the tomb. 
 
 i 
 
William Clifton.] 
 
 TO WILLIAM GIFFOED, ESQ. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 While this delirious age enchanted seems 
 With hectic Fancy's desultory dreams ; 
 While wearing fast away is* every trace 
 Of Grecian vigour and of Eoman grace, 
 With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, 
 As Horace poHsli'd and as Perseus bold, 
 Eeclaim the art, assert the muse divine, 
 And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. 
 Since that great day which saw the Tablet rise, 
 A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes. 
 No time has been that touch' d the muse so 
 
 near, 
 No Age when Learning had so much to fear. 
 As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse 
 
 frame, 
 And every rebus- weaver talks of Fame. 
 
 When Truth in classic majesty appear'd. 
 And Greece, on high, the dome of science 
 
 rear'd, 
 Patience and perseverance, care and pain 
 Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain : 
 None but the great the sun-clad summit 
 
 found ; 
 The weak were baffled, and the strong were 
 
 crown' d. 
 The tardy transcript's high- wrought page con- 
 fined 
 To one pursuit the undivided mind. 
 No venal critic fatten' d on the trade ; 
 Books for delight, and not for sale were made ; 
 Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought. 
 The chief who govern' d, and the sage who 
 
 taught : 
 The drama then with deathless bays was 
 
 wreath' d, 
 The statue quicken' d, and the canvas 
 
 breathed. 
 The poet, then, with unresisted art, 
 SAvay'd every impulse of the captive heart. 
 Touch' d with a beam of Heaven's creative 
 
 mind, 
 His spirit kindled, and his taste refined : 
 Incessant toil inform' d his rising youth ; 
 Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted 
 
 truth. 
 Till, all complete, his perfect soul display' d 
 Some bloom of genius which could never fade. 
 So the sage oak, to Nature's mandate true, 
 Advanced but slow, and strengthen' d as it 
 
 grew ! 
 But when, at length (full many a season o'er), 
 Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore ; 
 When steadfast were its roots, and sound its 
 
 heart, 
 It bade defiance to the insect's art. 
 And, storm and time resisting, still remains 
 The never-dying glory of the plains. 
 
 Then, if some thoughtless Bavius dared 
 appear. 
 Short was his date, and limited his sphere ; 
 He could but please the changeling mob a day. 
 Then, like his noxious labours, pass away : 
 So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower 
 Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour. 
 
 Scatters its little poison through the skies, 
 Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies. 
 
 Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore. 
 To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel bore. 
 The sacred plant to hands divine was given, 
 And deathless Maro nursed the boon of 
 
 Heaven. 
 Exalted bard ! to hear thy gentler voice. 
 The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice ; 
 But when, on some wild mountain's awful 
 
 form, 
 We hear thy spirit chanting to the storm, 
 Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore. 
 We rage, we sigh, we wonder, and adore. 
 Thus Rome with Greece in rival splendour 
 
 shone. 
 But claim' d immortal satire for her own ; 
 While Horace pierced, full oft, the wanton 
 
 breast 
 With sportive censure, and resistless jest j 
 And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay 
 Thy kindred genius can so well display, 
 With many a well-aim' d thought, and pointed 
 
 line. 
 Drove the bold villain from his black design. 
 For, as those mighty masters of the lyre. 
 With temper' d dignity, or quenchless ire, 
 Through all the various paths of science trod, 
 Their school was Nature and their teacher 
 
 God. 
 Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head. 
 The savage tempest of the north was spread ; 
 Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came. 
 And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame. 
 
 But soon the arts once more a dawn diffuse, 
 And Dante hail'd it with his morning muse ; 
 Petrarch and Boccace join'd the choral lay, 
 And Arno glisten'd with returning day. 
 Thus science rose ; and, all her troubles pass'd, 
 She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last ; 
 But Faustus came : (indulge the painful 
 
 thought,) 
 Were not his countless volumes dearly 
 
 bought ? 
 For, while to every clime and class they fiew. 
 Their worth diminish' d as their numbers grew. 
 Some pressman, rich in Homer's glowing page, 
 Could give ten epics to one wondering age ; 
 A single thought supplied the great design, 
 And clouds of Iliads spread from every line. 
 Nor Homer's glowing page, nor Virgil's fire 
 Could one lone breast with equal flame inspire. 
 But, lost in books, irregular and wild, 
 The poet wonder'd, and the critic smiled: 
 The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays ; 
 For fools will print, while greater fools will 
 
 praise. 
 
 Touch' d with the mania, now, what millions 
 rage 
 To shine the laureate blockheads of the age. 
 The dire contagion creeps through every grade ; 
 Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the 
 trade, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] GEEHALE : AN INDIAN LAMENT. [H. E. Schoolckaft. 
 
 And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, 
 For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot. 
 Ere to his breast the wasteful mischief spread, 
 Content and plenty cheer' d his little shed ; 
 And, while no thoughts of state perplex' d his 
 
 mind, 
 His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind, 
 He . augh'd at toil, with health and vigour 
 
 bless' d. 
 For days of labour brought their nights of 
 
 rest : 
 But now in rags, ambitious for a name. 
 The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame. 
 His conscience haunts him with his guilty life. 
 His starving children, and his ruin'd wife. 
 Thus swarming wits, of all materials made, 
 Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid. 
 And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm, 
 Call lust, refinement ; anarchy, reform. 
 
 William CliJton.-^Born 1772, Died. 1799. 
 
 1853.— AMERICA TO GREAT 
 BRITAIN. 
 
 All hail ! thou noble land, 
 Oar father's native soil ! 
 O stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil. 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ; 
 For thou, with magic might, 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The genius of our clime, 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep, 
 Shall hail the great sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall 
 proclaim. 
 
 Then let the world combine — 
 O'er the main our naval line, 
 Like the milky- way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have pass'd. 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast. 
 
 O'er untravell'd seas to roam, — 
 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 
 That blood of honest fame. 
 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 
 By its chains ? 
 
 , While the language free and bold 
 Which the bard of Avon sung, 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung, 
 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
 
 While this, with reverence meet, 
 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, while the arts, 
 
 That mould a nation's soul. 
 Still cling around our hearts, 
 Between let ocean roll, 
 Our joint communion breaking with the sun : 
 Yet, still, from either beach, 
 The voice of blood shall reach. 
 More audible than speech, 
 " We are one I " 
 
 Wasliington Allston.—Bom 1779, Died 1843. 
 
 1854.— GEEHALE : AN INDIAN 
 LAMENT. 
 
 The blackbird is singing on Michigan's 
 
 shore 
 As sweetly and gaily as ever before ; 
 For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can 
 
 hie, 
 And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 
 The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright. 
 And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a 
 
 Ught 
 As it ever reflected or ever express' d. 
 When my skies were the bluest, my dreams 
 
 were the best. 
 The fox and the panther, both beasts of the 
 
 night. 
 Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 
 And they spring with a free and a sorrowlesa 
 
 track, 
 For they know that their mates are expecting 
 
 them back. 
 Each bird and each beast, it is bless'd in 
 
 degree : 
 All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 
 
 I wUl go to my tent and lie down in de- 
 spair ; 
 
 I will paint me with black, and will sever my 
 hair; 
 
 I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane 
 blows, 
 
 And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; 
 
 I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, 
 
 For my kindred are gone to the hUls of the 
 dead; 
 
 But they died not by hunger^ or lingering 
 decay — 
 
 The steel of the white man hath swept them 
 away. 
 
 This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 
 I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten 
 
 shore : 
 Its charms I no lor.ger obey or invoke. 
 Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
 I will raise up my voice to the source of the 
 
 light ; 
 I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at 
 
 night ; 
 I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, 
 And that minister balm to the bosom that 
 
 grieves ; 
 
W. C. Bryant.] 
 
 THE PEAIEIES. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 And will take a new Manito— such as shall 
 
 To be kind and propitious in every dream. 
 
 0. then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 
 And tears snail no longer gush salt from my 
 
 eyes; 
 I shall wash from my face every cloud-colour' d 
 
 stam, 
 Red — red shall, alone, on my visage remain ! 
 I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
 By night and by day I will follow the foe ; 
 Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor 
 
 snows ; 
 His blood can alone give my spirit repose. 
 
 They came to my cabin when heaven was 
 
 black : 
 X heard not their coming, I knew not their 
 
 track. 
 But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, 
 They were people engender' d beyond the big 
 
 seas : 
 My wife and my children, — spare me the 
 
 tale ! 
 For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ? 
 
 Henry Rowe Schoolcraft. — Born 1793. 
 
 1 85 5. —THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 These are the gardens of the desert, these 
 The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful. 
 For which the speech of England has no 
 
 name — 
 The prairies. I behold them for the first, 
 And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
 Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they 
 
 stretch 
 In airy undulations, far away. 
 As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
 Stood stni, with all his rounded billows fix'd. 
 And motionless for ever. — Motionless ? — 
 No — they are all unchain' d again. The clouds 
 Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
 The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
 Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
 The sunny ridges. Breezes of the south ! 
 Who toss the golden and the flame-like 
 
 flowers, 
 And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on 
 
 high, 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — yc 
 
 have play'd 
 Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
 Of Texas, and have crisp' d the limpid brooks 
 That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
 Into the calm Pacific — have ye fann'd 
 A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ? 
 Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 
 The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 
 And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown 
 
 their slopes 
 With herbage, planted them with island 
 
 groves. 
 
 And hedged them round with forests. Fitting 
 
 floor 
 For this magnificent temple of the sky — 
 With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
 Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
 Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, — 
 A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue. 
 Than that which bends above the eastern hills. 
 
 As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed. 
 Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his 
 
 The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
 A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
 Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 
 The dead of other days ? — and did the dust 
 Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
 And burn with passion ? Let the mighty 
 
 mounds 
 That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
 In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks, 
 Answer. A race, that long has pass'd away, 
 Built them ; — a disciplined and populous race 
 Heap'd, with long toil, the earth, while yet 
 
 the Greek 
 Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
 Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
 The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
 Nourish'd their liarvests ; here their herds 
 
 were fed, 
 When haply by their stalls the bison low'd, 
 And bow'd his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
 All day this desert murmur'd with their toils. 
 Till twilight blush' d, and lovers walk'd, and 
 
 woo'd 
 In a forgotten language, and old tunes. 
 From instruments of unremember'd form. 
 Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man 
 
 came — 
 The roaming hunter-tribes, warUke and fierce, 
 And the mound-builders vanish' d from the 
 
 earth. 
 The solitude of centuries untold 
 Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie 
 
 wolf 
 Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug 
 
 den 
 Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the 
 
 ground 
 Where stood their swarming cities. All is 
 
 gone — 
 All — save the piles of earth that hold their 
 
 bones — 
 The platforms where they worshipp'd unknown 
 
 gods — 
 The barriers which they builded from the soil 
 To keep the foe at bay — till o'er the walls 
 The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 
 The strongholds of the plain were forced, and 
 
 heaped 
 Vv''ith corpses. The brown vultures of the 
 
 wood 
 Flock' d to those vast, uncover' d sepulchres, 
 And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 
 Haply some solitary fugitive, 
 Lurkirg in ma-.-sh and forest, till the sens© 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 FOEEST HYMN. 
 
 [W. C. Bryant. 
 
 Of desolation and of fear became 
 Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 
 Man's better nature triumph' d. Kindly words 
 Welcomed and soothed himj the rude con- 
 querors 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
 A bride among their maidens, and at length 
 Seem'd to forget, — yet ne'er forgot, — the wife 
 Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
 Butcher' d, amid their shrieks, with all his 
 race. 
 
 Thus change the forms of being. Thus 
 
 arise 
 Eaces of living things, glorious in strength, 
 And perish, as the quickening breath of God 
 Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, 
 
 too, 
 Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so 
 
 long. 
 And, nearer to the Eocky Mountains, sought 
 A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
 No longer by these streams, but far away, 
 On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
 The white man's face — among Missouri's 
 
 springs, 
 And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, 
 He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
 The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty 
 
 leagues 
 Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, 
 Eoams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
 The earth with thundering steps — yet here I 
 
 meet 
 His ancient footprints stamp' d beside the 
 
 pool. 
 
 Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
 Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
 They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
 And birds, that scarce have learn'd the fear 
 
 of man. 
 Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
 Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
 Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
 A more adventurous colonist than man. 
 With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
 Fills the savannas with his murmurings. 
 And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
 Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
 To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
 The sound of that advancing multitude 
 Vf hich soon shall fill these deserts. From the 
 
 ground 
 Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 
 Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
 Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 
 Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 
 Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 
 A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my 
 
 dream 
 And I am in the wilderness alone. 
 
 W. C. Bryant— Born 1794. 
 
 1856.— FOEEST HYMN. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere 
 
 man learn'd 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, — ure he 
 
 framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 
 Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
 And offer' d to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influences. 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 And from the grey old trunks, that high in 
 
 heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 
 
 sound 
 Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless 
 
 power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, 
 
 at least, 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 
 Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
 Acceptance in His ear. 
 
 Father, Thy hand 
 Hath rear'd these venerable columns. Thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 
 
 I ook down 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in Thy 
 
 sun. 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy 
 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living 
 
 crow, 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 
 
 died 
 Among their branches ; till, at last, they 
 
 stood. 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim 
 
 vaults, 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
 Eeport not. No fantastic carvings show. 
 The boast of our vain race, to change the 
 
 form 
 Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here — Thou 
 
 fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds. 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 In music ; — Thou art in the cooler breath, 
 That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 
 Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the 
 
 ground. 
 The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct wi^h 
 
 Thee. 
 Here is continual worship ; — nature, here. 
 In the tranquillity that Thou dost love. 
 
W. C. Bryant.] 
 
 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around, 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird ^ 
 Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its 
 
 herbs, 
 WeUs softly forth, and visits the strong roots 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 
 Of Thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and 
 
 -grace. 
 Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak. 
 By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem 
 Almost annihilated, — not a prince, 
 In aU that proud old world beyond the deep, 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his 
 
 root 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower. 
 With .delicate breath, and look so like a smile, 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me, when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on 
 In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
 Of Thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd 
 For ever. Written on Thy works. I read 
 The lesson of Thy own eternity. 
 Lo ! aU grow old and die — but see, again, 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth, 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost 
 One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
 After the flight of untold centuries. 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch-enemy, Death — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came 
 
 forth 
 From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid them- 
 selves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till they 
 
 outlived 
 The generation bom with them, nor seem'd 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them; — and there have been holy 
 
 men 
 Who deem'd it were not well to pass Hfo thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Betire, and in Thy presence reassure 
 ■My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
 ^The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink 
 ?And tremble, and are still. O, God ! when 
 
 Thou 
 'Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill. 
 
 With all the waters of the firmament, . 
 
 The swift, dark whirlwind that uproots the 
 
 woods 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, 
 Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power. 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
 O, from these sterner aspects of Thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
 Of the mad, unchain'd elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
 In these calm shades Thy milder majesty 
 And to the beautiful order of Thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 TF. C. Bryant— Born 1794. 
 
 1857.— THE ANTIQUITY OF FEEEDOM. 
 
 Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 
 
 pines. 
 That stream with grey-green mosses ; here the 
 
 ground 
 Was never touch'd by spade, and flowers 
 
 spring up 
 Unsown, and die ungather'd. It is sweet 
 To linger here, among the flitting birds 
 And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and 
 
 winds 
 That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 
 A fragrance from the cedars thickly set 
 With pale blue berries. In these peaceful 
 
 shades — 
 Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
 My thoughts go up the long dim path of years 
 Back to the earliest days of Liberty. 
 
 O Freedom ! thou art not as poets dream, 
 A fair young girl, with light and dehcate 
 
 limbs. 
 And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
 With which the Eoman master crown'dliis 
 
 slave. 
 When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 
 Arm'd to the teeth, art thou : one mailed hand 
 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword 
 
 thy brow. 
 Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd 
 With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
 Are strong and strugghng. Power at thee has 
 
 launch'd 
 His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten 
 
 thee : 
 They could not quench the life thou hast from 
 
 Heaven. 
 Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 
 And his swart armourers, by a thousand fires, 
 Have forged thy chain j yet while he deems 
 
 thee bound, 
 The links are shiver'd, and the prison walls 
 Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 
 As springs the flame above » burning pile, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 [W. C. Bktant. 
 
 And shoutest to the nations, who return 
 Thy shouting's, while the pale oppressor flies. 
 
 Thy birthright was not given by human 
 
 hands : 
 Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant 
 
 fields. 
 While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with 
 
 him, 
 To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 
 To teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
 Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
 Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. 
 His only foes : and thou with him didst draw 
 The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
 Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 
 The enemy, although of reverend look, 
 Hoary with many years, and far obey'd. 
 Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
 The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
 The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 
 
 Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of 
 
 years, 
 But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 
 Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his 
 
 snares, 
 And spring them on thy careless steps, and 
 
 clap 
 His wither' d hands, and from their ambush call 
 His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
 Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant 
 
 mien, 
 To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
 To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by 
 
 stealth, 
 Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread 
 
 on thread. 
 That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 
 With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh ! not 
 
 yet 
 Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by 
 Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy 
 
 lids 
 In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. 
 And thou must watch and combat till the day 
 Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst 
 
 thou rest 
 Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, 
 These old and friendly solitudes invite 
 Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
 Were young upon the unviolated earth, 
 And yet the moss-stains on the rock were 
 
 new. 
 Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 
 
 W. C. Bryant— Born 1794. 
 
 1858.— OH MOTHEE OF A MIGHTY 
 RACE. 
 
 Oh mother of a mighty race. 
 Yet lovely in thy youthful grace I 
 
 The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
 Admire and hate thy blooming years. 
 
 With words of shame 
 And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 
 
 For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
 I That tints the morning hills with red ; 
 j Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
 j Within thy woods, are not more fleet ; 
 I Thy hopeful eye 
 
 j Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 
 
 Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones — 
 j WhUe safe thou dwellest with thy sons, 
 j They do not know how loved thou art — 
 
 How many a fond and fearless heart 
 Would rise to throw 
 
 Its life between thee and the foe ! 
 
 They know not, in their hate and pride, 
 What virtues with thy children bide ; 
 How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
 Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; 
 
 What generous men 
 Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen : 
 
 What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
 By the lone rivers of the West ; 
 How faith is kept, and truth revered. 
 And man is loved, and God is fear'd. 
 
 In woodland homes, 
 And where the solemn ocean foams ! 
 
 There's freedom at thy gates and rest 
 For earth's down-trodden and oppress'd, 
 A shelter for the hunted head. 
 For the starved labourer toil and bread. 
 
 Power, at thy bounds. 
 Stops and calls back his baflSed hounds. 
 
 Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow 
 Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
 Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
 The thronging years in glory rise. 
 
 And, as they fleet. 
 Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 
 
 Thine eye, with every coming hour. 
 Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
 ' And when thy sisters, elder born. 
 Would brand thy name mth words of 
 scorn. 
 
 Before thine eye, 
 Upon their lips the taunt shall die ! 
 
 W. C. Bryomt—Born 1792.. 
 
 1859.— SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good green wood. 
 
 Our tent the cypress tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 
 82* 
 
F. Halleck.] 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 We know its walls of thorny vines, 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear : 
 When, waking to their tents on fire, 
 
 Thoy grasp their arms in vain, 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again ; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil : 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
 
 As if a hunt were up, 
 And woodland flowers are gather! d 
 
 To cro-vvn the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads — 
 The glitter of their rifles. 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'Tis life to guide the fiery Barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain ; 
 'Tis life to feel the night- wind 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camj; — 
 
 A moment — and away 
 Back to the pathless forest, 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs. 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 And IrtT^y ladies greet our band 
 
 Wici) kindliest welcoming. 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more. 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 For ever from our shore, 
 
 W. C. Bryant— Born 1792. 
 
 i860.— BUENS. 
 
 To A Rose, biiought from near Allow at 
 
 KiKK, IN Ayrshire, in the Autumn of 
 
 1822. 
 
 Wild rose of Alio way ! ray thanks, 
 
 Thou mind'st me of that autumn noon, 
 
 When first we met upon " the banks 
 And braes o' bonny Doon." 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief, 
 
 We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou 
 Art wither' d — flower and leaf. 
 
 And will not thy death-doom be mine — 
 The doom of all things wrought of clay — 
 
 And wither'd my life's leaf, like thine, 
 Wild rose of Alloway ? 
 
 Not so his memory, for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long. 
 
 His, who an humbler flower could make 
 Immortal as his song. 
 
 The memory of Burns — a name 
 
 That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, 
 
 A nation's glory, and her shame, 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 A nation's glory — be the rest 
 
 Forgot — she's canonized his mind; 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 I've stood beside the cottage-bed. 
 
 Where the bard-peasant first drew breath : 
 A stra w- thatch' d roof above his head, 
 
 A straw -wrought couch beneath.' 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile. 
 His monument — that tells to heaven 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle, 
 To that bard-j)easant given. 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
 Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming-hour ; 
 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A poet's pride and power. 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
 The power that gave a chUd of song 
 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth. 
 The rich, the brave, the strong ; 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than his, 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres. 
 
 And lays lit up with Poesy's 
 Purer and holier fires : 
 
 Yet read the names that know not death ; 
 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are there j 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 His is that language of the heart, 
 
 In v/hich the answering heart would speak, 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music, to whose tone 
 The common pulse of man keeps time. 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 [F. Halleck. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 
 And listen'd, and believed, and felt 
 The poet's mastery. 
 
 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm. 
 O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, 
 
 O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 
 
 On fields where brave men " die or do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, 
 
 "Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
 From throne to cottage hearth ; 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed. 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue. 
 When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 . Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 
 Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise. 
 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
 With " Logan's" banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
 Imagination's world of air. 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
 And Bums — though brief the race he ran, 
 Though rough and dark the path ho trod,- 
 
 Lived — died — in form and soul a man. 
 The image of his God. 
 
 Though care, and pain, and want, and woe. 
 With wounds that only death could heal, 
 
 Tortures — the poor alone can know. 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth. 
 His independent tongue and pen. 
 
 And moved, in manhood and in youth. 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave ; 
 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
 Of coward, and of slave. 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye. 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower- seeds by the far winds sown. 
 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes. 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day. 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around. 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallow' d home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories. 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined — 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, 
 Crown' d kings, and mitred priests of power, 
 
 And warriors with their bright swords 
 sheathed. 
 The mightiest of the hour ; 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble home 
 Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
 I Are there — o'er wave and mountain come. 
 From countries near and far ; 
 
 Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand. 
 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 
 My own green forest-land ; 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth, 
 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His fields and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Boon's low trees. 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
 
 And. round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
 The poet's tomb is there. 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art, 
 
 His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ? 
 
 Wear they not graven on the heart 
 The name of Robert Burns ? 
 
 Fitz-Greene Balled.— Born 1795. 
 
 1 86 1 .—ALNWICK CA>;'! -E. 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race. 
 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial-place. 
 
 Their cradle and their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's Lion stands in state, 
 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners " flout the sky" 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines. 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 Through this romantic scene 
 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
F. Halleck.] 
 
 MAECO BOZZAEIS. 
 
 [Seventh Period.- 
 
 While summer's winds Ulew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katharine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile : 
 
 Does not the succouring ivy, keeping 
 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 
 One solitary turret grey 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day. 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe, and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song. 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A Templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mail'd hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the Cross was damp'd with his dying 
 breath. 
 When blood ran free as vestal wine. 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries. 
 
 What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer. 
 Tales of the oridal and the bier. 
 
 The welcome and farewell. 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew -bell.. 
 
 t wander'd through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percies of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret. 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons ; 
 To him who, when a younger son, 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 That last half stanza — it has dash'd 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 
 The light that o'er my eyebeam flash' d. 
 The power that bore my spirit up • 
 
 Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
 
 And Alnwick's but a market town. 
 
 And this, alas ! its market day, 
 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way 
 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land. 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand. 
 From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes. 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
 Of Knights, but not of the Eound Table, 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, not Eob Roy : 
 'Tis what " our President," Monroe, 
 
 Has call'd "the era of good feehng :'* 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow. 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote. 
 And put on pantaloons and coat. 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing ; 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt. 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings : 
 And noble name and cultured land 
 Palace and park, and vassal band, 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Eothschild or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turban' d Turk 
 (Sleep, Eichard of the Lion Heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the Cross and altar stone ; 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on. 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a sabre-blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the arm'd pomp of feudal state ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate " 
 Are some half-dozen serving men. 
 In the drab coat of AVilUam Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal. 
 Who bow'd me through court, bower, and 
 
 haU, 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck. — Born 1795. 
 
 1862.— MAECO BOZZAEIS, 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent. 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. 
 Should tremble at his power ; 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 WOODMAN, SPAEE THAT TEEE. 
 
 [Gr. P. Morris. 
 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet-ring : 
 Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden-bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood. 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
 
 On old Platcea's day ; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquer' d there, 
 "With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke ; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 *' To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the 
 
 Greek !" 
 He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 
 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires : 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 God — and your native land ! " 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 
 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
 They conquer' d — but Bozzaris fell. 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 
 
 And the red field was won : 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! 
 
 Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her firstoorn's breath; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke, 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke : 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm, 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
 
 With banquet-song, and dance, and wine j 
 And thou art terrible — the tear. 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 
 Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
 Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 
 
 Come in her crowning hour — and then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prison'd men : 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land ; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Eest thee — there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb ; 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : 
 For thine her evening prayer is said, 
 At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 
 
 And she. the mother of thy boys. 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
 For tnou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names. 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck. — Bom 1795. 
 
 1863.— WOODMAN, SPAEE THAT TEEE. 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! 
 
 loucn not a single bough ! 
 In youth it shelter' d me. 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe snail harm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree. 
 
 Whose erlorv and renown 
 Are spread o'er land ana sea, 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
 
1 
 K. W. Emerson.] " GOOD-BYE, PEOUD WOELD ! " [Seventh Period.— | 
 
 Woodman, forbear tliy stroke ! i 
 
 1 
 1865.— TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 
 Oh spare that aged oak, 
 
 Fine humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 Where thou art is clime for mo, 
 
 
 Let them sail for Porto Eique, j 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek, — i 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 
 Here too my sisters play'd. 
 
 Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, , 
 
 My mother kiss'd me here ; 
 
 Let me chase thy waving lines, 
 
 My father press'd my hand — 
 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 But let that old oak stand ! 
 
 
 
 Flower-bells, 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling. 
 
 Honey'd cells, — 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 
 These the tents 
 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
 
 Which he frequents. 
 
 And stUl thy branches bend. 
 
 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 
 While I've a hand to save, 
 
 Sailor of the atmosphere, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not, 
 
 Swimmer through the waves of air. 
 
 George P. Morris.— Born about 1800. 
 
 Voyager of light and noon, 
 Epicurean of June, 
 
 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 
 
 Within earshot of thy hum, — 
 
 
 AU without is martyrdom. 
 
 1864.—" GOOD-BYE, PEOUD WOELD I" 
 
 
 
 When the south wind, in May days, 
 
 Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home ; 
 
 With a net of shining haze, 
 
 Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine : 
 
 Silvers the horizon wall, 
 
 Too long through weary crowds I roam : — 
 
 And with softness touching all, 
 
 A river ark on the ocean brine. 
 
 Tints the human countenance 
 
 Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam ; 
 
 With a colour of romance. 
 
 But now, proud world, I'm going home. 
 
 And infusing subtle heats 
 
 
 Turns the sod to violets, — • 
 
 Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; 
 
 Thou in sunny solitudes. 
 
 To Grandeur with his wise grimace ; 
 
 Eover of the underwoods. 
 
 To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
 
 The green silence dost displace 
 
 To supple office, low and high j 
 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 To crowded halls, to court and street, 
 
 
 To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone. 
 
 To those who go, and those who come. 
 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone. 
 
 Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home. 
 
 Telling of countless sunny hours, 
 
 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers, 
 
 I go to seek my own hearth-stone 
 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 
 Bosom'd in yon green hills alone ; 
 
 In Indian wildernesses found. 
 
 A secret lodge in a pleasant land, 
 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
 
 Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, 
 Where arches green, the livelong day, 
 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Echo the blackbird's roundelay ; 
 
 Aught unsavoury or unclean 
 
 And evil men have never trod . 
 
 Hath my insect never seen, 
 
 ^ A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 
 
 But violets, and bilberry bells. 
 
 
 Maple sap, and daffodels. 
 
 0, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
 I mock at the pride of Greece and Eome ; 
 
 Clover, catchfly, adders-tongue, 
 And brier-roses dwelt among. 
 
 And when I am stretch' d beneath the pines 
 
 All beside was unknown waste. 
 
 Where the evening star so holy shines, 
 
 All was picture as he pass'd. f 
 
 I laugh at the lore and pride of man. 
 
 At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
 
 Wiser far tha,n human seer, j 
 
 For what are they all in their high conceit. 
 
 Yellow-breech' d philosopher, j 
 
 When man in the bush with God may meet ? 
 
 Seeing only what is fair, j 
 
 Ral:pU Waldo Emerson.— Born about 1803. 
 
 Sipping only what is sweet j 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
 
 
 Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
 
 
 When the fierce north-western blast 
 
 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE PEOBLEM. 
 
 [E. "W. Emerson 
 
 Thou already slumberest deep, 
 Woe and want thou canst outsfeep ; 
 Want and woe which torture us, 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. — Born 1803. 
 
 1 866.— THE SNOW-STOEM. 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky 
 Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river and the 
 
 heaven, 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopp'd, the courier's 
 
 feet 
 Delay'd, all friends shut out, the housemates 
 
 sit 
 Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come see the north- wind's masonry. 
 Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
 Furnish' d with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 Eound every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
 Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild wor^ 
 So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
 For number or proportion. Mockingly 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
 A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
 Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
 Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops the work. 
 And when his hours are number' d, and the 
 
 world 
 Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
 Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish'd Art 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
 Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
 Baljph Waldo Emerson. — Bom 1803. 
 
 1867.— THE PEOBLEM. 
 
 I like a church, I like a cowl, 
 I love a prophet of the soul. 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 Fall like sweet strains on pensive smiles, 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 Would I that cowled churchman be. 
 
 Why should the vest on him allure. 
 Which I could not on me endure ? 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 
 Never from lips of cunning fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
 Out from the heart of nature roll'd 
 The burdens of the Bible old ; 
 The litanies of nations came, 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
 
 Up from the burning core below, — 
 The canticles of love and woe. 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 
 And groin' d the aisles of Christian Eome, 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity. 
 Himself from God he could not free ; 
 He builded better than he knew. 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew, 
 
 Know'st thou what wove yon wood-bird' j 
 nest 
 Of leaves, and feathers from her breast j 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
 Painting with morn each annual cell ; 
 Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
 To her old leaves new myriads ? 
 Such and so grew these holy piles 
 Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
 Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
 As the best gem upon her zone ; 
 And morning opens with haste her lids 
 To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
 O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky 
 As on its friends with kindred eye ; 
 For, out of Thought's interior sphere. 
 These wonders rose to upper air ; 
 And nature gladly gave them place, 
 Adopted them into her race. 
 And granted them an equal date 
 With Andes and with Ararat. 
 
 These temples grew as grows the grass. 
 Art might obey but not surpass. 
 The passive Master lent his hand 
 To the vast Soul that o'er him plann'd. 
 And the same power that rear'd the shrine. 
 Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
 Ever the fiery Pentecost 
 Girds with one flame the countless host, 
 Trances the heart through chanting quires. 
 And through the priest the mind inspires. 
 
 The word unto the prophet spoken. 
 Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
 The word by seers or sibyls told 
 In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
 Still floats upon the morning wind. 
 Still whispers to the willing mind. 
 One accent of the Holy Ghost 
 The heedless world hath never lost. 
 I know what say the Fathers wise, — 
 The book itself before me lies, — 
 Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
 And he who blent both in his line. 
 The younger Golden Lips or mines 
 Taylor, the Shakspere of divines ; 
 His words are music in my ear, 
 I see his cowled portrait dear. 
 And yet, for all his faith could see, 
 I would not the good bishop be. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. — Bom 1803. 
 
E.^W- Emerson.] 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.- 
 
 1868.— THE POET.. 
 
 For this present, hard 
 
 Is the fortune of the bard) 
 
 Bom out of time ; ,. 
 All his accomplishment, 
 From nature's utmost treasure spent, 
 
 Booteth not him. 
 When the pine tosses its cone.s 
 To the song of its waterfall tones, 
 He speeds to the woodland walks, 
 To birds and trees he talks : 
 Caesar of his leafy Eome, 
 There the poet is at home. 
 He goes to the river side, — 
 
 Not hook nor line hath he : 
 He stands in the meadows wide, — ' 
 
 Nor gun nor scythe to see ; 
 With none has he to do. 
 
 And none to seek him, 
 Nor men below, 
 
 Nor spirits dim. 
 What he knows nobody wants ; 
 What he knows, he hides, not vaunts. 
 Knowledge this man prizes best 
 Seems fantastic to the rest ; 
 Pondering shadows, colours, clouds, 
 Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds, 
 Boughs on which the wild bees settle, 
 Tints that spot the violets' petal. 
 Why nature loves the number five, 
 
 Ajid why the star-form she repeats ; — 
 Lover of all things alive, 
 
 Wonderer at all he meets, 
 Wonderer chiefly at himself, — "' 
 
 Who can tell him what he is ; 
 Or how meet in human elf 
 
 Coming and past eternities ? . . . . 
 And such I knew, a forest seer, 
 A minstrel of the natural year. 
 Foreteller of the vernal ides, 
 Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, 
 A lover true, who knew by heart 
 Each joy the mountain dales impart ; 
 It seem'd that nature could not raise 
 A plant in any secret place, 
 In quaking bog, on snowy hill, 
 Beneath the grass that shades the rill, 
 Under the snow, between the rocks. 
 In damp fields known to bird and fox, 
 But he would come in the very hour 
 It open'd in its virgin bower. 
 As if a sunbeam show'd the place. 
 And tell its long descended race. 
 It seem'd as if the breezes brought him. 
 It seem'd as if the sparrows taught him 
 As if by secret sight he knew 
 Where in far fields the orchis grew. 
 There are many events in the field. 
 
 Which are not shown to common eyes, 
 But all her shows did nature yield 
 
 To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
 He saw the partridge drum in the woods, 
 
 He heard the woodcock's evening hymn, 
 He found the tawny thrush's brood, 
 And the shj hawk did wait for him. 
 
 "VVTiat othprs did at distance hear 
 
 And guess'd within the thicket's gloom, 
 Was shown to this philosopher, 
 ^ And at his bidding seem'd to come. 
 / Ralph Waldo Emerson. — Born 1803. 
 
 1869.— DIEGE. 
 
 Knows he who tills this lonely field 
 
 To reap its scanty corn, 
 What mystic fruit his acres yield 
 
 At midnight and at morn ? 
 
 In the long sunny afternoon 
 
 The plain was full of ghosts, 
 I wander'd up, I wander'd down, 
 
 Beset by pensive hosts. 
 
 The winding Concord gleam' d below, 
 
 Pouring as wide a flood 
 As when my brothers, long ago. 
 
 Came with me to the wood. 
 But they are gone — the holy ones 
 
 Who trod with me this lonely vale, 
 The strong, star-bright companions 
 
 Are silent, low and pale. 
 
 My good, my noble, in their prime. 
 Who made this world the feast it was. 
 
 Who learn'd with me the lore of Tims, 
 Who loved this dwelling-place ; 
 
 They took this valley for their toy, 
 They play'd with it in every mood, 
 
 A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, 
 
 They treated Nature as they would. 
 
 They colour'd the whole horizon round, 
 Stars flamed and faded as they bade. 
 
 All echoes hearken' d for their sound. 
 They made the woodlands glad or mad. 
 
 I touch this flower of silken leaf 
 Which once our childhood knew. 
 
 Its soft leaves wound me with a grief 
 Whose balsam never grew. 
 
 Hearken to yon pine warbler, 
 
 Singing aloft in the tree ; 
 Hearest thou, traveller ! 
 
 What he singeth to me ? 
 
 Not unless God made sharp thine ear 
 
 With sorrow such as mine, 
 Out of that delicate lay couldst thou 
 
 Its heavy tale divine. 
 
 "Go, lonely man," it saith, 
 
 '• They loved thee from their birth, 
 
 Their hands were pure and pure their faith. 
 There are no such hearts on earth. 
 
 *' Ye drew one mother's milk. 
 
 One chamber held ye all, 
 A very tender history 
 
 Did in your childhood fall. 
 
 " Ye cannot unlock your heart, 
 
 The key is gone with them ; 
 The silent organ loudest chants 
 
 The master's requiem." 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. — Born 1803. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 NUEEMBERG. 
 
 [H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 1870.— THE MOUNTAIN AND THE 
 SQUIRREL. 
 
 The Mountain and the Squirrel 
 
 Had a quarrel, 
 
 And the former called the latter, " Little 
 
 Prig:" 
 Bun replied — 
 
 " You are doubtless very big ; 
 But all sorts of things and weather 
 Must be taken in together 
 To make up a year, 
 And a sphere ; 
 And I think it no disgrace 
 To occupy my place. 
 If I'm not so large as you, 
 You are not so small as I, 
 And not half so spry : 
 I'll not deny you make 
 A very pretty squirrel track. 
 Talents differ j all is well and wisely put ; 
 If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
 Neither can you crack a nut." 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson.— Born 1803. 
 
 1 871. —THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS. 
 
 'Tis said that the gods, on Olympus of old, 
 (And who the bright legend profanes with a 
 doubt ?) 
 One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus were 
 told 
 That his last butt of nectar had somehow 
 run out ! 
 
 But determined to send round the goblet once 
 more, 
 They sued to the fairer immortals for aid 
 In composing a draught, which, till drinking 
 were o'er, 
 Should cast every wine ever drunk in the 
 shade. 
 
 Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her com. 
 And the spirit that lives in each amber- 
 hued grain, 
 And which first had its birth from the dews of 
 the morn, 
 "Was taught to steal out in bright dewdrops 
 again. 
 
 Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board 
 Were scatter' d profusely in every one's 
 reach. 
 When call'd on a tribute to cull from the 
 hoard, 
 Express'd the mild juice of the delicate 
 peach. 
 
 The liquids were mingled, while Venus look'd 
 on, 
 With glances so fraught with sweet magical 
 power. 
 
 That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were 
 gone, 
 Has never been miss'd in the draught from 
 that hour. 
 
 Flora then, from her bosom of tragrancy 
 shook, 
 And with roseate fingers press' d down in 
 the bowl. 
 All dripping and fresh as it came from the 
 brook, 
 The herb whose aroma should flavour the 
 whole. 
 
 The draught was delicious, each god did 
 exclaim, 
 Though something yet warting they all did 
 bewail ; 
 But juleps the drink of immortals became, 
 When Jove himself added a handful of 
 hail. 
 
 Charles Fenno Hoffman. — Bom 1S06. 
 
 1872.— NUREMBERG. 
 
 In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across 
 broad meadow-lands 
 
 Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nurem- 
 berg, the ancient, stands. 
 
 Quaint old town of toil and trafiic, quaint old 
 
 town of art and song. 
 Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like tho 
 
 rooks that round them throng ; 
 
 Memories of the Middle Ages, when the 
 
 emperors, rough and bold, 
 Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, 
 
 centuries old ; 
 
 And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, 
 
 in their uncouth rhyme, 
 That their great imperial city stretch'd its 
 
 hand through every clime. 
 
 In the courtyard of the castle, bound with 
 
 many an iron band, 
 Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen 
 
 Cunigunde's hand; 
 
 On the square the oriel window, where in old 
 heroic days 
 
 Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximi- 
 lian's praise. 
 
 Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous 
 
 world of Art, — 
 Fountains wrought with richest sculpture 
 
 standing in the common mart ; 
 
 And above cathedral doorways saints and 
 
 bishops carved in stone. 
 By a former age commission' d as apostles to 
 
 our own. 
 
H. W. Longfellow.] THE AESENAL AT SPEINGFIELD. [Seventh Pebiod.— 
 
 In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps en- 
 shrined his holy dust, 
 
 And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from 
 age to age their trust ; 
 
 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a 
 
 pix of sculpture rare, 
 Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising 
 
 through the painted air. 
 
 Here, when art was still religion, with a simple, 
 reverent heart, 
 
 Lived and labour' d Albrecht Durer, the Evan- 
 gelist of Art J 
 
 Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still 
 
 with busy hand, 
 Like an emigrant he wander' d, seeking for 
 
 the better land. 
 
 Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone 
 
 where he lies ; 
 Dead he is not, — but departed, — for the artist 
 
 never dies. 
 
 Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 
 
 seems more fair, 
 That he once has trod its pavement, that he 
 
 once has breathed its air ! 
 
 Through these streets so broad and stately, 
 these obscure and dismal lanes, 
 
 Walk'd of yore the Mastersingers, chanting 
 rude poetic strains. 
 
 From remote and sunless suburbs, came they 
 
 to the friendly guild. 
 Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in 
 
 spouts the swallows build. 
 
 As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too 
 
 the mystic rhyme, 
 And the 'smith his iron measures hammer 'd to 
 
 the anvil's chime ; 
 
 Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes 
 
 the flowers of poesy bloom 
 In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues 
 
 of the loom. 
 
 Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of 
 
 the gentle craft. 
 Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge 
 
 folios sang and laugh'd. 
 
 But his house is now an ale-house, with a 
 
 nicely sanded floor, 
 With a garland in the window, and his face 
 
 above the door ; 
 
 Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam 
 
 Puschman's song, 
 As the old man grey and dove-like, with his 
 
 great white beard and long. 
 
 And at night the swart mechanic comes to 
 
 drown his cark and care, 
 Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the 
 
 master's antique chair. 
 
 Vanish' d is the ancient splendour, and before 
 
 my dreamy eye 
 Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like 
 
 a faded tapestry. 
 
 Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for 
 
 thee the world's regard; 
 But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans 
 
 Sachs, thy cobbler-bard. 
 
 Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region 
 
 far away, 
 As he paced thy streets and courtyards, sang 
 
 in thought his careless lay : 
 
 Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a 
 
 floweret of the soU, 
 The nobility of labour, — the long pedigree of 
 
 toil. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807, 
 
 1873.— THE AESENAL AT SPEING- 
 FIELD. 
 
 This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
 Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'darms. 
 
 But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing, 
 Startles the villages with strange alarms. 
 
 Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and 
 dreary, 
 When the death-angel touches those swift 
 keys ! 
 What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
 Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 
 
 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus. 
 The cries of agony, the endless groan. 
 
 Which, through the ages that have gone before 
 us, 
 In long reverberations reach our own. 
 
 On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 
 Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- 
 men's song, 
 
 And loud, amid the universal clamour, 
 
 O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 
 
 I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
 Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 
 din. 
 And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
 
 Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's 
 skin ; 
 
 The tumult of each sack'd and burning village ; 
 
 The shout that every prayer for mercy 
 drowns ; 
 The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 
 
 The wail of famine in beleaguer' d towns ; 
 
 The bursting shell, the gateway wrench' d 
 asunder. 
 
 The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 
 And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
 
 The diapason of the cannonade. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE SKELETON m AEMOUE. 
 
 [H. W. Longfellow, 
 
 la it, man, with such discordant noises, 
 With such accursed instruments as these. 
 
 Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 
 voices, 
 And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 
 
 Were half the power that fills the world with 
 terror, 
 Were half the wealth bestow' d on camps 
 and courts, 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
 There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 
 
 The warrior's name would be a name abhorr'd ! 
 
 And every nation, that should lift again 
 Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
 
 Would wear for evermore the curse of 
 Cain ! 
 
 Down the dark future, through long genera- 
 tions. 
 The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 
 
 And Hke a bail, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
 I hear once more the voice of Christ say 
 " Peace !" 
 
 Peace I and no longer from its brazen portals 
 The blast of war's great organ shakes the 
 skies ! 
 But beautiful as songs of the immortals. 
 The holy melodies of love arise. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
 1874.— THE SKELETON IN AEMOUE. 
 
 " Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
 WTio, with thy hollow breast 
 Still in rude armour drest, 
 
 Comest to daunt me ! 
 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
 But with thy fleshless palms 
 Stretcli'd, as if asking alms. 
 
 Why dost thou haunt me ? " 
 
 Then, from those cavernous eyes, 
 Pale flashes seem'd to rise, 
 As when the Northern skies 
 
 Gleam in December ; 
 And like the water's flow 
 Under December's snow. 
 Came a dull voice of woe 
 
 From the heart's chamber. 
 
 " I was a Viking old I 
 My deeds, though manifold, 
 No Skald in song has told, 
 
 No Saga taught theo I 
 Take heed, that in thy verse 
 Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
 Else dread a dead man's curse ! 
 
 For this I sought thee. 
 
 " Far in the Northern Land, 
 By the wild Baltic's strand, 
 I, with my childish hand, 
 Tamed the ger-falcon ; 
 
 And, with my skates fast-bound, 
 Skimm'd the half -frozen Sound, 
 That the poor whimpering hound 
 Trembled to walk on. 
 
 *' Oft to his frozen lair 
 Track' d I the grizzly bear, 
 While from my path the hare 
 
 Fled like a shadow ; 
 Oft through the forest dark 
 Follow' d the were- wolf's bark. 
 Until the soaring lark 
 
 Sang from the meadow. 
 
 " But when I older grew, 
 Joining a corsair's crew, 
 O'er the dark sea I flow 
 
 With the marauders. 
 Wild was the life we led ; 
 Many the souls that sped. 
 Many the hearts that bled, 
 
 By our stern orders. 
 
 " Many a wassail-bout 
 Wore the long winter out ; 
 Often our midnight shout 
 
 Set the cocks crowing, 
 As we the Berserk's tale 
 Measured in cups of ale, 
 Draining the oaken pail, 
 
 Fill'd to o'erflowing. 
 
 *' Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea. 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me. 
 
 Burning out tender ; 
 And as the white stars shine 
 On the dark Norway pine. 
 On that dark heart of mine 
 Fell their soft splendour. 
 
 " I woo'd the blue-eyed maid, 
 Yielding, yet half afraid, 
 And in the forest's shade 
 
 Our vows were plighted. 
 Under its loosen' d vest 
 Flutter'd her little breast, 
 Like birds within their nest 
 
 By the hawk frighted. 
 
 " Bright in her father's hall 
 Shields gleam' d upon the wall, 
 Loud sang the minstrels all, 
 
 Chanting his glory ; 
 When of old Hildebrand 
 I ask'd his daughter's hand. 
 Mute did the minstrel stand 
 
 To hear my story, 
 
 " While the brown ale he quaff'd, 
 Loud then the champion laugh' d, 
 And as the wind-gusts waft 
 
 The sea- foam brightly. 
 So the loud laugh of scorn, 
 Out of those lips unshorn. 
 From the deep drinking-horn 
 
 Blew the foam lightly. 
 
H. W. Longfellow.] 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 " She was a Prince's child, 
 I but a Viking wild, 
 And though she blush'd and smiled, 
 
 I was discarded ! 
 Should not the dove so white 
 Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
 Why did they leave that night 
 
 Her nest unguarded ? 
 
 " Scarce had I put to sea. 
 Bearing the maid with me,— 
 Fairest of all was she — 
 
 Among the Norsemen ! 
 When on the white sea-strand, 
 Waving his armed hand, 
 Saw we old Hildebrand, 
 
 With twenty horsemen. 
 
 *' Then launcli'd they to the blast, 
 Bent like a reed each mast, 
 Yet we were gaining fast. 
 
 When the wind fail'd us ; 
 And with a sudden flaw 
 Came round the gusty Skaw, 
 So that our foe we saw 
 Laugh as he hail'd us. 
 
 " And as to catch the gale 
 Round veer'd the flapping sail, 
 Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 
 
 Death without quarter ! 
 Mid-ships with iron keel 
 Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
 Down her black hulk did reel 
 
 Through the black water. 
 
 " As with his wings aslant, 
 Sails the fierce cormorant, 
 Seeking some rocky haunt, 
 
 With his prey laden, 
 So toward the open main, 
 Beating to sea again, 
 Through the wild hurricane, 
 
 Bore I the maiden. 
 
 " Three weeks we westward bore, 
 And when the storm was o'er. 
 Cloud-like we saw the shore 
 
 Stretching to lee-ward ; 
 There for my lady's-bower 
 Built I the lofty tower, 
 Which, to this very hour, 
 
 Stands looking sea- ward. 
 
 " There lived we many years ; 
 Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
 She had forgot her fears, 
 
 She was a mother ; 
 Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
 Under that tower she lies : 
 Ne'er shall the sun arise 
 On such another ! 
 
 " Still grew my bosom then, 
 Still as a stagnant fen ! 
 Hateful to me were men, 
 The sun-light hateful ! 
 
 In the vast forest here, 
 Clad in my warlike gear, 
 Fell I upon my spear, 
 O, death was grateful ! 
 
 ** Thus, seam'd with many scars, 
 Bursting these prison bars, 
 Up to its native stars 
 
 My soul ascended ! 
 There from the flowing bowl 
 Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
 Skoal ! to the Northland ! skoal ! " 
 
 — Thus the tale ended. 
 
 H. W, Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
 1875.— A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID 
 TO THE PSALMIST. 
 
 Tell me not in mournful numbers, 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Finds us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave- 
 Still like muffled drums are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime ; 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another. 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwreck' d brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 II. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.J 
 
 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 [H. W, Longfellow. 
 
 1876.— END YMION. 
 
 Tlie rising moon has hid the stars, 
 Her level rays, like golden bars, 
 Lie on the landscape green, 
 With shadows brown between. 
 
 And silver- white the river gleams, 
 As if Diana, in her dreams, 
 
 Had dropt her silver bow 
 
 Upon the meadows low. 
 
 On such a tranquil night as this. 
 She woke Endymion with a kiss. 
 When, sleeping in the grove, 
 He dream' d not of her love. 
 
 Like Dian's kiss, unask'd, unsought, 
 Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
 Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
 Its deep, impassion' d gaze. 
 
 It comes — the beautiful, the free, 
 The crown of all humanity — 
 
 In silence and alone 
 
 To seek the elected one. 
 
 It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
 Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
 And kisses the closed eyes 
 Of him, who slumbering lies. 
 
 O, weary hearts ! 0, slumbering eyes ! 
 O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain, 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 No one is so accursed by fate, 
 No one so utterly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Eesponds unto its own. 
 
 Eesponds — as if, with unseen wings, 
 A breath from heaven had touch'd its 
 strings ; 
 And whispers, in its song, 
 "Where hast thou stay'd so long?" 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. -^Born 1807. 
 
 1877.— THE BELEAaUEEED CITY. 
 
 I have read in some old marvellous tale, 
 Some legend strange and vague, 
 
 That a midnight host of spectres pale 
 Beleaguer'd the walls of Prague. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
 With the wan moon overhead, 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream. 
 The army of the dead. 
 
 White as a sea-fog, landward bound. 
 The spectral camp was seen. 
 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
 The river flow'd between. 
 
 No other voice nor sound was there, 
 
 No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
 The mist-like banners clasp' d the air, 
 
 As clouds with clouds embrace. 
 
 But when the old cathedral bell 
 Proclaim' d the morning prayer, 
 
 The white pavilions rose and fell 
 On the alarmed air. 
 
 Down the broad valley fast and far 
 
 The troubled army fled ; 
 Up rose the glorious morning star. 
 
 The ghastly host was dead. 
 
 I have read in the marvellous heart of man, 
 That strange and mystic scroll. 
 
 That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
 Beleaguer the human soul. 
 
 Encamp' d beside Life's rushing stream, 
 
 In Fancy's misty light, 
 Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 
 
 Portentous through the night. 
 
 Upon its midnight battle-ground 
 
 The spectral camp is seen, 
 And with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
 
 Flows the Eiver of Life between. 
 
 No other voice nor sound is there, 
 
 In the army of the grave ; 
 No other challenge breaks the air. 
 
 But the rushing of Life's wave. 
 
 And when the solemn and deep church-bell 
 
 Entreats the soul to pray. 
 The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 
 
 The shadows sweep away, 
 
 Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
 
 The spectral camp is fled ; 
 Faith shineth as a morning star, 
 
 Our ghastly fears are dead. 
 
 E. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
 1878.— IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 The sun is bright, the air is clear. 
 The darting swallows soar and sing, 
 
 And from the stately elms I hear 
 The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 
 
 So blue yon winding river flows, 
 It seems an outlet from the sky. 
 
 Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 
 The freighted clouds at anchor He. 
 
 All things are new — the buds, the leaves. 
 That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 
 
 And even the nest beneath the eaves — 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 All things rejoice in youth and love, 
 The fulness of their first delight, 
 
 And learn from the soft heavens above 
 The melting tenderness of night. 
 
H. W. Longfellow.] MIDNIGHT MASS FOE THE DYING YEAR. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 Maiden ! that read'st this simple rhyme, 
 
 Then comes, with an awful roar, 
 
 Enjoy thy youth— it will not stay ; 
 
 Gathering and sounding on, 
 
 Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
 
 The storm-wind from Labrador, 
 
 For, ! it is not always May ! 
 
 The wind Euroclydon, 
 
 Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth, 
 
 The storm- wind ! 
 
 To some good angel leave the rest, 
 
 Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
 
 For Time will teach thee soon the truth — 
 
 Sweep the red leaves away ! 
 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807* 
 
 soul ! could thus decay, 
 
 
 And be swept away ! 
 For there shall come a mightier blast. 
 
 
 
 There shall be a darker day ; 
 
 1879.— MIDNIGHT MASS FOE THE 
 
 And the stars, from heaven down-cast. 
 
 DYING YEAE. 
 
 Like red leaves be swept away ! 
 
 Yes, the year is growing old, 
 
 Kyrie Eleison ; 
 Christie Eleison ! 
 
 And his eye is pale and blear' d ! 
 
 
 Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
 
 H. W. Longfelloio.—Born 1807. 
 
 Plucks the old man by the beard, 
 
 
 Sorely,— sorely ! 
 The leaves are falling, falling, 
 
 
 
 Solemnly and slow ; 
 
 
 Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling. 
 
 1 880.— M A TDENHOOD. 
 
 It is a sound of woe, 
 A sound of woe ! 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes. 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies, 
 
 Through woods and mountain-passes 
 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 The winds, like anthems, roll ; 
 
 
 They are chanting solemn masses. 
 
 Thou, whose locks outshine the sun. 
 
 Singing ; Pray for this poor soul, 
 Pray,— pray ! 
 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 The hooded clouds, like friars, 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet. 
 
 Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
 
 Where the brook and river meet ! 
 
 And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 But their prayers are all in vain, 
 All in vain ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance. 
 
 
 On the brooklet's swift advance. 
 
 There he stands, in the foul weather, 
 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 The foolish, fond Old Year, 
 
 
 Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather, 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 
 Like weak, despised Lear, 
 
 Beautiful to thee must seem, 
 
 A king, — a king ! 
 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then comes the summer-like day. 
 
 Then, why pause with indecision. 
 
 Bids the old man rejoice ! 
 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 
 His joy ! his last ; 0, the old man grey 
 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 
 Loveth her ever-soft voice, 
 
 
 Gentle and low. 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 
 
 As the dove, with startled eye. 
 
 To the crimson woods he saith, 
 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 
 
 And the voice gentle and low 
 
 
 Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore. 
 
 Pray do not mock me so ! 
 
 That our ears perceive no more. 
 
 Do not laugh at me ! 
 
 Deafen' d by the cataract's roar ? 
 
 And now the sweet day is dead ; 
 
 0, thou child of many prayers ! 
 
 Cold in his arms it lies. 
 
 Life hath quicksands,— Life hath snares ! 
 
 No stain from its breath is spread 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Over the glassy skies, 
 
 
 No mist nor stain ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
 
 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 
 Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 And the forests utter a moan, 
 
 
 Like the voice of one who crieth 
 
 Childhood is the bough where slumber'd 
 
 In the wilderness alone, 
 
 Birds and blossoms many-number'd ; — 
 
 Vex not his ghost ! 
 
 Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE WEECK OF THE HESPEEUS. [H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
 When the young heart overflows, 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
 Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart, 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow — Bom 1807. 
 
 i88i.— THE CHILDEEN'S HOUE. 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight. 
 When the night is beginning to lour, 
 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
 That is known as the Children's Hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me. 
 
 The patter of little feet, 
 The sound of a door that is open'd 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight, 
 Descending the broad hall-stair. 
 
 Grave Alice, and laug^hing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper, and then a silence ; 
 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes. 
 They are plotting and planning together 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 A sudden raid from the hall, 
 
 By three doors left unguarded, 
 They enter my castle wall. 
 
 They climb up into my turret. 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 
 Their arms about me entwine, 
 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Ehine ! 
 
 Do you think, blue-eyed banditti. 
 Because you have scaled the wall. 
 
 Such an old moustache as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ! 
 
 I liave you fast in my fortress, 
 And I will not let you depart, 
 
 But put you down into the dungeon 
 In the round-tower of my heart. 
 
 And there will I keep you for ever, 
 
 Yes, for ever and a day, 
 TUl the walls shall crumble in ruin. 
 
 And moulder in dust away. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807- 
 
 1882.— A SPEING LANDSCAPE. 
 
 The green trees whisper' d low and mild : 
 
 It was a sound of joy ; 
 They were my playmates when a child. 
 And rock'd me in their arms so wild, — 
 Still they looked at me and smiled 
 
 As if I were a boy : 
 
 And ever whisper' d, mild and low, 
 " Come, be a child once more ! " 
 
 And waved their long arms to and fro, 
 
 And beckon' d solemnly and slow : 
 
 Oh ! I could not choose but go 
 Into the woodlands hoar ; 
 
 Into the blithe and breathing air, 
 
 Into the solemn wood — 
 Solemn and silent everywhere — 
 Nature with folded hands seem'd there, 
 Kneeling at her evening prayer — 
 
 Like one in prayer I stood. 
 
 Before me rose an avenue 
 
 Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
 Abroad their fanlight branches grew. 
 And where the sunshine darted through, 
 Spread a vapour soft and blue 
 
 In long and sloping lines. 
 
 And falling on my weary brain, 
 
 Like a fast-falling shower. 
 The dreams of youth came back again- 
 Low lispings of the summer rain, 
 Dropping on the ripon'd grain, 
 
 As once upon the flower. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
 1883.--THE WEECK OF THE HESPEEUS. 
 
 It was the schooner Hesperus, 
 
 That sail'd the wintry sea; 
 And the skipper had taken his little daughter. 
 
 To bear him company. 
 
 Bine were her eyes as the fairy flax. 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; 
 
 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 The skipper he stood beside the helm. 
 
 With his pipe in his mouth. 
 And watch'd how the veering flaw did blow 
 
 The smoke, now west, now south. 
 
 Then up, and spake an old sailor, 
 
 Had sail'd the Spanish Main — 
 " I pray thee, put into yonder port. 
 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 83 
 
N. P. Willis.] 
 
 APETL VIOLETS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 " Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
 
 And to-night no moon we see," 
 The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
 
 And a scornful laugh laugh' d he. 
 
 Colder and louder blew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the north-east ; 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
 
 And the billows froth' d like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain, 
 
 The vessel in its strength ; 
 She shudder'd, and paused, like a frighted 
 
 Then leap'd her cable's length. 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, my little daughter, 
 
 And do not tremble so ; 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
 He Avrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat, 
 
 Against the stinging blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 " father, I hear the church-bells ring ! 
 
 O say, what may it be ? " 
 ♦' 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast," 
 
 And he steer' d for the open sea. 
 
 *' father, I hear the sound of guns ! 
 
 O say what may it be ?" 
 " Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea ! " 
 
 " father, I see a gleaming light ! 
 
 O say , what may it be ? " 
 But the father answer' d never a word — 
 
 A frozen corpse was he ! 
 
 Lash'd to the helm aU stiff and stark. 
 
 With his face to the skies. 
 The lantern gleam' d thro' the gleaming snow 
 
 On his fix'd and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasp' d her hands and pray'd, 
 
 That saved she might be ; 
 And she thought of Christ, who still' d the 
 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
 
 Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 
 Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 
 
 And ever, the fitful gusts between, 
 
 A sound came from the land ; 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 
 On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand. 
 
 The breakers were right beneath her bows. 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck. 
 And a whooping billow swept the crew. 
 
 Like icicles, from her deck. 
 
 She struck, where the white and £eecy waves 
 
 Look'd soft as carded wool ; 
 Eut the cruel rocks they gored her side . 
 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, 
 With the masts, went by the board ; 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, — 
 Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar'd. 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast. 
 To see the form of a maiden fair 
 
 Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 
 
 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
 
 In the midnight, and the snow ; 
 Christ save us all from a death like this, 
 
 On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow.— Born 1807. 
 
 1884.— APEIL VIOLETS. 
 
 I have found violets. ' April hath come on, 
 And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain 
 Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. 
 You may hear birds at morning, and at eve 
 The tame dove lingers tiU the twilight falls. 
 Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in 
 His beautiful, bright neck ; and, from the 
 
 hills, 
 A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea, 
 Tells the release of waters, and the earth 
 Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves 
 Are lifted by the grass ; and so I know 
 That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard 
 The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. 
 Take of my violets ! I found them where 
 The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank 
 That lean'd to running water. There's to me 
 A daintiness about these early flowers. 
 That touches me like poetry. They blow 
 With such a simple loveliness among 
 The common herbs of pasture, and breathe 
 
 out 
 Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 
 Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. 
 I love to go in the capricious days 
 Of April and hunt violets, when the rain 
 Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod 
 So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. 
 It may be deem'd too idle, but the young 
 Eead nature like the manuscript of Heaven, 
 And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! 
 Ye spirits of habitual unrest, 
 And read it, when the " fever of the world '' 
 Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life 
 Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be 
 Like a beguiling music to its flow, 
 And you will no more wonder that I love 
 To hunt for violets in the April-time. 
 
 H. P. Willis.— Bor^i 1807. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] THE BALLAD OF CASSANDEA SOUTHWICK [J. G. Whittiee. 
 
 1885.— THE BALLAD OF CASSANDEA 
 SOUTHWICK. 
 
 To the God of all sure mercies let in}' blessing 
 
 rise to-day, 
 From the scoffer and the cruel He hath pluck'd 
 
 the spoil away, — 
 Yea, He who cool'd the furnace around the 
 
 faithful three. 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His 
 
 handmaid free ! 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my 
 
 prison bars, 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the 
 
 pale gleam of stars ; 
 In the coldness and the darkness all through 
 
 the long night-time. 
 My grated casement whiten'd with Autumn's 
 
 early rime. 
 
 Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour 
 
 crept by ; 
 Star after star look'd palely in and sank 
 
 adown the sky ; 
 No sound amid night's stillness, save that 
 
 which seem'd to be 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of 
 
 the sea; 
 
 All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on 
 
 the morrow 
 The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me 
 
 in my sorrow, 
 Dragg'd to their place of market, and 
 
 bargain' d for and sold, 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer 
 
 from the fold ! 
 
 Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there — the 
 
 shrinking and the shame ; 
 And the low voice of the Tempter like 
 
 whispers to me came : 
 " Why sit'st thou thus forlornly ? " the 
 
 wicked murmur said, 
 " Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth 
 
 thy maiden bed ? 
 
 " Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft 
 
 and sweet. 
 Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the 
 
 pleasant street ? 
 Where be the youths, whose glances the 
 
 summer Sabbath through 
 Turn'd tenderly and timidly unto thy father's 
 
 pew ? 
 
 "Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra? — Bethink 
 thee with what mirth 
 
 Thy happy schoolmates gather around the 
 warm bright hearth ; 
 
 How the crimson shadows tremble, on fore- 
 heads white and fair, 
 
 On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden 
 hair. 
 
 " Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not 
 
 for thee kind words are spoken. 
 Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by 
 
 laughing boys are broken ; 
 No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap 
 
 are laid. 
 For thee no flowers of Autumn the 'youthful 
 
 hunters braid. 
 
 " Oh ! weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy 
 
 fancies led, 
 W^ith wild and raving railers an evil path to 
 
 tread ; 
 To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching 
 
 pure and sound ; 
 And mate with maniac women, loose-hair'd 
 
 and sackcloth-bound. 
 
 " Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock 
 
 at things divine. 
 Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread 
 
 and wine ; 
 Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from 
 
 the pillory lame, 
 Eejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying* 
 
 in their shame. 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ! — a sadly toil- 
 ing slave. 
 
 Dragging the slowly length'ning chain of 
 bondage to the grave ! 
 
 Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in 
 hopeless thrall. 
 
 The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of 
 all ! " 
 
 Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feebl^ 
 
 Nature's fears 
 Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of 
 
 unavailing tears, 
 I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove 
 
 in silent prayer 
 To feel, oh. Helper of the weak ! — that Thou, 
 
 indeed, wert there ! 
 
 I thought of Patd and Silas, within Philippi's 
 
 cell. 
 And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the j 
 
 prison shackles fell. 
 Till I seem'd to hear the trailing of an angers 
 
 robe of white. 
 And to feel a blessed presence invisible to 
 
 sight. 
 
 Bless the Lord for all His mercies ! — for the 
 peace and love I felt. 
 
 Like dew of Hermon'g holy hill, upon my 
 spirit melt : 
 
 When, " Get behind me, Satan ! " was the lan- 
 guage of my heart. 
 
 And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his 
 doubts depart. 
 
 Slow broke the grey cold morning ; again the 
 
 sunshine fell. 
 Fleck' d with the shade of bar and grate within 
 my lonely cell ; 
 
 83* 
 
J. G. Whittier.j the BALLAD OF CASSANDEA SOUTHWICK. [Seventh Period.— 
 
 The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward 
 
 from the street 
 Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread 
 
 of passing feet. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door 
 
 was open cast, 
 And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long 
 
 street I pass'd ; 
 I heard the murmur round me, and felfc, but 
 
 dared not see, 
 How from every door and window the people 
 
 gazed on me. 
 
 And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burn'd 
 
 upon my cheek, 
 Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling 
 
 limbs grew weak : 
 " Lord ! support Thy handmaid ; and from 
 
 her soul cast out 
 The fear of man, which brings a snare — the 
 
 weakness and the doubt." 
 
 Then the dreary shadows scatter' d like a cloud 
 in morning's breeze. 
 
 And a low deep voice within me seem-d whis- 
 pering words like these : 
 
 " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy 
 heaven a brazen wall. 
 
 Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is 
 over all." 
 
 We paused at length, where at my feet the 
 sunlit waters broke 
 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly 
 wall of rock ; 
 
 The merchant ships lay idly there, in hard 
 clear lines on high, 
 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their net- 
 work on the sky. 
 
 And there were ancient citizens, cloak- wrapp'd 
 
 and grave and cold, 
 And grim . and stout sea-captains with faces 
 
 bronzed and old, 
 And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk 
 
 at hand, 
 Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of 
 
 the land. 
 
 And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's 
 
 ready ear, 
 The priest lean'd o'er his saddle, with laugh 
 
 and scoff and jeer ; 
 It stirr'd my soul, and from my lips the seal 
 
 of silence broke. 
 As if through woman's weakness a warning 
 
 spirit spoke. 
 
 I cried, *' The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of 
 
 the meek, 
 Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of 
 
 the weak ! 
 Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones — go turn 
 
 the prison lock 
 Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou 
 
 wolf amid the flock !" 
 
 Dark lower'd the brows of Endicott, and with 
 
 a deeper red 
 O'er Rawson's wine empurpled cheek the flush 
 
 of anger spread ; 
 " Good people," quoth the white-lipp'd priest, 
 
 " heed not her words so wild, 
 Her master speaks within her — the Devil owns 
 
 his child !" 
 
 But grey heads shook, and young brows knit, 
 the while the sheriff read 
 
 That law the wicked rulers against the poor 
 have made. 
 
 Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priest- 
 hood bring 
 
 No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offer- 
 ing. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff 
 
 turning said : 
 " Which of ye worthy seamen will take this 
 
 Quaker maid ? 
 In the Isle of Barbadoes, or on Virginia's 
 
 shore. 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian 
 
 girl or Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when 
 
 again he cried, 
 " Speak out, my worthy seamen !" — no voice 
 
 or sign replied ; 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind 
 
 words met my ear : 
 " God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle 
 
 girl and dear !" 
 
 A weight seem'd lifted from my heart, — a 
 pitying friend was nigh, 
 
 I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it 
 in his eye ; 
 
 And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, 
 so kind to me, 
 
 Growl' d back its stormy answer like the roar- 
 ing of the sea : 
 
 " Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with 
 
 coins of Spanish gold. 
 From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomago 
 
 of her hold, 
 By the living God who made me ! — I would 
 
 sooner in your bay 
 Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this 
 
 child away !" 
 
 "Well answer'd, worthy captain, shame on 
 
 their cruel laws ! " 
 Ean through the crowd in murmurs loud the 
 
 people's just applause. 
 " Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of 
 
 old. 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for 
 
 silver sold ?" 
 
 I look'd on haughty Endicott ; with weapon 
 
 half-way drawn. 
 Swept round the throng his lion glare of 
 
 bitter hate and scorn ; 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 PENTUCKET. 
 
 [J. G. Whittier. 
 
 Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, andturn'din 
 
 silence back, 
 And sneering priest, and baffled clerk rode 
 
 murmuring in his track. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff look' d in bitterness 
 
 of soul ; 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and 
 
 crush'd his parchment roll. 
 " Good friends," he said, " since both have 
 
 fled, the ruler and the priest. 
 Judge ye, if from their further work I be not 
 
 well released." 
 
 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, 
 
 swept round the silent bay, 
 As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade 
 
 me go my way ; 
 For He who turns the courses of the streamlet 
 
 of the glen. 
 And the river of great waters, had turn'd the 
 
 hearts of men. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seem'd changed 
 
 beneath my eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls 
 
 of the sky, 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream 
 
 and woodland lay, 
 And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters 
 
 of the bay. 
 
 Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to Him all 
 
 praises be. 
 Who from the hands of evil men hath set His 
 
 handmaid free ; 
 All praise to Him before who&e power the 
 
 mighty are afraid, 
 Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for 
 
 the poor is laid ! 
 
 Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly ; on evening's 
 
 twilight calm 
 TJpKft the loud thanksgiving — pour forth the 
 
 grateful psalm ; 
 Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the 
 
 saints of old, 
 When of the Lord's good angel the rescued 
 
 Peter told. 
 
 And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty 
 
 men of wrong. 
 The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His 
 
 hand upon the strong. 
 Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging 
 
 hour ! 
 Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven 
 
 and devour : 
 
 But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in 
 
 heart be glad, 
 And let the mourning ones again with robes 
 
 of praise be clad, 
 For He who cool'd the furnace, and smooth'd 
 
 the stormy wave, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty sti 
 
 to save ! 
 
 John G. Whittier.— Born 1808. 
 
 1 886.— PEJ^ TUCKET. 
 
 How sweetly on the wood-girt town 
 The mellow light of sunset shone ! 
 Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
 Mirror the forest and the hill, 
 Reflected from its waveless breast — - 
 The beauty of a cloudless west, 
 Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
 Within the western gates of Heaven, 
 Left, by the spirit of the star 
 Of sunset's holy hour, ajar ! 
 
 Beside the river's tranquil flood 
 The dark and low-wall'd dwellings stood, 
 Where many a rood of open land 
 Stretch' d up and down on either hand. 
 With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
 The thick and blacken'd stumps between ; 
 Behind, unbroken, deep and dread. 
 The wild, untravell'd forest spread, 
 Back to those mountains, white and cold, 
 Of which the Indian trapper told, 
 Upon whose summits never yet 
 Was mortal foot in safety set. 
 
 Quiet and calm, without a fear 
 
 Of danger darkly lurking near, 
 
 The weary labourer left his plough — 
 
 The milkmaid caroll'd by her cow — 
 
 From cottage door and household hearth 
 
 Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. 
 
 At length the murmur died away, 
 
 And silence on that village lay. — 
 
 So slept Pompeii, tower and hall. 
 
 Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all, 
 
 Undreaming of the fiery fate 
 
 Which made its dwellings desolate ! 
 
 Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped 
 The Merrimack along his bed. 
 Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
 Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood. 
 Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
 As the hush'd grouping of a dream. 
 Yet on the still air crept a sound — 
 No bark of fox — no rabbit's bound — 
 No stir of wings — nor waters flowing — 
 Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. 
 
 Was that the tread of many feet. 
 Which downward from the hill-side beat ? 
 What forms were those which darkly stood 
 Just on the margin of the wood ? — 
 Charr'd tree- stumps in the moonlight dim, 
 Or paling rude, or leafless limb ? 
 No — through the trees fierce eyeballs glow'd. 
 Dark human forms in moonshine show'd, 
 Wild from their native wilderness. 
 With painted iimbs and battle-dress ! 
 
 A yell, the dead might wake to hear. 
 
 Swell' d on the night air, far and clear — 
 
 Then smote the Indian tomahawk 
 
 On crashing door and shattering lock — 
 
 Then rang the rifle-shot — and then 
 
 The shrill death-scream of stricken men — 
 
J. G. Whittiek.] 
 
 EANDOLPH OF EOANOKE. 
 
 [Seventh Pesiod.— 
 
 Sunk the red axe in woman's brain, 
 And childhood's cry arose in vain — 
 Bursting through roof and ■window came, 
 Ered, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame ; 
 And blended fire and moonlight glared 
 Over dead corse and weapons bared. 
 
 The morning sun look'd brightly through 
 The river-willows, wet with dew. 
 No sound of combat fill'd the air, 
 No shout was heard, — nor gun-shot there : 
 Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
 From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; 
 And on the greensward many a stain, 
 And, here and there, the mangled slain, 
 Told how that midnight bolt had sped, 
 Pentucket, on thy fated head ! 
 
 E'en now, the villager can tell 
 Where Eolfe beside his hearth-stone fell, 
 Still show the door of wasting oak 
 Through which the fatal death-shot broke, 
 And point the curious stranger where 
 De Eouville's corse lay grim and bare — 
 Whose hideous head, in death still fear'd, 
 Bore not a trace of hair or beard — 
 And still, within the churchyard ground, 
 Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
 Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
 The victims of that sacrifice. 
 
 John G. JV7dUier.—Bom 1808. 
 
 1887.— EANDOLPH OF EOANOKE. 
 
 Oh, Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 
 
 Thy weary ones receiving. 
 And o'er them, silent as a dream, 
 
 Thy grassy mantle weaving — 
 Fold softly in thy long embrace 
 
 That heart so worn and broken. 
 And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
 
 Thy shadows old and oaken. 
 
 Shut out from him the bitter word 
 
 And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
 Nor let the storms of yesterday 
 
 Disturb his quiet morning. 
 Breathe over him forgetfulness 
 
 Of all save deeds of kindness, 
 And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, 
 
 Press down his lids in blindness. 
 
 There, where with living ear and eye 
 
 He heard Potomac's flowing, 
 And, through his tall ancestral trees 
 
 Saw Autumn's sunset glowing. 
 He sleeps — still looking to the west. 
 
 Beneath the dark wood shadow, 
 As if he still would see the sun 
 
 Sink down on wave and meadow. 
 
 Bard, sage, and tribune ! — in himself 
 All moods of mind contrasting — 
 
 The tenderest wail of human woe, 
 The scorn like lightning blasting ; 
 
 The pathos which from rival eyes 
 
 Unwilling tears could summon, 
 The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
 
 Of hatred scarcely human ! 
 
 Mirth, sparkling like a diamond- shower. 
 
 From lips of life-long sadness ; 
 Clear picturings of majestic thought 
 
 Upon a ground of madness ; 
 And over all, romance and song 
 
 A classic beauty throwing, 
 And laurell'd Clio at his side 
 
 Her storied pages showing. 
 
 All parties fear'd him : each in turn 
 
 Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
 As right or left his fatal glance 
 
 And spectral finger pointed. 
 Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 
 
 With trenchant wit, unsparing, 
 And, mocking, rent with ruthless Land 
 
 The robe Pretence was wearing. 
 
 Too honest or too proud to feign 
 
 A love he never cherish'd, 
 Beyond Virginia's border line 
 
 His patriotism perish' d. 
 While others hail'd in distant skies. 
 
 Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
 He only saw the mountain bird 
 
 Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 
 
 Still through each change of fortune strange, 
 
 Eack'd nerve, and brain all burning, 
 His loving faith in mother-land 
 
 Knew never shade of turning : 
 By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave. 
 
 Whatever sky was o'er him, 
 He heard her rivers' rushing sound, 
 
 Her blue peaks rose before him. 
 
 He held his slaves, yet made withal 
 
 No false and vain pretences ; 
 Nor paid a lying priest to seek 
 
 For scriptural defences. 
 His harshest words of proud rebuke. 
 
 His bitterest taunt and scorning. 
 Fell firelike on the Northern brow 
 
 That bent to him in fawning. 
 
 He held his slaves : yet kept the while 
 
 His reverence for the human ; 
 In the dark vassals of his will 
 
 He saw but man and woman ! 
 No hunter of God's outraged poor 
 
 His Eoanoke valley enter'd ; 
 No trader in the souls of men 
 
 Across his threshold ventured. 
 
 And when the old and wearied man 
 
 Laid down for his last eleeping, 
 And at his side, a slave no more, 
 
 His brother man stood weeping. 
 His latest thought, his latest breath. 
 
 To freedom's duty giving. 
 With failing tongue and trembling hand 
 
 The dying bless' d the living. 
 
;From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 DEMOCEACY. 
 
 [J. G. Whittiep. 
 
 Oh. ! never bore his ancient state 
 
 - A truer son or braver ; 
 
 None trampling with a calmer scorn 
 
 On foreign hate or favour. 
 He knew her faults, yet never stoop' d 
 
 His proud and manly feeling 
 To poor excuses of the wrong, 
 
 Or meanness of concealing. 
 
 But none beheld with clearer eye 
 
 The plague-spot o'er her spreading, 
 None heard more sure the steps of Doom 
 
 Along her future treading. 
 For her as for himself he spake, 
 
 When, his gaunt frame upbracing, 
 He traced with dying hand, " Eemorse ! " 
 
 And perish' d in the tracing. 
 
 As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 
 
 From Vernon's weeping willow. 
 And from the grassy pall which hides 
 
 The sage of JMonticello, 
 So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 
 
 Of Eandolph's lowly dwelUng, 
 Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves 
 
 A warning voice is swelling. 
 
 And hark ! from thy deserted fields 
 
 Are sadder warnings spoken, 
 From quenched hearths, where thine exiled sons 
 
 Their household gods have broken. 
 The curse is on thee — wolves for men. 
 
 And briers for corn-sheaves giving ! 
 Oh ! more than all thy dead renown 
 
 Were now one hero living ! 
 
 John G. Whittier.^Born 1808. 
 
 i888.— DEMOCEACT. 
 
 Oh, fairest-born of love and light. 
 Yet bending brow and eye severe 
 
 On aU which pains the holy sight, 
 Or wounds the pure and perfect ear ! 
 
 Beautiful yet thy temples rise, 
 
 Though there profaning gifts are thrown ; 
 And fires, unkindled of the skies, 
 
 Are glaring round thy altar-stone. 
 
 Still sacred — though thy name be breathed 
 By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 
 
 And garlands, pluck'd from thee, are wreathed 
 Around the haughty brows of pride. 
 
 O, ideal of my boyhood's time ! 
 
 The faith in which my father stood, 
 Even when the suns of lust and crime 
 
 Had stain' d thy peaceful courts with blood ! 
 
 Still to those courts my footsteps turn. 
 
 For, through the mists that darken there, 
 
 I see the flame of freedom burn — 
 The Kebla of the patriot's prayer ! 
 
 The generous feeling, pure and warm, 
 Which owns the right of all divine — 
 
 The pitying heart— the helping arm — 
 The prompt self-sacrifice — are thine. 
 
 Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, 
 
 How fade the lines of caste and birth ! 
 
 How equal in their suffering lie 
 The groaning multitudes of earth ! 
 
 Still to a stricken brother true. 
 
 Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 
 
 As stoop'd to heal the wounded Jew 
 The worshipper of Gerizim. 
 
 By misery unrepell'd, unawed 
 
 By pomp or power, thou see'st a man 
 
 In prince or peasant — slave or lord — 
 Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 
 
 Through all disguise, form, place or name, 
 Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, 
 
 Through poverty and squalid shame, 
 Thou lookest on the man within. 
 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 Howe'er debased, and soil'd, and dim, 
 
 The crown upon his forehead set — 
 The immortal gift of God to him. 
 
 And there is reverence in thy look ; 
 
 For that frail form which mortals wear 
 The Spirit of the Holiest took. 
 
 And veil'd His perfect brightness there. 
 
 Not from the cold and shallow fount 
 
 Of vain philosophy thou art. 
 He who of old on Syria's mount 
 
 Thrill'd, warm'd by turns the listener's 
 heart. 
 
 In holy words which cannot die, 
 
 In thoughts which angels yearn'd to know, 
 Proclaim'd thy message from on high — 
 
 Thy mission to a world of woe. 
 
 That voice's echo hath not died ! 
 
 From the blue lake of Galilee, 
 And Tabor's lonely mountain- side. 
 
 It calls a struggling world to thee. 
 
 Thy name and watchword o'er this land 
 I hear in every breeze that stirs. 
 
 And round a thousand altars stand 
 Thy banded party worshippers. 
 
 Not to these altars of a day, 
 
 At party's call, my gift I bring ; 
 But on thy olden shrine I lay 
 
 A freeman's dearest offering : 
 
 The voiceless utterance of his will — 
 His pledge to freedom and to truth, 
 
 That manhood's heart remembers still 
 The homage of its generous youth. 
 
 John Q. Whittier.^Born 1808. 
 
O. W. Holmes.] 
 
 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 
 
 Seventh Period. — 
 
 1889.— ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 
 
 This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of 
 
 good old times — 
 Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry 
 
 Christmas chimes ; 
 They were a free and jovial race, but honest, 
 
 brave, and true, 
 That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this 
 
 old bowl was new. 
 
 A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so runs 
 
 the ancient tale ; 
 'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose 
 
 arm was like a flail ; 
 And now and then between the strokes, for 
 
 fear his strength should fail, 
 He wiped his brow, and quaff' d a cup of good 
 
 old Flemish ale. 
 
 'Twas purchased by an English squire to 
 
 please his loving dame, 
 "Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing 
 
 for the same ; 
 And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig 
 
 was found, 
 'Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and 
 
 handed smoking round. 
 
 But, changing hands, it reach'd at length a 
 Puritan divine. 
 
 Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little 
 wine, 
 
 But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, 
 perhaps. 
 
 He went to Ley den, where he found conven- 
 ticles and schnaps. 
 
 And then, of course, you know wha.t's next : it 
 
 left the Dutchman's shore 
 With those that in the May-Flower came — a 
 
 hundred souls and more — 
 Along with all the furniture, to fill their new 
 
 abodes — 
 To judge by what is still on hand, at least a 
 
 hundred loads. 
 
 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night 
 
 was closing dim. 
 When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and 
 
 fiU'd it to the brim ; 
 The little captain stood and stirr'd the posset 
 
 with his sword, 
 And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged 
 
 about the board. 
 
 He pour'd the fiery Hollands in — the man that 
 
 never fear'd — 
 He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped 
 
 his yellow beard : 
 And one by one the musketeers — the men that 
 
 fought and pray'd — 
 All drank as 'twere their mothers' milk, and 
 
 not a man afraid. 
 
 That night, affrighted from his nest, the 
 
 screaming eagle flew : 
 He heard the Pequot's ringing whopp, the 
 
 soldier's wild halloo : 
 
 And there the sachem learn'd the rule he 
 
 taught to kith and kin : 
 " Run from the white man when you find ho 
 
 smells of Hollands gin !" 
 
 A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread 
 
 their leaves and snows, 
 A thousand rubs had flatten' d down each little 
 
 cherub's nose ; 
 When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not 
 
 in mirth or joy — 
 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer 
 
 her parting boy. 
 
 " Drink, John," she said, "'twill do you good ; 
 
 poor child, you'll never bear 
 This working in the dismal trench, out in the 
 
 midnight air ; 
 And if — God bless me — you were hurt, 
 
 'twould keep away the chill." 
 So John did drink — and well he wrought that 
 
 night at Bunker's hill ! 
 
 I tell you, there was generous warmth in good 
 
 old English cheer ; 
 I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to drink 
 
 its symbol here. 
 'Tis but the fool that loves excess : hast thou 
 
 a drunken soul ? 
 Thy bane is in thy shallow skull— not in my 
 
 silver bowl ! 
 
 I love the memory of the past — its press'd yet 
 
 fragrant flowers — 
 The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy 
 
 on its towers — 
 Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd : my eyes 
 
 grow moist and dim, 
 To think of all the vanish' d joys that danced 
 
 around its brim. 
 
 Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it 
 
 straight to me ; 
 The goblet hallows aU it holds, whate'er the 
 
 liquor be; 
 And may the cherubs on its face protect me 
 
 from the sin 
 That dooms one to those dreadful words — "My 
 
 dear, where have you been ? " 
 
 0. W. Holmes.— Born 1809, 
 
 1890.— AN EVENING THOUGHT. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SEA. 
 
 If sometimes in the dark-blue eye, 
 
 Or in the deep-red wine, 
 Or soothed by gentlest melody. 
 
 Still warms this heart of mine, 
 Yet something colder in the blood, 
 
 And calmer in the brain. 
 Have whisper' d that ray youth's bright flood 
 
 Ebbs, not to flow again. 
 
]^'rom 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE TREADMILL SONG. 
 
 [0. W. Holmes. 
 
 If by Helvetia's azure lake, 
 
 Or Arno's yellow stream, 
 Each star of memory could awake, 
 
 As in my first young dream, 
 I know that when mine eye shall greet 
 
 The hill-sides bleak and bare, 
 That gird my home, it will not meet 
 
 My childhood's sunsets there. 
 
 O, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss 
 
 Burn'd on my boyish brow, 
 Was that young forehead worn as this ? 
 
 Was that flush' d cheek as now ? 
 Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart 
 
 Like these, which vainly strive. 
 In thankless strains of soulless art, 
 
 To dream themselves alive ? 
 
 Alas ! the morning dew is gone, 
 
 Gone ere the full of day ; 
 Life's iron fetter still is on, 
 
 Its wreaths all torn away ; 
 Happy if still some casual hour 
 
 Can warm the fading shrine. 
 Too soon to chiU beyond the power 
 Of love, or song, or wine ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Bom 1809. 
 
 1891.— LA GEISETTE. . 
 
 Ah, Clemence ! when I saw thee last 
 
 Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
 And turning, when thy form had pass'd, 
 
 I said, " We meet again," 
 I dream'd not in that idle glance 
 
 Thy latest image came, 
 And only left to memory's trance 
 
 A shadow and a name. 
 
 The few strange words my lips had taught 
 
 Thy timid voice to speak ; 
 Their gentler sighs, which often brought 
 
 Fresh roses to thy cheek ; 
 The trailing of thy long, loose hair 
 
 Bent o'er my couch of pain. 
 All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair ; 
 
 O, had we met again ! 
 
 I walk'd where saint and virgin keep 
 
 The vigil lights of Heaven, 
 I knew that thou hadst woes to weep. 
 
 And sins to be forgiven ; 
 I watch' d where Genevieve was laid, 
 
 I knelt by Mary's shrine, 
 Beside me low, soft voices pray'd ; 
 
 Alas ! but where was thine ? 
 
 And when the morning sun was bright. 
 
 When wind and wave were calm, 
 And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, 
 
 The rose of Notre Dame, 
 I wander'd through the haunts of men, 
 
 From Boulevard to Quai, 
 Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 
 
 The Pantheon's shadow lay. 
 
 In vain, in vain ; we meet no more. 
 
 Nor dream what fates befall ; 
 And long upon the stranger's shore 
 
 My voice on thee may call. 
 When years liave clothed the Hne in moss 
 
 That tells thy name and days, 
 And wither'd, on thy simple cross, — — 
 
 The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes. — Bom 1809. 
 
 1S92.— THE TREADMILL SONG. 
 
 The stars are rolling in the sky, 
 
 The earth roUs on below. 
 And we can feel the rattling wheel 
 
 Revolving as we go. 
 Then tread away, my gallant boys, 
 
 And make the axle fly ; 
 Why should not wheels go round about 
 
 Like planets in the sky ? 
 
 Wake up, -wake up, my duck-legg'd man, 
 
 And stir your solid pegs ; 
 Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend. 
 
 And shake your spider legs ; 
 What though you're awkward at the trade ? 
 
 There's time enough to learn, — 
 So lean upon the rail, my lad, 
 
 And take another turn. 
 
 They've bdilt us up a noble wall. 
 
 To keep the vulgar out ; 
 We've nothing in the world to do. 
 
 But just to walk about ; 
 So faster, now, you middle men, 
 
 And try to beat the ends : — 
 It's pleasant work to ramble round 
 
 Among one's honest friends. 
 
 Here, tread upon the long man's toes. 
 
 He sha'n't be lazy here ; 
 And punch the little fellow's ribs. 
 
 And tweak that lubber's ear ; 
 He's lost them both ; don't puU his hair, 
 
 Because he wears a scratch. 
 But poke him in the farther eye, 
 
 That isn't in the patch. 
 
 Hark ! fellows, there's the supper-beU, 
 
 And so our work is done ; 
 It's pretty sport, — suppose we take 
 
 A round or two for fun ! 
 If ever they should turn me out. 
 
 When I have better grown. 
 Now, hang me, but I mean to have 
 
 A treadmill of my own ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 1809. 
 
O. W. Holmes.] 
 
 LATTEE-DAY WARNINGS. 
 
 lcjeventh Period.— 
 
 1893.— LATTER-DAY WARNINGS. 
 
 When legislators keep the law, 
 
 When banks dispense with bolts and locka, 
 When berries, whortle-, rasp-, and straw-, 
 
 Grow bigger downwards through the box, — 
 
 When he that selleth house or land 
 Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,^ 
 
 When haberdashers choose the stand 
 
 Whose window hath the broadest light, — 
 
 When preachers tell us all they think, 
 And party leaders all they mean, — 
 
 When what we pay for, that we drink, 
 From real grape and coffee-bean, — 
 
 When lawyers take what they would give. 
 And doctors give what they would take, — 
 
 When city fathers eat to live. 
 
 Save when they fast for conscience' sake, — 
 
 When one that hath a horse on sale 
 Shall bring his merit to the proof, 
 
 Without a he for every nail 
 
 That holds the iron on the hoof, — 
 
 When in the usual place for rips 
 
 Our gloves are stitch' d with special care, 
 
 And guarded well the whalebone tips 
 Where first umbrellas need repair, — 
 
 When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot 
 
 The power of suction to resist, 
 And claret-bottles harbour not 
 
 Such dimples as would hold your fist, — 
 
 When publishers no longer steal, 
 
 And pay for what they stole before, — 
 
 When the first locomotive's wheel 
 
 Rolls through the Hoosac-tunnel's bore; — 
 
 Till then let Gumming blaze away. 
 
 And Miller's saints blow up the globe j 
 
 But when you see that blessed day. 
 Then order your ascension robe ! 
 
 . Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 1809. 
 
 1894.— THE OLD MAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Oh for one hour of youthful joy ! 
 
 Give back my twentieth spring ! 
 
 I'd rather laugh a bright-hair'd boy 
 
 Than reign a grey-beard king ! 
 
 " Off with the wrinkled spoils of ago ! 
 
 Away with learning's crown ! 
 Tear out Hfe's wisdom- written page. 
 
 And dash its trophies down ! 
 
 "One moment let my life-blood stream 
 From boyhood's fount of flame ! 
 
 Give me one giddy, reehng dream 
 Of life all love and fame ! " 
 
 — ^My listening angel heard the prayer. 
 
 And calmly smiling, said, 
 " If I but touch thy silver' d hair, 
 
 Thy hasty wish hath sped. 
 
 " But is there nothing in thy track 
 
 To bid thee fondly stay. 
 While the swift seasons hurry back 
 
 To find the wish'd-for day ?" 
 
 " — Ah, truest soul of womankind! 
 
 Without thee, what were life ? 
 One bliss I cannot leave behind : 
 
 I'll take — my — precious — wife ! " 
 
 — The angel took a sapphire pen, 
 
 And wrote in rainbow dew, 
 " The man would be a boy again. 
 
 And be a husband, too !" 
 
 — " And is there nothing yet unsaid 
 
 Before the change appears ? 
 Remember, all their gifts have fled 
 
 With these dissolving years ! " 
 
 " Why, yes ; for memory would X'ecall 
 
 My fond paternal joys ; 
 I could not bear to leave them all ; 
 
 I'll take — my — girl — and — boys ! " 
 
 The smiling angel dropp'd his pen, — 
 
 " Why this will never do ; 
 The man would be a boy again, 
 
 And be a father, too 1" 
 
 And so I laugh' d, — my laughter woke 
 The household with its noise, — 
 
 And wrote my dream, when morning broke, 
 To please the grey-hair' d boys. 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 18C9. 
 
 1 895 .—WHAT WE ALL THINK. 
 
 That age was older once than now. 
 In spite of locks untimely shed. 
 
 Or silver'd on the youthful brow ; 
 
 That babes make love and children wed. 
 
 That sunshine had a heavenly glow, 
 
 Which faded with those " good old days,' 
 
 When winters came with deeper snow, 
 And autumns with a softer haze. 
 
 That — mother, sister, wife, or child — 
 The " best of women " each has known. 
 
 Were school-boys ever half so wild ? 
 
 How young the grandpapas have grown. 
 
 That but for this our souls were free. 
 And but for that our lives were blest ; 
 
 That in some season yet to be 
 
 Our cares will leave us time to rest. 
 
 Whene'er we groan with ache or pain. 
 Some common ailment of the race, — 
 
 Though doctors think the matter plain, — 
 That ours is " a peculiar case." 
 
 That when like babes with fingers burn'd 
 We count one bitter maxim more, 
 
 Our lesson all the world has learn'd, 
 And men are wiser than before. 
 
Fro7n 1788 to 186G.] 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 0. W. HOLTSCES 
 
 That when we sob o'er fancied woes, 
 
 The angels hovering overhead 
 Count every pitying drop that flows, 
 
 And love us for the tears we shed. 
 
 That when we stand with tearless eje 
 And turn the beggar from our door, 
 
 They still approve us when we sigh, 
 " Ah, had I but one thousand more ! " 
 
 That weakness smoothed the path of sin, 
 In half the slips our youth has known ; 
 
 And whatsoe'er its blame has been, 
 
 That Mercy flowers on faults outgrown. 
 
 Though temples crowd the crumbled brink 
 O'erhanging truth's eternal flow, 
 
 Their tablets bold with what we tliink, 
 Their echoes dumb to what we know ; 
 
 That one unquestion'd text we read, 
 All doubt beyond, all fear above, 
 
 Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed 
 Can burn or blot it : God is Love ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 1809. 
 
 1896.— THE LAST BLOSSOM. 
 Though young no more we still would dream 
 
 Of beauty's dear deluding wiles ; 
 The leagues of life to gi*eybeards seem 
 
 Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles. 
 
 Who knows a woman's wild caprice? 
 
 It play'd with Goethe's silver' d hair. 
 And many a Holy Father's " niece" 
 
 Has softly smoothed the papal chair. 
 
 When sixty bids us sigh in vain 
 To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, 
 
 We think upon those ladies twain 
 
 Who loved so well the tough old Dean. 
 
 We see the Patriarch's wintry face, 
 The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, 
 
 And dream that Youth and Age embrace, 
 As April violets fill the snow. 
 
 Tranced in her Lord's Olympian smile 
 His lotus-loving Memphian Hes, — 
 
 The musky daughter of the Nile 
 With plaited hair and almond eyes. 
 
 Might we but share one wild caress 
 Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall. 
 
 And earth's brown clinging lips impress 
 The long cold kiss that waits us all ! 
 
 My bosom heaves, remembering yet 
 The morning of that blissful day 
 
 When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, 
 And gave my raptured soul away. 
 
 Flung from her eyes of purest blue, 
 
 A lasso, with its leaping chain, 
 Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew 
 
 O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain-, 
 
 Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, 
 Sweet vision, waited for so long ! 
 
 Dove that would seek the poet's cage 
 Lured by the magic breath of song I 
 
 She blushes ! Ah, reluctant maid. 
 
 Love's drapeau rouge the truth has told ! 
 
 O'er girlhood's yielding barricade 
 Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold I 
 
 Come to my arms ! — love heeds not years j 
 No frost the bud of passion knows, — 
 
 Ha ! what is this my frenzy hears ? 
 A voice behind me utter'd, — Eose ! 
 
 Sweet was her smile, — ^but not for me ! 
 
 Alas, when woman looks too kind, 
 Just turn your foolish head and see, — 
 
 Some youth is walking close behind ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 1809 
 
 1897.— CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Little I ask ; my wants are few ; 
 
 I only wish a hut of stone, 
 (A very plain brown stone will do,) 
 That I may call my own ; — 
 And close at hand is such a one. 
 In yonder street that fronts the sun. 
 
 Plain food is quite enough for me ; 
 
 Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
 If Nature can subsist on three, 
 
 Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
 I always thought cold victual nice ; — 
 My choice would be vanilla-ice. 
 
 I care not much for gold or land ; — 
 
 Give me a mortgage here and there, — 
 Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, 
 
 Or trifling railroad share ; — 
 I only ask that fortune send 
 A little more than I shall spend. 
 
 Honours are silly toys, I know, 
 
 And titles are but empty names ; — 
 I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 
 But only near St. James ; 
 I'm very sure I should not care 
 To fill our Gubemator's chair. 
 
 Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin 
 
 To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
 One good-sized diamond in a pin,— - 
 
 Some, not so large, in rings, — 
 A ruby, and a pearl, or so. 
 Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 
 
 My dame shall dress iu cheap attire ; 
 
 (Good, heavy silks are never dear :) — • 
 I own perhaps I might desire 
 
 Some shawls of true Cashmere,— 
 Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
 Lilie wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 
 
W. G. Clark.] 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 [Seventh Perioid. — 
 
 I would not have the horse I drive 
 
 So fast that folks must stop and stare ; 
 An easy gait, two, forty-five — 
 
 Suits me ; I do not care ; — 
 Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 
 Sorae seconds less would do no hurt. 
 
 Of pictures I should like to own 
 
 Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
 I love so much their style and tone, — 
 
 One Turner, and no more, — 
 (A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — 
 The sunshine painted with a sqiiirt.) 
 
 Of books but few, — some fifty score 
 
 For daily use, and bound for wear ; 
 The rest upon an upper floor ; — 
 
 Some little luxury there 
 Of red morocco's gilded gleam. 
 And vellum rich as country cream. 
 
 Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 
 
 Which others often show 'for pride, 
 I value for their power to please. 
 And selfish churls deride ; 
 One Stradivarius, I confess. 
 Two meerschaums, I would fain possess. 
 
 Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
 
 Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 
 Shall not carved tables serve my turn. 
 
 But all must be of buhl ? 
 Give grasping pomp its double share, — 
 I ask but one recumbent chair. 
 
 Thus humble let me live and die, 
 
 Nor long for Midas' golden touch, 
 If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
 I shall not miss them much, — 
 Too grateful for the blessing lent 
 Of simple tastes and mind content ! 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes.— Born 1809. 
 
 1 898.— EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Methinks, when on the languid eye 
 
 Life's autumn scenes grow dim ; 
 When evening's shadows veil the sky. 
 
 And Pleasure's siren hymn 
 Grows fainter on the tuneless ear. 
 Like echoes from another sphere. 
 
 Or dreams of seraphim. 
 It were not sad to cast away 
 This dull and cumbrous load of clay. 
 
 Jt were not sad to feel the heart 
 
 Grow passionless and cold ; 
 To feel those longings to depart 
 That cheer'd the good of old ; 
 To clasp the faith which looks on high, 
 Which fires the Christian's dying eye. 
 
 And makes the curtain-fold 
 That falls upon his wasting breast 
 The door that leads to endless rest. 
 
 It were not lonely thus to lie 
 
 On that triumphant bed, 
 Till the pure spirit mounts on high, 
 
 By white-wing'd seraphs led : 
 Where glories earth may never know 
 O'er " many mansions" lingering glow, 
 
 In peerless lustre shed ; 
 It were not lonely thus to soar. 
 Where sin and grief can sting no more. 
 
 And, though the way to such a goal 
 
 Lies f hrough the clouded tomb, 
 If on the free, unfetter 'd soul 
 
 There rest no stains of gloom. 
 How should its aspirations rise 
 Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies, 
 
 Up, to its final home ! 
 Beyond the journeyings of the sun. 
 Where streams of living waters run. 
 
 Willis G. Clarlc.—Born 1810, DiedlMl. 
 
 1899.— ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea. 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may 
 know 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other 
 thought 
 Than to love and be loved by mc. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child. 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea ; 
 But we loved with a love that was more than 
 love — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 Witii a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea ; 
 A wind blew ovit of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her highborn kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me. 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre. 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea), 
 That the Avind came out of the cloud by nighto 
 
 ChilHng and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the 
 love 
 
 Of those who were older than we — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
 
From 1780 to 18G6.] 
 
 ULALUME. 
 
 [E. A. PoE. 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing 
 me dreams 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the briglit 
 eyes 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the 
 
 side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my 
 bride. 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea — 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Bom 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1900.— ULALUME : A BALLAD. 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober ; 
 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere — 
 
 The leaves they were withering and sere ; 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 
 Of my most immemorial year ; 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 
 In the misty mid region of Weir — 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
 Of cypress, I roam'd with my soul — 
 Of cypress, with Psyche, my soul. 
 
 These were days when my heart was volcanic 
 As the scoriae rivers that roll — 
 As the lavas that restlessly roll 
 
 Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek, 
 In the realms of the boreal pole. 
 
 Our talk had been serious and sober, 
 
 But our thoughts they were palsied and 
 
 sere — 
 Our memories were treacherous and sere — 
 
 For we knew not the month was October, 
 And we marked not the night of the year — 
 (Ab^ night of all nights in the year !) 
 
 We noted not the dim lake of Auber, 
 
 (Though once we had journey'd down here) — 
 
 Eemember'd not the dank tarn of Auber, 
 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 And now, as the night was senescent, 
 And star-dials pointed to morn — 
 As the star-dials hinted of morn — - 
 
 At the end of our path a liquescent 
 And nebulous lustre was born, 
 
 Out of which a miraculous crescent 
 Arose with a duplicate horn — 
 
 Astarte's bediam ended crescent 
 Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
 
 And I said — *' She is warmer than Dian : 
 She rolls through an ether of sighs — 
 She revels in a region of sighs*: 
 
 She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
 These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
 
 And has come past the stars of the Lion 
 To point us the path to the skies — 
 To the Lethean peace of the skies — 
 
 Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
 
 To shine on us with her bright eyes- 
 Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
 With love in her luminous eyes." 
 
 But Psyche, uplifting her finger. 
 
 Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust^:^ 
 Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 
 
 Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 
 Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must.'* 
 
 In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
 Wings till they trail'd in the dust — 
 
 In agony sobb'd, letting sink her 
 Plumes till they trail'd in the dust — 
 Till they sorrowfully trail'd in the dust, 
 
 I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming: 
 Let us on by this tremulous light — 
 Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
 
 Its sibyllic splendour is beaming 
 With hope and in beauty to-night : 
 See, it flickers up the sky through the 
 night. 
 
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleamings. 
 And be sure it wiU lead us aright — 
 
 We safely may trust to a gleaming 
 That cannot but guide us aright. 
 Since it flickers up to heaven through the 
 night." 
 
 Thus I pacified Psyche and kiss'd her, 
 And tempted her out of her gloom — 
 And conquer'd her scruples and gloom ; 
 
 And we pass'd to the end of the vista, 
 
 But were stopp'd by the door of a tomb — 
 By the door of a legended tomb ; 
 
 And I said, " What is written, sweet sister, 
 On the door of this legended tomb ?" 
 
 She replied, " Ulalume — Ulalume— 
 
 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 
 
 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober- 
 As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
 As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
 
 And I cried, " It was surely October 
 On this very night of last year, 
 That I journey'd — I journey'd down here 
 That I brought a dread burden down here— 
 On this night of all nights in the year. 
 Oh, what demon ha« tempted me here ? 
 
 Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
 This misty mid region of Weir — 
 
 Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
 Said we then — the two, then — " Ah, can it 
 Have been that the woodlandish ghouls — 
 The pitiful, the merciful ghouls — 
 
 To bar up our way and to ban it 
 
 From the secret that lies in these wolds — 
 From the thing that lies hidden in these 
 wolds — 
 
 Have drawn up the spectre of a planet 
 From the limbo of lunary souls — 
 
 This sinfully scintillant planet 
 
 U'rom the hell of the planetary souls ? " 
 
 Edga/r A. Foe.— Bom 1811, IHed 1849. 
 
E. A. PoE.l 
 
 DEEAM-LAND. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 1901.— DSEAM-LAND. 
 
 By a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have reach'd these lands but newly 
 From an ultimate dim Thul^ — 
 From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime 
 Out of space — out of time. 
 
 Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
 And chasms, and caves, and Titan wood's, 
 With forms that no man can discover 
 For the dews that drip all over ; 
 Mountains toppling evermore 
 Into seas without a shore ; 
 Seas that restlessly aspire, 
 Surging, unto skies of fire ; 
 Lakes that endlessly outspread 
 Their lone waters — lone and dread — 
 Their stUl waters — still and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily. 
 
 By the lakes that thus outspread 
 Their lone waters, lone and dead — 
 Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily — 
 By the mountains, near the river 
 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever — 
 By the gray woods — by the swamp 
 Where the toad and the newt encamp — 
 By the dismal tarns and pools 
 
 Where dwell the ghouls — 
 By each spot the most unholy. 
 In each nook most melancholy — 
 There the traveller meets aghast 
 Sheeted memories of the past ; 
 Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
 As they pass the wanderer by ; 
 White-robed forms of friends long given, 
 In agony, to earth — and heaven ! 
 
 For the heart whose woes are legion 
 
 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region ; 
 
 For the spirit that walks in shadow 
 
 'Tis — oh, 'tis an Eldorado ! 
 
 But the traveller, travelling through it. 
 
 May not, dare not openly view it ; 
 
 Never its mysteries are exposed 
 
 To the weak human eye unclosed ; 
 
 So wills its King, who hath forbid 
 
 The upKfting of the fringed lid ; 
 
 And thus the sad soul that here passes 
 
 Beholds it but through darken' d glasses. 
 
 By a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only. 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have wander'd home but newly 
 From this ultimate dim Thul^. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Born 1811, Lied 1849. 
 
 1902.— LENORE. 
 
 Ah, broken is the golden bowl. 
 
 The spirit flown for ever ! 
 Let the bell toll ! 
 A saintly soul 
 
 Floats on the Stygian river j 
 And, Guy De Vere, 
 Hast thou no tear ? 
 
 Weep now or nevermore ! 
 See, on yon drear 
 And rigid bier 
 
 Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 
 Come, let the burial-rite be read — 
 
 The funeral-song be sung ! — 
 An anthem for the queenliest dead, 
 
 That ever died so young — 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead, 
 
 In that she died so young ! 
 
 " Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth. 
 
 And hated her for her pride ; 
 And when she fell in feeble health, 
 
 Ye bless' d her — that she died ! 
 How shall the ritual, then, be read ? 
 
 The requiem, how be sung 
 By you — by yours, the evil eye — 
 
 By yours, the slanderous tongue 
 That did to death the innocence 
 
 That died, and died so young ! ' ' 
 
 Peccavimus : 
 
 But rave not thus ! 
 
 And let a Sabbath song 
 
 Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may 
 feel no wrong ! 
 The sweet Lenore 
 Hath " gone before," 
 
 With Hope, that flew beside. 
 Leaving thee wild 
 For the dear child 
 
 That should have been thy bride— 
 For her, the fair 
 And debonair, * 
 
 That now so lowty lies, 
 The life upon her yellow hair 
 
 But not within her eyes — 
 The life still there, 
 Upon her hair — 
 
 The death upon her eyes. 
 
 " Avaunt ! to-night 
 My heart is light. 
 
 No dirge will I upraise. 
 But waft the angel on her flight 
 
 With a paean of old days ! 
 Let no bell toll !— 
 Lest her sweet soul. 
 
 Amid its hallow' d mirth, 
 Should catch the note. 
 As it doth float — 
 
 Up from the damned earth. 
 To friends above, from fiends below, 
 
 The indignant ghost is riven — 
 From hell unto a high estate 
 
 Far up within the heaven— 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 [E. A. PoE. 
 
 From grief and groan, 
 To a golden throne, 
 
 Beside the King of Heaven." 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Born 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1903.— ISEAFEL. 
 
 In heaven a spirit doth dwell 
 
 '* Whose heart-strings are a lute ; " 
 
 None sing so wildly well 
 
 As the angel Israfel, 
 
 And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
 
 Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
 Of his voice, all mute. 
 
 Tottering above 
 
 In her highest noon, 
 
 The enamour'd moon 
 Blushes with love, 
 
 While, to listen, the red levin 
 
 (With the rapid Pleiads, even, 
 
 Which were seven) 
 
 Pauses in heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choir 
 And the other listening fhings) 
 
 That Israfeli's fire 
 
 Is owing to that lyre 
 
 By which he sits and sings — 
 
 The trembling living wire 
 Of those unusual strings. 
 
 But the skies that angel trod, 
 
 Where deep thoughts are a duty— 
 
 Where Love 's a grown-up god — 
 Where the Houri glances are 
 
 Imbued with all the beauty 
 Which we worship in a star. . 
 
 Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
 
 Israfeli, who despisest 
 An unimpassion'd song ; 
 To thee the laurels belong, 
 
 Best bard, because the wisest ! 
 Merrily live, and long ! 
 
 The ecstasies above 
 
 With thy burning measures suit — 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love. 
 
 With the fervour of thy lute — 
 Well may the stars be mute ! 
 Yes, heaven is thine ; but this 
 
 Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
 
 Our flowers are merely — flowers. 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 
 Where Israfel « 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody. 
 While a bolder note than this might swell 
 , From my lyre within the sky. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Born 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1904.— THE BELLS. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells — 
 What a world of merriment their mslorly fore- 
 tells ! 
 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle . 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Eunic rhyme, 
 To the tintabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of th© 
 bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony 
 foretells ! 
 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes. 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
 gloats 
 
 On the moon ! 
 ■ Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, beUs, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
 bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum beDs — 
 Brazen bells! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 
 tells! 
 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune. 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 
 
 fire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
 frantic fire. 
 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavour 
 Now — now to sit or rever, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 
E. A. PoE.] 
 
 TO F. S. 0. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells. 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling. 
 And the wrangling. 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of 
 the bells — 
 
 Of the beUs— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamour and the clangour of the 
 bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody 
 compels ! 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people-'— 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Eolls, 
 A paean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 
 To the paean of the bells — 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In a happy Eunio rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 
 Of the bells, bells, beUs, bells- 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bella 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Bom 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1 905 .-.-TO F. S. O. 
 
 Thou wouldst be loved ? — then let thy heart 
 
 From its present pathway part not ! 
 Being everything Avhich now thou art, 
 
 Be nothing which thou art not. 
 So with the world thy gentle ways. 
 
 Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
 Shall be an endless theme of praise. 
 
 And love — a simple duty. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Born 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1906.— FOE ANNIE. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the crisis — 
 
 The danger, is past. 
 And the lingering illness 
 
 Is over at last — 
 And the fever call'd " Living " 
 
 Is conquer'd at last. 
 
 Sadly, I know 
 
 I am shorn of my strength, 
 And no muscle I move 
 
 As I lie at full length ; 
 But no matter ! — I feel 
 
 I am better at length. 
 
 And I rest so composedly. 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead — 
 Might start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead — 
 
 The moaning and groaning, 
 The sighing and sobbing. 
 
 Are quieted now, 
 
 'V;^ith that horrible throbbing 
 
 At heart : — ah that horrible, 
 Horrible throbbing ! 
 
 The sickness — the nausea — 
 
 The pitiless pain — 
 Have ceased, with the fever 
 
 That madden'd my brain — 
 With the fever call'd " Living" 
 
 That burn'd in my brain. 
 
 And oh ! of all tortures, 
 
 That torture the worst 
 Has abated — the terrible 
 
 Torture of thirst 
 For the napthaline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst : 
 I have drunk of a water 
 
 That quenches all thirst : — 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE EAVEN. 
 
 [E. A. PoE. 
 
 Of a Avater that flows, 
 
 With a lullaby sound, 
 From the spring but a few 
 
 Feet under ground — 
 From a cavern not very far 
 
 Down under ground. 
 
 And ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy 
 
 And narrow my bed ; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a different bed — 
 And, to sleep, you must slumber 
 
 In just such a bed. 
 
 My tantalized spirit 
 
 Here blandly reposes, 
 Forgetting, or never 
 
 Eegretting, its roses — 
 Its old agitations 
 
 Of myrtles and roses : 
 
 For now, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 A holier odour 
 
 About it, of pansies — 
 A rosemary odour. 
 
 Commingled with pansies — 
 With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 
 And so it lies happily, 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the truth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie — 
 Drown' d in a bath 
 
 Of the tresses of Annie. 
 
 She tenderly kiss'd me, 
 
 She fondly caress'd. 
 And then I fell gently 
 
 To sleep on her breast — 
 Deeply to sleep 
 
 From the heaven of her breast. 
 
 When the light was extinguish' d, 
 
 She cover' d me warm, 
 And she pray'd to the angels 
 
 To keep me from harm — 
 To the queen of the angels 
 
 To shield me from harm. 
 
 And I lie so composedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 (Knowing her love,) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 And I rest so contentedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 (With her love at my breast,) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 That you shudder to look at me, 
 
 Thinking me dead : — 
 
 But ray heart it is brighter 
 
 Than all of the many 
 Stars of the sky. 
 
 For it sparkles with Annie — 
 
 It glows with the light 
 
 Of the love of my Annie — 
 
 With the thought of the light 
 Of the eyes of my Annie. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Born 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1907.--THE EAVEN. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, 
 While I ponder'd. weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 
 Volume of forgotten lore, 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, 
 Suddenly there came a tapping. 
 As of some one gently rapping, 
 
 Eapping at my chamber door. 
 " 'Tis some visitor," I mutter' d, 
 
 " Tapping at my chamber door — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember. 
 It was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember 
 
 Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
 Eagerly I wish'd the morrow ;^ 
 Vainly I had tried to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — 
 
 Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden 
 
 Whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain 
 Eustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrill' d me — fill'd me with fantastic 
 
 Terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to stiL the beating 
 Of my heart, I stood repeating 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door — 
 Some late visitor entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door ; — 
 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger ; 
 
 Hesitating then no longer, 
 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly 
 
 Your forgiveness I implore ; 
 But the fact is I was napping, 
 And so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, 
 
 Tapping at my chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you,"— 
 
 Here I open'd wide the door : 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more ! 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering. 
 Long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
 
 Ever dared to dream before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, 
 And the darkness gave no token, 
 
 84 
 
E. A. PoE.] 
 
 THE EAVEN. 
 
 [Seventh Pebiod. — 
 
 And the only word there spoken 
 
 Was the whisper'd word, " Lenore !" 
 
 This I whisper' d, and an echo 
 
 Murmur' d back the word, " Lenore !" 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Then into the chamber turning, 
 All my soul within me burning, 
 Soon I heard again a tapping 
 
 Somewhat louder than before. 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is 
 Something at my window lattice ; 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, 
 
 And this mystery explore — - 
 Lot my heart be still a moment. 
 
 And this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wiad, and nothing more !" 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, 
 When, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepp'd a stately raven 
 
 Of the saintly days of yore; 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; 
 Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, 
 
 Perch'd above my chamber door — 
 Perch' d upon a bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door — 
 
 Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more- 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling 
 My sad fancy into smiling. 
 By the grave and stern decorum 
 
 Of the countenance it wore, 
 •' Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
 Thou," I said, " art sure no craven. 
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven. 
 
 Wandering from the Nightly shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is 
 
 On the Night's Plutonian shore ;" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvell'd this ungainly 
 Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — 
 
 Little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing 
 That no living human being 
 Ever yet was bless'd with seeing 
 
 Bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
 
 Bust above his chamber door, 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the raven sitting lonely 
 On the placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in 
 
 That one word he did outpour. 
 Nothing farther then he utter' d — 
 Not a feather then he flutter' d — 
 Till I scarcely more than mutter'd 
 
 " Other friends have flown before— 
 On the morrow he will leave me. 
 
 As my hopes have flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said, ' ' Nevermore." 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken 
 
 By reply so aptly spoken, 
 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters 
 
 It is only stock and store 
 Caught from some unhappy master 
 Whom unmerciful Disaster 
 FoUow'd fast and follow'd faster. 
 
 Till his songs one burden bore — 
 Till the dirges of his Hope the 
 
 Melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of ' Nevermore,' — of ' Nevermore.' " 
 
 But the raven still beguiling 
 All my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheel' d a cushion' d seat in 
 
 Front of bird and bust and door ; 
 Then upon the velvet sinking, 
 I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking 
 
 What this ominous bird of yore — 
 What ithis grim, ungainly, ghastly. 
 
 Gaunt and ominous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, 
 
 But no syllable expressing 
 
 To the fowl whose flery eyes now 
 
 Burn'd into my bosom's core ; 
 This and more I sat divining, 
 With my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining 
 
 That the lamplight gloated o'er ; 
 But whose velvet violet lining 
 
 With the lamplight gloating o'er, 
 
 She shall press, ah, never more ! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser. 
 Perfumed from an unseen censer. 
 Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls 
 
 Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent 
 
 thee. 
 By these angels he hath sent thee 
 Eespite — respite and nepenthe 
 
 From thy memories of Lenore ! 
 Quaff", oh quaff this kind nepenthe, 
 
 And forget this lost Lenore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether 
 
 Tempest toss'd thee here ashore. 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, 
 On this desert land enchanted — 
 On this home by Horror haunted — 
 
 Tell me truly, I implore — 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? 
 
 Tell me — tell me, I implore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil — 
 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 
 By that heaven that bends above us — 
 
 By that God we both adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
 If, within the distant Aidenn, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 MARY. 
 
 [H. T. TUCKERMAN- 
 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden 
 Whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
 Whom the ang-els name Lenore." 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, 
 Bird or fiend !" I shriek'd, upstarting — ■ 
 " Get thee back into the tempest 
 
 And the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token 
 Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — 
 
 Quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, 
 
 And take thy form from off my door !" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the ra.ven, never flitting, 
 Still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 Of a demon that is dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming 
 
 Throvrs his shadow on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow 
 
 That lies floating on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted— nevermore ! 
 
 Edgar A, Poe.—Born 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1908.— THE CONQUEROR WORM. 
 
 Lo ! 'tis a gala night 
 
 Within the lonesome latter years ! 
 An angel throng, bewing'd, bedight 
 
 In veils, and drown'd in tears, 
 Sit in a theatre, to see 
 
 A play of hopes and fears. 
 While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
 Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
 
 Mutter and mumble low. 
 And hither and thither fly — 
 
 Mere puppets they, who come and go 
 At bidding of vast formless things 
 
 That shift the scenery to a,nd fro. 
 Flapping from out their Condor wings 
 
 Invisible Woe ! 
 
 That motley drama ! — oh, be sure 
 
 It shall not be forgot ! 
 With its Phantom chased for evermore, 
 
 By a crowd that seize it not, 
 Through a circle that ever returneth in 
 
 To the self-same spot, 
 And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 
 
 And Horror the soul of the plot. 
 
 But see, amid the mimic rout, 
 
 A crawling shape intrude ! 
 A blood -red thing that writhes from out 
 
 The scenic solitude ! 
 
 It writhes ! — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs, 
 
 The mimes become its food. 
 And the angels sob at vermin fangs 
 
 In human gore imbued. 
 
 Out — out are the lights — out all ! 
 
 And, over each quivering form, ~ 
 The curtain, a funeral pall, 
 
 Comes down with a rush of a storm, 
 And the angels, all pallid and wan, 
 
 Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
 That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 
 
 Its hero the Conqueror Worm. 
 
 Edgar A. Foe.— Bom 1811, Died 1849. 
 
 1909.— MART. 
 
 What though the name is old and oft 
 repeated. 
 What though a thousand beings bear it 
 now, 
 And true hearts oft the gentle word have 
 greeted — 
 What though 'tis hallo w'd by a poet' a 
 vow ? 
 We ever lovo the rose, and yet its blooming 
 
 Is a familiar rapture to the eye ; 
 And yon bright star we hail, although its 
 looming 
 Age after age has lit the northern sky. 
 
 As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing, 
 
 As garden odours to the desert blown. 
 In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing. 
 
 Like patriot music or affection's tone — 
 Thus, thus, for aye, the name of Mary spoken 
 
 By lips or text, with magic-like control. 
 The course of present thought has quickly 
 broken. 
 
 And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost 
 soul. 
 
 The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow, 
 
 The fairest trophies of the limner's fame, 
 To my fond fancy, Mary, seem to borrow 
 
 Celestial halos from thy gentle name : 
 The Grecian artist glean' d from many faces, 
 
 And in a perfect whole the parts combined, 
 So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces 
 
 To form the Mary of my ardent mind. 
 
 And marvel not I thus call my ideal — 
 
 We inly paint as we would have things be — 
 The fanciful springs ever from the real. 
 
 As Aphrodite rose from out the sea. 
 W^ho smiled upon me kindly day by day, 
 
 In a far land where I was ead and lone ? 
 Whose presence now is my delight away ? 
 
 Both angels must the same bless' d title own 
 
 What spirits round my weary way are flying. 
 
 What fortunes on my future life await. 
 Like the mysterious hymns the winds are 
 sighing. 
 
 Are all unknown — in trust I bide my fate ; 
 
B. T. TUCKERMAN.] 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 [Seventh Beriod. 
 
 But if one blessing I might crave from 
 Heaven, 
 'Twould be that Mary should my being 
 cheer, 
 Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, 
 Be my dear household word, and my last 
 accent here. 
 
 Henry T. Tuckerman. — Born 1813. 
 
 igio.—FLORENCE. 
 
 Princes, when soften'd in thy sweet 
 embrace, 
 Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace, 
 And thus redeem'd, Lorenzo's fair domain 
 Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign. 
 Delightful Florence! though the northern 
 
 gale 
 V\''ill sometimes rave around thy lovely vale. 
 Can I forget how softly Autumn threw 
 Beneath thy skies her robes of ruddy hue. 
 Through what long days of balminess and 
 
 peace, 
 From wintry bonds spring won thy mild 
 
 release ? 
 Along the Arno then I loved to pass. 
 And watch the violets peeping from the grass, 
 Mark the grey kine each chestnut grove 
 
 between, 
 Startle the pheasants on the lawny green, 
 Or down long vistas hail the mountain snovf, 
 Like lofty shrines the purple clouds below. 
 Within thy halls, when veil'd the sunny rays, 
 Marvels of art await the ardent gaze. 
 And liquid words from lips of beauty start. 
 With social joy to warm the stranger's heart. 
 How beautiful at moonlight's hallow' d hour, 
 Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower ! 
 The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang ^ 
 Eound the fair scene whence modern genius 
 
 sprang ; 
 O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls 
 The silver beam on dome and cornice falls ; 
 The statues cluster'd in thy ancient square, 
 Like mighty spirits print the solemn air ; 
 Silence meets beauty with unbroken reign, 
 Save when invaded by a choral strain, 
 Whose distant cadence falls upon the ear, 
 To fill the bosom with poetic cheer ! 
 
 Henry T. Tuclcerman. — Born 1813. 
 
 i9ii._T0 THE DANDELION. 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside 
 the way. 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, up- 
 hold, 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoy'd that 
 tlioy 
 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found. 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 
 May match in wealth — thou art more dera- 
 to me 
 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may 
 be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish 
 prow 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Cf age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters 
 now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offer' d wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my trophies and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 ! The eyes thou givest me 
 
 ! Are in the heart, and heed not space or time ■, 
 I Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee 
 ' Feels a more summer-hke, warm ravishment 
 j In the white lily's breezy tint, 
 
 His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first 
 I From the dark green thy yellow circles 
 burst. 
 Then think I of deep shadows on the grass — 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways — 
 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 
 Or whiten in the wind — of waters blue 
 I That from the distance sparkle through 
 
 I Some woodland gap — and of a sky above, 
 ! Where one white cloud like a stray lamb 
 I doth move. 
 
 { My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd 
 
 I with thee ; 
 
 i The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 I Who, from the dark old tree 
 
 ' Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
 
 i And I, secure in childish piety, 
 
 I Listen' d as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he did 
 bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy 
 peers. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth Nature seem. 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret 
 show, 
 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 James R. Lowell. — Born 1819. 
 
From 1 780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 [J. E. Lowell. 
 
 19 12.— THE POET. 
 
 In the old dayo of awe and keen-eyed wonder, 
 
 The Poet's song with blood- warm truth was 
 rife ; 
 He saw the mysteries which circle under 
 
 The outward shell and skin of daily life. 
 Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, 
 
 His soul was led by the eternal law ; 
 There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, 
 
 But with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw. 
 He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried. 
 
 Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, 
 Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had 
 ferried 
 
 Alone were fitting themes of epic verse : 
 He could believe the promise of to-morrow, 
 
 And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day ; 
 He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow 
 
 Than the world's seeming loss could take 
 away. 
 To know the heart of all things was his duty, 
 
 All things did sing to him to make him 
 wise. 
 And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, 
 
 The soul of all look'd grandly from his eyes. 
 He gazed on all within him and without him, 
 
 He watch' d the flowing of Time's steady tide. 
 And shapes of glory floated all about him, ! 
 
 And whisper'd to him, and he prophesied. I 
 Than all men he more fearless was and freer. 
 
 And all his brethren cried with one accord, — 
 " Behold the holy man ! Behold the Seer ! 
 
 Him who hath spoken with the unseen 
 Lord !" 
 He to his heart with large embrace had taken 
 
 The universal sorrow of mankind, 
 And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, 
 
 The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. 
 He could interpret well the wondrous voices 
 
 Which to the calm and silent spirit come ; 
 He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices 
 
 In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. 
 He in his heart was ever meek and humble, 
 
 And yet with kindly pomp his numbers ran. 
 As he foresaw how all things false should 
 crumble 
 
 Before the free uplifted soul of man : 
 And, when he was made full to overflowing 
 
 With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, 
 Out rush'd his song, like molten iron glowing. 
 
 To show God sitting by the humblest 
 hearth. 
 With calmest courage he was ever ready 
 
 To teach that action was the truth of 
 thought. 
 And, with strong arm and purpose firm and 
 steady, 
 
 The anchor of the drifting world he 
 wrought. 
 So did he make the meanest man partaker 
 
 Of all his brother-gods unto him gave ; 
 All souls did reverence him and name him 
 Makei:, 
 
 And when he died heap'd temples on his 
 grave. 
 
 And still his deathless words of light are 
 swimming 
 Serene throughout the great, deep infinite 
 Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, 
 
 To cheer and guide the mariner at night. 
 But now the Poet is an empty rhymer, 
 
 Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, 
 And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, 
 To all men's prides and fancies as they 
 pass. 
 Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, 
 Chimes with the music of the eternal 
 stars, 
 Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, 
 And sending sun through the soul's prison- 
 bars. 
 Maker no more, — 0, no ! unmaker rather, 
 
 For he unmakes who doth not all put fortii 
 The power given by our loving Father 
 
 To show the body's dross, the spirit's 
 worth. 
 Awake ! great spirit of the ages olden ! 
 
 Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 
 And let man's soul be yet again beholden 
 To thee for wings to soar to her desire. 
 0, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendour, 
 Be no more shame-faced to speak out for 
 Truth, 
 Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, 
 
 The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth ! 
 0, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, 
 Say not his onward footsteps thou canst 
 hear 
 In the dim void, like to the awful humming 
 Of the great wings of some new-Hghted 
 sphere ! 
 O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet ! 
 
 This longing was but granted unto thee 
 That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and 
 know it. 
 That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. 
 0, thou who meanest, tost with sealike long- 
 ings, 
 Who dimly hearest voices call on thee. 
 Whose soul is overfiU'd with mighty throng- 
 ings 
 Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, 
 Thou of the toil- strung hands and iron sinews 
 And soul by Mother Earth with freedom 
 fed, 
 In whom the hero- spirit yet continues, 
 
 The old free nature is not chain' d or dead, 
 Arouse ! let thy soul break in music-thunder, 
 
 Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, 
 Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy 
 wonder, 
 And tell tlie age what all its signs have 
 meant. 
 Where'er thy wilder'd crowd of brethren 
 jostles, 
 Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong. 
 There still is need of martyrs and apostles. 
 
 There still are texts for never-dying song ; 
 From age to age man's still aspiring spirit 
 Finds wider scope and sees with clearer 
 eyes. 
 
J. E. Lowell,] 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 And tton in larger measure dost inherit 
 What made thy great forerunners free and 
 wise. 
 Sit thou enthroned where the Poet'u moun- 
 tain 
 Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, 
 And roll thy songs down like a gathering foun- 
 tain, 
 That all may drink and find the rest they 
 seek. 
 Sing ! there shall silence grow in earth and 
 heaven, 
 A silence of deep awe and wondering ; 
 For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even 
 To hear a mortal like an angel sing. 
 
 Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking 
 For one to bring the Maker's name to light, 
 To be the voice of that almighty speaking 
 Which every age demands to do it right. 
 Proprieties our silken bards environ ; 
 
 He who would be the tongue of this wide 
 land 
 Must string his harp with chords of sturdy 
 iron 
 And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand ; 
 One who hath dwelt with Nature well-at- 
 tended. 
 Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic 
 books. 
 Whose soul with all her countless lives hath 
 blended, 
 So that all beauty awes us in his looks ; 
 Who not with body's waste his soul hath 
 pamper' d, 1 
 
 Who as the clear north-western wind is 
 free. 
 Who walks with Form's observances 
 unhamper'd, 
 And follows the One Will obediently ; 
 Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, 
 
 Control a lovely prospect every way ; 
 Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly 
 plummet. 
 And find a bottom still of worthless clay ; 
 Who heeds not how the lower gusts are work- 
 ing, 
 Knowing that one sure vidnd blows on above, 
 And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, 
 
 One God-built shrine of reverence and love ; 
 Who Sees all stars that wheel their shining 
 marches 
 Around the centre fix'd of Destiny, 
 Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches 
 The moving globe of being, like a sky ; 
 Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps 
 are nearer 
 Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, 
 Who doth not hold his soul's o^vn freedom 
 dearer 
 Than that of all his brethren, low or high ; 
 Who to the right can feel himself the truer 
 For being gently patient with the wrong. 
 Who sees a brother in the evildoer. 
 
 And finds in Love the heart's blood of his 
 song : — 
 
 This, this is he for whom the world is waiting 
 
 To sing the beatings of its mighty heart. 
 Too long hath it been patient with the grating 
 
 Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed 
 Art. 
 To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, 
 
 Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, 
 And once again in every eye shall glisten 
 
 The glory of a nature satisfied. 
 His verse shall have a great, commanding 
 motion, 
 
 Heaving and swelling with a melody 
 Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean. 
 
 And all the pure, majestic things that be. 
 Awake, then, thou ! we pine for thy great 
 presence 
 
 To make us feel the soul once more sublime, 
 We are of far too infinite an essence 
 
 To rest contented with the lies of Time. 
 Speak out ! and, lo ! a hush of deepest wonder 
 
 Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, 
 As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder 
 
 Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. 
 
 J. B. Lowell— Bom 1819. 
 
 1913.— THE SIRENS. 
 
 The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary. 
 The sea is restless and uneasy ; 
 Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. 
 Wandering thou knowest not whither ; — 
 Our little isle is green and breezy, 
 Come and rest thee ! come hither ! 
 CoDLie to this peaceful home of ours. 
 
 Where evermore 
 The low west wind creeps panting up the 
 
 shore 
 To be at rest among the flowers ; 
 Full of rest, the green moss lifts. 
 
 As the dark waves of the sea 
 Draw in and out of rocky rifts. 
 
 Calling solemnly to thee 
 With voices deep and hollow, — 
 " To the shore 
 
 Follow ! O follow ! 
 To be at rest for evermore ! 
 For evermore ! " 
 
 Look how the grey old Ocean 
 From the depth of his heart rejoices, 
 Heaving with a gentle motion, 
 When he hears our restful voices ; 
 List how he sings in an undertone, 
 Chiming with our melody ; 
 And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
 Melt into one low voice alone, 
 That murmurs over the weary sea, — 
 And seems to sing from everywhere, — 
 " Here mayest thou harbour peacefully. 
 Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar ; 
 
 Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
 And in our green isle rest for evermore ! 
 For evermore ! " 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] AN INCIDENT IN A EAILROAD CAR. 
 
 [J. R. Lowell. 
 
 And Echo half wakes in the woodel hill, 
 And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
 Murmurs over in her sleep, 
 Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 
 " Evermore ! " 
 
 Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 Ever singing low and clear. 
 Ever singing longingly. 
 
 Is it not better here to be, 
 Than to be toiling late and soon ? 
 In the dreary night to see 
 Nothing but the blood-red moon 
 Go up and down into the sea ; 
 Or, in the loneliness of day, 
 
 To see the still seals only 
 Solemnly lift their faces grey. 
 
 Making it yet more lonely? 
 Is it not better, than to hear 
 Only the sliding of the wave 
 Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
 A cold and lonely grave, 
 A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
 Even in death unquietly ? 
 Look down beneath thy wave- worn bark, 
 
 Lean over the side and see 
 The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
 
 Upturned patiently. 
 Ever waiting there for thee : 
 Look down and see those shapeless forms, 
 
 "Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 
 
 Far do«vn within the gloomy deep, 
 And only stir themselves in storms. 
 Rising like islands from beneath, 
 And snorting through the angry spray. 
 As the frail vessel perisheth 
 In the whirls of their unwieldy play : 
 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, 
 That waves its arms so lank and brown. 
 
 Beckoning for thee ! 
 Look down beneath thy wave- worn bark * 
 
 Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 
 Thus, on Life's lonelj'^ sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sad, from far and near, 
 Ever singing full of fear. 
 Ever singing drearfully. 
 
 Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 
 The wind scarce shaketh down the dew. 
 The green grass floweth like a stream 
 Into the ocean's blue : 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 Here is a gush of many streams, 
 
 A song of many birds, 
 And every wish and longing seems 
 Lull'd to a number'd flow of words,— 
 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 Here ever hum the golden bees 
 Underneath full-blossom'd trees. 
 At once with glowing fruit and flowers 
 crown' d ; — 
 
 The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand. 
 That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the 
 
 land ; 
 All around, with a slumberous sound, 
 The singing waves slide up the strand, 
 And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, 
 The waters gurgle longingly. 
 As if they fain would seek the shore,~ ~ 
 To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
 To be at rest for evermore, — 
 For evermore. 
 
 Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
 
 Heareth the marinere 
 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 
 Ever singing in his ear, 
 
 "Here is rest and peace for thee ! " 
 
 James B. Lowell. — Born 1819. 
 
 1914. 
 
 -AN INCIDENT IN A EAILROAD 
 
 CAR. I 
 
 He spoke of Burns : men rude and rough 
 Press' d round to hear the praise of one 
 Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, 
 As homespun as their own. 
 
 And, when he read, they forward lean'd. 
 Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears. 
 His brook-like songs whom glory never 
 wean'd 
 From humble smiles and tears. 
 
 Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
 Sun-Hke, o'er faces brown and hard. 
 As if in him who read they felt and saw 
 Some presence of the bard. 
 
 It was a sight for sin and wrong 
 And slavish tyranny to see, 
 A sight to make our faith more pure and 
 strong 
 In high humanity. 
 
 I thought, these men will carry hence 
 Promptings their former hfe above, 
 And something of a finer reverence 
 For beauty, truth, and love. 
 
 God scatters love on every side, 
 Freely among his children all, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide, 
 Wherein some grains may fall. 
 
 There is no wind but soweth seeds 
 Of a more true and open life. 
 Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-sonl'd 
 deeds 
 With wayside beauty rife. 
 
 We find within these souls of ours 
 Some wild germs of a higher birth, 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
J. E, Lowell.] 
 
 THE HEEITAGE. 
 
 [Seventh Peeiod, — 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 These promises of wider bliss, 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 
 In sunny hours like this. 
 
 All that hath been majestical 
 In life or death, since time began, 
 Is native in the simple heart of all, 
 The angel heart of man. 
 
 And thus, among the untaught poor 
 Great deeds and feelings find a home, 
 That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
 Of classic Greece and Rome. 
 
 O mighty brother-soul of man, 
 Where'er thou art, in low or high, 
 Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
 O'er-roof infinity ! 
 
 All thoughts that mould the age begin 
 Deep down within the primitive soul, 
 And from the many slowly upward -wia 
 To one who grasps the whole : 
 
 In his broad breast the feeling deep 
 That struggled on the many's tongue, 
 Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap 
 O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 
 
 All thought begins in feeling, — wide 
 In the great mass its base is hid, 
 And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, 
 A moveless pyramid. 
 
 Nor is he far astray who deems 
 That every hope, which rises and grows 
 broad 
 In the world's heart, by order'd impulse 
 streams 
 From the great heart of God. 
 
 God wills, man hopes : in common souls 
 Hope is but vague and undefined, 
 TiU from the poet's tongue the message rolls 
 A blessing to his kind. 
 
 Never did Poesy appear 
 So full of heaven to mo as when 
 I saw how it would pierce through pride and 
 fear 
 To the lives of coarsest men. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in 
 sight 
 Once in a century ; — 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 One simple word, which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line, 
 Which, seeking not the praise of art. 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the nntntor'd heart. 
 
 He who doth this, in verse or prose. 
 May be forgotten in his day. 
 But surely shall be crown'd at last with those 
 Who live and speak for aye. 
 
 J. B. Lowell— Born 1819. 
 
 1915.--THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
 
 And he inherits soft, white hands. 
 And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
 
 The bank may break, the factory bum. 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares. 
 And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants, 
 His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears the pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
 And wearies in his easy chair ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in feeT 
 
 j What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 ■ Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 In every useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things, 
 
 A rank adjudged by toil -won merit. 
 
 Content that from employment springs, 
 A heart that in his labour sings; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 A patience learn'd by being poor. 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee- 
 
 0, rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil. 
 
 But only whiten, soft, white hands,— 
 This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 TO THE FUTUEE. 
 
 [j; E. Lowell. 
 
 O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state ; 
 There is worse weariness than thine, 
 
 In merely being rich and great ; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 
 Are equal in the earth at last ; 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 
 By record of a well-fill'd past ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 J. R. Lowell— Born 1819. 
 
 i9i6.^TO THE FUTUEE. 
 
 O, Land of Promise ! from what Pisgah's 
 height 
 Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful 
 bowers ? 
 Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight. 
 Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined 
 towers ? 
 Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap' d gold. 
 
 Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, 
 Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 
 Still brightening abysses, 
 And blazing precipices. 
 Whence but a scanty leap it seems to 
 heaven. 
 Sometimes a glimpse is given. 
 Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more un- 
 stinted blisses. 
 
 0, Land of Quiet ! to thy shore the surf 
 Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps ; 
 
 Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy 
 turf 
 And lure out blossoms : to thy bosom 
 
 As to a mother's, the o'erwearied heart. 
 Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, 
 The hurrying feet, the curses without 
 number. 
 And circled with the glow Elysian, 
 Of thine exulting vision, 
 Out of its very cares woos charms for peace 
 and slumber. 
 
 To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter 'd hands 
 And cries for vengeance ; with a pitying 
 smile 
 Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands. 
 And her old woe-worn face a little while 
 Grows young and noble ; unto thee the 
 Oppressor 
 Looks, and is dumb with awe ; 
 The eternal law 
 Which makes the crime its own blindfold 
 redresser. 
 
 Shadows his heart with perilous fore- 
 boding. 
 And he can see the grim-eyed Doom 
 From out the trembling gloom 
 Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace 
 goading. 
 
 What promises hast thou for Poeta' eyes, 
 Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong ! 
 To all their hopes what overjoy' d replies ! 
 What undream'd ecstasies for blissful 
 song ! 
 Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawling 
 clangour 
 Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the 
 poor ; 
 The humble glares not on the high with 
 anger ; 
 Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed 
 for more ; 
 In vain strives self the godlike sense to 
 smother ; 
 From the soul's deeps 
 It throbs and leaps ; 
 The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long- 
 lost brother. 
 
 To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 
 Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit 
 free; 
 To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 
 
 And grief and hunger climb about his kneo 
 Welcome as children : thou upholdest 
 
 The lone Inventor by his demon haunted ; 
 The prophet cries to thee when hearts are 
 coldest. 
 And gazing o'er the midnight's bleak 
 
 abyss. 
 Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, 
 And stretch its happy arms and leap up disen- 
 chanted. 
 
 Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving- 
 kindly 
 The guilty thinks it pity ; taught by thee, 
 Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith 
 blindly 
 Their own souls they were scarring ; con- 
 querors see 
 With horror in their hands the accursed 
 spear 
 That tore the meek One's side on Calvary, 
 And from their trophies shrink with ghastly 
 fear ; 
 Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
 The beauty of man's soul to man reveal- 
 ing; 
 The arrows from thy quiver 
 Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for 
 healing. 
 
 O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, 
 From out Life's sweat and turmoil would 
 ye bear me ? 
 
 Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, 
 This agony of hopeless contrast spare me ! 
 
J. R Lowell.] 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my 
 night ! 
 He is a coward who would borrow 
 A charm against the present sorrow 
 From the vague Future's promise of delight : 
 As life's alarums nearer roll, 
 The ancestral buckler calls, 
 Self-clanging, from the walls 
 In the high temple of the soul ; 
 Where are most sorrows, there the poet's 
 sphere is. 
 To feed the soul with patience, 
 To heal its desolations 
 With words of unshorn truth, with love that 
 never wearies. 
 
 J. R. Lowell.— Born 1819. 
 
 igiy.—TKE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Into the sunshine, 
 
 Full of Ught, 
 Leaping and flashing 
 
 From morn to night ! 
 
 Into the moonlight. 
 Whiter than snow, 
 
 Waving so flower-like 
 When the winds blow ! 
 
 Into the starlight, 
 
 Eushing in spray, 
 Happy at midnight, 
 
 Happy by day ! 
 
 Ever in motion, 
 
 Blithesome and cheery. 
 Still climbing heavenward 
 
 Never a-weary ! 
 
 Glad of all weathers. 
 Still seeming best. 
 
 Upward or downward 
 Motion thy rest ; 
 
 Full of a nature 
 Nothing can tame, 
 
 Changed every moment, 
 Ever the same ; — 
 
 aspiring ; 
 Ceaseless, content ; 
 Darkness or sunshine 
 Thy element. 
 
 Glorious fountain ! 
 
 Let my heart be 
 Fresh, changeful, constant, 
 
 Upward, like thee ! 
 
 J. B. LoweU.-^Born 1819. 
 
 191 8.— BEN BOLT. 
 
 Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ? 
 
 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown. 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
 smile, 
 
 And trembled with fear at your frown ? 
 
 In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone. 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey^ 
 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
 Together we've lain in the noonday shade, 
 
 And listen' d to Appleton's mill : 
 The miU-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in. 
 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as 
 you gaze, 
 
 Has follow'd the olden din. 
 
 Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 
 At the edge of the pathless wood. 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 
 
 Which nigh by the door-step stood ? 
 The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The tree you would seek in vain ; 
 And where once the lords of the forest waved, 
 
 Grows grass and the golden grain. 
 
 And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim. 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook. 
 
 Where the children went to swim ? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is dry. 
 And of all the boys who were schoolmates 
 then. 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben 
 Bolt. 
 They nave changed from the old to the 
 new: 
 But I feel inthedeeps of my spirit the truth, 
 
 There never was change in you. 
 Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
 Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a 
 truth, 
 Ben Bolt, of the salt- sea gale. 
 
 Thomas Dunn English. — Bom 1819. 
 
 1919.— THE BEICKMAKER. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow olay be ground. 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded. 
 
 In no stately structures skill'd, 
 What the temple we would build ? 
 Now the massive kiln is risen — 
 Call it palace — call it prison ; 
 View it well : from end to end 
 Narrow corridors extend — 
 Long, and dark, and smother' d aisles 
 Choke its earthy vaults with piles 
 Of the resinous yeUow pine ; 
 
From 1780 to I860.] 
 
 THE BEICKMAKER. 
 
 [T. B. Bead., 
 
 Now thrust in the fetter'd Fire — 
 • Hearken ! how he stamps with ire, 
 
 Treading out the pitchy wine ; 
 Wrought anon to wilder spells, 
 
 Hear him shout his loud alarms ; 
 
 See him thrust his glowing arms 
 Through the windows of his cells. 
 
 But his chains at last shall sever ; 
 Slavery lives not for ever ; 
 And the thickest prison wall 
 Into ruin yet must fall. 
 Whatsoever falls away 
 Springeth up again, they say ; 
 Then, when this shall break asunder, 
 And the fire be freed from under. 
 Tell us what imperial thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring ? 
 
 There shall grow a stately building- 
 Airy dome and column'd walls ; 
 
 Mottoes writ in richest gilding 
 Blazing through its pillar'd halls. 
 
 In those chambers, stern and dreaded, 
 They, the mighty ones, shall stand ; 
 
 There shall sit the hoary-headed 
 Old defenders of the land. 
 
 There shall mighty words be spoken, 
 Which shall thrill a wondering world ; 
 
 Then shall ancient bonds be broken. 
 And new banners be unfurl' d. 
 
 But anon those glorious uses 
 
 In these chambers shall lie dead. 
 
 And the world's antique abuses, 
 Hydra-headed, rise instead. 
 
 But this wrong not long shall linger— 
 
 The old capitol must fall ; 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 
 Flames along the fated wall. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground, 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
 Till the heavy walls be risen. 
 And the fire is in his prison : 
 But when break the walls asunder. 
 And the fire is freed from under. 
 Say again what stately thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring ? 
 
 There shall grow a church whose steeple 
 
 To the heavens shall asipire ; 
 And shall come the mighty people 
 
 To the music of the choir. 
 
 On the infant, robed in whiteness. 
 
 Shall baptismal waters fall. 
 While the child's angelic brightness 
 
 Sheds a halo over all. 
 
 There shall stand enwreath'd in marriage 
 Forms that tremble — hearts that thrill — 
 
 To the door Death's sable carriage 
 
 Shall bring forms and hearts grown still ! 
 
 Deck'd in garments richly glistening, 
 Bustling wealth shall walk the aisle ; 
 
 And the poor without stand listening, 
 Praying in their hearts the while. 
 
 There the veteran shall come weekly 
 With his cane, oppress'd and poor, 
 
 'Mid the horses standing meekly, ~ 
 Gazing through the open door. 
 
 But these wrongs not long shall linger— 
 The presumptuous pile must fall ; 
 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 Flames along the fated wall. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground, 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded : 
 Say again what stately thing 
 From the ruin shall upspring ? 
 
 Not the hall with column'd chambers, 
 Starr'd with words of liberty. 
 
 Where the freedom-canting members 
 Feel no impulse of the free : 
 
 Not the pile where souls in error 
 
 Hear the words, " Go, sin no more V* 
 
 But a dusky thing of terror. 
 With its cells and grated door. 
 
 To its inmates each to-morrow 
 
 Shall bring in no tide of joy. 
 Born in darkness and in sorrow, 
 
 There shall stand the fated boy. 
 
 With a grief too loud to smother, 
 With a throbbing, burning head, 
 
 There shall groan some desperate mother, 
 Nor deny the stolen bread ! 
 
 There the veteran, a poor debtor, 
 Mark'd with honourable scars, 
 
 Listening to some clanking fetter, 
 Shall gaze idly through the bars : 
 
 Shall gaze idly not demurring. 
 
 Though with thick oppression bow'd. 
 
 While the many, doubly erring, 
 
 Shall walk honour'd througli the crowd. 
 
 Yet these wrongs not long shall linger- — 
 
 The benighted pile must fall; 
 For, behold ! the fiery finger 
 
 Flames along the fated wall. 
 
 Let the blinded horse go round 
 Till the yellow clay be ground, 
 And no weary arms be folded 
 Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
 Till the heavy wall be risen 
 And the fire is in his prison. 
 Capitol, and church, and jail, 
 Like our kiln at last shall fail ; 
 
T. B. Eead.] 
 
 MY HERMITAGE. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Every shape of earth shall fade 
 But the heavenly temple, made 
 For the sorely tried and pure, 
 With its Builder shall endure ! 
 
 T. B. Bead.— Born 1822. 
 
 1920.— MY HEEMITA.GE. 
 
 Within a wood one summer's day, 
 And in a hollow, ancient trunk, 
 
 I shut me from the world away, 
 To live as lives a hermit monk. 
 
 My cell was a ghostly sycamore. 
 
 The roots and limbs were dead with age ; 
 
 Decay had carved the Gothic door 
 Which look'd into my hermitage. 
 
 My library was large and full, 
 
 Where, ever as a hermit plods, 
 I read until my eyes are dull 
 
 With tears ; for all those tomes were God's 
 
 The vine that at my doorway swung 
 
 Had verses writ on every leaf, 
 The very songs the bright bees sung 
 
 In honey-seeking visits brief — 
 
 Not brief — though each stay'd never long — 
 So rapidly they came and went, 
 
 No pause was left in all their song. 
 
 For while they borrow'd still they lent. 
 
 AU day the woodland minstrels sang — 
 Small feet were in the leaves astir — 
 
 And often o'er my doorway rang 
 The tap of a blue-wing'd visitor. 
 
 Afar the stately river sway'd. 
 And pour'd itself in giant swells. 
 
 While here the brooklet danced and play'd, 
 And gaily rung its liquid bells. 
 
 The springs gave me their crystal flood, 
 And my contentment made it wine — 
 
 And oft I found what kingly food 
 Grew on the world-forgotten vine. 
 
 The moss, or weed, or running flower, 
 Too humble in their hope to climb, 
 
 Had in themselves the lovely power 
 To make me happier for the time. 
 
 And when the starry night came by, 
 And stooping look'd into my cell, 
 
 Then all between the earth and sky 
 Was circled in a holier spell. 
 
 A height and depth and breadth sublime 
 O'erspread the scene, and reach'd the stars, 
 
 Until Eternity and Time 
 
 Seemed drowning their dividing bars. 
 
 And voices which the day ne'er hears, 
 And visions which the sun ne'er sees, 
 
 I rom earth and from the distant spheres, 
 Catnc on the moonlight and the breeze. 
 
 Thus day and night my spirit grew 
 
 In love with that which round me shone, 
 
 Until my calm heart fully knew 
 The joy it is to be alone. 
 
 The time went by, till one fair dawn 
 
 I saw against the eastern fires, 
 A visionary city drawn 
 
 With dusky lines of domes and spires. 
 
 The wind in sad and fitful spells 
 
 Blew o'er it from the gates of morn, 
 
 Till I could clearly hear the bells 
 That rung above a world forlorn. 
 
 And well I listen'd to their voice, 
 
 And deeply ponder'd what they said — 
 
 Till I arose — there was no choice — 
 I went while yet the east was red. 
 
 My waken'd heart for utterance yearn'd — 
 The clamorous wind had broke the spell — 
 
 I needs must teach what I had learn'd 
 Within my simple woodland cell. 
 
 T. B. Read.— Born 1822. 
 
 1921.— THELEME. 
 
 I sat one night on a palace step, 
 
 Wrapp'd up in a mantle thin ; 
 And I gazed with a smile on the world without. 
 
 With a growl at my world within, — 
 Till I heard the merry voices ring 
 
 Of a lordly companie, 
 And straight to myself I began to sing, 
 
 " It is there that I ought to be." 
 
 And long I gazed through a lattice raised 
 
 Which smiled from the old grey wall, 
 And my glance went in, with the evening 
 breeze, 
 
 And ran o'er the revellers all ; 
 And I said, "If they saw me, 'twould cool 
 their mirth, 
 
 Far more than this wild breeze free, 
 But a merrier party was ne'er on earth. 
 
 And among them I fain would be." 
 
 And oh I but they all were beautiful. 
 
 Fairer than fairy dreams. 
 And their words were sweet as the wind harp's 
 tone 
 When it rings o'er summer streams ; 
 i And they pledged each other with noble mien, 
 I " True heart with my life to thee !" 
 I " Alack !" quoth I, " but my soul is dry. 
 And among them I fain would be !" 
 
 And the gentlemen were noble souls. 
 
 Good fellows both sain and sound, 
 I had not deem'd that a band like this 
 
 Could over the world be found ; 
 And they spoke of brave and beautiful things, 
 
 Of all that was dear to me ; 
 And I thought, " Perhaps they would like me 
 well, 
 
 If among them I once miffht be !" 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 THE THEEE FEIENDS. 
 
 [C. G. Leland, 
 
 And lovely were the ladies too, 
 
 Who sat in the light bright hall, 
 And one there was, oh, dream of life ! 
 
 The loveliest 'mid them all ; 
 She sat alone by an empty chair, 
 
 The queen of the feast was she, 
 And I said to myself, " By that lady fair 
 
 I certainly ought to be." 
 
 And aloud she spoke, " We have waited long 
 
 For one who, in fear and doubt, 
 Looks wistfully into our hall of song 
 
 As he sits on the steps without ; 
 I have sung to him long in silent dreams, 
 
 I have led him o'er land and sea, 
 Go welcome him in as his rank beseems, 
 
 And give him a place by me !" 
 
 They open'd the door, yet I shrunk with shame, 
 
 As I sat in my mantle thin, 
 But they hail'd me out with a joyous shout, 
 
 And merrily led me in — 
 And gave me a place by my bright-hair' d 
 love. 
 
 And she wept with joy and glee, 
 And I said to myseK, " By the stars above, 
 
 I am just where I ought to be !" 
 
 Farewell to thee, life of joy and grief ! 
 
 Farewell to ye, care and pain ! 
 Farewell, thou vulgar and selfish world ! 
 
 For I never will know thee again. 
 I live in aoland where good fellows abound, 
 
 In Theleme, by the sea ; 
 They may long for a "happier ""ife" that 
 will,— 
 
 I am just where I ought to be ! 
 
 C. G. Leland,— Born 1824. 
 
 1922.— A DEE AM OF LOVE. 
 
 I dream'd I lay beside the dark blue Ehine, 
 
 In that old tower where once Sir Eoland 
 dwelt ; 
 Methought his gentle lady-love was mine, 
 
 And mine the cares and pain which once he 
 felt. 
 Dim, cloudy centuries had roU'd away, 
 
 E'en to that minstrel age — the olden time, 
 When Eoland' s lady bid him woo no more, 
 
 And he, aweary, sought the eastern clime. 
 
 Methought that I, like him, had wander'd long 
 In those strange lands of v/hich old legends 
 tell; 
 Then home I turn'd to my own glancing 
 Ehine, 
 And found my lady in a convent cell ; 
 And I, like him, had watch' d through weary 
 years. 
 And dwelt unseen hard by her convent's 
 bound, 
 Tn that old tower, which yet stands pitying 
 The cloister-isle, enclosed by water round. 
 
 I long had watch 'd — for in the early morn. 
 
 To ope her lattice came that lady oft ; 
 And earnestly I gazed, yet naught I saw. 
 
 Save one small hand and arm, white, fair, 
 and soft. 
 And when, at eve, the long, dark shadows fell 
 
 O'er rock and valley, vineyard, town, and 
 tower, 
 Again she came — again that small white hand 
 
 Would close her lattice for the vesper hour. 
 
 I linger'd still, e'en when the silent night 
 
 Had cast its sable mantle o'er the shrine. 
 To see her lonely taper's soften' d light 
 
 Gleam, far reflected, o'er the quiet Ehine ! 
 But most I loved to see her form at times. 
 
 Obscure those beams — for then her shade 
 would fall. 
 And I beheld it, evenly portray'd — 
 
 A living profile, on that mndow small. 
 
 And thus I lived in love — though not in 
 hope — 
 And thus I watch'd that maiden many a 
 year, 
 When, lo ! I saw, one morn, a funeral train — 
 
 Alas ! they bore my lady to her bier I 
 And she was dead — yet grieved I not there- 
 fore, 
 For now in Heaven she knew the love I 
 felt. 
 Death could not kill affection nor destroy 
 The holy peace wherein I long had dwelt. 
 
 Oh, gentle lady ! this was but a dream ; 
 And in a dream I bore all this for thee. 
 If thus in sleep love's pangs assail my soul, 
 Think, lady, what my waking hours must 
 be! 
 
 C. G. Leland.— Born 1824. 
 
 1923.— THE THEEE FEIENDS. 
 
 I have three friends, three glorious friends, 
 
 three dearer could not be ; 
 And every night when midnight tolls, they 
 
 meet to laugh with me. 
 The first was shot by Carlist thieves, three 
 
 years ago, in Spain ; 
 The second drown' d, near Alicante, and I 
 
 alive remain. 
 
 I love to see their thin white forms come steal- 
 ing through the night. 
 
 And grieve to see them fade away in the early 
 morning light. 
 
 The first with gnomes in the Under-land is 
 leading a lordly life. 
 
 The second has married a mermaiden, a beauti- 
 ful water- wife. 
 
 And since I have friends in the earth and sea 
 — with a few, I trust, on high, 
 
 'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way 
 that I may die. 
 
B. Taylob.] 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod.— < 
 
 For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or 
 
 swing on the triple tree, 
 Or die in my grave as a Christian should, is 
 
 much the same to me. 
 
 C. G. Leland.Som 1824. 
 
 1924.— BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee 
 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love bnt thee, 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ; 
 I lie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven, 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me res^. 
 Open the door of thy heart. 
 
 And open thy chamber door, 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold. 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 JB. Taylor.— Bom 1825. 
 
 1925.— THE ABAB TO THE PALM. 
 
 Hext to thee, O fair gazelle, 
 
 O Beddowee, girl, beloved so well ; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Tree 
 
 Whose fluttering shadow vnraps us three 
 
 With love, and silence, and mystery ! 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 
 With any under the Arab sky ; 
 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance 
 As the Almees lift their aims in dance — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign. 
 That works in the cells of the blood-like wiue. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he. 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm south winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs — 
 
 Quickening odours, kisses of balm. 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 
 
 The sun may flame and the sands may stir. 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sun, 
 Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a King, stately Tree, 
 A Hkeness, glorious as might be. 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee! 
 
 With a shaft of silver burnish' d bright, 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite. 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze. 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase : 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise. 
 Should night and morning frame new lays- 
 New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
 But none, Palm, should equal mine ! 
 
 B. Taylor.— Born 1825. 
 
 1926.— KUBLEH; 
 
 A STORY or THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. 
 
 The black-eyed children of the Desert drove 
 
 Their flocks together at the set of sun. 
 
 The tents were pitch'd ; the weary camels 
 
 bent 
 Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the 
 
 sand ; 
 The hunters quarter' d by the kindled fires 
 The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain. 
 And all the stir and sound of evening ran 
 Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy 
 
 air 
 Bore its full burden of confused delight 
 Across the flowery plain, and while, afar, 
 The snows of Koordish mountains in the ray 
 Flash'd roseate amber, Nimroud's ancient 
 
 mound 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 KUBLEH. 
 
 [B. Tatloe. 
 
 ' "Eose broad and black against the burning 
 
 West. 
 The shadows deepen' d, and the stars came 
 
 out 
 Sparkling in violet ether ; one by one 
 Glimmer'd the ruddy camp-jSres on the plain, 
 And shapes of steed and horseman moved 
 
 among 
 The dusky tents mth shout and jostling cry, 
 And neigh and restless prancing. Children 
 
 ran 
 To hold the thongs, while every rider drove 
 His quivering spear in the earth, and by his 
 
 door 
 Tether'd the horse he loved. In midst of all 
 -Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not 
 
 touch, — 
 The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik 
 A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls. 
 But when their meal was o'er, — when the red 
 
 fires 
 Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer 
 
 bay'd, — 
 When Shammar hunters with the boys sat 
 
 down 
 To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar, 
 The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love 
 Are sweeter than Bassora's nightingales, — 
 Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood 
 Like war itself : who knows not Alimar ? 
 Then ask'd the men : " O poet, sing of 
 
 Kubleh !" 
 And boys laid down the knives half burnish' d, 
 
 saying : 
 " Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw — 
 Of wondrous Kubleh !" Closer flock'd the 
 
 group 
 W^ith eager eyes about the flickering fire, 
 While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars, 
 Sang to the listening Arabs : 
 
 " God is great ! 
 O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode 
 The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca's gate 
 The winged steed bestrode, whose mane of fire 
 Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah call'd. 
 He bore the Prophet to the walls of heaven, 
 Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous mare : 
 Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs 
 
 dash'd flame 
 In Bagdad's stables from the marble floor — 
 Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in 
 
 state 
 The gay bazaars, by great Al-Easchid back'd : 
 Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed 
 * That went o'er half the world with Tamerlane : 
 Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago 
 From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian 
 
 grooms 
 To Persia's kings — the foals of sacred mares, 
 Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea ! 
 
 " Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, 
 The many deeds of Kubleh ? Who can tell 
 Whence came she, whence her like shall come 
 
 again ? 
 O Arabs, like a tale of Scherezade 
 
 Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts arc 
 
 tried 
 On the hot eve of battle, is her story. 
 
 " Far in the Southern sands, the hunters 
 
 say. 
 Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely pahn. - 
 The well had dried ; her fierce, impatient eye 
 Glared red and sunken, and her slight young 
 
 limbs 
 Were lean with thirst. He cheok'd his camel's 
 
 pace. 
 And while it knelt, untied the water-skin, 
 And when the wild mare drank, she foUow'd 
 
 him. 
 Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird 
 Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear 
 About her shining head, that brook'd no curb 
 From even him ; for she, alike, was royal. 
 
 " Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace. 
 Than some impassion'd Almee's, when the 
 
 dance 
 Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam 
 Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air. 
 Her light, free head was ever held aloft ; 
 Between her slender and transparent ears 
 The silken forelock toss'd ; her nostril's arch, 
 Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread, 
 Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck 
 Curved to the shoulder like an eagle's wing. 
 And all her matchless lines of flank and limb 
 Seem'd fashion'd from the flying shapes of air 
 By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts 
 
 rang 
 From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye 
 Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh 
 Eang wild and sharp above the clash of spears. 
 
 " The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew 
 her: 
 Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore 
 To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not 
 To bid her welcome ; and the savage Koord, 
 Chased from his bold irruption on the plain. 
 Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow. 
 Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle. 
 O'er ledge and chasm and barren steep, amid 
 The Sindjar hills, she ran the wild ass down. 
 Through many a battle's thickest brunt she 
 
 storm' d, 
 Eeeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock- 
 deep 
 In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze 
 Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before 
 The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mano 
 Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay 
 Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste. 
 
 " The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew 
 her: 
 The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet- 
 neigh 
 Before the walls of Tiflis. Pines that grow 
 On ancient Caucasus have harbour' d her. 
 Sleeping by Sofuk, in their spicy gloom. 
 
B. Taylor.] 
 
 THE POET IN THE EAST. 
 
 [Seventh Pekiod. 
 
 The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks, 
 When from the shore she saw the white-sail* d 
 
 bark 
 That brought him home from Stamboul. 
 
 Never yet, 
 O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh ! 
 
 " And Sofuk loved her. She was more to 
 him 
 Than all his snowy-bosom' d odalisques. 
 For many years, beside his tent she stood. 
 The glory of the tribe. 
 
 "At last she died : 
 Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs — 
 Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved. 
 The base Jebours — on whom be Allah's 
 
 curse ! — 
 Came on his path, when far from any camp, 
 And would have slain him, but that Kubleh 
 
 sprang 
 Against the javelin-points and bore them down, 
 And gain'd the open desert. Wounded sore, 
 She urged her light limbs into maddening 
 
 speed 
 And made the wind a laggard. On and on 
 The red sand slid beneath her, and behind 
 Whirl'd in a swift and cloudy turbulence. 
 As when some star of Eblis, doAvnward hurl'd 
 By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burning hair 
 The waste of Darkness. On and on, the 
 
 bleak, 
 Bare ridges rose before her, came and pass'd ; 
 And every flying lean with fresher blood 
 Her nostril stain' d, till Sofuk' s brow and 
 
 breast 
 Were fleck' d with crimson foam. He would 
 
 have turn'd 
 To save his treasure, though himself were 
 
 lost, 
 But Kubleh fiercely snapp'd the brazen rein. 
 At last, when through her spent and quivering 
 
 frame 
 The sharp throes ran, our distant tents arose, 
 And with a neigh, whose shrUl excess of joy 
 O'ercame its agony, she stopp'd and fell. 
 The Shammar men came round her as she lay, 
 And Sofuk raised her head and held it close 
 Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye 
 Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died. 
 Then like a child his bursting grief made way 
 In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe 
 Wept for the faithful mare. 
 
 " They dug her grave 
 Amid Al-Hather's marbles, where she lies 
 Buried with ancient kings ; and since that time 
 Was never seen, and will not be again, 
 Arabs, though the world be doom'd to live 
 As many moons as count the desert sands, 
 The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great !" 
 
 JB. Taylor.— Born 1825. 
 
 1927.— THE POET IN THE EAST. 
 
 The poet came to the land of the East, 
 
 When Spring was in the air ; 
 The earth was dress' d for a wedding feast, 
 
 So young she seem'd, and fair ; 
 And the poet knew the land of the East — 
 
 His soul was native there. 
 
 All things to him were the visible forms 
 
 Of early and precious dreams — 
 Familiar visions that mock'd his quest 
 
 Beside the western streams, 
 Or gleam'd in the gold of the cloud unroll' d 
 
 In the sunset's dying beams. 
 
 He look'd above in the cloudless calm, 
 
 And the Sun sat on his throne ; 
 The breath of gardens deep in balm. 
 
 Was all about him blown. 
 And a brother to him was the princely Palm, 
 
 For he cannot live alone. 
 
 His feet went forth on the myrtled hills. 
 And the flowers their welcome shed j 
 
 The meads of milk-white asphodel 
 They knew the Poet's tread, 
 
 And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, 
 The poppy's bonfire spread. 
 
 And, half in shade and half in sun, 
 
 The Rose sat in her bower. 
 With a passionate thrill in her crimson 
 heart 
 
 She had waited for the hour ! 
 And, like a bride's, the Poet kiss'd 
 
 The lips of the glorious flower. 
 
 Then the Nightingale who sat above ' 
 
 In the boughs of the citron-tree. 
 
 Sang : " We are no rivals, brother mine. 
 Except in minstrelsy ; 
 
 For the rose you kiss'd -with the kiss of love. 
 Is faithful still to me." 
 
 And further sang the Nightingale : 
 
 " Your bower not distant lies. 
 I heard the sound of a Persian lute 
 
 From the jasmined window rise. 
 And like twe stars from the lattice-bars, 
 
 I saw the Sultana's eyes." 
 
 The Poet said : " I will here abide, 
 
 In the Sun's unclouded door ; 
 Here are the wells of all dehght 
 
 On the lost Arcadian shore : 
 Here is the light on sea and land. 
 
 And the dream deceives no more." 
 
 E. Taylor.— Born 1825 
 
 1928.— KILIMANDJAEO. 
 
 Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 
 Eemote, inacessible, silent, and lone — 
 Who, from the heart of the tropical fervours, 
 Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 AN OEIENTAL IDYL. 
 
 [B. Taylob. 
 
 Feeding for ever the fountains that make thee 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 
 
 The years of the world are engraved on thy 
 
 forehead ; 
 Time's morning blush' d red on thy firstf alien 
 
 snows ; 
 Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted, 
 Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till now. 
 Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, 
 Giving a soul to her manifold features, 
 Lighting through paths of the primitive 
 
 darkness 
 The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. 
 Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, 
 And long-baffled Time at thy baptism rejoices. 
 Take, then, a name, and be fill'd with 
 
 existence. 
 Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory. 
 While from the hand of the wandering poet 
 Drops the first garland of song at thy feet. 
 
 Floating alone, on the flood of thy making, 
 Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire. 
 Lo ! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter, 
 I dip from the waters a magical mirror. 
 And thou art reveal'd to my purified vision. 
 I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy co- 
 mates, 
 Standing alone ^twixt the Earth and the 
 
 Heavens, 
 Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Mom. 
 Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of granite. 
 The climates of Earth are display'd, as an 
 
 index, 
 Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. 
 There, in the gorges that widen, descending 
 From cloud and from cold into summer eternal, 
 Gather the threads of the ice-gender'd 
 
 fountains — 
 Gather to riotous torrents of crystal. 
 And, giving each shelvy recess where they 
 
 dally 
 The blooms of the North and its evergreen 
 
 turf age. 
 Leap to the land of the lion and lotus ! 
 Tlaere, in the wondering airs of the Tropics 
 Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold : 
 There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest 
 
 ledges. 
 His arms to the far-away lands of his brothers, 
 And the Pine-tree looks down on his rival the 
 
 Palm. 
 
 Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance, 
 Tinted and shadow' d by pencils of air. 
 Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the 
 
 forests. 
 Seats of the gods in the limitless ether, 
 Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 
 Above them, like folds of imperial ermine, 
 Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy fore- 
 head — 
 Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent. 
 Chasms and caverns where Day is a stranger, 
 
 Garners where storeth his treasures the 
 
 Thunder, 
 The Lightning his falchion, his ari'ows the 
 
 Hail! 
 
 Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give wel- 
 come : 
 They, the baptized and the crowned of ~a.ges, 
 Watch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth, 
 Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly. 
 Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad avalanches, 
 Hails thy accession ; superb Orizaba, 
 Belted with beech and ensandall'd with palm; 
 Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of noon- 
 day,— 
 Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus 
 With greeting august from the Pillars of 
 
 Heaven, 
 Who, in the urns of the Lidian Ganges, 
 Filter the snows of their sacred dominions, 
 Unmark'd with a footprint, unseen but of 
 God. 
 
 Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lordship. 
 Nor question'd the right that his majesty 
 
 giveth ; 
 Each in his awful supremacy forces 
 Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 
 Absolute all, yet in dignity varied. 
 None has a claim to the honours of story, 
 Or the superior splendours of song. 
 Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled — 
 Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains, 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 
 
 B. Taylor.— Bom 1825. 
 
 1929.— AN OEIENTAL IDYL. 
 
 A silver javelin which the hills 
 
 Have hurl'd upon the plain below. 
 
 The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, 
 Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 
 
 I hear the never-ending laugh 
 
 Of jostUng waves that come and go. 
 
 And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaflF 
 The sherbet cool'd in mountain snow 
 
 The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars 
 Beneath the canopy of shade ; 
 
 And in the distant, dim bazaars 
 I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 
 
 No evil fear, no dream forlorn, 
 
 Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; 
 
 My blood is temper' d to the mom — 
 My very heart is steep' d in dew. 
 
 What Evil is, I cannot tell ; 
 
 But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
 And, as a pearl within its shell. 
 
 The happy spirit sleeps in me. 
 
 85 
 
B. Taylor.] 
 
 HASSAN TO HIS MAEE. 
 
 [Seventh Pebtoo. — 
 
 I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
 The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, 
 
 But live the sweet, unconscious life 
 
 That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree. 
 
 Upon the glittering: pageantries 
 Of gay Damascus streets I look 
 
 A? idly as a babe that sees 
 
 The painted pictures of a book. 
 
 Forgotten now are name and race ; 
 
 The Past is blotted from my brain ; 
 For memory sleeps, and will not trace 
 
 The weary pages o'er again. 
 
 I only know the morning shines, 
 And sweet the dewy morning air ; 
 
 But does it play with tendrill'd vines ? 
 Or does it lightly lift my hair ? 
 
 Deep-sunken in the charm'd repose, 
 This ignorance is bliss extreme : 
 
 And whether I be Man, or Rose, 
 
 O, pluck me not from out my dream ! 
 
 B. Taylor.— Born lS2b. 
 
 1930.— HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 
 
 Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 
 
 On my shoulder lay thy glossy head ! 
 Fear not, though the barley- sack be empty, 
 
 Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. 
 
 Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty ! 
 
 And thou know'st my water-skin is free : 
 Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 
 
 And my strength and safety lie in thee. 
 
 Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses I 
 Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye : 
 
 Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the 
 saddle — 
 Thou art proud he owns thee : so am I. 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, 
 Prancing with their diamond-studded reins ; 
 
 They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
 When they course with thee the desert 
 plains ! 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, 
 Let him bring his golden swords to me — 
 
 Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem ; 
 He would offer them in vain for thee. 
 
 We have seen Damascus, O my beauty ! 
 
 And the splendour of the Pashas there ; 
 What's their pomp and riches ? Why, I would 
 not 
 
 Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 
 
 Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
 And because I've none he pities me : 
 
 What care I if he should have a thousand. 
 Fairer than the morning ? I have thee. 
 
 He wiU find his passion growing cooler 
 Should her glance on other suitors fall : 
 
 Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling, 
 Fail to answer at thy master's call. 
 
 By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion 
 Shall to thee his spring-time ardour bring ; 
 
 And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
 
 To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. 
 
 Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, 
 I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine ; 
 
 Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, 
 With thy glossy neck laid close to mine. 
 
 B. Taylor.— Born 1825. 
 
 1931.— THE PHANTOM. 
 
 Again I sit within the mansion, 
 
 In the old, familiar seat ; 
 And shade and sunshine chase each other 
 
 O'er the carpet at my feet. 
 
 But the sweetbriar's arms have wrestled up- 
 wards 
 
 In the summers that are past. 
 And the willow trails its branches lower 
 
 Than when I saw them last. 
 
 They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
 
 From out the haunted room ; 
 To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
 
 With silence and with gloom. 
 
 And many kind, remember'd faces 
 
 Within the doorway come — 
 Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
 
 Of one that now is dumb. 
 
 They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
 
 The songs she loved to hear ; 
 They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
 
 ■^Vhose flowers to her were dear. 
 
 And still, her footsteps in the passage, 
 
 Her blushes at the door. 
 Her timid words of maiden welcome 
 
 Come back to me once more. 
 
 And all forgetful of my sorrow, 
 
 Unmindful of my pain, 
 I think she has but newly left me, 
 
 And soon will come again. 
 
 She stays without, perchance, a moment. 
 
 To dress her dark-brown hair ; 
 I hear the rustle of her garments — 
 
 Her light step on the stair ! 
 
 0, fluttering heart ! control thy tumult, 
 
 Lest eyes profane should see 
 My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
 
 Her coming brings to me ! 
 
 She tarries long : but lo, a whisper 
 
 Beyond the open door. 
 And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 
 
 A shadow on the floor I 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 LEONATUS. 
 
 [E. H. Stoddard. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 
 The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
 
 And my patient heart must still await her, 
 Nor chide her long delays. 
 
 But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, 
 
 As many a time before : 
 Her foot is ever at the threshold, 
 
 Yet never passes o'er. 
 
 B. Taylor.-^Bom 1825. 
 
 1932.— LEONATUS. 
 
 The fair boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 It was his duty evermore 
 
 To tend the Lady Imogen ; 
 
 By peep of day he might be seen 
 Tapping against her chamber door, 
 
 To wake the sleepy waiting-maid ; 
 
 She woke, and when she had array'd 
 
 The Princess, and the twain had pray'd, 
 (They pray'd with rosaries of yore,) 
 
 They caJl'd him, pacing to and fro ; 
 
 And cap in hand, and bowing low, 
 
 He enter'd, and began to feed 
 
 The singing birds \vith fmit and seed. 
 
 The brave boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 He tripp'd along the kingly haU, 
 
 From room to room, with messages ; 
 
 He stopp'd the butler, clutch'd his keys, 
 (Albeit he was broad and tall,) 
 
 And dragg'd him down the vaults, where 
 wine 
 
 In bins lay beaded and divine. 
 
 To pick a flask of vintage fine ; 
 Came up, and clomb the garden wall. 
 
 And pluck' d from out the sunny spots 
 
 Peaches, and luscious apricots. 
 
 And fill'd his golden salver there, 
 
 And hurried to his Lady fair. 
 
 The gallant Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 He had a steed from Arab ground, 
 And when the lords and ladies gay 
 Went hawking in the dews of May, 
 
 And hunting in the country round. 
 And Imogen did join the band. 
 He rode him like a hunter grand, 
 A hooded hawk upoi^ his hand, 
 
 And by his side a slender hound : 
 But when they saw the deer go by, 
 He slipp'd the leash, and let him fly, 
 And gave his fiery barb the rein. 
 And scour'd beside her o'er tha plain. 
 
 The strange boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 Sometimes he used to stand for hours 
 Within her room, behind her chair ; 
 The soft wind blew his golden hair 
 Across his eyes, and bees from flowers 
 
 Humm'd round him, but he did not stir • 
 He fix'd his earnest eyes on her, 
 A pure and reverent worshipper, 
 A dreamer building airy towers : 
 
 But when she spoke he gave a start, 
 That sent the warm blood from his heart 
 To flush his cheeks, and every word 
 The fountain of his feelings stirr'd. 
 
 The sad boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 He lost all relish and delight. 
 
 For all things that did please before ; 
 By day he wish'd the day was o'er, 
 
 By night he wish'd the same of night : 
 He could not mingle in the crowd. 
 He loved to be alone, and shroud 
 His tender thoughts, and sigh aloud, 
 
 And cherish in his heart its blight. 
 At last his health began to fail. 
 His fresh and glowing cheeks to pale ; 
 And in his eyes the tears unshed 
 Did hang like dew on violets dead. 
 
 The timid Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 "What ails the boy !" said Imogen : 
 
 He stammer'd, sigh'd, and answered 
 "Naught." 
 
 She shook her head, and then she thought 
 What all his malady could mean ; 
 
 It might be love ; her maid wa-s fair. 
 
 And Leon had a loving air ; 
 
 She watch' d them with a jealous care. 
 And play'd the spy, but naught was seen : 
 
 And then she was aware at first. 
 
 That she, not knowing it, had nursed 
 
 His memory tUl it grew a part — 
 
 A heart within her very heart ! 
 
 The dear boy Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 She loved, but own'd it not as yet ; 
 
 When he was absent she was lone, 
 
 She felt a void before unknown. 
 And Leon fiU'd it when they met ; 
 
 She call'd him twenty times a day, 
 
 She knew not why, she could not say ; 
 
 She fretted when he went away. 
 And lived in sorrow and regret ; 
 
 Sometimes she frown' d with stately mien, 
 
 And chid him like a little queen ; 
 
 And then she soothed him meek and mild. 
 
 And grew as trustful as a child. 
 
 The neat scribe Leonatus, 
 The page of Imogen : 
 She wonder' d that he did not speak, 
 And own his love, if love indeed 
 It was that made his spirit bleed ; 
 And she bethought her of a freak 
 To test the lad ; she bade him write 
 A letter that a maiden might, 
 A biUet to her heart's delight ; 
 He took the pen with fingers weak. 
 Unknowing what he did, and wrote. 
 And folded up and sealed the note : 
 
 85* - 
 
E. H. Stoddard.] THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. [Seventh Pebiod.— 
 
 She wrote the superscription sage, 
 
 Wave thy poppies round her. Sleep ! 
 
 "For Leonatus, Lady's Page !" 
 
 Touch her eyelids, flood her brain ; 
 
 
 Banish Memory, Thought, and Strife, 
 
 The happy Leonatus, 
 
 Bar the portals of her life, 
 
 The page of Imogen : 
 
 Till the morning comes again ! 
 
 The page of Imogen no more, 
 
 Let no enemy intrude 
 
 But now her love, her lord, her life, 
 
 On her helpless solitude : 
 
 For she became his wedded wife, 
 
 Fear and Pain, and all their train — 
 
 As both had hoped and dream'd before. 
 
 Keep the evil hounds at bay, 
 
 He used to sit beside her feet, 
 
 And all evil dreams away ! 
 
 And read romances rare and sweet, 
 
 Thou, thyself, keep thou the key, 
 
 And, when she touch'd her lute, repeat 
 
 Or intrust it unto me. 
 
 Impassion'd madrigals of yore. 
 
 Sleep I Sleep ! Sleep ! 
 
 Uplooking in her face the while. 
 
 A lover's eyes are bright 
 
 Until she stoop' d with loving smile. 
 
 In the darkest night ; 
 
 And press' d her melting mouth to his, 
 
 And jealous even of dreams, almost of thee. 
 
 That answer' d in a dreamy bliss — 
 
 dear Sleep ! 
 
 The joyful Leonatus, 
 
 
 The lord of Imogen ! 
 
 I must sit, and think, and think, 
 
 B. H. 8todda/rd.—BoTn 1825. 
 
 Till the stars begin to wink : 
 (For the web of song is wrought 
 
 
 Only in the looms of Thought !) 
 
 
 She must lie, and sleep, and sleep, 
 
 
 
 (Be her slumbers calm and deep !) 
 
 
 Till the dews of morning weep ; 
 
 i933---'i'Hi!i SHADOW OF THE HAND. 
 
 Therefore bind your sweetest sprite 
 
 You were very charming, Madam, 
 
 To her service and delight. 
 
 In your silks and satins fine ; 
 
 All the night. 
 
 And you made your lovers drunken, 
 
 Sleep ! Sleep ! Sleep ! 
 
 But it was not with your wine I 
 
 And I'll whisper in her ear, 
 
 There were court gallants in dozens. 
 
 (Even in dreams it will be dear !) 
 
 There were princes of the land. 
 
 What she loveth so to hear, 
 
 And they would have perish'd for yon 
 
 Tiding sweeter than the flowers. 
 
 As they knelt and kiss'd your hand — 
 
 All about this love of ours, 
 
 For they saw no stain upon it. 
 
 And its rare increase : 
 
 It was such a snowy hand ! 
 
 Singing in the starry peace, 
 
 
 Ditties delicate, and free. 
 
 But for me — I knew you better. 
 
 Dedicate to her, and thee, 
 
 And, while you were flaunting there, 
 
 Sleep ! Sleep ! Sleep ! 
 
 I remember'd some one lying, 
 
 For I owe ye both a boon. 
 
 With the blood on his white hair I 
 
 And I mean to grant it soon. 
 
 He was pleading for you, Madam, 
 
 In my golden numbers that breathe of Love 
 
 Where the shriven spirits stand ; 
 
 and Sleep ! 
 
 But the Book of Life was darken' d, 
 
 
 By the Shadow of a Hand ! 
 
 B. H. Stoddard.— Born 1825. 
 
 It was tracing your perdition. 
 
 
 For the blood upon your hand ! 
 
 B. H. StoddoA-d.—Born 1825. 
 
 
 
 
 1 93 5. —AT EEST. 
 With folded hands the lady lies 
 
 
 1934.— EVOCATION TO SLEEP 
 
 In flowing robes of white, 
 A globed lamp beside her couch, 
 
 Draw the curtains round your bed, 
 
 A round of tender light. 
 
 And I'll shade the wakeful light ; 
 
 
 'Twill be hard for you to sleep. 
 
 With such a light above her head, 
 
 If you have me still in sight : — 
 
 A little year ago. 
 
 But you must though, and without me, 
 
 She walk'd adown the shadowy vale, • 
 
 For I have a song to write : 
 
 Where the blood-red roses grow ! 1 
 
 Then sleep, love, sleep ! 
 
 
 The flowers have gone to rest. 
 
 A shape or shadow join'd her there, | 
 
 And the birds are in the nest : 
 
 To pluck the royal flower. 
 
 'Tis time for you to join them beneath the 
 
 But from her breast the lily stole, 
 
 wings of Sleep ! 
 
 Which was her only dower. 
 
From 1730 to 1866.1 
 
 BEOKEN FAITH. 
 
 [Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 That gone, all went : her false love first. 
 
 And then her peace of heart ; 
 The hard world frown'd, her friends grew cold. 
 
 She hid in tears apart : 
 
 And now she lies upon her couch, 
 
 Amid the dying light : 
 Nor wakes to hear the little voice 
 
 That moans throughout the night ! 
 
 B. H. Stodda/rd.—Born 1825. 
 
 1936. —THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 
 
 A youth would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But she was rich, and he was poor, 
 And so it might not be. 
 A lady never could wear — 
 
 Her mother held it firm — 
 A gown that came of an Indian plant, 
 Instead of an Indian worm ! 
 And so the cruel word was spokan ; 
 And so it was two hearts were broken. 
 
 A youth would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But he was high, and she was low. 
 And so it might not be. 
 
 A man who had worn a spur, 
 
 In ancient battle won, 
 Had sent it down with great renown. 
 To goad his future son ! — 
 And so the cruel word was spoken ; 
 And so it was two hearts were broken. 
 
 A youth would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But their sires disputed about the Mass, 
 And so it might not be. 
 A couple of wicked Kings 
 
 Three hundred years agone. 
 Had play'd at a royal game of chess, 
 And the church had been a pawn ! — 
 And so the cruel word was spoken ; 
 And BO it was two hearts were broken. 
 
 J, G. Saxe. 
 
 And yet he toileth all ye while 
 
 His merrie catches rolle j 
 As true unto ye needle as 
 
 Ye needle to ye pole. 
 
 What cares ye valiant tailyor-man 
 For all ye cowarde feares ? ~ - 
 
 Against ye scissors of ye Fates 
 He pointes his mightie sheares. 
 
 He heedeth not ye anciente jests 
 
 That witlesse sinners use ; 
 What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man 
 
 Ye hissinge of a goose ? 
 
 He puUeth at ye busie threade, 
 
 To feede his lovinge wife 
 And eke his childe ; for unto them 
 
 It is ye threads of life. 
 
 He cutteth well ye riche man's coate. 
 
 And with unseemlie pride 
 He sees ye little waistcoate in 
 
 Ye cabbage bye his side. 
 
 Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife, 
 
 To labour nothinge loth, 
 Sits bye with readie hands to baste 
 
 Ye urchin and ye cloth. 
 
 Fnll happie is ye tailyor-man. 
 
 Yet is he often tried. 
 Lest he, from fullnesse of ye dimes, 
 
 Wax wanton in his pride. 
 
 Full happie is ye tailyor-man. 
 
 And yet he hath a foe, 
 A cunninge enemie that none 
 
 So well as tailyors knowe. 
 
 It is ye slipperie customer 
 Who goes his wicked wayes. 
 
 And weares ye tailyor-man his coate, 
 But never, never payes ! 
 
 J. G. Saxe 
 
 1937.— YE TAILYOE-MAN. 
 
 A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD. 
 
 Eight joUie is ye tailyor-man, 
 
 As annie man may be ; 
 And all ye daye upon ye benche 
 
 He worketh merrilie. 
 
 And oft ye while in pleasante wise 
 He coileth up his lymbes, 
 
 He singeth songs ye like whereof 
 Are not in Watts his hymns. 
 
 1938.— BEOKEN FAITH. 
 
 Buds on the apple-boughs. 
 
 And robins in every tree ; 
 Brown on the children's sun-kiss'd brows 
 
 A softer blue on the tender sea. 
 Ah me! 
 Bees in the maples murmuring, 
 Brooks on the hillsides ; — and yet, Spring, 
 
 Thou hast broken thy faith with me ! 
 
 Broken thy faith with me, 
 
 Who have pined for thee so long,— 
 Waiting and waiting patiently 
 
 Through all the Winter's cruel wrong. 
 Ah me ! 
 Climbing the rugged, desolate hills 
 To watch the sky for the faintest thrills 
 
 Of the azure yet to be. 
 
Elizabeth Akeks.] 
 
 TIME. 
 
 [Seventh Period. — 
 
 Violets sweeten the woods 
 
 And purple the river-sides, 
 While deep in the shady solitudes 
 
 The last sweet bud of the arbutus hides, 
 >T Ah me ! 
 
 And the treacherous honey-bee stays his wing 
 To wrong its sweetness ; — but yet, O Spring, 
 ^ Thou hast broken thy faith with me ! 
 
 Never a bud is seen 
 
 "Within my garden walls, — 
 Never a touch of sprouting green ; 
 
 And the fitful sunlight faintly falls, 
 Ah me ! 
 On broken trellis and leafless vine, 
 Where last year's tendrils bleach and pine, 
 
 With blacken'd stems between. 
 
 June will be here anon, 
 
 Flushing the smiling skies, 
 Putting her bravest garments on, 
 
 Flaunting her roses in homesick eyes, 
 Ah me ! 
 Which will not smile at the thoughts they 
 
 bring. 
 Or weep when they wither ; — for thou, 
 Spring, 
 Hast broken thy faith with me f 
 
 Elizabeth Alcers. 
 
 1939. — TIME. 
 
 Ton see the tree that sweeps my window- 
 pane ? 
 All the long winter-time it moans and 
 grieves ; 
 In the bleak night I hear its boughs com- 
 plain. 
 Praying for gracious sunshine and warm rain, 
 And its withheld inheritance of leaves. 
 
 »But what avails it? Though the sad tree 
 wears 
 Its heart out with its grief, what shall it 
 gain? 
 Do you believe the tardy summer cares 
 For all its wild rebukes and passionate 
 prayers. 
 Or that the sun shines warmer for its pain P 
 
 Verily not. No pleader can prevail 
 
 Who prays against the laws of Time or 
 Fate: 
 No matter how we murmur and bewail. 
 The robins will not build in winter hail, 
 • Nor lilacs blow in February. Wait ! 
 
 Have faith, my friend. And when these stormy 
 glooms 
 Have chasten' d us for June, come here 
 again, 
 And you shall see my tree made glad with 
 
 blooms, 
 Its branches all a-toss with purple plumes 
 Sweeping across this selfsame window-pane ! 
 EUaaheth Alcers. 
 
 1 940.— ENDUEANCE. 
 
 How much the heart may bear, and yet not 
 break ! 
 How much the flesh may suffer, and not die ! 
 I question much if any pain or ache 
 
 Of soul or body brings our end more nigh : 
 Death chooses his own time ; till that is 
 sworn. 
 
 All evils may be borne. 
 
 We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, 
 
 Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel 
 
 Whose edge seems searching for the quivering 
 
 life, 
 
 Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal. 
 
 That still, although tlie trembling flesh bO 
 
 torn, 
 
 This also can be borne. 
 
 We see a sorrow rising in our way, 
 
 And try to flee from the approaching ill ; 
 We seek some small escape ; we weep an<3 
 , pray ; 
 
 Eat when the blow falls, then our hearts 
 are still ; 
 Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, 
 But that it can be borne. 
 
 We wind our life about another life ; 
 
 We hold it closer, dearer than our own : 
 Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife. 
 
 Leaving us stunn'd, and stricken, and alone ; 
 But ah ! we do not die with those we mourn,— 
 This also can be borne. 
 
 Behold, we live through all things, — famine, 
 ^ thirst, 
 
 / Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery, 
 All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst 
 On soul and body, — but we cannot die. 
 Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and. 
 worn, — 
 
 Lo, all things can be borne ! 
 
 Elizabeth Akers^ 
 
 1941.— SINGING IN THE EAIN. 
 
 Where the elm-tree branches by the rain are 
 
 stirr'd, 
 Careless of the shower, swings a little bird : 
 Clouds may frown and darken, drops may 
 
 fall in vain ; — 
 Little heeds the warbler singing in the rain ! 
 
 Silence soft, unbroken, reigneth everywhere, — 
 Save the rain's low heart-throbs pulsing on 
 the air, 
 Save the song, which, pausing, wins no 
 
 answering strain ; — 
 Little cares the robin singing in the rain ! 
 
 Not yet are the orchards rich with rosy snow, 
 Nor with dandelions are the fields aglow ; 
 Yet almost my fancy in his song's sweet flow 
 Hears the June leaves whisper, and the 
 roses blow ! 
 
From 1780 to 1866.] 
 
 KISSES. 
 
 [Elizabeth Aker 
 
 Dimmer fall the shadows, mistier grows the 
 
 air, — 
 Still the thick clouds gather, darkening here 
 and there. 
 From their heavy fringes pour their drops 
 
 amain; 
 Still the bird is singing, singing in the 
 rain. 
 
 O thou hopeful singer, whom my faith per- 
 ceives 
 To a dove transfigured bringing olive-leaves, — 
 
 Ohve-leaves of promise, types of joy to be ; 
 
 How, in doubt and trial, learns my heart of 
 " thee ! 
 
 Cheerful summer prophet ! listening to thy 
 
 How my fainting spirit groweth glad and 
 strong. 
 Let the black clouds gather, let the sun- 
 shine wane, 
 If I may but join thee singing in the rain ! 
 Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 1942.--A DREAM. 
 
 Back again, darling ? O day of delight ! 
 How I have long'd for you, morning and 
 
 night! 
 Watch' d for you, pined for you, aU the day 
 
 through. 
 Craving no boon and no blessing but you, — 
 Pray'd for you, pled for you, sought you in 
 
 vain, 
 striving for ever to find you again, — 
 Counting all anguish as naught, if I might 
 i Clasp you again as I clasp you to-night ! 
 
 '0, 1 have sorrow'd and suffer'd so much 
 Since I last answer'd your lips' loving touch, — 
 Through the night-watches, in daylight's 
 
 broad beams. 
 Anguish' d by visions and tortured by 
 
 dreams, — 
 Dreams so replete with bewildering pain, 
 Still it is throbbing in heart and in brain : 
 O, for I dream'd, — keep me close to your side, 
 Darling, O darling ! — I dream'd you had died ! 
 
 Dream'd =that I stood by your pillow, and 
 
 heard 
 From your pale lips love's last, half -utter' d 
 
 word; 
 And by the light of the May-morning skies 
 Watch' d your face whiten, and saw your dear 
 
 eyes 
 Gazing far into the Wonderful Land ; 
 Felt your fond fingers grow cold in my 
 
 hand ; — 
 " Darling," you whisper'd, " My darling ! " 
 
 you said 
 Faintly, so faintly, — and then you were dead ! 
 
 the dark hours when I knelt by your grave, 
 Calling upon you to love and to save, — 
 Pleading in vain for a sign or word 
 Only to tell me you listen' d and heard, — 
 Only to say you remember' d and knew 
 How all my soul was in anguish for you ; 
 Bitter, despairing, the tears that I shed, 
 Darling, darling, because you were dead ! 
 
 the black days of your absence, my own ! 
 O to be left in the wide world alone ! 
 Long, with our little one clasp' d to my breast; 
 Wander' d I, seeking for refuge and rest ; 
 Yet all the world was so careless and cold, 
 Vainly I sought for a sheltering fold ; — 
 There was no roof and no home for my head, 
 Darling, O darling, because you were dead ! 
 
 Tet, in the midst of the darkness and pain, 
 Darling, I knew I should find you again ! 
 Knew, as the roses know, under the snow. 
 How the next summer will set them aglow ; 
 So did I always, the dreary days through, 
 Keep my heart single and sacred to you, 
 As on the beautiful day we were wed. 
 Darling, darling, although you were dead ! 
 
 the great joy of awaking, to know 
 
 1 did but dream aU that torturing woe ! 
 
 the delight, that my searching can trace 
 Nothing of coldness or change in your face ! 
 Still is your forehead unfurrow'd and fair ; 
 None of the gold is lost out of your hair. 
 None of the light from your dear eyes has 
 
 fled-. 
 Darling, O how could I dream you were dead ? 
 
 Now you are here, you will always remain, 
 Never, never to leave me again ! 
 How it has vanish' d, the anguish of years ! 
 Vanish' d ! nay, these are not sorrowful tears, — 
 Happiness only my cheek has impearl'd, — 
 There is no grieving for me in the world ; 
 Dark clouds may threaten, but I have no fear. 
 Darling, darling, because you are here ! 
 
 Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 1943.— KISSES. 
 
 The kiss of friendship, kind and calm, 
 May fall upon the brow like balm ; 
 A deeper tenderness may speak 
 In precious pledges on the cheek ; 
 Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet, 
 Love's dewy pressure, close and sweet ; — 
 But more than all the rest I prize 
 The faithful lips that kiss my eyes. 
 
 Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips 
 
 Touch reverently your finger-tips ; 
 Blush, happy maiden, when you feel 
 The lips which press love's glowing seal; 
 
 But as the slow years darklier roll. 
 
 Grown wiser, the experiejaced soul 
 Will own as dearer lar than they 
 The lips whicjj kiss the tears away ! 
 
 Elizabeth Akers, 
 
ISlizabeth Akebb.] 
 
 EOCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 [Seventh Period. 
 
 1944.— EOCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your 
 
 flight, 
 Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
 
 hair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
 Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
 Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
 Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
 Blossom'd and faded, our faces between : , 
 Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
 Long I to-night for your presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
 Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures, — 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
 Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids 
 
 creep ; — 
 Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 
 
 gold, 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
 Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
 Since I last listen' d your lullaby song : 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 
 Clasp' d to your heart in a loving embrace. 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
 Eock me to sleep, mother,~rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 1945.— L S T. 
 
 The word has come ; — go forth 
 An outcast and a blot upon the earth ; 
 Lo, the fierce angel, with his sword of flame, 
 
 And brow of bitter blame, 
 Stands at the portal, and commands thee, — 
 hark ! 
 " Go forth into the dark, 
 The blind and pitiless dark, 
 Perdita ! " 
 
 Go forth into the storm, 
 Wrap the rough sackcloth round thy delicate 
 form, 
 Since torn for ever thence 
 Are the fair garments of thine innocence, 
 Which not by prayer, nor penance, nor much 
 pain, 
 Can be made white again, 
 Perdita ! 
 
 Nay, it is vain to plead,— 
 There is no hand to help, no ear to heed,— 
 
 Not even his, whose art 
 Did win and cast aside thy credulous heart,— 
 Who from thy forehead gather' d ruthlessly 
 The luminous lilies of white Purity, 
 
 And planted there instead 
 Shame's heavy blossoms, broad and scarlet- 
 red, 
 
 Perdita! 
 
 Whom thou wouldst die to please ; 
 Whom thou hast foUow'd on thy bleeding 
 knees 
 Through wrong and woe and strife. 
 To kiss his footsteps in the dust of life, — 
 
 Pleading with tears the while 
 For the great blessing of a word or smile, 
 
 As starvelings plead for bread. 
 To those, who, taunting, fling a stone in- 
 stead, — 
 
 Perdita ! 
 
 Lift not thy pleading eyes 
 To the calm scorn of the unpitying sMes, — 
 
 Hide thy dishonour' d brow,— 
 Sweet Mercy's smile is not for each as thou, 
 Perdita ! 
 
 EUmheth Akers. 
 
 "WTMAN AI,-D SONS, PEINTBES, GBBAT QUEEIT STEEET, lOlTDOK', W.C. 
 
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