/fi-A' '-^7'^- k *M A GALLERY OF FAMOUS ENGLISH MD AMERICM POETS WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY BY HENRY COPPEE, LL.D. pnUSlDF.NT OF THE LEIIIGH UNIVEHSITV. RICHLY ILLUSTRATED WITH NEAKLY ONE HUNDKED AND FIFTY STEEL ENGnAVlNGS, EXECUTED IN THE FINEST STYLE OF THE ART, MOSTLY FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY DISTINGUISHED ARTISTS. PHILADELPHIA J. M. STODDART & CO. 1874. Entei'ed accoriling to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, hy .1. SI. STODDART & CO., In Hie Office of the I.ilirjiri:in of Congress, at Washington. CAXTON I'RKSS nv T< II r !• M > % A, CO., !• II 1 r. A i)i: j.rii I A. CONTENTS. JAMES THOMSON. ^^^^ HYMN ON THE SEASONS .... 33 ON A COUNTRY LIFE 40 WILLIAM COLLINS. ODE TO EVENING 45 DIEGE IN OYMBELINE .... 48 THOMAS GRAY. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CnURCHYAED 49 THE BARD 5G OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE EESEBTED VILLAGE ... 62 RETALIATION 80 JAMES BEATTIE. MORNING LANDSCAPE 87 THE HERMIT 88 THE SAGE 91 WILLIAM COWPER. rural sounds 92 love of nature 94 lines on the receipt of my mother's picture 97 a comparison 101 ROBERT BURNS. tam o'shanter 102 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN . . Ill TO MARY IN HEAVEN .... 115 SAMUEL RODGERS. coll' ALTO 117 THE BRIDES OF VENICE .... 121 DON GARZIA 126 GINEVRA 129 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. A RURAL HERO 133 THE SKATER 136 PAOK ODE TO DUTY 138 TUB ECLIPSE OP THE SUN . . . 140 WALTER SCOTT. THE BATTLE OP FLODDEN . . . 144 THE CYPRESS WRE-ATH ... 1G3 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI .... 165 LOVE 169 ROBERT SOUTHEY. SUNDAY MORNING 171 THE HOLLY-TREE . - 176 THE DESERT-THIRST 177 CHARLES LAMB. HESTER 1.80 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES . . . 182 THE FAMILY NAME .... 183 THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC . . 184 THE soldier's DREAM .... 188 HALLOWED GROUND 190 HORACE SMITH. HY'MK TO THE FLOWERS . . . 195 ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAIT MUMMY 198 THOMAS MOORE. I SAW FROM THE BEACH . . . 201 WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY's TEARS 202 OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN 204 DRINK TO HER 205 JAMES MONTGOMERY. RECLUSE 207 THE FIELD OP THE WORLD . . 209 2063836 IV CONTENTS. REGINALD HEBER. THE HCXTIXG-PAKTr SONG !• SEE THElt OX THEIR WIXDISG WAV . JAMES GRAHAME. THE SABBATH HENRY KIRKE AVHITE. THE STAE OP BETHLEHEM . . . PEESrOXITION OF DEATH . . . LORD BYRON. PAGE 211 214 214 21G 224 226 VEXICE .... EVESIXO TWILIGHT MRS. SOUTHEY. THE pauper's death-bed . THE MAUINEr'S HTMX . . .JOHN KEBLE. MORNIXG . . . CHRISTMAS DAY GOOD ERIDAY EVESING . 227 234 239 241 243 246 249 252 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE CLOUD . . TO' A SKYLARK 256 259 FELICIA HEMANS. WASniXGTOX S STATUE . THE BETTER LAXD THE RHINE ... A PARTING SOXG . JOHN KEATS ODE ON A GRECIAN URN TO AUTUMN SONNET TO KOSCIUSKO . WILLIAM MOTHERWELL THE SUMMER MONTHS .... THOMAS HOOD. nuTU ... ... THE nEATIl-BKl/ THE nniDOE of sioi! THOMAS BAIJINGTON MACAULAY Tin: PROPHECY OF CAPYS 264 265 267 269 270 272 274 276 280 281 282 :'.-7 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. loved once . . . cowper's grave . THE lady's "yes' THE SLEEP . . . PAGE . 302 . 305 . 309 . 310 SEEAPH and POET 312 ALFRED TENNYSON. THE BROOK 313 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRI- GADE 322 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE BELLE OP THE BALL . . . 325 CHARLES MACKAY. TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS . . 330 WHAT MIGHT BE DONE .... 332 BRYAN W. PROCTER. A PETITION TO TIME 333 THE hunter's SONG 334 SAMUEL LOVER. THE rOUR-LE.AVED SHAMROCK . 336 DERMOT o'dOWD ... . . 337 I LEAVE YOU TO GUESS .... 339 CHARLES SWAIN. VOICES 341 ROBERT BROWNING. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 342 ALGERNON CHARLES SWIN- BURNE. A LE.WETAKING 344 A CHRISTM.VS CAROL 346 WILLIAM MORRIS. SEPTEMBER . 349 OCTOBER 350 NOVEMBER 351 OWEN MEREDITH. (ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.) A FANCY 353 JEAN INGELOW. HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE .356 CONTENTS. WILLIAM C. BRYANT, page A FOREST nVMK 363 THANATOPSIS 367 TUE PAST 371 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. MARCO BOZZAEIS 374 N. P. WILLIS. THE HEALING OF ME DAUGHTER OP JAIRHS 379 DEDICATION HYMN 384 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP . . 388 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA . . . 401 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE OLD MAS DRE.UIS .... 403 THE DE.4.C0N's MASTERPIECE . . 405 EDGAR A. POE. THE BELLS 410 THE HAUNTED PALACE .... 414 GEORGE p. MORRIS. WOODMAN, SPAKE TH.W TREE . . 416 "LAND no!" 418 GEORGE H. BOKER. A BALL.ID OF SIB JOHN FRANKLIN 419 WILLIAM G. SIMMS. THE BROOKLET 42.5 THE LOST PLEIAD 426 BILLOWS 428 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. SABBATH EVENING 429 TO A LADY 431 THOMAS MAClvELLAR. PITY, GOOD GENTLEFOLKS . . . 432 A. C. COXE. THE heart's SONG 435 WAYSIDE HOMES ...... 436 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE SUMMER STORM 438 TEE FIRST SNOW-FALL .... 441 JOHN GREENLEAF WHIXXIER. THE BIVEE PATH 443 THE VANISHEHS 445 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. '448 449 THE SEA LEAVES WILLIAM ALLAN BUTLER. THE BEGGAR 450 BAYARD TAYLOR. THE RETURN OF SPRING . . . 452 JOHN GODFREY SAXE. THE OLD CHAPEL BELL .... 454 LOOKING OUT INTO THE NIGHT . 459 JOHN HAY. JIM BLUDSO . . 461 LITTLE BREECHES 463 FRANCIS BRET IIARTE. THE TWO SHIPS 466 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TKUIUP UL JAMES 467 JOAQUIN MILLER. KIT CARSON'S RIDE 470 HENRY TIMROD. love's LOGIC 477 CHARLES G. LELAND. THE fisher's COTTAGE .... 479 WILL CARLETON. GOIN' home TO-DAY 481 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. (timothy TITCOMB.) eureka 484 TO A sleeping singer .... 4S5 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. CHARLIE 486 HENRY COPP^E. l' ENVOI 488 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Subject. besedicti02j of the alr . The Bakd Portrait of James Thomson Spring Summer Autumn ... Winter On a Countrt Life On a Country Life Evening .... Portrait of Thomas Gray The Elegy . . . The Elegy . . . The Bard .... Cenotaph to Oliver Goldsmith The Deserted Village . , The Deserted Village . . The Deserted Village The Deserted Village .... Retaliation Retaliation Morning Landscape The Hermit -. , Rural Sounds Love of Nature Lines on the Receipt of my Mo^ ther's Picture Portrait of Robert Burn- Tam O'Shanter Man was made to Mourn . To Mary in Heaven . . . Portrait of Samuel Roger: Coll' Alto The Brides of Vr^i i Don Qakzia . GiNEVRA Author. Whitticr . Thomson Thomson Thomson Thomson Thomson Thomson Collins (rray Gray Qray Goldsmith Goldsmith Goldsmith Goldsmith Goldsmith Goldsmith Beatlie Beattie Oowpcr Cowpcr Cowper Bu7-ns Bnnis Burns Portrait of William Wordsworth A Rural Heri' The Skater . Mt Dwelling Iio;/ers Rogers Rogers Rogers Wordsworth Wordsworth Wordsworth Designer. Hamilton Schmolzc . J. Gilbert Schmolze . Schmoke Schmolzc Schmolzc Schmolzc Schmolzc Devcreux Schmolzc Oreswick Schmolzc Schmolze Schmolzc Schmolze Schmolze Schmolze Schmolze Devereux Schmolzc Schmolze Schmolzc Devereux Schmolze Schmolze Schmolze Lawrence Tamer Vasari Schmolzc Schmolzc Davie Pago 1 2 33 34 36 38 39 41 44 4(3 49 51 55 Gl 62 63 67 70 72 SO 85 87 89 92 96 97 102 100 111 115 117 120 125 126 130 133 134 13G 143 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Vll Sulijocl. Author. Designer. I'ogo PouTEAiT OF Walter Scott Leslie . . . H'\ The Battle of Flobden .... Scotl .... Schmolze . . 155 The Battle of Flodden • . . . Scott .... Schmolze . . 162 The Cypress Wreath Scott .... Schmolze . . 164 Mont Blanc Qohridrjc . . . Schmolze . . 105 1,0 ve Coleridge . . . Schmolze . . 169 Sunday Mornixh Southcy . . . Schmolze . . 17'1 The Desert-Thiust Soulhey . . . Schmolze . . 179 Portrait of Charles Lamb 180 The Old Familiar Faces .... Lamb. . . . Schmolze . . 182 Portrait of Thomas Campbell Lawrence . . 184 Battle of the Baltic Campbell . . Turner . . . 186 Soldier's Dream Campbell . . Turner . . . 188 Hallowed Ground Campbell . . Schuesselc . . 190 Hallowed Ground Campbell . . Schmolze . . . 191 Hallowed Ground Campbell . . Turner . ... 192 Hymn to the Flowbus Horace Smith . Schmolze . . 195 Portrait of Thomas Moore Lawrence . . 201 Were not the Sinful Mary's Teaks Muorc .... SchuesseU . . 203 Drink to Her Moore .... Deverewx . . 205 Recluse — The Fountain .... Montgomery . Turner ... 207 Portrait of Reginald Heber 211 The Hunting-Pariy Hcbcr . . . Schmolze . . 212 I see them on their Winding Way Heber . . . Schmolze . . 215 The Sabb.\th Orahame . . Schmolze . . . 216 The Sabbath Orahame . . Schmolze . 218 The Sabbath Grahamc . . Schmolze . . 220 Portrait of Henky Kirke White 224 Venice Byron . . . Turner . . . 227 Venice Byron . . . Turner . . . 231 Evening Twilight Byron . . . Turner ... 236 The Pauper's Death-Bed .... Mrs. Soulhey . Schmolze . . 239 Portrait of John Keble y lier own name, Caro- line Bowles, and by her husband's overshadowing name, as a woman of high intellectual and poetic powers ; of her genius we have striking proof in that gi'and poem, "The Pauper's Death-bed." There can be nothing finer than the stanza beginning "0 change, wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars!" It is overwhelming in thought and diction. "Who does not love George Herbert? — the very name is a sweet savor of sanctity. The mantle of Herbert has descended upon Keble ; while, with an originality, an identity, as marked as that of any other English poet, he has completed the idea of Herbert, and formed for us, in livinc- strains, a companion for every Sunday and great day in England's ecclesiastical year. The idea is not, indeed, a new one ; for in England, Henry Vaugban had sung in holy and humble notes of the great doctrines of the English Church, and the days of their showing forth, according to its ritual ; and on the Continent, in Germany, Paul Gerhardt, Weiszel, Rist, Richter, Luther, and others, impelled by holy fervor, had written verses upon the principal Sundays in the year; but there is no work in any language which is the basis of Keble's "Christian Year;" and no poet has ever equalled him in the beauty of its manifold parts. Its popularity extends far beyond his own communion, and proves the catho- licity of its pious spirit. Of all the poets, the most strikingly individual is Shelley. He seems to write for himself, not for the world ; the strings of his lyre were attuned to his own XXIV INTRODUCTION. heart, his own hopes, and his own aspirations ; and be- yond these he cared not to look. Shocking society by his views of Hfe, and his practice ; alienating even Chris- tian charity by his blasphemy ; self-deceived by a kind of organic sophistry in these vital matters ; he soothed ' himself by Poetry : she was his kindly nurse, his gentle companion ; and had he not met a premature death, so strangely shadowed forth in "Adonais," she might have been gifted from God to bring hirn at last to "repent- ance and a better mind." If Shelley had an inspiia- tion from Vv'ithout, it was more than two thousand years old ; he was imbued essentially with Greek philosophy and learning; and we may gather the best idea of the effect produced by the Greek tragedists upon the culti- vated Greek mind, by observing the effect of Shelley's poetry upon our own. "The Cloud" is a fine series of beautiful contrasts, poetizing the simplest phenomena of air and watery vapor; while the verses "To a Skylark" are without a rival in the extremely limpid flow of the verse. In the lines, " Sound of vernal sliowors On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakcncd flowers," — one can hear rain-drops and bird-singing, and memory supplies a pleasant fancy of the sweet perfume of hidden, "rain-awakened" violets. With the mention of Keats comes an emotion of never-failing regret, that one who promised so much should have died in the very heyday of hope and action. He has not left much in volume, but the little we have, highly indicative of genius as it is, has enabled us to INTKODUCTIOK. XXV present to the reader, extracts full of soul and con- ceived in the best vein of poetic thaught. His lines to "Autumn" are particularly vigorous and beautiful. It was for a long time the fashion to overrate Mrs. Hemans, and, for some years past, by a process of reac- tion, the critics have combined to depreciate her poetry. If there be another cause for this latter injustice, it is the coming in of that quaint school of Poetry of which Wordsworth was the chief: the quietists, the mystics, the men who frown, by their example, at least, upon the joyous, the gay, and "the gushing" in verse. An American writer has attributed the popularity of another of our country's poets to his writing at and for the people, — "breast high," — to use his own phrase. Eminently does this apply to Mrs. Hemans. There is no age or walk in life that has not dwelt with delight upon her heart-verses. She has touched the chords of the human harp to every note of which it is capable, and she will live as long as love, and hope, and holy grief find sway in this chequered world of laughter and tears. Few persons can read "The Better Land," with- out at least recalling the emotions of childhood, and blendino- with them the sad experience of later years. Little need be said of Motheewell ; his life was sorrowful and short, and he seems to have been gifted as a poet only to sing his own death-song. Of Hood, the world knows more than of most con- temporary poets, because of the comic element in almost every thing he wrote. But, to our mind, his pathos was better than his fun, and this is manifest from that most touching poem, "The Bridge of Sighs," which appears among our extracts. With the very perfection of pathos, what a noble lesson it contains ! — 7 XXVI INTRODUCTION. " Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun !" Mr. Macaulay — we must beg his pardon that, as his fame was all achieved before his peerage, he can never be Lord Macaulay to us — has given us, in the "Lays of Ancient Rome," a beautiful and scholarly history of two periods in Roman history' — that to which the Lays refer, and of which they tell the story, and that in which they are supposed to be sung for the noble purpose of inciting the degenerate Roman people by the lofty ex- ample of their ancestors. Rich as are these poems in the flow of words, there are not wanting those who think Macaulay led astray by his own luxuriance into some- thing very like verbiage. The dictum of the world, the vox populi, however, has declared unanimously in favor of the Lays, in spite of the dilettanti. We have intro- duced "The Prophecy of Capys" because of its real interest and excellence, and because it is less known than Horatius and Virginia. Again in our list we reach a woman's name, but how unlike is its bearer to Mrs. Hemans! The one is a glad and genial companion in all the homes of humanity, — • the other, prophetess and pythoness, stands aloof from thern all, at least in her bolder flights, and sings now of vulture-torn Prometheus, in numbers almost equal to those of ^schylus, and again of the Drama of Exile from Para- dise, with all its horrors. Mrs. Browning stands alone in our literature. Pier mind has been called masculine ; this is an error. It is not of necessity masculine to be vigorous and independent. No man could have written like lier ; and this she seems to have designed to prove INTRODUCTION. XXVll in her last poem, "Aurora Leigh." This poem is in reality the autobiography of just such a woman, wlio would place herself above man in point of will, if not of intellect. If Chaucer's "Wife of Bath" be a true woman, this is intensely womanish ; for " sovereignty over man" is her verdict of woman's desire. But as if to show how multiform her genius is, Mrs. Browning has left us some very delicate and touching poems, which are more to the general taste, because they come down to the level of our common humanity. "Cowper's Grave" is a universal favorite; and we com- mend most heartily "Loved Once" and "The Sleep." In "The Lady's Yes," she has gone out of herself to write a simple little pleasantry, which is amusing and charming. We reach now the name of Tennyson, the worthiest English poet who has worn the laureate's wreath. He has the rarest powers of harmonious language, and invests his curious fancies in such a beautiful garb that we read and admire because of the charms of his diction. Fearing to spoil his noble Idyls by extracts, we have presented "The Charge of the Light Brigade," which is a sure passport to immortality. It has immediately taken rank with Campbell's battle-pieces, and will remain among the finest productions of that class. There is a terrible truthfulness in his description of that focus of convergent fire — " Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered." First the volley, seen ; then the ihxmder, heard ! xxviii INTRODUCTION. Peaed will be always favorably known for his cbarm- incr " vers de societe." They are minute in description, and slow with a refined lambent humor. " The Belle of the Ball" is a happy hit at tlie romance of young lovers, which soon leaves the heart free for " many other lodgers." Charles Mackay and Charles Swain are poets for the people ; if they never lose themselves in the clouds, they are always simple, manly, and lucid, and they will often be read where greater poets are passed l:)y in rever- ential awe. Akin to them is Bryan W. Procter, but his pathos is more powerful. The "Petition to Time," with its apt illustration, is more than a passive prayer ; it sug- gests an active charity founded upon the Grolden Rule. Most of Lover's ballads require music to bring out their meaning, and with it a sly look and a toss of the sing- er's head ; but there is a nobler sentiment in his "Four- leaved Shamrock" — the magic of philanthropy. Browning is most felicitous when he leaves the mys- ticism of "Paracelsus" and "Sordello" to paint a vivid "Incident of the French Camp." We /tear of his weird philosophy; we read liini in such charming little epics. If Swinburne has sometimes employed his genius in an offensive manner, our extracts are free from all taint, and are an earnest that he will yet contradict the prurience of his " Laus Veneris," and seek to consign it to oblivion To a cultivated reader the "Earthly Paradise" of Wil- liam Morris is an attractive study. Extracts are diffi- cult, but tlie jirologues of the months are beautiful and finished. Owen Mek1';uitii's "Lucille " is widely known and appre- INTRODUCTION. XXIX ciated; we have limited ourselves to a siiiii)le Fancy, as suggestive of his power and liis liabitual mood. Jean Ingelow is as vigorous and classical as the sterner sex, but she has a feminine tenderness and compassion. "The Songs of Seven" strike the full octave of woman's life, while the sad story of "my Sonne's wife Elizabeth," whether we regard it as pastoral, descriptive, or pictorial, is almost without a rival. Perhaps the most difficult part of the problem of selec- tion was reached in the effort to choose, among our Amer- ican poets, the few names for which there was room in our English gallery. Many there are, and we are proud to say it, who more than deserve the distinction, and yet of those who are here, are not all eminently worthy ? Bryant is our great priest of Nature, whether Druid- like amid the groves, which he tells us were " God's first temples," or wandering in "the Past " to find " each tie of pure affection " which the aching heart has mourned as lost, or following the silent Zephyr in its balmy flight. Longfellow reminds us of his own " Singers," as fi-om year to year he retouches his harp to a newer harmony and a deeper lesson; "wandering by streams," "singing in the market-place," anon in " cathedrals dim and vast," everywhere he touches the heart and strengthens the soul. And such, too, are the claims of Willis and Halleok ; heart-thoughts and loftv tone of sentiment mark their writings, and make them " household words " wherever they are known. But we must epitomize our golden opinions of the American poets with whose names our pages are en- riched : Morris, whose nest is in the hearts of the XXX INTRODUCTION. people, wherever a lofty tree defies the woodrnan's axe, or our country's flag floats to tell of union and strength ; Holmes, "the Doctor," anatomist, rnicroscopist, "auto- crat," but, best of all, poet, and, by extension, moralist, teacher, satirist ; PoE, intensely musical, his chimes, like his own Bells, constantly singing in "a sort of Runic rhyme," not always very intelligible, but haunt- ins the chambers of the brain " evermore." BoKER is characterized by refined taste ; but, acute as is his sensitiveness when the laws of rhetorical taste are in danger, such an elastic bond only gives greater come- liness of proportions to his genius. From the burdensome duties of the press Pkentice has stolen moments for sweet converse with the Muses, and is always melodious and flute-like. Simms is a no- ble specimen of a Southern poet. CoxE is truly the poet of devotion and the Church. Each of his Christian ballads is a sermon complete in all its parts. Thomas Mackel- LAK is the gentle poet of the Clu-istian virtues, — -tender humanity and fervent piety. In Lowell, who stands in the first rank, we discern a surplus of power — much more than he has written. He represents the thought of Keats — " Might half slumber- ing on its own right arm." Whittier has no superior in lyric power, and he is possessed by his muse : ho thinks in verse. He is fresh, overflowing, and sparkling. We are not sure that when, in the coming years, the deliberate and judicious award is made, he will not rank first among the American poets. Stoddard has a fine fancy and great powers of ex- pression. Of Butler the best eulogy is the efi^ect pro- TNTRODUCTION. XXXI duced by his spirited, humorous, and satirical poem, "Nothing to Wear," a happy hit at woman's extravagance. The retired hfc, hard fortune, and early death of TiMROD, have deprived our literature of a name whicli would have stood very high in the list of American poets. Bayaed Tayloe has many passports to permanent fame ; he is a traveller, a linguist, a journalist, and above all a true poet. He claims kindred with Goethe in his noble translation of "Faust," at once literal and liberal. "A Poet's Journal" gives an insight into his own life. Of Saxe it may be said that his poet-lodge is just where the fountains of tears and of laughter mingle their murmuring waters. Wit and humorist, as he is best known, there is a touching pathos in his serious poems — slantings of shade which temper the garish air and give a varied charm to his pictures. Leland is a Proteus : the wild fancy and curious me- lange of "Meister Karl," the German scholar, are suddenly changed into the extravaganza of "Hans Breitmann." American war-songs mingle with the strains of Heine. In each sphere he is at home. From the sterner and more practical duties of life Stedman finds time to muster with the poets. He excels in rich delineations of nature. Dr. Holland, poet, novelist, and editor, has vindicated his claims to the laurel in several extended poems full at once of incident and philosophy. There has sprung up, WTitten in a very recent period, a school of poetry known as " Dialectic." It marks, in an XXXll INTKODUCTIO]^'. existing dialect, a generation of men in the newly-opened portions of the West — hunters, voyageurs, and miners. Epic in its cast, it is local, characteristic, and historical. Its curious catch-words and colloquies are an insight into their wild and perilous life. Bret Harte may be consid- ered its founder. " Truthful James " upon the " Heathen Chinee" contains more than broad humor — the historic fact of " Chinese cheap labor," and the way in which men like Nye "go for that Heathen Chinee." Such, too, are the poems of JoHx Hay — the plucky education of ' ' Little Breeches" and the terrible pathos of "Jim Bludso." Akin to these are Joaquin Miller's " Songs of the Sierras." "Kit Carson's Ride" is a wild, startlin2; idvl, O.I descriptive of what has been on the prairie, infested with Indians and roarincj with summer fire. Last, but by no means least. Will Caeleton's " Farm Ballads" present real views of humble life;' of ei'rors, of repentance, bringing back the wandering soul to pardon and fresher joy. Few can read " Going Home To-day," without a catch of the breath, very like a sob. It only remains to present our sincere thanks to those publishers who have kindly permitted the use of these se- lections, and among them, specifically, to Messrs. J. R. Osgood & Co. for those taken from the copyright works of Wliittier, Bayard Taylor, and John Hay ; to Messrs. Roberts Brothers for those of Joaquin Mill(>r; to Messrs. T. B. Peterson for those of Charles G. Lehmd ; to Mr. E. J. Hale for the selection from Timrod, and to Messrs. Harper & Brothers for the poem of Will Carleton. H. C. University Place, South Bcthlcliera. lili THOMSOT^. HYMN ON THE SEASONS. These, as they change, Ahnighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolhng year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. 9 33 34 THOMSON. Wide flush the fields ; the softenins; air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder sjaeaks. And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined. And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing HYMN ON TUE SKASON.S. 35 Riding sublime, Tliou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round 1 what skill, what force Divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet SQ. delightful mixed, with such kind art. Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,- Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand. That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join, every living soul. Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit iu your freshness breathes: Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine Fills the brown shade witb a religions awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; 36 THOMSON. Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts. Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, yc harvests, wave, to Him ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart. As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Yc that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth asleep HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 37 Uaconscious lies, efFuse your mildest beams, Ye Constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day ! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls ; be hushed the prostrate world ; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn Hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks. Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; And His unsuflferiug kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless Song Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the, warbling world asleep. Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. At once tbe head, the heart, and tongue of all. Crown the great Hymn ; in swarming cities vast. Assembled Men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear. At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; And, as each mingling flame increases each. In one united ardor rise to Heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade. And find a fane in every sacred grove ; There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll ! For me, when I forget the darling theme, 10 38 THOMSON. Whether the Blossom blows, the Summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autmnu gleams, ,,^^^^^|... ^--i^'vai^'i^^-tJ^ Sr'"- Or Winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more. And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Should Fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt, III tlio void waste, as in the city full; HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 39 And where He vital spreads there must be joy. Wlien even at last the solemn Hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; From seeming Evil still educing Good, And better thence again, and better still. In infinite progi'ession. But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 40 THOilSOxX. ON A COUNTRY LIFE. I HATE the clamors of the smoky towns, But much admu'e the bhss of rural clowns ; Where some remains of innocence appear, Where no rude noise insults the listening ear ; Nought but soft zephyrs whispering .through the trees, Or the still humming of the painful bees ; The gentle murmurs of a purling rill, Or the unwearied chirping of the drill ; The charming harmony of warbling birds, Or hollow lo'wings of the grazing herds ; The murmuring stockdoves' melancholy coo. When they their lov6d mates lament or woo; The pleasing bleatings of the tender lambs. Or the indistinct mum 'ling of their dams ; The musical discord of chiding hounds, Whereto the echoing hill or rock resounds ; The rural mournful songs of lovesick swains. Whereby they soothe their raging amorous pains ; The whistling music of the lagging plough. Which does the strength of drooping beasts renew. And as the country rings with pleasant sounds. So with delightful prospects it abounds : Tlirough every season of the sliding year. Unto tlie ravished sight new scenes appear. ill the sweet Spring the sun's prolific ray Does painted flowers to tlie mild air display ; ON A COUNTRY LIFE. 41 Then opening buds, then tender herbs, are 'seen, And the bare fields are all arrayed in green. In ripening Summer, the full laden vales Give prospect of employment for the flails ; Each breath of wind the bearded groves makes bend, Which seems the fatal sickle to portend. In Autumn, that repays the laborer's pains. Reapers sweep down the honors of the plains. Anon black Winter, from the fi-ozen north, Its treasuries of snow and hail pours forth ; Then stormy winds blow through the hazy sky, In desolation Nature seems to lie , 11 42 THOMSON. The unstained snow from tlie full clouds descends, Whose sparkling lustre open eyes offends ; In maiden white the glittering fields do shine ; Then bleating flocks for want of food repine, With withered eyes they see all snow around, And with their fore-feet paw and scrape the ground They cheerfully crop the insipid grass. The shepherds sighing cry, Alas ! alas ! Then pinching want the wildest beast does tame ; Then huntsmen on the snow do trace their o-ame ; Keen fi'ost then turns the liquid lakes to glass, Arrests the dancing rivulets as they pass. How sweet and innocent are country sports, And, as men's tempers, various are their sorts ! You, on the banks of ■ soft meandeiing Tweed, May in your toils ensnare the watery breed. And nicely lead the artificial flee, Which, when the nimble, watchful trout does see. He at the bearded hook will briskly spring ; Then in that instant twieth your hairy string, Ami, wlion he's hooked, you, with a constant hand, May draw him struggling to the fatal land. Then at fit seasons you may clothe your hook With a sweet bait, dressed by a faithless cook ; The greedy pike darts to 't with eager haste,' And, being struck, in vain he flies at last; He rages, storms, and flounces through the stream. But all, alas! his life cannot redeem. At other times you may pursue the chase. And Inuit the nimble hare from place to place. See, when the dog is just ui>iiii tlii; grip. Out, at a sitle she'll make a handsome skip, ON A COUNTRY LIFE. 43 And crc lie can divert his t'ui-ious course, She, far before him, scours witli all her force : She'll shift, and many times run the same ground : A.t last, outwearied by the stronger hound, She falls a sacrifice unto his hate, And with sad piteous screams laments her fate. See how the hawk doth take his towering flight, And in his course outflies our very sight. Bears down the fluttering fowl with all his might. See how the wary gunner casts about. Watching the fittest posture when to shoot: Quick as the fatal lightning blasts the oak, He gives the springing fowl a sudden stroke ; He pours upon 't a shower of mortal lead, And ere the noise is heard the fowl is dead. Sometimes he spreads his hidden subtile snare. Of which the entangled fowl was not aware ; Through pathless wastes he doth pursue his sport. Where nought but moor-fowl and wild beasts resort When the noon sun directly darts his beams Upon your giddy heads, with fiery gleams. Then you may bathe yourself in cooling streams ; Or to the sweet adjoining grove retire. Where trees with interwoven boughs conspire To form a grateful shade; — there rural swains Do tune their oaten reeds to rural strains ; The silent birds sit listening on the sprays, And in soft charming notes do imitate their lays. There you mav stretch yourself upon the grass. And, lulled with music, to kind slumbers pass : ISFo meagre cares your fancy will distract, And on that scene no tragic fears will act ; 44 THOMSON. Save the dear image of a charming slie, Nought will tlie object of your vision be. Away the vicious pleasures of the town ; Let empty jjartial fortune on me frown ; But grant, ye powers, that it may be my lot To live in peace from noisy towns remote. 7^*, COLLINS. ODE TO EVENING. If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear. Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales ; Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts. With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat. With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing ; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn. As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : Now teach me, maid composed. To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return ! 12 4S 46 COLLINS. For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds tne day. And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet. Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells. Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. ODE TO EVKNING. 47 Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods. And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ; While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light ; While sallow Autumn fills th}^ lap with leaves ; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train. And rudely rends thy robes ; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own. And love thy favorite name ! 48 COLLIiN'S. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost sliall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen ; No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! The redbreast oft, at evening hours. Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gathered flowers. To deck the ground where thou art laid. Wlien howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; Each lonely scene sliall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved lill life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self bo dead. .,^- rmA r2sl r v^^. GRAY. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 13 49 50 GRAY. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower. The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. Their fun-ow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke THE ELEGY. 51 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 52 GRAY. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er um'oll ; Chill penury rej)ressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of" purest ray serene. The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, Tlie little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, Tlie threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes. THE KLEGY. 53 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a tlu'one, And phut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noi&eless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one lono;ino; lincferiuo; look behind? o o o o 14 54 GRAY. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Ev'u in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the customed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; Another came; nor yet. beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : THE EI-EGY. b'y "The next, wilh dirges clue in sad array, Slow tliro' the church-way path we saw him borne Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked liim for her own. 56 GRAY. Large was bis bounty, and bis soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Misery (all be bad) a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all be wisbed) a friend No fartber seek bis merits to disclose, Or draw bis frailties from tbeir dread abode (Tbere tbey alike in trembling bope repose), Tbe bosom of bis Fatber and bis God. THE BAED. "Ruin seize tbee, rutbless King! Confusion on tby banners wait ! Tbougb fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, Tbey mock tbe air witb idle state. Helm, nor bauberk's twisted mail, Nor ev'n tby virtues, Tyrant, sball avail To save tby secret soul from nigbtly fears. From Cambria's curse, i'rom Cambria's tears!" Sucb were tbe sounds tbat o'er tbe crested pride Of tbe first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down tbe steep of Snowdon's sbaggy side He wound witb toilsome marcb bis long array. Stout Glo'ster stood agbast in speechless trance : "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and coucbed bis quivering lance. THR BAUD. 57 On a rock, whose haughty brow- Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Eobed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, Sishs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, King ! their hundred arras they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge PHnlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail, The famished eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : O 58 GRAY. With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night. When Severn shall re-echo with aflfright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof that ring. Shrieks of an agonizing king ! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! -Amazement in his van, with Flight combined. And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. '-' Mighty victor, mighty lord ! Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at tlie helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. That, hu.shed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. THE BAED. 59 "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Pell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed. Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom. Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. "Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh, stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But, oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 60 GEAY. No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line ; Her lion port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air. What strains of vocal transport round her play ! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings. "The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. In buskined measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Fain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub choir. Gales from blooming Eden bear ; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. TIIK BARD. 61 Enough for me ; witli joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he phmged to endless night. 16 GOLDSMITH. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 62 THE DESERTED VILLAOE. 63 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport conld please ! How often have I loitered o'er thy green, ^Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! r?^=^^: ;%®f- How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 64 GOLDSMITH. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. And sleights of art and feats of strength went round: And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown. By holding out, to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain. And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest. THE DESERTED VIIjLAGE. 65 The hollow-souncling bittern guards its nest; A.midst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade, — A breath can make them, as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health. And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the kiwu, where scattered hamlets rose. Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to opulence allied ; And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room. Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. 17 / 66 GOLDSMITH. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,- Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; I still had hopes — for pride attends us still- Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, ■ And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return,— and die at home at last, blest retiremcyit ! friend to life's decline. Retreats from care, that never must be mine, Plow happy he wlio crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 67 J^o surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend, — Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While Resignation gently slopes the way, — And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;' 6g GOLDSMITH. There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below ; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wi-etched matron, — forced in age, for bread. To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn, — She only left of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain ! Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower gi-ows wild, — There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear ; And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unpractised lie to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines I'ashioned to the varying hour; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 69 Far other aims liis heart had learned to prize, — More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain : The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sate by his fire, and talked the night away. Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe : Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; But, in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. The reverend champion stood. At his control. Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 18 70 GOLDSMITH. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth fi'om his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children followed, with endearing wile. And plucked his gown, to share the good man's sinile. THE DKSERTED VILLAGE. 71 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion,' skilled to rule. The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew : Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee. At all his jokes, — for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. The love he bore to learnino; was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge ; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For even though vanquished he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the o-azina: rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. That one small head could carrv all he knew. 72 GOLDSMITH. But past is all his fame. The very spot, Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. And news much older tlian their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place : THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 73 The whitewashed Wcall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, — A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day. With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendors ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half wilHng to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 19 74 GOLDSMITH. Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies. For all the luxuries the world supplies ; While thus the land, adorned for pleasure, all In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ' 75 As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, — for charms are frail, — When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress ; Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, — But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save. The country blooms, — a garden and a grave. Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped, what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier ghtters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 76 GOLDSMITH. Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thoin ; Now, lost to all, — her friends, her virtue fled, — Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where lialf the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Wliere wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before, Tlie various fci'roi's of tliat liorrid shore; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 77 Those blazing suns that dart a downwai-d my And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, — And savage men more murderous still than they ; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove. That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good .Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a Ions; farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep! The good old sire, the first, prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, 20 78 GOLDSMITH. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree. How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. Boast of a florid vigor not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till, sapped Lhcir strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun. And half the business of destruction done ; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land : Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale. Downward they move, — a melancholy band, — Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and fiilhful love. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 79 And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame, — Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my soUtary pride, — Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so, — Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. Thou nurse of every virtue, — fare thee well ! Farewell ; and, oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, On Tornea's cUffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. Redress the rigors of the inclement clime : Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 80 GOLDSMITH. RETALIATION. Of old, when Bcarrdn his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, — and he brings the best dish : Our dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; Our Will shall be wildfowl, of excellent flavor, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savor; RETALIATION. 81 Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain, And Douglas is jjudding, substantial and plain ; Our Garrick's a salad, — for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. Let me ponder — and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth, Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, — At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Too nice for a statesman ; too proud for a wit ; 21 82 GOLDSMITH. For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too foad of the rigid to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, uueinployed or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrona; ; Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, — The coachman was tips}^, the chariot drove home : Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at- Alas that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim 1 Now breaking a jest, — and now breaking a limb ; Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; Now teasing and vexing — yet laughing at all ! Tn short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. RKTALtATION. 83 His fools have their folhes so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught. Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, — The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and yc quacking divines. Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector. Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture ; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; Our Townsliend make speeches, and I shall compile ; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the darl Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confessed without rival to shine. As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, — a dupe to liis art. 84 goldsmith;. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread, And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way. He turned and he varied full ten times a day ; Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick. He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease. Who peppered the highest was surest to please. But let us b" candid, and speak out our mind: If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave. What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave 1 How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. To act as an angel, and mix with the skies. Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love. And Beauraonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature ; He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper ; Yet one. fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? r answer, No. no, — for he always was wiser ; RETALIATION. 85 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that; Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ye : — He was — could he help it? — a special attorney. Heie Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind. 22 86 GOLDSMITH. His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : His manners were gentle, complying, and bland •. Still born t" improve us in every part, — His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing : When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff". Ho shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff". BEATTIE. MORNING LANDSCAPE. Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are boi'n. 87 88 BEATTIE. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ; The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark : Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. THE HERMIT. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove. When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but tlie niglitiugalo's song in the grove;- THE HERMIT. 89 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his heart rung symphonious, a hermit began No more with himself or with nature at war. He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall ; But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn: Oh, soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away; Full quickly they pass, — but they never return. 23 90 BEATTIE. "Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon half exilnguished her crescent displays ; But lately I marked, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again ; But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore. Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew : Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ? "'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade. Destruction before me, and sorrow- behind. '0 pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!' " And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer 1 roam in conjecture forlorn : So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray. The briglit and the balmy effulgence of morn. THE HERMIT. 91 Sec Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." THE SAGE. At early dawn the youth his journey took, And many a mountain passed and valley wide, Then reached the wild where, in a flowery nook, And seated on a mossy stone, he spied A.n ancient man ; his harp lay him beside. A stag sprung from the pasture at his call. And, kneeling, licked the withered hand that tied A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall. And hung his loft}^ neck with many a floweret small. COWPEK. RURAL SOUNDS. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 92 RURAL SOUNDS. 93 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, — Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still. To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night ; nor these alone whose notes Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain. But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, — The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. 24 94 COWPER. LOVE OF NATURE. 'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infused at the creation of the kind. And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each fi-om each, by strokes And touches of his liand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points, — yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works. And all can taste them : minds, that have been formed And tutored with a relish, more exact. But none without some relish, none unmoved. It is a flame that dies not even there. Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city life. Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas with which London stands begirt. Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That nature lives ; that sight-refreshing green LOVE OF NATURE. 95 is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts the best he may? The most unfurnished with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds To range the fields and treat their lungs with air. Yet feel the burning instinct; overhead Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick. And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there ; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more. Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode Of multitudes unknown ; hail, rural life ! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame, I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lii'l.s him into life, and lets him fall 96 COWPEE. Just in the niche he was ordained to filL To the deliverer of an injured land He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress, her wrongs ; To monarchs, dignity ; to judges, sense ; To artists, ingenuity and skill ; To me, an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. LINES. 97 LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTPIER'S PICTURE. Oh that those Hps had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 25 98 COWPER. Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own : And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief; Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy bui'ial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone. Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return : What ardently I wished I long believed. And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; ]jy disappointment every day beguiled. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all ray stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot. But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. LINES. 99 Where once wo dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not tliine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt. In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known. That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other tliemes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, Tlie biscuit or confectionary plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and, more endearing still than all, Tliy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes ; All this, still legible in memoiy's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, 100 COWPER. (And thou wast happier than myself the wliile, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much. That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below. While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore " Wliere tempests never beat, nor billows roar;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since, has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed. Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth Froin loins enthroned, and rulers of tlie earth ; A COMPARISON. 101 But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell, — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again : To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. A COMPARISON. The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream ; The silent pace, with which they steal away. No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ; Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in every part, A difference strikes at length the musing heart : Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound, How laughs the land with various plenty crowned ! But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected leaves a di-eary waste behind. 26 BURNS. P\i)d(^^ HiM^^- j^^_ TAM 0' SHANTER. When chapman billies leave the sti-eet, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to talc' the gate; 102 TAM SHANTER. 103 While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, That :^ae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that late or soon. Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon ; Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how monv counsels sweet, 104 BURNS. How mony lengtheQed sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : — Ae market night, Tarn had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that" drank divinely; And at his elbow souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for week thegither ! The night draveou wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better ; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle — Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drowned himself arnang the nappy ! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. TAM O' SHANTER. 105 Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, The dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed; That night, a child might understand^ The de'il had business on his hand. Weal- mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — By this time he was cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman snioor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hangjed hersel'. 27 106 BURNS. Before liim Doon pours all his floods ; The doubling storra roars through the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more. near the thunders roll; "When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; Through ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' ti^penny we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonished. Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ; Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. Put life and mettle in their heels ; A winnock-bunker in the east. There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large. To gie them music was his charge ; He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — Cofiins stood round, like open presses. That shawed the dead in tliejr last dresses. And by some devilisli cantrip slight Each ill its cauld hand held a liglit — TAM SHANTER. 107 By wliicli heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; Twa span-long, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted; Five scimitai-s, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The gray hairs yet stack to the heft: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie elowr'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tam, Taml had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. Been snaw-white seventeen -hunder linen, Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies For ae blink o' tlie bonnie burdies 1 108 BURNS. But witliered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenned on Oarrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perished mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. That, while a lassie, she had worn. In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah ! little kenned thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang,) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched, And thought his very een enriched ; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain. And hotched and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, TAM SIIANTER. 109 And roars out, "Weel done, cutty-sark !" And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As 02)en pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd. When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 110 BURNS. All, Tarn ! Ah, Tam ! thou'U get thy fairin' ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ! But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake ! For l!Tannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie pressed, And flew at Tam wi' farious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale. But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclined. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — Kemember Tam o' Shanter's mare. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. Ill MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man wnose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care ; His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. 112 BURNS. "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?' Began the reverend sage ; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage ? Or haply, pressed with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man. "The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride : I've seen yon weary winter sun Twice forty times return, And every time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. "0 man! while in thy early years. How prodigal of time ! Misspending all thy precious hours. Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn. "Look not alone on youthful prime. Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right : MAN WAS MADK TO MOUKN. 113 But see him on the edge of hfe, With cares and sorrows worn ; Then age and want — oh ! ill-matched pair ! — ■ Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap caressed : Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh ! what crowds in every land, All wretched and forlorn ! Through weary life this lesson learn — That man was made to mourn. " Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! "See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight. So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the. earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn. Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. • 29 114 BURNS. " If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — By Nature's law designed — • Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ? "Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast ; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! "0 Death! the poor man's dearest friend- The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh ! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn." TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 115 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again tliou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? •^s^. That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love ? 116 BUENS. Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! Httle thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with' wildwoods, thick'ning, green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. Twined am'rous round the raptured scene ; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed. The birds sang love on every spray — Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but tli' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ? i*^* <_y^T>77z ^cyxc>--u.£yT^ . ROGERS. COLL' ALTO. " In this neglected mirror (the broad frame Of massy silver serves to testify That many a noble matron of the house Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen 30 117 118 ROGEES. What led to many sorrows. From that time The bat came hither for a sleeping-place ; And he, that cm'sed another in his heart, Said, 'Be thy dwelling, through the day and night, Shunned like Coll' alto.'"- — 'Twas in that old Pile, Which flanks the cliff with its gray battlements Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest. Hangs in the Tkevisan, that thus the Steward, Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left. Addressed me, as we entered what was called "My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs, Much yet remained of the rich tapestry ; Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot In the green glades of some enchanted wood. The toilet-table was of silver wrought, Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned ; A gay confusion of the elements, Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers : And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage, Hung a small bird of curious workmanship. That, when his mistress bade him, would unfold (So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there) His emerald wings, and sing and sing again The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked, A gleam of day yet lingering in the west. The Steward went on. "She had ('tis now long since) A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; None so admired, beloved. They had grown up As play-fellows ; and some there were, that said. Some that knew much, discoursing of Cristine, ' She is not what she seems.' When unrequired, coll' alto. 119 She would steal forth ; licr custom, her delight, To wander through aud through an ancient grove Self-planted half-way down, losing herself Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil And vesture white, seen ever in that place. Ever as surely as the hours came round, Among those reverend trees, gave her below The name of The White Lady. But the day Is gone, and I delay thee. In that chair The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting. The gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, Combing her golden hair ; and through this door The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away By letters of great urgency to Venice ; When in the glass she saw, as she believed ('Twas an illusion of the Evil One — Some say he came and crossed it at the time), A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered. That turned her blood to gall. That very night The deed was done. That night, ere yet the moon Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf Baying as still he does (oft is he heard, An hour or more, by the old turret clock). They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine, Helping her down in her distress — to die. "No blood was spilt; no instrument of death Lurked — or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; Nor was a hair of her unblemished head Hurt ic that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown, And warm witli life, her youthful pulses playing. She was wallod up witliin llie Castle wall. The wall itself was hollowed secretlv ; 120 ROGERS. Then closed again, and done to line and rule. Would'st thou descend? 'Tis in a darksome vault Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, And as if nothing had been done or thought, The stone-work rose before her, till the light Glimmered and went, — there nightly at that hour, (Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale !) In her white veil and vesture white she stands Shuddering — her eyes uplifted, and her hands Joined as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth. The hunter meets her in his hunting-track; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims (For still she bears the name she bore of old), "Tis the White Lady!"" THE BRIDES OF VENICK. 12] THE BRIDES OF VENICE. It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured fortli As to some grand solemnity. The fislier Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves His wife and little one ; the husbandman From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, So great the stir in Venice. Old and young Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine. Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, The noblest sons and daughters of the state, They of Patrician birth, the flower of Venice, Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ; And never from the first was to be seen Such splendor or such beauty. Two and two (The richest tapestry unrolled before them), .First came the Brides in all their loveliness ; Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids followed. Only less lovely, who behind her bore The precious caskets that within contained The dowry and tiie presents. On she moved, Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand A fan that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 122 KOGERS. Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, Wreathino- her gold brocade. Before the Church, That venerable structure now no more On the sea-brink, another train they met, No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came, Brothers to some, still dearer' to the rest; Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, And, as he walked, with modest dignitv Foldino; his sctirlet mantle. At the gate They join ; and slowly up the bannered aisle Led by the choir, with due solemnity Range round the altar. Tn his vestments there The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows Who can look on unmoved — the dream of years Just now fulfilling! Here a mother weeps. Rejoicing in her daughter. There a son Blesses the day that is to make her his ; While she shines forth through all her ornament, Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears. At length the rite is ending. All fall down, All of all ranks ; and, stretching out Ins hands, Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath ; When liark, a din of voices from without. And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle ! And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent. And arm6d ruffians, robbers from the deep, Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbaro, THE BRIDES OK VENICE. 123 And his six brothers in their coats of steel, Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like, Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Then, as at once recovering from the spell, Rush forward to the altar, and as soon Are gone again — amid no clash of arms Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. Where are they now? — ploughing the distant waves, Their sails outspread and given to the wind. They on their decks triumphant. On they speed. Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) Freighted, alas, with all that life endears! The richest argosies were poor to them ! Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore The matrons running wild, their festal dress A strange and moving contrast to their grief; And through the city, wander where thou wouldst, The men half armed and arming— everywhere As roused from slumber by that stirring trump; One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe severing in two the chain Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, But on that day was drifting. In an hour Half Venice was afloat. But long before. Frantic with grief and scorning all control, The Youths were gone in a light brigantine. Lying at anchor near the Arsenal; Each having sworn, and by the holy rood. To slay or to be slain. And from the tower The watchman gives the signal. In the east 124 ROGERS. A ship is seen, and making for the Port ; Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point, Over the waters Hke a sea-bird flying! Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring All that was lost. Coasting, with narrow search, Friuli — like a tiger in his spring. They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay Sharing the spoil in blind security And casting lots — had slain them, one and all. All to the last, and flung them far and wide Into the sea, their proper element; Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet. Breathing a little, in his look retained The fierceness of his soul. Thus were the Brides Lost and recovered ; and what now remained But to give thanks? Twelve breast-plates and twelve crowns, By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint Vowed in the field, inestimable gifts. Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time Laid at his feet; and ever to preserve The memory of a day so full of change. From joy to grief, from grief to joy again. Thro' many an age, as oft as it came round, 'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned His crimson for pure ermine, visiting At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine ; A.nd through the city, in a stately barge Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies THE P.RIDKS OF VENICE. 125 Twelve ladies, young and noble. Clad they were In bridal white with bridal ornaments, Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, As on a burnished throne, they glided by ; No window or balcony but adorned With hangings of rich texture, not a roof But covered with beholders, and the air Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars Moving in concert with the harmony. Through the Rialto to the Ducal Palace, And at a banquet, served with honor there, Sat representing, in the eyes of all, Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears. Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 32 126 KOGEKS. DON GARZIA. Among those awful forms, in elder time Assembled, and through many an after-age Destined to stand as Genii of the Place Where men most meet in Florence, may be seeu His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail, But with his helmet off — in kingly state. Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ; And they, who read the legend underneath. Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks. There is a chamber that, if walls could speak, Would turn their admiration into pity. Half of what passed, died with him ; but tlic rest, All lie discovered when the fit was on, DON GARZIA. , 127 All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned From broken sentences and starts in sleep. Is told, and by an honest Chronicler. Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, (The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer,) Went to the chase ; but only one returned. Giovanni, wJien the huntsman blew his horn O'er the last stag had started from the brake, And in the heather turned to stand at bay, Appeared not ; and at close of day was found Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer ; And, having caused the body to be borne In secret to that Chamber — at an liour When all slept sound, save she who bore them both, Who little thought of what was yet to come, And lived but to be told — lie bade Garzia Arise and follow him. Hokhno; in one hand A winking lamp, and in the other a key Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led : And, having entered in and locked the door, The father fixed his eyes upon the son, And closely questioned him. No change betrayed Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up The bloody sheet. "Look there! Look there!" he cried. "Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand! — Unless thyself will save him that sad office. What!" he exclaimed, when, shuddering at the sight. The boy breathed out, "I stood but on my guard;" " Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wronu'ed thee. Who would not set his foot upon a worm ? Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, And thou shouklst be the slaver of us all." 128 EOGERS. Then from Gaezia's belt he drew the blade, The fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; And, kneeling on the ground, "Great God!" he cried, "Grant me the strength to do an act of justice. Thou knowest Avhat it costs me ; but alas, How can I spare myself, sparing none else? Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive The sinful soul of a most wretched son. 'Tis a most wretched father that implores it." Long on Gaezia's neck he hung and wept, Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ; And then, but while he held him by the arm, Thrusting him backward, turned away his face, And stabbed hini to the heart. Well might a youth, Studious of men, anxious to learn and know. When in the train of some great embassy He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court, Think on the past ; and, as he wandered through The ample spaces of an ancient house. Silent, deserted— stop awhile to dwell Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall Together, as of Two in bonds of love. Those of the unhappy brothers, and conclude From the sad looks of him who could have told The terrible truth. — —Well mio;lit he heave a sigli For poor humanity, when he beheld That very Cosmo shaking o'er his hre, Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate. Wrapt in his nightgown, o'er a sick man's mess, In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale ; His Wife, another, not his Eleanoe, At once his nurse and his interpreter. GINEVEA. 129 GINEVEA. If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To MoDENA, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt iu of old by one of the Oesini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. Will long detain thee ; through their arche'd walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, Who in the spring-time, as alone they sat. Venturing together on a tale of love. Read only part that day. A summer sun Sets ere one-half is seen ; but ere thou eo. Enter the house — pry thee, forget it not — • And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The very last of that illustrious race. Done by Zampieei — but by whom I care not. He, who observes it — ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, " Beware !" her vest of gold 33 130 EOGEES. Broiclered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on hei brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. Like some wild melody ! Alone it hangs, Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion. An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm. But richly carved by Antony of Trent With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held GINEVEA. 131 The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. That by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life. Still as she grew, forever in his sight ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son. Feancesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety ; Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, — the day, the hour : Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. When all sat down, the Bride was wantino; there. Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still. Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, But that she was not ! 132 EOGEE.S. Weary of his life, Feancesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Oksini lived; and long might'st thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something. Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. Full fifty years were passed, and all forgot. When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery. That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it fi'om its lurking-place?" 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra." There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself. Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, — When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever I r ft »^ f IN 'U ^^/^^^>^^:^^z^^-^>^-/^ WORDSWORTH. A EUEAL HERO. The mountain ash No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove Of yet unfaded trees she Hfts her head Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 34 134 134 WOEDSWOETH. Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have marked By a brook side or soHtary tarn, How she her station doth adorn. The pool Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks Are brightened round her. In his native vale, Such and so glorious did this youth appear: A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, By all the graces with which nature's hand Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, A RURAL HERO. 135 Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, Discovered in their own despite to sense Of mortals (if such fables without blame May find chance mention on this sacred ground). So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise. And through the impediment of rural cares, In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight. In him the spirit of a hero walked Our unpretending valley. How the quoit Whizzed fi'om the stripling's arm ! If touched by him, The inglorious football mounted to the pitch Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve Aloft in prospect of the shouting field ! The indefatigable fox had learned To dread his perseverance in the chase. With admiration would he lift his eyes To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak To guard the royal brood. The sailing glede, The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, The sporting sea-gull dancing with the waves. And cautious wa,ter-fowl from distant climes. Fixed at their seat, the centre of the mere, Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 136 WORDSWORTH. THE SKATER. In the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and visible for many a mile The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, I heeded not their summons : happy time It was indeed for all of us, — for me It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about. Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, THE SKATER. 137 Wc hissed along the polished ice in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. So throuo-h the darkness and the cold we flew. And not a voice was idle ; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me, — even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round ! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 35 138 WOEDSWOETH. ODE TO DUTY. Steen Dauo-liter of the Voice of God ! Duty ! if that name thou love, Who art a hght to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe. From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh ! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright. And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light. And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of his creed ; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. ODK TO DUTY. 139 I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust . And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires: I feel the weight of chance desires : My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong. And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong;. &• To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance fr'om this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 140 WORDSWORTH. Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN. High on her speculative tower Stood Science waiting for the hour When Sol was destined to endure That darkening of his radiant face Which Superstition strove to chase, Erewhile, with rites impure. Afloat beneath Italian skies, Through regions fair as Paradise We gaily passed, — till Nature wrought A silent and unlooked-for change. That checked the desultory range Of joy and sprightly thought. - Where'er was dipped the toiling oar. The waves danced round us as before As lightly, though of altered hue, 'Mid recent coolness, such as falls At noontide from umbrageous walls That screen the morning dew. THE ECLIFSE OF THE SUN. 141 No vapor stretched its wings ; no cloud Cast far or near a murky shroud ; The sky an azure field displayed ; 'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, And as in slumber laid, — Or something night and day between, Like moonshine, — but the hue was green ; Still moonshine, without shadow, spread On jutting rock, and curved shore. Where gazed the peasant from his door And on the mountain's head. It tinged the Juhan steeps, — it lay, Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; The solemnizing veil was drawn O'er villas, terraces, and towers ; To Alboo-asio's olive bowers, Porlezza's verdant lawn. But Fancy with the speed of fire Hath passed to Milan's loftiest spire, And there alights 'mid that aerial host Of figures human and divine. White as the snows of Apennine Indurated by frost. Awe-stricken she beholds the array That guards the Temple night and day; Angels she sees, that might fi'om heaven have flown. And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 142 WORDSWORTH. Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown, — Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height, — All steeped in this portentous light I All sufi"ering dim eclipse ! Thus after Man had fallen (if aught These perishable spheres have wrought May with that issue be compared), Throngs of celestial visages. Darkening like water in the breeze, A holy sadness shared. Lo ! while I speak, the laboring Sun His glad deliverance has begun : The cypress waves her sombre plume More cheerily ; and town and tower. The vineyard and the olive-bower, Their lustre reassume ! Ye, who guard and grace my home While in far-distant lands we roam. What countenance hath this Day , put on for you ? While we looked round with favored eyes, Did sullen mists hide lake and skies And mountains from your view? Or was it given you to behold Like vision, pensive though not cold. THE ECLIPSIj; OF THE SUK. 143 From the smooth breast of gay Winandermere ? Saw ye the soft yet awful veil Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, Helvellvn's brow severe ? I ask in vain, — and know far less If sickness, sorrow, or distress Have spared my Dwelling to this hour ; Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love And all-controlling power. JT9- ^1:^11^ ' ^^' SCOTT. THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. Even so it was. From Flodden ricls;e The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed 144 THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. The Till by Twisel Bridge. Hio-Ii sio-ht it is, and hau£i;htv, while They dive into the deep defile ; Beneath the caverned cliff thoy fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. Troop after troop are disappearing ; Troop after troop their banners rearing, Upon the eastei'n bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den. Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen. Standards on standards, men on men. In slow succession still, And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch. And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet-clang, Twisel 1 thy rock's deep echo rang ; And many a chief of birth and rank. Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. Had then from many an axe its doom. To give the marching columns room. And why stands Scotland idly now. Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow. Since England gains the pass the while, And . struggles through the deep defile ? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the dames 146 SCOTT. Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead ? What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand? — Oh, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! Oh for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight. And cry — ^" Saint Andrew and our right!" Another sight had seen that aiorn. From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn. And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — The precious hour has passed in vain. And England's host has gained the plain ; Wheelino- their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden hill. Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, " Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum ! And see ascending squadrons come Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap. My basnet to a prentice cap. Lord Surrey's o'er the Till !^ Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade, And sweep so gallant by ! With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armor flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead. THE BATTLK OF FLODDEN. 147 To see fair England's standards fly." — "Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, "tliou'dst best, And listen to our lord's behest."— With kindling brow Lord Marmion said, — "This instant be our band arrayed; The river must be quickly crossed, That -we may join Lord Surrey's host. If fight King James, — as well I trust. That fight he will, and fight he must,^ The Lady Clare behind our fines Shall tarry, while the battle joins." Himself he swift on horseback threw, Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu; Far less would listen to his prayer, To leave behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his band he drew. And muttered as the flood they view, "The pheasant in the falcon's claw, He scarce will yield to please a daw : Lord Angus may the Abbot awe. So Clare shall bide with me." Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, "Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep. He ventured desperately : And not a moment will he bide, Till squire or groom before him ride ; Headmost of all he stems the tide, And stems it gallantly. Eustace held Clare upon her horse, Old Hubert led her rein. 148 SCOTT. Stoutly they braved the current's course, And, though far downward driven perforce, The southern bank they gain ; Behind them straggHng, came to shore, As best they might, the train : Each o'er his head his yew bow bore, A caution not in vain ; Deep need that day that every string. By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. A moment then Lord Marmion staid, And breathed his steed, his men arrayed. Then forward moved his band. Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, He halted by a Cross of Stone, That, on a liillock standing lone. Did all the field command. Hence might they see the full array Of either host, for deadly fray ; Their marshalled lines stretched east and west. And fronted north and south, And distant salutation passed From the loud cannon mouth ; Not iu the close successive rattle. That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between.- — The hillock gained, Lord Marmion staid: "Here by this Cross," he gently said, "You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 149 Thou wilt not? — well, no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — You, Blount and Eu&tace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train ; Witli England if the day go hard, To Berwick speed amain. — But if we conquer, cruel 'maid, My spoils shall at your feet be laid, When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From cither squire ; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain. His way to Surrey took. -The good Lord Marmion, by my life I Welcome to danger's hour ! — Short greetino; serves in time of strife ; — Thus have I ranged my power : Myself will rule this central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right. My sons command the vaward post. With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rearward of the fight. And succor those that need it most. Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, AVould gladly to the vanguard go ; Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. With thee their charge will blithely share 3S 150 SCOTT. There fight thine own retainers too, Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." — "Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said, Nor further greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt. Where such a shoiit there rose Of "Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry, Up Plodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes. Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill ; On which (for far the day was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meamng knew, Could plain their distant comrades view; Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, "Unwortliy ofiice here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But see ! look up — on Flodden bent, The Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march; their tread alone. At times one warning trumpet blown. THK BATTLE OF KLOliUEN. At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-thvonc Kino- James did rushing con\e. — Scarce could they hear, or see their foes. Until at weapon-point they close,— They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there. Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air; Oh, life and death were in the shout, Recod and rally, charge and rout, And triumpli and despair. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in tbe storm the white seamew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave, Floating like foam upon the wave ; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow- flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 151 152 SCOTT. AVild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tiuiiult, liigh They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : And stainless Tunstall's banner white, And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight; Although against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntly, and. with Home. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside. And with both hands the broadsword plied. 'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right. With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spotless banner white. The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. The Border slogan rent the sky ! A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : Loud were the clanging blows ; Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose ; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, THE BATTLK OF FLODDEN. 153 It wavered 'nncl the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear : "By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear I will not see it lost ! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode amain. Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large, — The rescued banner rose, — But darkly closed the war around. Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground. It sank among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid. As loath to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast. To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight. . Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone : Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; Perchance a courage, not her own. Braces her mind to desperate tone. — I 154 SCOTT. The scattered van of England wheels ; — She onl)^ said, as loud in air The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?" — They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die,— "Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore. And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand ; His arms were smeared with blood and sand : Dragged from among the horses' feet. Do o With dinted shield, and helmet beat. The falcon-crest and plumage gone. Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . Young Blount his armor did unlace. And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said — " By Saint George, he's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped. And see the deep cut on his head ! Good-night to Marmion." — "Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!" When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? Redeem my pennon, — chai-ge again ! Cry — 'Marmion to the rescue!' — Vain! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — THE BATTLE OP FLODBEN. 155 Yet my last thou2;ht is England's — fly, To Dacre bear my signet-ring : Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — ■ Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His lifeblood stains the spotless shield : Edmund is down : my life is reft ; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. — 156 SCOTT. Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets ! fly! Leave Marmion here alone — to die." They parted, and alone he lay ; Glare drew her from the sight away, Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmured — "Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst?" 0, Woman ! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made ; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said. When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran : Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; The plaintive voice alone she hears. Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side. But in abhorrence backward drew ; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn? — behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond spark, In a stone basin fell. TIIK BATTLE OK FLODDEN. 157 Above, some half-worn letters say, IDvinU. lurarj). pilfliim. tinnlv. an^. pi'ag. jfov. Hjc. Uinti. soul. of. SlJbil- *RifJi- fflfflUjo. ibuiU. tJjis. rross. auti. lucU. She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with sm-prise and joy espied A Monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave — "Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,^ — "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !" — "Alas!" she said, "the while, — Oh, think of your immortal weal ! In vain for Constance is your zeal ; She died at Holy Isle." — Lord Marmion started from the ground. As heht as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide. In torrents, from his wounded side. "Then it was truth," — he said — "I knew That the dark presage must be true. — I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 40 158 SCOTT. Would spare me but a day ! For -wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay ! It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance. And doubly cursed my failing brand ! A sinful heart makes feeble hand." Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. Supported by tlie trembling Monk. With fruitless labor, Clara bound, And strove to stanch, the gushing wound : The Monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear. And that the priest he could not hear; For that she ever sung, " In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying/' So the notes rung ; — "Avoid thee. Fiend! — with cruel hand. Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; Oh, think on faith and bliss ! — By many a deathbed I have been, And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this." — The war, that for a space did fail. Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 159 And — Stanley ! was the cry ; — A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye : With dying hand, above his head, He shook the fragment of his blade. And shouted "Victory!" "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'' Were the last words of Marmion. By this, though deep the evening fell. Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntly, and where Home?— Oh for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come. When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer. On Roncesvalles died ! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain. And turn the doubtful day again. While yet on Flodden side. Afar, the Royal Standard flies. And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride ! In vain the wish — for far away, While spoil and havoc mark their way, Near Sybil's cross the plunderers stray. — "0 Lady," cried the Monk, "away!" 160 SCOTT. And placed lier on her steed, And led her to the chapel fair, Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. There all the night they spent in prayer, And at the dawn of morning, there She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. But as they left the dark'ning heath. More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlons; charsie their horse assailed ; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their King. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Thouo;h charsino; knights like whirlwinds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow. Unbroken was the rino- • The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood. Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight. Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well ; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded King. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands ; And from the charge they drew. As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, TPIE BATTLE 01-' FLODDEN. 161 Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know ; Their King, their Lords, their mightiest, low, They melted from the field, as snow. When streams are swoln and south winds bloAv, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land ; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song. Shall many an age that wail prolong : Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear. Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear. And broken was her shield. Day dawns upon the mountain's side:— There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride. Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one : The sad survivors all are gone. — View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be ; Nor to yon Border castle high. Look northward with upbraiding eye ; Nor cherish hope in vain, That, journeying far on foreign strand, The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. 41 162 SCOTT. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; Reckless of hfe, he desperate fought, And fell on Flodden plain : And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within liis manly hand. Beseemed the monarch slain. But, ! how changed since yon blithe night ! Gladly I turn me from the sight, Unto my tale again. sS's^gajEiis* THE CYPKESS "WREATH. THE CYPRESS WREATH. LADY, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of tlie cypress tree! Too lively glow the lilies light, The varnished holly's all too bright; The May-flower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine; But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress tree ! Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due; The myrtle bough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give ; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress tree ! Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipped in dew; On favored Erin's crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green — But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of tlie cypress tree! Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; And, while his crown of laurel leaves With bloody hand the victor weaves, 163 164 SCOTT. Let tlie loud trump his triumpli tell ; But wlien you hear the passing bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress tree. Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; But, oh Matilda, twine not now ! Stay till a few brief months are past, And I have looked and loved my last When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress tree. COLERIDGE. i*^^i. HYMN BEFORE SUNEISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI, Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 42 1G5 166 COLERIDGE. How silently ! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it. As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. Thy habitation from eternity ! dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still ]Dresent to the bodily sense. Didst vanish fi-om my thought : entranced in prayer, 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. So sweet we know not we are listening to it. Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with mv thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; Till the dilating soul, enrapt,. transfused. Into the mighty vision passing — there. As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven 1 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owcst ! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song 1 Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops cf stars. Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink 1 Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ! wake, wake, and utter praise 1 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. 167 Who sank thy sunless piHars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life. Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing; thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — • Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread ga:4ands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest I 168 COLERIDGE. Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lio-htnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Once more, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks. Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base. Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. To rise before me — Rise, ever rise ; Pbise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth I Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. LOVK. 169 — ^: LOVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Are all but ministers of love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. 41! 170 COLERIDGE. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the arme'd man, The statue of the arm^d knight ; She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lino-ering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land. I told her how he pined ; and ali ! The deep, tlic low, the pleading tone LOVE. 171 With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, - Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once, In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the laud ; And how she wept and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain. 172 COLERIDGE. And that slie nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay ; His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve — The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. An undistinguishable throng ; And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long j5 • She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And like the .murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. She half inclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace, LOVE. 173 And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon ray face. 'Twas partly love,- and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears ; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride 1 SOUTHEY. ^ifV*!^*^^™*^ SUNDAY MORNING. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! I to the woodlands wend, and there In lovely Nature see the God of Love. The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the sweet music of the vernal grove. The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 174 STINDAY MOKNING. 175 Excite not such devotion in my breast, As where the noontide beam, Flashed from some broken stream. Vibrates on the dazzled sight ; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; Or when, rechning on the cliffs huge height, I mark the billows burst in silver light. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! I to the woodlands shall repair. Peed with all Nature's charms mine eyes, And hear all Nature's melodies. The primrose bank will there dispense Faint fragrance to the awakened sense ; The morning beams that life and joy impart, Will with their influence warm my heart. And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, Will speak the prayer of praise I feel. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the woodlands bend my way, And meet Pieligion there ! She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray, Where storied windows dim the doubtful day ; At liberty she loves to rove, Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipped dale, Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the Night Pours in the North her silver streams of light. She woos reflection in the silent gloom. And ponders on the world to come. 176 SOUTHEY. THE HOLLY-TEEE.' EEADER ! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly-Tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 1 love to view these things with curious eyes, x\nd moralize ; And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree Can emblem see Wherewith perchance to make a plea'sant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere. To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. And should my youth, as youtli is apt, 1 know. Some harshness show, THE DESERT-THIRST. 177 All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green. The Holly leaves a sober hue display. Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree ? So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng ; So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they. That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-Tree. THE DESERT-THIRST. Still o'er the wilderness Settled the moveless mist. The timid antelope, that heard their steps. Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light; The ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full. At night, again in hope. Young Thalaba lay down ; The morning came, and not one guiding ray Through the thick mist was visible, The same deep moveless mist that mantled all. 45 178 SOtlTHEY. Oh for the vulture's scream, Who haunts for prey the abode of huinari-kind Oh for the plover's pleasant cry, To tell of water near ! Oh for the camel-driver's song ! For now the water-skin grows light, Though of the draught, more eagerly desired, Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst. Oft from the third night's broken sleep. As in his dreams he heard The sound of rushing winds, Started the anxious yoiitli, and looked abroad In vain ! for still the deadly calm endured. Another day passed on ; The water-skin was drained ! But then one hope arrived, For there was motion in the air ! The sound of the wind arose anon. That scattered the thick mist. And lo ! at length the lovely face of Heaven ! Alas ! a wretched scene Was opened on their view. They looked around ; no wells were near, No tent, no human aid ! Flat on the camel lay the water-skin, And their dumb servant, difficultly now. Over hot sands and undfer the hot sun. Dragged on with patient pain. But oh, the joy! the blessed sight; When in that burning waste the travellers THE DESERT-TIIIKST. 179 Saw a green meadow, fair with flowers besprent, Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields Of Entrland, when amid the p-rowing; crrass The blue-bell bends, the golden king-cup shines. And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air, In the merry month of May ! Oh, joy ! the travellers Gaze on each other with hope-brighteued eyes. For sure throufrh that green meadow flows The living stream ! And lo ! their famished beast Sees the restoring sight ! Hope gives his feeble limbs a sudden strength ; He hurries on ! — LAMB. HESTER. WHE: