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 A TREASURY 
 
 OF 
 
 MINOR BRITISH POETRY
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 OF 
 
 MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. CHURTOnIcOLLINS, M.A. 
 
 fiipra re Kal i'a Kal iXixpvaos, 
 /LiaXd re Kal p6da Kal ripewa 56.(pva 
 
 EDWARD ARNOLD 
 LONDON "^^ NEW YORK 
 
 Z7 BEDFORD STREET 70 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
 1896
 
 ?R 
 
 ERRATA 
 
 Page 22, line 12, /or 'gailly' read ' gayVie ' or 'gaily.' 
 „ 68, ,, 3, /<?;■' statlie ' ;-^<z</ ' statelie.' 
 ,, 98, at foot, /or ' Fleckno ' read ' Flecknoe.' 
 
 ,, 102, line 12, a/ler ' ty'd ' inseri (,). 
 ,, ,, ,, 13, a/^er 'them ' and 'Waine' hiseri (,). 
 
 ,, 132, line 4 from foot, /or 'are' read 'aire.' 
 
 ,, 134, at foot, I'mcri *Anox.' 
 
 I5'.i0l'^r)
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A NEW Treasury of British poetry might almost seem an 
 impertinence, so numerous, and in many cases so excel- 
 lent, are collections of this kind To go no farther than 
 Mr. Francis Palgrave's Golden Treasury, Dean Trench's 
 Household Book of English Poetry, Mr. Locker- Lampson's 
 Lyra Elegafitiarutn, and Mr. Humphry Ward's English 
 Foets, are not these, it may be asked, all that lovers of 
 poetry could desire, and are not these in everybody's 
 hands ? I, for one, should certainly reply in the affirma- 
 tive, and I should no more think of entering into com- 
 petition with them than I should think of re-gathering 
 and presenting again the flowers of their anthologies. If 
 this collection has any relation to them it is that of 
 the aftermath to the full harvest, of the gleaner to the 
 binder of the sheaves. But I modestly claim for this little 
 volume an independent place. It is an experiment, and 
 it is, so far as I know, an experiment which has not 
 been attempted before. The principle on which the 
 poems have been selected, and the principle on which 
 they have been arranged, I must ask permission to 
 explain fully and precisely, and this is the more necessary 
 as my book, unfortunately, labours under the disadvantage 
 of being very imperfectly described by its title. It is 
 commonly objected to anthologies that they copy each 
 other, that they travel in a round, that the same poets,
 
 Vlii A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 illustrated by the same poems, appear and reappear till 
 they become trite by repetition, and that this applies not 
 merely to poets who have long been classical and whose 
 names are household words, but to the minor poets also. 
 Thus, as surely as Ben Jonson, Herrick, and Waller are 
 presented, so surely is the one the herald of Drink to 
 me only with thine eyes and Queen and Himtress^ 
 the other of Gather ye rosebuds and Faire Daffodils, 
 and the third of Go, lovely rose. A few original 
 explorers of taste and judgment add from time to time 
 to the treasury of gems, which soon passes into common 
 property, till at last, as anthologies multiply, they become 
 little more than compilations from compilations. As 
 long as selections confine themselves to certain poets 
 and to the very best things of their kind, to gems, so to 
 speak, of the first water, it is difficult to see how this 
 can be avoided ; for poetry attaining a very high standard, 
 though abundant, is soon exhausted, and repetition is 
 inevitable. Without questioning the truth of the Greek 
 proverb Sts r] rph ra KaXa, that we cannot have too 
 much of a good thing, I should yet not have ventured to 
 add another volume to the volumes already dedicated 
 to such good things. My chief object has been, if I 
 may say so, to supplement those works and to introduce 
 the general reader to poems which, though well worth 
 his attention, are, as a rule, not to be found at all in 
 popular anthologies, and in no case are among the stock- 
 pieces in those collections, and with which presumably 
 therefore he will not be familiar. I have for this reason 
 excluded all those poets who may be regarded as 
 classics, as well as those who are much in vogue. Thus 
 Chaucer is passed over ; thus in the Elizabethan Age, 
 to say nothing of Spenser and Shakespeare, Marlowe 
 and Ben Jonson have no place. In the eighteenth
 
 PREFACE IX 
 
 centur)- neither Pope nor Swift, neither Gray nor 
 CoUins, neither Goldsmith nor Cowper is represented. 
 In the nineteenth century exclusion has even extended 
 to Moore and Southey. If I have included ^Valler, 
 Congreve, Prior, and Thomson, it is only because I have 
 sought to give prominence to one or two poems which 
 are not generally noticed. And what applies to them 
 applies to Crabbe. 
 
 But I have confined my area within stricter limits 
 still. Where a poet has only written two or three good 
 things, which have gone the round of the anthologies, I 
 have omitted him. Where a poet's work has been 
 abundant I have carefully avoided the "gems" with which 
 every one is familiar, and have chosen what seemed to 
 me best in the residue. I have thus had to deprive 
 my book of many diamonds, but I hope I have secured 
 in their place as many excellent pearls. I have not, it is 
 true, excluded all poems which are familiar even to the 
 general reader. I have inserted for instance Logan's 
 Braes of Yarrow and Ode to the Cuckoo, but I have 
 done my utmost to avoid what is trite. 
 
 But what has been restricted on one side has been 
 allowed latitude on another. I have not confined 
 myself to songs and lyrics, though songs and lyrics are 
 the staple of my collection. I have plucked a flower 
 wherever I could find it. I have occasionally detached 
 passages from voluminous narrative, philosophic, and 
 mock-heroic poems. From long lyrics I have chosen a 
 stanza or two, or even a few lines ; I have not excluded 
 sonnets ; I have not grudged a place to a good epigram. 
 Wherever in my rambles among tombs 1 have come 
 upon an epitaph which seemed worthy of preservation I 
 have inserted it, and I venture to think that I have thus 
 saved from perishing more than one of those compositions
 
 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 which well deserve to be remembered. With all this 
 variety every endeavour has been made to give a certain 
 unity to the collection, and to prevent it from becoming, 
 what it so easily might have become, a mere miscellany. 
 It will be seen that each piece illustrates some phase it 
 may be of thought, it may be of passion, it may be of 
 sentiment in relation to life or to death, or in relation 
 to supernaturalism or to nature — in other words, that the 
 note throughout is lyrical. Within this limit the selections 
 are in every possible tone between the intense expression 
 of intense emotion, and the gayest and lightest abandon 
 of the humorist and wit. Life itself, on its passive side, 
 is little more than the record of what finds expression in 
 these varied moods, and that its reflection may be the 
 more faithfully returned in these poems, I have arranged 
 them on a new principle. I have endeavoured to give 
 them a sort of dramatic propriety by making them cor- 
 respond, or at least roughly correspond, to the different 
 stages of human experience. In each of the four books 
 the poems pertaining to childhood and youth come first, 
 and animal joy, passion, and pleasure are the themes. 
 Next come poems of a more mingled yarn and in more 
 diverse keys, expressive of the experiences of manhood. 
 Then serious reflection begins to predominate, till 
 
 About the rim 
 Scull-things in order grim 
 Grow out in graver mood, obey the sterner stress, 
 
 and the note is elegiac till death closes the scene on 
 earth. Lastly come, as a fitting conclusion, poems in 
 which hope and faith find expression. To this arrange- 
 ment there is, however, one exception. It seemed 
 desirable that, as the opening poems of the first book 
 are in very obsolete language, they should not be
 
 PREFACE XI 
 
 distributed among the others, but be placed where they 
 naturally would have been placed had the collection 
 been arranged chronologically. 
 
 This Treasury has also another aim, a subordinate 
 aim it is true, but one which has never been lost sight 
 of, and that is to illustrate the history of our minor 
 lyric poetry — not its form, that has been for obvious 
 reasons impossible, but its essence and spirit. The 
 period covered is from the first half of the thirteenth 
 century to recent times, a period of some seven hundred 
 years. The present collection extends to four books. 
 The first book comprises selections from the minor 
 poetr)' which appeared between the middle of the 
 thirteenth century and the close of the Elizabethan Age ; 
 the selections in the second book range from 1625 to 
 1700; in the third book, from 1700 to 1798; in the 
 fourth, from 1798 to recent times. Living poets have 
 for obvious reasons been excluded. 
 
 Fletcher of Saltoun's famous saying about the ballads 
 of a nation is susceptible of a much wider application 
 than he gave to it. It is in the minor poetry of an age 
 that contemporary life impresses itself most deeply, and 
 finds perhaps its most faithful mirror. In the great 
 masterpieces of poetry that life is presented in an ideal 
 light, and in relation to ideal truth. What belongs 
 to a time is subordinated to what belongs to all time, 
 what is actual to what is typical, what is local to what 
 is universal. There is, moreover, in genius of the higher 
 order a dominant, a despotic individuality which tempers 
 and assimilates the material on which it works to its 
 own potent idiosyncrasy. It is not in the Ctrnterluiry 
 Tales that the England of Edward III. becomes fully 
 articulate, for where, even in a whisper, is heard the 
 voice which pierces us to the soul in Langland ? It is
 
 xu A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 not in the Faerie Queen or even in the Dramas of 
 Shakespeare that the England of Ehzabeth and James 
 is presented to us on all its sides, for Spenser never 
 forgets that he is a didactic allegorist, and Shakespeare 
 that he is a dramatic artist. Still less is the England 
 of the Revolution reflected in the masterpieces of Milton, 
 or the England of the latter part of the eighteenth and 
 the first part of the nineteenth century in the master- 
 pieces of Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, and Shelley. It is 
 otherwise with the minor poetry of any particular era. 
 Here for the eclecticism, if we may so express it, of the 
 great masters the age itself finds a tongue. For the 
 voice which speaks in these poets is the voice of the 
 nation, of the courtier, of the statesman, and man of 
 affairs, of the scholar, and litterateur, of the churchman, 
 of the man of pleasure, of the busy citizen, of the recluse, 
 of the soldier and sailor, of the peasant, of the mechanic, 
 and of women of all classes and of all callings. What 
 is moulding, what is colouring, what is in any way affect- 
 ing the life of the time has its record here. Is the pulse 
 of the nation quickened or depressed ; are imagination 
 and passion, or fancy and sentiment, or reason and 
 reflection in the ascendant, is the prevailing tendency 
 in the direction of simplicity and nature, or towards 
 ingenuity and art, is the moral tone in society high or 
 low, is the period a period of progress, or of decadence, 
 or of transition, the answer to all this may be found, 
 and found in detail, in our collections of minor poetry. 
 Take, for instance, the poetry of the Sloane and Harleian 
 MSB. with the other poetry in Mr. Wright's Collections. 
 Here is the England of the thirteenth and fourteenth 
 centuries so fully, so faithfully depicted, that its social 
 and political history might be written from those antho- 
 logies. Gushing from the heart as the song of a bird
 
 PREFACE xiu 
 
 ring out those primitive lyrics, with their gracious sim- 
 plicity, their freshness, their abandon, their harmonious 
 responsiveness to the inspiring mood. Be the theme 
 what it may, sincerity, truth, and nature prevail. In the 
 love lyrics hope and despair, rapture and compliment 
 express themselves without conceits, and with charming 
 naivete. Xo jarring chord of distrust or doubt is 
 audible in the religious poetry which is the simple 
 expression of thanksgiving, praise, and prayer. Let 
 us go forward to 1557 to Edward's Paradise of Dainty 
 Drcices and to Tottel's Miscellany. Here all the char- 
 acteristics of the period, stretching from the dawn of the 
 Reformation to the last two years of Mary's reign, have 
 full illustration, the influence exercised on our literature 
 by the Latin classics, by Italy, by Spain, the last notes 
 of medievalism blending with the first notes of the new 
 world, the affectation of the forms and fashions of the 
 Renaissance, the large infusion of moral and religious 
 reflection, the gloom, depression, and anxiety which 
 darkened and vexed those sombre times. Let us pass 
 on to the beginning of the next century to England's 
 Helicon (1600), and to Davison's Poetical Rhapsody 
 (1602). Here we are at the acme of the great Eliza- 
 bethan Age. The clouds have rolled away, all is 
 splendour, all is joy. The extraordinary complexity and 
 tropical luxuriance of that wonderful era which seems 
 to blend all that characterises the infancy, the maturity, 
 and the decadence of a literature in its entirety, are 
 fully displayed in those collections. But the pre- 
 dominating strain is rapture. It is the poetry of men 
 who are in different degrees, but in very truth inspired. 
 They may indulge in conceits, they may affect trivial 
 graces, their pedantry may sometimes jar on us, but the 
 unmistakable accent of enthusiasm is theirs. Let us go
 
 XIV A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 forward eighty-two years to the next important Treasury 
 of Minor Poetry. Between 1684 and 1716 appeared 
 Tonson's Miscellanies in six parts. We turn over its 
 pages ; we are not only in another world but in a world 
 which seems scarcely to retain any trace of the former. 
 Imagination has disappeared, enthusiasm has disappeared, 
 fervour, colour, richness all are gone ; rhetoric has 
 superseded passion ; simplicity and naivete have given 
 place to ingenuity and wit, not the ingenuity and wit 
 of the metaphysical school, but of a generation which 
 has receded much farther from the sphere of poetry, 
 and which seems indeed to have lost all touch with it. 
 Pitched in as low a key as they well could be, both ethic 
 and aesthetic have alike degenerated. High instincts, 
 high aims, high actions are never the themes. Nothing 
 is so rare as a touch of romance or transcendentalism. 
 If the love poetry is not marked, as it frequently is, 
 by cynicism and grossness, levity and libertinism are 
 its characteristics, expressed, it is true, with so much 
 grace and charm of style as not to be repulsive. It is 
 the poetry of an age of reaction, and of reaction in a 
 twofold sense, spiritually and morally against the ideals 
 of Puritanism and of the religious party generally, 
 artistically against the licence and extravagance of the 
 Elizabethans and their immediate successors. But it 
 is the poetry also of an age of revolution. As between 
 the accession of Elizabeth and about 1616 everything 
 contributed to subordinate the genius of science and 
 criticism to the genius of romance and poetry, so at 
 the time of the Restoration the tendency was exactly 
 the reverse. A great scientific movement had passed 
 over Europe and had become influential everywhere. 
 The spirit of inquiry, of analysis, of reflection was at 
 work in all directions. Men reasoned, where before
 
 PREFACE XV 
 
 they felt, and questioned, where before they accepted 
 and enjoyed. To think clearly, to argue correctly, and 
 to express the results in a precise and lucid style was 
 the surest way of hitting the popular taste. The poets, 
 under the dominion of the same influence, followed 
 the prose-writers, and so far as essentials are concerned 
 there is little to distinguish them. Both dealt with the 
 same subjects and treated them in the same spirit. 
 The charm of both lies partly in their moderation, 
 knowledge of life, wit, and good sense, and partly in 
 their power of expression. In both this reached a high 
 degree of excellence. Nothing could be more finished 
 than the style of some of these poets, than the style, for 
 example, of Rochester, of Sedley, and of Congreve at its 
 best. But the light of poetry burns very low in these 
 the luminaries of Tonson's Collection^ as it burnt very 
 low in the sun of their system the great Dryden him- 
 self Again let us go forward sixty-seven years and take 
 the last edition of Dodsley's Collectio7i with Pearch's 
 Supplement published respectively in 1782 and 1783. 
 We have here, illustrated from the writings of minor 
 poets, a complete history of our poetry from the 
 appearance of Pope to the dawn of the era of Words- 
 worth and Coleridge. And step by step we may trace 
 its progress. First we mark the predominance of all 
 that characterised the work of Pope and his school, 
 those ethical commonplaces, that refined mock-heroic, 
 that admirable satire, that point, that wit, that perfection 
 of mechanical form. But side by side with this, sotto 
 voce as it were, the pensive sentimentalism of Parnell, 
 the genuine love of nature shown by Thomson and Dyer. 
 As the century proceeds the note of Pope grows fainter, 
 and the chords struck by Parnell, Thomson, and Dyer 
 find more and more response. Soon all the signs of
 
 XVI A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 reaction against the classical, or to speak more correctly, 
 the critical school of Dryden and Pope become con- 
 spicuous. The occasional substitution of Greek models 
 for Latin by Akenside, Gray, Mason, and Glover ; the re- 
 vival of romanticism in such works as Percy's Reliqiies, — 
 and the Macpherson and Chatterton forgeries, some of the 
 Odes of Collins and of the Wartons, the enthusiasm for 
 nature, the cultivation of the ballad, the reappearance of 
 the sonnet, the increasing tendency to prefer incident to 
 reflection, the life of the country to the life of the town, 
 the affectation of simplicity, the large infusion of senti- 
 ment, the revival and accentuation of the spirit of liberty, 
 the awakening of the spirit of philanthropy, — of all this is 
 the poetry collected by Dodsley and Pearch the record. 
 In the work of many of these poets it is in some 
 respects but a step to the work of the great poets of the 
 next age. Nature had no more faithful votary or 
 painter in Wordsworth than she had in the authors of 
 Grongar Hill, of the Ode to Evening, of the Ode to 
 Rural Elegance, of Flora's Fables, of The Enthusiast, of 
 The Mitistrel, of A}?iwell. The note which Scott struck 
 in The Lay of the Last Minstrel and Marmion had been 
 struck by Thomas Warton in his Crusade and Grave of 
 King Arthur. Crabbe is anticipated by Falconer and 
 Langhorne, Coleridge and Keats in some important 
 respects by Chatterton and others, and what has been 
 called the most original contribution ever made to poetry, 
 the Lyrical Ballads of Wordsworth and Coleridge, may be 
 resolved into elements, every one of which is to be traced 
 in our minor poetry between the accession of George 
 III. and 1790. As in social and political life, so also 
 in poetry, which is its expression, the great cataclysm 
 of the Revolution did but broaden and deepen into 
 torrents and rivers the rills which had their sources and
 
 PREFACE xvil 
 
 had defined their channels in the low tablelands of the 
 England of Walpole and of Pulteney, of the Grenvilles 
 and of Lord North. Twenty years later brings us to 
 the Poetical Register, another twenty-two years to Alaric 
 Watts' Poetical Album, another six decades or so to Mr. 
 Alfred ^Miles' Poets of the Century. In these collections 
 may be traced not merely the evolution of our lyrical 
 poetry but its history from the end of the last century to 
 the present time. We seem as we turn over the pages 
 of the last two Anthologies — the Poetical Register is the 
 asylum of mediocrity — to be once more amid the 
 luxuriance and splendour, the rapture and glory of the 
 Elizabethan Miscellanies. Passion and enthusiasm are 
 again aglow and in a far intenser degree than in the 
 lyrists oi England'' s Helicon and the Poetical Rhapsody. A 
 music as sweet, as liquid, as spontaneous as theirs, but 
 infinitely richer, subtler, and more varied is in our ears. 
 And it is heard on all sides, not in the strains of the 
 master-singers only, but in those of the many who make 
 up the chorus. The high level attained in the minor 
 poetry of the first six decades of the present century has 
 certainly no parallel in any preceding age. Between 1800 
 and 1S60 there are at least a hundred poets, there are 
 probably more, who have the note of distinction, whose 
 note, that is to say, is not essentially commonplace or 
 essentially imitative. Between i860 and the present 
 time talent has undoubtedly been more conspicuous than 
 genius, but genius has not been rare, and the talent dis- 
 played, the standard reached in taste, in receptivity, in 
 technique, and in expression are truly wonderful. It 
 would be no exaggeration to say that many and very 
 many of the minor poets of the last sixty years would, 
 had they lived a century and a half ago, have become 
 famous.
 
 xvni A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 The distinguishing characteristic of the poetry of the 
 present century, regarded comprehensively, is its extra- 
 ordinary complexity. This has arisen partly from the 
 faithfulness with which it has, in each generation, reflected 
 the intense and manifold life of modern times, and 
 partly from the natural tendency of an age of culture to 
 eclecticism. We may trace in it the influence of every 
 important movement which has from the beginning of 
 the century affected politics and society. Now it has 
 the note of the exaltation and excitement of the revolu- 
 tionary era, now the note of the reactionary depression 
 which succeeded it. Here it is the trumpet-voice of all 
 that subsequently found vent in the cries for emancipa- 
 tion, relief, and reform, and in the demands and aspirations 
 of the Chartists and Communists ; here again it is the 
 protest plaintive, indignant, or humorous of conservative 
 opposition. Of every phase and mood in the conflict 
 between Christianity and Agnosticism, between Tran- 
 scendentalism and Science, between the creed of the 
 optimist and the creed of the pessimist it is the faithful 
 expression. The very -^olian harp of the Zeit-Geist, its 
 chords have responded to every breath of the popular 
 breeze. But if the poetry which has had its inspiration 
 from the life of the age blends so many diverse notes, the 
 poetry of culture has still more complexity. The tendency 
 of culture is towards imitation, and imitation is naturally 
 coextensive with what excites admiration and sympathy. 
 Men are now universal students, and the note of the 
 poetry of all ages and of all nations has been caught 
 and returned by modern lyrists. One recalls the old 
 Greek choruses, another the melic it may be of Sappho, 
 or of Pindar, of Anacreon or of Simonides, another that 
 of Catullus or of Horace. Here Hafiz or Omar is 
 inspiration and model ; here it is the accent of Dante
 
 PREFACE XIX 
 
 and his circle, or of Petrarch, or perhaps of Leopardi or 
 of Manzoni. Others recall the lyric of Spain, of Portugal, 
 or of France. One revives Villon, another Ronsard, or 
 the echo is the echo of Beranger, of De Musset, of 
 Victor Hugo. The old German ballads inspire some ; 
 in many others the note is the note of Goethe, or of 
 Schiller, of Riickert, or of Heine. Of our own past and of 
 the past of Scotland and Ireland the poetry of every 
 century has its imitators. And the marvel is that so 
 large a portion of this essentially imitative poetry should 
 have so much intrinsic excellence. But excellence it 
 has and often of a high order. Longinus remarks that 
 if inspiration, in the proper sense of the term, is the gift 
 of Heaven, there is an inspiration not less genuine which 
 may be kindled by sympathy. This is the soul of 
 imitative poetry, the informing power which moulds a 
 copy into a counterpart and exalts servility into rivalry. 
 And in this lies the secret of the power and charm of so 
 much of modern poetry. 
 
 Such, in slight outline, has been the course of our 
 lyrical poetry, such its general characteristics, such the 
 influences which have at different periods affected it. 
 I have already said that in this selection I have been 
 obliged to subordinate historical illustration to other 
 considerations. I had originally inserted several poems 
 which were of interest because they were particularly 
 typical of the period to which they belonged, but on 
 second thoughts, for the reason which I have stated, 
 they were removed. Still the reader who cares to go 
 through these poems consecutively, in the order of the 
 books in which they are arranged, will discern broadly 
 the characteristics of our lyrical poetry at every important 
 stage in its progress, and so be able to trace, at least in 
 outline, the general course of its evolution.
 
 XX A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 No pains have been spared to secure a correct text 
 in the selections ; each poem has been carefully tran- 
 scribed from the original editions, and where several 
 editions with variants exist, they have been collated, and 
 what seemed to be the best reading given. The old 
 spelling has also been preserved, for, as Dr. Johnson 
 remarked when he censured Lord Hailes for modernising 
 the language of Hales of Eton, "an author's language is 
 a characteristical part of his composition, and is also 
 characteristical of the age in which he writes." In 
 poetry the preservation of the old spelling, unsettled 
 though it was, is more important, for its modernisation 
 often, in my opinion, affects not only the rhythm but 
 the tone and colour of a poem. The only alteration 
 which I have ventured to make, and that because the 
 old forms unnecessarily offend the eye, is to substitute 
 "i" for "y" and "u" for "v." Except in the case of 
 excerpts from long poems not lyrical, each piece has, as 
 a rule, been printed in its entirety, but to this rule it 
 has been found desirable to make exceptions. I have 
 never scrupled to shorten poems when the choice lay 
 between abbreviation or omission, as for example in 
 Cowley's Hymn to Light, Akenside's Hymn to Science^ 
 and Smart's Song to David, or to excise a stanza here 
 and there in the shorter pieces, where excision seemed 
 a gain. I have never substituted plausible emenda- 
 tions for the authentic text ; but where the text 
 has been plainly wrong, as it has often been found 
 to be, and the correction was obvious, it has been 
 supplied. 
 
 To pass to another point. I should like to be allowed 
 to add that if this compilation has been a task it has 
 also been a pleasure. A glance at the names in the 
 index will show that to remember the forgotten and to
 
 PREFACE XXI 
 
 assist " buried merit," to assert or reassert itself has 
 not been the least of my aims. There is no debt more 
 sacred than that saddest of all debts, the expression of 
 gratitude to those who are beyond the reach of it. To 
 many, nay, to most perhaps of the poets who have a place 
 in this volume, fame never came at all, or any adequate 
 recognition, from any quarter, of their genius and work ; 
 some lived and died in obscurity, and are now, except 
 to a small circle, little more than names. But if the 
 world is indifferent the world is just, and it is pleasing 
 to think that by contributing to bring these neglected 
 or forgotten poets into notice I shall be contributing, 
 if only imperfectly, to the reparation of the wrong 
 which has inadvertently been done them. And this it 
 is which induced me, somewhat inconsistently I fear, 
 to include two poems by the Australian poet, poor 
 Henry Kendall, to whose fine genius England has never 
 done justice. 
 
 In the notes the source of each poem or extract has 
 been indicated; notices have been given, where necessary, 
 of the authors. When anything seemed to require ex- 
 planation in the matter of the text, or in the text itself, 
 it has been supplied. But I have carefully refrained 
 from indulging in the sort of commentary which every 
 reader can supply for himself, and which is commonly 
 called aesthetic appreciation. 
 
 Where I have been indebted to other Collections due 
 acknowledgment has been made in the notes, but I 
 should like here to express my thanks for the use which 
 Mr. Miles' Poets of the Century has been to me, not 
 because I have drawn on the selections there given, but 
 because that work directed my attention to two or three 
 poets who were before unknown to me. 
 
 It remains for me to express my thanks to Mrs.
 
 xxu A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 Calverley, Mrs. Locker-Lampson, the Earl of Crewe, 
 Mr. Webster, Mr. John Murray, Messrs. Macmillan, 
 Messrs. Ward and Lock, Messrs. Bell and Sons, Mr. 
 George Allen of Ruskin House, and Messrs. Kegan 
 Paul and Co., for permission to include poems which 
 are still protected by copyright. 
 
 SI Norfolk Square, W.
 
 BOOK I
 
 1
 
 CUCKOO-SONG 
 
 SuMER is icumen in, 
 
 Lhude ^ sing cuccu ! 
 Groweth sed, and bloweth med, 
 
 And springth the wude nu, 
 
 Sing cuccu ! 
 
 Awe bleteth after lomb 
 
 Lhouth after calve cu ; 
 Bullae sterteth,'- bucke verteth,^ 
 
 Murie sing cucu ! 
 
 Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu, 
 
 Ne swike * thu naver nu ; 
 Sing, cuccu, nu, sing, cuccu 
 
 Sing cuccu, sing, cuccu, nu ! 
 
 ANON. 
 
 ' Loud. " Leaps about. 
 
 ^ Goes to harbour in the vert or fern. 
 * Cease. 
 B
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 II 
 
 "BLOW NORTHERN WIND" 
 
 ICHOT ^ a burde ^ in boure bryht, 
 
 That fully semly is on syht, 
 
 Menskful ^ maiden of myht 
 Feir * ant fre to fonde ; ^ 
 
 In al this wurhliche ^ won '' 
 
 A burde of blod ant of bon ; 
 
 Never yete y nuste ^ non 
 
 Lussomore^ in londe. 
 
 Blow northern wynd ! 
 
 Send thou me my suetyng ! ^'^ 
 
 Blow, northern wynd ! blou, blou, blou ! 
 
 With lokkes lefliche ^^ ant longe, 
 With frount ant face feir to fonge,^" 
 With murthes monie mote^^ heo monge,^* 
 
 That brid ^^ so breme ^'^ in boure 
 With lossom eye grete ant gode, 
 With browen blysfol underhode, 
 He that reste him on the rode,^" 
 That leflych lyf honoure. 
 
 Blou, northern wynd, etc. 
 
 1 I know. 2 Maiden. 3 Graceful, noble. ^ Fair. 
 
 ^ Meet with, or seek. " Stately. '' Habitation. ^ I never knew. 
 
 9 Lovelier. i** Sweetheart. " Lovely. 12 ^ake hold of. 
 
 1'^ Might. 1^ iVIingle. i^ gifd. le Spirited. i'' Cross.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 Hire lure ^^ lumes ^•' liht -^ 
 
 Ase a launterne a nyht, 
 
 Hire bleo "^ blykyeth so bryht, 
 
 So feyr heo is ant fyn. 
 A suetly " suyre heo hath to holde, 
 With armes shuldre ase mon wolde, 
 Ant fyngres feyre forte "^ folde, 
 God wolde hue "^ were myn ! 
 Blou northern wynd, etc. 
 
 Heo is coral of godnesse, 
 Heo is ruble of ryhtfulnesse, 
 Heo is cristal of clairnesse, 
 
 Ant baner of health. 
 Heo is lilie of largesse, 
 Heo is parvenke '" of prouesse 
 Heo is solsecle '^ of suetnesse 
 
 Ant lady of lealt^. 
 
 For hire love y carke ant care, 
 For hire love y droupne ant dare, 
 For hire love my blisse is bare 
 
 Ant al ich waxe won, 
 For hire love in slep yslake. 
 For hire love al nyht ich wake, 
 
 »8 Complexion. i» Beams. ^o Qay. 
 
 21 Complexion. '•" Sweetheart. "^ For to, to. 
 
 2* She. "^ Flower. ^ Sun -flower.
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 For hire love mournyng y make 
 More then eny men. 
 Blou northern wynd ! 
 Send thou me my suetyng ! 
 Blou, northern wynd, blou, blou, blou ! 
 
 ANON. 
 
 Ill 
 THE SONG OF THE ROSE 
 
 Of a rose, a lovely rose. 
 
 Of a rose is al myn song. 
 Lestenyt,^ lordynges, bothe elde and zynge,^ 
 How this rose began to sprynge ; 
 Swych a rose to myn lykynge 
 
 In al this world ne knowe I non. 
 
 The aungil cam fro hevene tour, 
 To grete Marye with gret honour, 
 And seyde sche xuld ^ bere the flour 
 
 That xulde breke the fyndes bond. 
 
 The flour sprong in heye Bedlem, 
 That is bothe bryht * and schen : 
 The rose is Mary hevene qwyn,^ 
 
 Out of here bosum the blosme sprong. 
 
 The ferste braunche is ful of myht. 
 That sprang on Cyrstemesse nyht ; 
 The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht 
 That is bothe brod and long. 
 
 1 Listen. ^ Young. ^ Should. ■* Bright. ^ Queen of heaven.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 The secunde braunche sprong to helle, 
 The fendys power doun to felle : 
 Therein myht non sowle dwelle ; 
 
 Blyssid be the time the rose sprong. 
 
 The thredde branche is good and swote, 
 It sprang to hevene crop and rote, 
 Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote ; 
 
 Every day it schewit in prystes bond. 
 
 Prey we to here with gret honour, 
 Che that bar the blyssid fiowr, 
 Che be our helpe and our socour 
 
 And schyd us fro the fyndes bond. 
 
 ANON. 
 IV 
 
 THIS WORLD'S JOY 
 
 Wynter wakeneth al my care, 
 
 Nou this leues ^ waxeth bare \ 
 Ofte I sike ant mourne sare, 
 
 When hit cometh in my thoht 
 Of this worldes joie, how hit goth al to noht. 
 
 Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,'- 
 
 Also hit ner nere ^ ywys ; 
 That moni mon seith, soth hit ys : 
 
 Al goth bote' godes wille,^ 
 Alle we shule deye,'' thah "' us like ylle. 
 
 ' These leaves. - Is not.   As if it had never been. ■* E.xcept. 
 5 Will. •> Die. ^ Though evil pleases us.
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Al that gren ^ me graueth grene, 
 
 Nou hit faleweth ^ albydene ; ^° 
 Jesu, help that hit be sene 
 
 Ant shild vs from helle, 
 For y not whider^^ y shal, ne hou longe her duelle. -^^ 
 
 ANON. 
 V 
 
 A HYMN TO THE VIRGIN 
 
 I 
 
 Of on ^ that is so fayr and bright, I 
 
 Vehit maris stella, 
 Brighter than the day is Hght, 
 
 Farefis et puella. 
 Ic crie to the, thou see to me 
 Levedy,^ preye thi sone for me. 
 
 Tam pia. 
 That Ic mote come to the 
 
 Maria. 
 
 Al this world was for-lore 
 
 Eva pecca trice, 
 Tyl our Lord was y-bore 
 
 De te genetrice. 
 With ave it went away, 
 Thuster nyth and comz the day 
 
 Salutis ; 
 The welle springet hut of the 
 
 Virtutis. 
 
 8 Green. » Fades. 
 
 1" Altogether. 
 
 " Know not 
 
 ^ I shall abide here. 
 
 1 One. 
 
 ^ Lady, i
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 Levedy, flour of alle thing, 
 
 Rosa sine spina, 
 Thu here Jhesu hevene king 
 
 Gratia divina, 
 Of alle thu berst the pris, 
 Levedy, quene of paradys, 
 
 Electa. 
 Mayde milde, moder es 
 
 Efecta. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 VI 
 
 A PLEA FOR PITY 
 
 SwEiT rois ^ of vertew and of gentilness, 
 Delytsum ^ lyllie of everie lustynes, 
 Richest in bontie, and in bevvtie cleir, 
 And every vertew that to hevin is deir, 
 Except onlie that ye ar mercyles. 
 
 Into your garthe ^ this day I did persew ; 
 Thair saw I flouris that fresche wer of dew, 
 Baythe •* quhyte ^ and reid most lusty wer to seyne. 
 And halsum '' herbis upone stalkis grene ; 
 Vet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew. 
 
 ' Rose. - Delightsome. ■' Garden. •* Both. 
 
 ' White. " Wholesome,
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 I doute that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne/ 
 Hes slane this gentil herbe, that I of mene ; 
 Quhois ^ petewous ^ deithe dois to my hart sic pane, 
 That I would mak to plant his rute agane, 
 So confortand his levis unto me bene. 
 
 W. DUNBAR. 
 VII 
 
 BE MERRY, MAN 
 
 Be merrie, man, and tak nat sair in mind 
 The wavering of this wretchit warld of sorrow ; 
 To God be humble, to thy friend be kind. 
 And with thy nichtbours gladly lend and borrow ; 
 His chance to nicht, it may be thine to-morrow ; 
 Be blythe in hearte for ony aventure. 
 For oft with wise men it has been said aforrow ^ 
 Without Gladness availes no Treasure. 
 
 Mak thee gude cheer of it that God thee sends, 
 For warld's wrak ^ but ^ weelfare nocht avails ; 
 Nae gude is thine, save only that thou spends, 
 Remenant all thou bruikes ^ but with bailis ; ^ 
 Seek to solace when sadness thee assailis ; 
 In dolour lang thy life may not endure, 
 Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sailis : 
 Without Gladness availes no Treasure. 
 
 W. DUNBAR. 
 
 " Keen. * Whose. ^ Piteous. ^ Before. 
 
 2 Trash. '^ Without health. * Use, enjoy. ^ Sorrow.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 VIII 
 
 LIFE 
 
 What is this life but a straight way to deid, 
 Which has a time to pass and none to dwell, 
 A sliding wheel us lent to seek renieid, 
 A free choice given to Paradise or Hell, 
 A prey to deid whom vain is to repell ; 
 A short torment for infinite gladness, 
 As short a joy for lasting heaviness. 
 
 W. DUNBAR. 
 
 IX 
 
 TO MAYSTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY 
 
 MiRRV Margaret, 
 
 As mydsomer flowre ; 
 
 Gentill as fawcoun 
 
 Or hawke of the towre : 
 
 With solace and gladness.
 
 lo A TREASURY 
 
 Moche mirthe and no madness, 
 All good and no badness, 
 So joyously, 
 So maydenly, 
 So womanly. 
 Her demenyng 
 In everythynge 
 Far, far passyng 
 That I can endyght. 
 Or suffyce to wryghte. 
 Of mirry Margarete, 
 As mydsomer flowre, 
 Gentyll as fawcoun 
 Or hawke of the towre. 
 As pacient and as styll, 
 And as full of good-wyll 
 As faire Isaphill ; 
 Colyaunder, 
 Swete pomaunder, 
 Goode Cassaunder ; 
 Stedfast of thought, 
 Wele made, wele wrought ; 
 Far may be sought, 
 Erst that ye can fynde 
 So corteise, so Icynde, 
 As mirry Margaret, 
 This mydsomer floure, 
 Gentyll as faucoun 
 Or hawke of the towre. 
 
 J. SKELTON.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY n 
 
 X 
 
 AVE 
 
 Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
 When thou art olde, there's grief enough for thee. 
 
 Mother's wag, prettie boy, 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy ; 
 When thy father first did see 
 Such a boy by him and me, 
 He was glad, I was woe ; 
 Fortune changed made him so, 
 When he left his prettie boy, 
 Last his sorrow, first his joy. 
 
 Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee. 
 When thou art olde, there's grief enough for thee. 
 
 The wanton smil'd, father wept, 
 Mother cried, baby lept, 
 More he crow'd, more we cried. 
 Nature could not sorrow hide : 
 He must goe, he must kisse 
 Childe and mother, baby blisse, 
 For he left his prettie boy. 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy.
 
 12 A TREASURY 
 
 Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
 When thou art olde, there's grief enough for thee. 
 
 R. GREENE. 
 
 XI 
 
 LULLABY 
 
 Golden slumbers kisse your eyes. 
 Smiles awake you when you rise, 
 Sleepe, pretty wantons, doe not cry, 
 And I will sing a lullabie, 
 Rocke them, rocke them lullabie. 
 
 Care is heavie, therefore sleepe you, 
 You are care, and care must keep you ; 
 Sleepe pretty wantons, do not cry. 
 And I will sing a lullabie, 
 Rocke them, rocke them lullabie. 
 
 T. DEKKER (?) 
 
 XII 
 
 THE SIREN 
 
 Now I find thy lookes were fained, * 
 
 Quickly lost and quicklie gained :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 13 
 
 Soft thy skinne, like wool of wethers, 
 Hart unstable, light as feathers ; 
 Tongue untrustie, subtil sighted, 
 Wanton will, with change delighted : 
 Siren pleasant, foe to reason, 
 Cupid plague thee for this treason. 
 
 Of thine eyes, I made my mirror. 
 From thy beautie came mine error. 
 All thy words I counted wittie, 
 All thy smyles I deemed pittie. 
 Thy false teares that me agrieved 
 First of all my trust deceived : 
 Siren pleasant, foe to reason, 
 Cupid plague thee for this treason. 
 
 Fain'd acceptance when I asked. 
 Lovely words with cunning masked, 
 Holie vowes, but hart unholie ; 
 Wretched man ! my trust was follie : 
 Lillie white, and pretty winking. 
 Solemn vowes, but sorry thinking : 
 Siren pleasant, foe to reason, 
 Cupid plague thee for this treason. 
 
 Now I see (O seemely cruell !) 
 Others warme them at my fuell ; 
 Wit shall guide me in this durance, 
 Since in Love is no assurance.
 
 14 A TREASURY 
 
 Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, 
 
 Beautie is a fading treasure : 
 Siren pleasant, foe to reason, 
 Cupid plague thee for this treason. 
 
 T. LODGE. 
 
 XIII 
 
 TRUE LOVE 
 
 " Who is it that this darke night 
 Underneath my window playneth ?" 
 It is one who from thy sight 
 Being, ah, exil'd, disdayneth 
 Every other vulgar light. 
 
 " Why, alas, and are you he ? 
 Be not yet those fancies changed ? " 
 Deare, when you find change in me. 
 Though from me you be estranged, 
 Let my change to ruine be. 
 
 " Well, in absence this will dye ; 
 Leave to see, and leave to wonder." 
 Absence sure will help, if I 
 Can learne how myselfe to sunder 
 From what in my hart doth lye.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 15 
 
 " But time will these thoughts remove ; 
 Time doth work what no man knoweth." 
 Time doth as the subject prove ; 
 With time still the affection groweth 
 In the faithful turtle-dove. 
 
 " What if we new beauties see, 
 Will not they stir new affection ? " 
 I will thinke they pictures be 
 (Image-like, of saints' perfection), 
 Poorely counterfeiting thee. 
 
 " But your reason's purest light 
 Bids you leave such minds to nourish." 
 Deare, do reason no such spite ; 
 Never doth thy beauty flourish 
 More than in my reason's sight. 
 
 SIR p. SIDNEY. 
 
 XIV 
 
 SONG 
 
 Away delights, go seek some other dwelling, 
 
 For I must die : 
 Farewell, false love, thy tongue is ever telling 
 
 Lie after lie.
 
 l6 A TREASURY 
 
 For ever let me rest now from thy smarts ; 
 
 Alas, for pity go, 
 
 And fire their hearts 
 That have been hard to thee, mine was not so. 
 
 Never again deluding Love shall know me, 
 
 For I will die ; 
 And all those griefs that think to overgrow me, 
 
 Shall be as I ; 
 For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry 
 
 "Alas, for pity stay, 
 
 And let us die 
 With thee : men cannot mock us in the clay." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 XV 
 
 SILENT MUSIC 
 
 Rose-cheeked Laura, come ; 
 Sing thou smoothlie with beautie's 
 Silent music, either other 
 
 Sweetly gracing. 
 
 Lovely forms doe flow 
 From concent divinely framed ; 
 Heav'n is music, and thy beautie's 
 Birth is heavenlie.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 17 
 
 These dull notes we sing 
 
 Discords need for helps to grace them, 
 
 Only beautie purely loving 
 
 Knows no discord, 
 
 But still moves delight, 
 Like clear springs renewed by flowing. 
 Ever perfect, ever in them- 
 selves eternal. 
 
 T. CAMPION. 
 
 xvr 
 
 A CRUEL BEAUTY 
 
 Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white, 
 
 For all those rosy ornaments in thee ; 
 
 Thou art not sweete, though made of mere delight, 
 
 Nor faire, nor sweete, unless thou pity me. 
 
 I will not soothe thy fancies, thou shalt prove 
 
 That beautie is no beautie without love. 
 
 Yet love not me, nor seek thou to allure 
 My thoughts with beautie, were it more divine ; 
 Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, 
 I'll not be wrapt up in those arms of thine : 
 Now show it, if thou be a woman right, — 
 Embrace and kisse and love me in despite ! 
 
 T. CAMI'ION. 
 
 c
 
 i8 A TREASURY 
 
 XVII 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTY 
 
 Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, 
 Love's neglect is time's abusing, 
 
 They and beauty are but lent you ; 
 Take the one and keep the other : 
 Love keepes fresh what age doth smother, 
 
 Beauty gone, you will repent you. 
 
 ' Twill be said when ye have proved. 
 Never swaines more truely loved : 
 
 O then fly all nice behaviour ! 
 Pitty faine would (as her dutie) 
 Be attending still on Beautie, 
 
 Let her not be out of favour. 
 
 W. BROWNE. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 LOVE'S CLAIM 
 
 Love for such a cherry lip 
 
 Would be glad to pawn his arrows ; 
 
 Venus here to take a sip 
 
 Would sell her doves and teams of sparrows. 
 
 But they shall not so ; 
 
 Hey nonny, nonny no ! 
 None but I this life must owe. 
 
 Hey nonny, nonny, no !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 19 
 
 Did Jove see this wanton eye, 
 
 Ganymede must wait no longer ; 
 Phcebe here one night did lie, 
 
 \\'ould change her face and look much younger. 
 
 But they shall not so ; 
 
 Hey nonny, nonny no ! 
 None but I this life must owe ; 
 
 Hey nonny, nonny no ! 
 
 T. MIDDLETON. 
 
 XIX 
 
 SONG 
 
 Love, a childe, is ever crying; 
 Please him, and he straight is flying ; 
 Give him, he the more is craving, 
 Never satisfied with having. 
 
 His desires have no measure ; 
 Endless folly is his treasure ; 
 What he promiseth he breaketh, 
 Trust not one word that he speaketh. 
 
 He vows nothing but false matter ; 
 And to cozen you will flatter ; 
 Let him gaine the hand, he'll leave you. 
 And still glory to deceive you.
 
 20 A TREASURY 
 
 He will triumph in your wailing ; 
 And yet cause be of your failing ; 
 These his virtues are, and slighter 
 Are his gifts, his favours lighter. 
 
 Feathers are as firm in staying ; 
 Wolves no fiercer in their preying : 
 As a childe, then, leave him crying ; 
 Nor seeke him so given to flying. 
 
 LADY MARY WROATH. 
 
 XX 
 
 LOVE'S PLEA 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 
 Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
 My great travail so gladly spent. 
 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet when first began 
 The wearie life ye know, since whan 
 The suit, the service, none tell can, 
 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not yet the great assays, 
 The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
 The painful patience in delays. 
 
 Forget not yet !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 2i 
 
 Forget not ; oh ! forget not this, 
 How long ago hath been, and is 
 The mind that never meant amiss 
 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 Forget not then thine own approved. 
 The which so long hath thee so loved, 
 Whose steadfast faith yet never moved : 
 
 Forget not yet ! 
 
 SIR T. \WATT. 
 
 XXI 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S JOY 
 
 Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease, 
 Banish frownes, leave off dissension, 
 Love's warres make the sweetest peace. 
 Hearts uniting by contention. 
 Sunshine follows after raine. 
 After sorrow soone comes joy ; 
 
 Try me, prove me, trust me, love me. 
 This will cure annoy ; 
 
 Sorrows ceasing, this is pleasing. 
 All proves faire againe. 
 
 See these bright sunnes of thine eyes 
 Clouded now with black disdaining ; 
 
 Shall such stormy tempests rise, 
 
 To set love's faire daycs a raining ?
 
 22 A TREASURY 
 
 All are glad, the skies being cleare, 
 Lightly joying, sporting, toying, 
 
 With their lovely cheare : 
 But as sad to see a shower, 
 Sadly drooping, lowring, powting. 
 
 Turning sweet to sower. 
 
 Then, sweet love, dispearse this cloude 
 That obscures, this scornefull coying ; 
 When each creature sings aloude. 
 Filling hearts with over joying. 
 As every bird doth choose her mate, 
 Gailly billing, she is willing 
 
 Her true love to take : 
 With such words let us contend. 
 Laughing, colling, kissing, playing, 
 
 So our strife shall end. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Love not me for comely grace, 
 For my pleasing eye or face, 
 Nor for any outward part. 
 No, nor for my constant heart : 
 For these may faile, or turn to ill, 
 So thou and I shall sever.
 
 OF iMINOR BRITISH POETRY 23 
 
 Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
 And love me still, but know not why : 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To doat upon me ever. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 LOVE 
 
 The sea hath many thousand sands, 
 The sunne hath motes as many. 
 The skie is full of starres — and love 
 
 As full of woes as any ; 
 Believe me that doe knowe the elfe. 
 And make no tryall by thyselfe. 
 
 It is in truth a prettie toye 
 
 For babes to play withall ; 
 But O the honies of our youth 
 
 Are oft our age's gall ; 
 Selfe-proofe in time will make thee know 
 
 He was a prophet told thee so. 
 
 A prophet that, Cassandra-like, 
 
 Tells truth without beliefe ; 
 For headstrong youth will run his race. 
 
 Although his goal be griefe :
 
 24 A TREASURY 
 
 Love's martyr, when his heat is past, 
 Proves Care's Confessor at the last. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 SONG 
 
 Some say Love, 
 FooHsh Love, 
 
 Doth rule and govern all the gods : 
 I say Love, 
 Inconstant Love, 
 
 Sets men's senses far at odds. 
 Some sweare Love, 
 Smooth-fac'd Love, 
 
 Is sweetest sweete that men can have 
 I say Love, 
 Sour Love, 
 
 Makes virtue yield as beautie's slave, 
 A bitter sweete, a folly worst of all, 
 That forceth wisdom to be folly's thrall. 
 
 Love is sweete : 
 Wherein sweete? 
 
 In fading pleasures that do paine. 
 Beautie sweete : 
 Is that sweete 
 
 That yieldeth sorrow for a gaine ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 25 
 
 If Love's sweete, 
 Herein sweete, 
 
 That minutes' joys are monthly woes : 
 'Tis not sweete 
 That is sweete 
 
 Nowhere, but where repentance growes ; 
 Then love who list, if beautie be so sour : 
 Labour for me, Love rest in prince's bower. 
 
 R. GREENE. 
 
 XXV 
 
 TO COLIN CLOUTE 
 
 Beautie sat bathing by a spring. 
 
 Where fairest shades did hide her. 
 The windes blew calme, the birds did sing, 
 
 The coole streames ranne beside her. 
 My wanton thoughts entic'd mine eye 
 
 To see what was forbidden : 
 But better memory said, fie, 
 
 So, vaine desire was chidden. 
 Hey nonnie, nonnie. 
 
 Into a slumber then I fell. 
 
 When fond Imagination 
 Seemed to see, but could not tell, 
 
 Her feature or her fashion.
 
 26 A TREASURY 
 
 But e'en as babes in dreames doe smile, 
 And sometimes fall a weeping, 
 
 So I awakt, as wise this while, 
 As when I fell a sleeping. 
 Hey nonnie, nonnie. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 PRESENCE IN ABSENCE 
 
 Absence, hear this my protestation 
 
 Against thy strength, 
 
 Distance, and length ! 
 Do what thou canst for alteration, J 
 
 For hearts of truest mettle 
 Absence doth join, and Time doth settle. 
 
 Who loves a mistress of such quality. 
 
 His mind hath found 
 
 Affection's ground 
 Beyond time, place, and all mortality ; 
 
 To hearts that cannot vary, 
 Absence is present, Time doth tarry. 
 
 My senses want their outward motion, 
 
 Which now within 
 
 Reason doth win. 
 Redoubled by her secret notion.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 27 
 
 Like rich men that take pleasure 
 
 In hiding, more than handhng treasure. 
 
 By absence this good means I gain, 
 
 That I can catch her, 
 
 Where none can watch her, 
 In some close corner of my brain. 
 
 There I embrace her, and there kiss her, 
 
 And so I both enjoy and miss her. 
 
 DONNE (?) 
 
 XXVII 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Now what is Love ? I praye thee, tell, 
 It is that fountaine and that well 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell. 
 It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell. 
 That tolls all in to heaven or hell : 
 And this is Love, as I heare tell. 
 
 Yet what is Love ? I praye thee saye, 
 It is a work on holie day ; 
 It is December match'd with Maye : 
 When lustie blouds, in fresh araye, 
 Heare ten months after of their playe : 
 And this is Love, as I heare saye.
 
 28 A TREASURY 
 
 Yet what is Love ? I prae thee saine, 
 It is a sunshine mix'd with raine ; 
 It is a toothe-ache, or like paine ; 
 It is a game where none doth gaine : 
 The lasse saith no, and would full faine : 
 And this is Love, as I heare saine. 
 
 Yet what is Love ? I pray thee sale. 
 
 It is a yea, it is a nay, 
 
 A pretie kind of sporting fray, 
 
 It is a thing will soone away ; 
 
 Then take the vantage while you may : 
 
 And this is Love, as I heare say. 
 
 Yet what is Love ? I pray thee showe, 
 A thing that creepes, it cannot goe, 
 A prize that passeth to and fro, 
 A thing for one, a thing for mo ; 
 And he that proves, must finde it so : 
 And this is Love, sweet friend, I troe. 
 
 SIR W. RALEIGH (?) 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 PHILLIDA AND CORYDON 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 In a morne by breake of day.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 Forth I walked by the ^YOod-side, 
 When as May was in his pride : 
 There I spied all alone, 
 Phillida and Corydon. 
 Much ado there was, God wot, 
 He would love and she would not. 
 She said never man was true, 
 He said, none was false to you. 
 He said, he had lov'd her long, 
 She said. Love should have no wrong. 
 Corydon would kiss her then. 
 She said, maides must kiss no men, 
 Till they did for good and all : 
 Then she made the shepherd call 
 All the heavens to witnesse truth : 
 Never lov'd a truer youth. 
 Thus with many a pretty oath. 
 Yea and nay, and faith and troth. 
 Such as silly shepherds use 
 When they will not love abuse. 
 Love which had beene long deluded. 
 Was with kisses sweet concluded. 
 And Phillida with garlands gay. 
 Was made the lady of the May. 
 
 N. BRETON.
 
 30 A TREASURY 
 
 XXIX 
 
 A SONG 
 
 Packe, cloudes, away, and welcome day, 
 
 With night we banish sorrow, 
 
 Sweete ayre, blow soft, mount, Larke, aloft. 
 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 
 Winges from the winde, to please her minde, 
 
 Notes from the Lark I'll borrow; 
 
 Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, 
 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 
 To give my love good morrow, 
 
 Notes from them all I'll borrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin red-brest, 
 
 Sing birds in every furrow, 
 
 And from each bill, let musicke shrill, 
 
 Give my faire love good morrow ; 
 
 Blacke-bird and thrush, in every bush, 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 
 
 Sing my faire love good morrow. 
 
 To give my love good morrow, A 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow. 
 
 T. HEYWOOD.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 XXX 
 
 A SONG 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing 
 Amidst the shadie valleys, 
 And see how Phillis sweetly walkes 
 Within her garden alleyes ; 
 Goe pretty birds about her bowre, 
 Sing pretty birds she may not lowre, 
 Ah me, me thinkes I see her frowne, 
 Ye pretty wantons warble. 
 
 Goe tune your voices harmonic, 
 And sing I am her lover ; 
 Straine loude and sweet, that every note. 
 With sweet content may move her : 
 And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
 Tell her I will not change my choice. 
 Yet still me thinkes I see her frowne, 
 Ye pretty wantons warble. 
 
 O fly, make hast, see, see, she falles 
 Into a pretty slumber, 
 Sing round about her rosie bed 
 That waking she may wonder,
 
 32 A TREASURY 
 
 Say to her, 'tis her lover true, 
 That sendeth love to you, to you : 
 And when you heare her kinde reply, 
 Returne with pleasant warblings. 
 
 T. HEYWOOD. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 AN INVITATION 
 
 
 Come, shepherds, come ! 
 
 Come away j 
 
 Without delay, 
 Whilst the gentle time doth stay. 
 
 Greene woods are dumb. 
 And will never tell to any 
 Those deare kisses, and those many 
 Sweete embraces that are given. 
 Dainty pleasures, that would even 
 Raise in coldest age a fire. 
 And give virgin blood desire. 
 
 Then, if ever, 
 
 Now or never. 
 Come and have it ; 
 
 Think not I 
 
 Dare deny. 
 If you crave it. 
 
 J. FLETCHER.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 33 
 
 XXXII 
 
 TO BACCHUS 
 
 God Lyasus, ever young, 
 
 Ever honour'd, ever sung ; 
 
 Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, 
 
 In a thousand lusty shapes ; 
 
 Dance upon the mazer's brim. 
 
 In the crimson liquor swim ; 
 
 From thy plenteous hand divine. 
 
 Let a river run with wine : 
 
 God of youth, let this day here 
 Enter neither care nor fear. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 LOVE AND TRUTH 
 
 Say that I should say, I love ye. 
 Would you say, 'tis but a saying ? 
 
 But if Love in prayers move ye, 
 
 Will you not be mov'd with praying ? 
 
 Thinke I thinke that love should know ye, 
 Will you thinke 'tis but a thinking? 
 
 But if Love the thought doe show ye. 
 Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
 
 34 A TREASURY 
 
 Write that I doe write you blessed, 
 Will you write, 'tis but a writing ? 
 
 But if Truth and Love confesse it, 
 Will you doubt the true enditing ? 
 
 No, I say, and thinke, and write it. 
 
 Write, and thinke, and say your pleasure : 
 
 Love, and Truth, and I endite it, 
 You are blessed out of measure. 
 
 N. BRETON. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 LOVE 
 
 Fain would I change that note 
 To which fond love hath charm'd me 
 Long, long to sing by rote. 
 Fancying that that harm'd me : 
 Yet when this thought doth come, 
 
 " Love is the perfect sum 
 
 Of all delight," 
 I have no other choice 
 Either for pen or voice 
 To sing or write. 
 
 O Love, they wrong thee much 
 That say thy sweet is bitter,
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 35 
 
 When thy rich fruit is such 
 As nothing can be sweeter. 
 Fair house of joy and bliss, 
 Where truest pleasure is, 
 
 I do adore thee ; 
 I know thee what thou art, 
 I serve thee with my heart, 
 
 And fall before thee. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXXV 
 STREPHON'S PALINODE 
 
 Sweet, I do not pardon crave, 
 
 Till I have 
 By deserts this fault amended : 
 This, I only this desire, 
 
 That your ire 
 May with penance be suspended. 
 
 Not my will, but Fate, did fetch 
 Me, poor wretch. 
 
 Into this unhappy error ; 
 
 Which to plague, no tyrant's mind 
 Pain can find 
 
 i.ike my heart's self-guilty terror.
 
 36 A TREASURY 
 
 Then, O then, let that suffice ! 
 
 Your dear eyes 
 Need not, need not more afflict me ; 
 Nor your sweet tongue, dipped in gall, 
 
 Need at all 
 From your presence interdict me. 
 
 Unto him that Hell sustains. 
 
 No new pains 
 Need be sought for his tormenting. 
 Oh ! my pains Hell's pains surpass ; 
 
 Yet, alas ! 
 You are still new pains inventing. 
 
 By my love, long, firm, and true, 
 
 Borne to you ; 
 By these tears my grief expressing ; 
 By this pipe, which nights and days 
 
 Sounds your praise ; 
 Pity me, my fault confessing. 
 
 Or, if I may not desire, 
 
 That your ire 
 May with penance be suspended ; 
 Yet let me full pardon crave, 
 
 When I have 
 With soon death my fault amended. 
 
 F. DAVISON,
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 37 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 TO HIS LOVE 
 
 Come away, come sweet Love, 
 The golden morning breakes : 
 All the earth, all the ayre 
 Of love and pleasure speakes. 
 Teach thine amies then to embrace. 
 And sweet rosie lips to kisse : 
 And mix our soules in mutual blisse. 
 Eyes were made for beautie's grace, 
 Viewing, ruing love's long paine : 
 Procur'd by beautie's rude disdaine. 
 
 Come away, come sweet Love, 
 
 The golden morning wasts : 
 
 While the sunne from his sphere 
 
 His fierie arrowes casts. 
 
 Making all the shadowes flie. 
 
 Playing, staying in the grove. 
 
 To entertaine the stealth of love. 
 
 Thither, sweet love, let us hie 
 
 Flying, dying, in desire, 
 
 Wing'd with sweet hopes and heavenly fire. 
 
 Come away, come sweet Love, 
 Doe not in vaine adiorne 
 Beautie's grace that should rise. 
 Like to the naked morne.
 
 38 A TREASURY 
 
 Lillies on the river's side, 
 
 And faire Cyprian flowers newe blowne 
 
 Desire no beauties but their owne. 
 
 Ornament is nurse of pride, 
 
 Pleasure, measure, Love's deUght : 
 
 Haste then, sweet Love, our wished flight. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 A WARNING FOR WOOERS 
 
 Some love for wealth and some for hue, 
 And none of both these loves are true ; 
 For when the mill hath lost her sailes, 
 Then must the miller lose his vailes : 
 
 Of grass comes hay. 
 And flowers faire will soon decay : 
 
 Of ripe comes rotten, 
 In age all beautie is forgotten. 
 
 Some love too high and some too lowe, 
 And of them both great griefs do growe ; 
 And some do love the common sort, 
 And common folk use common sport. 
 
 Look not too high, 
 Lest that a chip fall in thine eye : 
 
 But high or lowe, 
 Ye may be sure she is a shrewe.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 39 
 
 But, sirs, 1 use to tell no tales, 
 
 Each fish that swims doth not bear scales ; 
 
 In every hedge I find not thornes, 
 
 Nor every beast doth carry homes : 
 
 I say not soe, 
 That every woman causeth woe. 
 
 That were too broad : 
 Who loves not venom must shun the toad. 
 
 Who useth still the truth to tell, 
 May blamed be, though he say well ; 
 Say crow is white, and snow is black, 
 Lay not the fault on woman's back : 
 
 Thousands were good. 
 But few scap'd drowning in Noe's flood : 
 
 Most are well bent, 
 I must say so, lest I be spent. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 A MARRIAGE BLESSING 
 
 Vertup:, if not a God, yet God's chiefe part. 
 Be thou the knot of this their open vow, 
 That still he be her head, she be his heart ; 
 He leane to her, she unto him doe bow, 
 Each other still allow ;
 
 40 A TREASURY 
 
 Like oak and misletoe, 
 Her strength from him, his praise from her doe growe ; 
 
 In which most lovely traine, 
 O Hymen, long their coupled joyes maintaine ! 
 
 SIR p. SIDNEY. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 A BRIDAL SONG 
 
 Roses, their sharpe spines being gone. 
 Not royal in their smells alone, 
 But in their hue ; 
 Maiden-pinkes, of odour faint. 
 Daisies smel-lesse, yet most quaint, 
 And sweet thyme true ; 
 
 Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
 Merry spring-time's harbinger, 
 
 With her bells dimme ; 
 Oxlips, in their cradles growing, 
 Marigolds, on death-beds blowing, 
 
 Lark-heeles trimme. 
 
 All dear Nature's children sweete. 
 Lie 'fore bride and bridegroome's feet. 
 Blessing their sense.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 41 
 
 Not an angel of the aire, 
 Bird melodious, or bird faire, 
 Is absent hence. 
 
 The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
 The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 
 
 Nor chattring pie, 
 May on our bride-house perch or sing. 
 Or with them any discord bring, 
 
 But from it fly. 
 
 J. FLETCHER. 
 
 XL 
 
 ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL 
 
 Love in my bosome, like a bee. 
 
 Doth sucke his sweete : 
 Now with his wings he playes with me. 
 
 Now with his feete : 
 Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
 His bed amidst my tender breast. 
 My kisses are his daily feast. 
 And yet he robs me of my rest. 
 
 Ah, wanton, will ye ? 
 
 And if I sleepe, then percheth he 
 
 With pretty flight : 
 And makes his pillow of my knee 
 
 The live-long night.
 
 42 A TREASURY 
 
 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, 
 He music playes if so I sing, 
 He lends me every lovely thing, 
 Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : 
 Ah, wanton, will ye ? 
 
 Else I with roses every day 
 
 Will whip ye hence. 
 And bind you, when you long to play, 
 
 For your offence ; 
 I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
 I'll make you fast it for your sinne, 
 I'll count your power not worth a pinne, 
 Alas ! what hereby shall I winne, 
 
 If he gain-say me ? 
 
 What if I beate the wanton boy 
 
 With many a rod ? 
 He will repay me with annoy, 
 
 Because a God. 
 Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
 And let thy bowre my bosome be ; 
 Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
 O, Cupid, so thou pity me ! 
 
 Spare not, but play thee. 
 
 T. LODGE.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 43 
 
 XLl 
 
 DAMELUS SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA 
 
 DiAPHENiA, like the daffa-down-dilly, 
 White as the sunne, faire as the lilly, 
 
 Heigh ho, how I doe love thee ! 
 I doe love thee as my lambs 
 Are beloved of their dams, 
 
 How blest were I if thou would'st prove me ! 
 
 Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, 
 That in thy sweetes all sweetes encloses, 
 
 Faire sweet how I doe love thee ! 
 I doe love thee as each flower 
 Loves the sunne's life-giving power, 
 
 For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 
 
 Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 
 When all thy praises are expressed, 
 
 Deare joy, how I do love thee ! 
 As the birds doe love the Spring, 
 Or the bees their careful king. 
 
 Then in requite, sweet virgin love me. 
 
 II. CONSTABLE.
 
 44 A TREASURY 
 
 XLII 
 TO HIS COY LOVE 
 
 I PRAY thee, leave ; love me no more, 
 
 Call home the heart you gave me ; 
 I but in vaine that saint adore 
 
 That can, but will not save me. 
 These poore halfe kisses kill me quite ; 
 
 Was ever man thus served ? 
 Amidst an ocean of delight, 
 
 For pleasure to be sterved. 
 
 Show me no more those snowie breasts. 
 
 With azure riverets branched, 
 Where, whilst mine eye with plentie feasts. 
 
 Yet is my thirst not stanched. 
 O Tantalus ! thy paines ne'er tell ; 
 
 By me thou art prevented : 
 'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in hell, 
 
 But thus in heaven tormented. 
 
 Clip me no more in those deare amies. 
 Nor thy life's comfort call me ; 
 
 O ! these are but too powerful charmes. 
 And doe but more enthral me.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR Y 45 
 
 But see how patient I am growne, 
 
 In all this coile about thee ; 
 Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone, 
 
 I cannot live without thee. 
 
 M. DRAYTON. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Tell me, dearest, what is love ? 
 'Tis a lightning from above, 
 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 
 'Tis a boy they call Desire. 
 
 'Tis a grave, 
 
 Gapes to have 
 Those poor fools that long to prove. 
 
 Tell me more, are women true ? 
 Yes, some are, and some as you. 
 Some are willing, some are strange, 
 Since you men first taught to change. 
 
 And till troth 
 
 Be in both, 
 All shall love, to love anew. 
 
 Tell me more yet, can they grieve ? 
 Yes, and sicken sore, but live, 
 And be wise, and delay. 
 When you men are as wise as they.
 
 46 A TREASURY 
 
 Then I see, 
 Faith will be, 
 Never till they both believe. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 XLIV 
 
 LIFE'S PAGEANT 
 
 Whether men do laugh or weepe. 
 Whether they do wake or sleepe, 
 Whether they die young or olde. 
 Whether they feel heat or colde, 
 There is underneath the sunne 
 Nothing in true earnest done. 
 
 All our pride is but a jeste, 
 None are worst and none are beste ; 
 Grief and joye and hope and feare, 
 Play their pageants everywhere ; 
 Vaine opinion all doth sway, 
 And the worlde is but a play. 
 
 Powers above in cloudes do sit, 
 Mocking our poor apish wit. 
 That so lamely, with such state 
 Their high glory imitate : 
 No ill can be felt but paine^ 
 And that happy men disdaine. 
 
 T. CAMPION. 
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 47 
 
 XLV 
 
 TO SPRING AND DEATH 
 
 Sweet spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly traine, 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers. 
 The zephyres curl the green locks of the plaine, 
 The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers. 
 
 Turn thou, sweet youth ; but ah ! my pleasant hours 
 
 And happy days with thee come not againe, 
 
 The sad memorials only of my paine 
 
 Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to sours. 
 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 
 Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
 But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air 
 Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. 
 
 Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come, 
 While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. 
 
 W. DRUMMOND. 
 XLVI 
 
 SURSUM COR 
 
 Leavk me, O Love, which reachest but to dust ; 
 And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things ; 
 Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ; 
 Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
 
 48 .-4 TREASURY 
 
 Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might 
 To that sweet yoke where lasting freedomes be ; 
 Which breakes the cloudes, and opens forth the light, 
 That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 
 
 O take fast hold ; let that light be thy guide 
 
 In this small course which birth draws out of death, 
 
 And thinke how ill becometh him to slide 
 
 Who seeketh heav'n and comes of heavenly breath. 
 
 Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : 
 Eternal Love, maintaine thy life in me. 
 
 SIR p. SIDNEY. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 CONTENT 
 
 Art thou poore, yet hast thou golden slumbers 
 
 O sweet content ! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy minde perplexed : 
 O punishment ! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how fooles are vexed 
 To add to golden numbers, golden numbers : 
 O sweet content ! 
 Worke apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 Honest labour beares a lovely face ; 
 Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 49 
 
 Canst drinke the waters of the crisped spring : 
 O sweet content ! 
 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine owne 
 teares, 
 O punishment ! 
 Then he that patiently want's burden beares, 
 No burden beares, but is a king, a king, 
 O sweet content ! 
 
 ^^'ork apace, apace, etc. 
 
 T. DEKKER (?) 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 The happy life, be these, I fiinde. 
 
 The richesse left, not got with pain ; 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet minde ; 
 
 The equal friend, no grudge, no strife ; 
 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 Without disease, the healthful life ; 
 
 The household of continuance ; 
 
 The meane diet, no delicate fare ; 
 
 True wisdom join'd with simplenesse ; 
 The night discharged of all care, 
 
 Where wine the wit may not oppresse.
 
 50 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 
 Such sleepes as may beguile the night ; 
 Contented with thine owne estate, 
 
 Ne wish for death, ne feare his might. 
 
 EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE 
 
 How happy is he born and taught. 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 Whose armour is his honest thought. 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ; 
 
 Whose Passions not his masters are ; 
 Whose Soul is still prepar'd for Death, 
 Unti'd unto the world by care 
 Of publick Fame or private Breath ; 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
 Nor Vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 Nor Rules of State, but Rules of good. 
 
 Who hath his life from Rumours freed ; 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose State can neither Flatterers feed, 
 Nor Ruin make oppressors great ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 51 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray 
 More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a Religious Book or Friend. 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands 
 Of hope to rise or fear to fall : — 
 Lord of himself, though not of Lands, 
 And, having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 SIR II. WOTTON. 
 
 PARVUM SUFFICIT 
 
 Homely hearts doe harbour quiet. 
 
 Little feare, and mickle solace : 
 States suspect their bed and diet, 
 
 Feare and craft do haunt the palace. 
 Little would I, little want I, 
 
 Where the minde and store agreeth, 
 Smallest comfort is not scantie, 
 
 Least he longs that little seeth. 
 Time hath beene that I have longed, 
 
 Foolish I, to like of folly. 
 To converse where honour thronged. 
 
 To my pleasures linked wholly.
 
 52 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Now I see, and seeing sorrow, 
 
 That the day consum'd returns not : 
 Who dare trust upon to-morrow, 
 
 When nor time, nor Hfe sojourns not. 
 
 T. LODGE. 
 
 LI 
 
 FORTUNE AND VIRTUE 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place, 
 Whilst our Hopes our Wits beguile, 
 No man marks the narrow space 
 'Twixt a Prison and a Smile. 
 
 Then, since Fortune's favours fade, 
 You, that in her arms do sleep, 
 Learn to swim, and not to wade ; 
 For the Hearts of Kings are deep. 
 
 But if Greatness be so bhnd 
 As to trust in Towers of Air, 
 Let it be with Goodness lin'd, 
 That at least the Fall be fair. 
 
 Then, though dark'ned, you shall say, 
 When Friends fail, and Princes frown, 
 Vertue is the roughest way, 
 But proves at Night a Bed of Down. 
 
 SIR H. WOTTON.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 53 
 
 LII 
 
 LOSS IN DELAY 
 
 Shun delayes, they breede remorse ; 
 
 Take thy time while time is lent thee ; 
 Creeping snailes have weakest force, 
 
 Fly their fault lest thou repent thee. 
 Good is best when soonest wrought, 
 Linger'd labours come to nought. 
 
 Hoist up sail while gale doth last, 
 
 Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure ; 
 Seeke not time when time is past, 
 
 Sober speede is wisdom's leisure. 
 After-wits are dearly bought. 
 Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. 
 
 Seek thy salve while sore is green, 
 
 Fester'd woundes ask deeper lancing ; 
 
 After cures are seldome seen. 
 
 Often sought scarce ever chancing. 
 
 Time and place give best advice, 
 
 Out of season, out of price.
 
 54 A TREASURY 
 
 Tender twigs are bent with ease, 
 
 Aged trees do breake with bending ; 
 
 Young desires make httle prease, 
 
 Growth doth make them past amending. 
 
 Happy man, that soone doth knock 
 
 Babel's babes against the rock ! 
 
 R. SOUTHWELL. 
 
 LIII 
 
 A PORTRAIT 
 
 A SWEET attractive kinde of grace, 
 A full assurance giv'n by lookes, 
 Continual comfort in a face. 
 The lineaments of Gospell bookes. 
 I trowe that countenance cannot lie 
 Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 
 
 Was never eye did see that face, 
 Was never eare did heare that tong. 
 Was never minde did minde his grace. 
 That ever thought the travell long ; 
 But eyes, and eares, and ev'ry thought 
 Were with his sweete perfections caught. 
 
 M. ROYDON.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 55 
 
 LIV 
 A CONTENTED MIND 
 
 I weigh not Fortune's frowne or smile, 
 
 I joy not much in earthly joyes, 
 
 I seeke not state, I seeke not stile, 
 
 I am not fond of fancie's toyes. 
 
 I rest so pleas'd with what I have, 
 I wish no more, no more I crave. 
 
 I quake not at the thunder's crack, 
 
 I tremble not at noise of wane, 
 
 I swound not at the newes of wrack, 
 
 I shrink not at a blazing-starre ; 
 I fear not losse, I hope not gaine, 
 I envie none, I none disdaine. 
 
 I see Ambition never pleas'd, 
 
 I see some Tantals starv'd in store, 
 
 I see gold's dropsie seldome eas'd, 
 
 I see even Midas gape for more ; 
 I neither want, nor yet abound, 
 Enough's a feast, content is crown'd. 
 
 I faine not friendship where I hate, 
 
 I fawne not on the great (in show), 
 
 I prize, I praise a meane estate. 
 
 Neither too lofty nor too low ; 
 
 This, this is all my choice, my cheere, 
 A minde content, a conscience cleere. 
 
 J. SYLVESTER.
 
 56 A TREASURY 
 
 UV 
 
 THE STURDY ROCK 
 
 The sturdy rock, for all his strength, 
 By raging seas is rent in twaine ; 
 
 The marble stone is pearst at length, 
 With little drops of drizzling rain : 
 
 The ox doth yeeld unto the yoke. 
 
 The Steele obeyeth the hammer stroke. 
 
 The stately stagge, that seems so stout, 
 By yalping hounds at bay is set ; 
 
 The swiftest bird that flies about, 
 Is caught at length in fowler's net : 
 
 The greatest fish, in deepest brooke. 
 
 Is soon deceived by subtill hooke. 
 
 Yea, man himself, unto whose will 
 All thinges are bounden to obey ; 
 
 For all his wit and worthie skill. 
 Doth fade at length and fall away. 
 
 There is nothing but time doth waste ; 
 
 The heavens, the earth, consume at last. 
 
 But vertue sits triumphing still, 
 
 Upon the throne of glorious fame ; 
 
 Though spiteful death man's body kill, 
 Yet hurts he not his vertuous name.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 57 
 
 By life or death what so betides, 
 The state of vertue never slides. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 LVI 
 
 THE LIE 
 
 Go, Soul, the body's guest, 
 
 Upon a thankless arrant : 
 Fear not to touch the best ; 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant : 
 Go, since I needs must die, 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Say to the Court, it glows 
 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Say to the Church, it shows 
 
 What's good, and doth no good 
 If Church and Court reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell Potentates, they live 
 
 Acting by others' action ; 
 Not loved unless they give, 
 Not strong but by a faction : 
 If Potentates reply. 
 Give Potentates the lie.
 
 58 A TREASURY 
 
 Tell men of high condition. 
 That manage the estate, 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their practice only hate : 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that brave it most, 
 
 They beg for more by spending, 
 Who, in their greatest cost, 
 
 Seek nothing but commending : 
 And if they make reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell zeal it wants devotion ; 
 
 Tell love it is but lust ; 
 Tell time it metes but motion ; 
 Tell flesh it is but dust : 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell age it daily wasteth ; 
 
 Tell honour how it alters ; 
 Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 
 Tell favour how it falters : 
 And as they shall reply. 
 Give every one the lie.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 59 
 
 Tell wit how much it wrangles 
 In tickle points of niceness ; 
 Tell wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness : 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell physic of her boldness ; 
 Tell skill it is pretension ; 
 Tell charity of coldness ; 
 Tell law it is contention : 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them still the lie. 
 
 Tell fortune of her blindness ; 
 
 Tell nature of decay ; 
 Tell friendship of unkindness ; 
 Tell justice of delay : 
 And if they will reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell arts they have no soundness. 
 
 But vary by esteeming ; 
 Tell schools they want profoundness, 
 And stand too much on seeming : 
 If arts and schools reply. 
 Give arts and schools the lie.
 
 6o A TREASURY 
 
 Tell faith it's fled the city ; 
 
 Tell how the country erreth ; 
 Tell, manhood shakes off pity, 
 Tell, virtue least preferreth : 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 So when thou hast, as I 
 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing, — 
 Although to give the lie 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing, — 
 Stab at thee he that will. 
 No stab the soul can kill ! 
 
 SIR W. RALEIGH. 
 
 LVII 
 THE LULLABY OF A LOVER 
 
 Sing lullaby, as women doe, 
 
 Wherewith they bring their babes to rest ; 
 And lullaby can I sing too. 
 
 As womanly as can the best. 
 With lullaby they still the childe. 
 And if I be not much beguil'd, 
 Full many wanton babes have I, 
 Which must be still'd with lullaby.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 6i 
 
 First lullaby, my youthful yeares ! 
 
 It is nowe time to go to bed, 
 For crooked age and hoary hairs 
 
 Have won the haven within my head : 
 With lullaby then, youth, be still, 
 With lullaby content thy will ; 
 Since courage quayles, and comes behind, 
 Go sleepe, and so beguile thy minde. 
 
 Next lullaby, my gazing eyes, 
 
 Which wonted were to glance apace ; 
 For every glasse may nowe suffice 
 
 To shewe the furrowes in my face. 
 With lullaby then winke awhile, 
 With lullaby your lookes beguile : 
 Let no faire face, nor beautie brighte 
 Entice you eft with vaine delighte. 
 
 And lullaby, my wanton will ! 
 
 Let reason's rule nowe reigne thy thought, 
 Since all too late I finde by skill 
 
 Howe deare I have thy fancies bought : 
 With lullaby nowe take thine ease, 
 With lullaby thy doubtes appease ; 
 For, trust to this, if thou be still. 
 My body shall obey thy will. 
 
 C, GASCOIGN.
 
 62 A TREASURY 
 
 LVIII 
 
 ON TIME 
 
 Time ! I ever must complaine 
 
 Of thy craft and cruell cunning ; 
 Seeming fix'd here to remaine, 
 
 When thy feete are ever running ; 
 And thy plumes 
 Still resumes 
 Courses new, repose most shunning. 
 
 Like calme winds thou passest by us ; 
 
 Lin'd with feathers are thy feete ; 
 Thy downie wings with silence flie us, 
 Like the shadowes of the night : 
 Or the streame. 
 That no beame 
 Of sharpest eye discernes to fleet. 
 
 Therefore mortals all deluded 
 
 By thy grave and wrinkled face. 
 In their judgements have concluded, 
 That thy slow and snaile-like pace 
 Still doth bend 
 To no end, 
 But to an eternal race.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 63 
 
 Budding youth's vaine blooming wit 
 Thinks the spring shall ever last, 
 And the gaudie flowers that sit 
 On Flora's brow shall never taste 
 Winter's scorne, 
 Nor forlorne, 
 Bend their heads with chilling blast. 
 
 Riper age expects to have 
 
 Harvests of his proper toile, 
 Times to give, and to receive 
 
 Seedes and fruits from fertile soile ; 
 But at length, 
 Doth his strength. 
 Youth and beauty all recoile. 
 
 Cold December hope retaines, 
 
 That the spring, each thing reviving, 
 Shall throughout his aged veines 
 
 Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving j 
 But thy sithe 
 Ends his strife, 
 And to Lethe sends him driving. 
 
 J. HAGTHORPE.
 
 64 A TREASURY 
 
 LIX 
 WHAT IS THE WORLD? 
 
 Swiftly water sweepeth by : 
 
 Swifter winged arrowes fly, 
 
 Swiftest yet, the winde that passes 
 
 When the nether clouds it chases. 
 
 But the joyes of earthly mindes. 
 
 Worldly pleasures, vain delights, 
 
 Far out-swift far sudden flights, 
 
 Waters, arrowes, and the windes. 
 
 What is the world ? tell. Worldling (if thou know it), 
 
 If it be good, why do all ills o'erflow it ? 
 
 If it be bad, why dost thou like it so ? 
 
 If it be sweet, how comes it bitter then ? 
 
 If it be bitter, what bewitcheth men ? 
 
 If it be Friend, why kills it, as a Foe, 
 
 Vain-minded men that over-love and lust it ? 
 
 If it be Foe, Fondling, how dar'st thou trust it ? 
 
 J, SYLVESTER. 
 
 LX 
 
 As Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more. 
 Did show she footing found, for all the flood ; 
 
 So when good soules, departed through Death's doore. 
 Come not againe, it shewes their dwelling good. 
 
 SIR J. DAVIES.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 65 
 
 LXI 
 
 THE WORLD A GAME 
 
 This world a hunting is, 
 
 The prey, poor man, the Nimrod fierce is death ; 
 
 His speedy greyhounds are 
 
 Lust, sickness, envy, care, 
 
 Strife that ne'er falls amiss. 
 With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe. 
 
 Now if by chance we fly 
 
 Of these the eager chase, 
 
 Old age with stealing pace 
 Casts up his nets, and there we panting die. 
 
 \V. DRUMMONl). 
 
 LXII 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 I WAS, I am not ; smil'd, that since did weepe ; 
 Labour'd, that rest ; I wak'd, that now must sleepe ; 
 I play'd, I play not ; sung, that now am still ; 
 Saw, that am blind ; I would, that have no will ; 
 I fed that, which feeds worms ; I stood, I fell ; 
 I bad God save you, that now bid farewell ; 
 I felt, I feel not ; followed, was pursued ; 
 I warr'd, have peace ; I conquer'd, am subdued ; 
 
 F
 
 66 A TREASURY 
 
 I niov'd, want motion ; I was stiffe, that bow 
 Below the earth ; then something, nothing now. 
 I catch'd, am caught ; I travel'd, here I He ; 
 Liv'd in the world, that to the world now die. 
 
 T. HEYWOOD, 
 
 LXIII 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismal yew ; 
 Maidens, willow-branches bear 
 
 Say I died true. 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth. 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 NATURE'S LESSONS 
 
 When the leaves in Autumn wither. 
 With a tawny, tanned face ; 
 
 Warpt and wrinkled-up together, 
 Th' year's late beauty to disgrace :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 67 
 
 There thy Hfe's glass mayst thou finde thee, 
 Green now, gray now, gone anon ; 
 
 Leaving, WorldUng, of thine own 
 Neither fruit nor leaf behind thee. 
 
 When chill Winter's cheer wee see 
 
 Shrinking, shaking, shivering, cold ; 
 See ourselves, for such are wee 
 
 After youth, if ever old. 
 After Winter, Spring (in order) 
 
 Comes again ; but earthly thing 
 Rotting here, not rooting further. 
 
 Can thy Winter hope a Spring ? 
 
 J. SYLVESTER. 
 
 LXV 
 
 ILLUSION 
 
 If Fortune's dark eclipse cloud glorie's light. 
 
 Then what availes that pomp which pride doth claim ? 
 
 A meere illusion made to mock the sight, 
 
 Whose best was but the shadow of a dreame. 
 
 Let greatnesse of her glassie scepters vaunt, 
 
 Not scepters, no, but reeds, soone bruis'd, soone 
 broken ; 
 
 And let this worldlie pompe our wits enchant, 
 All fades and scarcelie leaves behinde a token.
 
 68 A TREASURY 
 
 Those golden palaces, those gorgeous halls, 
 
 With furniture superfluously faire ; 
 Those stathe courts, those sky-encount'ring walls 
 
 Evanish all — like vapours in the aire. 
 
 Our painted pleasures but apparel! paine ; 
 
 We spend our dayes in dread, our lives in dangers, 
 Balls to the starres, and thralls to Fortune's reigne, 
 
 Knowne unto all, yet to ourselves but strangers. 
 
 ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 Mortality, behold, and fear, 
 
 What a change of flesh is here ! 
 
 Think how many royal bones 
 
 Sleep within this heap of stones. 
 
 Here they lie, had realms and lands, 
 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands ; 
 
 Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, 
 
 They preach, "In greatness is no trust." 
 
 Here's an acre sown indeed 
 
 With the richest, royal'st seed, 
 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 
 Since the first man died for sin : 
 
 Here the bones of birth have cried 
 
 "Though gods they were, as men they died."
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 69 
 
 Here are sands, ignoble things 
 Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings ; 
 Here's a world of pomp and state 
 Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 
 
 F. BEAUMONT. 
 
 LXVIl 
 
 TO DEATH 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
 For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. 
 Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 
 
 From rest and sleep which but thy picture be, 
 Much pleasure, then, from thee much more must flow ; 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 
 Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men. 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 
 And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then ? 
 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
 
 -And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die. 
 
 DR. DONNE.
 
 70 A TREASURY 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 View me, Lord, a work of Thine : 
 Shall I then lie drowned in night ? 
 
 Might Thy grace in me but shine, 
 I should seeme made all of light. 
 
 But my soul still surfeits so 
 
 On the poisoned baits of sinne, 
 
 That I strange and ugly grow, 
 All is dark and foul withinne. 
 
 Cleanse me, Lord, that I may kneele 
 At thine altar, pure and white : 
 
 They that once Thy mercies feele, 
 Gaze no more on earth's delight. 
 
 Worldly joys, like shadows, fade 
 When the heavenly light appears; 
 
 But the covenants Thou hast made. 
 Endless, knowe nor dayes nor yeares. 
 
 In Thy Word, Lord, is my trust, 
 
 To Thy mercies past I flye ; 
 Though I am but clay and dust, 
 
 Yet Thy grace can lift me highe. 
 
 T. CAMPION.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 71 
 
 LXIX 
 
 THE BURNING BABE 
 
 As I in hoary winter's night stood shiveringe in the snowe, 
 Surpris'd I was with sudden heat, which made my heart 
 
 to glowe ; 
 And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was neare, 
 A prettie babe all burning bright, did in the air appeare. 
 Who, scorched with exceeding heate, such floodes of teares 
 
 did shed, 
 As though His floodes should quench His flames which 
 
 with His teares were fed; 
 Alas ! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heates I fry, 
 Yet none approach to warme their heartes or feele my fire 
 
 but I! 
 My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel woundinge 
 
 thornes, 
 Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame 
 
 and scornes; 
 The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales; 
 The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled 
 
 soules. 
 For which, as nowe a fire I am, to worke them to their 
 
 good, 
 So will I melt into a bath, to washe them in my bloode :
 
 72 A TREASURY 
 
 With this He vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk 
 
 awaye, 
 And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas- 
 
 daye. 
 
 R. SOUTHWELL. 
 
 LXX 
 
 A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
 
 Which was my sin, though it were done before ? 
 
 Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run 
 And do run still, though still I do deplore ? 
 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, 
 
 For I have more. 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won 
 Others to sin, and made my sins their door ? 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
 A year or two, but wallow'd in a score ? 
 
 When Thou hast done Thou hast not done, 
 
 For I have more. 
 
 I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
 
 My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ; 
 
 But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son 
 Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore ; 
 
 And having done that, Thou hast done, 
 
 I fear no more. 
 
 DR. DONNE.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 73 
 
 LXXI 
 
 TIME AND HOPE 
 
 Even such is time, that takes in trust 
 Our youth, our joyes, our all we have. 
 And pays us but with Earth and Dust ; 
 Who, in the dark and silent Grave, 
 (When we have wandred all our ways), 
 Shuts up the story of our days ; 
 But from this Earth, this Grave, this Dust, 
 My God shall raise me up, I trust ! 
 
 SIR W. RALEIGH. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 EVEN-SONG 
 
 O MORTALL folke, you may beholde and see 
 
 Howe I lye here, sometime a mighty knight ; 
 
 The end of joye and all prosperitee 
 
 Is death at last, thorough his course and mighte. 
 
 After the daye there cometh the darke night. 
 
 For though the daye be never so long, 
 
 At last the belle ringeth to even-song. 
 
 S. HAWES.
 
 BOOK II
 
 LXXIII 
 
 A FATHER'S BLESSING 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell, 
 
 But all shall say I wish thee well ; 
 
 I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 
 
 Both bodily and ghostly health : 
 
 Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee, 
 
 So much of either may undoe thee. 
 
 I wish thee learning, not for show. 
 
 Enough for to instruct, and know ; 
 
 Not such as gentlemen require. 
 
 To prate at table, or at fire. 
 
 I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 
 
 Thy father's fortunes, and his places. 
 
 I wish thee friends, and one at court. 
 
 Not to build on, but support ; 
 
 To keep thee, not in doing many 
 
 Oppressions, but from suffering any. 
 
 I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 
 
 Nor lazy nor contentious dayes ; 
 
 And when thy soul and body part, 
 
 As innocent as now thou art. 
 
 K. CORBET.
 
 78 A TREASURY 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 THE RETREAT 
 
 Happy those early dayes, when I 
 
 Shin'd in my angel infancy ! 
 
 Before I understood this place 
 
 Appointed for my second race. 
 
 Or taught my soul to fancy ought 
 
 But a white, celestial thought ; 
 
 When yet I had not walkt above 
 
 A mile or two from my first love, 
 
 And looking back, at that short space, 
 
 Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; 
 
 When on some gilded Cloud or Flowre 
 
 My gazing soul would dwell an houre, 
 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 
 Some shadows of eternity ; 
 
 Before I taught my tongue to wound 
 
 My conscience with a sinful sound, 
 
 Or had the black art to dispense 
 
 A sev'rall sin to ev'ry sense ; 
 
 But felt through all this fleshly dresse 
 
 Bright shootes of everlastingnesse. 
 
 O how I long to travel back. 
 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 
 That I might once more reach that plaine 
 
 Where first I left my glorious traine ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 79 
 
 From whence th' enlightened spirit sees 
 That shady city of palme trees. 
 But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
 Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
 Some men a forward motion love, 
 But I by backward steps would move ; 
 And, when this dust falls to the urn, 
 In that state I came, return. 
 
 H. VAUGHAN. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 THE ALCHEMY OF LOVE 
 
 What pearls, what rubies can 
 Seem so lovely fair to man. 
 As her lips whom he doth love, 
 When in sweet discourse they move, 
 Or her lovelier teeth, the while 
 She doth bless him with a smile ? 
 Stars indeed fair creatures bee : 
 Yet amongst us where is hee 
 Joys not more the whilst he lies 
 Sunning in his mistress' eyes. 
 Than in all the glimmering light 
 Of a starrie winter's night ? 
 Note the beautie of an eye — 
 And if aught you praise it bye
 
 8o A TREASURY 
 
 Leave such passion in your mind, 
 Let my reason's eye be blind. 
 Mark if ever red or white 
 Anywhere gave such delight, 
 As when they have taken place 
 In a worthie woman's face. 
 
 G. WITHER. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 LOVE 
 
 All love, at first, like gen'rous wine. 
 Ferments and frets, until 'tis fine ; 
 But when 'tis settled on the lee, 
 And from th' impurer matter free. 
 Becomes the richer still, the older, 
 And proves the pleasanter, the colder. 
 Love is too great a happiness 
 For wretched mortals to possess : 
 For, could it hold inviolate 
 Against those cruelties of Fate, 
 Which all felicities below 
 By rigid laws are subject to. 
 It would become a bliss too high 
 For perishing mortality. 
 Translate to earth the joys above ; 
 For nothing goes to Heaven but love. 
 
 S, BUTLER.
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 8l 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 THE PRIMROSE 
 
 AsKE me why I send you here 
 
 This sweet Infanta of the yeare ? 
 
 Aske me why I send to you 
 
 This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew ? 
 
 I will whisper to your eares 
 
 The sweets of love are mixt with tears. 
 
 Ask me why this flower does show 
 So yellow-green, and sickly too ? 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ? 
 I will answer. These discover 
 \Miat fainting hopes are in a lover. 
 
 R. HERRICK. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 AGAINST THEM WHO LAY UNCHASTITY TO 
 THE SEX OF WOMEN 
 
 They meet but with unwholesome springs. 
 And summers which infectious are ; 
 
 G
 
 82 A TREASURY 
 
 They heare but when the mermaid sings, 
 And onely see the faUing starre, 
 Who ever dare, 
 Affirme no woman chaste and faire. 
 
 Goe cure your fevers ; and you'll say 
 
 The dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare ; 
 
 In copper mines no longer stay, 
 But travell to the West, and there 
 The right ones see. 
 
 And grant all gold's not alchemic. 
 
 What madman, 'cause the glow-worme's flame 
 Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire ? 
 
 'Cause some make forfeit of their name, 
 And slave themselves to man's desire, 
 Shall the sex, free 
 
 From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be ? 
 
 Nor grieve, Castara, though 'twere fraile ; 
 
 Thy vertue then would brighter shine, 
 When thy example should prevaile, 
 
 And every woman's faith be thine : 
 And were there none, 
 'Tis majesty to rule alone. 
 
 W. HABINGTON.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY S3 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 CASTARA 
 
 Like the violet which alone 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade ; 
 My Castara lives unknown. 
 To no looser eye betray'd. 
 For she's to herself untrue, 
 Who delights i' the public view. 
 
 Such is her beauty, as no arts 
 
 Have enriched with borrowed grace ; 
 Her high birth no pride imparts, 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 Folly boasts a glorious blood, 
 She is noblest, being good. 
 
 She her throne makes reason climbe. 
 
 While wild passions captive lie. 
 And each article of time 
 
 Her pure thoughts to heaven fly : 
 All her vowes religious be, 
 And her love she vowes to me. 
 
 \V. HABINGTON.
 
 84 A TREASURY 
 
 LXXX 
 
 THE NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 
 The shooting starres attend thee ; 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 Whose little eyes glow. 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 
 
 No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee ; 
 Nor snake, or slow-worme bite thee : 
 
 But on, on thy way, 
 
 Not making a stay, 
 Since ghost there's none t' affright thee. 
 
 Let not the darke thee cumber ; 
 What though the moon does slumber ? 
 
 The starres of the night 
 
 Will lend thee their light 
 Like tapers cleare without number. 
 
 Then Julia let me woo thee, 
 Thus, thus to come unto me ; 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silv'ry feet. 
 My soul I'll poure into thee. 
 
 R. HERRICK.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 85 
 
 LXXXI 
 THE POWER OF LOVE 
 
 There are two births, the one when light 
 First strikes the new awaken'd sense ; 
 
 The other when two souls unite, 
 
 And we must count our life from thence : 
 
 When you lov'd me and I lov'd you, 
 
 Then both of us were born anew. 
 
 Love then to us did new souls give. 
 
 And in those souls did plant new powers ; 
 
 Since when another life we live. 
 
 The breath we breathe is his not ours : 
 
 Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, 
 
 And whom he finds young, keeps young still. 
 
 W. CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 TO HIS COY iM I STRESS 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time. 
 This coyness, lady, were no crime, 
 We would sit down, and think which way 
 To walk, and pass one long, love's day.
 
 86 A TREASURY 
 
 Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 
 Should'st rubies find ; I by the tide 
 Of Humber would complain. I would 
 Love you ten years before the flood, 
 And you should, if you please, refuse 
 Till the conversion of the Jews ; 
 My vegetable love should grow 
 Vaster than empires and more slow ; 
 An hundred years should go to praise 
 Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze ; 
 Two hundred to adore each breast, 
 But thirty thousand to the rest ; 
 An age at least to every part. 
 And the last age should show your heart. 
 For, lady, you deserve this state, 
 Nor would I love at lower rate. 
 
 But at my back I always hear 
 
 Time's winged chariot hurrying near ; 
 
 And yonder all before us lie 
 
 Deserts of vast eternity. 
 
 Thy beauty shall no more be found. 
 
 Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 
 
 My echoing song : then worms shall try 
 
 That long preserv'd virginity ; 
 
 And your quaint honour turn to dust, 
 
 And into ashes all my lust : 
 
 The grave's a fine and private place. 
 
 But none, I think, do there embrace.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 87 
 
 Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
 Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 
 And while thy willing soul transpires 
 At every pore with instant fires, 
 Now let us sport us while we may, 
 And now, like am'rous birds of prey, 
 Rather at once our time devour, 
 Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r. 
 Let us roll all our strength and all 
 Our sweetness up into one ball ; 
 And tear our pleasures with rough strife. 
 Thorough the iron gates of life ; 
 Thus, though we cannot make our sun 
 Stand still, yet we will make him run. 
 
 A. MARVELL. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 SONG 
 
 Phillis is my only joy, 
 
 Faithless as the winds or seas ; 
 Sometimes coming, sometimes coy. 
 Yet she never fails to please ; 
 If with a frown 
 I am cast down, 
 Phillis smiling 
 And beguiling. 
 Makes me happier than before.
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Though, alas ! too late I find 
 Nothing can her fancy fix, 
 Yet the moment she is kind, 
 I forgive her all her tricks ; 
 Which though I see, 
 I can't get free ; 
 She deceiving, 
 I believing; 
 What need lovers wish for more ? 
 
 SIR C. SEDLEY. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 AMORET 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray, 
 
 Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover ; 
 
 I'll tell the signs by which you may 
 The wand'ring shepherdess discover. 
 
 Coquette and coy at once her air, 
 Both studied, tho' both seem neglected ; 
 Careless she is, with artful care. 
 Affecting to seem unaffected. 
 
 With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance. 
 Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them, 
 For she'd persuade they wound by chance, 
 Tho' certain aim and art direct them.
 
 OF MINOK BRITISH POETRY 89 
 
 She likes herself, yet others hates 
 For that which in herself she prizes ; 
 And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
 She is the thing that she despises. 
 
 W. CONGREVE. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 SEMELE TO JUPITER 
 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me, 
 1 am woman as you made me ; 
 Causeless doubting or despairing, 
 Rashly trusting, idly fearing. 
 
 If obtaining. 
 
 Still complaining ; 
 
 If consenting. 
 
 Still repenting ; 
 
 Most complying, 
 
 When denying, 
 And to be follow'd only flying. 
 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me, 
 I am woman as you made me. 
 
 W. CONGREVE.
 
 90 A TREASURY 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 CHANSON A BOIRE 
 
 Come, let's mind our drinking, 
 Away with this thinking ; 
 
 It ne'er, that I heard of, did any one good ; 
 Prevents not disaster, 
 But brings it on faster. 
 
 Mischance is by mirth and by courage withstood. 
 
 He ne'er can recover 
 The day that is over, 
 
 The present is with us, and does threaten no ill ; 
 He's a fool that will sorrow 
 For the thing call'd to-morrow. 
 
 But the hour we've in hand we may wield as we 
 will. 
 
 There's nothing but Bacchus 
 Right merry can make us. 
 
 That virtue particular is to the vine ; 
 It fires ev'ry creature 
 With wit and good-nature, 
 
 Whose thoughts can be dark when their noses do 
 shine ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 91 
 
 A night of good drinking 
 Is worth a year's thinking, 
 
 There's nothing that kills us so surely as sorrow ; 
 Then to drown our cares, boys, 
 Let's drink up the stars, boys. 
 
 Each face of the gang will a sun be to-morrow. 
 
 C. COTTON. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 LOVE ARMED 
 
 Love in fantastic triumph sat. 
 
 Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd ; 
 For whom fresh pains he did create. 
 
 And strange tyrannic power he show'd. 
 From thy bright eyes he took his fire. 
 
 Which round about in sport he hurl'd ; 
 But 'twas from mine he took desire. 
 
 Enough t' inflame the amorous world. 
 
 From me he took his sighs and tears. 
 
 From thee his pride and cruelty; 
 From me his languishments and fears, 
 
 And every killing dart from thee. 
 Thus thou and I the god have arm'd, 
 
 And set him up a deity ; 
 But my poor heart alone is harm'd, 
 
 Whilst thine the victor is, and free. 
 
 APHRA BEHN.
 
 92 A TREASURY 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 LOVE AND MARRIAGE 
 
 In vain does Hymen, with religious vows 
 
 Oblige his slaves to wear his chains with ease ; 
 
 A privilege alone that Love allows, 
 
 'Tis Love alone can make our fetters please. 
 
 The angry tyrant lays his yoke on all, 
 Yet in his fiercest rage is charming still ; 
 
 Officious Hymen comes whene'er we call, 
 But haughty Love comes only when he will. 
 
 APHRA BEHN. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 THE SIEGE 
 
 'Tis now, since I sat down before 
 
 That foolish fort, a heart, 
 (Time strangely spent !) a year and more, 
 
 And still I did my part : 
 
 Made my approaches, from her hand 
 
 Unto her lip did rise ; 
 And did already understand 
 
 The language of her eyes :
 
 OF MIiYOR BRITISH POETRY 93 
 
 Proceeded on with no less art, 
 (My tongue was engineer;) 
 
 I thought to undermine the heart 
 By whispering in the ear. 
 
 When this did nothing, I brought down 
 Great cannon-oaths, and shot 
 
 A thousand thousand to the town, 
 And still it yielded not. 
 
 I then resolv'd to starve the place. 
 
 By cutting off all kisses. 
 Praising and gazing on her face. 
 
 And all such little blisses. 
 
 To draw her out and from her strength, 
 
 I drew all batteries in ; 
 And brought myself to lie, at length, 
 
 As if no siege had been. 
 
 When I had done what man could do. 
 And thought the place mine own, 
 
 The enemy lay quiet too, 
 And smil'd at all was done. 
 
 I sent to know from whence, and where 
 These hopes and this relief? 
 
 A spy inform'd. Honour was there, 
 And did command in chief.
 
 94 A TREASURY 
 
 "March, marchj" quoth I; "the word straight give, 
 
 Let's lose no time, but leave her ; 
 That giant upon air will live, 
 
 And hold it out for ever." 
 
 SIR J. SUCKLING. 
 
 xc 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S WISH 
 
 If I live to grow old, for I find I go down, 
 
 Let this be my fate : in a country town, 
 
 May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate, 
 
 And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate. 
 
 May I govern my passion with an absolute sway. 
 And grow wiser and better as my strength wears 
 
 away. 
 Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 
 
 Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, 
 With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look, 
 With a spacious plain without hedge or stile. 
 And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. 
 May I govern, etc.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 95 
 
 With Plutarch and Horace, and one or two more 
 Of the best wits that Uved in the ages before \ 
 With a dish of roast mutton, not ven'son or teal. 
 And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. 
 May I govern, etc. 
 
 With a pudding on Sunday, with stout humming liquor, 
 And remnants of Latin to puzzle the Vicar \ 
 With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine. 
 To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. 
 May I govern, etc. 
 
 I hope I shall have no occasion to send 
 For priests or physicians, till I'm so near my end. 
 That I have eat all my bread and drank my last glass. 
 Let them come then and set their seals to my pass. 
 May I govern, etc. 
 
 With courage undaunted may I face my last day. 
 And when 1 am dead may the better sort say, — 
 In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow. 
 He's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow ; 
 
 For he governed his passion with an absolute sway, 
 And grew wiser and better as his strength wore 
 
 away. 
 Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. 
 
 DR. W. POPE.
 
 96 A TREASURY 
 
 XCI 
 THE BAG OF THE BEE 
 
 About the sweet bag of a bee, 
 
 Two Cupids fell at odds ; 
 And whose the pretty prize should be 
 
 They vow'd to ask the gods. 
 
 Which Venus hearing, thither came. 
 And for their boldness stript them ; 
 
 And taking thence from each his flame, 
 With rods of myrtle whipt them. 
 
 Which done, to still their wanton cries. 
 When quiet grown she had seen them. 
 
 She kiss'd and wip'd their dove-like eyes. 
 And gave the bag between them. 
 
 R. HEKRICK. 
 
 XCII 
 AGAINST PLEASURE 
 
 There's no such thing as pleasure here, 
 
 'Tis all a perfect cheat, 
 Which does but shine and disappear. 
 
 Whose charm is but deceit ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 97 
 
 The empty bribe of yielding souls, 
 Which first betrays, and then controls. 
 
 'Tis true, it looks at distance fair ; 
 
 But if we do approach, 
 The fruit of Sodom will impair, 
 
 And perish at a touch : 
 It being then in fancy less. 
 And we expect more than possess. 
 
 For by our pleasures we are cloy'd, 
 
 And so desire is done ; 
 Or else, like rivers, they make wide 
 
 The channel where they run ; 
 And either way true bUss destroys, 
 Making us narrow, or our joys. 
 
 \Yc covet pleasure easily, 
 
 But ne'er true bliss possess ; 
 For many things must make it be. 
 
 But one may make it less ; 
 Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 
 'Twould be consum'd by fear to lose it. 
 
 What art thou, then, thou winged air. 
 More weak and swift than fame, 
 
 Whose next successor is Despair, 
 And its attendant Shame ? 
 
 Th' experienced prince then reason had, 
 
 Who said of pleasure — " It is mad." 
 
 KATHERINE PHILIPS. 
 H
 
 98 A TREASURY 
 
 XCIII 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH 
 
 Love and Death o' th' way once meeting, 
 Having past a friendly greeting, 
 Sleep their weary eyelids closing, 
 Lay them downe themselves reposing. 
 Love, whom divers cares molested. 
 Could not sleep, but whilst Death rested. 
 All in haste away he posts him, 
 But his haste full dearly costs him \ 
 For it chanc'd that going to sleeping, 
 Both had giv'n their darts in keeping 
 Unto Night, who, Error's mother, 
 Blindly knowing not one from t'other, 
 Gave Love Death's, and ne'er perceiv'd it, 
 While as blindly Love received it. 
 Since which time their darts confounding. 
 Love now kills instead of wounding ; 
 Death our hearts with sweetness filling, 
 Gently wounds, instead of killing. 
 
 R. FLECKNO.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 99 
 
 XCIV 
 
 FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL 
 
 I WISH I were where Helen lies, 
 Nicht and day on me she cries ; 
 Oh, that I were where Helen lies, 
 
 On fair Kirconnel lee ! 
 Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare, 
 I'll male' a garland o' thy hair. 
 Shall bind my heart for ever mair, 
 
 Until the day I dee. 
 
 Oh, think na ye my heart was sair, 
 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 
 
 She sank, and swoon'd wi' mickle care, 
 
 On fair Kirconnel lee. 
 Curst be the heart that thocht the thocht. 
 And curst the hand that shot the shot, 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 
 And died to succour me. 
 
 As I went down the water-side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 On fair Kirconnel lee.
 
 lOO A TREASURY 
 
 I lichtit doun, my sword did draw, 
 I hackit him in pieces sma', 
 I hackit him in pieces sma', 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 Oh, that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Nicht and day on me she cries, 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise — 
 
 Oh, come, my love, to me ! 
 Oh, Helen fair ! Oh, Helen chaste ! 
 If I were with thee I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, 
 
 On fair Kirconnel lee. 
 
 I wish my grave were growin' green, 
 A windin' sheet drawn ower my een, 
 And I in Helen's arms lying. 
 
 On fair Kirconnel lee. 
 I wish I were where Helen lies, 
 Nicht and day on me she cries ; 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 xcv 
 
 BEAUTY'S BEAUTY 
 
 Can you paint a thought ? or number 
 
 Every fancy in a slumber ? 
 Can you count soft minutes roving 
 From a dial's point by moving ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY loi 
 
 Can you grasp a sigli ? or, lastly, 
 Rob a virgin's honour chastely ? 
 
 No, oh no ! yet you may 
 Sooner do both that and this. 
 This and that, and never miss. 
 Than by any praise display 
 
 Beauty's beauty ; such a glory, 
 As beyond all fate, all story. 
 All arms, all arts. 
 All loves, all hearts. 
 Greater than those, or they. 
 Do, shall, and must obey. 
 
 J. FORP. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 'Tis a child of phansie's getting, 
 
 Brought up between hope and fear. 
 
 Fed with smiles, grown by uniting 
 Strong, and so kept by desire ; 
 
 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire 
 
 Never dying, 
 Whose smoalc like incense doth aspire 
 
 Upwards flying. 
 
 'Tis a soft magnetique stone 
 
 Attracting hearts by sympathie.
 
 I02 A TREASURY 
 
 Binding up close two souls in one, 
 Both discoursing secretlie : 
 
 'Tis the true Gordian knot that tyes 
 
 Yet ne'er unbinds, 
 Fixing thus two lovers eyes 
 
 As wel as mindes. 
 
 'Tis the sphere's heavenly harmonic 
 Where two skilful hearts do strike, 
 
 And everie sound expressively 
 Marries sweetly with the like. 
 
 'Tis the world's everlasting chain 
 
 That all things ty'd 
 And bid them like the fixed Waine 
 
 Unmov'd to bide. 
 
 R. HEATH. 
 
 XCVII 
 
 THE DIRGE 
 
 What is th' existence of man's life, 
 
 But open war, or slumber'd strife ; 
 
 Where sickness to his sense presents 
 
 The combat of the elements ; 
 
 And never feels a perfect peace 
 
 Till Death's cold hand signs his release ?
 
 OF M/A'O/i! BRITISH POETRY 103 
 
 It is a storme, where the hot blood 
 Outvies in rage the boihng flood ; 
 And each loose passion of the minde 
 Is like a furious gust of winde, 
 AVhich beats his bark with many a wave, 
 Till he casts anchor in the grave. 
 
 It is a flowre, which buds and grows, 
 And withers as the leaves disclose ; 
 Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 
 Like fits of waking before sleep ; 
 Then shrinks into that fatal mould 
 Where its first being was enroll'd. 
 
 It is a dreame, whose seeming truth 
 Is moralis'd in age and youth ; 
 Where all the comforts he can share 
 As wandering as his fancies are ; 
 Till, in a mist of dark decay. 
 The dreamer vanish quite away. 
 
 It is a dial, which points out 
 The sunset, as it moves about ; 
 And shadows out in lines of night 
 The subtle stages of time's flight ; 
 Till all-obscuring earth hath laid 
 The body in perpetual shade.
 
 104 ^ TREASURY 
 
 It is a wearie interlude, 
 Which doth short joys, long woes include ; 
 The world the stage, the prologue tears, 
 The acts vain hope and varied fears ; 
 The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
 And leaves no epilogue but death. 
 
 H. KING, 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 RESPICE FINEM 
 
 My soul, sit thou a patient looker on ; 
 Judge not the play before the play is done : 
 Her plot has many changes : every day 
 Speaks a new scene ; the last act crowns the play. 
 
 F. QUARLES. 
 
 XCIX 
 
 THE WORLD'S PROMISES 
 
 False world, thou ly'st ; thou canst not lend 
 
 The least delight : 
 
 Thy favours cannot gain a friend, 
 
 They are so slight : 
 
 Thy morning pleasures make an end 
 
 To please at night :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 105 
 
 Poor are the wants that thou supply's!, 
 And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st 
 With heaven : fond earth, thou boast'st ; false world, 
 thou ly'st. 
 
 Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 
 
 Of endless treasure : 
 Thy bounty offers easy sales 
 
 Of lasting pleasure : 
 Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails. 
 
 And swear'st to ease her : 
 There's none can want where thou supply'st. 
 There's none can give where thou deny'st ; 
 Alas ! fond world, thou boast'st ; false world, thou ly'st. 
 
 What well-advised ear regards 
 
 What earth can say? 
 Thy words are gold, but thy rewards 
 
 Are painted clay : 
 Thy cunning can but pack the cards, 
 
 Thou can'st not play : 
 Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st. 
 If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st ; 
 Thou art not what thou seem'st : false world, thou ly'st. 
 
 Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 
 
 Of new-coin'd treasure ; 
 
 A paradise that has no stint, 
 
 No change, no measure ;
 
 io6 A TREASURY 
 
 A painted cask, but nothing in't 
 
 Nor wealth, nor pleasure : 
 Vain earth ! that falsly thus comply'st 
 With man ; vain man ! that thou rely'st 
 On earth ; vain man, thou doat'st ; vain earth, thou ly'st. 
 
 What mean dull souls, in this high measure, 
 
 To haberdash 
 In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure 
 
 Is dross and trash ; 
 The height of whose enchanting pleasure 
 
 Is but a flash ? 
 Are these the goods that thou supply'st 
 Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st ? 
 Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou 
 ly'st. 
 
 F. QUARLES. 
 
 A REQUIEM 
 
 Sleepe on, my Love, in thy cold bed 
 
 Never to be disquieted ! 
 
 My last good-night ! thou wilt not wake 
 
 Till I thy fate shall overtake : 
 
 Till age, or grief, or sickness must 
 
 Marry my body to that dust
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY lO'. 
 
 It SO much loves ; and fill the room 
 My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
 Stay for me there ; I will not faile 
 To meet thee in that hollow vale. 
 And think not much of my delay : 
 I am already on the way, 
 And follow thee with all the speed 
 Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 
 Each minute is a short degree, 
 And ev'ry houre a step towards thee. 
 
 DR. H. KING. 
 
 CI 
 
 HYMN TO LIGHT 
 
 Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, 
 
 But ever ebb and ever flow ! 
 
 Thou golden shower of a true Jove ! 
 Who does in thee descend, and Heav'n to earth make 
 love. 
 
 Say from what golden quivers of the sky, 
 
 Do all thy winged arrows fly ? 
 
 Swiftness and power by birth are thine : 
 From thy great sire they came, thy sire the word Divine.
 
 io8 A TREASURY 
 
 Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay, 
 Dost thy bright wood of stars survey ; 
 And all the year dost with thee bring 
 
 Of thousand flowry lights thine own nocturnal spring. 
 
 Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above 
 The Sun's gilt tent for ever move, 
 And still as thou in pomp do'st go, 
 
 The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. 
 
 When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy wak'ned head, 
 Out of the morning's purple bed. 
 Thy quire of birds about thee play. 
 
 And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. 
 
 All the world's brav'ry that delights our eyes 
 Is but thy sev'ral liveries, 
 Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st ; 
 
 Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st. 
 
 A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st ; 
 
 A crown of studded gold thou bear'st ; 
 
 The virgin lillies in their white, 
 Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. 
 
 With flame condens'd thou do'st thy jewels fix, 
 
 And solid colours in if mix : 
 
 Flora herself envies to see 
 Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 109 
 
 Through the soft wayes of Heav'n, and air, and sea, 
 
 Which open all their pores to Thee, 
 
 Like a clear river thou do'st glide, 
 And with thy living stream through the close channels 
 slide. 
 
 But the vast ocean of unbounded day 
 
 In th' empyrrean Heaven does stay. 
 
 Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below, 
 From thence took first their rise, thither at last must 
 flow. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 CII 
 
 FAITH AND REASON 
 
 Some blind themselves, 'cause possibly they may 
 
 Be led by others a right way ; 
 They build on sands, which if unmov'd they find, 
 
 'Tis but because there was no wind. 
 Less hard 'tis, not to erre ourselves, than know 
 
 If our forefathers err'd or no. 
 When we trust men concerning God, we then 
 
 Trust not God concerning men.
 
 no A TREASURY 
 
 The Holy Book, like the eighth sphere, does shine 
 
 With thousand lights of truth divine. 
 So numberless the stars, that to the eye, 
 
 It makes but all one galaxie. 
 Yet Reason must assist too, for in seas 
 
 So vast and dangerous as these. 
 Our course by stars above we cannot know. 
 
 Without the compass too below. 
 
 Though Reason cannot through Faith's mysteries see, 
 
 It sees that there and such they be ; 
 Leads to Heaven's door, and there does humbly keep. 
 
 And there through chinks and key-holes peep. 
 Though it, like Moses, by a sad command. 
 
 Must not come in to th' Holy Land, 
 Yet thither it infallibly does guide ; 
 
 And from afar 'tis all descry'd. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 cm 
 
 THE GARDEN 
 
 What wond'rous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY in 
 
 The nectarine, and curious peach, 
 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness ; 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find ; 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 
 
 Far other worlds, and other seas. 
 
 Annihilating all that's made. 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside. 
 My soul into the boughs does glide : 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
 Then whets and claps its silver wings. 
 And, till prepared for longer flight. 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden state. 
 While man there walked without a mate : 
 After a place so pure and sweet. 
 What other help could yet be meet ! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises are in one, 
 To live in Paradise alone.
 
 112 A TREASURY 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 
 
 Of fiow'rs, and herbs, this dial new, 
 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run. 
 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 
 Computes its time as well as we ! 
 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 
 Be reckon'd but with herbs and flowers ? 
 
 A. MARVELL. 
 
 CIV 
 
 PHOSPHORE REDDE DIEM 
 
 Will't ne'er be morning ? Will that promis'd light 
 Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night ? 
 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 Whose conqu'ring ray 
 
 May chase these fogs ; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 
 How long ! How long shall these benighted eyes 
 
 Languish in shades, like feeble flies 
 Expecting spring ? How long shall darkness soil 
 
 The face of earth, and thus beguile 
 The souls of sprightful action ? When, when will day 
 
 Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray
 
 OF M/ATO/^ BRITISH POETRY w 
 
 May gild the weather-cocks of our devotion, 
 And give our unsoul'd souls new motion ? 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 Thy light will fray 
 These horrid mists ; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 
 Alas ! my light in vain expecting eyes 
 
 Can find no objects, but what rise 
 From this poore mortal blaze, a dying spark 
 
 Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark, 
 A dang'rous, a dull blue-burning light, 
 
 As melancholy as the night : 
 Here's all the sunnes that glister in the sphere 
 
 Of earth : ah me ! what comfort's here? 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day ; 
 Haste, haste away, 
 Heav'n's loit'ring lamp; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 
 F. QUARLES. 
 
 cv 
 PRESENT AND FUTURE 
 
 How we dally out our days ! 
 How we seek a thousand ways 
 To find death ! the which, if none 
 We sought out, would show us one. 
 I
 
 114 A TREASURY 
 
 Never was there morning yet, 
 
 Sweet as is the violet, 
 
 Which man's foUie did not soon 
 
 Wish to be expir'd in noon : 
 
 As though such an haste did tend 
 
 To our bhss, and not our end. 
 
 Nay, the young ones in the nest 
 Sucke this folly from the breast ; 
 And no stammering ape but can 
 Spoil a prayer to be a man. 
 
 Sooner shall the wandering star 
 Learn what rest and quiet are ; 
 Sooner shall the slippery rill 
 Leave his motion and stand still. 
 
 Be it joy, or be it sorrow. 
 We refer all to the morrow ; 
 That, we think, will ease our paine ; 
 That, we do suppose again. 
 Will increase our joy ; and soe 
 Events, the which we cannot know, 
 We magnify, and are (in sum) 
 Enamour'd of the time to come. 
 
 Well, the next day comes, and then 
 Another next, and soe to ten. 
 To twenty we arrive, and find 
 No more before us than behind
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 1 1 ; 
 
 Of solid joy ; and yet haste on 
 To our consummation ; 
 Till the forehead often have 
 The remembrance of a grave ; 
 Andj at last, of life bereav'd, 
 Die unhappy and deceiv'd. 
 
 R. GOMERSALL. 
 
 CVI 
 
 DEPARTED FRIENDS 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light ! 
 
 And I alone sit ling'ring here ! 
 Their very memory is faire and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
 
 Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
 After the Sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glorie. 
 Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoarie, 
 Mere glimmering and decays.
 
 ii6 A TREASURY 
 
 O holy Hope ! and high HumiUty ! 
 
 High as the Heavens above ; 
 These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death ; the Jewel of the Just ! 
 
 Shining no where but in the dark ; 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know 
 
 At first sight if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleepe. 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes. 
 
 And into glory peepe. 
 
 If a star were confin'd into a tombe, 
 
 Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 
 
 But when the hand that lockt her up gives roome 
 She'll shine through all the spheare. 
 
 O Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under thee ! 
 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
 
 Into true libertie !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 117 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
 
 My perspective still as they passe : 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 
 
 ^^^^ere I shall need no glasse. 
 
 H. VAUGHAN. 
 
 evil 
 
 AX EPITAPH 
 
 Ix this marble buri'd lyes 
 Beauty may inrich the skyes 
 And add light to Phoebus' eyes. 
 
 Sweeter than Aurora's aire, 
 When she paints the lillies faire. 
 And gilds cowslips with her haire. 
 
 Chaster than the virgin Spring, 
 Ere her blossomes she doth bring, 
 Or cause Philomel to sing. 
 
 If such goodnesse live 'mongst men 
 Bring me it ! I shall know then 
 She is come from heaven agen. 
 
 But if not, ye standers by, 
 Cherish me, and say that I 
 Am the next designed to dye. 
 
 R. HERRICK (?)
 
 iiS A TREASURY 
 
 CVIII 
 
 INVOCATION TO SILENCE 
 
 Still-born Silence ! thou that art 
 Flood-gate of the deeper heart ! 
 Offspring of a heavenly kinde, 
 Frost o' th' mouth, and thaw o' th' minde. 
 Secrecy's confident, and he 
 Who makes religion mystery ! 
 Admiration's speaking'st tongue ! 
 Leave, thy desart shades among. 
 Reverend hermit's hallow'd cells. 
 Where retir'dst Devotion dwells ! 
 With thy enthusiasms come. 
 Seize our tongues, and strike us dumbe. 
 
 R. FLECKNO. 
 
 CIX 
 
 THE ASPIRATION 
 
 How long great God, how long must I 
 Immur'd in this dark prison lye ! 
 Where at the grates and avenues of sense 
 My Soul must watch to have intelligence ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 119 
 
 Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight, 
 Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night. 
 
 ^\'hen shall I leave this magic Sphere, 
 And be all mind, all eye, all ear ! 
 
 How cold this clime ! and yet my sense 
 Perceives even here thy influence. 
 Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel, 
 And pant and tremble like the amorous steel. 
 To lower good, and beauties less divine. 
 Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline ; 
 But yet, so strong the sympathy. 
 It turns, and points again to thee. 
 
 I long to see this excellence 
 ^Vhich at such distance strikes my sense. 
 My impatient Soul struggles to disengage 
 Her wings from the confinement of her cage. 
 Would'st thou great Love this prisoner once set free, 
 How would she hasten to be link'd with thee ! 
 She'd for no Angel's conduct stay, 
 But fly, and love on all the way. 
 
 J. NORRIS OF BEMERTON.
 
 I20 A TREASURY 
 
 CX 
 
 PRAISE AND PRAYER 
 
 Praise is devotion, fit for mighty mindes, 
 The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice ; 
 
 Where Heav'n divided faiths united findes : 
 But prayer, in various discord, upward flies. 
 
 For prayer the ocean is, where diversely 
 
 Men steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast ; 
 
 Where all our interests so discordant be. 
 
 That half beg windes by which the rest are lost. 
 
 By penitence, when we ourselves forsake, 
 'Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven ; 
 
 In praise we nobly give what God may take. 
 And are without a beggar's blush forgiven. 
 
 SIR W. DAVENANT. 
 
 CXI 
 
 SAINT TERESA 
 
 O THOU undaunted daughter of desires 
 By all thy dower of lights and fires. 
 By all the eagle in thee, all the dove. 
 By all thy lives and deaths of love,
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 121 
 
 By thy large draughts of intellectual day, 
 
 And by thy thirsts of love more large than they ; 
 
 By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, 
 
 By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire. 
 
 By the full kingdom of that final kiss 
 
 That seiz'd thy parting soul, and seal'd thee his ; 
 
 By all the heavens thou hast in him 
 
 Fair sister of the seraphim ! 
 
 By all of him we have in thee. 
 
 Leaving nothing of myself in me : 
 
 Let me so read thy life that I 
 
 Unto all life of mine may die. 
 
 R. CRASHAW. 
 
 CXII 
 
 A TRANQUIL SOUL 
 
 Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep. 
 As if humanity were lulled asleep ; 
 So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, 
 
 Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise. 
 Or the soft journey which a planet goes : 
 
 Life seemed all calm as its last breath. 
 A still tranquillity so husht thy breast, 
 
 As if some Halcyon were its guest, 
 And there had built her nest ; 
 
 It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.
 
 122 A TREASURY 
 
 As that smooth sea which wears the name of Peace, 
 
 Still with one even face appears, 
 And feels no tides to change it from its place, 
 No waves to alter the fair form it bears ; 
 So thy unvary'd mind was always one, 
 And with such clear serenity still shone. 
 As caused thy little world to seem all temperate zone. 
 
 J. OLDHAM. 
 
 CXIII 
 
 THE MAGNET 
 
 Like to the arctic needle, that doth guide 
 The wand'ring shade by his magnetic power. 
 
 And leaves his silken gnomon to decide 
 The question of the controverted hour ; 
 
 First frantics up and down, from side to side, 
 And restless beats his crystal'd iv'ry case 
 With vain impatience ; jets from place to place. 
 
 And seeks the bosome of his frozen bride ; 
 At length he slacks his motion and doth rest 
 
 His trembling point at his bright pole's beloved breast. 
 
 Ev'n so my soul, being hurried here and there, 
 
 By ev'ry object that presents delight. 
 Fain would be settled, but she knows not where ; 
 
 She likes at morning what she loaths at night.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 She bowes to honour ; then she lends an eare 
 
 To that sweet swan-Hke voice of dying pleasure, 
 Then tumbles in the scatter'd heaps of treasure ; 
 
 Now flatter'd with false hope ; now foil'd with fear : 
 Thus finding all the world's delights to be 
 
 But empty toyes, good God, she points alone to Thee. 
 
 F. QUARLES. 
 
 cxiv 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 Lord, when the sense of Thy sweet grace 
 Sends up my soul to seek Thy face, 
 Thy blessed eyes breed such desire, 
 I die in love's delicious fire. 
 O Love, I am thy sacrifice. 
 Be still triumphant, blessed eyes ; 
 Still shine on me, fair suns ! that I 
 Still may behold though still I die. 
 
 R. CRASHAW. 
 
 cxv 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, 
 Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, 
 Thy end for ever, and my life to moan ; 
 Oh, thou hast left me all alone !
 
 124 ^ TREASURY 
 
 Thy soul and body when Death's agony 
 Besieg'd around thy noble heart, 
 Did not with more reluctance part 
 
 Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee. 
 
 My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee 
 
 Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. 
 
 Nor shall I know hereafter what to do 
 
 If once my griefs prove tedious too. 
 
 Silent and sad I walk about all day. 
 
 As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by, 
 Where their hid treasures lie ; 
 
 Alas, my Treasure's gone, why do I stay ? 
 
 Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights. 
 How oft unweari'd have we spent the nights ? 
 Till the Ledaean stars so fam'd for love, 
 
 Wonder'd at us from above. 
 We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine ; 
 
 But search of deep philosophy. 
 
 Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, 
 Arts which I lov'd, for they, my Friend, were thine. 
 
 Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say. 
 Have ye not seen us walking every day ? 
 Was there a tree about which did not know 
 The love betwixt us two ?
 
 OF MINOR BRI TISH FOE TRY 125 
 
 Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade ; 
 Or your sad branches thicker join. 
 And into darksome shades combine, 
 
 Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid. 
 
 Large was his Soul ; as large a Soul as ere 
 
 Submitted to inform a body here, 
 
 High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have. 
 
 But low, and humble as his grave. 
 So high that all the Virtues there did come 
 
 As to their chiefest seat 
 
 Conspicuous, and great ; 
 So low that for me too it made a room. 
 
 So strong a wit did Nature to him frame, 
 
 As all things but his judgment overcame ; 
 
 His judgment like the heav'nly moon did show, 
 
 Temp'ring that mighty sea below. 
 Oh had he lived in learning's world, what bound 
 
 Would have been able to control 
 
 His over-powering Soul ? 
 We have lost in him arts that not yet are found. 
 
 But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age. 
 Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage ! 
 A fitter time for Heav'n no soul ere chose. 
 The place now only free from those.
 
 126 A TREASURY 
 
 There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine, 
 And wheresoe'er thou casts thy view 
 Upon that white and radiant crew, 
 
 See'st not a soul cloth'd with more light than Thine, 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 CXVI 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 She on this clayen pillow layed her head. 
 As brides do use the first to go to bed. 
 He missed her soon and yet ten months he trys 
 To live apart and lykes it not and dyes. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CXVII 
 
 AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER 
 
 To these, whom Death again did wed, 
 This grave's the second marriage bed. 
 For though the hand of Fate could force 
 'Twixt soul and body a divorce. 
 It could not sever man and wife 
 Because they both liv'd but one life.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 127 
 
 Peace, good reader, do not weep ! 
 Peace ! the lovers are asleep. 
 They, sweet turtles, folded lie 
 In the last knot that Love could tie. 
 Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 
 Till the stormy night be gone. 
 And th' eternal morrow dawn ; 
 Then the curtains will be drawn, 
 And they waken with that light 
 Whose day shall never sleep in night. 
 
 R. CRASHAW. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 DEATH 
 
 To die is landing on some silent shore, 
 
 Where billows never break, nor tempests roar ; 
 
 Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. 
 
 The wise through thought th' insults of death defy ; 
 
 The fools through blest insensibility. 
 
 Tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave ; 
 
 Sought by the wretch, and vanquish'd by the brave : 
 
 It eases lovers, sets the captive free. 
 
 And, though a tyrant, offers liberty. 
 
 SIR S. GARTH.
 
 128 A TREASURY 
 
 CXIX 
 
 OLD AGE 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; 
 So calm are we when passions are no more, 
 For then we know how vain it was to boast 
 Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 
 Conceal that emptiness which age descries ; 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
 
 Lets in new light through chinks which time has made 
 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 E. WALLER. 
 
 cxx 
 
 Like to the falling of a Starre, 
 Or as the flights of eagles are. 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
 Or silver drops of morning dew ;
 
 OF MJXOR BRITISH POE TRY 1 29 
 
 Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
 
 Or bubbles which on water stood ; 
 
 Even such is man, whose borrow'd hght 
 
 Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. 
 The ^\'ind blowes out, the bubble dies, 
 The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies ; 
 The Dew's dried up, the Starre is shot, 
 The Flight is past, and man forgot 
 
 DR. H. KING (?) 
 
 cxxi 
 
 THE PULLEY 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glass of blessings standing by ; 
 Let us, said He, pour on him all we can, 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
 Contract into a spanne. 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 
 Then beautie flow'd, then wisdom, honoure, pleasure 
 When almost all was out, God made a staye, 
 Perceiving that alone of all his treasure 
 Rest at the bottom laye. 
 
 K
 
 I30 A TREASURY 
 
 For if I should, said he, 
 Bestowe this jewel also on my creature. 
 He would adore my gifts instead of me 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of nature, 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 Yet let him keepe the rest, 
 But keepe them with repining restlessness, 
 Let him be rich and wearie, that at least 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
 May toss him to my breast. 
 
 G. HERBERT. 
 
 CXXII 
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE WORLD 
 
 The night is come, like to the day ; 
 Depart not Thou, great God, away. 
 Let not my sins, black as the night. 
 Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 
 Keep still in my horizon : for to me 
 The sun makes not the day, but Thee.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY n, i 
 
 Thou whose nature cannot sleep 
 On my temples sentry keep ; 
 Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, 
 Whose eyes are open while mine close. 
 Let no dreams my head infest, 
 But such as Jacob's temples blest ; 
 While I do rest, my soul advance, 
 Make my sleep a holy trance ; 
 That I may, my rest being wrought, 
 Awake into some holy thought, 
 And with as active vigour run 
 My course as doth the nimble sun. 
 Sleep is a death ; — O make me try. 
 By sleeping, what it is to die ! 
 And as gently lay my head 
 On my grave, as now my bed. 
 Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
 Awake again at last with Thee. 
 And thus assur'd, behold I lie 
 Securely, or to wake or die. 
 These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
 I do now wake to sleep again : 
 O come that hour, when I shall never 
 Sleep again, but wake for ever ! 
 
 SIR T. BROWNE.
 
 132 A TREASURY 
 
 CXXIII 
 SOUL AND BODY 
 
 Great Nature cloaths the Soul, which is but thin, 
 With fleshly garments, which the Fates do spin ; 
 And when these garments are grown old and bare. 
 With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care, 
 Doth fold them up in peace and quiet rest, 
 And lays them safe within an earthly chest ; 
 Then scours them well, and makes them sweet and clean, 
 Fit for the soul to wear those cloaths again. 
 
 MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE 
 
 CXXIV 
 
 PURIFICATION 
 
 My God ! If 'tis Thy great decree 
 That this must the last moment be 
 
 Wherein I breathe this are ; 
 My heart obeys, joy'd to retreate 
 From the false favours of the great 
 
 And treachery of the faire.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 133 
 
 When Thou shall please this soule t' enthrone 
 Above impure corruption, 
 
 What should I grieve or feare 
 To think this breathlesse body must 
 Become a loathsome heape of dust 
 
 And ne'er again appeare ? 
 
 For in the fire when ore is tryed, 
 And by that torment purified, 
 
 Doe we deplore the losse ? 
 And when Thou shalt my soule refine, 
 That it thereby may purer shine. 
 
 Shall I grieve for the drosse ? 
 
 W. HABINGTON. 
 
 cxxv 
 
 IN BLISS 
 
 Brave spirits, whose advent'rous feet 
 Have to the mountain's top aspir'd, 
 
 Where fair desert and honour meet : 
 Here, from the toiling press retir'd. 
 
 Secure from all disturbing evil, 
 
 For ever in my temple revel. 
 
 With wreaths of stars circled about. 
 Gild all the spacious firmament,
 
 134 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 And smiling on the panting rout 
 
 That labour in the steep ascent, 
 With your resistless influence guide 
 Of human change th' uncertain tide. 
 
 T. CAREW. 
 
 cxxvi 
 
 Welcome, welcome, happy paire, 
 
 To these abodes, where spicy aire 
 
 Breathes perfumes, and every sense 
 
 Doth find his object's excellence : 
 
 Where's no heate, nor cold extreme. 
 
 No winter's ice, nor summer's scorching beame, 
 
 Where's no sun, yet never night. 
 
 Day always springing from eternal light ; 
 
 All mortal sufferings laid aside. 
 
 Here in endless blisse abide. 
 
 T. NABBES. 
 
 cxxvn 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 A Virgin blossom in her May 
 Of youth and virtues turn'd to clay ; 
 Rich earth accomplish'd with those graces 
 That adorn Saints in heavenly places. 
 Let not Death boast his conquering power, 
 She'll rise a Star, that fell a Flower.
 
 BOOK III
 
 k 
 
 CXXVIIl 
 
 LIFE'S PROGRESS 
 
 How gaily is at first begun 
 
 Our Life's uncertain race ! 
 Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, 
 With which we just set out to run, 
 Enlightens all the place. 
 
 How soft the first ideas prove, 
 
 Which wander through our minds ! 
 How full the joys, how free the love, 
 Which does that early season move, 
 As flow'rs the western winds ! 
 
 Our sighs are then but vernal air. 
 
 But April-drops our tears. 
 Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, 
 Whilst beauty compensates our care. 
 And youth each vapour clears.
 
 138 A TREASURY 
 
 But oh ! too soon, alas, we climb, 
 
 Scarce feeling we ascend. 
 The gently rising hill of Time, 
 From whence with grief we see that prime, 
 
 And all its sweetness end. 
 
 The die now cast, our station known, 
 
 Fond expectation past ; 
 The thorns, which former days had sown, 
 To crops of late repentance grown, 
 
 Thro' which we toil at last. 
 
 Whilst ev'ry care's a driving harm. 
 
 That helps to bear us down ; 
 Which faded smiles no more can charm. 
 But ev'ry tear's a winter storm, 
 And ev'ry look's a frown. 
 
 Till with succeeding ills opprest, 
 
 For joys we hop'd to find ; 
 By age too, rumpl'd and undrest, 
 We, gladly sinking down to rest. 
 
 Leave following crowds behind. 
 
 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 139 
 
 CXXIX 
 
 A SI.MILE 
 
 By this flow'ry meadow walking, 
 
 To this prattling echo talking, 
 
 As along the stream I pass, 
 
 Gazing on my floating face ; 
 
 Lo ! the ruffling winds arise, 
 
 To snatch the prospect from my eyes ; 
 
 The mimic form their fury braves. 
 
 And proudly triumphs o'er the waves ; 
 
 Yet, tho' with ev'ry wave 'tis tost. 
 
 The reflection is not lost. 
 
 Virtue wages such a strife, 
 
 In this turbulent stream of life ; 
 
 Rack'd with passions, tost with fears, 
 
 Vex'd with jealousies and cares : 
 
 But a good unspotted soul, 
 
 Tho' subject, yet knows no control 
 
 Whilst it turns on Virtue's pole. 
 
 But lo ! the clouds obscure the sun, 
 
 Swift shadows o'er the waters run ! 
 
 Trembling too, my shadow flies. 
 
 And by its very likeness dies. 
 
 W. PAITISON.
 
 I40 J TREASURY 
 
 cxxx 
 
 LIVE TO-DAY 
 
 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, 
 
 With blind Opinion for his guide, 
 
 And, rebel to her rightful sway, 
 
 Leave all her bounties unenjoy'd ? 
 
 Fool ! Time no change of motion knows ; 
 
 With equal speed the torrent flows 
 
 To sweep fame, power, and wealth away : 
 
 The past is all by death possest ; 
 
 And frugal Fate that guards the rest. 
 
 By giving, bids him live to-day. 
 
 E. FENTON. 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 THE TOPER 
 
 Contented I am, and contented I'll be. 
 For what can this world more afford, 
 
 Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee, 
 And a cellar as sociably stored. 
 My brave boys ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 141 
 
 My vault door is open, descend and improve ; 
 
 That cask, — ay, that we will try ; 
 'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love. 
 
 And as bright as her cheeks to the eye, 
 My brave boys. 
 
 In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck, 
 
 'Twill light us each bottle to hand ; 
 The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke, 
 
 As I hate that a bumper should stand, 
 My brave boys. 
 
 Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, 
 
 I gallop the brusher along ; 
 Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's god. 
 
 And a sentiment give, or a song. 
 My brave boys. 
 
 We are dry where we sit, though the oozing drops seem 
 
 ^^"ith pearls the moist walls to emboss ; 
 From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, 
 
 Like stucco-work cut out of moss. 
 My brave boys. 
 
 When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines, 
 ^\'hich, when moisture is wanting, decays ; 
 
 Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, 
 Or else there's an end of my blaze. 
 My brave boys.
 
 142 A TREASURY 
 
 Sound those pipes, — they're in tune, and those bins are 
 well fill'd, 
 View that heap of old Hock in your rear ; 
 Yon bottles are Burgundy ! mark how they're piled, 
 Like artillery, tier over tier, 
 
 My brave boys. 
 
 My cellar's my camp, and my soldiers my flasks, 
 
 All gloriously ranged in review ; 
 When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks 
 
 As kingdoms I've yet to subdue, 
 My brave boys. 
 
 Like Macedon's madman, my glass I'll enjoy. 
 
 Defying hyp, gravel, or gout ; 
 He cried when he had no more worlds to destroy, 
 
 I'll weep when my liquor is out, 
 My brave boys. 
 
 On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly will I, 
 
 When reeling, I roll on the floor ; 
 Then my legs must be lost, so I'U drink as I he, 
 
 And dare the best buck to do more, 
 My brave boys. 
 
 'Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be shed, 
 
 No Hicjacet be cut on my stone ; 
 But pour on my coffin a bottle of red, 
 
 And say that his drinking is done. 
 My brave boys. 
 
 G. A. STEVENS.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 143 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 APOLLO MAKING LOVE 
 
 I A.M, — cry'd Apollo, when Daphne he woo'd, 
 And panting for breath, the coy virgin pursued, 
 When his wisdom, in manner most ample, express'd 
 The long list of the graces his godship possess'd, 
 
 I'm — the god of sweet song, and inspirer of lays ; 
 Nor for lays, nor sweet song, the fair fugitive stays ; 
 I'm the god of the harp — stop, my fairest — in vain ; 
 Nor the harp, nor the harper, could fetch her again. 
 
 Every plant, every flower, and their virtues I know, 
 God of light I'm above, and of physic below ; 
 At the dreadful word physic, the nymph fled more fast ; 
 At the fatal word physic she doubled her haste. 
 
 Thou fond god of wisdom, then, alter thy phrase. 
 Bid her view thy young bloom, and thy ravishing rays. 
 Tell her less of thy knowledge, and more of thy charms, 
 And, my life for't, the damsel will fly to thy arms, 
 
 T. TICKELL.
 
 144 A TREASURY 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 CHLOE'S TRIUMPH 
 
 I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and v/aking, 
 " Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, 
 What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation. 
 By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-patation ? " 
 
 Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply : — 
 " See, the heart without motion, though Celia pass by ! 
 Not the beauty she has, not the wit that she borrows, 
 Give the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. 
 
 " When our Sappho appears, she, whose wit so refined 
 I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind — 
 Whatever she says is with spirit and fire ; 
 Ev'ry word I attend, but I only admire. 
 
 " Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim, 
 Ever gazing on heaven, though man is her aim : 
 'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes — 
 Those stars of this world are too good for the skies. 
 
 " But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair, 
 Her wit so genteel, without art, without care : 
 When she comes in my way — the motion, the pain, 
 The leapings, the achings, return all again."
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 145 
 
 O wonderful creature ! a Avoman of reason ! 
 Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season ; 
 When so easy to guess who this angel should be, 
 Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she? 
 
 C. MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH. 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 THE PLAYTHING 
 
 Kitty's charming voice and face, 
 Syren-like, first caught my fancy ; 
 
 Wit and humour next take place. 
 
 And now I doat on sprightly Nancy. 
 
 Kitty tunes her pipe in vain, 
 
 With airs most languishing and dying ; 
 Calls me false, ungrateful swain. 
 
 And tries in vain to shoot me flying. 
 
 Nancy with resistless art. 
 
 Always humorous, gay, and witty, 
 Has talk'd herself into my heart, 
 
 And quite excluded tuneful Kitty. 
 
 Ah, Kitty ! Love, a wanton boy. 
 
 Now pleas'd with song, and now with prattle. 
 Still longing for the newest toy. 
 
 Has chang'd his whistle for a rattle. 
 
 ANON. 
 L
 
 146 A TREASURY 
 
 cxxxv 
 
 I LOVED thee beautiful and kind, 
 And plighted an eternal vow ; 
 
 So alter'd are thy face and mind, 
 'Twere perjury to love thee now. 
 
 LORD NUGENT. 
 
 CXXXVI 
 
 ADVICE 
 
 Cease, fond shepherd — cease desiring 
 What you never must enjoy ; 
 
 She derides your vain aspiring, 
 She to all your sex is coy. 
 
 Cunning Damon once pursu'd her, 
 Yet she never would incline ; 
 
 Strephon too as vainly woo'd her 
 
 Tho' his flocks are more than thine. 
 
 At Diana's shrine aloud, 
 
 By the zone around her waist. 
 
 Thrice she bow'd, and thrice she vow'd 
 Like the goddess to be chaste.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 147 
 
 ANSWER 
 
 Tho' I never get possession, 
 
 'Tis a pleasure to adore ; 
 Hope, the wretch's only blessing. 
 
 May in time procure me more. 
 
 Constant courtship may obtain her, 
 ^^'here both wealth and merit fail, 
 
 And the lucky minute gain her, — 
 Fate and fancy must prevail. 
 
 At Diana's shrine aloud, 
 
 By the bow and by the quiver. 
 
 Thrice she bow'd, and thrice she vow'd 
 Once to love — and that for ever. 
 
 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 SONG 
 
 Oh ! forbear to bid me slight her, 
 Soul and senses take her part ; 
 
 Could my death itself delight her, 
 Life should leap to leave my heart. 
 
 Strong, though soft, a lover's chain, 
 
 Charm'd with woe, and plcas'd with pain.
 
 1 48 A TREASURY 
 
 Though the tender flame were dying, 
 Love would light it at her eyes ; 
 
 Or, her tuneful voice applying, 
 
 Through my ear my soul surprise. 
 
 Deaf, I see the fate I shun ; 
 
 Blind, I hear I am undone. 
 
 A. HILL. 
 CXXXYIII 
 
 MIRA'S SONG 
 
 See those cheeks of beauteous dye. 
 Lovely as the dawning sky. 
 Innocence that ne'er beguiles, 
 Lips that wear eternal smiles : 
 Beauties to the rest unknown. 
 Shine in her and her alone. 
 
 Now the rivers smoother flow. 
 
 Now the op'ning roses glow. 
 
 The woodbine twines her odorous charms 
 
 Round the oak's supporting arms : 
 
 Lihes paint the dewy ground 
 
 And ambrosia breathes around. 
 
 Come, ye gales that fan the spring, 
 Zephyr, with thy downy wing, 
 Gently waft to Mira's breast 
 Health, Content, and balmy Rest. 
 Far, O far from hence remain 
 Sorrow, Care, and sickly Pain.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 149 
 
 Thus sung Mira to her lyre, 
 
 Till the idle numbers tire : 
 
 " Ah ! Sappho sweeter sings," I cry, 
 
 And the spiteful rocks reply, 
 
 (Responsive to the jarring strings) 
 
 "Sweeter — Sappho sweeter sings." 
 
 MARY LEAPOR. 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 A SONG 
 
 When thy beauty appears 
 In its graces and airs, 
 All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky ; 
 At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 
 So strangely you dazzle my eye ! 
 
 But when, without art, 
 Your kind thought you impart. 
 When your love runs in blushes through every vein ; 
 A\'hen it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your 
 
 heart. 
 Then I know you're a woman again.
 
 150 A TREASURY 
 
 " There's a passion and pride 
 In our sex," she rephed, 
 " And thus, (might I gratify both,) I would do : 
 Still an angel appear to each lover beside. 
 But still be a woman to you." 
 
 T. PARNELL. 
 
 CXL 
 
 THE INDIFFERENT 
 
 If from the lustre of the sun, 
 
 To catch your fleeting shade you run, 
 
 In vain is all your haste. Sir ; 
 But if your feet reverse the race. 
 The fugitive will urge the chace, 
 
 And follow you as fast, Sir. 
 
 Thus, if at any time, as now. 
 Some scornful Chloe you pursue, 
 
 In hopes to overtake her ; 
 Be sure you ne'er too eager be. 
 But look upon't as cold as she, 
 
 And seemingly forsake her.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TR Y 151 
 
 So I and Laura, t'other day, 
 
 Were coursing round a cock of hay, 
 
 While I could ne'er o'er get her ; 
 But, when I found I ran in vain. 
 Quite tir'd I turn'd me back again, 
 
 And, flying from her, met her. 
 
 \V. PATTISON. 
 
 CXLI 
 
 TO A LADY ^L■\KING LOVE 
 
 Good madam, when ladies are willing, 
 A man must needs look like a fool ; 
 
 For me, I would not give a shilling 
 For one who would love out of rule. 
 
 You should leave us to guess by your blushing, 
 And not speak the matter so plain ; 
 
 'Tis our's to write and be pushing, 
 'Tis your's to affect a disdain. 
 
 That you're in a terrible taking. 
 
 By all these sweet oglings I see ; 
 But the fruit that can fall without shaking, 
 
 Indeed is too mellow for me. 
 
 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.
 
 152 A TREASURY 
 
 CXLII 
 AE HAPPY HOUR 
 
 The dark grey o' gloamin'. 
 
 The lone leafy shaw, 
 The coo o' the cushat, 
 
 The scent o' the haw ; 
 The brae o' the burnie 
 
 A' bloomin in flower, 
 An' twa faithfu' lovers. 
 
 Make ae happy hour. 
 
 A kind winsome wifie, 
 
 A clean cantie hame, 
 An' smilin' sweet babies. 
 
 To lisp the dear name ; 
 Wi' plenty o' labour. 
 
 An' health to endure. 
 Make time to row round aye 
 
 The ae happy hour. 
 
 Ye, lost to affection. 
 
 Whom avarice can move 
 To woo an' to marry 
 
 For a' thing but love ;
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 153 
 
 Awa' wi' your sorrows, 
 
 Awa' wi' your store, 
 Ye ken na the pleasure 
 
 O' ae happy hour ! 
 
 A. LAING. 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 THE SECOND MARRIAGE 
 
 " Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed," 
 So, fourteen years ago, I said — 
 Behold another ring ! — " For what ? " 
 "To wed thee o'er again — why not?" 
 
 With that first ring I married Youth, 
 Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth ; 
 Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd. 
 And all my Molly then appear'd. 
 If she, by merit since disclos'd, 
 Prove twice the woman I suppos'd, 
 I plead that double merit now, 
 To justify a double vow. 
 
 Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure. 
 With ardour as intense and pure, 
 As when, amidst the rites divine, 
 I took thy troth, and plighted mine).
 
 154 A TREASURY 
 
 To thee, sweet girl, my second ring 
 A token and a pledge I bring : 
 With this I wed, till death us part, 
 Thy riper virtues to my heart ; 
 These virtues, which, before untry'd. 
 The wife has added to the bride ; 
 Those virtues, whose progressive claim, 
 Endearing wedlock's very name, 
 My soul enjoys, my song approves. 
 For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's. 
 
 For why ? — They show me every hour. 
 Honour's high thought, affection's power, 
 Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, 
 And teach me all things — but Repentance. 
 
 S. BISHOP. 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 EUPHELIA AND CLOE 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure. 
 Conveys it in a borrowed name : 
 
 Euphelia serves to grace my measure ; 
 But Cloe is my real flame.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 155 
 
 My softest verse, my darling lyre, 
 
 Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; 
 When Cloe noted her desire, 
 
 That I should sing, that I should play. 
 
 My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, 
 
 But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 
 
 And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. 
 
 Fair Cloe blushed : Euphelia frowned : 
 
 I sung and gazed : I played and trembled ; 
 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 
 Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 
 
 M. PRIOR. 
 
 CXLV 
 
 THE HAPPY SWAIN 
 
 Have ye seen the morning sky, 
 When the dawn prevails on high. 
 When, anon, some purple ray 
 Gives a sample of the day, 
 When, anon, the lark, on wing, 
 Strives to soar, and strains to sing ?
 
 156 A TREASURY 
 
 Have ye seen th' ethereal blue 
 Gently shedding silvery dew, 
 Spangling o'er the silent green, 
 While the nightingale, unseen, 
 To the moon and stars full bright. 
 Lonesome chants the hymn of night ? 
 
 Have ye seen the broider'd May 
 All her scented bloom display, 
 Breezes opening, every hour. 
 This, and that, expecting flower. 
 While the mingling birds prolong, 
 From each bush, the vernal song ? 
 
 Have ye seen the damask-rose 
 Her unsuUy'd blush disclose. 
 Or the lily's dewy bell, 
 In her glossy white, excell, 
 Or a garden vary'd o'er 
 With a thousand glories more ? 
 
 By the beauties these display, 
 Morning, evening, night, or day ; 
 By the pleasures these excite. 
 Endless sources of delight ! 
 Judge, by them, the joys I find, 
 Since my Rosalind was kind. 
 Since she did herself resign 
 To my vows, for ever mine. 
 
 A. PHILIPS.
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 157 
 
 CXLVI 
 SILVIA AND THE BEE 
 
 As Silvia in her garden stray'd, 
 
 Where each officious rose, 
 To welcome the approaching maid 
 
 With fairer beauty glows. 
 
 Transported from their dewy beds, 
 
 The new-blown lilies rise ; 
 Gay tulips wave their shining heads, 
 
 To please her brighter eyes. 
 
 A bee that sought the sweetest flow'r, 
 
 To this fair quarter came : 
 Soft humming round the fatal bow'r 
 
 That held the smiling dame. 
 
 He searched the op'ning buds with care 
 And flew from tree to tree : 
 
 But, Silvia, finding none so fair, 
 Unwisely fixed on thee. 
 
 Her hand obedient to her thought. 
 
 The rover did destroy ; 
 And the slain insect dearly bought 
 
 Its momentary joy.
 
 IS8 A TREASURY 
 
 O, Silvia, cease your anger now 
 To this your guiltless foe ; 
 
 And smooth again that gentle brow, 
 Where lasting lilies blow. 
 
 Soft Cynthio vows when you depart, 
 The sun withdraws its ray. 
 
 That nature trembles like his heart, 
 And storms eclipse the day. 
 
 Amintor swears a morning sun's 
 Less brilliant than your eyes ; 
 
 And tho' his tongue at random runs. 
 You seldom think he lies. 
 
 They tell you, those soft lips may vie 
 With pinks at op'ning day ; 
 
 And yet you slew a simple fly 
 For proving what they say. 
 
 Believe me, not a bud hke thee 
 
 In this fair garden blows ; 
 Then blame no more the erring bee, 
 
 That took you for the rose. 
 
 MARY LEAPOR.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 159 
 
 CXLVII 
 SLIGHTED LOVE 
 
 The tears I shed must ever fall, 
 
 I mourn not for an absent swain ; 
 For thoughts may past delights recall, 
 
 And parted lovers meet again. 
 I weep not for the silent dead, 
 
 Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ; 
 And those they loved their steps shall tread, 
 
 And death shall join to part no more. 
 
 Though boundless oceans roU'd between. 
 
 If certain that his heart is near, 
 A conscious transport glads each scene, 
 
 Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. 
 E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd, 
 
 We mourn the tenant of the tomb. 
 To think that e'en in death he lov'd. 
 
 Can gild the horrors of the gloom. 
 
 But bitter, bitter are the tears 
 
 Of her who slighted love bewails 3 
 No hope her dreary prospect cheers. 
 
 No pleasing melancholy hails. 
 Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, 
 
 Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy ; 
 The flattering veil is rent aside ; 
 
 The flame of love burns to destroy.
 
 l6o A TREASURY 
 
 In vain does memory renew 
 
 The hours once tinged in transport's dye ; 
 The sad reverse soon starts to view, 
 
 And turns the past to agony. 
 E'en time itself despairs to cure 
 
 Those pangs to ev'ry feeling due ; 
 Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how poor, 
 
 To win a heart — and break it too. 
 
 MRS. DUGALD STEWART. 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 LOVE'S TRIUMPH 
 
 Oh, how could I venture to love one like thee, 
 
 And you not despise a poor conquest like me, 
 
 On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain. 
 
 And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain ? 
 
 You said, while they teased you with nonsense and 
 
 dress, 
 When real the passion, the vanity's less ; 
 You saw through that silence which others despise. 
 And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my eyes. 
 
 Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss a' thy charms. 
 Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms ; 
 Through all the wild transports of ecstasy tost, 
 Till, sinking together, together we're lost !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY i6i 
 
 Oh, where is the maid that like thee ne'er can cloy, 
 Whose wit can enliven each dull pause of joy ; 
 And when the short raptures are all at an end. 
 From beautiful mistress turn sensible friend ? 
 
 In vain do I praise thee, or strive to reveal, 
 (Too nice for expression), what only we feel : 
 In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien. 
 The graces in waiting adorn you unseen. 
 When I see you I love you, when hearing adore ; 
 I wonder and think you a woman no more : 
 Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain, 
 And, kissing your lips, you turn woman again. 
 
 With thee in my bosom, how can I despair ? 
 I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa care ; 
 I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles opprest. 
 Which never displeases, but always is best. 
 In all that I write I'll thy judgment require : 
 Thy wit shall correct what thy charms did inspire. 
 I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er, 
 And then live in friendship, when passion's no more. 
 
 A. WEBSTER. 
 
 M
 
 1 62 A TREASURY 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE 
 
 If doughty deeds my ladye please, 
 Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
 And strong his arm, and fast his seat, 
 
 That bears frae me the meed. 
 I'll wear thy colours in my cap, 
 
 Thy picture in my heart ; 
 And he, that bends not to thine eye, 
 Shall rue it to his smart. 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
 The' ne'er another trow me. 
 
 If gay attire delight thine eye, 
 
 I'll dight me in array ; 
 I'll tend thy chamber door all night. 
 
 And squire thee all the day. 
 If sweetest sounds can win thy ear, 
 
 These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
 Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 
 That voice that nane can match, 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
 Tho' ne'er another trow me.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 163 
 
 But if fond love thy heart can gain, 
 
 I never broke a vow ; 
 Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 
 
 I never loved but you. 
 For you alone I ride the ring, 
 
 For you I wear the blue ; 
 For you alone I strive to sing 
 O tell me how to woo ! 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee, love ; 
 
 O tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
 Tho' ne'er another trow me. 
 
 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. 
 
 CL 
 
 WILLIE AND HELEN 
 
 " Wharefore sou'd ye tauk o' love, 
 Unless it be to pain us ? 
 Wharefore sou'd ye tauk o' love 
 
 When ye say the sea maun twain us ? 
 
 " It's no because my love is light. 
 Nor for your angry deddy ; 
 It's a' to buy ye pearlins bright 
 And busk ye like a Icddy."
 
 1 64 A TREASURY 
 
 " O Willy, I can caird an' spin, 
 Sae ne'er can want for cleedin ; 
 An gin I ha'e my Willy's heart 
 I ha'e a' the pearls I'm heedin. 
 
 " Will it be time to praise this cheek 
 
 Whan years an' tears ha'e blench't it ? 
 Will it be time to tauk o' love 
 
 When cauld an' care ha'e quencht it ? " 
 
 H. AINSLIE. 
 
 CLI 
 
 THE WORLD'S TREASURES 
 
 Structures, rais'd by morning dreams, 
 Sands, that trip the flitting streams, 
 Down, that anchors on the air, 
 Clouds, that paint their changes there. 
 
 Seas, that smoothly dimpling lie. 
 While the storm impends from high, 
 Showing, in an obvious glass, 
 Joys, that in possession pass. 
 
 Transient, fickle, light and gay, 
 Flatt'ring only to betray ; 
 What, alas, can life contain ! 
 Life, like all it circles — vain !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 165 
 
 Will the stork, intending rest, 
 On the billow build her nest ? 
 Will the bee demand her store 
 From the bleak and bladeless shore ? 
 
 Man alone, intent to stray, 
 Ever turns from wisdom's way ; 
 Lays up wealth in foreign land, 
 Sows the sea, and ploughs the sand. 
 
 E. MOORE. 
 
 CLII 
 
 DISILLUSION 
 
 Ah me, my friend ! it will not, will not last ! 
 
 This fairy scene, that cheats our youthful eyes ! 
 The charm dissolves ; th' aerial music's past, 
 
 The banquet ceases, and the vision flies. 
 
 Where are the splendid forms, the rich perfumes. 
 Where the gay tapers, where the spacious dome ? 
 
 Vanish'd the costly pearls, the crimson plumes, 
 And we, delightless, left to wander home ! 
 
 And now, 'tis o'er, the dear delusion's o'er ! 
 
 A stagnant breezeless air becalms my soul ; 
 A fond aspiring candidate no more, 
 
 I scorn the palm, before I reach the goal.
 
 i66 A TREASURY 
 
 O life ! how soon of every bliss forlorn ! 
 
 We start false joys, and urge the devious race ; 
 A tender prey, that cheers our youthful morn. 
 
 Then sinks untimely, and defrauds the chace. 
 
 W. SHENSTONE. 
 
 CLIII 
 
 THE DEFILED SANCTUARY 
 
 I SAW a chapel all of gold 
 
 That none did dare to enter in, 
 
 And many weeping stood without, 
 Weeping, mourning, worshipping. 
 
 I saw a serpent rise between 
 
 The white pillars of the door, 
 And he forced and forced and forced. 
 
 Till he the golden hinges tore : 
 
 And along the pavement sweet, 
 Set with pearls and rubies bright, 
 
 All his shining length he drew, — 
 Till upon the altar white 
 
 He vomited his poison out 
 
 On the bread and on the wine. 
 
 So I turned into a sty, 
 
 And laid me down among the swine. 
 
 W. BLAKE. 
 
 i
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 167 
 
 CLIV 
 
 WIN I FREDA 
 
 Away ; let nought to love displeasing, 
 ]My Winifreda, move your care ; 
 
 Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, 
 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 
 
 What tho' no grants of royal donors, 
 With pompous titles grace our blood ; 
 
 We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
 And, to be noble, we'll be good. 
 
 Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
 Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke : 
 
 And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
 How they respect such little folk. 
 
 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty. 
 No mighty treasures we possess ; 
 
 We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, 
 And be content without excess. 
 
 Still shall each returning season 
 Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
 
 For we will live a life of reason, 
 And that's the only life to live.
 
 i68 A TREASURY 
 
 Through youth and age, in love exceUing, 
 We'll hand in hand together tread ; 
 
 Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
 And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 
 
 How should I love the pretty creatures, 
 While round my knees they fondly clung ; 
 
 To see them look their mother's features. 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 
 
 And when with envy. Time transported, 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys. 
 
 You'll in your girls again be courted, 
 And I'll go wooing in my boys. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CLV 
 
 THE TOUCH STONE 
 
 A FOOL and knave with different views 
 
 For Julia's hand apply ; 
 The knave to mend his fortune sues, 
 
 The fool to please his eye. 
 
 Ask you how Julia will behave, 
 
 Depend on't for a rule, 
 If she's a fool she'll wed the knave — 
 
 If she's a knave, the fool. 
 
 S. BISHOP.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR Y 169 
 
 CLVI 
 BEN BLOCK 
 
 Bex Block was a veteran of naval renown, 
 
 And renown was his only reward ; 
 For the Board still neglected his merit to crown, 
 
 As no interest he held with "my lord." 
 
 Yet brave as old Eenbow was sturdy old Ben, 
 And he'd laugh at the cannon's loud roar. 
 
 When the death-dealing broadside made worm's-meat of 
 men. 
 And the scuppers were streaming with gore. 
 
 Nor could a Lieutenant's poor stipend provoke 
 The staunch Tar to despise scanty prog : 
 
 But his biscuit he'd crunch, turn his quid, crack his joke, 
 And drown care in a jorum of grog. 
 
 Thus year after year in a subaltern state, 
 Poor Ben for his King fought and bled ; 
 
 Till time had unroof d all the thatch from his pate, 
 And the hair from his temples had fled. 
 
 When on humbly saluting, with sinciput bare, 
 
 The first Lord of the Admiralty once, 
 Quoth his Lordshij), "Lieutenant, you've lost all your hair 
 
 Since I last had a peep at your sconce ! "
 
 I70 A TREASURY 
 
 "Why, my Lord," replied Ben — "it with truth may be 
 said, 
 
 While a bald pate I long have stood under ; 
 There are so many Captains walk'd over my head, 
 
 That to see me quite scalp'd were no wonder ! " 
 
 J. COLLINS. 
 
 CLVII 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMENT 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 
 Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; 
 
 For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 May haply be never fulfilled by his heir. 
 
 Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; 
 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye : 
 Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, 
 
 For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 
 
 Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years, 
 
 His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; 
 
 High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears, 
 In a life party-coloured, half pleasure, half care.
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH FOE TRY 171 
 
 Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, 
 He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 
 
 In public employments industrious and grave, 
 
 And alone with his friends, lord, how merry was he ! 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust ; 
 
 And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about. 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man was but 
 dust. 
 
 This verse little polish'd, though mighty sincere, 
 Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
 
 It says that his relics collected lie here. 
 
 And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. 
 
 Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, 
 So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; 
 
 False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, 
 
 So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd. 
 
 If his bones lie on earth, roll in sea, fly in air, 
 
 To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 
 
 And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear, 
 He cares not — yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame. 
 
 M. PRIOR.
 
 172 A TREASURY 
 
 CLVIII 
 A REASONABLE AFFLICTION 
 
 On his death-bed poor Lubin lies, 
 
 His spouse is in despair : 
 With frequent sobs, and mutual cries, 
 
 They both express their care. 
 
 A different cause, says parson Sly, 
 
 The same effect may give ; 
 Poor Lubin fears that he shall die ; 
 
 His wife, that he may live. 
 
 M. PRIOR. 
 
 CLIX 
 
 THE POWER OF MUSIC 
 
 When Orpheus went down to the regions below, 
 
 Which men are forbidden to see, 
 He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories show, 
 
 To set his Eurydice free.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 173 
 
 All hell was astonish'd a person so wise, 
 
 Should rashly endanger his life, 
 And venture so far — but how vast their surprise ! 
 
 When they heard that he came for his wife. 
 
 To find out a punishment due to his fault 
 
 Old Pluto had puzzl'd his brain ; 
 But hell had no torments sufficient, he thought, 
 
 — So he gave him his wife back again. 
 
 But pity succeeding found place in his heart, 
 And, pleas'd with his playing so well, 
 
 He took her again in reward of his art ; 
 Such merit had music in hell. 
 
 DR. T. LISLE. 
 
 CLX 
 
 A NIGHT PIECE 
 
 How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! 
 Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
 While through their ranks in silver pride 
 The nether crescent seems to glide. 
 The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, 
 The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
 Where once again the spangled show 
 Descends to meet our eyes below.
 
 174 A TREASURY 
 
 The grounds, which on the right aspire, 
 In dimness from the view retire ; 
 The left presents a place of graves, 
 Whose wall the silent water laves ; 
 That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
 Among the livid gleams of night. 
 There pass, with melancholy state, 
 By all the solemn heaps of fate. 
 And think, as softly-sad you tread 
 Above the venerable dead, 
 " Time was, like thee, they life possest, 
 And time shall be, that thou shalt rest." 
 
 Those graves, with bending osier bound, 
 That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 
 Quick to the glancing thought disclose, 
 Where toil and poverty repose. 
 
 The flat smooth stones that bear a name. 
 The chisel's slender help to fame, 
 (Which ere our set of friends decay 
 Their frequent steps may wear away), 
 A middle race of mortals own. 
 Men, half ambitious, all unknown. 
 
 The marble tombs that rise on high. 
 Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 
 Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones 
 Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 175 
 
 These, all the poor remains of state, 
 Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; 
 Who, while on earth in fame they live. 
 Are senseless of the fame they give. 
 
 T. PARNELL. 
 
 CLXI 
 
 ORIGIN OF EVIL 
 
 Evil, if rightly understood, 
 Is but the Skeleton of good, 
 Divested of its Flesh and Blood. 
 
 ^\'hile it remains, without Divorce, 
 
 Within its hidden, secret Source, 
 
 It is the Good's own Strength and Force. 
 
 As Bone has the supporting Share, 
 In human Form divinely fair, 
 Altho' an Evil when laid bare ; 
 
 As Light and Air are fed by Fire, 
 A shining Good, while all conspire. 
 But (separate) dark, raging Ire ; 
 
 As Hope and Love arise from Faith, 
 Which then admits no 111, nor hath ; 
 But, if alone, it would be Wrath ;
 
 T76 A TREASURY 
 
 Or any Instance thought upon, 
 In which the Evil can be none, 
 Till Unity of Good is gone. 
 
 So, by abuse of Thought and Skill, 
 The greatest Good, to wit, Free-Will, 
 Becomes the Origin of 111. 
 
 Thus when rebellious Angels fell. 
 
 The very Heav'n, where good ones dwell. 
 
 Became th' apostate Spirits' Hell. 
 
 Seeking, against eternal Right, 
 
 A Force without a Love and Light, 
 
 They found, and felt its evil might. 
 
 Thus Adam, biting at their Bait, 
 Of Good and Evil when he ate. 
 Died to his first thrice happy State. 
 
 Fell to the Evils of this Ball, 
 Which, in harmonious Union all, 
 Were Paradise before his Fall. 
 
 And, when the Life of Christ in Men 
 Revives its faded Image, then, 
 Will all be Paradise again. 
 
 J. BVROM.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 177 
 
 CLXII 
 
 CONTEMPLATION 
 
 The world can't hear the small still voice, 
 
 Such is its bustle and its noise ; 
 Reason the proclamation reads, 
 But not one riot passion heeds. 
 Wealth, honour, power, the graces are, 
 Which here below our homage share : 
 They, if one votary they find 
 To mistress more divine inclin'd. 
 In truth's pursuit, to cause delay, 
 Throw golden apples in his way. 
 Place me, O Heaven, in some retreat ; 
 There let the serious death-watch beat. 
 There let me self in silence shun, 
 To feel thy will, which should be done. 
 
 Then comes the Spirit to our hut, 
 When fast the senses' doors are shut ; 
 For so divine and pure a guest. 
 The emptiest rooms are furnish'd best. 
 
 O Contemplation ! air serene ! 
 From damps of sense, and fogs of spleen ! 
 Pure mount of thought ! thrice holy ground, 
 Where grace, when waited for, is found. 
 
 Here 'tis the soul feels sudden youth, 
 And meets, exulting, virgin Truth ; 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Here, like a breeze of gentlest kind, 
 Impulses rustle through the mind ; 
 Here shines that light with glowing face. 
 The fuse divine, that kindles grace ; 
 Which, if we trim our lamps, will last, 
 Till darkness be by dying past. 
 And then goes out, at end of night, 
 Extinguish'd by superior light. 
 
 M. GREEN. 
 
 CLXIII 
 
 FALLENTIS SEMITA VIT/E 
 
 Thrice happy you, whoe'er you are. 
 From life's low cares secluded far, 
 
 In this sequester'd vale ! — 
 Ye rocks on precipices pil'd ! 
 Ye ragged deserts, waste and wild ! 
 
 Delightful horrors hail ! 
 
 What joy within these sunless groves. 
 Where lonely Contemplation roves. 
 
 To rest in fearless ease ! 
 Save weeping rills, to see no tear. 
 Save dying gales, no sigh to hear. 
 
 No murmur but the breeze.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 179 
 
 Say, would you change that peaceful cell 
 Where sanctity and silence dwell, 
 
 For splendor's dazzling blaze ? 
 For all those gilded toys that glare 
 Round high-born power's imperial chair, 
 
 Inviting fools to gaze ? 
 
 Ah friend ! Ambition's prospects close, 
 And, studious of your own repose, 
 
 Be thankful here to live : 
 For, trust me, one protecting shed 
 And nightly peace, and daily bread 
 
 Is all that life can give. 
 
 DR. J. LANGHORNE. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 ILLUSION 
 
 Howe'er, 'tis well, that while mankind 
 Through Fate's perverse meander errs, 
 
 He can imagined pleasures find. 
 To combat against real cares. 
 
 Fancies and notions he pursues, 
 
 Which ne'er had being but in thought ; 
 
 Each, like the Grecian artist, woos 
 The image he himself has wrought.
 
 i8o A TREASURY 
 
 Against experience he believes ; 
 
 He argues against demonstration ; 
 Pleas'd, when his reason he deceives ; 
 
 And sets his judgment by his passion. 
 
 The hoary fool, who many days 
 
 Has struggled with continued sorrow, 
 
 Renews his hope, and blindly lays 
 The desperate bet upon to-morrow. 
 
 To-morrow comes ; 'tis noon, 'tis night ; 
 
 This day like all the former flies : 
 Yet on he runs, to seek delight 
 
 To-morrow, till to-night he dies. 
 
 Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim 
 
 At objects in an airy height ; 
 The little pleasure of the game 
 
 Is from afar to view the flight. 
 
 Our anxious pains we, all the day. 
 In search of what we like, employ ; 
 
 Scorning at night the worthless prey, 
 We find the labour gave the joy. 
 
 At distance through an artful glass 
 
 To the mind's eye things well appear ; 
 
 They lose their forms, and make a mass 
 Confus'd and black, if brought too near.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY i8i 
 
 If we see right, we see our woes ; 
 
 Then what avails it to have eyes ? 
 From ignorance our comfort flows, 
 
 The only wretched are the wise. 
 
 M. PRIOR. 
 
 CLXV 
 
 PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE 
 
 I ASK no kind return of love. 
 No tempting charm to please ; 
 
 Far from the heart those gifts remove, 
 That sighs for peace and ease. 
 
 Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know, 
 
 Which, like the needle true. 
 Turns at the touch of joy or woe, 
 
 But, turning, trembles too. 
 
 Far as distress the soul can wound, 
 
 'Tis pain in each degree : 
 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound — 
 
 Beyond — is agony. 
 
 Take then this treacherous sense of mine. 
 Which dooms me still to smart ; 
 
 Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
 To pain new pangs impart.
 
 i82 A TREASURY 
 
 O ! haste to shed the sacred balm ! 
 
 My shatter'd nerves new-string ; 
 And for my guest, serenely calm, 
 
 The nymph. Indifference, bring. 
 
 At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 
 
 See Expectation fly ; 
 And Disappointment in the rear, 
 
 That blasts the promis'd joy. 
 
 The tear, which Pity taught to flow. 
 
 My eye shall then disown ; 
 The heart that melts for others' woe. 
 
 Shall then scarce feel its own. 
 
 The wounds which now each moment bleed, 
 Each moment then shall close, 
 
 And tranquil days shall still succeed 
 To nights of sweet repose. 
 
 O fairy elf ! but grant me this. 
 
 This one kind comfort send ; 
 And so may never-fading bliss 
 
 Thy flow'ry paths attend ! 
 
 So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light 
 
 Thy tiny footsteps lead, 
 To some new region of delight. 
 
 Unknown to mortal tread.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 183 
 
 And be thy acorn goblet fiU'd 
 
 With heaven's ambrosial dew, 
 From sweetest, freshest flowers distiU'd, 
 
 That shed fresh sweets for you. 
 
 And what of life remains for me, 
 
 I'll pass in sober ease ; 
 Half-pleas'd, contented will I be, 
 
 Content — but half to please. 
 
 MRS. GREVILLE. 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 THE MODERN ARISTIPPUS 
 
 Prithee tease me no longer, dear troublesome friend, 
 On a subject which wants not advice ; 
 
 You may make me unhappy, but never can mend 
 Those ills I have learnt to despise. 
 
 You say I'm dependent ; what then ? — if I make 
 
 That dependence quite easy to me. 
 Say why should you envy my lucky mistake, 
 
 Or why should I wish to be free. 
 
 Many men of less worth, you partially cry, 
 
 To splendor and opulence soar ; 
 Suppose I allow it, yet, pray sir, am I 
 
 Less happy because they are more ?
 
 1 84 A TREASURY 
 
 But why said I happy ? I aim not at that, 
 
 Mere ease is my humble request ; 
 I would neither repine at a niggardly fate, 
 
 Nor stretch my wings far from my nest. 
 
 Nor e'er may my pride or my folly reflect 
 On the fav'rites whom Fortune has made, 
 
 Regardless of thousands, who pine with neglect 
 In pensive Obscurity's shade ; 
 
 With whom, when comparing the merit I boast, 
 
 Tho' rais'd by indulgence to fame, 
 I sink in confusion, bewilder'd and lost. 
 
 And wonder I am what I am ! 
 
 And what are these wonders, these blessings refin'd. 
 Which splendour and opulence shower ? 
 
 The health of the body, and peace of the mind, 
 Are things which are out of their power. 
 
 To contentment's calm sunshine, the lot of the few, 
 
 Can insolent greatness pretend ? 
 Or can it bestow, what I boast of in you, 
 
 That blessing of blessings, a friend ? 
 
 We may pay some regard to the rich and the great, 
 But how seldom we love them you know ; 
 
 Or if we do love them, it is not their state, 
 The tinsel and plume of the show.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 185 
 
 But some secret virtues we find in the heart, 
 
 When the mask is laid kindly aside, 
 WTiich birth cannot give them, nor riches impart, 
 
 And which never once heard of their pride. 
 
 A show of good spirits I've seen with a smile, 
 
 To worth make a shallow pretence ; 
 And the chat of good breeding with ease, for a while, 
 
 May pass for good nature and sense ; 
 
 But where is the bosom untainted by art. 
 
 The judgment so modest and stay'd, 
 That union so rare of the head and the heart 
 
 Which fixes the friends it has made ? 
 
 For those whom the great and the wealthy employ, 
 
 Their pleasure or vanity's slaves, 
 Whate'er they can give I without them enjoy, 
 
 And am rid of just so many knaves. 
 
 For the many whom titles alone can allure. 
 
 And the blazon of ermine and gules, 
 I wrap myself round in my lowness secure, 
 
 And am rid of just so many fools. 
 
 Then why should I covet what cannot increase 
 My delights, and may lessen their store ; 
 
 My present condition is quiet and ease, 
 And what can my future be more ?
 
 1 86 A TREASURY 
 
 Should Fortune capriciously cease to be coy, 
 
 And in torrents of plenty descend, 
 I, doubtless, like others, should clasp her with joy, 
 
 And my wants and my wishes extend. 
 
 But since 'tis denied me, and heaven best knows, 
 Whether kinder to grant it or not. 
 
 Say, why should I vainly disturb my repose, 
 And peevishly carp at my lot ? 
 
 No ; still let me follow sage Horace's rule, 
 Who tried all things and held fast the best ; 
 
 Learn daily to put all my passions to school, 
 And keep the due poise of my breast. 
 
 Thus, firm at the helm, I glide calmly away, 
 Like the merchant long us'd to the deep, 
 
 Nor trust for my safety on life's stormy sea, 
 To the gilding and paint of my ship. 
 
 Nor yet can the giants of honour and pelf 
 
 My want of ambition deride, 
 He who rules his own bosom is lord of himself, 
 
 And lord of all nature beside. 
 
 W. WHITEHEAD.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TR Y 187 
 
 CLXVII 
 
 CARELESS CONTENT 
 
 I AM content, I do not care, 
 
 Wag as it will the world for me ; 
 
 When Fuss and Fret was all my Fare, 
 It got no ground, as I could see : 
 
 So when away my Caring went, 
 
 I counted Cost, and was Content. 
 
 With more of Thanks and less of Thought, 
 I strive to make my Matters meet ; 
 
 To seek what ancient sages sought, 
 Physic and Food, in sour and sweet : 
 
 To take what passes in good Part, 
 
 And keep the Hiccups from the Heart. 
 
 With good and gentle humour'd Hearts, 
 I choose to chat where'er I come, 
 
 Whate'er the Subject be that starts ; 
 But if I get among the Glum, 
 
 I hold my Tongue to tell the Troth, 
 
 And keep my Breath to cool my Broth.
 
 i88 A TREASURY 
 
 For Chance or Change of Peace or Pain; 
 
 For Fortune's Favour or her Frown ; 
 For Lack or Glut, for Loss or Gain, 
 
 I never dodge, nor up nor down : 
 But swing what way the ship shall swim. 
 Or tack about, with equal Trim. 
 
 I suit not where I shall not speed, 
 Nor trace the Turn of ev'ry Tide ; 
 
 If simple Sense will not succeed, 
 I make no Bustling, but abide : 
 
 For shining Wealth, or scaring Woe, 
 
 I force no Friend, I fear no Foe. 
 
 I love my Neighbour as myself. 
 Myself like him too, by his Leave 
 
 Nor to his Pleasure, Pow'r, or Pelf, 
 Came I to crouch, as I conceive : 
 
 Dame Nature doubtless has design'd 
 
 A Man, the Monarch of his Mind. 
 
 Now taste and try this Temper, Sirs, 
 Mood it, and brood it in your Breast ; 
 
 Or if ye ween, for worldly Stirs, 
 
 That Man does right to mar his Rest, 
 
 Let me be deft, and debonair, 
 
 I am Content, I do not care. 
 
 J. BYROM.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 189 
 
 CLXVIII 
 IN A HERMITAGE 
 
 The man, whose days of youth and ease 
 In Nature's calm enjoyments pass'd, 
 
 Will want no monitors, like these, 
 To torture and alarm his last. 
 
 The gloomy grot, the cypress shade, 
 The zealot's list of rigid rules, 
 
 To him are merely dull parade. 
 The tragic pageantry of fools. 
 
 What life affords he freely tastes. 
 
 When Nature calls, resigns his breath ; 
 
 Nor age in weak repining wastes, 
 Nor acts aUve the farce of death. 
 
 Not so the youths of Folly's train, 
 Impatient of each kind restraint 
 
 Which parent Nature fix'd, in vain, 
 To teach us man's true bliss, content. 
 
 For something still beyond enough, 
 With eager impotence they strive, 
 
 'Till appetite has learn'd to loathe 
 The very joys by which we live.
 
 190 A TREASURY 
 
 Then, fill'd with all which sour disdain 
 
 To disappointed vice can add, 
 Tir'd of himself, man flies from man. 
 
 And hates the world he made so bad. 
 
 W. WHITEHEAD. 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
 
 Thou messenger of Spring ! 
 Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 What time the daisy decks the green, 
 
 Thy certain voice we hear ; 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 
 Or mark the rolling year ? 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flowers, 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The school-boy, wandering through the wood 
 
 To pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 
 
 And imitates thy lay.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 191 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
 An annual guest in other lands, 
 
 Another Spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 
 No Winter in thy year ! 
 
 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 
 
 We'd make, with joyful wing. 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 Companions of the Spring. 
 
 J. LOGAN. 
 
 CLXX 
 
 NATURE'S CHARMS 
 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore. 
 
 The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields ; 
 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, 
 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ? 
 
 J. BEATTIE.
 
 192 A TREASURY 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 THE HAYMAKER'S ROUNDELAY 
 
 Drifted snow no more is seen, 
 Blust'ring Winter passes by ; 
 Merry Spring comes clad in green, 
 While woodlands pour their melody : 
 I hear him ! hark ! 
 The merry lark 
 Calls us to the new-mown hay, 
 Piping to our roundelay. 
 
 When the golden sun appears, 
 
 On the mountain's surly brow. 
 When his jolly beams he rears. 
 Darting joy, behold them now : 
 Then, then, oh hark ! 
 The merry lark 
 Calls us to the new-mown hay, 
 Piping to our roundelay. 
 
 What are honours ? What's a court ? 
 Calm Content is worth them all ; 
 Our honour is to drive the cart. 
 
 Our brightest court the harvest-hall : 
 But now— oh hark ! 
 The merry lark 
 Calls us to the new-mown hay, 
 Piping to our roundelay. ^^^^_
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 193 
 
 CLXXII 
 SNOWDROPS 
 
 Wan Heralds of the Sun and Summer gale, 
 
 That seem just fall'n from infant Zephyr's wing ; 
 
 Not now, as once, with heart reviv'd I hail 
 
 Your modest buds, that for the brow of Spring 
 
 Form the first simple garland — now no more, 
 
 Escaping for a moment all my cares. 
 Shall I, with pensive, silent step explore 
 
 The woods yet leafless ; where to chilling airs 
 
 Your green and pencill'd blossoms, trembling, wave. 
 
 Ah ! ye soft, transient children of the ground. 
 More fair was she on whose untimely grave 
 
 Flow my unceasing tears ! Their varied round 
 
 The seasons go ; while I through all repine. 
 For fix'd regret, and hopeless grief are mine. 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 CLXXIII 
 
 THE HAMLET 
 
 The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd 
 To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild, 
 Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main. 
 For splendid care, and guilty gain ! 
 
 o
 
 194 J TREJlStr^T 
 
 When iPOTTi^r-^'s tirLiii:-dr^cr^"c beam 
 
 'Hidst glo omy g^bde^ in waMes den;, 
 Wild natme's sweetest notes ±f j -eir ; 
 On gieenmitiodden banks : - 
 
 Hie hpandrs wg^Prtpd k .: e 
 1~ ±f "- ' *— baimi% and w: 1- i r: .:: 
 Tr f~ r t rrniii^s airy : _ : ^ . 
 
 Oi Solimdc s >c-_ _;;:;: _ f : ; : ; . 
 
 For fjhem the moon widi ckwdless rsy 
 Moozid^ to iT-iize ir : " : nevaid way : 
 Their ireary 57   r : r ~e- 
 
 Tbemesf — . :e^±r z: erg- 
 
 No riot 1:1 : . r : f 
 
 Xc r
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 195 
 
 Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
 Of health around the clay-built room, 
 Or through the primros'd coppice stray, 
 Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 
 Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, 
 Or drive afield the tardy kine ; 
 Or hasten from the sultry hill, 
 To loiter at the shady rill ; 
 Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, 
 To rob the raven's ancient nest. 
 
 Their humble porch with honied flow'rs 
 The curling woodbine's shade imbow'rs : 
 From the small garden's thymy mound 
 Their bees in busy swarms resound : 
 Nor fell Disease, before his time. 
 Hastes to consume life's golden prime : 
 But when their temples long have wore 
 The silver crown of tresses hoar ; 
 As studious still calm peace to keep, 
 Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 
 
 T. WARTON. 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 TO NIGHT 
 
 I LOVE thee, mournful, sober-suited Night ! 
 
 When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, 
 And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light. 
 
 Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main.
 
 196 A TREASURY 
 
 In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind 
 Will to the deaf cold elements complain, 
 
 And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain. 
 To sullen surges and the viewless wind. 
 
 Tho' no repose on thy dark breast I find, 
 I still enjoy thee — cheerless as thou art ; 
 
 For in thy quiet gloom the exhausted heart 
 
 Is calm, though wretched ; hopeless, yet resign'd. 
 
 While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, 
 
 May reach — though lost on earth — the ear of Heaven 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 LAST WORDS 
 
 Kind companion of my youth, 
 
 Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth ! \ 
 
 Take what friendship can impart, 
 Tribute of a feeling heart ; 
 Take the Muse's latest spark, 
 Ere we drop into the dark. 
 He, who parts and virtue gave. 
 Bade thee look beyond the grave ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 197 
 
 Genius soars, and virtue guides, 
 Where the love of God presides. 
 There's a gulf 'twixt us and God ; 
 Let the gloomy path be trod : 
 Why stand shivering on the shore ? 
 Why not boldly venture o'er ? 
 Where unerring virtue guides 
 Let us brave the winds and tides ; 
 Safe, thro' seas of doubts and fears. 
 Rides the bark which virtue steers. 
 Love thy country, wish it well, 
 
 Not with too intense a care, 
 'Tis enough, that, when it fell, 
 
 Thou its ruin didst not share. 
 Envy's censure. Flattery's praise, 
 
 With unmov'd indifference view ; 
 Learn to tread Life's dangerous maze 
 
 With unerring Virtue's clue. 
 Void of strong desire and fear. 
 
 Life's wide ocean trust no more ; 
 Strive thy little bark to steer 
 
 With the tide, but near the shore. 
 Thus prepar'd, thy shorten'd sail 
 
 Shall, whene'er the winds increase, 
 Seizing each propitious gale, 
 
 Waft thee to the Port of Peace. 
 Keep thy conscience from offence 
 
 And tempestuous passions free. 
 So, when thou art call'd from hence. 
 
 Easy shall thy passage be ;
 
 198 A TREASURY 
 
 Easy shall thy passage be, 
 
 Cheerful thy allotted stay, 
 Short the account 'twixt God and thee, 
 
 Hope shall meet thee on the way. 
 
 BUBB DODINGTON, LORD MELCOMBE, 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN TOWN 
 
 Have my friends in the Town, in the gay busy Town, 
 
 Forgot such a man as John Dyer ? 
 Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown. 
 
 Whose bosom no pageantries fire ? 
 
 No matter, no matter, — content in the shades, — 
 Contented ? why everything charms me ; 
 
 Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye cascades, 
 Till the trumpet of Virtue alarms me. 
 
 Till Outrage arises, or Misery needs 
 
 The swift, the intrepid avenger ; 
 Till sacred Religion or Liberty bleeds — 
 
 Then mine be the deed and the danger. 
 
 Alas ! what a folly, that wealth and domain 
 
 We heap up in sin and in sorrow ! 
 Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain ! 
 
 Is not life to be over to-morrow ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 199 
 
 Then glide on my moments, the few that I have, 
 
 Sweet-shaded, and quiet, and even \ 
 While gently the body descends to the grave, 
 
 And the spirit arises to heaven. 
 
 J. DYER. 
 CLXXVII 
 
 THE DILEMMA 
 
 Th.\t Jenny's my friend, my delight, and my pride, 
 I always have boasted, and seek not to hide ; 
 I dwell on her praises wherever I go. 
 They say I'm in love, but I answer " No, no." 
 
 At evening oft times with what pleasure I see 
 A note from her hand, " I'll be with you at tea ! " 
 My heart how it bounds, when I hear her below ! 
 But say not 'tis love, for I answer " No, no." 
 
 She sings me a song, and I echo each strain. 
 " Again," I cry, " Jenny, sweet Jenny, again ! " 
 I kiss her soft lips, as if there I could grow. 
 And fear I'm in love, though I answer " No, no." 
 
 She tells me her faults, as she sits on my knee, 
 
 I chide her, and swear she's an angel to me : 
 
 My shoulder she taps, and still bids me think so ; 
 
 Who knows but she loves, though she tells me " No, no."
 
 200 A TREASURY 
 
 From beauty, and wit, and good humour, ah ! why- 
 Should prudence advise, and compel me to fly ? 
 Thy bounties, O fortune ! make haste to bestow, 
 And let me deserve her, or still I say " No ! " 
 
 E. MOORE. 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 A USEFUL HINT 
 
 Tender-handed stroke a nettle, 
 And it stings you for your pains ; 
 
 Grasp it like a man of mettle, 
 And it soft as silk remains. 
 
 'Tis the same with common natures, 
 Use them kindly they rebel ; 
 
 But be rough as nutmeg graters, 
 And the rogues obey you well. 
 
 A. HILL. 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN' 
 
 'TwAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in'. 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, 
 That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't. 
 And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 201 
 
 For Lucy had served in the Glen a' the simmer ; 
 She cam there afore the flower blumed on the pea ; 
 An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her, 
 Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. 
 
 She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin', 
 Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see : 
 " Fare ye weel, Lucy ! " quo' Jamie, and ran in. 
 The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. 
 As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin', 
 " Fare ye weel, Lucy ! " was ilka bird's sang ; 
 She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', 
 And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. 
 
 " Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? 
 And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ony better. 
 Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
 Fm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; 
 Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; 
 I fear I hae tint my poor heart a'thegither, 
 Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 
 
 " Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, 
 The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me ; 
 Yestreen when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin', 
 Fll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
 Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy, 
 It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see ; 
 He could nae say mair but just, Fare ye weel, Lucy ! 
 Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
 
 202 A TREASURY 
 
 " The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit ; 
 The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea : 
 But Lucy likes Jamie," — she turn'd and she lookit, 
 She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
 Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless ! 
 And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ! 
 For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return ! 
 
 W. LAIDLAW. 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW 
 
 "Thy braes were bonnie. Yarrow stream, 
 
 When first on them I met my lover ; 
 Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream. 
 
 When now thy waves his body cover ! 
 For ever now, O Yarrow stream, 
 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ! 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 " He promised me a milk white steed, 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 
 He promised me a little page, 
 
 To squire me to his father's towers ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 He promised me a wedding ring — 
 
 The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ; — 
 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 
 
 " Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
 
 ]My passion I as freely told him ; 
 Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
 
 That I should never more behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 
 It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 
 
 And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. 
 
 " His mother from the window look'd, 
 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His little sister weeping walk'd 
 
 The greenwood path to meet her brother. 
 They sought him east, they sought him west. 
 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night, 
 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 
 
 *' No longer from thy window look, — 
 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid, 
 
 Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 
 No longer seek him east or west. 
 
 And search no more the forest thorough ; 
 For, wandering in the night so dark. 
 
 He fell, a lifeless corpse, in Yarrow.
 
 204 A TREASURY 
 
 " The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
 
 And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow." 
 The tear did never leave her cheek, 
 
 No other youth became her marrow ; 
 She found his body in the stream. 
 
 And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
 
 J. LOGAN. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Distill'd amidst the gloom of night, 
 
 Dark hangs the dew-drop on the thorn ; 
 
 Till, notic'd by approaching light, 
 It glitters in the smile of morn. 
 
 Morn soon retires, her feeble pow'r 
 The sun out-beams with genial day. 
 
 And gently, in benignant hour. 
 Exhales the liquid pearl away. 
 
 Thus on affliction's sable bed 
 
 Deep sorrows rise of saddest hue ; 
 
 Condensing round the mourner's head 
 They bathe the cheek with chilly dew.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 20: 
 
 Though pity shows her dawn from heaven, 
 When kind she points assistance near, 
 
 To friendship's sun alone 'tis given 
 
 To soothe and dry the mourner's tear. 
 
 T. PENROSE. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 SONG TO DAVID 
 
 Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said 
 
 To Moses ; while earth heard in dread, 
 
 And, smitten to the heart. 
 At once above, beneath, around. 
 All Nature, without voice or sound, 
 
 Replied, O Lord, Thou ART. 
 
 Thou art — to give and to confirm 
 For each his talent and his term ; 
 
 All flesh thy bounties share : 
 Thou shalt not call thy brother fool ; 
 The porches of the Christian school 
 
 Are meekness, peace, and pray'r. 
 
 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, 
 And drops upon the leafy limes ; 
 
 Sweet Hermon's fragrant air : 
 Sweet is the lily's silver bell, 
 And sweet the wakeful tapers smell, 
 
 That watch for early pray'r.
 
 206 A TREASURY 
 
 Sweet the young nurse with love intense, 
 Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence ; 
 
 Sweet when the lost arrive : 
 Sweet the musician's ardour beats, 
 While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, 
 
 The choicest flow'rs to hive. 
 
 Sweeter in all the strains of love. 
 The language of thy turtle dove, 
 
 Pair'd to thy swelling chord ; 
 Sweeter with ev'ry grace endued. 
 The glory of thy gratitude, 
 
 Respir'd unto the Lord. 
 
 Strong is the lion — like a coal 
 His eye-ball — like a bastion's mole 
 
 His chest against the foes : 
 Strong the gier-eagle on his sail. 
 Strong against tide, th' enormous whale 
 
 Emerges, as he goes. 
 
 But stronger still, in earth and air, 
 And in the sea, the man of pray'r ; 
 
 And far beneath the tide ; 
 And in the seat to faith assign'd, 
 Where ask is have, where seek is find. 
 
 Where knock is open wide.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TR V 207 
 
 Beauteous the fleet before the gale ; 
 Beauteous the multitudes in mail, 
 
 Rank'd arms and crested heads : 
 Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild- 
 Walk, water, meditated wild, 
 
 And all the bloomy beds. 
 
 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn ; 
 And beauteous, when the veil's withdrawn, 
 
 The virgin to her spouse : 
 Beauteous the temple deck'd and fill'd, 
 When to the heav'n of heav'ns they build 
 
 Their heart-directed vows. 
 
 Precious the penitential tear ; 
 And precious is the sigh sincere, 
 
 Acceptable to God : 
 And precious are the winning flow'rs, 
 In gladsome Israel's feast of bow'rs 
 
 Bound on the hallow'd sod. 
 
 More precious that diviner part 
 
 Of David, ev'n the Lord's own heart, 
 
 Great, beautiful, and new : 
 In all things where it was intent, 
 In all extreams, in each event, 
 
 Proof — answ'ring true to true.
 
 2o8 A TREASURY 
 
 Glorious the sun in mid career, 
 Glorious th' assembled fires appear, 
 
 Glorious the comet's train : 
 Glorious the trumpet and alarm, 
 Glorious th' Almight}- stretch'd-out arm, 
 
 Glorious th' enraptur'd main : 
 
 Glorious the northern lights astream, 
 Glorious the song, when God's the theme, 
 
 Glorious the thunder's roar : 
 Glorious hosanna from the den, 
 Glorious the Catholic amen, 
 
 Glorious the martjVs gore : 
 
 Glorious, more glorious is the crovni 
 Of Him, that brought salvation down 
 
 By meekness, call'd Thy Son ; 
 Thou at stupendous truth behe\-'d, 
 And now the matchless deed's achiev'd, 
 
 Determin'd, Dar'd, and Done. 
 
 C. SMART. 
 
 I 
 
 CLXXXIII J 
 
 HOLY THURSDAY 
 
 'TwAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean. 
 Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and 
 green :
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 209 
 
 Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white 
 
 as snow, 
 Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames 
 
 waters flow. 
 
 Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of 
 
 London town ! 
 Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own ; 
 The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of 
 
 lambs, 
 Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent 
 
 hands. 
 
 Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice 
 
 of song, 
 Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven 
 
 among ; 
 Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the 
 
 poor, 
 Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your 
 
 door. W. BLAKE. 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT 
 
 When the fierce northwind with his airy forces 
 Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury; 
 And the red lightning, with a storm of hail comes 
 
 Rushing amain down. 
 p
 
 2IO A TREASURY 
 
 How the poor sailors stand amaz'd and tremble ! 
 While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, 
 Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters 
 
 Quick to devour them. 
 
 Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder, 
 (If things eternal may be like these earthly) 
 Such the dire terror when the great Archangel 
 
 Shakes the creation ; 
 
 Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven, 
 Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes ; 
 See the graves open, and the bones arising, 
 
 Flames all around them. 
 
 Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches ! 
 Lively bright horror, and amazing anguish. 
 Stare through their eyelids, while the living worm lies 
 
 Gnawing within them. 
 
 Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings. 
 And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the 
 Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance 
 
 Rolling afore him. 
 
 Hopeless immortals ! how they scream and shiver 
 While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning. 
 Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong 
 
 Down to the centre.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 211 
 
 Stop here, my fancy : (all away, ye horrid 
 Doleful ideas !) come, arise to Jesus, 
 How he sits God-like ! and the saints around him 
 
 Thron'd, yet adoring ! 
 
 O may I sit there when He comes triumphant. 
 Dooming the nations ! then ascend to glory, 
 AVhile our hosannas all along the passage 
 
 Shout the Redeemer. 
 
 DR. I. WATTS. 
 CLXXXV 
 
 HOPE 
 
 Sun of the Soul ! whose cheerful ray 
 Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile ; 
 
 Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way, 
 Yet light my weary steps awhile. 
 
 Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day. 
 
 DR. J. LAXGHORNE. 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 THE WORM 
 
 Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside. 
 Nor crush that helpless worm ! 
 
 The frame thy scornful looks deride 
 Requir'd a God to form.
 
 212 A TREASURY 
 
 The common Lord of all that move, 
 
 From whom thy being flow'd, 
 A portion of His boundless love 
 
 On that poor worm bestow'd. 
 
 The sun, the moon, the stars He made 
 
 To all His creatures free : 
 And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade 
 
 For worms as well as thee. 
 
 Let them enjoy their little day, 
 
 Their lowly bliss receive ; 
 O do not lightly take away 
 
 The life thou canst not give ! 
 
 T, GISBORNE. 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 
 FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI 
 
 In myriad swarms, each summer sun 
 
 An insect nation shows ; 
 Whose being, since he rose begun, 
 
 And e'er he sets will close. 
 
 Brief is their date, confin'd their powers. 
 
 The fluttering of a day ; — 
 Yet life's worth living, e'en for hours. 
 
 When all those hours, — are play. 
 
 S. BISHOP.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 21 3 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 INSCRIPTION ON A FOUNTAIN 
 
 O YOU, who mark what flowrets gay, 
 
 What gales, what odours breathing near. 
 
 What sheltering shades from summer's ray 
 Allure my spring to linger here : 
 
 Yet see me quit this margin green. 
 
 Yet see me deaf to pleasure's call, 
 Explore the thirsty haunts of men, 
 
 Yet see my bounty flow for all. 
 
 O learn of me — no partial rill. 
 
 No slumbering selfish pool be you \ 
 
 But social laws alike fulfil ; 
 O flow for all creation too ! 
 
 E. LOVIBOND. 
 
 CLXXXIX 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY 
 
 To thee, fair freedom ! I retire 
 
 From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
 
 Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
 Than the low cot, or humble inn.
 
 214 -4 TREASURY 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power, I reign ; 
 
 And every health which I begin, 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
 
 Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! 
 
 I fly from falsehood's specious grin! 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
 
 And choose my lodgings at an inn. 
 
 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 
 
 Which lacqueys else might hope to win ; 
 
 It buys, what courts have not in store. 
 It buys me freedom at an inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round. 
 Where'er his stages may have been, 
 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 The warmest welcome at an inn. 
 
 W. SHENSTONE. 
 
 cxc 
 HYMN TO SCIENCE 
 
 Science ! thou fair effusive ray 
 From the great source of mental day, 
 
 Free, generous, and refin'd ! 
 Descend with all thy treasures fraught, 
 Illumine each bewilder'd thought, 
 
 And bless my labouring mind.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 215 
 
 But first with thy resistless hght, 
 Disperse those phantoms from my sight, 
 
 Those mimic shades of thee ; 
 The schoHast's learning, sophist's cant, 
 The visionary bigot's rant, 
 
 The monk's philosophy. 
 
 O ! let thy powerful charms impart 
 The patient head, the candid heart 
 
 Devoted to thy sway ; 
 Which no weak passions e'er mislead, 
 Which still with dauntless steps proceed 
 
 Where Reason points the way. 
 
 Then launch through Being's wide extent ; 
 Let the fair scale, with just ascent 
 
 And cautious steps, be trod ; 
 And from the dead, corporeal mass, 
 Through each progressive order pass 
 
 To Instinct, Reason, God. 
 
 That last, best effort of thy skill, 
 To form the life, and rule the will. 
 
 Propitious power ! impart ; 
 Teach me to cool my passion's fires, 
 Make me the judge of my desires. 
 
 The master of my heart.
 
 2i6 A TREASURY 
 
 Sun of the soul ! thy beams unveil ! 
 Let others spread the daring sail, 
 
 On Fortune's faithless sea ; 
 While, undeluded, happier I 
 From the vain tumult timely fly, 
 
 And sit in peace with thee. 
 
 M. AKENSIDE. 
 
 CXCI 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST 
 
 Once, I remember well the day, 
 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May 
 
 Had lost their freshest hues. 
 When every flower on every hill, 
 In every vale, had drunk its fill 
 
 Of sun-shine and of dews. 
 
 'Twas that sweet season's loveliest prime 
 When Spring gives up the reins of time 
 
 To Summer's glowing hand, 
 And doubting mortals hardly know 
 By whose command the breezes blow 
 
 Which fan the smiling land. j|
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 217 
 
 'Twas then beside a green-wood shade 
 Which cloth'd a lawn's aspiring head 
 
 I urg'd my devious way, 
 With loitering steps, regardless where, 
 So soft, so genial was the air. 
 
 So wond'rous bright the day. 
 
 And now my eyes with transport rove 
 O'er all the blue expanse above. 
 
 Unbroken by a cloud ! 
 And now beneath delighted pass, 
 Where, winding through the deep-green grass, 
 
 A fuU-brimm'd river flow'd. 
 
 I stop, I gaze ; in accents rude 
 To thee, serenest Solitude, 
 
 Bursts forth th' unbidden lay ; 
 Begone, vile world ; the learn'd, the wise, 
 The great, the busy, I despise, 
 
 And pity e'en the gay. 
 
 These, these are joys alone, I cry, 
 'Tis here, divine Philosophy, 
 
 Thou deign'st to fix thy throne ! 
 Here contemplation points the road 
 Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God ! 
 
 These, these, are joys alone !
 
 2i8 A TREASURY 
 
 Adieu, ye vain, low-thoughted cares, 
 Ye human hopes, and human fears, 
 
 Ye pleasures, and ye pains ! — 
 While thus I spake, o'er all my soul 
 A philosophic calmness stole, 
 
 A Stoic stillness reigns. 
 
 The tyrant passions all subside, 
 Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride, 
 
 No more my bosom move. 
 Yet still I felt, or seem'd to feel 
 A kind of visionary zeal 
 
 Of universal love. 
 
 When lo ! a voice ! a voice I hear ! 
 'Twas Reason whisper'd in my ear 
 
 These monitory strains : 
 What mean'st thou, man ? would'st thou unbind 
 The ties which constitute thy kind, 
 
 The pleasures and the pains ? 
 
 The same Almighty Power unseen, 
 Who spreads the gay or solemn scene 
 
 To Contemplation's eye : 
 Fix'd every movement of the soul. 
 Taught every wish its destined goal, 
 
 And quicken'd every joy. 
 
 I
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 219 
 
 He bids the tyrant passions rage, 
 He bids them war eternal wage, 
 
 And combat each his foe : 
 Till from dissensions concords rise, 
 And beauties from deformities, 
 
 And happiness from woe. 
 
 Art thou not man ? and dar'st thou find 
 A bliss which leans not to mankind ? 
 
 Presumptuous thought, and vain ! 
 Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd, 
 Each power is weak, unless employ'd 
 
 Some social good to gain. 
 
 Shall light, and shade, and warmth, and air. 
 With those exalted joys compare 
 
 Which active virtue feels. 
 When on she drags, as lawful prize. 
 Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice, 
 
 At her triumphant wheels. 
 
 As rest to labour still succeeds, 
 
 To man, while Virtue's glorious deeds 
 
 Employ his toilsome day. 
 This fair variety of things 
 Are merely life's refreshing springs 
 
 To soothe him on his way.
 
 220 A TREASURY 
 
 Enthusiast, go, unstring thy lyre ; 
 In vain thou sing'st if none admire. 
 
 How sweet soe'er the strain ; 
 And is not thy o'erflowing mind. 
 Unless thou mixest with thy kind, 
 
 Benevolent in vain ? 
 
 Enthusiast, go, try every sense ; 
 If not thy bliss, thy excellence 
 
 Thou yet hast learn'd to scan ; 
 At least thy wants, thy weakness know. 
 And see them all uniting show. 
 
 That man was made for man. 
 
 W. WHITEHEAD. 
 
 CXCII 
 NIGHT-FALL 
 
 Oh, soothing hour, when glowing day 
 Low on the western wave declines, 
 
 And village murmurs die away, 
 
 And bright the vesper planet shines ! 
 
 I love to hear the gale of even, 
 
 Breathing along the dew-leaf d copse, 
 
 And feel the fresh'ning dew of heaven 
 Fall silently in limpid drops. 
 
 For like a friend's consoling sighs, 
 That breeze of night to me appears ; 
 
 And as soft dew from pity's eyes, 
 Descend those pure celestial tears. 
 
 (
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 221 
 
 Alas ! for those, who long have borne, 
 Like me, a heart by sorrow riven, 
 
 Who, but the plaintive winds will mourn ? 
 What tears will fall but those of heaven ? 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 CXCIII 
 TIME AND GRIEF 
 
 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 
 The faint pang stealest unperceived away ; 
 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 
 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 
 
 1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile : — 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower, 
 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : — 
 
 Yet ah ! how much must the poor heart endure, 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure ! 
 
 W. LISLE BOWLES.
 
 222 A TREASURY 
 
 / 
 
 CXCIV 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 The season comes when first we met. 
 
 But you return no more ; 
 Why cannot I the days forget, 
 
 Which time can ne'er restore ? 
 O days too sweet, too bright to last. 
 Are you indeed for ever past ? 
 
 The fleeting shadows of delight, 
 
 In memory I trace ; 
 In fancy stop their rapid flight 
 
 And all the past replace : 
 But ah ! I wake to endless woes, 
 And tears the fading visions close ! 
 
 MKS. ANNE HUNTER, 
 
 cxcv 
 A POET'S EPITAPH 
 
 O STRANGER ! if thy wayward lot 
 Through Folly's heedless maze has led, 
 Here nurse the true, the tender thought, 
 And fling the wild flow'r on his head. 
 
 I
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 223 
 
 For he, by this cold hillock clad, 
 Where tall grass twines the pointed stone, 
 Each gentlest babii of feehng had, 
 To soothe all sorrow but his own. 
 
 For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd, 
 (Though ever dumb he sleeps below). 
 The stillest sigh of anguish heard. 
 And gave a tear to ev'ry woe. 
 
 Then, stranger, be his foibles lost ; 
 At such small foibles virtue smil'd : 
 Few was their number, large their cost, 
 For he was Nature's orphan child. 
 
 When taught by life its pangs to know. 
 Ah ! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom. 
 Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow, 
 And the last sunbeam light his tomb. 
 
 T. DERMODY. 
 
 CXCVI 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 
 
 I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking. 
 Lasses a' lilting, before dawn of day ; 
 
 But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ; 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
 
 224 A TREASURY 
 
 At bughts in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning ; 
 
 Lasses are lonely, and dowie and wae ; 
 Nae dagging, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing ; 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae. 
 
 In har'st at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering ; 
 
 Bandsters are rankled, and lyart or gray ; 
 At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ; 
 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 
 
 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 
 'Bout stacks, wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; 
 
 But ilk maid sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 
 
 Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the border ! 
 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
 The flowers of the forest, that foucht aye the foremost, 
 
 The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 
 
 We hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe milking. 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae : 
 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 
 
 JANE ELLIOT.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 225 
 
 CXCVII 
 
 A RETROSPECT 
 
 Twenty lost years have stolen their hours away, 
 Since in this inn, e'en in this room I lay. 
 How chang'd ! what then was rapture, fire, and air, 
 Seems now sad silence all and blank despair. 
 
 Is it that youth paints every view too bright, 
 And, hfe advancing, fancy fades her light ! 
 Ah ! no, — nor yet is day so far declin'd, 
 Nor can time's creeping coldness reach the mind. 
 
 'Tis that I miss th' inspirer of that youth ; 
 Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul was truth ; 
 Death snatch'd my joys, by cutting off her share. 
 But left her griefs to multiply my care. 
 
 Pensive and cold this room in each chang'd part, 
 I view, and shock'd from ev'ry object start \ 
 There hung the watch that, beating hours from day. 
 Told its sweet owner's lessening life away. 
 
 There her dear diamond taught the sash my name, 
 'Tis gone ! frail image of love, life, and fame ; 
 That glass she dress'd at, keeps her form no more, 
 Not one dear footstep tunes th' unconscious floor. 
 
 Q
 
 226 A TREASURY 
 
 Oh life ! deceitful lure of lost desires ! 
 How short thy period, yet how fierce thy fires ! 
 Scarce can a passion start, we change so fast, 
 Ere new lights strike us, and the old are past. 
 
 Schemes following schemes, so long life's taste explore, 
 That ere we learn to live, we live no more. 
 Who then can think, yet sigh to part with breath, 
 Or shun the healing hand of friendly death ? 
 
 A. HILL. 
 
 CXCVIII 
 
 EVENING 
 
 Evening ! as slow thy placid shades descend, 
 Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, 
 The lonely battlement, the farthest hill 
 
 And wood, I think of those who have no friend ; 
 
 Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, 
 
 From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, 
 Retiring, wander to the ring-dove's haunts 
 
 Unseen ; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed 
 
 Hang lovely ; oft to musing Fancy's eye 
 
 Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind 
 Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, 
 
 Nor hear the hourly moans of misery !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 227 
 
 Alas for man ! that Hope's fair views the while 
 Should smile like you, and perish as they smile ! 
 
 W. LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 CXCIX 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear ; 
 
 Take that best gift which heaven so lately gave ; 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form ; she bow'd to taste the wave, 
 
 And died. Does Youth, does Beauty, read the hne ? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm 1 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine, 
 
 Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. 
 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free, 
 
 So firm in friendship, and as fond in love ; 
 
 Tell them, tho' 'tis an awful thing to die, 
 
 ('Twas ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 
 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 
 
 And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 
 
 W. MASON.
 
 228 A TREASURY 
 
 CC 
 
 "SECURE OF FAME AND JUSTICE IN THE 
 
 GRAVE" 
 
 Ah ! no — when once the mortal yields to Fate, 
 
 The blast of Fame's sweet trumpet sounds too late, 
 
 Too late to stay the spirit on its flight, 
 
 Or soothe the new inhabitant of light ; 
 
 Who hears regardless, while fond man, distress'd, 
 
 Hangs on the absent, and laments the blest. 
 
 Farewell, then. Fame, ill sought thro' fields and blood, 
 Farewell unfaithful promiser of good : 
 Thou music, warbling to the deafen'd ear ! 
 Thou incense wasted on the funeral bier ! 
 Through life pursued in vain, by death obtain'd, 
 When ask'd, deny'd us, and when giv'n^ disdain'd. 
 
 T. TICKELL. 
 
 CCI 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, 
 
 May my fate no less fortunate be, 
 Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, 
 
 And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR Y 229 
 
 With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, 
 
 While I carol away idle sorrow, 
 And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, 
 
 Look forward with hope for To-morrow. 
 
 With a porch at ray door, both for shelter and shade too, 
 
 As the sunshine or rain may prevail, 
 And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, 
 
 With a barn for the use of the flail : 
 A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. 
 
 And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; 
 I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, 
 
 Or what honours may wait him To-morrow. 
 
 From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely 
 
 Secured by a neighbouring hill ; 
 And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly 
 
 By the sound of a murmuring rill. 
 And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 
 
 With a heart free from sickness and sorrow. 
 With my friends may I share what To-day may afford, 
 
 And let them spread the table To-morrow. 
 
 And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring, 
 Which I've worn for three score years and ten, 
 
 On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring 
 Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again ;
 
 230 A TREASURY 
 
 But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, 
 
 And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; 
 
 As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare To-day, 
 May become everlasting To-morrow. 
 
 J. COLLINS. 
 
 ecu 
 
 DEATH IN LIFE 
 
 As those we love decay, we die in part, 
 Tie after tie is sever'd from the heart ; 
 Till loosen'd Hfe, at last but breathing clay, 
 Without one pang is glad to fall away. 
 
 Unhappy he, who latest feels the blow, 
 Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, 
 Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death. 
 Till, dying, all he can resign is — breath. 
 
 J. THOMSON. 
 
 CCIII 
 
 On Parent knees, a naked new-born child, 
 Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smil'd ; 
 So live, that sinking on thy last long sleep. 
 Thou then mayst smile, while all around thee weep. 
 
 SIR W. JONES.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 231 
 
 CCIV 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET 
 
 Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine, 
 As on we toil from day to day, 
 
 By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 
 Our social comforts drop away. 
 
 Well try'd through many a varying year, 
 See Levet to the grave descend. 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere. 
 
 Of ev'ry friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fills affection's eye, 
 
 Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; 
 
 Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefin'd. 
 
 When fainting nature call'd for aid, 
 And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow, 
 
 His vigorous remedy displayed 
 
 The power of art without the show. 
 
 In misery's darkest cavern known. 
 His useful care was ever nigh. 
 
 Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, 
 And lonely want retir'd to die.
 
 232 A TREASURY 
 
 No summons mock'd by chill delay, 
 No petty gain disdain'd by pride ; 
 
 The modest wants of ev'ry day 
 The toil of ev'ry day supply'd. 
 
 His virtues walk'd their narrow round, 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure th' Eternal Master found 
 The single talent well employ'd. 
 
 The busy day — the peaceful night, 
 
 Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
 His frame was firm — his powers were bright. 
 
 Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 
 
 Then with no fiery throbbing pain, 
 
 No cold gradations of decay. 
 Death broke at once the vital chain. 
 
 And freed his soul the nearest way. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 ccv 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT THE HOT-WELLS, 
 BRISTOL 
 
 Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish brings 
 His dearest earthly treasure to these springs ; 
 Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and pain. 
 Shall court these salutary springs in vain ;
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETRY 233 
 
 Condemned, like me, to hear the faint reply, 
 To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye, 
 From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death. 
 And watch in dumb despair the shortening breath ; 
 
 If chance should bring him to this humble line, 
 Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine. 
 Ordained to love the partner of my breast. 
 Whose virtue warmed me, and whose beauty blessed ; 
 
 Framed every tie that binds the heart to prove. 
 Her duty friendship, and her friendship love ; 
 But yet remembering that the parting sigh 
 Appoints the just to slumber, not to die, 
 
 The starting tear I checked — I kissed the rod. 
 And not to earth resigned her — but to God. 
 
 LORD PALMERSTON. 
 
 CCVI 
 
 To him is reared no marble tomb, 
 Within the dim cathedral fane ; 
 
 But some faint flowers of summer bloom, 
 And silent falls the wintry rain. 
 
 No village monumental stone 
 
 Records a verse, a date, a name — 
 
 What boots it ? when thy task is done, 
 Christian, how vain the sound of fame ! 
 
 W. LISLE BOWLES.
 
 234 A TREASURY 
 
 CCVII 
 
 Life ! we've been long together, 
 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, 
 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time, 
 Say not "Good-night," but in some brighter clime 
 
 Bid me " Good-morning." 
 
 MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 1 
 
 CCVIII 
 THE DIVINE IMAGE 
 
 To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, 
 All pray in their distress, 
 
 And to these virtues of delight 
 Return their thankfulness. 
 
 For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, 
 Is God our Father dear ; 
 
 And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, 
 Is man, his child and care.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 235 
 
 For Mercy has a human heart, 
 
 Pity, a human face ; 
 And Love, the human form divine, 
 
 And Peace, the human dress. 
 » 
 Then every man, of every clime, 
 
 That prays in his distress, 
 Prays to the human form divine : 
 
 Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. 
 
 And all must love the human form, 
 
 In Heathen, Turk, or Jew; 
 Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, 
 
 There God is dwelling too, 
 
 W. BLAKE.
 
 I 

 
 BOOK IV
 
 i
 
 CCIX 
 
 LOVE'S DIET 
 
 Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly, 
 
 How should infant Love be fed ; 
 If with dew-drops, shed so newly 
 
 On the bright green clover blade ; 
 Or, with roses plucked in July, 
 And with honey liquored ? 
 O, no ! O, no ! 
 Let roses blow, 
 And dew-stars to green blade cling : 
 Other fare, 
 More light and rare. 
 Befits that gentlest NursHng. 
 
 Feed him with the sigh that rushes 
 
 'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks 
 With the eloquence that flushes 
 
 All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks ; 
 Feed him with a world of blushes. 
 
 And the glance that shuns, yet seeks : 
 For 'tis with food. 
 So light and good.
 
 240 A TREASURY 
 
 \ 
 
 That the spirit child is fed ; 
 
 And with the tear 
 
 Of joyous fear, 
 That the small Elf s liquored. 
 
 \\. MOTHERWELL. 
 
 ccx 
 
 TO HELENE— ON A GIFT-RING CARELESSLY 
 
 LOST 
 
 I SENT a ring — a little band 
 
 Of emerald and ruby stone, 
 And bade it, sparkling on thy hand. 
 Tell thee sweet tales of one 
 
 Whose constant memory % 
 
 Was full of loveliness and thee. 
 
 A shell was graven on its gold, — 
 
 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings — 
 To Helene once it would have told 
 More than was ever told by rings, 
 But now all's past and gone. 
 Her love is buried with that stone. 
 
 Thou shalt not see the tears that start 
 
 From eyes by thoughts like these beguil'd ; 
 Thou shalt not know the beating heart. 
 Ever a victim and a child : 
 Yet, Helene, love — beheve 
 The heart that never could deceive.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 241 
 
 I'll hear thy voice of melody 
 
 In the sweet whispers of the air ; 
 I'll see the brightness of thine eye 
 In the blue evening's dewy star ; 
 In crystal streams thy purity, 
 And look on Heaven to look on thee. 
 
 G. DARLEY. 
 
 CCXI 
 
 THE TRYSTING HOUR 
 
 The gowan glitters on the sward, 
 
 The lavrock's in the sky, 
 And Collie on my plaid keeps ward, 
 
 And time is passing by. 
 Oh, no ! sad an' slow, 
 
 And lengthen'd on the ground. 
 The shadow of our trystin' bush 
 
 It wears sae slowly round ! 
 
 My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, 
 
 My lambs are bleating near, 
 But still the sound I lo'e the best, 
 
 Alack ! I canna' hear. 
 Oh, no ! sad an' slow. 
 
 The shadow lingers still. 
 And like a lanely ghaist I stand 
 
 And croon upon the hill. 
 
 R
 
 242 A TREASURY 
 
 I hear below the water roar, 
 
 The mill wi' clackin' din, 
 And Lucky scoldin' frae her door, 
 
 To ca' the bairnies in. 
 Oh, no ! sad an' slow. 
 
 These are na' sounds for me, 
 The shadow of our trystin' bush 
 
 It creeps sae drearily ! 
 
 Oh, now I see her on the way. 
 
 She's past the witch's knowe. 
 She's climbin' up the brownies' brae, 
 
 My heart is in a lowe ! 
 Oh, no ! 'tis no' so, 
 
 'Tis glam'rie I hae seen, 
 The shadow of that hawthorn bush 
 
 Will move na' more till e'en. 
 
 My book o' grace I'll try to read. 
 
 Though conn'd wi' little skill ; 
 When Collie barks I'll raise my head, 
 
 And find her on the hill ; 
 Oh, no ! sad an' slow, 
 
 The time will ne'er be gane. 
 The shadow of the trystin' bush 
 
 Is fix'd like ony stane. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 i 
 
 la.i
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 243 
 
 CCXII 
 SONG 
 
 They who may tell love's wistful tale, 
 Of half its cares are lighten'd ; 
 
 Their bark is tacking to the gale, 
 The sever'd cloud is brighten'd. 
 
 Love, like the silent stream, is found 
 
 Beneath the willows lurking, 
 The deeper, that it hath no sound 
 
 To tell its ceaseless working. 
 
 Submit, my heart ; thy lot is cast, 
 
 I feel its inward token ; 
 I feel this mis'ry will not last. 
 
 Yet last till thou art broken. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 A PICTURE 
 
 Mv Love o'er the water bends dreaming ; 
 
 It glideth and glideth away : 
 She sees there her own beauty, gleaming 
 
 Through shadow and ripple and spray.
 
 244 A TREASURY 
 
 Oh, tell her, thou murmuring river, 
 As past her your light wavelets roll. 
 
 How steadfast that image for ever 
 
 Shines pure in pure depths of my soul. 
 
 J. THOMSON. 
 
 CCXIV 
 MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE? 
 
 Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, 
 
 In white, to find her lover ; 
 The grass grew proud beneath her feet, 
 
 The green elm-leaves above her ; — 
 Meet we no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 She said, " We meet no angels now " ; 
 
 And soft lights stream'd upon her ; 
 And with white hand she touch'd a bough ; 
 
 She did it that great honour ; — 
 
 What ! meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, 
 Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender ! 
 
 Then what said I ? gallant replies 
 Seem flattery, and offend her ; — 
 But, — meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 T. ASHE.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 245 
 
 CCXV 
 JEANIE MORRISON 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve o' Hfe's young day ! 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears : 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine, 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back 
 
 O' scule-time and o' thee. 
 Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve ! 
 
 Oh lichtsome days and lang, 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang !
 
 246 A TREASURY 
 
 Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wood. 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet j 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood, 
 
 The burn sang to the trees. 
 And we with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn. 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time, a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung ! 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 
 i
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY zan 
 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 
 
 As ye hae been to me ? 
 Oh ! tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ; 
 Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart, 
 
 Still travels on its way ; 
 And channels deeper as it rins, 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sindered young, 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 O' bygane days and me ! 
 
 W. MOTHERWELL.
 
 248 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXVI 
 
 LOVE 
 
 Love has turned his face away, 
 
 Weep, sad eyes ! 
 Love is now of yesterday. 
 
 Time that flies, 
 Bringing glad and grievous things, 
 Bears no more Love's shining wings. 
 
 Love was not all glad, you say ; 
 
 Tears and sighs 
 In the midst of kisses lay. 
 
 Were it wise. 
 If we could, to bid him come. 
 Making with us once more home ? 
 
 Little doubts that sting and prey. 
 
 Hurt replies. 
 Words for which a life should pay, — 
 
 None denies 
 These of Love were very part, — 
 Thorns that hurt the rose's heart. 
 
 Yet should we beseech Love stay, 
 
 Sorrow dies ; 
 And if Love will but delay, 
 
 Joy may rise.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 249 
 
 Since, with all its thorns, the rose 
 Is the sweetest flower that blows. 
 
 p. B, MARSTON. 
 
 CCXVII 
 SERENADE 
 
 Awake thee, my Lady-love ! 
 
 Wake thee, and rise ! 
 The sun through the bower peeps 
 
 Into thine eyes ! 
 
 Behold how the early lark 
 
 Springs from the corn ! 
 Hark, hark how the flower-bird 
 
 Winds her wee horn ! 
 
 The swallow's glad shriek is heard 
 
 All through the air ! 
 The stock-dove is murmuring 
 
 Loud as she dare ! 
 
 Then wake thee, my Lady-love ! 
 
 Bird of my bower ! 
 The sweetest and sleepiest 
 
 Bird at this hour. 
 
 G. DARLEY.
 
 250 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXVIII 
 SONG OF THE FORSAKEN 
 
 My cheek is faded sair, love, 
 
 An' lichtless fa's my e'e ; 
 My breast a' lane and bare, love, 
 
 Has aye a beild for thee. 
 My breast, though lane and bare, love, 
 The hame o' cauld despair, love. 
 Yet ye've a dwallin' there, love, 
 
 A' darksome though it be. 
 
 Yon guarded roses glowin', 
 
 It's wha daur min't to pu' ? 
 But aye the wee bit gowan 
 
 Ilk reckless hand may strew. 
 An' aye the wee, wee gowan, 
 Unsheltered, lanely growin', 
 Unkent, uncared its ruin, 
 
 Sae marklessly it grew. 
 
 An' am I left to rue, then, 
 
 Wha ne'er kent Love but thee ; 
 
 An' gae a love as true, then. 
 As woman's heart can gie ? 
 
 But can ye cauldly view, then, 
 
 A bosom burstin' fu', then ? 
 
 An' hae ye broken noo, then. 
 The heart ye sought frae me ? 
 
 W. THOM.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 CCXIX 
 
 LIGHT 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the day but one ; 
 Yet the light of the bright world dies, 
 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes. 
 
 And the heart but one ; 
 Yet the hght of a whole life dies, 
 
 \\'hen love is gone. 
 
 F. W. BOURDILLON. 
 
 ccxx 
 
 Too solemn for day, too sweet for night. 
 Come not in darkness, come not in light ; 
 But come in some twilight interim, 
 When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim. 
 
 W. S. WALKER.
 
 252 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXXI 
 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS 
 
 When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented, 
 (The Hst of what fate for each mortal intends). 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 And slipp'd in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated. 
 
 For justice divine could not compass its ends ; 
 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. 
 
 For earth becomes heav'n with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, 
 The fund ill-secur'd oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested, 
 When drawn on the firm of wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers, 
 The death-wounded tar who his colours defends, 
 Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 How blest was his home with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends. 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 For one happy day with wife, children, and friends.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 253 
 
 Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, 
 Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends, 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
 The bower where he sate with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 
 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 
 But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
 
 No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
 The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends ; 
 O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish, 
 Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Let us drink — for my song, growing graver and graver. 
 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 
 Let us drink — pledge me high — love and virtue shall 
 
 flavour 
 The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends. 
 
 W. R. SPENCER. 
 
 CCXXII 
 
 LITTLE AGLAE 
 
 TO HER FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING CALLED LIKE HER 
 
 Father ! the little girl we see 
 
 Is not, I fancy, so like me ; 
 
 You never hold her on your knee.
 
 254 A TREASURY 
 
 When she came home the other day 
 You kiss'd her ; but I cannot say 
 She kiss'd you first and ran away. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR. 
 
 CCXXIII 
 A PETITION TO TIME 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently,— as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet dream ! 
 Humble voyagers are We, 
 Husband, wife, and children three— 
 (One is lost, an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead ! ) 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 
 
 We've not proud nor soaring wings : 
 Our ambition, our content 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are We 
 O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, 
 Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
 Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 
 
 B. WALLER PROCTER.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 CCXXIV 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH 
 
 I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had suns: 
 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, 
 
 "Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
 
 To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
 
 And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my tears. 
 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. 
 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, 
 
 So weeping, how a mystic shape did move 
 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair ; 
 
 And a voice said in mastery, while I strove : 
 
 " Guess now who holds thee ? " — " Death ! " I said. But, 
 
 there, 
 The silver answer rang, " Not Death, but Love ! " 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 CCXXV 
 
 There are who say we are but dust ; 
 
 We may be soon, but are not yet : 
 Nor should be while in Love we trust, 
 
 And never what he taught forget. 
 
 W. S. I.ANDOR.
 
 256 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXXVI 
 
 SONG 
 
 Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
 O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 
 
 Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
 Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 
 
 Smile — though I shall not be near thee ; 
 
 Sing — though I shall never hear thee ; 
 May thy soul with pleasure shine, 
 Lasting as the gloom of mine. 
 
 Like the sun, thy presence glowing, 
 Clothes the meanest things in light ; 
 
 And when thou, hke him, art going, 
 Loveliest objects fade in night. 
 
 All things look'd so bright about thee, 
 
 That they nothing seem without thee ; 
 By that pure and lucid mind 
 Earthly things were too refined. 
 
 Go, thou vision wildly gleaming. 
 
 Softly on my soul that fell ; 
 Go, for me no longer beaming — 
 
 Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 257 
 
 Go, and all that once delighted 
 Take, and leave me all benighted ; 
 Glory's burning — generous swell. 
 Fancy and the Poet's shell. 
 
 REV. C. WOLFE. 
 
 CCXXVII 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 
 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
 Time, you thief ! who love to get 
 
 Sweets into your list, put that in : 
 Say I'm weary, say I'm sad. 
 
 Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, 
 Say I'm growing old, but add, 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 CCXXVII I 
 
 THE NUN 
 
 If you become a nun, dear, 
 
 A friar I will be ; 
 In any cell you run, dear, 
 
 Pray look behind for mc. 
 S
 
 2S8 A TREASURY 
 
 The roses all turn pale, too ; 
 The doves all take the veil, too ; 
 
 The blind will see the show. 
 What ! you become a nun, my dear ! 
 
 I'll not believe it, no. 
 
 If you become a nun, dear, 
 
 The bishop Love will be ; 
 The Cupids every one, dear, 
 
 Will chaunt "We trust in thee." 
 The incense will go sighing, 
 The candles fall a-dying. 
 
 The water turn to wine ; 
 What ! you go take the vows, my dear ! 
 
 You may — but they'll be mine. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 CCXXIX 
 
 A BOY'S SONG 
 
 Where the pools are bright and deep, 
 Where the grey trout lies asleep. 
 Up the river and o'er the lea. 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Where the blackbird sings the latest. 
 Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
 Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
 That's the way for Billy and me.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 259 
 
 Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
 "Where the hay hes thick and greenest ; 
 There to trace the homeward bee, 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Where the hazel bank is steepest, 
 Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
 Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Why the boys should drive away 
 Little sweet maidens from the play, 
 Or love to banter and fight so well, 
 That's the thinsr I never could tell. 
 
 *o 
 
 But this I know, I love to play, 
 Through the meadow, among the hay ; 
 Up the water and o'er the lea, 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 J. nOGG. 
 
 ccxxx 
 
 THE SKYLARK 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 Blithesome and cumberless. 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee !
 
 26o A TREASURY 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud, 
 
 Far in the downy cloud, 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim. 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 
 Low in the heather blooms 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 J. HOGG. 
 
 ccxxxi 
 
 ECHO AND SILENCE 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 
 And autumn in her lap the stores to strew, 
 As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo 
 Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 261 
 
 Two sleeping nymphs, with wonder mute I spy : — 
 And lo ! she's gone — in robe of dark green hue 
 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew : 
 For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky. 
 
 In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
 Not so her sister. Hark ! for onward still 
 AVith far-heard step she takes her listening way, 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill : 
 
 Ah ! mark the merry maid, in mockful play. 
 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 
 
 SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 
 
 CCXXXII 
 
 THE HERON 
 
 O MELANCHOLY Bird, a winter's day, 
 Thou standest by the margin of the pool, 
 And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 
 To Patience, which all evil can allay. 
 
 God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey ; 
 And giv'n thyself a lesson to the Fool 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
 
 262 A TREASURY 
 
 There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair, 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart ; 
 He, who has not enough for these to spare, 
 Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
 
 And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair : 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
 EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 
 
 CCXXXIII 
 
 SNOWDROPS 
 
 O DARLING spirits of the snow. 
 
 Who hide within your heart the green, 
 
 Howe'er the wintry wind may blow. 
 The secret of the summer sheen 
 Ye smile to know ! 
 
 By frozen rills, in woods and mead, 
 A mild pure sisterhood ye grow. 
 
 Who bend the meek and quiet head, 
 And are a token from below 
 From our dear dead.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 263 
 
 As in their turf ye softly shine 
 
 Of innocent white lives they lead, 
 
 With healing influence Divine 
 
 For souls who on their memory feed, 
 World-worn like mine. 
 
 RODEN NOEL. 
 
 CCXXXIV 
 
 SONG TO MAY 
 
 May, queen of blossoms, 
 
 And fulfilling flowers, 
 With what pretty music 
 
 Shall we charm the hours ? 
 Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 
 
 Blown in the open mead ? 
 Or to the lute give heed 
 
 In the green bowers ? 
 
 Thou hast no need of us. 
 
 Or pipe or wire, 
 That hast the golden bee 
 
 Ripened with fire ; 
 And many thousand more 
 
 Songsters, that thee adore 
 Filling earth's grassy floor 
 
 With new desire.
 
 264 A TREASURY 
 
 Thou hast thy mighty herds, 
 
 Tame, and free-livers ; 
 Doubt not, thy music too 
 
 In the deep rivers ; 
 And the whole plumy flight. 
 Warbling the day and night — 
 Up at the gates of light, 
 
 See, the lark quivers ! 
 
 EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 
 
 ccxxxv 
 OSME'S SONG 
 
 Hither ! hither ! 
 
 O come hither ! 
 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 'A 
 
 Trip it neatly, i 
 
 Foot it featly, 'I 
 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! ':\ 
 
 
 Here are bowers 
 Hung with flowers. 
 Richly curtain'd halls for you ! 
 
 Meads for rovers, ''j'\ 
 
 Shades for lovers, : j, 
 
 Violet beds, and pillows too ! ' i 
 
 % 
 
 ■9' 
 
 m
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 265 
 
 Purple heather 
 
 You may gather, 
 Sandal-deep in seas of bloom ! 
 
 Pale-faced lily, 
 
 Proud Sweet-Willy, 
 Gorgeous rose, and golden broom ! 
 
 Odorous blossoms 
 
 For sweet bosoms, 
 Garlands green to bind the hair \ 
 
 Crowns and kirtles 
 
 "Weft of myrtles. 
 You may choose, and Beauty wear 
 
 Brightsome glasses 
 
 For bright faces 
 Shine in ev'ry rill that flows ; 
 
 Every minute 
 
 You look in it 
 Still more bright your beauty grows 
 
 Banks for sleeping. 
 
 Nooks for peeping, 
 Glades for dancing, smooth and fine 
 
 Fruits delicious 
 
 For who wishes. 
 Nectar, dew, and honey wine !
 
 266 A TREASURY 
 
 Hither! hither! 
 
 O come hither ! 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 
 
 Trip it neatly, 
 
 Foot it featly, 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! 
 
 G. DARLEY. 
 
 CCXXXVI 
 
 BUTTERFLY BEAU 
 
 I'm a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing, 
 
 Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow ; 
 All the Butterflies swarm to behold my sweet form, 
 
 Though the Grubs may all vote me a vain beau. 
 I my toilet go through, with my rose-water dew. 
 
 And each blossom contributes its essence ; 
 Then all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of place, 
 
 I adorn the gay world with my presence — 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. 
 
 At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant. 
 Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection : 
 
 Then I seek a sweet Pea, and I whisper, " For thee 
 I have long felt a fond predilection."
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 267 
 
 A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss, 
 
 But I very soon search for a new lip ; 
 And I pause in my flight to exclaim with delight, 
 '•' Oh ! how dearly I love you, my Tulip ! " 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. 
 
 Thus for ever I rove, and the honey of love 
 
 From each delicate blossom I pilfer ; 
 But though many I see pale and pining for me, 
 I know none that are worth growing ill for : 
 And though I must own, there are some that I've 
 known, 
 Whose external attractions are splendid ; 
 On myself I most doat, for in my pretty coat 
 All the tints of the garden are blended — 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. 
 
 T. HAVNES BAYLY. 
 
 CCXXXVII 
 
 AFTER SUMMER 
 
 We'll not weep for summer over, 
 
 No, not we ; 
 Strew above his head the clover, 
 
 Let him be!
 
 268 A TREASURY 
 
 Other eyes may weep his dying, 
 
 Shed their tears 
 There upon him where he's lying 
 
 With his peers. 
 
 Unto some of them he proffered 
 
 Gifts most sweet ; 
 For our hearts a grace he offered, — 
 
 Was this meet ? 
 
 All our fond hopes, praying, perished 
 
 In his wrath, — 
 All the lovely dreams we cherished 
 
 Strewed his path. 
 
 Shall we in our tombs, I wonder. 
 
 Far apart. 
 Sundered wide as seas can sunder 
 
 Heart from heart. 
 
 Dream at all of all the sorrows 
 
 That were ours, — 
 Bitter nights, more bitter morrows ; 
 
 Poison-flowers 
 
 Summer gathered, as in madness. 
 
 Saying, "See, 
 These are yours, in place of gladness,- 
 
 Gifts from me ! "
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 269 
 
 Nay, the rest that will be ours 
 
 Is supreme, — 
 And below the poppy flowers 
 
 Steals no dream. 
 
 p. B. MARSTON. 
 CCXXXVIII 
 
 BUTTERFLY LIFE 
 
 What, though you tell me each gay little rover 
 
 Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ! 
 Surely 'tis better, when summer is over. 
 
 To die when all fair things are fading away. 
 Some in life's winter may toil to discover 
 
 Means of procuring a weary delay — 
 I'd be a Butterfly ; living, a rover. 
 
 Dying when fair things are fading away ! 
 
 T. HAYNES BAYLY. 
 CCXXXIX 
 
 THE BLIND LASSIE 
 
 O HARK to the strain that sae sweetly is ringin', 
 
 And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er lea ; 
 Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin', 
 
 It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel I see ; 
 Round yonder rock knittin', a dear child is sittin', 
 
 Sae toilin' her pitifu' pittance is won, 
 Hersell tho' we see nae, 'tis mithcrless Jeanie, — 
 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
 
 J70 A TREASURY 
 
 Five years syne, come autumn, she cam' wi' her mither, 
 
 A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' gane ; 
 As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither, 
 
 An' left the sweet child on the wide world alane. 
 She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy keepin', 
 
 Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld wintry win', 
 We had little siller, yet a' were gude till her, — 
 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. 
 
 An' blythe now an' cheerfu', frae mornin' to e'enin', 
 
 She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk ear ; 
 Baith auld and young daut her, sae gentle an' winnin'. 
 
 To a' the folks round, the wee lassie is dear. 
 Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties would press her. 
 
 The modest bit darlin' their notice would shun, 
 For though she has naething, proud hearted this wee 
 thing — 
 
 The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun. 
 
 T. C. LATTO. 
 
 CCXL 
 
 IT'S HAME AND IT'S HAME 
 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, 
 
 The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree ; 
 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 271 
 
 The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa', 
 The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; 
 But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic, 
 An' green it will grow in my ain countree ; 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
 
 There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, 
 But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 
 That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, 
 May rise again and fight for their ain countree ; 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree. 
 
 The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save. 
 The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave ; 
 But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee : 
 " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree " ; 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
 An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree. 
 
 A. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 CCXLI 
 THE STANDING TOAST 
 
 The moon on the ocean was dimm'd by a ripple. 
 
 Affording a chequer'd delight, 
 The gay jolly tars pass'd the word for the tipple. 
 
 And the toast, for 'twas Saturday night :
 
 272 A TREASURY 
 
 Some sweetheart or wife that he loved as his life 
 Each drank while he wish'd he could hail her ; 
 
 But the standing toast that pleased the most 
 Was — The wind that blows, the ship that goes, 
 
 And the lass that loves a sailor ! 
 
 Some drank the king and his brave ships, 
 
 And some the constitution, 
 Some, " May our foes and all such rips 
 
 Own English resolution ! " 
 That fate might bless some Poll or Bess, 
 
 And that they soon might hail her. 
 But the standing toast that pleased the most 
 
 Was — The wind that blows, the ship that goes. 
 And the lass that loves a sailor ! 
 
 Some drank our queen, and some our land, 
 
 Our glorious land of freedom ! 
 Some that our tars might never stand 
 
 For heroes brave to lead 'em ! 
 That beauty in distress might find 
 
 Such friends as ne'er would fail her ; 
 But the standing toast that pleased the most 
 
 Was — The wind that blows, the ship that goes, 
 And the lass that loves a sailor ! 
 
 C. DIBDIN.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TR V 273 
 
 ccxm 
 THE SEA PINK 
 
 I've a yacht in the Island, the Sea Pink, of Ryde, 
 
 Not a craft in the club can be better ; 
 I own, when she goes very much on one side, 
 
 I'm afraid that the wind will upset her. 
 I belong to the Club, which is very genteel — 
 
 We ne'er let a Scamp or a Shab in ; 
 But though it's the fashion, I own that I feel 
 
 More at ease in my Cab than my Cabin ! 
 
 'Tis true, I know little of nautical ways. 
 
 And less about charts of the ocean ; 
 And what's rather odd, on the quietest days 
 
 I always grow queer with the motion ! 
 I've sunk a large sum on the toy, and 'tis well 
 
 If the toy and I don't sink together ; 
 Oh ! talking of sinking — nobody can tell 
 
 What I suffer in very bad weather ! 
 
 When I sigh for the land, sailors talk of "sea-room," 
 
 All sense of propriety lacking ; 
 And they gave me a knock-me-down blow with the boom, 
 
 T'other day, in the hurry of tacking. 
 I sported one morning a water-proof cap. 
 
 And a Mackintosh — all India-rubber ; 
 And a sailor cried, "Jack, look at that 'ere queer chap. 
 
 Did you ever see such a land-lubber ? " 
 
 T
 
 274 A TREASURY 
 
 What a bother the wind is ! one day we were caught 
 
 In a bit of a breeze in the offing ; 
 And we tack'd, and we tack'd, till I verily thought 
 
 Every tack was a nail in my coffin ! 
 Cried one, " Never fear, we shall soon reach the shore," 
 
 (To me that word reach is pathetic !) 
 I've heard of perpetual Blisters before. 
 
 But I've an eternal emetic ! 
 
 The Captain and Crew are of course in my pay, 
 
 I expect them to pay me attention ; 
 But they push me about, and they now and then say 
 
 Little words it would shock me to mention ! 
 The smell of the tar I detest, and I think 
 
 That the sea breeze quite spoils the complexion. 
 But the ladies all say, when they've seen the Sea Pink, 
 
 That her Owner's the Pink of Perfection. 
 
 T. HAYNES BAYLY. 
 
 CCXLIII 
 
 SONG 
 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast by the board ; 
 
 My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, 
 And love, well-stored.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 275 
 
 Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, 
 The roaring winds, the raging sea, 
 In hopes on shore 
 To be once more, 
 Safe moor'd with thee ! 
 
 Aloft, while mountains high we go. 
 
 The whistling winds that scud along. 
 And the surge roaring from below, 
 Shall my signal be, 
 To think on thee. 
 And this shall be my song : 
 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast from the board. 
 
 And on that night when all the crew, 
 The memory of their former lives 
 O'er flowing cups of flip renew, 
 
 And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
 I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee ; 
 And, as the ship rolls through the sea, 
 The burden of my song shall be — 
 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast by the board. 
 
 C. DIBDIN.
 
 276 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXLIV 
 A PICTURE 
 
 Lo ! in storms, the triple-headed 
 
 Hill, whose dreaded 
 Bases battle with the seas, 
 Looms across fierce widths of fleeting 
 
 Waters beating 
 Evermore on roaring leas ! 
 
 Arakoon, the black, the lonely ! 
 
 Housed with only 
 Cloud and rain-wind, mist and damp ; 
 Round whose foam-drenched feet and nether 
 
 Depths, together 
 Sullen sprites of thunder tramp ! 
 
 There the East hums loud and surly. 
 
 Late and early, 
 Through the chasms and the caves. 
 And across the naked verges 
 
 Leap the surges ! 
 White and wailing waifs of waves. 
 
 Day by day the sea fogs gathered — 
 
 Tempest-fathered — 
 Pitch their tents on yonder peak, 
 Yellow drifts and fragments lying 
 
 Where the flying 
 Torrents chafe the cloven creek ! 
 
 i
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 277 
 
 And at nightfall, when the driven 
 
 Bolts of heaven 
 Smite the rock and break the bluff, 
 Thither troop the elves whose home is 
 
 Where the foam is, 
 And the echo, and the clough. 
 
 Ever girt about \vith noises. 
 
 Stormy voices, 
 And the salt breath of the Strait, 
 Stands the steadfast Mountain Giant, 
 
 Grim, reliant, 
 Dark as Death, and firm as Fate. 
 
 H. C. KENDALL. 
 
 CCXLV 
 
 THE TA^IAR SPRING 
 
 Fount of a rushing river ! wild flowers wreathe 
 The home where thy first waters sunlight claim ; 
 
 The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe, 
 Sweet Tamar Spring ! the music of thy name. 
 
 On ! through thy goodly channel, on ! to the sea ! 
 
 Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough ; 
 But nevermore with footstep pure and free, 
 
 Or face so meek with happiness as now.
 
 278 A TREASURY 
 
 Fair is the future scenery of thy days, 
 
 Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride ; 
 
 Depths that give back the soft-eyed violet's gaze, 
 Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide. 
 
 Yet false the vision, and untrue the dream, 
 
 That lures thee from thy native wilds to stray ; 
 
 A thousand griefs will mingle with that stream, 
 Unnumbered hearts shall sigh those waves away. 
 
 Scenes fierce with men, thy seaward current laves. 
 Harsh multitudes will throng thy gentle brink ; 
 
 Back with the grieving concourse of thy waves. 
 Home to the waters of thy childhood shrink ! 
 
 Thou heedest not ! thy dream is of the shore, — 
 Thy heart is quick with life ; on ! to the sea ! 
 
 How will the voice of thy far streams implore, 
 Again amid these peaceful weeds to be ! 
 
 My Soul ! my Soul ! a happier choice be thine, — 
 Thine the hushed valley, and the lonely sod ; 
 
 False dream, far vision, hollow hope resign, 
 Fast by our Tamar Spring, alone with God ! 
 
 R. S. HAWKER.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 279 
 
 CCXLVI 
 
 MIDNIGHT 
 
 God ! this is a holy hour, 
 Thy breath is o'er the land ; 
 
 1 feel it in each little flower 
 
 Around me where I stand, — 
 In all the moonshine scattered fair, 
 
 Above, below me, everywhere, — 
 In every dew-bead glistening sheen. 
 In every leaf and blade of green, — 
 And in this silence grand and deep 
 Wherein Thy blessed creatures sleep. 
 
 Men say, that in this midnight hour, 
 The disembodied have power 
 To wander as it liketh them, 
 By wizard oak and fairy stream. 
 
 Through still and solemn places, 
 And by old walls and tombs, to dream, 
 
 With pale, cold, mournful faces. 
 I fear them not ; for they must be 
 Spirits of kindest sympathy. 
 Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel 
 The beauties of this calm night steal 
 Like music o'er them, while they woo'd 
 
 The luxury of Solitude. 
 
 W. MOTHERWELL.
 
 28o A TREASURY 
 
 CCXLVII 
 
 KIRKSTALL ABBEY REVISITED 
 
 Long years have passed since last I strayed, 
 In boyhood, through thy roofless aisle, 
 
 And watched the mists of eve o'ershade 
 Day's latest, loveliest smile ; — 
 
 And saw the bright, broad, moving moon 
 
 Sail up the sapphire skies of June ! 
 
 The air around was breathing balm ; 
 
 The aspen scarcely seemed to sway ; 
 And, as a sleeping infant calm. 
 
 The river flowed away. 
 Devious as error, deep as love. 
 
 And blue and bright as heaven above ! 
 
 How bright is every scene beheld 
 
 In youth and hope's unclouded hours ; 
 
 How darkly, youth and hope dispelled, 
 The loveliest prospect lowers : 
 
 Thou wert a splendid vision then ; — 
 
 When wilt thou seem so bright again ! 
 
 Yet still thy turrets drink the light 
 Of summer evening's softest ray, 
 
 And ivy garlands, green and bright, 
 Still mantle thy decay ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 281 
 
 And calm and beauteous as of old, 
 Thy wandering river glides in gold. 
 
 But life's gay morn of ecstasy, 
 
 That made thee seem so passing fair, — 
 The aspirations ^vild and high, 
 
 The soul to nobly dare, — 
 Oh, where are they, stern ruin, say ? — 
 Thou dost but echo — where are they ! 
 
 Adieu ! — Be still to other hearts 
 What thou wert long ago to mine ; 
 
 And when the blissful dream departs, 
 Do thou a beacon shine. 
 
 To guide the mourner, through his tears. 
 To the blest scenes of happier years. 
 
 A. A. WATTS. 
 
 CCXLVIIl 
 
 The soul of music slumbers in the shell, 
 Till waked and kindled by the master's spell ; 
 And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour 
 A thousand melodies unheard before. 
 
 S. ROGERS.
 
 282 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXLIX 
 
 RETIREMENT 
 
 Retire, and timely, from the world, if ever 
 
 Thou hopest tranquil days ; 
 Its gaudy jewels from thy bosom sever, 
 
 Despise its pomp and praise. 
 The purest star that looks into the stream 
 
 Its slightest ripple shakes, 
 And Peace, where'er its fiercer splendours gleam. 
 
 Her brooding nest forsakes. 
 The quiet planets roll with even motion 
 
 In the still skies alone ; 
 O'er ocean they dance joyously, but ocean 
 
 They find no rest upon. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR. 
 
 CCL 
 
 NIGHT AND DEATH 
 
 Mysterious Night ! when our first Parent knew 
 Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely Frame, 
 This glorious canopy of Light and Blue ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 283 
 
 Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
 Bathed in the rays of the great setting Flame, 
 Hesperus with the Host of Heaven came, 
 And lo ! Creation widen'd on Man's view. 
 
 Who could have thought such Darkness lay concealed 
 Within thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find, 
 Whilst flow'r, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
 That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 
 
 WTiy do we then shun Death with anxious strife ? 
 If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 
 
 J. BLANCO WHITE. 
 
 CCLI 
 THERE IS A LIGHT 
 
 There is a light unseen of eye, 
 A light unborn of sun or star. 
 
 Pervading earth, and sea, and sky. 
 Beside us still, yet still afar : 
 
 A power, a charm, whose web is wrought 
 Round all we see, or feel, or know. 
 
 Round all the world of sense and thought, 
 Our love and hate, our joy and woe.
 
 284 A TREASURY 
 
 It goes, it comes ; like wandering wind, 
 Unsought it comes, unbidden goes : 
 
 Now flashing sun-like o'er the mind, 
 
 Now quench'd in dark and cold repose. 
 
 It sweeps o'er the great frame of things, 
 
 As o'er a lyre of varied tone. 
 Searching the sweets of all its strings, 
 
 Which answer to that touch alone. 
 
 From midnight darkness it can wake 
 
 A glory, bright as summer sea ; 
 And can of utter silence make 
 
 A vast and solemn harmony. 
 
 To the white dawn and moonlight heaven, 
 The flower's soft breath, the breeze's moan, 
 
 The rain-cloud's hues, its spell hath given 
 A life, a meaning not their own. 
 
 W. S. WALKER. 
 
 CCLII 
 THE GIFT 
 
 O happy glow, O sun-bathed tree, 
 
 O golden-lighted river, 
 A love-gift has been given to me, 
 
 And which of you is giver ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 285 
 
 I came upon you something sad, 
 Musing a mournful measure, 
 
 Now all my heart in me is glad 
 With a quick sense of pleasure. 
 
 I came upon you with a heart 
 Half sick of life's vexed stor)-, 
 
 And now it grows of you a part, 
 Steep'd in your golden glory. 
 
 A smile into my heart has crept 
 And laughs through all my being ; 
 
 New joy into my life has leapt, 
 A joy of only seeing ! 
 
 happy glow, O sun-bathed tree, 
 
 O golden-lighted river, 
 A love gift has been given to me, 
 
 And which of you is giver ? 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
 CCLIII 
 
 MAIDEN MAY 
 
 Maiden May sat in her bower ; 
 Her own face was like a flower 
 
 Of the prime, 
 Half in sunshine, half in shower. 
 In the year's most tender time.
 
 286 A TREASURY 
 
 Her own thoughts in silent song 
 Musically flowed along, 
 
 Wise, unwise, 
 Wistful, wondering, weak or strong, 
 As brook shallows sink or rise. 
 
 Other thoughts another day. 
 Maiden May, will surge and sway 
 
 Round your heart ; 
 Wake, and plead, and turn at bay, 
 Wisdom part, and folly part. 
 
 Time not far remote will borrow 
 Other joys, another sorrow, 
 
 All for you ; 
 Not to-day, and yet to-morrow 
 
 Reasoning false and reasoning true. 
 
 Wherefore greatest ? Wherefore least ? 
 Hearts that starve and hearts that feast ? 
 
 You and I ? 
 Stammering oracles have ceased, 
 
 And the whole earth stands at " why ? " 
 
 Underneath all things that be 
 Lies an unsolved mystery ; 
 
 Over all 
 Spreads a veil impenetrably. 
 Spreads a dense unlifted pall.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 2S7 
 
 Mystery of mysteries : 
 
 This creation hears and sees 
 
 Hitrh and low — 
 Vanity of vanities : 
 
 This we test and this we know. 
 
 Maiden May, the days of flowering 
 Nurse you now in sweet embowering, 
 
 Sunny days ; 
 Bright with rainbows all the showering, 
 Bright with blossoms all the ways. 
 
 Close the inlet of your bower, 
 Close it close with thorn and flower, 
 
 Maiden May ; 
 Lengthen out the shortening hour, — 
 ]Morrows are not as to-day. 
 
 Stay to-day which wanes too soon. 
 Stay the sun and stay the moon. 
 
 Stay your youth ; 
 Bask you in the actual noon. 
 Rest you in the present truth. 
 
 Let to-day suffice to-day : 
 For itself to-morrow may 
 
 Fetch its loss, 
 Aim and stumble, say its say, 
 
 \Vatch and pray and bear its cross. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
 
 288 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLIV 
 BY AND BY 
 
 Waiting, waiting. 'Tis so far 
 To the day that is to come : 
 
 One by one the days that are 
 All to tell their countless sum ; 
 
 Each to dawn and each to die — 
 
 What so far as by and by ? 
 
 Waiting, waiting. 'Tis not ours, 
 This to-day that flies so fast : 
 
 Let them go, the shadowy hours 
 Floating, floated, into Past. 
 
 Our day wears to-morrow's sky,— 
 
 What so near as by and by ? 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
 CCLV 
 
 MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH 
 
 You promise heavens free from strife. 
 Pure truth, and perfect change of will ; 
 
 But sweet, sweet is this human life, 
 So sweet, I fain would breathe it still : 
 
 Your chilly stars I can forego. 
 
 This warm, kind world is all I know.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 289 
 
 You say there is no substance here, 
 
 One great reahty above : 
 Back from that void I shrink in fear, 
 
 And chi1d-Hke hide myself in love. 
 Show me what angels feel ; till then, 
 I cling, a mere weak man, to men. 
 
 You bid me lift my mean desires 
 From faltering lips and fitful veins 
 
 To sexless souls, ideal quires. 
 
 Unwearied voices, wordless strains ; 
 
 My mind with fonder welcome owns 
 
 One dear dead friend's remembered tones. 
 
 Forsooth the present we must give 
 To that which cannot pass away ; 
 
 All beauteous things for which we live 
 By laws of time and space decay. 
 
 But oh, the very reason why 
 
 I clasp them, is because they die. 
 
 W. CORV, 
 
 CCLVI 
 
 CARPE DIEM 
 
 Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace 
 
 Thy even way. 
 Thou pantest on to win a mournful race : 
 
 Then stay ! oh, stay ! 
 u
 
 290 A TREASURY 
 
 Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain ; 
 
 Loiter, — enjoy : 
 Once past, thou never wilt come back again, 
 
 A second Boy. 
 
 The hills of Manhood wear a noble face, 
 
 When seen from far ; 
 The mist of light from which they take their grace 
 
 Hides what they are. 
 
 The dark and weary path those cliffs between 
 
 Thou canst not know, 
 And how it leads to regions never green, 
 
 Dead fields of snow. 
 
 Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain, 
 
 Which, all too fast. 
 Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain, 
 
 A Man at last. 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 CCLVII 
 
 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I THINK, whatever mortals crave, 
 With impotent endeavour, — 
 
 A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — 
 The world goes round for ever :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 291 
 
 I think that life is not too long ; 
 
 And therefore I determine, 
 That many people read a song 
 
 Who will not read a sermon. 
 
 I think you've looked through many hearts, 
 
 And mused on many actions, 
 And studied iMan's component parts, 
 
 And Nature's compound fractions : 
 I think you've picked up truth by bits 
 
 From foreigner and neighbour ; 
 I think the world has lost its wits. 
 
 And you have lost your labour. 
 
 I think the studies of the wise, 
 
 The Hero's noisy quarrel. 
 The majesty of Woman's eyes, 
 
 The poet's cherished laurel, 
 And all that makes us lean or fat, 
 
 And all that charms and troubles, — 
 This bubble is more bright than that, 
 
 But still they all are bubbles. 
 
 I think the thing you call Renown, 
 
 The unsubstantial vapour, 
 For which the soldier burns a town. 
 
 The sonneteer a taper. 
 Is like the mist which, as he flies, 
 
 The horseman leaves behind him ; 
 He cannot mark its wreaths arise, 
 
 Or if he does they blind him.
 
 292 A TREASURY 
 
 I think one nod of Mistress Chance 
 
 Makes creditors of debtors, 
 And shifts the funeral for the dance, 
 
 The sceptre for the fetters : 
 I think that Fortune's favoured guest 
 
 May live to gnaw the platters, 
 And he that wears the purple vest 
 
 May wear the rags and tatters. 
 
 I think the Tories love to buy 
 
 "Your Lordship"s and "your Grace"s, 
 By loathing common honesty, 
 
 And lauding commonplaces : 
 I think that some are very wise, 
 
 And some are very funny, 
 And some grow rich by telling lies. 
 
 And some by telling money. ! 
 
 I think the Whigs are wicked knaves — ; 
 
 (And very like the Tories) — 
 Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, \ 
 
 And ask the price of glories : \ 
 
 I think that many fret and fume '•' 
 
 At what their friends are planning, : 
 
 And Mr, Hume hates Mr. Brougham J 
 
 As much as Mr. Canning. 
 
 I think that friars and their hoods, 
 Their doctrines and their maggots,
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 293 
 
 Have lighted up too many feuds, 
 
 And far too many faggots. 
 I think, while zealots fast and frown, 
 
 And fight for two or seven, 
 That there are fifty roads to Town, 
 
 And rather more to Heaven, 
 
 I think that Love is like a play, 
 
 Where tears and smiles are blended, 
 Or like a faithless April day, 
 
 Whose shine with shower is ended : 
 Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough, 
 
 Like trade, exposed to losses, 
 And like a Highland plaid, — all stuff, 
 
 And very full of crosses. 
 
 I think the world, though dark it be. 
 
 Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
 Concealed in life's monotony. 
 
 For those who seek the treasure : 
 One planet in a starless night. 
 
 One blossom on a briar, 
 One friend not quite a hypocrite, 
 
 One woman not a liar ! 
 
 I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 
 Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 
 
 And Death looks down with nods and smiles. 
 And makes the odds all even.
 
 294 A TREASURY 
 
 I think some die upon the field, 
 
 And some upon the billow, 
 And some are laid beneath a shield, 
 
 And some beneath a willow. 
 
 I think that very few have sighed 
 When Fate at last has found them, 
 
 Though bitter foes were by their side, 
 And barren moss around them : 
 
 I think that some have died of drought, 
 And some have died of drinking ; 
 
 I think that nought is worth a thought, - 
 
 And I'm a fool for thinking ! 
 
 W. M. PRAED. 
 
 ccLviii ; 
 
 HOPE AND WISDOM | 
 
 'J 
 
 Youth is the virgin nurse of tender Hope, 
 And lifts her up and shows a far-off scene : 
 
 When Care with heavy tread would interlope. 
 They call the boys to shout her from the green 
 
 Ere long another comes, before whose eyes 
 
 Nurseling and nurse alike stand mute and quail : 
 
 Wisdom : to her Hope not one word replies, 
 And Youth lets drop the dear romantic tale. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 295 
 
 CCLIX 
 
 HOPE 
 
 Gate that never wholly closes, 
 
 Opening yet so oft in vain ! 
 Garden full of thorny roses ! 
 
 Roses fall, and thorns remain. 
 
 Wayward lamp, with flickering lustre 
 
 Shining far or shining near, 
 Seldom words of truth revealing, 
 
 Ever showing words of cheer. 
 
 Promise-breaker, yet unfailing ! 
 
 Faithless flatterer ! comrade true ! 
 Only friend, when traitor proven. 
 
 Whom we always trust anew. 
 
 Courtier strange, whom triumph frighteth, 
 Flying far from pleasure's eye, 
 
 Who by sorrow's side alighteth 
 When all else are passing by. 
 
 Syren-singer ! ever chanting 
 
 Ditties new to burdens old ; 
 Precious stone the sages sought for, 
 
 Turning everything to gold !
 
 296 A TREASURY 
 
 True philosopher ! imparting 
 Comfort rich to spirits pained ; 
 
 Chider of proud triumph's madness, 
 Pointing to the unattained ! 
 
 Timid warrior ! Doubt, arising, 
 
 Scares thee with the shghtest breath ; 
 
 Matchless chief! who, fear despising. 
 Tramples on the darts of death ! 
 
 O'er the grave, past Time's pursuing, 
 Far thy flashing glory streams, 
 
 Too unswerving, too resplendent. 
 For a child of idle dreams. 
 
 Still, life's fitful vigil keeping, 
 
 Feed the flame and trim the light : 
 
 Hope's the lamp I'll take for sleeping 
 When I wish the world good-night. 
 
 E. C. JONES. 
 
 CCLX 
 EARTHLY AND HEAVENLY HOPE 
 
 Reflected on the lake I love 
 To see the stars of evening glow. 
 
 So tranquil in the heavens above. 
 So restless in the wave below.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 297 
 
 Thus heavenly hope is all serene, 
 
 But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, 
 
 Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene 
 As false and fleeting as 'tis fair. 
 
 BISHOP HEBER. 
 
 CCLXI 
 
 DREAM PEDLARY 
 
 If there were dreams to sell, 
 
 What would you buy ? 
 Some cost a passing bell, 
 
 Some a light sigh ; 
 That shakes from Life's fresh crown 
 Only a rose-leaf down. 
 If there were dreams to sell 
 Merry and sad to tell, 
 And the crier rang the bell, 
 
 Vv'hich would you buy ? 
 
 A cottage lone and still, 
 
 \Vith bowers nigh, 
 Shadowy, my woes to still 
 
 Until 1 die. 
 Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 
 Fain would I shake me down ; 
 Were dreams to have at will, 
 This would best heal my ill. 
 
 This would I buy. 
 
 T. L. BEDDOES.
 
 298 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXII 
 POPULAR THEOLOGY 
 
 "There is no God," the wicked saith, 
 
 "And truly it's a blessing, 
 For what He might have done with us 
 
 It's better only guessing." 
 
 "There is no God," a youngster thinks, 
 " Or really, if there may be, 
 
 He surely didn't mean a man 
 Always to be a baby." 
 
 " There is no God, or, if there is," 
 The tradesman thinks, " 'twere funny 
 
 If He should take it ill in me 
 To make a little money ! " 
 
 " Whether there be," the rich man says, 
 
 " It matters very little ; 
 For I and mine, thank somebod)'. 
 
 Are not in want of victual." 
 
 Some others, also, to themselves. 
 Who scarce so much as doubt it, 
 
 Think there is none, when they are well. 
 And do not think about it.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR Y 299 
 
 But country folks who live beneath 
 
 The shadow of the steeple ; 
 The parson and the parson's wife, 
 
 And mostly married people ; 
 
 Youths green and happy in first love, 
 
 So thankful for illusion ; 
 And men caught out in what the world 
 
 Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 
 
 And almost every one when age, 
 Disease, or sorrows strike him, 
 
 Inclines to think there is a God, 
 Or something very like Him. 
 
 A. H. CLOUGH. 
 
 CCLXIII 
 
 PRAYER *T0 DIANA 
 
 Since thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree. 
 That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be, 
 Oh ! hear the petition I offer to thee. 
 
 For to bear it must be my endeavour ; 
 From the grief of my friendships, all dropping around, 
 Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found, 
 From the legacy-hunters that near us abound, 
 
 Diana, thy servant deliver !
 
 300 A TREASURY 
 
 From the scorn of the young, or the flouts of the gay, 
 
 From all the trite ridicule tattled away 
 
 By the pert ones who know nothing better to say, 
 
 (Or a spirit to laugh at them give her); 
 From repining at fancied neglected desert, 
 Or vain of a civil speech, bridling alert, 
 From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt, 
 
 Diana, thy servant deliver ! 
 
 From over-solicitous guarding of pelf, 
 
 From humour unchecked, that most pestilent elf. 
 
 From every unsocial attention to self, 
 
 Or ridiculous whim whatsoever : 
 From the vapourish freaks or methodical airs, 
 Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares, 
 From impertinent meddling in others' affairs, 
 
 Diana, thy servant deliver ! 
 
 From the erring attachments of desolate souls, 
 From the love of spadille and of matadore boles. 
 Or of lapdogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls, 
 
 Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever ; 
 But chief from the love of all loveliness flown 
 Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down. 
 On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown, 
 
 Diana, thy servant deliver ! 
 
 From spleen at beholding the young more caressed. 
 From pettish asperity, tartly expressed, 
 From scandal, detraction, and every such pest. 
 From all thy true servant deliver ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY xo\ 
 
 Nor let satisfaction depart from her lot, 
 
 Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not, 
 
 Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot, 
 
 Till fate her slight thread shall dissever ! 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CCLXIV 
 
 PRUDENCE 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 And dinna be sae rude to me, 
 
 As kiss me sae before folk. 
 It wouldna' give me meikle pain, 
 Gin we were seen and heard by nane, 
 To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane : 
 
 But gudesake ! no before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 W'hate'er you do when out o' view, 
 
 Be cautious aye before folk ! 
 
 Consider, lad, how folks will crack, 
 And what a great affair they'll mak' 
 O' naething but a simple smack.
 
 302 A TREASURY 
 
 That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Nor gi'e the tongue o' old and young 
 Occasion to come o'er folk. 
 
 I'm sure wi' you I've been as free 
 As ony modest lass should be ; 
 But yet it doesna' do to see 
 
 Sic freedom used before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 I'll ne'er submit again to it ; 
 
 So mind you that — before folk ! 
 
 Ye tell me that my face is fair : 
 It may be sae — I dinna care — 
 But ne'er again gar't blush so sair 
 
 As ye hae done before folk. 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks. 
 
 But aye be douce before folk ! 
 
 Ye tell me that my lips are sweet : 
 Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit— 
 At ony rate, it's hardly meet
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 303 
 
 To prie their sweets before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 Gin that's the case, there's time and place, 
 But surely no before folk ! 
 
 But gin you really do insist 
 That I should suffer to be kissed, 
 Gae get a license frae the priest, 
 
 And mak' me yours before folk ! 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, — 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk — 
 And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane. 
 
 Ye may tak' ten — before folk ! 
 
 A. RODGER. 
 
 CCLXV 
 A HUMAN SKULL 
 
 A HUMAN skull ! I bought it passing cheap, — 
 Indeed 'twas dearer to its first employer ! 
 
 I thought mortality did well to keep 
 
 Some mute memento of the old destroyer. 
 
 It is a ghostly monitor, and most 
 
 Experienced our wasting sand in summing ; 
 It is a grave domestic finger-post 
 
 That warning points the way to kingdom — coming.
 
 304 A TREASURY 
 
 Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin ; 
 
 Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender ; 
 Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin, 
 
 And never had my doubt about its gender ! 
 
 Did she live yesterday or ages back ? 
 
 What colour were the eyes when bright and waking ? 
 And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black. 
 
 Poor little head ! that long has done with aching ? 
 
 It may have held (to shoot some random shots) 
 Thy brains, Eliza Fry, or Baron Byron's ; 
 
 The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Dr. Watts, — 
 
 Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic syrens ! 
 
 But this I surely knew before I closed 
 
 The bargain on the morning that I bought it ; 
 
 It was not half so bad as some supposed. 
 
 Nor quite as good as many may have thought it. 
 
 Who love, can need no special type of death ; 
 
 Death steals his icy hand where Love reposes. 
 Alas for love, alas for fleeting breath, 
 
 Immortelles bloom with Beauty's bridal roses. 
 
 O, true love mine, what lines of care are these ? 
 
 The heart still lingers with its golden hours, 
 But fading tints are on the chestnut trees. 
 
 And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 305 
 
 The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave, 
 Yet death has promises that call for praises ; 
 
 A very worthless rogue may dig the grave, 
 
 But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies. 
 
 F. L. LAMPSON. 
 
 CCLXVI 
 
 THINK NOT OF THE FUTURE 
 
 Think not of the future, the prospect is uncertain ; 
 
 Laugh away the present, while laughing hours remain : 
 Those who gaze too boldly through Time's mystic 
 curtain 
 
 Soon will wish to close it, and dream of joy again. 
 I, like thee, was happy, and, on hope relying, 
 
 Thought the present pleasure might revive again ; 
 But receive my counsel ! time is always flying, 
 
 Then laugh away the present, while laughing hours 
 remain. 
 
 I have felt unkindness, keen as that which hurts thee ; 
 
 I have met with friendship fickle as the wind ; 
 Take what friendship offers ere its warmth deserts thee ; 
 
 Well I know the kindest may not long be kind. 
 
 X
 
 306 A TREASURY 
 
 Would you waste the pleasure of the summer season, 
 Thinking that the winter must return again ? 
 
 If our summer's fleeting, surely that's a reason 
 
 For laughing off the present, while laughing hours 
 remain. 
 
 T. HAYNES BAYLY. 
 
 CCLXVII 
 A LIFE IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 " Oh ! a Hfe in the country how joyous, 
 
 How ineffably charming it is ; 
 With no ill-mannered crowds to annoy us 
 
 Nor odious neighbours to quiz ! " 
 So murmured the beautiful Harriet 
 
 To the fondly affectionate Brown, 
 As they rolled in the flame-coloured chariot 
 
 From the nasty detestable town : 
 Singing, " Oh, a life in the country how joyous. 
 
 How ineffably charming it is ! " 
 
 " I shall take a portfolio quite full 
 
 Of the sweetest conceivable glees ; 
 And at times manufacture delightful 
 
 Little Odes to the doves on the trees. 
 There'll be dear little stockingless wretches 
 
 In those hats that are so picturesque, 
 Who will make the deliciousest sketches, 
 
 Which I'll place in my Theodore's desk.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 307 
 
 " Then how pleasant to study the habits 
 
 Of the creatures we meet as we roam : 
 And perhaps keep a couple of rabbits, 
 
 Or some fish and a bullfinch at home ! 
 The larks, when the summer has brought 'em. 
 
 Will sing overtures quite like Mozart's, 
 And the black-berries, dear, in the autumn 
 
 Will make the most exquisite tarts. 
 
 " The bells of the sheep will be ringing 
 
 All day amid sweet-scented showers, 
 As we sit by some rivulet singing 
 
 About May and her beautiful bowers. 
 We'll take intellectual rambles 
 
 In those balm-laden evenings of June, 
 And say it reminds one of Campbell's 
 
 (Or somebody's) lines to the moon." 
 
 But these charms began shortly to pall on 
 
 The taste of the gay Mrs. Brown ; 
 She hadn't a body to call on. 
 
 Nor a soul that could make up a gown. 
 She was yearning to see her relations. 
 
 And besides had a troublesome cough ; 
 And in fact she was losing all patience, 
 
 And exclaimed, " We must really be off, 
 Though a life in the country so joyous. 
 
 So ineffably charming it is.
 
 3o8 A TREASURY 
 
 " But this morning I noticed a beetle 
 
 Crawl along on the dining-room floor, 
 If we stay till the summer, the heat '11 
 
 Infallibly bring out some more. 
 Now few have a greater objection 
 
 To beetles than Harriet Brown : 
 And, my dear, I think, on reflection — 
 
 I should like to go back to the town." 
 
 C. S. CALVERLEY. 
 
 CCLXVIII 
 MY CREAM-COLOURED PONIES 
 
 Go order my ponies ; so brilliant a Sunday 
 
 Is certain to summon forth all the elite ; 
 And cits who work six days, and revel but one day, 
 
 Will trudge to the West End from Bishopsgate Street : 
 See ! two lines of carriages almost extending 
 
 The whole way from Grosvenor to Cumberland Gate ; 
 The Duchess has bow'd to me ! how condescending ' 
 
 I came opportunely — I thought I was late. 
 
 I'm certain my ponies, my cream-colour'd ponies. 
 
 Will cause a sensation wherever I go ; 
 My page, in his little green jacket, alone is 
 
 The wonder of all ! Oh, I hope he won't grow !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 309 
 
 How young Sir Charles looks, with his hat so well fitted 
 To show on the left side the curls of his wig ! 
 
 I wonder that yellow post-chaise was admitted ; 
 And there's an enormity — three in a gig ! 
 
 Dear me ! Lady Emily bow'd to me coolly ; 
 
 Oh ! look at that crazy old family-coach ! 
 That cab is a mercantile person's — 'tis truly 
 
 Amazing how those sort of people encroach ! 
 Good gracious ! the pole of that carriage behind us 
 
 Is going to enter my phaeton's back ! 
 Do call to them, Robert 1 Oh ! why won't they mind us ? 
 
 I hear it ! I feel it ! bless me what a crack ! 
 
 Don't glance at the crowd of pedestrians yonder, 
 
 There's vulgar Miss Middleton looking this way. 
 Let's drive down to Kensington Gardens ; I wonder 
 
 We haven't met Stanmore this beautiful day. 
 They've upset the Countess's carriage, how frightful ! 
 
 Do look at Sir David — he'll drive here till dark ; 
 Let's go where the crowd is the thickest ; delightful ! 
 
 My cream-colour'd ponies, the pride of the Park ! 
 
 T. HAYNES BAYLY.
 
 310 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXIX 
 IN THE GLOAMING 
 
 In the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves 
 
 are foaming, 
 And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to 
 
 their feet ; 
 Where the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an 
 
 endeavour 
 To discover — but whatever were the hour, it would be 
 
 sweet. 
 
 " To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably 
 
 teaches 
 That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly 
 
 tails, 
 Nor have homes among the corals ; but are shod with 
 
 neat balmorals, 
 An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might 
 
 with scales. 
 
 Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some 
 
 young lady, 
 Lalage, Nesera, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann : 
 Love, you dear delusive dream you ! Very sweet your 
 
 victims deem you, 
 When heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff 
 
 one can.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 311 
 
 Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the 
 
 glover. 
 Having managed to discover what is dear Necera's 
 
 " size," 
 P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift 
 
 you tender, 
 And to read you're no offender in those laughing hazel 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Then to hear her call you " Harry," when she makes 
 
 you fetch and carry — 
 O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is I 
 To be photographed — together — cased in pretty Russia 
 
 leather — 
 Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your 
 
 honest phiz ! 
 
 Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring — a rich 
 
 and rare one — 
 Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things 
 
 beside ; 
 And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would 
 
 bore her 
 To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her 
 
 bride ! 
 
 Then, the days of courtship over, with your wife to 
 
 start for Dover 
 Or Dieppe — and live in clover evermore, whate'er 
 
 befalls :
 
 312 A TREASURY 
 
 For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls 
 
 that grovel, 
 Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls : 
 
 To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a 
 
 plover's 
 Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally 
 
 Lunn, 
 Or dissects the lucky pheasant — that, I think, were 
 
 passing pleasant ; 
 As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun. 
 
 C. S. CALVERLEY. 
 
 CCLXX 
 
 THE EPICUREAN 
 
 Upon an everlasting tide 
 
 Into the silent seas we go ; 
 But verdure laughs along the side, 
 
 And on the margin roses blow. 
 
 Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold, 
 Rate thou above their natural height ; 
 
 Yet learn that all our eyes behold. 
 Has value, if we mete it right.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 j'j 
 
 Pluck then the flowers that line the stream, 
 Instead of fighting with its power ; 
 
 But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem 
 That they will bloom beyond their hour. 
 
 Whate'er betides, from day to day, 
 
 An even pulse and spirit keep ; 
 And like a child, worn out with play, 
 
 When wearied with existence, sleep. 
 
 SIR F. DOYLE. 
 
 CCLXXI 
 
 QUA CURSUAI VENTUS 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, up sprung the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
 
 314 A TREASURY 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled, 
 And onward each rejoicing steered — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared. 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But O blithe breeze ; and O great seas. 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 A. H. CLOUGH. 
 
 CCLXXII 
 
 HYMN TO FREEDOM 
 
 O Freedom ! who can tell thy worth. 
 Thou sent of Heaven to suffering earth ! 
 Save him that hath thee in his lot ; 
 And him who seeks, but finds thee not ?
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 3 1 5 
 
 Thou art the chain, from Heaven suspended, 
 By which great Truth to earth descended : 
 Thou art the one selected shrine 
 Whereon the fires of Virtue shine. 
 
 At thy approach, the startled mind 
 Quakes, as before some stirring wind, 
 And with glad pain, sets wide her door 
 To the celestial visitor. 
 
 And chased before thy presence pure 
 Fly sinful creeds, and fears obscure ; 
 And flowers of hope before thee bloom, 
 And new-born wisdom spreads its plume. 
 
 Blithe fancies, morning birds that sing 
 Around the soul's awakening ; 
 Firm faith is thine, and darings high, 
 And frank and fearless purity. 
 
 Before thy throne, a various band, 
 Of many an age, and class, and land, 
 Now waiting in the world's great hour, 
 We kneel for comfort and for power. 
 
 Our wills, O Freedom, are thy own, 
 Our trust is in thy might alone ; 
 But we are scatter'd far apart. 
 Feeble, and few, and faint of heart.
 
 3l6 A TREASURY 
 
 Look on us, Goddess ! smile away 
 Low-minded hopes, and weak dismay ; 
 That our exorcised souls may be 
 A living mansion, worthy thee. 
 
 Against thee league the powers of wrong, 
 The bigot's sword, the slanderer's tongue ; 
 And thy worse foe, the seeming wise, 
 Veiling his hate in friendship's guise. 
 
 But weak to thee the might of earth, 
 For thou art of ethereal birth ; 
 And they that love shall find thee still. 
 Despite blind wrath, and evil will. 
 
 In vain before thine altars crowd 
 The light, the sensual, and the proud : 
 The meek of mind, the pure of heart, 
 Alone shall see thee as thou art. 
 
 Sustain'd by thee, untired we go 
 
 Through doubt and fear, through care and woe ; 
 
 O'er rough and smooth we toil along. 
 
 Led by thy far and lovely song. 
 
 We will not shrink, we will not flee. 
 Though bitter tears have flow'd for thee, 
 And bitter tears are yet to flow ; 
 Be thou but ours, come bliss, come woe !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 317 
 
 Awake, O Queen ! — we call thee not 
 From favour'd land, or hallow'd spot ; 
 Where'er man Ufts to heaven his brow, 
 Where love and right are, there art thou. 
 
 Awake, O Queen ! put forth that might 
 Wherewith thou warrest for the right ; 
 Speed on, speed on the conquering hour, 
 Spirit of light, and love, and power ! 
 
 By baffled hopes, by wrong, by scorn, 
 By all that man hath done or borne. 
 Oh come ! let fear and falsehood flee. 
 And earth, at length, find rest in thee ! 
 
 \V. S. WALKER. 
 
 CCLXXIII 
 
 FLOWERS W^ITHOUT FRUIT 
 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control 
 That o'er thee swell and throng ; 
 
 They will condense within thy soul, 
 And change to purpose strong. 
 
 But he who lets his feelings run 
 
 In soft luxurious flow, 
 Shrinks when hard service must be done, 
 
 And faints at every woe.
 
 3i8 A TREASURY 
 
 Faith's meanest deed more favour bears, 
 Where hearts and wills are weigh'd, 
 
 Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, 
 AVhich bloom their hour and fade. 
 
 CARDINAL NEWMAN. 
 
 CCLXXIV 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE SIRENS 
 
 Cease, Stranger, cease those piercing notes, 
 
 The craft of Siren choirs ; 
 Hush the seductive voice, that floats 
 
 Upon the languid wires. 
 
 Music's ethereal fire was given. 
 
 Not to dissolve our clay, 
 But draw Promethean beams from Heaven, 
 
 And purge the dross away. 
 
 Weak self ! with thee the mischief lies. 
 
 Those throbs a tale disclose ; 
 Nor age nor trial has made wise 
 
 The Man of many woes. 
 
 CARDINAL NEWMAN.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POE TRY 319 
 
 CCLXXV 
 THE WORLD'S AGE 
 
 Who will say the world is dying ? 
 
 Who will say our prime is past ? 
 Sparks from Heaven, within us lying, 
 
 Flash, and will flash till the last. 
 Fools ! who fancy Christ mistaken ; 
 
 Man a tool to buy and sell ; 
 Earth a failure, God-forsaken, 
 
 Ante-room of Hell. 
 
 Still the race of Hero-spirits 
 
 Pass the lamp from hand to hand ; 
 Age from age the Words inherits — 
 " Wife, and Child, and Fatherland." 
 Still the youthful hunter gathers 
 
 Fiery joy from wold and wood ; 
 He will dare as dared his fathers 
 
 Give him cause as good. 
 
 While a slave bewails his fetters ; 
 
 While an orphan pleads in vain ; 
 While an infant lisps his letters, 
 
 Heir of all the age's gain ;
 
 320 A TREASURY 
 
 While a lip grows ripe for kissing ; 
 
 While a moan from man is wrung ; 
 Know, by every want and blessing, 
 
 That the world is young. 
 
 C. KINGSLEY. 
 
 CCLXXVI 
 
 THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 
 
 Last nighty among his fellow-roughs 
 
 He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
 A drunken private of the Buffs, 
 
 Who never looked before. 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place. 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown. 
 
 And type of all her race. 
 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 
 
 Bewildered and alone, 
 A heart, with English instinct fraught. 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 
 
 Bring cord, or axe, or flame. 
 He only knows, that not through him 
 
 Shall England come to shame.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 321 
 
 For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd, 
 
 Like dreams, to come and go ; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 
 
 One sheet of living snow ; 
 The smoke, above his father's door, 
 
 In gray soft eddyings hung ; 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doom'd by himself, so young ? 
 
 Yes, honour calls ! with strength like steel 
 
 He puts the vision by. 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel. 
 
 An English lad must die. 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink. 
 
 With knee to man unbent, 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink. 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 
 Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; 
 
 Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
 Unless proud England keep, untamed, 
 
 The strong heart of her sons. 
 So let his name through Europe ring — 
 
 A man of mean estate. 
 Who died, as firm as Sparta's king. 
 
 Because his soul was great. 
 
 SIR F. DOYLK
 
 322 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXVII 
 SIR SEVILLE 
 
 Arise ! and away ! for the King and the land ; 
 
 Farewell to the couch and the pillow : 
 With spear in the rest, and with rein in the hand, 
 
 Let us rush on the foe like a billow. 
 
 Call the hind from the plough, and the herd from the 
 fold, 
 
 Bid the wassailer cease from his revel : 
 And ride for old Stowe, where the banner's unrolled. 
 
 For the cause of King Charles and Sir Beville. 
 
 Trevanion is up, and Godolphin is nigh, 
 
 And Harris of Hayne's o'er the river, 
 From Lundy to Looe, " One and all " is the cry, 
 
 And the King and Sir Beville for ever. 
 
 Aye ! by Tre, Pol, and Pen, ye may know Cornish men, 
 'Mid the names and the nobles of Devon ; — 
 
 But if truth to the King be a signal, why then 
 Ye can find out the Grenville in heaven. 
 
 Ride ! ride ! with red spur, there is death in delay, 
 
 'Tis a race for dear life with the devil ; 
 If dark Cromwell prevail, and the King must give way. 
 
 This earth is no place for Sir Beville.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR V 323 
 
 So with Stamford he fought, and at Lansdown he fell, 
 But vain were the visions he cherished ; 
 
 For the great Cornish heart, that the King loved so well, 
 In the grave of the Grenville it perished. 
 
 R. S. HAWKER. 
 
 CCLXXVIII 
 HALBERT THE GRIM 
 
 There is blood on that brow, 
 There is blood on that hand ; 
 
 There is blood on that hauberk, 
 And blood on that brand. 
 
 Oh ! bloody all o'er is 
 His war-cloak, I weet ; 
 
 He is wrapped in the cover 
 Of murder's red sheet. 
 
 There is pity in man- 
 Is there any in him ? 
 
 No ! ruth were a strange guest 
 To Halbert the Grim. 
 
 The hardest may soften, 
 
 The fiercest repent ; 
 But the heart of Grim Halbert 
 
 May never relent.
 
 324 A TREASURY 
 
 Death doing on earth is 
 
 For ever his cry ; 
 And pillage and plunder 
 
 His hope in the sky ! 
 
 'Tis midnight, deep midnight, 
 
 And dark is the heaven ; 
 Sir Halbert, in mockery. 
 
 Wends to be shriven. 
 
 He kneels not to stone, 
 
 And he bends not to wood ; 
 
 But he swung round his brown blade, 
 And hewed down the Rood ! 
 
 He stuck his long sword, with 
 
 Its point in the earth ; 
 And he prayed to its cross hilt, 
 
 In mockery and mirth. 
 
 Thus lowly he louteth. 
 
 And mumbles his beads ; 
 Then lightly he riseth, 
 
 And homeward he speeds. 
 
 His steed hurries homewards, 
 
 Darkling and dim ; 
 Right fearful it prances. 
 
 With Halbert the Grim.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 325 
 
 Still fiercer it tramples, 
 The spur gores its side ; 
 
 Now downward and downward 
 Grim Halbert doth ride. 
 
 The brown wood is threaded, 
 The gray flood is past ; 
 
 Yet hoarser and wilder 
 jMoans ever the blast. 
 
 No star lends its taper. 
 
 No moon sheds her glow ; 
 
 For dark is the dull path 
 That Baron must go. 
 
 Though starless the sky, and 
 No moon shines abroad, 
 
 Yet, flashing with fire, all 
 At once gleams the road. 
 
 And his black steed, I trow, 
 
 As it galloped on. 
 With a hot sulphur halo, 
 
 And flame-flash all shone. 
 
 From eye and from nostril, 
 Out gushed the pale flame, 
 
 And from its chafed mouth, the 
 Churn'd fire-froth came.
 
 326 A TREASURY 
 
 They are two ! they are two ! — 
 They are coal-black as night, 
 
 That now staunchly follow 
 That grim Baron's flight. 
 
 In each lull of the wild blast, 
 
 Out breaks their deep yell ; 
 'Tis the slot of the Doomed One, 
 
 These hounds track so well. 
 
 Ho ! downward, still downward, 
 
 Sheer slopeth his way ; 
 No let hath his progress, 
 
 No gate bids him stay. 
 
 No noise had his horse-hoof 
 
 As onward it sped ; 
 But silent it fell, as 
 
 The foot of the dead ! 
 
 Now redder and redder 
 
 Flares far its bright eye. 
 And harsher these dark hounds 
 
 Yell out their fierce cry. 
 
 Sheer downward ! right downward ! 
 
 Then dashed life and limb. 
 As careering to hell. 
 
 Sank Halbert the Grim ! 
 
 Orate pro anima ejus. 
 
 W. MOTHERWELL.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 327 
 
 CCLXXIX 
 
 PLAINT 
 
 Dark, deep, and cold the current flows 
 Unto the sea where no wind blows, 
 Seeking the land which no one knows. 
 
 O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes 
 The mingled wail of friends and foes, 
 Borne to the land which no one knows. 
 
 Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes 
 With millions, from a world of woes, 
 Unto the land which no one knows ? 
 
 Though myriads go with him who goes. 
 Alone he goes where no wind blows, 
 Unto the land which no one knows. 
 
 For all must go where no wind blows, 
 And none can go for him who goes ; 
 None, none return whence no one knows. 
 
 Yet why should he who shrieking goes 
 With millions, from a world of woes. 
 Reunion seek with it or those?
 
 328 A TREASURY 
 
 Alone with God, where no wind blows, 
 And Death, his shadow — doom'd, he goes : 
 That God is there the shadow shows. 
 
 Oh, shoreless Deep, where no wind blows ! 
 And, thou, oh Land which no one knows ! 
 That God is all, His shadow shows. 
 
 E. ELLIOTT. 
 
 CCLXXX 
 
 Despair is not for good or wise, 
 
 And should not be for love ; 
 We all must bear our destinies, 
 
 And bend to those above. 
 Birds flying o'er the stormy seas 
 Alight upon their proper trees. 
 Yet wisest men not always know 
 Where they should stop or whither go. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR. 
 
 CCLXXXI 
 THE COMMON LOT 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past. 
 
 There lived a man : — and who was he ? 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast. 
 
 That man resembled thee.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 329 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 
 The land in which he died unknown : 
 
 His name has perished from the earth, 
 This truth survives alone : — 
 
 That joy and grief, and hope, and fear, 
 Alternate triumphed in his breast ; 
 
 His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb. 
 The changing spirits' rise and fall. 
 
 We know that these were felt by him, 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
 He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ; 
 Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; 
 
 And foes, — his foes are dead. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 
 
 Encountered all that troubles thee : 
 He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
 
 He is what thou shalt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 Erewhile his portion, life, and light. 
 For him exist in vain.
 
 330 A TREASURY 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
 That once their shades and glory threw, 
 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race, 
 
 Their ruins, since the world began. 
 Of him afford no other trace 
 
 Than this, — there lived a man ! 
 
 J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 CCLXXXII 
 A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE 
 
 All needful works accomplished and endured, 
 Nearer, and yet more near, my God to Thee ; 
 
 Touch we the things that are, with hand assured, 
 With hand relaxed, the things that seem to be. 
 
 Lest, like the expiration of a breath. 
 
 Which a child breathes and watches on a glass. 
 Our breath of being all absorbed, in Death, 
 
 With all those things that pass away, we pass. 
 
 For where the treasure is the heart, we know. 
 
 Is ; and where the heart is there the life has root ; 
 
 And in what soil soever ye may sow, — 
 
 There, — and there only, may ye seek your fruit.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 331 
 
 And many seeds men sow in many soils, 
 
 Watering the ground about with many tears 
 
 And sweat of brow, who yet from all their toils 
 And sorrows pluck no other fruit than fears. 
 
 For so is man, as one who in a dream 
 
 Of pleasantness would fain see all as sooth ; 
 
 Yet knows the things he sees are things that seem, 
 And dreads the hour of waking into Truth. 
 
 For what is Truth ? The Altar, or the Fire ; 
 
 Blood, or the Life ; the Sabbath, or the Rest ; 
 Words, or the Thought ; the Deed, or the Desire ; 
 
 The expressive symbol, or the thing expressed ? 
 
 Is it the furtive hour on drowsy wing ; — 
 
 Is it the dial whereon the sunbeams play ; — 
 
 That is the Truth? Is Time the real thing? 
 
 Time, — or the shifting sand that marks its way? 
 
 Aspiring to the home from whence it came, 
 The spark of life, lent only and not given. 
 
 Plays o'er the altar-stone of Time in flame, 
 
 Consumes the form, — but clothes the soul for 
 Heaven. 
 
 Wherefore, dear Child, live in the Soul of things. 
 
 There is thy home ; thence is thy place of birth ; 
 So to the parent Sun all flame upsprings ; 
 
 While earthy things but gravitate to earth. 
 
 A. A. WATTS.
 
 332 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXXIII 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right. 
 Pray, if thou canst, with hope ; but ever pray, 
 Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay ; 
 Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 
 
 Far is the time, remote from human sight, 
 When war and discord on the earth shall cease ; 
 Yet every prayer for universal peace 
 Avails the blessed time to expedite. 
 
 Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, 
 Though it be what thou canst not hope to see : 
 Pray to be perfect, though material leaven 
 Forbid the Spirit so on earth to be ; 
 
 But if for any wish thou dar'st not pray, 
 Then pray to God to cast that wish away. 
 
 H. COLERIDGE. 
 
 CCLXXXIV 
 
 DESIDERIUM 
 
 Weary is the life I lead. 
 
 Beating air wdth vain endeavour ; 
 Love is left to weep, to bleed ; 
 
 Those dear eyes are closed for ever 
 
 \
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 333 
 
 Closed for ever and for ever ! 
 Not again shall I behold thee, 
 Not again these arms enfold thee ! 
 Thou art gone for ever ! 
 
 Nothing now is left for mirth ; 
 
 All my dreams were false and hollow ; 
 Thou, alas ! hast left the earth, 
 
 May it soon be mine to follow ! 
 
 Mine to pass the veil and follow ! 
 Eyes of olden hours shall meet me, 
 Lips of olden love shall greet me. 
 In the day I follow. 
 
 p. S. WORSLEY. 
 
 CCLXXXV 
 
 Child of a day, thou knowest not 
 The tears that overflow thine urn, 
 
 The gushing eyes that read thy lot, 
 Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return ! 
 
 And why the wish ! the pure and blest 
 Watch, like thy mother, o'er thy sleep ; 
 
 O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 
 Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR.
 
 334 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXXVI 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the flyers, 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only, 
 
 AVhen daylight comes, comes in the light, 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 
 But westward, look, the land is bright. 
 
 A. H. CLOUGH.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 335 
 
 CCLXXXVII 
 
 A THANKSGIVING 
 
 "We thank Thee, O God of earth and heaven, 
 
 Source and essence of all we know, 
 Thou, who the power to man has given 
 
 Thy life to witness, — Thy life to show. 
 To us it is nothing to call Thee Father, 
 
 Mother, or Brother, or Bride, or Friend ; 
 Manifold motions of Thee ; or rather 
 
 The manifold rays in Thy love that blend. 
 
 Whether we see Thee as sole and single ; — 
 
 Whether as Three on Thy name we call, — 
 Many natures in all things mingle, 
 
 Why not Three, in the source of all ? 
 Whether in form as of Son and Father, 
 
 A dual Being Thou seem'st to bear ; 
 Or whether in nature we see Thee rather, 
 
 Worshipping Godhood everywhere. 
 
 Whether in shape as of outer being 
 
 Fitted for flesh Thy face to see ; 
 Or whether unto us Thy spirit seeing, 
 
 Thy flesh and Thy bones have ceased to be ;
 
 336 A TREASURY 
 
 We bless Thy goodness, that workest to free us, 
 In all these forms Thy spirit to know ; 
 
 What, alas ! were we, should'st Thou only see us 
 In the shapes of our life which to men we show. 
 
 For the motions of life that make up being ; 
 
 For being that blends them all in one ; 
 For thought and emotion — for feeling and seeing 
 
 In the warmth and the light of an inner sun ; 
 For life, with its joys of gaining and giving, . 
 
 For death, which is life in another dress ; — 
 Life, — that is more than merely living, — 
 
 Death, that is more than life, — and less ! 
 
 For joys whereby the warmth is given 
 
 That eases the strain of the Spirit's strife ; 
 For sorrows, that are as the winds of heaven. 
 
 Bracing the nerves of the inner Hfe ; 
 For strife springing forth from the just reaction 
 
 Of forces moving the life within ; 
 For peace, whereto by some subtle paction 
 
 Strife moveth ever, its way to win. 
 
 For Fate, which setteth a bound to being, 
 A limit to knowledge, a law to ill ; 
 
 For faith, — which is as the spirit of seeing, 
 For love, — which is as the soul of will ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 337 
 
 For these, and how many a boon and blessing, 
 From these outpouring in gladsomeness ; 
 
 Thy love, as the spirit of all confessing, 
 Thy Spirit, O Infinite Love ! we bless ! 
 
 A. A. WATTS. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII 
 
 EARLY DEATH 
 
 She pass'd away, like morning dew, 
 
 Before the sun was high ; 
 So brief her time, she scarcely knew 
 
 The meaning of a sigh. 
 
 As round the rose its soft perfume. 
 Sweet love around her floated ; 
 
 Admired she grew — while mortal doom 
 Crept on, unfear'd, unnoted. 
 
 Love was her guardian Angel here. 
 But Love to Death resign'd her ; 
 
 Tho' Love was kind, why should we fear, 
 But holy Death is kinder ? 
 
 H. COLERIDGE. 
 
 z
 
 338 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXXIX 
 
 THE BIRD'S RELEASE 
 
 Go forth, for she is gone ! 
 With the golden light of her wavy hair, 
 She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 
 She hath left her dwelling lone ! 
 
 Go forth, and like her be free ! 
 With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye. 
 Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, 
 And what is our grief to thee ? 
 
 Is it aught e'en to her we mourn ? 
 Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed ? 
 Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head. 
 Or float, on the light wind borne ? 
 
 We know not — but she is gone ! 
 Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, 
 And the smile of her eye from the festal throng ; 
 She hath left her dwelling lone ! 
 
 MRS. HEMANS.
 
 OF MLYOR BRITISH POETRY 339 
 
 CCXC 
 ON A CHILD'S TOMB 
 
 Thine was a blessed flight, 
 Ere sorrow faded and ere sin could slay ! 
 No weary way was thine, no arduous fight, 
 And but an hour on Earth, of labour light. 
 
 With hire for all the day. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CCXCI 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 Forth now through all the sad cold earth 
 
 Our love goes weeping : Time, nor space, nor breath 
 
 Can chain again life's past glad mysteries of birth, 
 
 Abashed before the deeper mystery of death. 
 We cling to Hope with tender child-like fear, 
 And hide within her breast and clasp the truth she saith. 
 That love and lives like thine bring God to man more 
 
 near. 
 Oh, thou wert gentle, true, ethereal, and how dear, 
 A song-fulfilling lark that soared with what pure might 
 To Heaven, — yet built so low her nest earth wets it with 
 
 her tear,
 
 340 A TREASURY 
 
 Ah, who shall shield it now when falls the Night ! 
 Strong lover of the true — for ever may the light 
 Of thy fair words shine o'er life's troubled shore, 
 And he "who cannot speak man well, be silent evermore." 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CCXCII 
 A DEATH SCENE 
 
 One long look that sore reproved me 
 For the woe I could not bear — 
 
 One mute look of suffering moved me 
 To repent my useless prayer. 
 
 And, with sudden check, the heaving 
 Of distraction passed away ; 
 
 Not a sign of further grieving 
 Stirred my soul that awful day. 
 
 Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting ; 
 
 Sunk to peace the twilight breeze ; 
 Summer dews fell softly, wetting 
 
 Glen, and glade, and silent trees. 
 
 Then his eyes began to weary. 
 
 Weighed beneath a mortal sleep ; 
 
 And their orbs grew strangely dreary, 
 Clouded, e'en as they would weep.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 341 
 
 But they wept not, but they changed not, 
 
 Never moved, and never closed ; 
 Troubled still, and still they ranged not — 
 
 Wandered not, nor yet reposed. 
 
 So I knew that he was dying — 
 
 Stooped, and raised his languid head ; 
 
 Felt no breath, and heard no sighing. 
 So I knew that he was dead. 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. 
 
 CCXCIII 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 
 E'en while with us thy footstep trod. 
 
 His seal was on thy brow. 
 
 Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 
 
 Soul, to its place on high ! — 
 They that have seen thy look in death. 
 
 No more may fear to die. 
 
 MRS. HEMANS.
 
 342 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXCIV 
 
 THE LONG-AGO 
 
 On that deep-retiring shore 
 Frequent pearls of beauty lie, 
 Where the passion-waves of yore 
 Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
 Sorrows that are sorrows still 
 Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
 Nothing's altogether ill 
 In the griefs of Long-ago. 
 
 Tombs where lonely love repines, 
 Ghastly tenements of tears, 
 Wear the look of happy shrines 
 Through the golden mist of years : 
 Death, to those who trust in good, 
 Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
 Oh ! we would not, if we could 
 Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 
 
 Though the doom of swift decay 
 Shocks the soul where life is strong. 
 Though for frailer hearts the day 
 Lingers sad and overlong, —
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 343 
 
 Still the weight will find a leaven, 
 Still the spoiler's hand is slow, 
 While the Future has its Heaven, 
 And the Past its Long-ago. 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 CCXCV 
 
 THE VISIONARY 
 
 When midnight o'er the moonless skies 
 Her pall of transient death has spread, 
 
 AVhen mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
 And nought is wakeful but the dead ! 
 
 No bloodless shape my way pursues, 
 No sheeted ghost my couch annoys. 
 
 Visions more sad my fancy views. 
 Visions of long departed joys 1 
 
 The shade of youthful Hope is there. 
 That linger'd long, and latest died ; 
 
 Ambition all dissolved to air. 
 
 With phantom honours at her side. 
 
 ^Vhat empty shadows glimmer nigh ! 
 
 They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love ! 
 Oh, die to thought, to memory die, 
 
 Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! 
 
 W. R. SPENXER.
 
 344 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXCVI 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Gentle mourner, fondly dreaming 
 O'er the grave of buried years, 
 
 Where the cold pale stars are gleaming 
 Far along this vale of tears ; — 
 
 Fond enthusiast, wildly gazing 
 
 From the towers of childhood's home, 
 On the visioned beacon's blazing 
 
 Bright o'er ocean's sun-flushed foam ;— 
 
 Hope's false mirage hides the morrow, 
 Memory gilds the days gone by ; 
 
 Give not thy young life to sorrow, 
 Trust not joys that bloom to die. 
 
 Fiercest throbs the pulse of gladness. 
 
 Heralding a darker day ; 
 Sweetest spring from thoughts of sadness 
 
 Eden flowers that ne'er decay. 
 
 Here, of mirth and anguish blended, 
 Joys are born that cannot cloy, 
 
 Ending — not till life is ended — 
 In the painless endless joy. 
 
 H. N. OXENHAM.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 345 
 
 CCXCVII 
 
 DEPARTED JOYS 
 
 Amongst the thunder-splintered caves, 
 On ocean's long and windy shore, 
 
 I catch the voice of dying waves 
 Below the ridges old and hoar ; 
 
 The spray descends in silver showers. 
 And lovely whispers come and go, 
 
 Like echoes from the happy hours 
 I never more may hope to know ! 
 
 The moonlight dreams upon the sail 
 That drives the restless ship to sea ; 
 
 The clouds troop past the mountain vale, 
 And sink like spirits down the lee ; 
 
 Why comes thy voice, thou lonely One, 
 Along the wild harp's wailing strings ? 
 
 Have not our hours of meeting gone. 
 Like fading dreams on phantom wings ? 
 
 Are not the grasses round thy grave 
 
 Yet springing green and fresh to view ? 
 
 And does the gleam on Ocean's wave 
 Tide gladness now to me and you ? 
 
 11. C. KENDALL.
 
 346 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXCVIII 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 The pledge we wore I wear it still, 
 
 But where is thine ? Oh ! where art thou ? 
 
 Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
 
 But never bent beneath till now. 
 
 Well has thou left, in silent gloom. 
 The cup of woe for me to drain ; 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 I would not wish thee here again. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 CCXCIX 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RING 
 
 The ring so worn, as you behold, 
 So thin, so pale, is yet of gold ; 
 
 The passion such it was to prove, — 
 
 Worn with life's care, love yet was love. 
 
 G. CRABEE.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 347 
 
 ccc 
 
 THE FUNERAL FEAST 
 
 Oh think not that \vith garlands crown'd 
 Inhuman near thy grave we tread, 
 
 Or blushing roses scatter round, 
 To mock the paleness of the dead. 
 
 What though we drain the fragrant bowl 
 In flowers adorn'd, and silken vest ; 
 
 Oh think not, brave departed soul. 
 We revel to disturb thy rest. 
 
 Feign'd is the pleasure that appears, 
 And false the triumph of our eyes ; 
 
 Our draughts of joy are dash'd with tears, 
 Our songs imperfect end in sighs. 
 
 We only mourn ; o'er flowery plains 
 To roam in joyous trance is thine ; 
 
 And pleasures unallied to pains, 
 Unfading sweets, immortal wine. 
 
 K. BLAND.
 
 348 A TREASURY 
 
 CCCI 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Naiad, hid beneath the bank, 
 By the willowy river-side, 
 
 Where Narcissus gently sank, 
 Where unmarried Echo died. 
 
 Unto thy serene repose 
 
 Waft the stricken Anteros. 
 
 Where the tranquil swan is borne. 
 Imaged in a watery glass, 
 
 Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn 
 Stoop to catch the boats that pass. 
 
 Where the earliest orchid grows, 
 
 Bury thou fair Anteros. 
 
 Glide we by, with prow and oar : 
 Ripple shadows off the wave. 
 
 And, reflected on the shore. 
 Haply play about the grave. 
 
 Folds of summer-light enclose 
 
 All that once was Anteros. 
 
 On a flickering wave we gaze, 
 Not upon his answering eyes :
 
 OF MIiVOR BRITISH POETR Y 349 
 
 Flower and bird we scarce can praise, 
 
 Having lost his sweet replies : 
 Cold and mute the river flows 
 With our tears for Anteros. 
 
 W. CORY. 
 
 CCCII 
 
 SONG 
 
 Oh ! never, no, never, 
 
 Thou 'It meet me again ! 
 Thy spirit for ever 
 
 Has burst from its chain ; 
 The links thou has broken 
 
 Are all that remain, 
 For never, oh ! never, 
 
 Thou 'It meet me again. 
 
 Like the sound of the viol, 
 
 That dies on the blast ; 
 Like the shade on the dial. 
 
 Thy spirit has pass'd. 
 The breezes blow round me, 
 
 But give back no strain ; 
 The shade on the dial 
 
 Returns not again. 
 
 Where roses enshrined thee. 
 In light trcllis'd shade,
 
 550 A TREASURY 
 
 Still hoping to find thee, 
 How oft have I strayed ! 
 
 Thy desolate dwelling 
 I traverse in vain ; — 
 
 The stillness has whisper'd 
 Thou 'It ne'er come again. 
 
 CAROLINE OLIPHANT. 
 
 CCCIII 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Thou wert the first of all I knew 
 
 To pass unto the dead, 
 And Paradise hath seemed more true, 
 And come down closer to my view, 
 
 Since there thy presence fled. 
 
 The whispers of thy gentle soul 
 
 At silent lonely hours. 
 Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll. 
 Come o'er the waters as they roll. 
 
 Betwixt thy world and ours. 
 
 Oh ! still my spirit clings to thee, 
 
 And feels thee at my side ; 
 Like a green ivy, when the tree, 
 Its shoots had clasped so lovingly. 
 Within its arms hath died :
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 351 
 
 And ever round that lifeless thing 
 
 Where first their clusters grew, 
 Close as while yet it lived they cling, 
 And shrine it in a second spring 
 
 Of lustre dark and new. 
 
 T. WHYTEHEAD. 
 
 CCCIV 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL 
 
 Oh ! cold and drear my heart has grown 
 Since that sweet soul of thine is flown : 
 Like the warm ivy to the tree. 
 Wast thou, my darling child, to me. 
 
 And close as those green tendrils twine, 
 Thy gentle spirit clung to mine ; 
 Dismantled now and lone it grows. 
 And bare to every wind that blows. 
 
 To the cold world I turned, to rest 
 On its false lap my bleeding breast. 
 But eyes that weep, and hearts that care 
 For others' woes, I found not there.
 
 352 A TREASURY 
 
 I turned to home, but every spot 
 Tells me, sweet child, that thou art not ; 
 And she, my soother once, and thine, 
 Her tear-wet cheek is pale as mine. 
 
 I turned to Heaven my anguished look. 
 Remembered last, though first forsook ; 
 And angels whisper in my ear, 
 " Thy child, thy Saviour, all are here." 
 
 T. WHYTEHEAD. 
 
 cccv 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee, 
 Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
 Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee. 
 Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 
 
 Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
 Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 
 Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover 
 Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ? 
 
 Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers, 
 From those brown hills, have melted into Spring ; 
 Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
 After such years of change and suffering !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 353 
 
 Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
 While the world's tide is bearing me along , 
 Other desires and other hopes beset me, 
 Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! 
 
 No later light has lightened up my heaven, 
 No second morn has ever shone for me ; 
 All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
 All my hfe's bliss is in the grave with thee. 
 
 But when the days of golden dreams had perished, 
 And even despair was powerless to destroy ; 
 Then did I learn how existence could be cherished. 
 Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 
 
 Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
 Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ; 
 Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
 Down to that tomb, already more than mine. 
 
 And, even yet, I dare not let it languish. 
 Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ; 
 Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
 How could I seek the empty world again ? 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. 
 
 2 A
 
 354 A TREASURY 
 
 CCCVI 
 
 THE REQUIEM OF YOUTH 
 
 Oh, whither does the spirit flee 
 
 That makes existence seem 
 A day-dream of reality, 
 
 Reahty a dream ? 
 
 We enter on the race of life. 
 
 Like prodigals we live, 
 To learn how much the world exacts 
 
 For all it hath to give. 
 
 The fine gold soon becometh dim, 
 
 We prove its base alloy ; 
 And hearts, enamoured once of bliss, 
 
 Ask peace instead of joy. 
 
 Spectres dilate on every hand, 
 
 That seemed but tiny elves ; 
 We learn mistrust of all, when most 
 
 We should suspect ourselves. 
 
 But why lament the common lot 
 
 That all must share so soon ; 
 Since shadows lengthen with the day. 
 
 That scarce exist at noon. 
 
 MRS. ALARIC A. WATTS.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 355 
 
 CCCVII 
 
 MELIORA LATENT 
 
 Naught can cheer the dark existence 
 Which we may not fly from yet 3 
 
 But with Fate's severe assistance, 
 Though we live, we may forget 
 
 For while woe is broad and patent. 
 Filling, clouding all the sight. 
 
 Ever vieliora latent, 
 
 And a dawn will end the night. 
 
 Meliora latent ever ; 
 
 Better than the seen lies hid ; 
 Time the curtain's dusk will sever. 
 
 And will raise the casket's lid. 
 
 This our hope for all that's mortal, 
 And we too shall burst our bond ; 
 
 Death keeps watch beside the portal, 
 But 'tis Life that dwells beyond. 
 
 Still the final hour befriends us, 
 Nature's direst though it be ; 
 
 And the fiercest pang that rends us. 
 Does its worst — and sets us free.
 
 356 A TREASURY 
 
 Then from earth's immediate sorrow 
 Toward the skyey future turn ; 
 
 And from its unseen to-morrow, 
 Fill to-day's exhausted urn. 
 
 J. STERLING. 
 
 CCCVIII 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptred race, 
 
 Ah what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 W. S. LANDOR. 
 
 CCCIX 
 A RETROSPECT 
 
 Yes, I behold again the place, 
 
 The seat of joy, the source of pain ; 
 
 It brings in view the form and face 
 That I must never see again.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 357 
 
 The night-bird's song that sweetly floats 
 On this soft gloom — this balmy air, 
 
 Brings to the mind her sweeter notes 
 That I again must never hear. 
 
 Lo ! yonder shines that window's light, 
 
 ^ly guide, my token, heretofore ; 
 And now again it shines as bright, 
 
 '\^'hen those dear eyes can shine no more. 
 
 Then hurry from this place away ! 
 
 It gives not now the bliss it gave ; 
 For Death has made its charm his prey. 
 
 And joy is buried in her grave. 
 
 G. CRABBE. 
 
 cccx 
 DESPAIR 
 
 There is a winter in my soul, 
 
 A winter of despair : 
 Oh when will spring its rage control ? 
 
 When shall the snowdrop blossom there ? 
 Cold gleams of comfort sometimes dart 
 
 A dawn of glory on my heart, 
 But quickly pass away. 
 Thus Northern Lights the gloom adorn. 
 
 And give the promise of a dawn 
 That never turns to day. 
 
 ANON.
 
 358 A TREASURY 
 
 CCCXI 
 
 DIRCE 
 
 Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 
 With Dirce in one boat convey'd, 
 
 Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
 That he is old, and she a shade. 
 
 Love ran with me, then walk'd, then sate, 
 Then said, Come ! come ! it grows too late : 
 And then he would have gone, but — no — 
 You caught his eye ; he could not go, 
 
 W. S. LANDOR. 
 
 CCCXII 
 
 DIRGE AT SEA 
 
 Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave, 
 Red with life-blood from the brave, 
 Thou shalt find a noble grave : 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 Sleep ! thy billowy field is won, 
 Proudly may the funeral gun, 
 Midst the hush at set of sun. 
 Boom thy knell !
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 359 
 
 Lonely, lonely is thy bed, 
 Never there may flower be shed. 
 Marble reared, or brother's head 
 Bow'd to weep. 
 
 Yet thy record on the sea, 
 Borne through battle high and free. 
 Long the red-cross flag shall be : 
 Sleep ! oh, sleep ! 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 cccxni 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 Now, between us all and Him, 
 There are rising mountains dim. 
 Forests of uncounted trees, 
 Spaces of unmeasured seas : 
 Think with Him how gay of yore 
 We made sunshine out of shade, — 
 Think with Him how light we bore 
 All the burden sorrow laid ; 
 All went happily about Him, — 
 How shall we toil on without Him ?
 
 36o A TREASURY 
 
 How without his cheering eye 
 Constant strength enbreathing ever ? 
 How without Him standing by 
 Aiding every hard endeavour ? 
 For when faintness or disease 
 Had usurped upon our knees, 
 If He deigned our hps to kiss 
 With those hving Hps of his, 
 We were Hghtened of our pain, 
 We were up and hale again : — 
 Now, without one blessing glance 
 From his rose-lit countenance. 
 We shall die deserted men, — 
 And not see Him, even then ! 
 
 We are cold, very cold, — 
 All our blood is drying old, 
 And a terrible heart-dearth 
 Reigns for us in heaven and earth ; 
 Forth we stretch our chilly fingers 
 In poor effort to attain 
 Tepid embers, where still lingers 
 Some preserving warmth, in vain. 
 Oh ! if Love, the Sister dear 
 Of Youth that we have lost. 
 Come not in swift pity here. 
 Come not, with a host 
 Of affections, strong and kind. 
 To hold up our sinking mind.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 361 
 
 If She will not, of her grace, 
 Take her Brother's holy place. 
 And be to us, at least, a part 
 Of what He was, in Life and Heart, 
 The faintness that is on our breath 
 Can have no other end but Death. 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 CCCXIV 
 
 LAST LINES 
 
 No coward soul is mine, 
 No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere 
 
 I see Heaven's glories shine. 
 And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 
 
 O God, within my breast. 
 Almighty, ever present Deity ! 
 
 Life — that in me has rest. 
 As I — undying Life — have power in thee ! 
 
 Vain are the thousand creeds 
 That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; 
 
 Worthless as withered weeds. 
 Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
 
 362 A TREASURY 
 
 To waken doubt in one 
 Holding so fast by thine infinity ; 
 
 So surely anchored on 
 The steadfast rock of immortality. 
 
 With wide-embracing love 
 Thy spirit animates eternal years, 
 
 Pervades and broods above, 
 Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. 
 
 Though earth and man were gone. 
 And suns and universes ceased to be. 
 
 And Thou were left alone. 
 Every existence would exist in Thee. 
 
 There is not room for Death, 
 Nor atom that his might could render void : 
 
 Thou — Thou art Being and Breath, 
 And what Thou art may never be destroyed. 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. 
 
 cccxv 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 Too dearly loved, thy God hath called thee — go, 
 Go, thou best portion of this widow'd heart ; 
 
 And thou, poor remnant lingering here in woe, 
 So learn to follow as no more to part. 
 
 EDWARD, LORD DERBY.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETR Y 363 
 
 CCCXVI 
 HEAVENWARD 
 
 Would you be young again ? 
 
 So would not I — 
 One tear to memory giv'n, 
 
 Onward I'd hie. 
 Life's dark flood forded o'er, 
 All but at rest on shore, 
 Say, would you plunge once more. 
 
 With home so nigh ? 
 
 If you might, would you now 
 
 Retrace your way ? 
 Wander through thorny wilds. 
 
 Faint and astray ? 
 Night's gloomy watches fled, 
 Morning all beaming red, 
 Hope's smiles around us shed, 
 
 Heavenward — away. 
 
 Where are they gone, of yore 
 
 My best delight ? 
 Dear and more dear, tho' now 
 
 Hidden from sight. 
 Where they rejoice to be, 
 There is the land for me ; 
 Fly time — fly speedily. 
 
 Come life and light. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE.
 
 364 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 CCCXVII 
 LEBEWOHL 
 
 With these words, Good-bye, Adieu, 
 
 Take I leave to part from you, 
 
 Leave to go beyond your view. 
 
 Through the haze of that which is to be ; 
 
 Fare thou forth, and wing thy way, 
 
 So our language makes me say. 
 
 Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray 
 
 In the word that is hope's old token. 
 
 II 
 
 Though the fountain cease to play. 
 
 Dew must glitter near the brink ; 
 
 Though the weary mind decay. 
 
 As of old it thought so must it think. 
 
 Leave alone the darkling eyes 
 
 Fixed upon the moving skies. 
 
 Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise. 
 
 To the throb of the faith not spoken. 
 
 W. CORY.
 
 NOTES
 
 BOOK I 
 (1250-1625) 
 
 Tradition assigns to this lively little lyric the honour of 
 being the most ancient song, with or without the musical 
 notes, in the English language. In all probability it was 
 composed as early as 1250. It is preserved in the Harleian 
 MS. No. 978, and was first published in Sir John Hawkins' 
 History of Music. 
 
 II 
 
 This charming little song is from Harleian MS. No. 
 2253, and is printed by Ritson in his Aftcieni Songs and 
 Ballads, vol. i. p. 58 ; it is also printed in Dr. Boddeker^s 
 Altenglische Dichtungen des MS. Harl. 2253, pp. 168-171 ; 
 and his text I adopt. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Printed in Wright's Songs and Carols from Sloane MS. 
 No. 2593 in the British Museum. 
 
 IV 
 
 From Harleian MS. 2253 ; printed by Wright and Ritson, 
 and by Dr. K. Boddeker in his Altenglische Dichtungen 
 des MS. Harl. 2253, p. 195. I give his text. 
 
 V 
 
 From the Egerton MS. No. 613, fol. 2, 20, of the thirteenth 
 century. Printed in Wright's Reliqiua: Aiitiqiuc, vol. i. p. 89.
 
 368 A TREASURY 
 
 VI 
 
 It will be seen that the point of this graceful little poem 
 turns on a pun between the herb "rew" and "rue" or pity. 
 For William Dunbar see next note. 
 
 VII 
 
 William Dunbar, whom Sir Walter Scott pronounced to 
 be " a poet unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever pro- 
 duced," was born some time about 1450 and died probably 
 about 1530. Dunbar's fame has suffered from the obsolete 
 language in which he wrote. There is a strange solemnity 
 and power in many of his pieces. I only give a portion of 
 the poem from which these stanzas are taken. 
 
 VIII 
 
 I have slightly modernised the spelling in this piece, which 
 is to be found among Dunbar's miscellaneous poems. 
 
 IX 
 
 From the Garlande of Laurell. Skelton (1460 ?-i 529) is 
 chiefly known as the author of poems of a very different kind 
 from this, but he had a versatile genius, and if he could revel 
 in graceless ribaldry he could break out, as he does here, 
 into charming song. 
 
 X 
 
 Sephestia's Song to her child in MenapJion. The middle 
 stanza is omitted. 
 
 XI 
 
 From Patieiit Grissell^ a comedy written in conjunction 
 by Haughton, Chattle, and Dekker, 1600. 
 
 XII 
 
 From the Phcsnix Nest, 1593.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 369 
 
 XIII 
 From Astrophd and Stella, the Eleventh Song. 
 
 XIV 
 
 From The Captain. As The Captain was written in 
 conjunction by Beaumont and Fletcher it is impossible to 
 assign this lyric certainly either to the one or to the other. 
 It is the most pathetic in their plays. In the last line the 
 folio reads " day." 
 
 XV 
 
 Printed in Observations on the Art 0/ English Poetry, 
 attributed to George Puttenham. 
 
 XVI 
 
 This has been attributed to Donne, but certainly belongs 
 to Campion. For Campion see note on xliv. 
 
 XVII 
 From Britannia's Pastorals, the Third Song. 
 
 XVIII 
 From Blurt, Master Constable : or the Spaniard's Night 
 Walke, 1602. Owe = possess "Phoebe here" etc.; this is 
 somewhat awkwardly expressed, and Dyce proposes to read 
 " Did Phoebe here one night lie," thus ruining the rhythm, 
 but making the sense clear. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Lady Mary Wroth, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated the 
 Alclumist, was the daughter of Robert, second Earl of 
 Leicester, a younger brother of Sir Philip Sidney, and the 
 wife of Sir Robert Wroth of Durant. The extract given 
 is from her romance Urania, an imitation of her uncle's 
 Arcadia, published in 1621. 
 
 XXI 
 
 From Rossiter's Consort Lessons, 1609. Chappell's Old 
 English Popular Music, vol. i. p. 148. 
 
 2 U
 
 370 A TREASURY 
 
 XXII 
 From Wilbye's Second Set of Madrigalesl 
 
 XXIII 
 
 From Robert Jones's The Muses' Garden of Delights — re 
 printed in Beloes' Literary Anecdotes, vol. vi. p. i68, and by 
 Mr. Bullen in his Lyrics from the Elizabethan Song-Books. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 From Menapho7i. 
 
 XXV 
 
 From England s Helicon, where it is signed, like several 
 other pieces in the same collection, " Shepheard Tonie." Sir 
 Egerton Brydges, in his Introduction to his reprint of Eng- 
 lands Helicon, conjectures that it might be a signature 
 assumed by Anthony Munday. Munday's voluminous and 
 varied writings show that he was certainly a very versatile 
 genius, but nothing equal to this lyric, or to some of the others 
 under this signature, is to be found in his acknowledged 
 writings. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 In an old MS. formerly belonging to Sir John Cotton of 
 Stratton in Huntingdonshire. This poem is attributed to 
 Dr. Donne, among whose poems it is commonly printed. 
 See Dr. Grosart's note in his edition of Donne's Poems, vol. 
 ii. pp. 238, 239. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 This poem is generally attributed to Raleigh. In the 
 Phoenix Nest it appears without any signature, and in 
 England s Helicon, where it is printed as a dialogue between 
 Meliboeus and Faustus, it is signed Ignoto. In a MS. Hst of 
 Francis Davison's it is assigned to Raleigh. The "sauncing," 
 or " saunce " bell, is said to be the small bell which is rung 
 when the clergyman enters the church, and also at funerals.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 371 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 First printed under the title of the Ploughman's Song in 
 The Honourable Entertainment given to the Queen'' s Majesty 
 in Progress at Elvctham in Hampshire by the Right Honottr- 
 able the Earl of Hertford, 1591, and afterwards in England's 
 Helicon. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 From The Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 XXX 
 
 From The Fair Maid of the Exchange. I have excised 
 one stanza. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 From The Faithful Shepherdess. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 From Valentinian. A mazer is a bowl or goblet. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 From England s Helicon. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 This charming lyric is from Captain Tobias Hume's First 
 Part of Airs — French, Polish and others— together published 
 in 1605. We owe its recovery to Mr. A. H. Bullen, who has 
 printed it in his Lyrics from the Song-Books of the Eliza- 
 bethan Age. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 From Davison's Poetical Rhapsody. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 From Engla?ids Helicon, where it appears as one of three 
 poems taken from John Dowland's Boole of Tablature for the 
 Lute. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 From A Handefull fo Pleasatit Dclites, c\.c., 1584. The
 
 372 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 initials appended to this quaint poem are T. P. ; who he was, 
 I know not. I have shortened it by omitting three stanzas. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 From the Arcadia. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 From the Two Noble Kinsmen. As this play was written 
 after Beaumont's death, this lyric maybe assigned to Fletcher ; 
 it is hardly likely that it belongs to Shakespeare, who is 
 supposed to have assisted in the composition of the play. 
 
 XL 
 
 From Lodge's novel, Rosalynde : or Euphues' Golden 
 Legacy. 
 
 XLI 
 
 From Eftgland's Helicon. Constable is one of the most 
 charming and musical of the Elizabethan Lyrists. Born 
 about 1555, he passed much of his life in exile, as he was a 
 Roman Catholic. Beside contributing four beautiful lyrics 
 to England''s Helicon, he was the author of a collection of 
 sonnets entitled Diatia, and also of some religious sonnets. 
 The date of his death is uncertain. 
 
 From The Captain. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 XLIV 
 
 From Philip Rosseter's Booke of Ay res, 1601. Little more 
 is known of Thomas Campion, one of the most charming of 
 Elizabethan lyric poets, than that he studied at Cambridge, 
 belonged at one time to the society of Gray's Inn but subse- 
 quently became a physician and practised in London, dying 
 in the spring of 1619-20. His poems have been collected 
 and edited by Mr. A. H. Bullen, who may be said to have 
 been the first to introduce him to modern readers. To the
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 373 
 
 first couplet of the last stanza there is a curious parallel in 
 Shakespeare's 2 Henry IV. 11. 2, "Well thus we play the 
 fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the 
 clouds and mock us." 
 
 XLV 
 
 The Petrarch of the North is flir inferior to his master and 
 model in sweetness, in grace, and in exquisite felicity of ex- 
 pression, but he is his rival in other respects. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 From Astrophcl and Stella, sonnet ex, one of the noblest 
 sonnets in our language. More than one passage in this sonnet 
 shows that it found response in Shakespeare. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Though this beautiful lyric is somewhat hackneyed I could 
 not omit it. It is from the Comedy oi Patient Grissell, written 
 in conjunction by Dekker, Chettle, and Haughton. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 This poem was no doubt suggested by Martial, Epigram xc. 
 book ii. Mean = moderate, and sleeps probably = somnia, 
 dreams. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 From the Reliquiae Wottonianae. I give Dr. Hannah's 
 text. Ben Jonson was so fond of these verses that he tran- 
 scribed them with his own hands and had them by heart. 
 See his Conversations with Drtnntnond and Gifford's note. 
 Jonson seems to have transcribed them from memory. 
 
 L 
 
 From Old Damon's Pastoral in England's Helicon.
 
 374 ^ TREASURY 
 
 LI 
 
 From the Reliquiae Wottonianae. Dr. Hannah gives as 
 the title of this poem " Upon the Sudden Restraint of the 
 Earl of Somerset then falling from favour." It probably has 
 reference to the fall of Somerset in 1615, but Park supposes, 
 though on no good grounds, that it has reference to Bacon. 
 
 LII 
 
 The ordinary reading in the second line is "will serve 
 Thee." I restore the rhyme. 
 
 LIII 
 
 From his Elegy on Sir Philip Sidney, printed in Todd's 
 Spenser, vol. vi. pp. 82-96. 
 
 LV 
 
 From the Paradise of Dainty Devices. Appended to it are 
 the initials M. T., which Percy who reprints it in his Reliques 
 thinks may be the reversed initials of Thomas Marshall, 
 whose initials are attached to another poem in the collection. 
 
 LVI 
 
 The author of this powerful poem, which was first printed 
 in 1608 in the second edition of Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, 
 cannot be ascertained with certainty. It has been commonly 
 attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh, and is included by Birch in 
 his edition of Raleigh's Works, and by Sir Egerton Brydges 
 in his edition of Raleigh's Poems. It is attributed to Raleigh 
 in a MS. poem in the Chetham Library at Manchester (8012, 
 p. 107) undoubtedly written while Raleigh was still alive, and 
 among the Ashmolean ]\ISS. at Oxford are two poems, one 
 purporting to be an answer to it, and the other a defence ot 
 it by Raleigh himself The defence was probably not by 
 Raleigh, but it is plain that the writer had no doubt that 
 Raleigh was the author of the original poem. The pre- 
 sumptive evidence therefore in favour of Raleigh is strong. 
 It has been assigned to Lord Essex, to Francis Davison, to Sir 
 Edward Dyer, to Joshua Sylvester and to others, but on utterly
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 375 
 
 unsatisfactor)' grounds. For a full discussion of the question 
 see Dr. Hannah's admirable edition of Poctns by Sir Henry 
 IVotion, Sir Walter Raleigh^ and ethers, pp. 188-199. 
 
 LVIII 
 From Divine Meditations and Elegies, 1622. The pathos 
 and beauty of this lyric far outweigh its imperfect rhymes and 
 the singular grammatical solecism in the first stanza. Of its 
 author nothing more is known than that he belonged to a 
 good family, was baptized in February 1585, and that he is 
 probably to be identified with Captain John Hagthorpe, who 
 was serving in the navy between April and September 1626. 
 
 LIX 
 
 From Spectacles, 25, 27. Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618) is 
 one of the few Elizabethan poets who deserves more atten- 
 tion than he has received from modem students. 
 
 LX 
 From Nosce Te-ipsuin, a poem on the Immortality of the 
 Soul, first published in 1599 ; one of the most eloquent and 
 powerful philosophic poems in our language. 
 
 LXI 
 
 From Flowers of Zion. 
 
 LXII 
 
 From the History of Women, book iv. It is an epitaph 
 on Ethelburga, Queen of the West Saxons. 
 
 LXI 1 1 
 From the Maids Tragedy. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 From Spectacles, 10, 11. 
 
 LXV 
 
 William Alexander (1580- 1640) created in June 1633 Earl 
 of Stirling, was the author of a long and dreary poem on the 
 Day of Judgment, some miscellaneous poems, and of four 
 Monarchicke Tragedies: Crcesus, Darius, the Alexandrian
 
 376 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 Tragedy and Julius CcEsar. The extract given is from 
 Darius, which appeared in 1603. It has been supposed that 
 Shakespeare had this passage in his mind when he wrote 
 the superb verses in the Tempest, iv. i., " And hke the base- 
 less fabric," etc. Porson was fond of quoting StirHng's lines 
 which he pronounced to be superior to Shakespeare's ; but, 
 stately and majestic though they are, few would agree with 
 Porson. It may be added that Stirling afterwards greatly 
 altered and spoilt the second stanza : see the version in his 
 Collected Works, 1637. I give the passage as it appears in 
 the quarto, 1603. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 This eloquent religious poet, a member of the Society of 
 Jesus, was born about 1562, and was executed, a martyr to 
 his faith, in February 1594-95. Well might Ben Jonson say 
 {Conversations with Drunimond) that had he written this 
 piece he would have been content to destroy many of his 
 own pieces, 
 
 LXX 
 
 Written by Donne in the severe illness which brought 
 him to the point of death three years after he became Dean 
 of St. Paul's. See Walton's Life. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 These verses were written by Sir Walter Raleigh on the 
 night before his execution, and were found in his Bible. 
 
 LXXI I 
 
 From the 42nd section of Stephen Hawes' Pastime of 
 Pleasure, first printed in 1 509. Of Hawes nothing more is 
 known than that he was a native of Suffolk, and was Groom 
 of the Privy Chamber to Henry VII. His poem on the 
 whole is tedious, but it has much more merit than is com- 
 monly allowed, and historically it is of great importance. 
 Both Sir Walter Scott and Longfellow have appropriated 
 the last beautiful couplet of the extract given in the text, 
 without however acknowledging their indebtedness to Hawes.
 
 BOOK II 
 
 (1625-1700) 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 To his son Vincent on his birthday, November 1630, being 
 then three years old. Corbet (i 582-1635) Avas successively 
 Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, and no more jovial Bishop 
 ever adorned or astonished the Episcopal bench. The 
 poems by which he is best known are his Faerie^ Farewell 
 and his Iter Boreale, but Corbet had as little of the touch of 
 the poet as Swift. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 From Silcx Scintillatis, part i. In this beautiful poem is 
 undoubtedly to be found the germ of Wordsworth's great Ode. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 From The Mistress of PJiilarete. Instead of selecting 
 from Wither poems which are now somewhat hackneyed, 
 viz. the lyrics " Shall I wasting in despair," and " Hence away 
 thou siren leave me," and the fine passage about the power 
 of poetry in the Fourth Eclogue of the S/iep/icrd's Hufiting^ 
 I have chosen this which Charles Lamb marked as " of pre- 
 eminent merit," a judgment in which every one must concur. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 From the Miscellaneous Thoughts in his Remains, vol. i. 
 pp. 244, 245. I have connected the two fragments by omit- 
 ting some verses which intervene. It is difficult to associate 
 with the author of Hicdibras sentiment so noble and refined 
 as these verses express. No critic, so far as I know, has
 
 378 A TREASURY 
 
 noticed that underlying the wit, worldliness, and cynicism of 
 Butler was a fine, if thin, vein of poetic sensibility which peeps 
 out timidly even in Hudibras. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 From Hesperides. Herrick's best lyrics are among the 
 commonplaces of every anthology, and are therefore excluded 
 from this. If I cannot give his diamonds I have endeavoured 
 to give two or three of his pearls. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 From Castara. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 From Castara. Love has rarely found so pure and lofty 
 a laureate as Habington. His Laura was Lucy Herbert. I 
 have ventured to curtail this poem by the omission of the 
 four stanzas which intervene in the original between the 
 second and the last. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 From Hesperides. This pretty poem is in rhythm an 
 echo of the second song in Ben Jonson's Masque The Gipsies 
 Metamorphosed. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 William Cartwright, born, according to one account, in 
 1615, to another in 1611, passed most of his life at Oxford, 
 as a lecturer and preacher, dying prematurely in 1643. ^is 
 Comedies, Tragi-Comedies, and poems were published post- 
 humously in 165 1. Ben Jonson is reported to have said of 
 him, " My son Cartwright writes all like a man," a compliment 
 which Cartwright rewarded by an eloquent poem to Jonson's 
 memory. As a lyrical poet he belongs to the Metaphysical 
 School. 
 
 LXXXI I 
 
 I have been told that this poem was a great favourite 
 with Tennyson, who was fond of quoting the lines beginning 
 " But at my back." He has himself borrowed from it.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 379 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 From the Masque of Semele. Act ii. Scene i. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 Cotton's masterpiece is Winter^ but it is much too long 
 for introduction here, and it is impossible to shorten it 
 without injury. In originality, vigour, and ver\-e Cotton has no 
 superior in that brilliant school of poets to which he be- 
 longs ; and yet it is remarkable that his miserable travesty 
 of the first and second books of the jEncid should have 
 gone through upwards of fifteen editions, while the poems 
 printed in 16S9, in which his genius displays itself, should 
 never have been reprinted till 18 10. 
 
 LXXXV 1 1 
 
 From Abdelazar : or The Moor's Revenge. Mrs. Behn's 
 lyrics are at their best among the best of their kind. 
 
 xc 
 
 Dr. Walter Pope was a well-known figure among wits and 
 men of science between about 1658, when he was proctor 
 at Oxford, and 17 14 when he died. In 1660 he succeeded 
 Sir Christopher Wren as Gresham Professor of Astronomy. 
 This poem was first published in 1693. It was reprinted in 
 Nichols's Select Collection, vol. i. p. 173 ; and in Songs and 
 Ballads^ chiefly collected by Robert, Earl of Oxford, vol. ii. 
 There are two versions, the shorter one, which I give, being 
 the best. A charming Latin paraphrase of the longer 
 version will be found in Vincent Bourne's Poetnata. It is 
 gratifying to know that fortune allowed Dr. Pope to realise 
 his ideal. In his quaint and delightful Life of Seih Ward 
 he says, " I thank God that I am arrived at a good old age 
 without gout or stone, with my intellectual senses but little 
 decayed and my intellectuals, though none of the best, yet 
 as good as ever they were." In the last stanza but one the 
 allusion is to a tradition of the Turks to the efiect that, when
 
 38o A TREASURY 
 
 any one is born into the world, a certain quantity of meat 
 and drink is apportioned to him for consumption during his 
 mortal existence, and that when it is consumed he dies ; the 
 moral being that a man who desires to live long must be 
 thrifty in his meat and drink. 
 
 XCI 
 From Hesperides. 
 
 XCI I 
 
 Katherine Fowler, born in 1631, married about 1647 James 
 Philips of Cardigan, died 22nd June 1664, in the thirty-third 
 yearof herage. "The matchless Orinda" is the author of many 
 poems of a grave and serious cast, which by no means dis- 
 credit the eulogies of Cowley and Dryden. Her poems were 
 published in quarto in 1664, under the title of '■'■ Poems, by the 
 incomparable Mrs. K." There were many subsequent editions. 
 I give the text, not as it appears in the quarto, but as it appears 
 in the Poems, by Eminent Ladies, for that is the best text. 
 
 XCI 1 1 
 
 From Epigra7ns of All Sorts, 1670. This is not the only 
 really beautiful poem written by Flecknoe. See note on cix. 
 
 xciv 
 
 Burd, maiden. This pathetic poem is from Herd's Col- 
 lection. It is printed in Chambers's Scottish Songs, and in 
 Sir Walter Scott's Minstrelsy, and from thence has often been 
 transcribed. The date and authorship are alike unknown. 
 The story on which it was founded is briefly this. Helen 
 Irving, the daughter of the Laird of Kirconnel in Dumfries- 
 shire, had two suitors, Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick and the 
 Laird of Blacket House. Fleming was the favourite, and 
 one afternoon, when the lovers were together, the Laird, mad 
 with jealousy, levelled his cross-bow at his successful rival, 
 and Helen, perceiving him doing so, threw herself before 
 her lover to shield him from the arrow, and received it in her 
 breast, dying instantly.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 381 
 
 XCV 
 From The Broken Heart. 
 
 xcvi 
 
 From Clarasfella, 1650. Nothing is certainly known 
 
 about Heath, but he is a very accomphshed poet, who 
 
 deser%'es to be rescued from the oblivion into which he has 
 fallen. 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Henry King (i 591 -1669) was a student of Christ Church 
 in 1608 and afterwards Chaplain to Charles I. and Dean of 
 Rochester. He died, Bishop of Chichester, in 1669. He 
 versified the Psalms, and published in 1657 a small volume 
 of " Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets." Terse and 
 serious reflection, clothed in fluent and often graceful verse, is 
 the predominating characteristic of his poetr}\ 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 From the Emblems, Book ii. Epig. xv. 
 
 xcix 
 From the Emblems, Book ii. Embl. v. 
 
 CI 
 
 In the original this Hymn comprises twenty-six stanzas. 
 As the choice lay between omission and curtailment, I have 
 adopted the latter, and not I think to the detriment of the 
 poem, for many of the excised stanzas are flat and harsh 
 and much below the level of what is best in it ; and what is 
 best is truly noble. The only tolerable poem of Yalden — his 
 Hymn to Darkness — is a parody of this. 
 
 CII 
 
 From the poem entitled Reason in the Miscellanies. 
 Never perhaps has the distinction between Reason and Faith
 
 382 A TREASURY 
 
 been so happily defined. The poem may be compared with 
 the magnificent lines at the opening of Dry den's Religio 
 Laid. 
 
 CIV 
 
 From Emblem xiv. Book i. 
 
 cv 
 
 Robert Gomersal ( 1 600-1646) was a student of Christ Church 
 and a distinguished preacher at Oxford. He became subse- 
 quently Vicar of Thorncombe in Devonshire. He was the 
 author of a volume of sermons, of some meditations in verse 
 on the nineteenth and twentieth chapters of Judges, of a 
 tragedy entitled Lodowick Sforsa, and of some occasional 
 poems printed in 1633 — from which the extract given is 
 taken. I have freely excised without marking the excisions. 
 Readers will be reminded of Dryden's famous lines in 
 Aurettgzebe, Act iv. Scene i, "When I consider life," etc. 
 
 CVI 
 
 From the Silex Sd7iiina7ts, Part i. Vaughan has never 
 been so popular as Herbert, and yet, as a poet, he is greatly 
 superior to him. How noble is his lyric commencing " Thou 
 that know'st for whom I mourn " ; how really sublime his 
 poem The World j how pregnant the eloquence of his Con- 
 stellatioit, which anticipates, though with an infusion of lofty 
 piety, Matthew Arnold's Self-dependence. 
 
 CVII 
 
 From Wifs Recreations, ed. 1650. It is not unlikely, 
 but it is by no means certain, that those verses were written 
 by Herrick. They appear with poems which are unquestion- 
 ably his, and are very much in his style. They were first 
 included among Herrick's poems by Mr. Carew Hazlitt.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 383 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Poor Flecknoe's chief claim to immortality is his associa- 
 tion with Dryden's satire on Shad well — Mac Flccktwe. He 
 was for upwards of half a century an industrious scribbler. 
 His first poem is dated 1626, and he is supposed to have died 
 about 1678. There are, however, one or two real gems to be 
 found among his rubbish, and this is one of them. 
 
 Cix 
 
 To the harsh and uncouth style of this noble Platonist is 
 probably to be attributed the fact that his works are so com- 
 pletely forgotten. Never perhaps has rapt mysticism found 
 more intense expression than in his poems and prose dis- 
 courses. 
 
 cx 
 
 From Go7idlbcrt, Canto vi. One of the distinguishing 
 characteristics of Davenant is the gravity and stateliness of 
 his paradoxes and conceits, but this poem is really fine. 
 
 CXI 
 
 From the Sacred Poems. This is Crashaw's note at per- 
 fection. In the expression of rapt enthusiasm he has no rival 
 among English religious poets. 
 
 CXII 
 
 From the Ode to the Memory of Charles Morwent. John 
 Oldham (1653-1683) whose premature death was lamented 
 by Dryden, is chiefly known by his Satires on the Jesuits, 
 but it is in Pindarics or irregular Odes, in the one from 
 which this extract is taken, and particularly in those on Ben 
 Jonson and Homer, and in his Dithyramb, that his genius, 
 which had a touch of nobility in it, is discernible. 
 
 CXIII 
 From the Fourth Emblem of Book v.
 
 384 A TREASURY 
 
 CXIV 
 From the Sacred Poems. 
 
 cxv 
 
 From the Elegy On the Death of Mr. William Hervey. 
 I have considerably shortened this poem ; the original 
 consists of nineteen stanzas ; it has not, I venture to think, 
 suffered from curtailment. 
 
 CXVI 
 
 The date of this Epitaph is 1666, but I cannot remember 
 where I found it. The second couplet is to be found slightly 
 altered in Sir H. Wotton's poems. 
 
 CXVI 1 1 
 
 This passage is the one good thing in Garth's once 
 famous mock-heroic poem, The Dispensary (1696) ; it is in 
 the third canto. Covvper has borrowed and inserted the 
 second line in his Lines on the Receipt of his Mother's Picture. 
 
 cxix 
 
 These beautiful verses were written by Waller after he 
 had completed his eightieth year, if not even later. They 
 conclude his Divine Poems. I omit the six introductory 
 verses. 
 
 cxx 
 
 It is impossible to settle with certainty the authorship of 
 this poem. It is printed in Bishop King's Poems, and is 
 attributed to King by Headley, Hazlitt, Campbell, Johnstone, 
 and Cattermole. But it has also been attributed to Francis 
 Beaumont, though not on equally satisfactory evidence. 
 
 CXXI 
 
 This is the one poem in Herbert which is not marred by
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 385 
 
 his characteristic defects, affected quaintness, extravagance, 
 prosaic baldness, and discordant rhythm. 
 
 CXXII 
 
 From the Rcli^o Medici, Part ii. Sect. 12. "This," says 
 Browne, " is the dormitive I take to bedward. I need no other 
 laudanum than this to make me sleep ; after which I close 
 mine eyes in security, content to take my leave of the sun, 
 and sleep unto the resurrection." 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 From her Poems a7id Fancies, 1653, p. 135. There are 
 beautiful little fragments to be found in the wilderness of the 
 Duchess's poetry and prose. 
 
 CXXIV 
 
 These are the last three stanzas of the concluding poem 
 of Castara. 
 
 CXXV 
 From Carew's Ccelutn Britannicum. 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 From Microcosmus, a moral masque, 1637. Of Thomas 
 Nabbes nothing is certainly known beyond the facts that he 
 was born in 1605, was matriculated at Exeter College, Oxford, 
 in 1 62 1, and contributed somewhat extensively to the drama 
 during the reign of Charles I. 
 
 CXXVI I 
 
 Epitaph on Eleanor Freeman, who died in 1650, aged 21, 
 and was buried in Tewkesbury Church, Gloucestershire. It 
 is printed in Headley's Specimens, vol. ii. p. 74. 
 
 2 C
 
 BOOK III 
 
 (1700- I 798) 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 From Miscellany Poems by a Lady, 1713. Anne Kings- 
 mill, born about 1660, married Heneage Finch, fourth Earl 
 of Winchilsea, and died in August 1720. This poetess is 
 chiefly known from Wordsworth's remark, that her Nocturnal 
 Reverie is one of the few poems, in the interval intervening 
 between the publication of Paradise Lost and the Seasons, 
 which contain a new image of external nature. In a letter 
 to Dyce, Wordsworth says, " There is one poetess to whose 
 writings I am especially partial, the Countess of Winchilsea. 
 I have perused her poems frequently, and should be happy 
 to name such passages as I think most characteristic of her 
 genius," and in a subsequent letter (see Wordsworth's 
 Memoirs, vol. ii. pp. 228, 229) he names them. I have, how- 
 ever, ventured to select a poem not noted by Wordsworth, 
 as the object of these selections is not so much to illustrate 
 the genius of particular poets, as to give poems interesting 
 in themselves. 
 
 CXXIX 
 
 Poor Pattison's story is a very sad one. Born at Peas- 
 marsh, near Rye, in 1706, he was educated at Sidney Sussex 
 College, Cambridge. But quitting Cambridge, before taking 
 his degree, he became involved in many troubles and 
 difficulties, being at one time on the point of starvation. 
 He died in London, July 1727, in his twenty-first year. His
 
 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 387 
 
 poems have much merit, and his Morning Contemplation, 
 from which the extract is taken, is a very pleasing descriptive 
 piece. 
 
 cxxx 
 
 This fine stanza is from Fenton's Ode to Lord Cower, 
 which Pope, according to Johnson, pronounced to be the 
 next Ode in the English language to Dryden's Cecilia. 
 Modern criticism would not corroborate Pope's verdict. 
 Fenton's Pindaric Odes have, at times, great dignity and 
 eloquence, and some of his Tales, if they rival Prior's in 
 indecency, rival them also in grace, terseness, and wit. 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 Of the author of this spirited Anacreontic, George 
 Alexander Stevens, an account will be found in Baker's 
 Biographia Draiiiatica. He wrote several plays, but made 
 himself chiefly conspicuous by travelling about England and 
 America, and delivering an extraordinary " medley of sense 
 and nonsense, wit and ribaldr)'," which he called " a Lecture 
 upon Heads." In ] 761 he published a volume of Miscellanies 
 entitled The Choice Spirits^ Chaplct, to which he contributed 
 several rollicking and most spirited ballads, among them 
 The Marine Medley, and a song, "Once the Gods of the 
 Greeks," which I have been almost tempted to add. He 
 died in 1784. An edition of his poems, with a memoir of 
 the author by W. H. Badham, appeared after his death. 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 Paraphrased from Fontenelle. 
 
 cxxxni 
 
 Written by the famous Lord Peterborough to Mrs. 
 Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk. The verses are
 
 J 
 
 SS A TREASURY 
 
 printed in Swift's Works, and in the Suffolk Papers, Intro- 
 duction, vol. i. p. 46. 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 From Dodsley's Collection, vol. vi. p. 326. 
 
 cxxxv 
 
 From Dodsley's Collection, vol. viii. p. 243. Robert 
 Craggs, Earl Nugent, was a conspicuous, but not eminent 
 tigure among politicians between 1741 and 1788. Some of 
 his poems are printed in Dodsley's Collection, and in the 
 New Foundling Hospital for Wit. The Ode which he 
 wrote on his temporary conversion to Protestantism, though 
 too highly praised by Walpole, is vigorous and eloquent. 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 Aaron Hill (1685-1750) was an accomplished poet and 
 dramatist, who had the distinction of being one of the very 
 few gentlemen to be found among the Men of Letters of his 
 time. This impressed Pope, who laid the scourge so lightly 
 on him in the Dtinciad, that the satire is scarcely to be dis- 
 tinguished from eulogy. 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 From a poem entitled An Hymn to the Morning. For 
 an account of the authoress of this poem see note on cxlvi. 
 
 CXLI 
 
 The point of this trifle needs perhaps a little explana- 
 tion. It is supposed to be Lord William Hamilton's retort 
 to Lady Hertford, who had written to tell him that she had 
 done all she could to show him that she was in love with 
 him, imploring him to — 
 
 Prevent my warm blushes 
 Since how can I speak without pain ;
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 389 
 
 My eyes oft have told you my wishes, 
 Why don't you their meaning explain ? 
 
 In Dodsley's Collection, vol. vi. p. 247, it is attributed to Sir 
 William Yonge. 
 
 CXLII 
 
 From Chambers's Scottish Songs. 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 For an account of Bishop see note on clxxxvii. 
 
 CXLV 
 
 Ambrose Philips (1671-1749) is now chiefly known as the 
 butt of Pope's ironical satire in prose and direct satire in 
 verse. What distinction he has as a poet lies in his 
 sprightly and graceful verses to the Misses Carteret and 
 Pulteney, and in the fact that he was one of the few poets 
 of his time who had an eye and a taste for the beauties of 
 Nature. 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 Mary Leapor (1722- 1746) appears now to be entirely 
 forgotten, but she is a poetess of some merit. She was the 
 daughter of a gardener, was self-educated, and is said to 
 have sen'ed as a cookmaid in a gentleman's family. She 
 died prematurely at Brackley, Northamptonshire, 12th 
 November 1746. Her poems were collected after her death 
 and published by subscription for the benefit of her father, 
 the first volume appearing in 1748 and the second in 1751. 
 As her poems are so little known, I have given three 
 specimens. 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 First published in Johnson's Musical Museum^ part iv., 
 and reprinted in Chambers's Scottish Songs. I have ventured
 
 390 A TREASURY 
 
 to omit the last stanza, though Burns wrote the closing 
 quatrain. 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 From Chambers's Scottish Sojigs. The poem is attributed 
 to Dr. Alexander Webster, a well-known minister and 
 preacher in Edinburgh, who died in 1784. There is a 
 tradition that he wrote it early in life, and that it was 
 inspired " by a lady of rank, whom he was engaged to woo 
 for another, condescending to betray a passion for him." 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 From Sir Walter Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 
 Scott was at first misled by them and printed them as a 
 genuine poem of the age of Charles I., observing that they 
 have " much of the romantic expression of passion common 
 to the poets of that period, whose lays still reflected the setting 
 beams of chivalry." 
 
 CLI 
 
 From Fables for the Female Sex. Edward Moore (1712- 
 1757) was the editor of the once famous periodical. The 
 World, and the author of a powerful tragedy, The Gamester. 
 Goldsmith said that Moore was a poet who never had justice 
 done to him while living ; but his Fables were long very 
 popular. I have not found anything in his smooth but 
 commonplace poems equal in merit to the extract given. 
 
 CLII 
 
 From Elegy xi. Impressive and eloquent, but how inferior 
 to the lyric which it recalls — Schiller's Die Ideale. 
 
 CLIII 
 
 To few poets could Pindar's words be applied with more 
 truth than to Blake —
 
 OF MIXOR BRITISH POETR Y 391 
 
 li'Sov ivTL (pap^rpas, 
 
 (jxavavra cvveroiaiv, 01. ii. 150-3. 
 
 CLIV 
 
 First printed in a collection of poems published by David 
 Lewis in 1726. It is generally attributed to J. Gilbert 
 Cooper, to whom it certainly cannot belong, as he was little 
 more than a baby when it appeared. Cooper printed it in 
 his Letters on Taste (1755), and Dr. Aikin, supposing Cooper 
 was the author, assigned it to him, and has been followed 
 by others. It has also been assigned to G. A. Stevens, who 
 was a boy when Lewis published his Miscellany. 
 
 CLVI 
 
 From a volume of Miscellanies by Collins, published in 
 1804, by M. Swinney, at Birmingham, under the quaint title 
 of Scripscrapologia. See Notes and Queries, Series vii., 
 vol. i. pp. 310, 311. For Collins see note on ccii, 
 
 CLIX 
 
 Dr. Thomas Lisle was educated at Magdalen College, 
 O.xford, where he took his M.A. degree in 1732, and his D.D. 
 in 1743. Hs ^^'^s for many years Rector of Biirclere in 
 Hants, where he died, in March 1767. This witty poem is, 
 with other of Lisle's poems, printed in Dodsley's Collection, 
 vol. vi. p. 178. His poems, and especially his humorous 
 poems, have great merit. 
 
 CLX 
 
 From the Night Piece on Death. In his Essay on 
 Simplicity and Refinement Hume says : " Parnell, after the 
 fiftieth reading, is as fresh as at the first," and if Parnell be 
 judged by what is best in his work, few readers would think 
 Hume's praise preposterous. He here caught the note of 
 // Penseroso, and anticipated that of Gray's masterpiece.
 
 392 A TREASURY 
 
 CLXI 
 
 John Byrom (1691-1763) is generally known as the author 
 of the pretty pastoral poem, My time, O ye Muses, inspired 
 by Joanna Bentley, and as a humorous poet ; his serious 
 poetry, of which this is a specimen, is now almost forgotten, 
 but is certainly remarkable. 
 
 CLXII 
 
 From Green's poem, On Barclay's Apology for the 
 Quakers. Of this delightful poet, whose Spleeix is one of 
 the jewels of our eighteenth-century humorous and ethical 
 poetry, nothing more is certainly known than that he was a 
 Quaker, who, born in 1696, held some office in the Custom 
 House, and died in 1737. 
 
 CLXIII 
 
   These verses were left with the minister of Riponden — a 
 "romantic village" in Yorkshire — to the scenery of which they 
 refer. Dr. John Langhorne (1735-1779) is one of the most 
 attractive minor poets of the period to which he belongs. 
 Historically he is important ; he is one of the fathers of the 
 sentimental school. As the author of the Country Justice, 
 he anticipated Crabbe, and as the author of the Fables of 
 Flora, in some respect, Wordsworth. His style is singularly 
 pure and sweet ; his pathos, as in the verses on the death of 
 his wife — Verses in Memory of a Lady — often exquisite, and 
 his Precepts of Conjugal Happi7iess is a poem which deserves 
 to be known to all whom such precepts may concern. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 On no other poet perhaps does cynicism sit with so much 
 grace as on Prior. It is the dominant note in all his poetry, 
 — and mille habet ornaitis mille decenter habet, — eloquent 
 in his Solomon, deliciously humorous in his Alma and in 
 his Tales, wit itself in his Epigrams, and touched with pathos
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 393 
 
 in his Odes. If in Tennyson, England just missed her 
 Virgil, in Prior she just missed her Horace. 
 
 CLXV 
 
 The author of this striking poem was Mrs. Fanny Greville, 
 wife of Fulke Greville, Envoy Extraordinary in 1776 to the 
 Elector of Bavaria, and Minister to the Diet of Ratisbon. 
 Her daughter married John, first Lord Crewe. Her poems, 
 of which some remain in manuscript at Crewe Hall and 
 elsewhere, have never been collected. If they are at all 
 equal to the present it is a pity they are not published. The 
 present poem was printed in Dodsley's Collection, vol. i. 
 PP- 314-317- I have omitted the first four stanzas. 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 For the author of this poem see note on cxci. 
 
 CLXVIII 
 
 *' Monitors like these," a skull and hour-glass, 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 Well known as this poem is, I could not omit it. Sim- 
 plicity, pathos, delicacy of taste, and a pure and musical 
 style distinguish the poetry of Logan, and give him a high 
 place among minor lyrical poets. His Ode on the death of a 
 young lady, his Odes written in spring and in autumn, his 
 song, The day is departed, his Lovers, and one or two of his 
 Hymns, have much of the charm of the two poems selected 
 from him. He was born at Soutra in East Lothian, and 
 died, worn out with disappointments and troubles, in his 
 fortieth year, 28th December 1788. This is not the place 
 to discuss Logan's treatment of Bruce's MSS., but this is 
 certain, that David Laing and Mr. Tidd Mason have proved 
 Logan's claim to the authorship of the Cuckoo; and this 
 also is certain, that Logan is incomparably superior to Bruce 
 as a poet. 
 
 CLXX 
 
 From The Minstrel, canto i. st. ix.
 
 394 A TREASURY 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 From A Collection of S07igs with the music, adapted 
 and composed by Dr. Hague. 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 Pensiveness and grace touched with deep melancholy, but 
 brightened with an exquisite sensibility to the power and 
 charm of Nature, are the characteristics of this pleasing, but 
 nearly forgotten poetess. Her poems should be dear to all 
 who love flowers, for seldom have they been described with 
 so much accuracy and delicacy. Born in May 1749, she 
 had a life full of sorrow and misfortune, of which her poetry 
 is the reflection. Latterly, she herself and others were 
 dependent on her pen, and she was the authoress of several 
 novels and miscellaneous works. She died in October 1806. 
 Wordsworth greatly admired the Sonnet here given. 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 From Dodsley's Collection, vol. i. p. 327. They were 
 addressed by Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe, to the poet 
 Young, not long before their author's death. It is difficult 
 to associate such a poem with a man so profligate and un- 
 principled as Dodington. 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Wordsworth has remarked that " the character of Dyer as 
 a patriot, a citizen, and a tender-hearted friend of humanity, 
 was, in some respects, injurious to him as a poet," but that 
 " in point of imagination and purity of style, I am not sure 
 that he is not superior to any writer in verse since the time 
 of Milton." The scope of this work precludes extracts from 
 Gro7igar Hill, The Ruins of Rome, and The Fleece — the 
 poems on which Dyer's fame rests — so I have contented 
 myself with giving a poem which very pleasingly illustrates 
 his character.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 395 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 This touching dramatic lyric is taken from Chambers's 
 Scottish Songs, vol. ii. p. 357. The last four lines were 
 added by Hogg to make the story complete. The name of 
 the author will be familiar to readers of Lockhart's Life of 
 Scott. Meeting with misfortunes, he became Scott's bailiff. 
 Beyond this poem he wrote nothing of any note. 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 This poem was suggested by, and is really a sequel to 
 the old ballad — printed in Chambers's Collection of Scottish 
 Ballads, — Willie's drowfi'd in Yarrow, but beautiful as the 
 parent poem is, Logan's is still more beautiful. Words- 
 worth's reference to it in his Yarrow Visited will occur to 
 most readers. The author, John Logan, was born about 
 1747, was educated at the University of Edinburgh, entered 
 the Church, and died in December 1788; this poem, 
 however, and the Ode to the Cuckoo, will always keep his 
 memory alive. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 Thomas Penrose (1743- 1779), after an adventurous life in 
 the navy, subsequently entered the Church. He was the 
 author of Flights of Fancy, and of a volume of miscellaneous 
 poems, published after his death in 1781. He holds a 
 respectable place among the minor representatives of the 
 sentimental school. The grace and ingenuity of the idea 
 in this little poem will, 1 trust, outweigh its somewhat 
 cumbrous elaboration. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 This poem stands alone, the most extraordinary pheno- 
 menon, perhaps, in our literature, the one rapt strain in the 
 poetry of the eighteenth centuiy, the work of a poet who, 
 though he produced much, has not produced elsewhere a 
 single line which indicates the power here displayed ; it was
 
 396 A TREASURY 
 
 composed, during the intervals of a fit of insanity, in an 
 asylum. Published in 1763, it was in 1765 appended to a 
 metrical version of the Psalms, a version, it may be added, 
 Avhich has nothing of the inspiration manifest in this poem. 
 I have been obliged to curtail it, not perhaps to its 
 disadvantage, the original consisting of eighty-six stanzas. 
 My extract begins at the fortieth stanza, the stanzas I have 
 given being as follows : xl., xli., Ixxii.-lxxxvi., omitting Ixxv., 
 and Ixxx., Ixxxi. There is, as in parts of Lucretius, a 
 peculiar exaltation and intensity in the poem, which it is not 
 difficult to associate with the ecstasy of insanity. Poor 
 Smart terminated a life of poverty and misfortune in 1770. 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 Many poets, from Sir Philip Sidney to Mr. Swinburne, 
 have written English Sapphics, but there are none equal to 
 these in our language. Readers may be reminded that the 
 metrical scheme is as follows : — 
 
 -^ !_/ \_, 
 
 -» \^ — r^ 
 
 jr 
 JC 
 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 From the Hymn to Hope. 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 Thomas Gisborne (1758-1846) was associated with the 
 " Clapham Sect." As the author of Poems Sacred and 
 Moral, from which this poem is selected, he was a disciple of 
 Cowper, 
 
 CLXXXVI I 
 
 Samuel Bishop ( 173 1 -1794) was long an assistant master 
 at Merchant Taylors' School, becoming headmaster in 1783, 
 which office he held till his death. His poems were collected
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 397 
 
 and published with a memoir by the Rev. Thomas Clare in 
 two volumes, quarto, in 1796. Mild and genial humour, 
 tersely and gracefully expressed, is the characteristic of his 
 trifles, which are generally pleasing and sometimes happy ; 
 but they have not, like those of his models Prior and Swift, 
 the note of distinction. 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 
 Edward Lovibond (1724-1775) was one of the contributors 
 to the World. As a poet he is an ingenious and graceful 
 trifler, magis extra vitia quain cum virtuiibus. His Tears 
 of Old May Day was greatly admired by his contemporaries. 
 
 cxc 
 
 The author of The Pleasures of Iviagination is not, it must 
 be owned, very successful as a lyric poet, and I have had to 
 suppress much in this Hymn to Science, not, I think, to 
 its detriment. 
 
 CXCI 
 
 William Whitehead (1715-1785) succeeded Gibber as 
 Poet Laureate in 1758. He is a poet, often it must be owned 
 a tame and commonplace poet, who has never had justice 
 done to his real merits, and I hope that the three poems 
 here selected from his collected works will serve to show 
 that the oblivion into which his writings have fallen is not 
 altogether deserved. 
 
 cxciv 
 
 Mrs. Anne Hunter (1742-1821) was the sister of Sir 
 Everard Home and the wife of the famous surgeon John 
 Hunter. She published a collection of her songs and lyrics 
 in 1802, from which the extract given is taken. Her lyrics, 
 some of which were set by Haydn, arc marked by tender- 
 ness and grace.
 
 398 A TREASURY 
 
 cxcv 
 
 There are few sadder stories in literary history than the 
 Hfe of that hapless child of genius, Thomas Dermody, born 
 17th January 1775, died in July 1802. His touching and 
 tragical story is told at length by his biographer, James 
 Grant Raymond. His work is very unequal, but his pathos 
 and humour are sometimes exquisite. He came very near 
 to being the Burns of Ireland. In the present poem I have 
 ventured to excise six stanzas. 
 
 CXCVI 
 
 Jane Elliot of Minto (1727-1S05) was the daughter of Sir 
 Gilbert Elliot. This beautiful poem was printed in Scott's 
 Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. Lilting, singing cheerfully. 
 Loaning, a broad lane. Wede awae, weeded out. Scorning, 
 rallying. Dowie, dreary. Daffing and gabbing, joking and 
 chatting. Legliti, milk-pail. Har'si, harvest. Shearing^ 
 reaping. Bandsters, sheaf - binders. Rtmkled, wrinkled. 
 Lyart, inclining to gray. Fleeching, coaxing. Gloami7tg, 
 twilight. The reference is to the battle of Flodden Field. 
 
 CXCVII 
 
 These verses, which in simple, unaffected pathos anticipate 
 Cowper, are entitled Alone in an Inn at Southampton, 25th 
 April 1737. The reference is to the death of the author's wife. 
 I have shortened the original. 
 
 CXCIX 
 
 The Rev. William Mason (1725-1797) is more generally 
 known as the friend and biographer of Gray than as a poet. 
 His poetry, which is somewhat voluminous, is for the most 
 part frigid and commonplace, but his two tragedies Elfrida 
 and Caractacus and some of his occasional poems are not 
 without much merit. The lady on whom this epitaph was 
 written was his wife, who died of consumption at Bristol in
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 399 
 
 1767. The last three lines were written by Gray. See 
 Mitford's Correspondence of Gray and Mason, p. 380. 
 
 cc 
 
 From the Elegy on the Earl of Cadogan. Few poets so 
 nearly forgotten have so narrowly missed eminence as Tickell. 
 His Elegy on Addison, too well known for inclusion in this 
 volume, is one of the most eloquent and pathetic poems in 
 our language. His Colhi and Lucy is among the best of our 
 ballads, and his T/icrsttes, in condensed energy of invective, 
 is equal to anything of the same kind in Swift, to whom it 
 might seem to belong. 
 
 cci 
 
 John Collins was the author of this truly charming poem. 
 He was born at Bath, but the date of his birth is not known. 
 He went on the stage, became famous as a reciter and 
 composer of humorous songs, some of which appeared in a 
 Miscellany entitled The Brush, others in a volume called 
 Scripscrapologia ; or Collins'' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts, 
 and some in The Birmingham Chronicle, of which he 
 became one of the proprietors. He died in May 1808. 
 The play on the word "everlasting" in the last line should 
 not be missed ; " everlasting " was a stout strong cloth 
 generally worn by sergeants. See Hallwell's Dictionary of 
 ArcJiaic and Provincial Words. 
 
 ecu 
 
 From Thomson's Poems on Several Occasions, where they 
 are entitled Verses occasioned by the Death of Mrs. Aikman, 
 a particular friend of the author's. A poet so well known as 
 Thomson scarcely comes within the scope of this volume, but 
 as these verses seem never quoted or noticed I have ventured 
 to give them. They are a pathetic commentary on the curse 
 in the old Roman epitaph tiltimus suorum moriatur. The 
 common reading in the second line is " string after string."
 
 400 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 CCIII 
 
 This famous and beautiful epigram is from the Arabic of 
 Ah-ibn-Ahmed-ibn Mansour, a famous satirist, who died at 
 Bagdad in A.D. 914. The original is given in specimens of 
 Arabian Poetry by A. D. Carlyle 1 796. For the following literal 
 version of the original I am indebted to my friend Mr. C. E. 
 Wilson : "You are he whom your mother bore weeping 
 whilst the people around you were smiling with joy. Strive 
 for yourself that you may be, when they are weeping in the 
 day of your death, smiling joyously." Carlyle's version is 
 very inferior to that of Sir William Jones. 
 
 ccv 
 
 From Watt's Poetical Album, second series, p. 94. These 
 touching verses were written by Henry, second Viscount 
 Palmerston, father of the famous statesman, on the death of 
 his first wife, Frances, who died in June 1769. 
 
 CCVI 
 
 I have ventured to detach these two stanzas from their 
 context. They form part of a poem on Bishop Ken's Grave. 
 
 CCVII 
 
 How Anna Letitia Aikin, Mrs. Barbauld (1743- 182 5), could 
 have deviated into lines so exquisite as these must be inexpli- 
 cable to all who are acquainted with her poetry. They form 
 the concluding verses of a poem entitled Life. Wordsworth 
 said of this poem that though he was not in the habit of 
 envying authors their good things, he would like to have 
 written these lines.
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 (1798- 1 880) 
 
 ccx 
 
 From poems published in a memorial volume printed, 
 without date, for private circulation by Messrs. R. and M. J. 
 Li\ ingstone after Darley's death. I have taken the liberty 
 to modernise the spelling of this poem. 
 
 ccxi 
 
 From Fugitive Verses. 
 
 CCXII 
 
 From The Phantom : a Drama ; Act i. sc. 4. Miss Baillie's 
 purely lyrical genius was ill employed in dramatic composi- 
 tion. Her plays, which make up nearly two-thirds of her 
 works, though they found a great admirer in J. S. Mill, are 
 now deservedly all but forgotten ; but some of the songs, such 
 as "The bride she is winsome and bonny," "My Nanny, 
 O," " The gowan glitters on the sward," "The Weary Fund o' 
 Tow," and one or two of her humorous poems, will keep her 
 memory alive. 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 From The City of Dreadful Night. How nearly this hap- 
 less poet sometimes approached Heine ! 
 
 ccxiv 
 
 Thomas Ashe (1836- 1889). From the scries of poems 
 entitled At Altcttahr in the later poems. When will some 
 
 2 D
 
 402 A TREASURY 
 
 competent critic do justice to poor Ashe ? His lyrics are full 
 of beauty and charm. 
 
 ccxv 
 
 William Motherwell (1797- 183 5) is one of those poets to 
 whom full justice has never been done ; he stands in the first 
 rank of Scotch lyric poets. Essentially original, he was a 
 man of rare and fine genius. I have omitted three stanzas 
 from the middle of the poem. 
 
 ccxvi 
 
 P. B. Marston (1850-1887) was a son of the well-known 
 dramatic poet Dr. Westland Marston. His poetry is the 
 reflection of his life, and his life was one of the saddest 
 recorded in the history of poets. His lyrics have occasion- 
 ally great merit. His poems were collected in 1892 with a 
 biographical sketch of the author by Miss Louise Chandler 
 Moulton. 
 
 CCXVII 
 
 Romanzo's song in Sylvia. George Darley is one of 
 those poets who have received hard measure from fame. The 
 late Lord Houghton, who, like Tennyson, Sir Henry Taylor, 
 and others, had a very high opinion of Barley's merits, 
 intended to reprint his poems with a biographical introduc- 
 tion. Surely his poems should be collected and made 
 popularly accessible., 
 
 CCXVIII 
 
 William Thom (1798- 1848) was one of the many minor 
 poets whom Burns and the school of Burns inspired, but he 
 was no servile imitator. He was self-taught, and the greater 
 part of his life was spent in drudging in the cotton mills, " a 
 serf," as he once described himself, who had " to weave 
 fourteen hours out of the four and twenty." Nature and 
 genius speak in this and in others of his lyrics.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 403 
 
 CCXIX 
 
 From Among the Flowers and other Poems^ a volume of 
 poems published at Belfast in 1878. Of the author I know 
 nothing, but I know these stanzas are worthy of a place 
 beside Plato's two exquisite epigrams. In the original the 
 last verse runs " when love is done.''' I have taken the 
 liberty to substitute "gone" for "done," feeling sure that 
 "done" must be a misprint. 
 
 ccxxi 
 
 The Hon. W. R. Spencer, born in 1770, was long a familiar 
 figure in fashionable circles at the beginning of this century 
 and during the Regency. He was a friend of Sir Walter 
 Scott. He realised his own vision (see ccxcv.), and died in 
 distress at Paris in 1834. He is perhaps best known by his 
 ballad Beth-Gelert ; he is certainly one of the most graceful 
 of modern lyrical poets. 
 
 CCXXII 
 
 From Pericles and Aspasia. 
 
 CCXXIV 
 
 From Sonnets from the Portuguese. The reference is to 
 Theocritus, Idyll xv. 103-105. 
 
 CCXXVI 
 
 Grace, fluency, and a fine sensibility mark every poem 
 which has been preserved from Wolfe's papers. The Burial 
 of Sir John Moore and the exquisite threnody, " If I had 
 thought thou could'st have died," both of which, as stock 
 pieces in every collection, are not included in the present 
 volume, are the poems on which his fame rests ; but I venture 
 to think that the lyric here given is not unworthy to stand, 
 at whatever interval, beside them. His poems were collected 
 and his life written by his friend the Rev. John A. Russell.
 
 404 ^ TREASURY 
 
 CCXXVII 
 From Men, Women, and Books. 
 
 CCXXVIII 
 This witty poem was suggested by part of the famous 
 Italian song, beginning " Se monaca ti fai." 
 
 ccxxxi 
 From Sonnets ajid Poems. Wordsworth placed this sonnet 
 first among sonnets produced by " modern writers." Letter 
 to Dyce, see Wordsworth's Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 279. Its 
 originality is unquestionable and certainly startling. Brydges 
 himself says of it, "It is my masterpiece. I have never 
 written anything equal to it in originality, force, or finish." 
 Sir Egerton Brydges (1762- 1837) deserves an honourable 
 place among those who revived and furthered the study of 
 our old authors, as the editor of the Cetisura Literaria, and 
 the principal editor of the Retrospective Review. 
 
 ccxxxii 
 
 Of this sonnet Charles Lamb, in the Loftdon Magazine 
 for September 1823, remarks that " for quiet sweetness and un- 
 affected morality it has scarcely its parallel in our language." 
 
 CCXXIII 
 From Songs of the Heights and Depths. 
 
 CCXXXIV 
 Edward, Lord Thurlow (1781-1839) was the son of the 
 celebrated Lord Chancellor. He published two or three 
 volumes of poems. In the Lo?tdon Magazine for September 
 1823, in a note to his paper on Sir Phihp Sidney's sonnets. 
 Lamb, speaking of Lord Thurlow's poetry, says that " on the 
 score of exquisite diction alone it is entitled to something 
 better than neglect," though he censures its "profusion of 
 verbal dainties" and "disproportionate lack of matter and 
 circumstance."
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 405 
 
 CCXXXV 
 Osme's song in Sylvia : or the May Queen. 
 
 ccxxxvi 
 
 From Loves of the Butterflies. For Haynes Bayly see 
 note on cclxvi. 
 
 CCXXXVIII 
 
 From the Loves of the Butterflies I omit the two stanzas 
 which precede. 
 
 CCXXXIX 
 
 From the Minister's Kailyard and other Poems., published 
 at Edinburgh in 1S45. 
 
 CCXL 
 
 Allan Cunningham (1784- 1842) is the author of lyrics 
 which need fear no comparison with those of Burns. Such 
 would be "She's gane to dwell in Heaven," "Thou hast 
 swome by thy God, my Jeannie," and the English ballad " A 
 wet sheet and a flowing sea." Inferior to these, but very 
 pretty, is his Morning Song, " O come ! for the lily," etc. 
 
 CCXLI 
 
 Charles Dibdin (1745- 18 14) composed upwards of thirteen 
 hundred songs, and the one selected is the last he wrote. It 
 is thoroughly characteristic, and I give it in preference to the 
 songs usually cited, such as "Poor Jack" and "Tom Bowling.' 
 Poetry has seldom been applied to a more practical purpose 
 than by Dibdin, as Pitt recognised, who granted Dibdin a 
 pension of ^200 a year for his services in educating our 
 sailors by his inspiring and manly lyrics. His songs were 
 collected after his death by one of his sons and printed under 
 the auspices of the Lords of the Admiralty. 
 
 CCXLII 
 
 From Weeds oj Witchery.
 
 4o6 A TREASURY 
 
 CCXLIV 
 
 From Kendall's Collected Poems, 1886. The poem is a 
 description of Arakoon, a mountainous promontory on the 
 coast of New South Wales. I preserve the description but, 
 excising the last two stanzas, omit the somewhat common- 
 place moral. 
 
 CCXLV 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker (1803- 187 5) was for many years 
 vicar of Morwenstow in the north-east corner of Cornwall ; 
 he was Newdigate prizeman at Oxford in 1827. His poems, 
 which are marked by great vigour and originality, were col- 
 lected by J. G. Godwin in 1879. The poem which is especially 
 associated with Hawker is his fine ballad on Trelawny, but 
 I have preferred to select two which are not so familiar. 
 
 CCXLVI 
 
 Extracted from a poem entitled Midnight and Moonshine. 
 
 CCXLVI I 
 
 From Lyrics of the Heart. 
 
 CCXLVIII 
 From Huinan Life. 
 
 CCL 
 
 It is remarkable that what Coleridge has called the finest 
 sonnet in our literature should have been written by a native 
 of Spain who had no English blood in his veins, and to whom 
 English was an acquired language. Blanco White, whose 
 mother was Spanish and whose father was of Irish descent, 
 was born at Seville nth July 1775, settled in England in 1810, 
 and died at Liverpool in May 1841. His character and career 
 are of singular interest, and have been depicted by himself in 
 an Autobiography. Coleridge's praise is exaggerated, but 
 harsh and cumbersome as the versification is, it is a magnifi-
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 407 
 
 cent sonnet. I do not think it has been noticed that the 
 germ and idea of the sonnet are to be found in Sir Thomas 
 Browne's Garden of Cyrus, chap, iv., " Light that makes things 
 seen, makes some things invisible ; were it not for darkness 
 and the shadow of the earth the noblest part of the creation 
 had remained unseen and the stars in heaven as invisible 
 as on the fourth day when they were created above the horizon 
 with the sun and there was not an eye to behold them ." But 
 the noble application and deduction are White's own. I 
 should like to read " on " for " in " in the eighth line. 
 
 CCLI 
 
 I have omitted the two concluding stanzas of this poem. 
 For Walker see note on ccl.x.\ii. 
 
 CCLIII 
 From A Pageant and oilier Poems. Surely in these 
 stanzas we have the perfection of lyrical poetry. Had the 
 muse who occasionally inspired Miss Rossetti been true 
 to her she would have been perhaps the first of British 
 poetesses. 
 
 CCLIV 
 From Yu-pe- Yas Lute. 
 
 CCLV 
 
 From lonica, a collection of poems which appeared 
 anonymously in 1858. The author was an assistant master 
 at Eton, named Johnson, but on resigning his mastership 
 he took the name of Cory. He died at his residence in 
 Pilgrim Lane, Hampstead, nth June 1892, in the seventieth 
 year of his age. It is gratifying to know that one of the 
 most modest of poets found himself famous before he died. 
 Surely these exquisite verses need fear no comparison 
 with the immortal epigram in which Callimachus mourned 
 Heraclitus ; they recall it in what they suggest, they rival 
 it in perfection of expression. Cory's poetry is so exquisite 
 and delicate that it will probably secure him lasting fame.
 
 4o8 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLVII 
 
 To this poem Praed prefixes the following prose 
 introduction : " Brazen companion of my sohtary hours ! 
 do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those 
 sentiments of wisdom and virtue, which are hereafter to be 
 the oracles of statesmen, and the guides of philosophers. 
 Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our 
 case, a division of our subject. Speak ! Slow music. The 
 Friar falls asleep. The head chaunts as follows." The 
 " Brazen Head." The reference of course is to the famous 
 brazen head fabled to have been made by Roger Bacon, 
 which, after uttering successively, "Time is" — " Time was " — 
 and " Time is past," tumbled itself from the stand and was 
 shattered to pieces, because the opportunity of catechising it 
 was neglected. 
 
 CCLVIII 
 
 A melancholy philosophy, the truth of which is still, 
 happily, questionable. 
 
 CCLIX 
 
 The heart of a hero beat in Ernest Charles Jones, and his 
 noble and dauntless spirit burns in his poetry. His life 
 (1819-1868) belongs to the history of the liberal cause: his 
 chief contributions to poetry were The Battle Day a7id other 
 Poems, 1855, and Cor ay da and other Poems, i860. The 
 poem in the text was, with others, written while Jones was 
 undergoing two years' solitary confinement, the penalty im- 
 posed on him for sedition. 
 
 CCLXI 
 
 Morbid and sickly affectation, straying sometimes into 
 grace and prettiness, as in the present poem, are the chief 
 characteristics of Beddoes' lyrics, which are in one continued 
 strain of falsetto. 
 
 CCLXII 
 
 From Dipsychus.
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 409 
 
 CCLXIII 
 From Watt's Poetical Alburn^ second series, p. 83. 
 
 CCLXIV 
 
 From Alexander Rodger's Poems and Songs. Rodger 
 (1784-1846) was a true poet with a rich vein of humour. His 
 political views got him into trouble in 18 19, when he was 
 imprisoned. He published a collection of his poems, dedi- 
 cated to Lord Brougham, in 1838. 
 
 CCLXV 
 From London Lyrics. 
 
 CCLXVI 
 
 From The Melodies of Various Nations. Some seventy 
 years ago Thomas Haynes Bayly, who belonged to the 
 school of Moore, was one of the most popular song- 
 writers in England. He was born at Bath, 13th October 
 1797, and died at Cheltenham, 22nd April 1839. His 
 works were edited by his widow, with a Memoir. As a 
 wTiter of sentimental and humorous vers de socicte he is 
 at his best hardly inferior to his master Moore. I wish 
 1 had space for more selections from his poetry. 
 
 CCLXVII 
 
 From the Literary Remains of Charles Stuart Calverley 
 ( 1 831- 1884). The author of Fly Leaves and Verses afid 
 Tra7islations stands with Praed at the head of modern 
 writers of vers dc socit'tc. In subtle felicity of expression 
 he is superior to Praed. 
 
 CCLXVIII 
 From Songs and Ballads. 
 
 CCLXX 
 
 From verses entitled The Epicurean.
 
 4IO A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXII 
 
 The author of this noble poem was born in December 
 1795, '^3-s educated at Eton and at Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, and died in London in 1846. His poems 
 were collected and his life written by his friend the Rev. J. 
 Moultrie. A man of genius, a finished classical scholar, 
 and an accomplished critic. Walker might have won lasting 
 fame, but eccentricities which bordered on insanity, an infirm 
 will, and some mysterious nervous disease made his life an 
 utter wreck. In his poetry fine genius reveals itself in 
 fitful flashes. His only sustained effort is the above poem, 
 which I have slightly curtailed by the omission of three 
 somewhat weak and certainly not necessary stanzas. 
 
 CCLXXV 
 
 This poem is characteristic of Kingsley, but his strength 
 is seen in his ballads. The Sands of Dee, The Three Fishers, 
 and in such poems as TJie Last Bitccanicr, and above all 
 The Outlaw and that masterpiece of pathos The Mango- 
 Tree. 
 
 CCLXXVI 
 
 To this fine ballad Sir Francis Doyle prefixes the follow- 
 ing extract from the Times. " Some Sheiks and a private 
 of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell 
 into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they 
 were brought before the authorities and commanded to per- 
 form the kotow. The Sheiks obeyed ; but Moyse, the 
 English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate him- 
 self before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked 
 upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill." If 
 Doyle's poem is noble, the act it commemorates is nobler 
 still, and I have taken some pains to ascertain the facts. 
 The soldier's name was John Moyes (not Moyse), who enlisted 
 at Edinburgh in July 1845, stating that he was then seventeen 
 years of age, and a native of Burntisland, Co. Fife. There
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 4" 
 
 is no record of his service at the War Office ; but he was 
 reported as "missing en route from Pehtang to Sien Ho, 
 China, on 12th August i860. Found dead, same date." 
 From information courteously given by the War Office, in 
 the Times for 25th August 1S60 there is a graphic account 
 of his arrest by some Tartars, and his being carried with his 
 fellow-prisoners before a Mandarin in a neighbouring village, 
 where he acquitted himself as the note to the poem describes. 
 There can be no doubt of his identity, and assuredly the 
 Buffs have cause to be proud of John Moyes. 
 
 CCLXXVII 
 
 For an account of Sir Bevil or Beville Grenville, "the most 
 generally loved man" in Cornwall, and Hawker's allusions in 
 this poem, see Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, books vi. 
 and vii. I have corrected the spelling of " Granville," and 
 have ventured also to correct an error in the last stanza. It 
 cannot be at Stamford he fought, it must be with Stamford, 
 i.e. with the Earl of Stamford, the reference plainly being to 
 the engagement with Stamford's troops at Stratton, i6th May 
 1643. Sir Beville was killed in an engagement with Sir W. 
 Waller at Landsdowne, July 1643. 
 
 CCLXXVIII 
 
 This fine ballad is taken from Motherwell's Minstrelsy, 
 Ancient and Modern, p. 30. The name of the author is not 
 given, but it is stated that it was suggested by the following 
 passage in Matthew Paris : " Miles quidam, qui vitam suam 
 in caedibus innocentium, et torneamentis peregerat, et rapinis. 
 Hie omnibus armis militibus armatus, equo nigerrimo inside- 
 bat, qui piceam flammam cum fxtore spumeo, per os et nares, 
 quum urgeretur calcaribus, efflabat" {Matthew Paris, p. 219. 
 Motherwell's note). It is hardly necessary to say that 
 Motherwell himself was the author. I print Motherwell's 
 later text.
 
 412 A TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXIX 
 
 Not a poem characteristic of the Corn Law Rhymer, 
 though occasionally its note may be caught in his lyrics. 
 
 CCLXXX 
 
 From Pericles and Aspasia. 
 
 CCLXXXI 
 
 James Montgomery is no contemptible poet, but he has 
 written nothing else equal to this poem. With its stern 
 pathos may be compared the epigram of Ausonius, Epith. 
 xxxviii. — 
 
 Non nomen, non quo genitus, non unde, quid egi, 
 Mutus in feternum sum, cinis, ossa, nihil. 
 
 Non sum, nee fueram : genitus tamen e nihilo sum ; 
 Mitte, nee exprobres singula, talis eris. 
 
 CCLXXXII 
 
 YrQva. Aurora : a Volume of Verse, published anonymously 
 in 1875. ^r. Watts' poems are perhaps too esoteric for 
 popular appreciation, but they deserve to be known — and 
 some day will be known— more widely than they are now. 
 
 CCLXXXIV 
 
 From Poems and Traiislations by Philip Stanhope 
 Worsley. Worsley is chiefly known by his translations of 
 the Iliad, and of part of the Odyssey into English Spenserian 
 stanzas. 
 
 CCLXXXVI 
 This noble poem was the last which Clough wrote. 
 
 CCLXXXVII 
 From Aurora; see note on cclxxxii.
 
 F MINOR BRITISH FOE TRY 413 
 
 CCLXXXVIII 
 
 I detach the gem from the setting, and omit the four 
 preceding stanzas. 
 
 ccxc 
 
 I read these verses on a tombstone some twenty-five years 
 ago, but 1 have quite forgotten wliere I saw them, nor do I 
 know whether they are original ; I can only say I have never 
 met with them elsewhere. 
 
 ccxci 
 
 I transcribed this epitaph from a tombstone in the Balls 
 Pond Cemetery. The impressive beauty of its imagery and 
 the intensity of its pathos disarm wliat would be impertinent 
 criticism. It may not be the work of a poetic artist, it is for 
 that ver\- reason, I think, the more affecting. I know nothing 
 of its history or of its authorship. 
 
 CCXCII 
 
 Seldom has pathos found more piercing expression than 
 here : it is as though the note of him who told the story of 
 Ugolino and of the supreme lyrist of love's agony had 
 blended. The notes of Dante and Sappho seem to meet, not 
 here only but elsewhere and often, in Emily Bronte's lyrics. 
 
 CCXCIV 
 
 Sir Walter Scott in his diary, 13th May 1837, quotes the 
 last two stanzas of this poem as expressive of his own 
 feelings, adding, "Ay and can I forget the author, the 
 frightful moral of his own vision. What is this world ? a 
 dream within a dream, and as we grow older each step is an 
 awakening." 
 
 ccxcv 
 
 From a collection of poems entitled The Sentence of K aires 
 and other Poems printed at Oxford in 1854, by Henry Nut- 
 combe Oxenham (1829-1888). He was a scholar of Balliol 
 who subsequently entered the Church. In 1857 he seceded
 
 414 A TREASURY 
 
 to the Church of Rome, and became a distinguished theo- 
 logical writer. 
 
 CCXCVII 
 
 From Poems and Son^^s. The verses I have given form 
 the greater part of a poem entitled Bellambt's Maid, but I 
 think they gain by being detached from the context. Henry 
 Clarence Kendall (i 841-1882) was a poet of really fine genius ; 
 his poems, partly descriptive and partly lyrical, deserve to be 
 better known. He was an Australian, and was engaged in 
 journalism at Melbourne. An English Review, the Athenceum, 
 first welcomed his poetry into the world, and I am glad to 
 have the opportunity of giving him a place in a collection of 
 British poetry. I wish I had space to give more from Kendall. 
 
 CCXCVIII 
 
 I copied this from a tombstone, not now to be found there, 
 in Old Saint Pancras Churchyard. I presume it is original, 
 I know it is touching, and therefore it is here. 
 
 CCXCIX 
 
 These verses were found after Crabbe's death on a paper 
 enclosing his wife's wedding ring " nearly worn through 
 before she died." See Life of Crabbe, by his son. 
 
 ccc 
 
 From Collections from the Greek Anthology and from the 
 Pastoral, Elegiac, ajid Dramatic Poets, by Rev. Robert Bland. 
 The lines are paraphrased from or rather suggested by the 
 following verses preserved in Stobaeus : — 
 
 01) fiJkv yap oiJTdiS &v wot' icrTe<pai'Ci)fiivoi 
 TTpovKei/xed' avdea' ovd^ KaraKexpi-ff/J-ivoi, 
 el fiT] KaTaj3di'Tas euO^ws Trbeiv IBei. 
 8ca Tavra yap tol Kal KoKovfrai fxaKapwi, 
 ttSs yap \eyeL tls "6 ixaKapiryj^ ocx^rai."
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 415 
 
 CCCI 
 From lonica. 
 
 CCCII 
 
 Caroline Oliphant (1807-1831) was the niece and namesake 
 of Lady Nairne, the author of The Land 0^ the Leal. Some 
 selections from her papers were published by the Rev. Charles 
 Rogers, in 1869, in a volume containing- the poems of Lady 
 Nairne. From the selection given by Rogers I have taken 
 the extract given ; I have omitted the last stanza in the 
 original. 
 
 CCCIII 
 
 From Whytehead's Poetical Remains a?id Letters. Thomas 
 Wliytehead (born 30th November 181 5 at Thormanby in the 
 North Riding of Yorkshire, died in New Zealand 19th March 
 1843) was a Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, who, 
 subsequently entering the Church, went out with Bishop 
 Sehvyn to New Zealand. His poems have the note of dis- 
 tinction, and deserve to be known better than they are. I 
 wish I had had space for a poem by him entitled The Second 
 Day, which is a truly magnificent piece. 
 
 CCCVII 
 
 From Poems published in 1839. Sterhng is now chiefly 
 remembered, not from any achievements of his own, but from 
 Carlylc's singularly interesting biography of him. 
 
 CCCVIII 
 
 The lady to whose memory these lines are dedicated was 
 one of Landor's early loves ; she died suddenly and pre- 
 maturely in India. Her very name is a poem, and it is 
 amazing to learn that instead of its repetition Landor originally 
 wrote in the second stanza " Sweet Aylmer." 
 
 CCCIX 
 " Before finally quitting Leicestershire my father paid a 
 short visit to his sister at Alborough ; and one day was given
 
 41 6 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 to a solitary ramble among the scenery of bygone years — 
 Parkham and the woods of Glenham then in the first blossom 
 of May. He did not return until night, and in his note-book 
 I find the following brief record of this mournful visit." 
 — Crabbers Life, by his son, chap. viii. 
 
 cccx 
 
 These exquisitely pathetic verses were found in the pocket- 
 book of a patient suffering from monomania, who was under 
 the care of Sir Alexander Morrison. They are to be found 
 in Sir Alexander's Lectures on Insanity, p. 137, note. 
 
 CCCXIV 
 
 These noble lines were written by Emily Bronte very 
 shortly before her death. 
 
 cccxv 
 
 This is Lord Derby's exquisite paraphrase of Bishop 
 Wordsworth's beautiful epitaph on his wife : 
 
 I, nimium dilecta, vocat Deus ; I, bona nostras 
 Pars animae ; maerens altera, disce sequi. 
 
 The translation in the text appeared in the Guardian for 
 1st May 1867. The Latin original will be found in Bishop 
 Charles Wordsworth's Annals of My Early Life. 
 
 CCCXVI 
 
 Composed in 1842 when Lady Nairne had reached her 
 seventy-sixth year. Lady Nairne's three well-known Scotch 
 lyrics and her incomparable La7id <?' the Leal have not been 
 included in this collection for the reasons explained in the 
 preface. 
 
 CCCVII 
 From lonica.
 
 \ 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 About the sweet bag of a bee 
 
 Absence, hear this my protestation . 
 
 A fool and knave with different views 
 
 Ah me, my friend ! it will not, will not last ! 
 
 Ah ! no — when once the mortal yields to Fate 
 
 Ah, what avails the sceptred race . 
 
 A human skull ! I bought it passing cheap 
 
 All love, at first, like gen'rous wine 
 
 All needful works accomplished and endured 
 
 Amongst the thunder-splintered caves 
 
 Arise ! and away ! for the King and the land 
 
 Art thou poore, yet hast thou golden slumbers 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention 
 
 As I in hoary winter's night stood shiveringe in 
 
 Aske me why I send you here 
 
 As Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay . 
 
 As Silvia in her garden stray'd 
 
 As those we love decay, we die in part 
 
 A sweet attractive kinde of grace 
 
 A Virgin blossom in her May . 
 
 Awake thee, my Lady-love 
 
 Away delights, go seek some other dwelling 
 
 Away ; let nought to love displeasing 
 
 Beautie sat bathing by a spring 
 Behave yoursel' before folk 
 Be merrie, man, and tak nat sair in mind 
 Ben Block was a veteran of naval renown 
 Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right 
 Bird of the wilderness .... 
 
 2 E 
 
 the snowe 
 
 PAGE 
 
 96 
 
 26 
 
 168 
 
 165 
 
 228 
 
 356 
 
 303 
 80 
 
 330 
 
 345 
 322 
 
 48 
 
 170 
 
 71 
 
 81 
 
 64 
 
 313 
 
 157 
 
 230 
 
 54 
 134 
 249 
 
 15 
 167 
 
 25 
 301 
 
 8 
 
 169 
 
 332 
 
 259
 
 4i8 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear . 
 Brave spirits, whose advent'rous feet 
 By this flow'ry meadow walking 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God 
 
 Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet 
 
 Can you paint a thought ? or number 
 
 Cease, fond shepherd — cease desiring 
 
 Cease, Stranger, cease, those piercing notes 
 
 Child of a day, thou knowest not 
 
 Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee 
 
 Come away, come sweet Love 
 
 Come, let's mind our drinking 
 
 Come, shepherds, come ! . . . 
 
 Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease 
 
 Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine 
 
 Contented I am, and contented I'll be 
 
 Dark, deep, and cold the current flows . 
 Dazzled thus with height of place . 
 Death, be not proud, though some have called 
 Despair is not for good or wise 
 Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly 
 Distill'd amidst the gloom of night . 
 Drifted snow no more is seen . 
 
 Evening ! as slow thy placid shades descend 
 Even such is time, that takes in trust 
 Evil, if rightly understood 
 
 Fain would I change that note 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray 
 
 False world, thou ly'st ; thou canst not lend 
 
 Father ! the little girl we see . 
 
 Forget not yet the tried intent 
 
 Forth now through all the sad cold earth . 
 
 Fount of a rushing river ! wild flowers wreathe 
 
 Gate that never wholly closes 
 Gentle mourner, fondly dreaming 
 Gentle nymphs, be not refusing 
 God Lyaeus, ever young 
 Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
 
 thee 
 
 PAGE 
 274 
 
 139 
 
 341 
 244 
 100 
 146 
 318 
 
 333 
 352 
 
 37 
 90 
 
 32 
 21 
 
 231 
 140 
 
 327 
 52 
 69 
 
 328 
 
 43 
 204 
 192 
 
 226 
 
 73 
 175 
 
 34 
 
 88 
 
 104 
 
 253 
 20 
 
 339 
 
 277 
 
 295 
 
 344 
 
 18 
 
 33 
 256
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 419 
 
 Go forth, for she is gone ! . . . 
 
 Golden slumbers kisse your eyes 
 
 Good madam, when ladies are willing 
 
 Go order my ponies ; so brilliant a Sunday 
 
 Go, Soul, the body's guest 
 
 Great Nature cloaths the Soul, which is but thin 
 
 Had we but world enough, and time 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
 
 Happy those early dayes, when I 
 
 Have my friends in the Town, in the gay busy Town 
 
 Have ye seen the morning sky ? 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee 
 
 Hither ! hither ! 
 
 Homely hearts doe harbour quiet 
 
 How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! . 
 
 Howe'er, 'tis well, that while mankind 
 
 How gaily is atjjrst begun 
 
 How happy is he bom and taught . 
 
 How long great God, how long must I . 
 
 How we dally out our days ! . 
 
 I AM content, I do not care . 
 
 I am, — cry'd Apollo, when Daphne he woo'd 
 
 I ask no kind return of love . 
 
 Ichot a burde in boure bryht . 
 
 If doughty deeds my ladye please . 
 
 If Fortune's dark eclipse cloud glorie's light 
 
 If from the lustre of the sun . 
 
 If I live to grow old, for I find I go down 
 
 If there were dreams to sell 
 
 If you become a nun, dear 
 
 I loved thee beautiful and kind 
 
 I love thee, mournful, sober-suited Night ! 
 
 I'm a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly 
 
 In myriad swarms, each summer sun 
 
 In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining 
 
 In the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested 
 
 foaming ....•• 
 
 In the merry month of May .... 
 In this marble buri'd lyes .... 
 In vain docs Hymen, with religious vows 
 
 waves are 
 
 PAGE 
 
 338 
 12 
 
 151 
 308 
 
 57 
 132 
 
 85 
 190 
 
 78 
 198 
 
 155 
 
 84 
 264 
 
 51 
 173 
 179 
 
 137 
 
 50 
 118 
 
 113 
 
 187 
 
 143 
 
 181 
 
 2 
 
 162 
 
 67 
 
 150 
 
 94 
 297 
 257 
 146 
 
 195 
 266 
 260 
 212 
 228 
 
 310 
 28 
 
 117 
 92
 
 420 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 I pray thee, leave; love me no more 
 
 I said to my heart, between sleeping and waking 
 
 I saw a chapel all of gold .... 
 
 I sent a ring^a little band .... 
 
 I think, whatever mortals crave 
 
 I thought once how Theocritus had sung . 
 
 It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be . 
 
 I've a yacht in the Island, the Sea Pink of Ryde 
 
 I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west . 
 
 I weigh not Fortune's frowne or smile 
 
 I was, I am not ; smil'd, that since did weepe . 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies 
 
 PAGE 
 
 44 
 
 144 
 166 
 
 240 
 290 
 
 255 
 
 270 
 
 273 
 
 223 
 
 245 
 
 55 
 65 
 99 
 
 Jenny kissed me when we met 
 
 Kind companion of my youth 
 Kitty's charming voice and face 
 
 257 
 
 196 
 
 145 
 
 Last night, among his fellow-roughs 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse . 
 
 Leave me, O Love which reachest but to dust 
 
 Life ! we've been long together 
 
 Like the violet which alone 
 
 Like to the Arctic needle, that doth guide 
 
 Like to the falling of a Starre . 
 
 Lo ! in storms the triple-headed 
 
 Long years have passed since last I strayed 
 
 Lord, when the sense of Thy sweet grace 
 
 Love, a childe, is ever crying . 
 
 Love and Death o' th' way once meeting 
 
 Love for such a cherry lip 
 
 Love has turned his face away 
 
 Love in fantastic triumph sat . 
 
 Love in my bosome, like a bee 
 
 Love not me for comely grace 
 
 Maiden May sat in her bower 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 May ! queen of blossoms 
 Mirry Margaret 
 Mortality, behold, and fear 
 
 320 
 66 
 
 47 
 234 
 
 83 
 122 
 
 128 
 
 276 
 
 280 
 
 123 
 
 19 
 
 98 
 18 
 
 248 
 
 91 
 41 
 22 
 
 285 
 
 49 
 263 
 
 9 
 68
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 421 
 
 My cheek is faded sair, love . . . . 
 
 My God ! If 'tis Thy great decree . 
 My Love o'er the water bends dreaming . 
 My soul, sit thou a patient looker on 
 Mysterious Night ! when our first Parent knew 
 My sweet companion, and my gentle peer 
 
 PAGE 
 
 250 
 132 
 
 243 
 104 
 282 
 123 
 
 Naiad, hid beneath the bank 
 Naught can cheer the dark existence 
 No coward soul is mine . 
 Now, between us all and Him 
 Now I find thy lookes were fained . 
 Now what is Love ? I praye thee, tell 
 
 348 
 
 355 
 361 
 
 359 
 12 
 27 
 
 O DARLING spirits of the snow 
 
 Of a rose, a lovely rose .... 
 
 Of on that is so fayr and bright 
 
 O God ! this is a holy hour 
 
 Oh ! a life in the country how joyous 
 
 O hark to the strain that sae sweetly is ringin' 
 
 Oh ! cold and drear my heart has grown . 
 
 Oh ! forbear to bid me slight her 
 
 O Freedom ! who can tell thy worth 
 
 O happy glow, O sun-bathed tree . 
 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 
 Oh, how could I venture to love one like thee 
 
 Oh ! never, no, never 
 
 Oh, soothing hour, when glowing day 
 
 Oh think not that with garlands crown'd 
 
 Oh, whither does the spirit flee 
 
 O melancholy Bird, a winter's day . 
 
 O mortall folke, you may beholde and see 
 
 O stranger ! if thy wayward lot 
 
 O thou undaunted daughter of desires I 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to 
 
 O you, who mark what flowrets gay 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past 
 
 Once, I remember well the day 
 
 One long look that sore reproved me 
 
 On his death-bed poor Lubin lies . 
 
 On I'arcnt knees, a naked new-born child 
 
 On that deep-retiring shore 
 
 av 
 
 262 
 
 4 
 6 
 279 
 306 
 269 
 351 
 147 
 314 
 284 
 191 
 160 
 
 349 
 220 
 
 347 
 354 
 261 
 
 73 
 222 
 
 120 
 221 
 
 213 
 328 
 216 
 340 
 172 
 230 
 342
 
 422 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Packe, cloudes, away, and welcome day 
 Phillis is my only joy ..... 
 Praise is devotion, fit for mighty mindes . 
 Prithee tease me no longer, dear troublesome friend 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control 
 
 Reflected on the lake I love 
 Retire, and timely, from the world, if ever 
 Rose-cheeked Laura, come .... 
 Roses, their sharpe spines being gone 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth 
 
 Say that I should say, I love ye . . . 
 
 Science ! thou fair effusive ray 
 
 See those cheeks of beauteous dye . 
 
 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray 
 
 She on this clayen pillow layed her head . 
 
 She pass'd away, like morning dew 
 
 Shun delayes, they breede remorse . 
 
 Since thou and the stai's, my dear goddess, decree 
 
 Sing lullaby, as women doe .... 
 
 Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave . 
 
 Sleepe on, my Love, in thy cold bed 
 
 Some blind themselves, 'cause possibly they may 
 
 Some love for wealth and some for hue 
 
 Some say Love ...... 
 
 Stand close around, ye Stygian set . 
 Still-born Silence ! thou that art . 
 Structures, rais'd by morning dreams 
 Sumer is icumen in .... . 
 
 Sun of the soul ! whose cheerful ray 
 
 Sweet, I do not pardon crave .... 
 
 Sweet spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly traine 
 
 Sweit rois of vertew and of gentilness 
 
 Swiftly water sweepeth by ... . 
 
 Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear . 
 
 Tell me, dearest, what is love ? . . . 
 
 Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly 
 
 Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said 
 
 Tender-handed stroke a nettle 
 
 That Jenny's my friend, my delight, and my pride 
 
 The dark grey o' gloamin' .... 
 
 30 
 
 87 
 
 120 
 
 183 
 317 
 
 296 
 
 282 
 
 16 
 
 40 
 
 334 
 
 33 
 
 214 
 
 148 
 
 140 
 
 126 
 
 337 
 
 53 
 299 
 
 60 
 
 ' 358 
 106 
 109 
 
 38 
 24 
 
 358 
 118 
 164 
 I 
 211 
 
 35 
 
 47 
 
 7 
 
 64 
 
 227 
 
 45 
 239 
 205 
 200 
 199 
 152
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 423 
 
 ripple 
 
 light 
 
 er 
 
 "Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed" 
 
 The gowan glitters on the sward 
 
 The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd 
 
 The man, whose daj's of youth and ease 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure 
 
 The moon on the ocean was dimm'd by a 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes 
 
 The night is come, like to the day . 
 
 The pledge we wore I wear it still . 
 
 There are two little births, the one when 
 
 There are who say we are but dust . 
 
 There is a light unseen of eye 
 
 There is a winter in my soul . 
 
 There is blood on that brow . 
 
 "There is no God," the wicked saiih 
 
 There's no such thing as pleasure here 
 
 The ring so worn, as you behold 
 
 The sea hath many thousand sands . 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'e 
 
 The season comes when first we met 
 
 The soul of music slumbere in the shell 
 
 The sturdy rock, for all his strength 
 
 The tears I shed must ever fall 
 
 The world can't hear the small still voice 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light 
 
 They meet but with unwholesome springs 
 
 They who may tell love's wistful tale 
 
 Thine was a lilessed flight 
 
 Think not of the future, the prospect is uncertain 
 
 This world a hunting is . 
 
 Tho' I never get possession 
 
 Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white 
 
 Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know 
 
 Thou wert the first of all I knew 
 
 Thrice happy you, whoe'er you are . 
 
 Thy braes were bonnie. Yarrow stream 
 
 Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep 
 
 Time ! I ever must complaine 
 
 'Tis a child of phansie's getting 
 
 Tis now, since I sat down before . 
 
 To die is landing on some silent shore 
 
 To him is reared no marble tomb . 
 
 To Mercy, I'ity, Peace, and Love . 
 
 153 
 
 241 
 
 193 
 189 
 
 154 
 271 
 251 
 130 
 346 
 85 
 255 
 283 
 
 357 
 323 
 298 
 96 
 346 
 
 23 
 
 128 
 222 
 281 
 56 
 159 
 177 
 
 115 
 81 
 
 243 
 339 
 305 
 
 65 
 147 
 
 17 
 107 
 
 350 
 178 
 202 
 121 
 62 
 
 lOI 
 
 92 
 127 
 233 
 234
 
 424 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Too dearly loved, thy God hath called thee — go 
 
 Too solemn for day, too sweet for night 
 
 To thee, fair freedom ! I retire 
 
 To these, whom Death again did wed 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside 
 
 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean 
 
 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in' 
 
 Twenty lost years have stolen their hours away 
 
 Upon an everlasting tide 
 
 Vertue, if not a God, yet God's chiefe part 
 View me, Lord, a work of Thine 
 
 Waiting, waiting. 'Tis so far 
 
 Wan Heralds of the Sun and Summer gale 
 
 Weary is the life I lead .... 
 
 Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee 
 
 Welcome, welcome, happy paire 
 
 We'll not weep for summer over 
 
 We thank Thee, O God of earth and heaven 
 
 Wharefore sou'd ye tauk o' love 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell 
 
 What is th' existence of man's life . 
 
 What is this life but a straight way to deid 
 
 What pearls, what rubies can . 
 
 What, though you tell me each gay little rover 
 
 What wond'rous life is this I lead . 
 
 When God at first made man . 
 
 When midnight o'er the moonless skies . 
 
 When Orpheus went dovni to the regions below 
 
 When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented 
 
 When the fierce northwind with his airy forces . 
 
 When the leaves in Autumn wither 
 
 Where the pools are bright and deep 
 
 When thy beauty appears .... 
 
 Whether men do laugh or weepe 
 
 Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish brings 
 
 Who is it that this darke night 
 
 Who will say the world is dying ? . 
 
 Will't ne'er be morning ? Will that promis'd light 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 
 
 PAGE 
 
 362 
 
 251 
 213 
 
 126 
 254 
 211 
 208 
 200 
 225 
 
 312 
 
 39 
 70 
 
 288 
 
 193 
 
 332 
 
 II 
 
 134 
 267 
 
 335 
 
 163 
 
 77 
 
 102 
 
 9 
 
 79 
 
 269 
 
 110 
 
 129 
 
 343 
 172 
 252 
 209 
 
 66 
 258 
 149 
 
 46 
 232 
 
 14 
 319 
 112 
 
 72
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 425 
 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me . 
 \Vith these words — good-bye ; adieu 
 Would you be young again ? . 
 Wynter wakeneth al my care . 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing 
 Yes, I behold again the place . 
 You promise heavens free from strife 
 Youth is the virgin nurse of tender Hope 
 Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace 
 
 89 
 
 364 
 
 363 
 
 5 
 
 31 
 359 
 
 288 
 294 
 289
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS 
 
 GIVING DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH 
 
 AiNSLiE, Hew (1792-187S) . 
 Akenside, Mark (1721-1770) . 
 Alexander, Sir William, Earl of Stirling ( 
 Ashe, Thomas ( — d. 18S9) . 
 
 Baillie, Joanna (1762-1851) 
 Barbauld, Anna Letitia (1743- 1825) 
 Bayly, Thomas Haynes ( 1797- 1 839) 
 Bealtie, James (1735- 1S03) . 
 Beaumont, Francis (1584-1616) 
 Beddoes, Thomas Lovell (1803- 1 849) 
 Behn, Aphra (1640- 1689) 
 Bishop, Samuel (1731-1795) • 
 Blake, William (1757-1S27) . 
 Bland, Robert (i779?-i825) . 
 Bourdillon, Francis W. ( — - — ) . 
 Bowles, William Lisle (1762-1850) . 
 Breton, Nicholas (1545?- 1626?) 
 Bronte, Emily Jane (1818-184S) 
 Browne, William (i 591 -1643?) 
 Browne, Sir Thomas (1605- 1682) . 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (i 809-1 861) 
 Brydges, Sir Samuel Egerton (1762- 1837) 
 Butler, Samuel (1612-1680) 
 Byrom, John (1692-1763) 
 
 Calverly, Charles Stuart (183 1- 1884) 
 Campion, Thomas ( — d. 1619) 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 , 
 
 . 
 
 . 163 
 
 , 
 
 . 
 
 214 
 
 1 567?- 1 640) 
 
 67 
 
 
 
 244 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 241, 243 
 
 , 
 
 . 
 
 • 234 
 
 266, 
 
 273, 
 
 305. 308 
 191 
 
 15, 
 
 33, 45, 66, 68 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 . 297 
 
 
 . 
 
 • 91, 92 
 
 
 153, 
 
 168, 212 
 
 •   
 
 166, 
 
 208, 234 
 
 . 347 
 
 • 251 
 
 • 
 
 221, 
 
 227, 233 
 . 28, 33 
 
 • 
 
 340, 
 
 352, 361 
 18 
 
 . 130 
 255 
 
 • 
 
 
 260 
 
 80 
 
 175. 187 
 
 306, 310 
 
 
 16, 
 
 17, 46, 70
 
 428 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Carew, Thomas (1589-1639) . 
 Cartwright, William (1611-1643) . 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh (18 19-186 1) . 
 Coleridge, Hartley (1796- 1849) 
 Collins, John ( — d. 1808) . 
 Congreve, William (1670- 1729) 
 Constable, Henry (1562-16 13) 
 Corbet, Richard, D.D. (1582-1635) 
 Cory, William (1 822?- 1 892) . 
 Cotton, Charles (1630-1687) . 
 Cowley, Abraham (161 8-1 667) 
 Crabbe, George (1754-1832) . 
 Crashaw, Richard (16 13?- 1649) 
 Cunningham, Allan (1784- 1842) 
 
 299> 
 
 313. 
 
 332, 
 
 85 
 334 
 337 
 
 169, 228 
 
 . 88, 89 
 
 43 
 
 77 
 
 288, 348, 364 
 
 91 
 
 107, 108, 123 
 
 346, 356 
 
 120, 123, 127 
 
 270 
 
 Darley, George (1795- 1 846) • • • 240,249,264 
 
 Davenant, Sir William (1605- 1668) . . . .120 
 
 Davies, Sir John (1569-1626) ..... 64 
 
 Davison, Francis (fl. 1602) ...... 35 
 
 Dekker, Thomas (1570?- 164 1?) . . . . . 12, 48 
 
 Derby, Edward Geoffrey, Earl of (1799- 1869) . . . 362 
 
 Dermody, Thomas (1775-1802) ..... 222 
 
 Dibdin, Charles (1745-1814) ..... 272, 274 
 
 Dodington, George Bubb, Lord Melcombe (1691-1762) . 196 
 Donne, John, D.D. (1573-1631) . . . .26, 69, 72 
 
 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings Charles (18 10- 1888) . 313, 320 
 Drayton, Michael (i 563-1 631) ..... 44 
 
 Drummond, William (1585-1649) ..... 47, 65 
 
 Dunbar, William (i465?-i530?) 7, 8, 9 
 
 Dyer, John (1700?-! 758) 198 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer (i 781-1849) 
 EUiot, Jane (1727-1805) 
 
 327 
 223 
 
 Fenton, Elijah (1683-1730) 140 
 
 Finch, Anne, Countess of Winchilsea (1 660?- 1 720) . . 137 
 Flecknoe, Richard ( — d. 1678?) . . . . 98,118 
 
 Fletcher, John (1579-1625) ... 32, 33, 40, 45, 66 
 Ford, John (fl. 1639) 100 
 
 Garth, Samuel (1661-1719) . 
 Gascoign, George (1525?- 1577) 
 Gomersall, Robert (1602- 1646) 
 
 127 
 
 60 
 
 "3
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 429 
 
 Gisbome, Thomas (175S-1846) 
 Graham of Gartmore (1735- 1797) • 
 Green, Matthew (1696- 1737) . 
 Greene, Robert (1560?- 1592) . 
 Greville, Mrs. Fanny ( — - — ) 
 
 Habington, William (1605-1654) . 
 Hagthorpe, John (fl. 1627) 
 Hawes, Stephen ( — d. 1523?) 
 Hawker, Robert Stephen (1S03-1S75) 
 Heath, Robert (fl. 1650) 
 Heber, Reginald, D.D. (17S3-1S26) 
 Hemans, Felicia Dorothea ( 1793" '835) 
 Herbert, George (1 593- 1 633) 
 Herrick, Robert (i 591- 1674) . 
 Heywood, Thomas ( — d. 1650?) . 
 HilU Aaron (1 68 5- 1 750) 
 Hogg, James (1 770-1835) • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 211 
 
 162 
 
 II, 24 
 
 iSi 
 
 81, 83 
 62 
 
 73 
 77, 322 
 
 lOI 
 
 296 
 
 33S, 341. 358 
 129 
 
 , 84, 96, 117 
 
 30, 31. 65 
 
 47, 200, 225 
 
 258, 259 
 
 f289 
 Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Baron (1S09-1885) ■( 342, 
 
 Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey (1517?-! 547) 
 Hunt, James Henry Leigh (i 784-1859) 
 Hunter, Mrs. Anne (1742-1821) 
 
 Johnson, Samuel, D.C.L. (1709-1784) 
 Jones, Ernest Charles (1819-186S) . 
 Jones, Sir William (1746- 1794) 
 
 Kendall, Henry Clarence (1841-1882) 
 King, Henry, D.D. (1592- 1669) . 
 Kingsley, Charles (1819-1875) 
 
 Laidlaw, William (1780-1845) 
 Laing, Ale.xr.nder (1787-1857) 
 Lampson, Frederick Locker (1821-1895) 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage (1775- 1864) 
 
 Langhome, John, D.D. (i735-i779) 
 Latto, Thomas C. (i 818-1894) 
 Leapor, Mary (1722- 1 746) . 
 Lisle, Thomas, D.D. ( -— d. 1767) 
 Lodge, Thomas (1 558?- 1 625) 
 
 I 359 
 
 49 
 
 257 
 
 222 
 
 • 231 
 295 
 
 • 231 
 
 276, 345 
 02, 106, 12S 
 
 319 
 
 201 
 152 
 
 303 
 
 ("253, 255, 282, 294, 
 
 \328, 333. 356. 358 
 178, 211 
 269 
 148, 157 
 172 
 12, 41, 51
 
 43° 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Logan, John (1 748- 1 788) 
 Lovibond, Edward (1724-1775) 
 
 Marvell, Andrew (1621-167S) 
 Marston, Philip Bourke (1850-1887) 
 Mason, William (i 724-1 797) . 
 Middleton, Thomas (i57o?-i627) . 
 Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley (1689- 1 76 
 Montgomery, James (1 77 1- 1 854) 
 Moore, Edward (1712-1757) . 
 Mordaunt, Charles, Earl of Peterborough 
 Motherwell, William (1797-1835) . 
 
 Nabbes, Thomas (1605- ? ) . 
 
 Nairne, Carolina, Baroness Nairne (1766- 1845) 
 
 Newcastle, Margaret, Duchess of (1624-1673) . 
 
 Newman, John Henry (i 801- 1890) 
 
 Noel, Roden Berkeley Wriothesley (1834- 1894) 
 
 Norris, John, of Bemerton (1657-1711) 
 
 Nugent, Robert Craggs, Earl Nugent (1702-1788) 
 
 Oldham, John (1653-1683) . 
 Oliphant, Caroline (i 807-1 831) 
 Oxenham, Henry Nutcombe (1829- 1 888) 
 
 (1658-1735) 
 239> 245. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 190, 202 
 
 213 
 
 85, IIO 
 
 248, 267 
 
 227 
 
 18 
 
 151 
 328 
 199 
 144 
 279, 323 
 
 147. 
 164, 
 
 Parnell, Thomas (1679-17 18) 
 Pattison, William (1706- 1727) 
 Penrose, Thomas (1742- 1779) 
 Philips, Ambrose (1675?- 1749) 
 Philips, Katherine (1631-1664) 
 Pope, Walter, M.D. ( — d. 17 14) 
 Praed, Winthrop Mackworth (1802- 1839) 
 Prior, Matthew (i 664-1 721) . 
 Procter, Bryan Waller (1787- 1874) 
 
 QUARLES, Francis (1592- 1644) 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter (1552-1618) . 
 Rodger, Alexander (1784- 1846) 
 Rogers, Samuel (1763- 1855) . 
 Rossetti, Christina Georgina (1830- 1 894) 
 Roydon, Matthew ( — ) . 
 
 134 
 
 • 363 
 
 132 
 
 317, 318 
 262 
 118 
 146 
 
 121 
 
 349 
 344 
 
 149, 173 
 
 139, 150 
 
 204 
 
 155 
 
 96 
 
 94 
 290 
 
 154, 170, 172, 179 
 254 
 
 104, 112, 122 
 
 27, 57, 73 
 
 301 
 
 281 
 
 . 285 
 
 54
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 431 
 
 Sedlev, Sir Charles (1639-1701) 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-15S6) 
 
 Shenstone, William (17 14-1763) 
 
 Skelton, John (1460 7-1529) . 
 
 Smart, Christopher (1722-1770) 
 
 Smith, Charlotte (1749-1S06) 
 
 Southwell, Robert (1560- 1 595) 
 
 Spencer, Hon. William Robert (1770- 1834) . 
 
 Sterling, John (I S06- 1 S44) .... 
 
 Stevens, George Alexander ( — d. 1784) 
 
 Stewart, Helen D'Arcy, Mrs. Dugald (1766- 1838) 
 
 Suckling, Sir John (i 609-1 641) 
 
 Sylvester, Joshua (1563-161S) 
 
 1739 
 
 1802) 
 
 Temple, Henry, Lord Talmerston ( 
 
 Tickell, Thomas (16S6-1740). 
 
 Thom, William (179S-1S4S) . 
 
 Thomson, James (1700-174S) 
 
 Thomson, James (1S34-1882) 
 
 Thurlow, Edward, Lord Thurlow (178 1 -1829) 
 
 Vaughan, Henry (1621-1695) 
 
 Walker, William Sidney (1795-1846) 
 Waller, Edmund (1605-1687) 
 Warton, Thomas (1728-1790) 
 Watts, Isaac, D.D. (1674-174S) 
 Watts, Mrs. Alaric A. (1800-1873). 
 Watts, Alaric Alexander (i 797-1864) 
 
 Watts, Alaric Alfred (1825 ) . 
 
 Webster, Alexander (1707- 1784) . 
 
 Webster, Mrs. Augusta ( 1894) 
 
 White, Joseph Blanco (i 775-1 841) . 
 Whitehead, William (171 5-1785)   
 Whytehead, Thomas (1815-1843) . 
 Wither, George (1 588- 1 667) . 
 Wolfe, Charles ( 1 79 1 - 1 823) . 
 Worsley, Philip Stanhope ( -d 
 
 Wotton, Sir Henry (1568- 1 639) 
 
 Wroth, Lady Mary ( ) 
 
 W'yatt, Sir Thomas (1503- 1542) 
 
 1866) 
 
 
 •AGE 
 
 
 88 
 
 14, 39 
 
 , 47 
 
 165, 
 
 213 
 
 . 
 
 9 
 
 . 
 
 205 
 
 193. 195. 
 
 220 
 
 • 53 
 
 , 71 
 
 252, 
 
 343 
 
 
 355 
 
 
 140 
 
 
 159 
 
 . 
 
 92 
 
 • 55. 64 
 
 , 66 
 
 _ , 
 
 232 
 
 143, 
 
 228 
 
 
 250 
 
 
 230 
 
 
 243 
 
 261, 
 
 263 
 
 78, 
 
 "5 
 
 251, 2S3, 
 
 314 
 
 
 128 
 
 . 
 
 193 
 
 
 209 
 
 
 354 
 
 
 281 
 
 330, 
 
 335 
 
 
 160 
 
 . 284, 
 
 288 
 
 . 
 
 282 
 
 183, 189, 
 
 216 
 
 350. 
 
 351 
 
 
 79 
 
 . 
 
 256 
 
 
 332 
 
 
 50 
 
 
 19 
 
 
 20 
 
 Anonymocs, I, 2, 4, 5, 6, 21, 22, 23, 25, 34, 37, 38, 56, 99, 
 126, 134, 145. '^7. 192, 299, 339. 346, 357-
 
 INDEX OF POEMS 
 
 A Boy's Song. /. Hogg . 
 
 A Bridal Song. /. Fletcher 
 
 A Contented Mind. _/. Sylvester 
 
 A Cruel Beauty. T. Campion 
 
 A Death Scene. E. Bronte 
 
 A Dirge. Mrs. Hctnans . 
 
 A Dirge. /F. Cory 
 
 Advice. Ltiily M. IV. Montagu 
 
 Ae Happy Hour. A. Laing 
 
 A Farewell to the World. Sir T, Broxvne 
 
 A Father's Blessing. A'. Corbet 
 
 After Summer. P. B. Marston 
 
 Against Pleasure. K. Philips 
 
 Against them who lay Unchastity to the Sex of Women 
 
 W. Habington 
 A Human Skull. P. L. Lantpson . 
 A Hymn to God the Father. J. Donne 
 A Hymn to the Virgin. Anon 
 A Life in the Counlr}'. C. S. Calverley 
 A Marriage Blessing. Sir P. Sidney 
 Amorel. IV. Congreve 
 An Elegy. A. Co^uley 
 An Epistle to a Friend in Town. J. Dyer 
 An Epitaph. R. I/erriekQ) 
 An Epitaph. Anon. 
 An Epitaph. Anon. 
 An Epitaph. Anon. 
 An Epitaph. Edward, Lord Derby 
 An Epitajjh upon Husband and Wife who Died and were 
 
 I'uricd Together. R. Crashaiu 
 
 2 F 
 
 PAGE 
 40 
 
 55 
 17 
 340 
 341 
 348 
 146 
 152 
 130 
 
 77 
 
 267 
 
 96 
 
 81 
 
 303 
 
 72 
 
 6 
 
 306 
 
 39 
 
 88 
 
 123 
 
 198 
 
 117 
 
 134 
 339 
 
 346 
 362 
 
 126
 
 434 A TREASURY 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Night Piece. T. Parnell . . . 173 
 
 An Invitation, y. Fletcher 
 
 
 
 32 
 
 Answer. Lady M. W. Montagu . 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 A Petition to Time. B. W. Procter 
 
 
 
 254 
 
 A Picture. J. Thotnsott . 
 
 
 
 243 
 
 A Picture. H. C. Kendall 
 
 
 
 276 
 
 A Plea for Pity. fV. Dioibar 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph. T. Dennody 
 
 
 
 222 
 
 Apollo making Love. T. Tickell . 
 
 
 
 143 
 
 A Portrait. M. Roydon . 
 
 
 
 54 
 
 A Prayer. T. Catytpion 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 A Reasonable Affliction. M. Prior 
 
 
 
 172 
 
 A Requiem. H. King 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 A Retrospect. A. Hill . 
 
 
 
 225 
 
 A Retrospect. G. Crabhe . 
 
 
 
 356 
 
 A Simile. IV. Pattison . 
 
 
 
 139 
 
 A Song. T. Heywood 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 A Song. T. Heywood 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 A Song. T. Parnell 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 A Song. A. Hill 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 A Thanksgiving. A. A. Watts 
 
 
 
 335 
 
 A Tranquil Soul. J. Oldham 
 
 
 
 121 
 
 A Useful Hint. A. Hill . 
 
 
 
 200 
 
 Ave. R. Greene . 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 A Voice from the Grave. A. A. Watts 
 
 
 
 • 330 
 
 A Warning for Wooers. Anon. 
 
 
 
 38 
 
 Beauty's Beauty. /. Ford 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 Be Merrie, Man. W. Dunbar 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 Ben Block. /, CoUitis 
 
 
 
 169 
 
 Blow Northern Wind. Anon, 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 Butterfly Beau. T. H. Bayly 
 
 
 
 . 266 
 
 Butterfly Life. T. H. Bayly 
 
 
 
 269 
 
 By and By. A. Webster . 
 
 
 
 . 288 
 
 Careless Content. J. Byrom 
 
 
 
 . 187 
 
 Carpe Diem. Lord Houghton 
 
 
 
 . 289 
 
 Castara. W. Habington . 
 
 
 
 • 83 
 
 Chanson ^ Boire. C. Cotton 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 Chloe's Triumph. Earl of Peterborough 
 
 
 
   144 
 
 Contemplation. M. Green 
 
 
 
 • 177 
 
 Content. T. Dekker{}) . 
 
 
 
 . 48 
 
 Cuckoo Song. Anon. 
 
 
 
 I
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 435 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Damelus' Song to his Diaphenia. H. Comtable . . 43 
 
 Death. S. Garth ..... 
 
 
 127 
 
 Death in Life. J. Thomson 
 
 
 
 230 
 
 Death of Dr. Levet. Dr. Johnson 
 
 
 
 231 
 
 Departed Friends. H. Vaughan . 
 
 
 
 "5 
 
 Departed Joys. H. C. Kendall 
 
 
 
 345 
 
 Desiderium. P. S. Worsley 
 
 
 
 332 
 
 Despair. Anon. .... 
 
 
 
 357 
 
 Dirce. W. S. Landor 
 
 
 
 358 
 
 Dirge at Sea. Mrs. Hcmans 
 
 
 
 358 
 
 Disillusion. \V. Shenstone 
 
 
 
 165 
 
 Dream Pedlar)'. T. L. Beddoes . 
 
 
 
 297 
 
 Early Death. //. Coleridge 
 
 
 
 337 
 
 Earthly and Heavenly Love. R. Heber 
 
 
 
 296 
 
 Echo and Silence. E. Brj'dges 
 
 
 
 260 
 
 Epitaph. T. Heyiuood 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 Epitaph. Anon. . 
 
 
 
 126 
 
 Epitaph. IV. Mason 
 
 
 
 227 
 
 Euphelia and Cloe. M. Prior 
 
 
 
 154 
 
 Evening. W. L. Bowks . 
 
 
 
 226 
 
 Even -Song. S. Hawes 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 Fair Helen of Kirconnel. Anon. 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 Faith and Reason. A. Cowley 
 
 
 
 109 
 
 Fallentis Semiu Vilae. J. Langhorne 
 
 
 
 178 
 
 Fati Valet Hora Benigni. S. Bishop 
 
 
 
 217 
 
 Flowers without Fruit. Cardinal Newman 
 
 
 
 • 317 
 
 For my own Monument. M. Prior 
 
 
 
 . 170 
 
 Fortune and Virtue. Sir II. IVotton 
 
 
 
 • 52 
 
 Friendship. T. Penrose . 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 Halbert the Grim. IV. Motlierwell 
 
 
 
 • 323 
 
 Heavenward. Lady Nairne 
 
 
 
 • 363 
 
 Holy Thursday. W. Blake 
 
 
 
 . 208 
 
 Hope. J. Langhorne 
 
 
 
 211 
 
 Hope. E. C.Jones 
 
 
 
 • 295 
 
 Hope and Wisdom. W. S. Landor 
 
 
 
 • 294 
 
 Hymn to Freedom. S. Walker . 
 
 
 
 • 314 
 
 Hymn to Light. A. Cowley 
 
 
 
 . 107 
 
 Hymn to Science. M. Akcnside . . .214 
 
 Illusion. Earl 0/ Stirling 
 
 . 
 
 
 • 67
 
 436 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 Illusion. M. Prior 
 
 In a Hermitage. W. Whitehead . 
 
 In Bliss. T. Carew 
 
 In Memoriam. T. Whytehead 
 
 Inscription on a Fountain. E. Lovibond 
 
 In the Gloaming. C. S. Calverley 
 
 In the Grave. T. Tickell . 
 
 Invocation to Silence. R. Flecknoe 
 
 It's Hame and it's Hame. A. Czmniiigkam 
 
 Jeanie Morrison. W. Motherwell 
 
 KiRKSTALL Abbey Revisited. A. A. Watts 
 
 Last Lines. E. Bronte . 
 
 Last Words. Bul>l> Dodington 
 
 Lebewohl. W. Cory 
 
 Life. W. Dunbar 
 
 Life's Pageant. T. Campion 
 
 Life's Progress. Countess of Winchilsea 
 
 Light. F. W. Bozirdillon . 
 
 Lines Written at the Hot- Wells, Bristol. 
 
 Little Aglae. W. S. Landor 
 
 Live To-Day. E. Fenton . 
 
 Loss in Delay. R. Southwell 
 
 Lord Palmerston 
 
 Love. 
 
 Ano7i. 
 
 Love. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Love. 
 
 S. Butler . 
 
 Love. 
 
 P. B. Marston 
 
 Love and Beauty. W. Browne 
 Love and Death. A'. Flecknoe 
 Love and Marriage. A. Behn 
 Love and Truth. N. Breton 
 Love Armed. A. Behn . 
 Love's Claim. T. Middleton 
 Love's Diet. W. Motherwell 
 Love's Plea. Sir T. Wyatt 
 Love's Triumph. A. Webster 
 Lucy's Flittin'. W. Laidlaw 
 Lullaby. T. Dekker(i) . 
 
 Maiden May. C. Rossetti 
 
 Meet We no Angels, Pansie ? T. Ashe 
 
 PAGE 
 
 350 
 213 
 310 
 228 
 118 
 270 
 
 280 
 
 361 
 196 
 
 364 
 
 9 
 46 
 
 137 
 251 
 232 
 
 253 
 140 
 
 53 
 23 
 34 
 80 
 248 
 18 
 98 
 92 
 33 
 91 
 18 
 
 239 
 
 20 
 
 160 
 
 200 
 
 12 
 
 285 
 244
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 437 
 
 Meliora Latent. /. Sterling 
 
 Midnight. IV. Motherwell 
 
 Mimnermus in Church. W. Con' . 
 
 Mira's Song. M. Leapor . 
 
 My Cream-Coloured Ponies. T. H. Bayly 
 
 355 
 279 
 2S8 
 14S 
 308 
 
 Nature's Charms. J. Beattie 
 Nature's Lessons. J. Sylvester 
 Night and Death. /. B. White 
 Night-fall. C. Smith 
 
 191 
 66 
 
 282 
 220 
 
 Old Age. E. Waller . . . . .128 
 
 On a Child's Tomb. A>u>n . . . -339 
 
 On the Death of a Little Girl. T. WhytcheaJ . -351 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey. F. Beaumont . 68 
 
 On Time. /. Hagthorpe . . . . .62 
 
 Origin of Evil. J. Byrom . . . . 175 
 Osme's Song. G. Darky ..... 264 
 
 O Tell me how to Woo Thee. Graham of G art more. . 162 
 
 Parvum Sufficit. T. Lodge 
 
 Phillida and Corydon. N. Breton 
 
 Phosphore Redde Diem. F. Quarks 
 
 Plaint. E. Elliot . 
 
 Popular Theology. A. II. Clough 
 
 Praise and Prayer. W. Davenant . 
 
 Prayer. R. Crasha-u 
 
 Prayer. H. Coleridge 
 
 Prayer for Indifference. Mrs. Greville 
 
 Prayer to Diana, Anon. . 
 
 Presence in Absence. J. Donne (?) 
 
 Present and Future. A'. Gomersall 
 
 Prudence. A. Rodger 
 
 Purification. W. Ilalnngton 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus. A. II. Clough 
 
 Remembrance. Mrs. Hunter 
 Remembrance. E. Bronte 
 Respice Finem. F. Quarlts 
 Retirement. W. S. Landor 
 Rosalind's Madrigal. T. Lodge 
 
 51 
 
 28 
 
 112 
 
 327 
 
 298 
 120 
 
 123 
 332 
 181 
 299 
 26 
 
 113 
 301 
 
 132 
 
 3J3 
 
 222 
 
 352 
 104 
 282 
 
 41
 
 438 
 
 A TREASURY 
 
 H. Clough 
 
 Saint Teresa. R. Crashaw 
 
 Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth. A. 
 
 Semele to Jupiter. W. Congreve 
 
 Serenade. G. Darley 
 
 Silent Music. T. Campion 
 
 Silvia and the Bee. AL Leapor 
 
 Sir Beville. R. S. Hawker 
 
 Slighted Love. Mrs. D. Stewart 
 
 Snowdrops. C. Smith 
 
 Snowdrops. R. Noel 
 
 Song. Beatwwtit and Fletcher 
 
 Song. Lady M. Wroth . 
 
 Song. R. Greene . 
 
 Song. C. Sedley . 
 
 Song. A. Hill 
 
 Song. J. Baillie . 
 
 Song. C. Wolfe . 
 
 Song. C. Dibdin 
 
 Song. C. Oliphant 
 
 Song of the Forsaken. W. Tliom 
 
 Song to David. C. Smart 
 
 Song to May. Loi'd Thnrlow 
 
 Soul and Body. Dnchess of Newcastle 
 
 Stanzas. H. N. Oxenham 
 
 Strephon's Palinode. F. Davison 
 
 Sursum Cor. Sir P. Sidney 
 
 The Alchemy of Love. G. Wither 
 
 The Aspiration. J. Nor7-is 
 
 The Bag of the Bee. R. Herrick 
 
 The Bird's Release. Airs. Hemans 
 
 The Blind Lassie. 7. C. Latto 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow. J. Logan 
 
 The Burning Babe. R. Southwell 
 
 The Character of a Happy Life. H. Wotton 
 
 The Chaunt of the Brazen Head. W. M. Praed 
 
 The Common Lot. J. Montgomery 
 
 The Day of Judgment. I. Watts . 
 
 The Defiled Sanctuary. W. Blake 
 
 The Dilemma. E. Moore . 
 
 The Dirge. H. ICing 
 
 The Divine Image. W. Blake 
 
 The Enthusiast. W. Whitehead . 
 
 PAGE 
 1 20 
 
 334 
 89 
 
 249 
 16 
 
 157 
 322 
 
 159 
 193 
 
 262 
 
 15 
 19 
 24 
 
 87 
 147 
 243 
 256 
 274 
 
 349 
 250 
 205 
 263 
 132 
 344 
 35 
 47 
 
 79 
 
 118 
 
 96 
 
 338 
 
 269 
 
 202 
 
 71 
 
 50 
 290 
 
 328 
 209 
 166 
 199 
 102 
 
 234 
 216
 
 OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 439 
 
 The Epicurean. F. II. Doyle 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest. J. Elliot 
 
 The Funeral Feast. R. Bland 
 
 The Garden. A. Marvell . 
 
 The Gift. A. ]Vebster 
 
 The Hamlet. T. Warton . 
 
 The Happy Life. Earl of Suney . 
 
 The Happy Swain. A. Philips 
 
 The Haymaker's Roundelay. Atwn. 
 
 The Heron. Lord Thurlow 
 
 The Indifferent. W. Pattison 
 
 The Isles of the Sirens. Cardinal Newtnan 
 
 The Lie. F. Quarks 
 
 The Long- Ago. Lord Houghton . 
 
 The Lullaby of a Lover. G. Gascoign 
 
 The Magnet. F. Quarks . 
 
 The >Lirriage Ring. G. Crabbe 
 
 The Modern Aristippus. ]V. Uliiiehcad 
 
 The Night-Piece to Julia, R. Herrick 
 
 The Nun. Leigh Hunt 
 
 The Old Man's Wish. W. Pope . 
 
 The Plaything. Anon. 
 
 The Power of Love. 
 
 The Power of Music. T. Lish 
 
 The Primrose. R. Herrick 
 
 The Private of the Buffs. F. H. Doyk 
 
 The Pulley. G. Herbert . 
 
 There is a Light. VV. S. Walker . 
 
 The Requiem of Youth. Mrs. A. Watts 
 
 The Retreat. H. Vaughan 
 
 The Sea Pink. T. H. Bayly 
 
 The Second Marriage. S. Bishop . 
 
 The Shepherd's Joy. Atwn. 
 
 The Siege. /. Suckling . 
 
 The Siren. T. Lodge 
 
 The Skylark. /. Hogg . 
 
 The Song of the Rose. Anon. 
 
 The Standing Toast. C. Dibdin . 
 
 The .Sturdy Rock. Anon. 
 
 The Tamar Spring. R. S. Hawker 
 
 The Toper. G. A. Stevais 
 
 The Touch Stone. S. Bishop 
 
 The Trysting Hour. /. Baillie 
 
 W, Cartwright 
 
 PAGE 
 
 312 
 223 
 
 347 
 no 
 284 
 
 193 
 49 
 
 155 
 192 
 261 
 150 
 318 
 
 57 
 342 
 
 60 
 122 
 346 
 183 
 
 84 
 257 
 
 94 
 145 
 
 85 
 172 
 
 81 
 320 
 129 
 283 
 
 354 
 78 
 
 273 
 
 153 
 21 
 92 
 12 
 
 259 
 
 4 
 271 
 
 56 
 277 
 140 
 168 
 241
 
 440 A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY 
 
 The Visionary. W. R. Spencer 
 
 The World's Age. C. Kingsley 
 
 The World a Game. W. Drimimond 
 
 The World's Promises. F. Quarks 
 
 The World's Treasures. E. Moore 
 
 The Worm. T. Gisborne . 
 
 Think not of the Future. T. H. Bayly 
 
 This World's Joy. Anon. 
 
 Time and Grief. W. L. Bowles 
 
 Time and Hope. W. Raleigh 
 
 To a Lady making Love. Lady M. W. Montagu 
 
 To Bacchus. Beaumont a}id Fletcher 
 
 To Colin Cloute. Anon. . 
 
 To Death. /. Dotine 
 
 To Helene — on a Gift-Ring carelessly lost. G. Darley 
 
 To His Coy Love. M. Drayton . 
 
 To His Coy Mistress. A. iMarvell 
 
 To His Love. Anon 
 
 To Maystress Margaret Hussey. J. Skelton \. 
 
 To-morrow. J. Collins . . . f*;" 
 
 To Night. C. Smith 
 
 To Spring and Death. W. Drummond 
 
 To the Cuckoo. J. Logan 
 
 True Love. P. Sidney 
 
 What is Love ? W. Raleigh (?) . 
 
 What is Love ? Beaiimont and Fletcher 
 
 What is Love ? R. Heath 
 
 What is the World ? /. Sylvester . 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends. W. R. Spencer 
 
 Willie and Helen. H. Ainslie 
 
 Winifreda. Anoit. 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henley. W. Shenstone 
 
 343 
 
 319 
 
 65 
 104 
 
 164 
 211 
 
 305 
 
 5 
 221 
 
 73 
 151 
 33 
 25 
 69 
 240 
 
 44 
 
 85 
 
 37 
 
 9 
 
 228 
 
 19s 
 
 47 
 
 190 
 
 14 
 
 27 
 
 45 
 
 lOI 
 
 64 
 
 252 
 
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 167 
 213 
 
 Youth and Age. 
 
 Lo7'd Houghton 
 
 359 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh
 
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