UC-NRLF If! < THE ROSE, THISTLE AND SHAMROCK. THE A BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY, CHIEFLY MODERN. SELECTED AND ARRANGED FERDINAND FREILIGRATH, FIFTH EDITION. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. STUTTGART. EDWARD HALLBERGER. PREFATORY NOTE. It is now more than twenty years since the present Anthology first saw the light. That, after such a lapse of time, and after having run through several large editions, the little work notwithstanding, too, the competition of numerous publications of a similar cha- racter continues to obtain favour, and finds itself honoured by another edition being called for, cannot but give me the sincerest satisfaction, and it is with much pleasure that I have carefully revised it for the occasion. The illustrations with which the Publisher has embellished the new edition, will prove, it is hoped, a welcome accompaniment to the letter-press. July 1874. F. F. M5051GO CONTENTS. POESY AND THE POETS. Page An Ode A. 0' Shaughnessy 3 The Finding of the Lyre J. B. Lowell 5 The House . B. W. Emerson 6 The Poet's Song A. Tennyson 7 If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven W. Wordsworth 8 An Exhortation P. B. Shelley 8 Excelsior H. W. Longfellow 9 Many are Poets who have never pemi'd Lord Byron 11 Resolution and Independence . . . W. Wordsworth 12 Farewell to the Muse Sir W. Scott 17 A Poet's Prayer. ' E. Elliott 18 The Unknown Grave Letitia Elizabeth Land on 18 Call it not vain: they do not err . Sir W. Scott 20 The Voiceless 0. W. Holmes 21 The Arrow and the Song . . . . H. W. Longfellow 22 Scorn not the Sonnet W. Wordsu-orth 22 Translated from Schiller. The Homeric Hexameter described and exemplified ...... S. T. Coleridge 23 The Ovidian Elegiac Metre described and exemplified S. T. Coleridge 23 On Poetical Translation . . Sir J. Denham 23 VIII Page Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer M. Akenside 24 For a Tablet at Penshurst . . . . R. Southey 25 To Master George Chapman . . . Ben Jonson 26 On first looking into Chapman's Homer J.Keats 26 An Ode. To Himself Ben Jonson 27 Ode for Ben Jonson R. Herrick 28 On the Mermaid Tavern J. Keats 29 To the Memory of Shakespeare . . Ben Jonson 30 An Epitaph on Shakespeare . . . J. Milton 32 Under Milton's Picture J. Dryden 33 On a Lock of Milton's Hair . . . Leigh Hunt 33 Milton at Arcetri S. Rogers 34 On Cowley Sir J. Denham 35 On Gay A. Pope 37 On the Death of Thomson . . . . W. Collins 37 Remembrance of Collins W. Wordsworth 39 Stanzas on the Birthday of Burns . R. Nicoll 40 The Scottish Muse to Burns . . . R. Burns 41 To the Sons of Burns W. Wordsivorth 44 On Robert Burns J. Montgomery 45 Kirke White Lord Byron 46 Crabbe Lord Byron 46 My Days among the Dead are past . R. Southey 47 The Wee Man T. Hood 48 To Thomas Moore Lord Byron 50 On this Day I complete my Thirty- Sixth Year Lord Byron 51 Byron 8. Rogers 52 Byron R. Pollok 55 Felicia Hemans Letitia Elizabeth Landon 57 Charade on the Name of the Poet Campbell W. M. Praed 59 I strove with None W. S. Landor 60 Dickens in Camp Bret Harte 61 - IX - HOME AND COUNTRY. Page Home and Country J. Montgomery 65 The Name of England Felicia Hemans 66 Love of England . W. Cowper 67 From Beppo Lord Byron 68 The Security of Britain . . . * . . 8. T. Coleridge 69 The Homes of England Felicia Hemans 69 The Thames Sir J. Denham 71 To the Thames at Westminster . . T. N. Talfowd 72 London Lord Byron 72 London Joanna Baillie 73 Sonnet. Composed upon Westminster Bridge W. Wordsworth 75 My Heart 's in the Highlands. . . K. Burns 75 Scotland Dear . A. Hume 76 The Kingdom of Kerry A. P. Graves 77 Erin, the Tear and the Smile in thine Eyes T. Moore 78 America to Great Britain . . . . W. Allston 79 Adieu! Adieu! my native Shore . . Lord Byron 80 The Bonnie Banks of Ayr .... H. Burns 83 The Exile T. Hood 84 Home -Sick S. T. Coleridge 85 Home- Thoughts, from abroad. . . E. Browning 86 Home -Thoughts, from the Sea . . R. Broicnuig 87 The Shandon Bells F. Mahony 87 Exile of Erin T. Campbell 89 The Soldier's Dream T. Campbell 90 The Private of the Buffs .... Sir F. H. Doyle 91 Rule, Britannia! J. Thomson 93 God save the King Anonymous 94 Yankee Doodle Dr. Sheckburg 95 X LIBERTY. HISTORICAL POEMS. rage Liberty P. B. Shelley 99 To the Assertors of Liberty . . . P. B. Shelley 100 Oh, the Sight entrancing . . . . T. Moore 101 Forget not the Field ...'... T. Moore 102 A Vision R. Burns 103 Men of England T. Campbell 104 Boadicea W. Cowper 105 Godiva A. Tennyson 107 On the Camp Hill, near Hastings . T. Campbell 110 Inscription for a Column at Runnemede M. Akenside 111 Epitaph on King John R, Southey 111 Bruce's Address to his Troops at Bannockburn R. Burns 112 Pibroch of Donald Dhu Sir W. Scott 113 A Ballad of Agincourt M. Drayton 114 The Armada Lord Macaulay 118 To the Lord General Cromwell . . J. Milton 121 Cromwell E. Waller 122 Epitaph on Algernon Sidney . . . J?. Southey 123 The Battle of Blenheim E. Southey 124 The Lovely Lass of Inverness . . . B. Burns 126 The Chevalier's Lament R. Burns 127 The Tears of Scotland T. Smollett 127 Ode. Written in the beginning of the year 1746 W. Collins 129 Battle of the Baltic T. Campbell 130 The Burial of Sir John Moore ... (7. Wolfe 132 Field of Waterloo Lord Byron 134 The Charge of the Light Brigade. . A. Tennyson 137 America Lord Byron 139 XI - Page The Virginian Colonists Lydia H. Sigourney 140 The Pilgrim Fathers J. Pierpont 141 Seventy -Six . . . W. C. Bryant 142 Hymn, sung at the Completion of Concord Monument JR. W. Emerson 144 The Warning . . . H. W. Longfellow 144 Abraham Lincoln. 1865 W. C. Bryant 145 Barbara Frietchie J. G. Whittier 146 Somebody's Darling Marie Lacoste 148 Come up from the Fields, Father . W. Whitman 150 Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition H. Smith 152 Sound the loud Timbrel T. Moore 154 Jephtha's Daughter Lord Byron 155 The Wild Gazelle Lord Byron 156 Fallen is thy Throne T. Moore 157 Vision of Belshazzar Lord Byron 158 Ode on a Grecian Urn J. Keats 159 Ancient Greece Lord Byron 161 Modern Greece Lord Byron 162 From Hellas . Life may change, but it may fly not P. B. SJielley 166 How they brought the good News from Ghent to Aix. R. Browning 169 Hohenlinden T. Campbell 171 The Trumpet of Mars -la -Tour (From Kate Freiligrath- the German of Freiligrath) . . . Kroeker 172 A Sanitary Message Bret Harte 173 SOCIETY. WORK AND PROGRESS. The Soul's Errand . Anonymous 177 From Tue Deserted Village* . . . O. Goldsmith 180 XII Page The Manufacturing Spirit . . . . W '. Wordsworth 1S2 Steam E. Elliott 184 The Factory at Night W. Wordsworth 186 The Working Classes '. W. Wordsworth 187 From The Cry of the Children* . . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 189 Preston Mills E. Elliott 191 London Barry Cornwall 192 Gold . S. Johnson 194 Gold P. B. Shelley 195 Gold T. Hood 195 The Bridge of Sighs T. Hood 196 The Song of the Shirt T. Hood 199 Saturday E. Elliott 202 The People's Anthem .' B. Nicoll 204 From The Pleasures of Hope . . T. Campbell 204 For A' That and A' That . . . . E. Burns 206 From In Memoriam A. Tennyson 207 CHANGES OF LIFE. Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon . A. C. Swinburne 211 Stream descending to the Sea . . A. H. Clough 212 A Psalm of Life H. W. Longfellow 213 The Common Lot J. Montgomery 215 The Seven Ages of Man W. Shakespeare 216 The Human Seasons J. Keats 217 On a distant Prospect of Eton College T. Gray 218 The Rainbow W. Wordsworth 221 The goldening Peach on the Orchard Wall D. Gray 222 Maidenhood H. W. Longfellow 223 Weariness H. W. Longfellow 225 Youth and Manhood Lord Houghton 226 The Effects of Age W. S. Landor 227 - XIII - Page The Last Leaf O. W. Holmes 228 Ulysses A. Tennyson 229 All that 's bright must fade . . . T. Moore 232 The Death -Bed T. Hood 232 A Dirge W. Shakespeare 233 A Dirge A. Tennyson 234 Footsteps of Angels H. W. Longfellow 236 I Remember, I Remember . . . . T. Hood 237 The Rainy Day H. W. Longfellow 238 Be still, be still, poor human Heart Eleonora Louisa Hervey 239 Lines, written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire T. Campbell 240 This World is all a fleeting Show . T. Moore 241 The Means to attain a happy Life . Earl of Surrey 242 The Character of a happy Life . . Sir H. Wotton 242 Virtue G. Herbert 243 LOVE AND THE AFFECTIONS. From TheCuckow and the Nightingale G. Chaucer 247 The Same, modernised W. Wordsworth 248 Love S. T. Coleridge 250 The Annoyer . . . N. P. Willis 253 Love will find out the Way . . . (Percy's Reliques) 254' Love's Philosophy P. B. Shelley 256 Green grow the Rashes, Oh! . . . R. Burns 256 From Woman G. Crabbe 257 She was a Phantom of Delight . . W. Wordsu-orth 258 She walks in Beauty Lord Byron 259 To J. Keats 260 The blue -eyed Lass R. Burns 262 At the Church Gate W. M. Thackeray 262 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love C. Marlowe 264 The Nymph's Reply Sir W. Raleigh 265 XIV Page Sonnet : With how sad steps, Moon ! Sir P. Sidney 266 Song: Go, lovely Rose E. Waller 266 Song: Gather ye Rose-buds as ye may R. Herrick 267 The Maid of Isla Sir W. Scott 268 The Maid's Remonstrance . . . . T. Campbell 269 Song : I prithee send me back my heart* Sir J. Suckling 269 I love thee T. Hood 270 Song: The Splendour falls on Castle Walls* A. Tennyson 271 Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast . li. Burns 272 Song: Hark! hark! the Lark . . W. Shakespeare 272 My ain kind Dearie, 0! E. Burns 273 Oh , come to me , when Daylight sets T. Moore 274 Meeting at Night It. Browning 275 Pastoral Song Lord Houghton 275 Fatima A. Tennyson 276 Sonnet : kiss ! which dost those ruddy gems impart Sir P. Sidney 278 The Kiss a Dialogue R. Herrick 278 To Celia: Drink to me only with thine eyes Ben Jonson 279 The gowden Locks of Anna . . . . R. Burns 280 To Althea, from Prison ...... R. Lovelace 281 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars . R. Lovelace 282 Lochaber no more A. Ramsay 282 My bonnie Mary R. Burns 283 Go where Glory waits thee . . . . T. Moore 284 Ae fond kiss R. Burns 285 Fare thee well Lord Byron 286 When we Two parted Lord Byron 288 Maid of Athens, ere we part . . . Lord Byron 289 Absence T. Campbell 290 To an Absentee T. Hood ' 291 Sonnet: Like as a ship, that through the Ocean wide K Spenser 292 XV Page Sormet: Like as the Culver, on the bared bough E. Spenser 292 For the Sake of Somebody . . . . B. Burns 293 The Irish Exile's Love A. P. Graves 294 Something Childish, but very Natural S. T. Coleridge 295 I think on Thee in the Night . . . T. K. Hervey 295 To. Composed at Rotterdam . . . T. Hood 296 The Castled Crag of Drachenfels- . . Lord Byron 298 Oh , soon return T. Moore 299 Robin Adair . Anonymous 300 The brave Roland ....... T. Campbell 301 Stanzas :In a drear-nightedDecember J. Keats 302 There comes a Time T. Moore 303 Fly to the Desert, fly with me . . T. Moore 304 Love Letitia Elizabeth Landon 306 Sister! since I met thee last . . . Felicia Hetnans 306 Mother,! Oh, sing me to rest . . . Felicia Henians 307 Mariana A. Tennyson 308 The Forsaken T. Hood 311 When lovely Woman O. Goldsmith 311 Take, oh take those lips away . . W.. Shakespeare 312 Oh! no, we never mention her . . T. H. Baily 312 The Maid of Neidpath Sir W. Scott 313 The broken Flower Felicia Henians 314 The Message Adelaide Anne Procter 315 She 's gane to dwall in Heaven . . A. Cunningham 316 Highland Mary B. Burns 318 To Mary in Heaven B. Burns 319 A Wish . . . S. Rogers 320 Ruth T. Hood 321 The Bride Sir J. Suckling 322 My Wife 's a winsome wee Thing . B. Burns 323 Agnes G. H. Calvert 323 XVI Page Oh , no not ev'n when first we lov'd T. Moore 324 A Heaven upon Earth . . . . . Leigh Hunt 325 John Anderson, ray jo R, Burns 325 To Mary W. Cowper 326 Sonnet. To a Friend S. T. Coleridge 328 Lullaby A. Tennyson 329 To my Daughter, on her Birthday . T. Hood 329 To a Child, embracing his Mother . T. Hood 330 Sonnet to my Mother H. K. White 331 Oh, many a leaf will fall to-night . D. Gray 332 A Parental Ode to my Son .... T. Hood 334 To T. L. H., during a Sickness . . Leigh Hunt 336 The Widow's Lament J. Hogg 337 Resignation H. W. Longfellow 339 Song: As thro' the land at eve we went A. Tennyson 341 The Child's first Grief Felicia Hemans 341 We are Seven W. Wordsworth, 342 The Brothers C. Sprague 345 The Old familiar Faces C. Lamb 346 Auld Lang Syne R. Burns 347 We have been friends together . . Caroline Norton 348 A broken Friendship S. T. Coleridge 349 Changed H. W. Longfellow 349 NATURE AND THE SEASONS. Hymn to Pan . J. Keats 353 Nature J. Thomson 355 The Shepherd Boy Letitia Elizabeth Landon 356 Oh Fairest of the rural Maids . . W. C. Bryant 357 Praise of a solitary Life W. Dntmmond 358 Of Solitude A. Coivley 359 Solitude Lord Byron 360 - XVII - Page To Solitude J. Keats 361 Sonnet: Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild* //. K. White 361 Ode J. Addison 362 Light % J. Milton 363 The Sunbeam Felicia Hemans 364 Sunshine * Mary Hotcitt 366 The New Moon W. C. Bryant 368 The Stars Barry Cornwall 369 The Stars (From the German of Arndt) E. Jones 370 Hymn to the North Star . . . . W. C. Bryant 371 Song. To the Evening Star . . . T. Campbell 372 The Light of Stars H. W. Longfellow 373 The Cloud P. B. Shelley 374 The Wandering Wind Felicia Hemans 377 The World's Wanderers P. B. Shelley 378 The Water! The Water! . . . . W. Motherwell 378 The Melodies of Morning . . . . J. Beattie 381 Evening Lord Byron 382 The Song of Night Felicia Hemans 382 A Night -Piece W. Wordsworth 384 Afternoon in February H. W. Longfellow 385 Written in March W. Wordsworth 386 The Voice of Spring Felicia Hemans 387 To a Mountain Daisy B. Burns 390 To Blossoms E. Herrick 392 To Daifodils B. Herrick 392 I wandered lonely as a Cloud . . . W. Wordsworth 393 Song on May Morning J- Milton 394 To the Cuckoo J. Logan (M. Bruce) 394 To the Cuckoo W. Wordsworth 396 The Lark J. Hogg 397 To a Skylark P. B. Slielley 398 Ode to a Nightingale ...... .7. Keats 401 * - XVIII - Page Song: 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark H. Coleridge 404 The Summer's Call Felicia Hemans 405 Summer Woods Mary Howitt 407 Under the Greenwood Tree . ... IV. Shakespeare 409 Sonnet. On the Grasshopper and Cricket J. K 'eats 410 Flowers T. Hood 410 The Harebell Mary Howitt 411 The Broom -Flower Mary Howitt 413 The Lime Tree F. Bennoch 414 To a Bee K. Southey 416 Inscription for a Fountain on a Heatli S. T. Coleridge 417 'Tis the last Rose of Summer . . . T. Moore 417 Robin Redbreast W. Allingham 418 To Autumn J- Keats 420 To the Harvest Moon H. K. White 421 The Solitary Reaper W. Wordsworth 423 The Death of the Flowers . . . . W. C. Bryant 424 To a Waterfowl W. C. Bryant 425 November H. Coleridge 427 The Frost Spirit J. G. Whittier 427 Frost at Midnight S. T. Coleridge 428 Dedicatory Sonnet H. Coleridge 431 Up in the Mornin' early It. Burns 431 The Snow C. Swain 432 The Snow Storm R. W. Emerson 433 Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind . . W. Shakespeare 434 The Holly Tree R. Southey 434 THE SEA AND THE SAILOR. FOREIGN SCENES. Address to the Ocean Lord Byron 439 The Sea Barry Cornwall 440 XIX - Pago Sea - Side Thoughts B. Barton 442 The Treasures of the Deep .... Felicia Hemans . 443 The Sea -Shore Letitia Elizabeth Landon 444 From The Borough G. Crabbe 445 The Lee -Shore T. Hood 447 The Ebb -Tide R. Southey 448 Sea -Weed . . . H. W. Longfellow 449 The Lighthouse H. W. Longfellow 450 The Fate of the Oak Barry Cormcall 452 Ye Mariners of England T. Campbell 453 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea . . A. Cunningham 455 The First Voyage . . . . . . . Eliza Cook 456 The English Ship by Moonlight . . Eliza Cook 457 The Meeting of the Ships . . . . T. Moore 458 Saturday Night at Sea B. Taylor 459 The Man of War Lord Byron 460 The Sea -Fight Barry Cornwall 461 The Stormy Petrel Barry Cornwall 463 Dangers of the Deep R. Southey 464 The Sailor's Consolation T. Hood 465 The Bay of Biscay , ! A. Cherry 466 The Shipwreck J. Wilson 467 The Ship Foundering Lord Byron 469 A Shipwreck Scene Lord Byron 470 The Fishermen C. Kingsley 471 The Sands of Dee C. Kingsley ' 472 On the Loss of the Royal George . W. Cotvper 473 The Sailor's Grave ....*... Eliza Cook 474 Dirge at Sea Felicia Remans 475 The Sailor's Mother W. Wordsworth 475 How 's my. Boy? % 8. Dobell 477 Heaving of the Lead C. Dibdin 478 The Sailor returning to his Family . G. Crabbe 479 The Inchcape Rock ....... R. Southey 480 XX Page Written on Passing Deadman's Island T. Moore 482 The South -Sea Isles J. Wilson 483 The Land and Ocean Scenery of America R. Southey 484 A Scene on the Susquehana . . . T. Campbell 486 A Canadian Boat Song T. Moore 486 The Far West H. W. Longfellow 487 On Leaving California B. Taylor 488 California Madrigal Bret Harte 490 An Evening Walk in Bengal . . . R. Heber 491 Afar in the Desert T. Pringle 493 INDEX OF AUTHOR. Addison, Joseph, born 1672, died 1719. Akenside, Mark, born 1721, died 1770. Allingham, William, born about 1828, lives in London. Allston, Washington, (American), born 1779, died 1843. Baillie, Joanna, born about 1765, died 1850. Baily, Thomas Haynes, born 1797, died 1839. Barton, Bernard, n the Quaker Poet", born 1784, died 1849. Seattle, James, born 1735, died 1803. Bennoch, Francis, born 1812, lives in London. Browning, Kobert, born 1812, lives in London. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, born 1809, died 1861. Bryant, William Cullen, (American), born 1794, lives at Newyork. Burns, Robert, born 1759, died 1796. Byron, George Gordon, Lord, born 1788, died 1824. Calvert, George H., (American), born about 1803, lives at Newport, Ehode Island. Campbell, Thomas, born 1777, died 1844.. Chaucer, Geoffrey, ,,the Father of English Poetry", born 1328, died 1400. Cherry, Andrew, born 1762, died 1812. Clough, Arthur Hugh, born 1819, died 1861. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, born 1772, died 1834. Coleridge, Hartley, son of the above, born 1797, died 1849. Collins, William, born 1720, died 1756. Cook, Eliza, born about 1818, lives in London. Cornwall, Barry, (the literary name adopted by Bryan Walter Procter), born 1790, lives in London. Cowley, Abraham, born 1618, died 1667. Cowper, William, born 1731, died 1800. - XXII - Crabbe, George, born 1754, died 1832. Cunningham, Allun, born 1784, died 1842. Denham, Sir John, born 1615, died 1668. Dibdin, Charles, born 1745, died 1814. D.obell, Sydney, born 1824, lives near Gloucester. Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings, born 1810. Drayton, Michael, born 1563, died 1631. Drummond, William, (of Hawthornden), born 1585, died 1649. Dryden, John, born 1631, died 1700. Elliott, Ebenezer, ,,the Cornlaw - Rhymer", born 1781, died 1849. Emerson, Ralph Waldo, (American), born 1803, lives at Concord. Freiligrath-Kroeker, Kate, Daughter of the Editor, lives at Foresthill, Kent. Goldsmith, Oliver, bora 1728, died 1774. Graves, Alfred Perceval, born 1846, lives in London. Gray, David, born 1838, died 1861. Gray, Thomas, born 1716, died 1771. Harte, Francis Bret, (American), born 1837, lives at Newyork. Heber, Reginald, born 1783, died 1826. Hemans, Felicia, born 1793, died 1835. Herbert, George, born 1593, died 1632. Herrick, Robert, born 1591, died 1674. Hervey, Eleonora Louisa, born 1811, lives in London. Hervey, Thomas K., born 1804, died 1859. Hogg, James, ,,the Ettrick Shepherd", born 1782, died 1835. Holmes, Oliver Wendell, (American), born 1809, lives at Boston. Hood, Thomas, born -1798, died 1845. Houghton, Lord, (Richard Monckton Milnes) , born 1809, lives in London. Howitt, Mary, born about the beginning of the present century- lives on the Continent. Hume, Alexander, born 18, died 18. Hunt, Leigh, born 1784, died 1859. Johnson, Samuel, born 1709, died 1784. Jones, Ernest, born 1819, died 1869. Jonson, Ben, born 1574, died 1637. Keats, John, born 1796, died 1820. Kingsley, Charles, born 1819, lives at Cambridge. Lacoste, Marie, (American), lives at Savannah, Georgia. XXIII Lamb, Charles, born 1775, died 1834. Landon, Letitia Elizabeth, (,,L. E. L.") afterwards Mrs. Maclean, born 1802, died 1838. Landor, Walter Savage, born 1775, died 1864. Logan, John, born 1748, died 1788. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, (American), born 1807, lives at Cambridge near Boston. Lovelace, Richard, born 1618, died 1658. Lowell, James Kussell, (American), born 1819, lives at Cambridge near Boston. Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord, born 1800, died 1859. Mahony, Francis, (Father Prout), born 1805, died 1866. Marlowe, Christopher, born 1562, died 1593. Massey, Gerald, born 1828, lives at Kernel Hampstead. Milton, John, born 1608, died 1674. Montgomery, James, born 1771, died 1854. Moore, Thomas, born 1780, died 1852. Motherwell, William, born 1797, died 1835. Nicoll, Robert, born 1814, died 1837. Norton, Hon. Mrs. Caroline, born about 1808, lives in London. O'Shaughnessy, Arthur, born 1846, lives in London. Percy, Thomas, Bishop of Dromore, born 1728, died 1811: editor of the ,,Reliques of Ancient English Poetry 1 '. Pierpont, John, (American), born 1785. Pollok, Robert, born 1799, died 1827. Pope, Alexander, born 1688, died 1744. Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, born 1802, died 1839. Pringle, Thomas, born 1788, died 1834. Procter, Adelaide Anne, born 1835, died 1864. Kaleigh, Sir Walter, born 1552, beheaded 1618. Ramsay, Allan, born 1685, died 1758. Rogers, Samuel, born 1762, died 1855. Scott, Sir Walter, born 1771, died 1832. Shakespeare, William, born 1564, died 1616. Sheckburg, Dr., lived about the middle of the last century. Shelley, Percy Bysshe, born 1792, drowned 1822. Sidney, Sir Philip, born 1554, killed in battle 1586. Sigourney, Lydia Huntley, (American), born 1791, died 1865. Smith, Alexander, born 1830, died 1867. XXIV - Smith, Horace, born 1779, died 1849. Smollett, Tobias, born 1721, died 1771. Southey, Kobert, born 1774, died 1843. Spenser, Edmund, born 1553, died 1598/99. Sprague, Charles, (American), born 1791, lives at Boston. Suckling, Sir John, born 1608, died 1641. Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, born 1516, beheaded 1547. Swain, Charles, born 1803, lives at Manchester. Swinburne, Algernon Charles, born 1843, lives in London. Talfourd, Thomas Noon, born about 1796, died 1854. Taylor, Bayard, (American), born 1825, lives at Cedar Croft, near Philadelphia. Tennyson, Alfred, Poet Laureate, born 1810, lives at Freshwater, Isle of Wight. Thackeray, William Makepeace, born 1811, died 1863. Thomson, James, born 1700, died 1748. Waller, Edmund, born 1603, died 1687. White, Henry Kirke, born 1785, died 1806. Whitman, Walt, (American), born 1819, lives at Washington. Whittier, John Greenleaf, (American), born 1808, lives at Washington. Willis, Nathaniel P., (American), born 1807, died 1867. Wilson, John, born 1788, died 1854. Wolfe, Charles, 'born 1791, died 1823. Wordsworth, William, born 1770, died 1850. Wotton, Sir Henry, born 1568, died 1639. POESY AND THE POETS. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth , from earth to heaven ; And, as imagination todies forth The forms of things unknown , the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. I can refel opinion; and approve The state of Poesie, such as it is, Blessed, eternal, and most true divine: Indeed, if you will look on Poesie, As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patch'd up in remnants and old worn-out rags, Half -starved for want of her peculiar food: Sacred Invention; then I must confirm Both your conceit and censure of her merit. But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit with the precious taste Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most, Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul, That hates to have her dignity profaned With any relish of an earthly thought: Oh then how proud a presence does she bear! Then is she like herself; fit to he seen Of none but grave and consecrated eyes! BEN JONSON. AN ODE We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams; Wandering by lone sea - breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World losers and world forsakers On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties W T e build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory; One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three, with a new song's measure, Can trample a kingdom down. We in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. A breath' of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming, Unearthly, impossible seeming The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their Present, And their work in the world be done. They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising, They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going; But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart, And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man's heart. And, therefore, to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted; And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass as they may In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday. But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing men, it must ever be- That we dwell in our dreaming and singing A little apart from ye. For we are afar with the dawning, And the suns that are not yet high; And out of the infinite morning, Intrepid , you hear us cry, How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling, unknown shore, Bring us hither your sun and your summers, And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before; Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers And a singer who sings no more. ARTHUR O'SITAUOHNESSV. THE FINDING OF THE LYRE. There lay upon the ocean's shore What once a tortoise served to cover. A year and more, Avhith rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand -drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it. It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher -girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other. So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, Why, here, cried he, the thing of things In shape , material , and dimension ! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!* So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE HOUSE. There is no architect Can build as the muse can She is skilful to select Materials for her plan; Slow and warily to choose Rafters of 'immortal pine, Or cedar incorruptible, Worthy her design. 7 She threads dark Alpine forests, Or valleys by the sea, In many lands, with painful steps Ere she can find a tree. She ransacks mines and ledges, And quarries every rock, To hew the famous adamant, For each eternal block. She lays her beams in music, In music every one, To the cadence of the whirling world Which dances round the sun. That so they shall not be displaced By lapses or by wars, But for the love of happy souls Outlive the newest stars. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. THE POET'S SONG. The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town, and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild -swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away. ALFRED TENNYSON. IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN. If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven -born light, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content: The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they that from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth. Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch fire , on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees; All are the undying offspring of one Sire: iten, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. AN EXHORTATION. Cameleons feed on light and air: Poets' food is love and fame: If in this wide world of care Poets could but find the same With as little toil as they, Would they ever change their hue As the light cameleons do, Suiting it to every ray Twenty times a -day? Poets are on this cold earth, As cameleons might be, Hidden from their early birth In a cave beneath the sea; Where light is , cameleons change ! Where love is not , poets do : Fame is love disguised: if few Find either, never think it strange That poets range. Yet dare not stain with wealth or power A poet's free and heavenly mind: If bright cameleons should devour Any food but beams and wind, They would grow as earthly soon As their brother lizards are. Children of a sunnier star, Spirits from beyond the moon, Oh , refuse the boon ! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. EXCELSIOR. The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid sriow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! 10 His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior ! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! Try not the Pass! the old man said; Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide! And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! . stay, the maiden said, and rest Thy weary head upon this breast ! A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche ; This was the peasant's last Good -night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft -repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior ! 11 A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half -buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. MAM ARE POETS WHO HAVE NEVER PENN'D. (FKOM n THE PROPHECY OF DANTE".) Many are poets who have never penn'd Their inspiration, and perchance the best: They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars Unlaurell'd upon earth , but far more bless'd Than those who are degraded by the jars Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. Many are poets, but without the name, For what is poesy but to create From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 12 Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea- shore V So be it : we can bear. But thus all they Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er The form which their creations may essay, Are bards; the kindled marble's bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, Or deify the canvass till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused , transfigurated : and the line Of poesy, which peoples but the air With thought and beings of our thought reflected, Can do no more: then let the artist share The palm , he shares the peril , and dejected Faints o'er the labour unapproved Alas ! ir and Genius are too oft connected. LORD BYRON. RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock -dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled whit pleasant noise of waters. - 18 All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain - drops, 011 the moors The hare is running races in her mirth, And with her feet she from the pi ashy earth Eaises a mist; that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a Traveller then upon^the moor; I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ : My old remembrances went from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low; To me that morning did it happen so; And fears and fancies thick upon me came; Dim sadness and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. I heard the sky -lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood; 14 - As if all needful things would "come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain - side : By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense: Like a sea -beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself. Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep in his extreme old age: His body was bent double , feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain", or rage 15 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call; And moveth all together, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water , which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book: And now a stranger's privilege I took, And, drawing to his side, to him did say, This morning gives us promise of a glorious day. A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : j And him whith further words I thus bespake, What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you. Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet -vivid eyes. His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech; Such as -grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 16 He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome! And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. The old Man still stood talking by my side; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills, And mighty Poets in their misery dead. - Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, How is it that you live, and what is it you do? . He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. 0nce I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still 1 persevere, and find them where I may. While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old Man's shape, and speech all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, "Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main, and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. God, said I, be my help and stay secure; I '11 think of the Leech - gatherer on the lonely moor! WILLIAM WOKDSWORTH. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. Enchantress, farewell,, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking The language alternate of rapture and woe: Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know. Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. - 18 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain; As vain thy enchantments, Queen of wild Numbers, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers Farewell, then, Enchantress! I meet thee no more! SIR WALTER SCOTT. A POET'S PRAYER. Almighty Father! let thy lowly child, Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold A patriot bard, by sycophants revil'd, Let him live usefully, and not die old! Let poor men's children, pleas'd to read his lays, Love , for his sake , the scenes where he has been, And, when he ends his pilgrimage of days, Let him be buried where the grass is green; Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late To hear the bee his busy note prolong There let him slumber, and in peace await The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng, Who scorn the windflower's blush, the redbreast's lonely song. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. There is a little lonely grave Which no one comes to see, The foxglove and red orchis wave Their welcome to the bee. 19 There never falls the morning sun, It lies beneath the wall, But there when weary day is done The lights of sunset fall, Flushing the warm and crimson air, As life and hope were present there. There sleepeth one who left his. heart Behind him in his song; Breathing of that diviner part Which must to heaven belong. The language of those spirit chords, But to the poet known, Youth , love , and hope yet use his words, They seem to be his own: And yet he has not left a name, The poet died whithout his fame. How many are the lovely lays That haunt our English tongue. Defrauded of their poet's praise, Forgotten he who sung. Tradition only vaguely keeps Sweet fancies round his tomb ; Its tears are what the wild flower weeps, Its record is that bloom; Ah. surely Nature keeps with her The memory of her worshipper. One of her loveliest mysteries Such spirits blends at last With all the fairy fantasies Which o'er some scenes are cast. A softer beauty fills the grove, A light is in the grass, 20 A deeper sense of truth and love Comes o'er us as we pass; "While lingers in the heart one line, The nameless poet hath a shrine. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. FROM ..THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL' Call it not vain: they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies: Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn; But that the stream , the wood , the gale, Is vocal with the plaintive wail Of those, who, else forgotten long, Lived in the poet's faithful song, And, with the poet's parting breath, Whose memory feels a second death. The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, That love, true love, should be forgot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier: 21 The phantom Knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, And shrieks along the battle -plain. The Chief, whose antique crownlet long Still sparkled in the feudal song, Now, from the mountain's misty throne, Sees, in the thanedom once his own, His ashes undistinguish'd lie, His place, his power, his memory die: His groans the lonely caverns fill, His tears of rage impel the rill: All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung, Their name unknown, their praise unsung. * SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE VOICELESS. We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, Whose song has told their hearts' sad story: Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory -haunted billow, But where the glistening night -dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 22 hearts that break, and give no sign, Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine, Slow -dropped from misery's crushing presses! If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! OLIVEK WENDELL HOLMES. THE ARROW AND THE I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to- earth , I knew not where ; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. HENKY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. SCORN NOT THE SONNET. Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; 23 - A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camb'ens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery -land To struggle through dark ways: and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul - animating strains alas, too few! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER. 1. THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the Ocean. 2. THE OY1DIAN ELEGIAC METRE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. ON POETICAL TRANSLATION. (FROM LINES ENTITLED ,,TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF PASTOR FIDO".) Secure of fame , thou justly dost esteem Less honour to create, than to redeem. - 24 - Nor ought a Genius less than his that writ, Attempt Translation; for transplanted wit All the defects of air and soil doth share, And colder brains like colder climates are: In vain they toil, since nothing can beget A vital spirit, but a vital heat. That servile path thou nobly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line. Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, Not the effect of Poetry, but pains; Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words. A new and nobler way thou dost pursue, To make Translations and Translators too. They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame, True to his sense, but truer to his fame. SIR JOHN DENHAM. INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER, AT WOODSTOCK. Such was old Chaucer: such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony inform'd The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life; through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, stranger, thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain - 25 - Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero; who, in times Dark aud untaught, legan with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land. MARK AKKNSIDB. FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST. Are days of old familiar to thy mind, Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, The groves of Penshurst. Sidney* here was born. Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man His own delightful genius ever feign'd, Illustrating the vales of Arcady With courteous courage and with loyal loves. Upon his natal day an acorn here Was planted: it grew up a stately oak, And in the beauty of its strength it stood And flourish'd, when his perishable part Had moulder'd, dust to dust. That stately oak Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame Endureth in his own immortal works. ROBERT SOUTHET. Sir Philip Sidney. Ed. 26 TO MY WORTHY AND HONOURED FRIEND, MASTER GEORGE CHAPMAN. "Whose work could this be, Chapman, to refine Old Hesiod's ore, and give it thus! but thine, Who hadst before wrought in rich Homer's mine. What treasure hast thou brought us! and what store Still, still, dost thou arrive with at our shore, To make thy honour, and our wealth the more! If all the vulgar tongues that speak this day Were ask'd of thy discoveries; they must say, To the Greek coast thine only knew the way. Such passage hast thou found, such returns made, As now of all men, it is call'd thy trade, And who make thither else, rob, or invade. BEN JONSON. SONNET. (ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.) Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep -browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet. did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 27 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien. JOHN KEATS. BEN JONSON. AN ODE.-TO HIMSELF. Where dost Thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts , and so destroys them both ; Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings; Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd ? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause; Let this thought quicken thee: Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause, 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. 28 What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre, Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet's line, aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again: W T ho aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age Cannot indure reproof, Make not thyself a page To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolfs black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. BEN JONSON. ODE FOR BEN JONSON. Ah, Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the triple Tun; Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad? And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. 29 My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus: But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend; And, having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. KOBEKT HEREJCK. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign -board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, 30 Underneath a new old -sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? JOHN KEATS. TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance, Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. But thou art proof against them , and , indeed , Above the ill fortune of them , or the need. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 31 A little further off, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportion^ Muses: For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I will not seek For names: but call forth thund'ring Eschylus, Euripides , and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius , Accius , him of Cordoua dead, To live again , to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age , but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears , or like a Mercury to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As , since , she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature's family. Yet must I not give nature all', thy art, - 32 - My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion , and , that he "Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it , that he thinks to frame ; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet 's made, as well as born. And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue , even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well turned and true filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance , As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweei^ Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza , and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night , And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. BEN JONSON. AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones , The labour of an age in piled stones ? 33 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star - ypointing pyramid? Dear sou of memory, great heir of fame, What needst thou such weak witness of thy Thou , in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst , to the shame of slow - endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And, so sepulchered, in such pomp dost lie, That kings , for such a tomb , would wish to die. JOHN MILTON. UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE, BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST. Three Poets in three distant ages born , Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd ; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go ; To make a third, she joiifd the former two. JOHN DEYDEN. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honour'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death. 34 Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Kan his fine fingers, when he leant, blank -eyed, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest , yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant, a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk; as though it said: Patience and Gentleness is Power. In me Behold affectionate eternity. LEIGH HUXT. MILTON AT ARCETRI. (FROM B ITALY U .) - - We hail Thy sunny slope , Arcetri , sung of Old For its green wine ; dearer to me , to most, As dwelt on by that great Astronomer, Seven years a prisoner at the city -gate, Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be His villa (justly was it called the Gem !) Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars! Sacred the vineyard , where , while yet his sight Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines, Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart Some verse of Ariosto ! There , unseen , In manly beauty Milton stood before him, Gazing with reverent awe Milton, his guest, Just then come forth, all life and enterprize; He in his old age and extremity , Blind , at noon - day exploring with his staff : - 35 - His eyes upturned as to the golden sun, His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then Did Galileo think whom he received; That in his hand he held the hand of one Who could requite him who would spread his name O'er lands and seas great as himself, nay greater; Milton as little that in him he saw, As in a glass , what he himself should be , Destined so soon to fall on evil days And evil tongues so soon, alas, to live In darkness , and with dangers compassed round , And solitude. SAMUEL ROGERS. ON MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY. HIS DEATH AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS. Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far. His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd Which our dark nation long involv'd; But he, descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades. Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, Whose purple blush the day foreshows: The other three with his own fires Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires: By Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines. Our stage's lustre Kome's outshines. These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave their mansion keep. They lived to see so many days, 36 Till time had blasted all their bays; But cursed be the fatal hour That pluck'd the fairest sweetest flower That in the Muses' garden grew. And amongst wither'd laurels threw. Time, which made them their fame outlive, To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have: In Spenser and in Jonson, Art Of slower Nature got the start; But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happiest share; To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; He melted not the ancient gold, Nor with Ben Jonson did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets and of orators: Horace his wit and Virgil's state He did not steal, but emulate; And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear: He not from Rome alone, but Greece, Like Jason brought the golden fleece; To him that language (though to none Of th' others) as his own was known. On a stiff gale, as Flaccus sings, The Theban swan extends his wings, When through th' ethereal clouds he flies: To the same pitch our swan doth rise. Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd, When on that gale his wings are stretch'd; His fancy and his judgment such, Each to the other seem'd too much; His severe judgment, giving law. His modest fancy kept in awe. SIR JOHN DENHAM. ON MR. GAY. IN WESTMINSTER- ABBEY, 1732. Of manners gentle, of aifections mild; In wit a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age; Above temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupted even among the great: A safe companion, and an easy friend, Unblamed through life, lamented in the end. These are thy honours! not that here thy bust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust; But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms. Here lies Gay. ALEXANDER FOPE. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. - 38 - In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing- shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft, as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire,* And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail: Or tears, which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge -crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! Richmond Church, in which Thomson \vas hurled. - 39 - And see, the /airy valleys fade; Dun night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's Child, again adieu! The genial meads, assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds and shepherd - girls shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 0! vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave your Druid lies! WILLIAM COLLINS. REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. Glide gently, thus for ever glide, Thames ! that other hards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. glide, fair stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing. Tain thought! Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart , How bright , how solemn , how serene ! - 40 Such as did once the Poet bless, Who murmuring here a later* ditty. Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. Now let us , as we float along , For him suspend the dashing oar ; And pray that never child of song May know that Poet's sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended ! The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest Powers attended. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. STANZAS ON THE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. This is the natal day of him Who. born in want and poverty. Burst from his fetters, and arose The freest of the free ; Arose to tell the watching earth What lowly men could feel and do, To show that mighty heaven -like souls In cottage hamlets grew. Burns! thou hast given us a name To shield us from the taunts of scorn ; The plant that creeps amid the Soil A glorious flower hath borne. * Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I bo- heve, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. 41 Before the proudest of the earth We stand with an uplifted brow ; Like us, Thou wast a toil-worn man, And we are noble now ! Inspired by thee . the lowly hind All soul - degrading meanness spurns ; Our teacher, saviour, saint* art thon. Immortal Robert Burns! ROBERT XICOT THE SCOTTISH MUSE TO BURNS. (FROM fl THE VISION".) Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim , Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling power; I marked thy embryo tuneful flame , Thy natal hour. With future hope , I oft would gaze Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely caroll'd , chiming phrase , In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times. I saw thee seek the sounding shore , Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. 42 0r when the deep -green mantled earth Warm cherish'd every flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In every grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth "With boundless love. When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. When youthful love, warm - blushing, strong, Keen - shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild, send thee pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor - ray. By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. I taught thy manners -painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends. - 43 - Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; Or wake the bosom - melting throe, With Shenstone's art: Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Though large the forest's monarch throws His army shade , Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. Theu never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : And , trust me , not Potosi's mine , Nor kings' regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine A rustic bard. <;To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the dignity of man, With soul erect; And trust, the Universal Plan Will all protect. And wear thou this, she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head; The polished leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ROBERT BURNS. __ 44 TO THE SONS OF AFTER VISITING THE GEAVE OF THEIE FATHEE. 'Mid crowded obelisks and ums I sought the untimely grave of Burns; Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true; And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you! Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill, And more than common strength and skill Must ye display; If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! But if the Poet's wit ye share, Like him can speed The social hour of tenfold care There will be need; For honest men delight will take To spare your failings for his sake, Will flatter you, and fool and rake Your steps pursue; And of your Father's name will make A snare for you. Far from their noisy haunts retire, And add your voices to the quire 45 That sanctify the cottage fire With service meet; There seek the genius of your Sire, His spirit greet; Or where, 'mid lonely heights and hows. He paid to Nature tuneful vows; Or wiped his honourable brows Bedewed with toil, While reapers strove, or busy ploughs Upturned the soil; His judgment with benignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; But ne'er to a seductive lay Let faith be given; Nor deem that light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven. Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent , generous , brave ; Your Father such example gave, And such revere; But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. ON ROBERT BURNS. He pass'd thro' life's tempestuous night, A brilliant, trembling, northern light; Thro' years to come he'll shine from far, A fix'd. unsetting, polar star. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 46 KIRKE WHITE. (FROM ^ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS".) Unhappy White! while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, Which else had sounded an immortal lay. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy 'd her favourite son ! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow: And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Yiew'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest Drank the last life -drop of his bleeding breast. LORD BYRON. CRABBE. (FROM ^ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS".) There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing: 'Tis true, that all who rhyme nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius trite ; 47 Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest; Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. LORD BYRON. My days among the Dead are past ; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long -past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I 'trust, That will not perish in the dust. ROBERT SOUTHEY. 48 THE WEE MAN. It was a merry company, And they were just aftoat, When lo I a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hail'd the boat. Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in? A slender space will serve my case, For I am small and thin. They saw he was a dwarfish man , And very small and thin; Not seven such would matter much , And so they took him in. They laugh'd to see his little hat, With such a narrow brim; They laugh'd to note his dapper coat, With skirts so scant and trim. But barely had they gone a mile , When, gravely, one and all, At once began to think the man Was not so very small. His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim , His leg grew stout, and soon plump'd out A very proper limb. 49 Still on they went, and as they went. More rough the billows grew, And rose and fell, a greater swell. And he was swelling too ! And lo! where room had been for seven, For six there scarce was space! For five! for four! for three! not more Than two could find a place! There was not even room for one! They crowded by degrees Aye closer yet, till elbows met, And knees were jogging knees. Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, The wave will else come in! Without a word he gravely stirr'd, Another seat to win. Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee! With smiling face, and courteous grace, The middle seat took he. But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide, Each neighbour wight, to left and right, Was thrust against the side. Lord! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in; To see him grow so monstrous now, That came so small and thin. 4 50 On every brow a dew-drop stood, They grew so scared and hot, !' the name of all that 's great and tall. Who are ye, sir, and what? Loud laugh'd the Gogmagog , a laugh As loud as giant's roar When first I came, my proper name Was Little now I'm Moore ! THOMAS HOOD, TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here 's a double health to thee ! Here 's a sigh to those that love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky 's above me, Here 's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 51 With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore! LORD BYROX THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY SIXTH YEAR. MiSSOLONGHi, Jan. 22. 1824. 'Tis time this heart should he unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus and 'tis not here Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. 52 The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through ivhom' Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here: up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out less often sought than found A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. LORD BYKON. BYRON. (FROM B ITALY tt .) Much had passed Since last we parted; and those five short years- Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd Grey ; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, - 53 - Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing no unwelcome hour, The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising we climhed the rugged Apennine. Well I remember how the golden sun Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulphs, As on we travelled, and along the ridge, Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild -fig, His motley household came Not last nor least, Battista , who upon the moonlight - sea Of Venice, had so ably, zealously, Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away To follow thro' the world; who without stain Had worn so long that honourable badge, The gondolier's, in a Patrician House Arguing unlimited trust. Not last nor least, Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength. Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour Guarding his chamber - door , and now along The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi Howling in grief. He had just left that Place Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea, Ravenna! where, from Dante's sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares,* Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight -time, Thro' the pine - forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld** * See the Prophecy of Dante. ** See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dryden. 54 - (What is not visible to a Poet's eye?) The spectre -knight, the hell-hounds and their prey, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly hlasted. 'Twas a theme he loved, But others claimed their turn; and many a tower, Shattered, uprooted from its native rock, Its strength the pride of some heroic age, Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer* Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot, All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured Present or future. He is now at rest: And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, Gone like a star that thro' the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know, None more than I, thy gratitude would build On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious! They in thy train ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned, They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every hill. - 55 - Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute -gun, As morning gleamed on what remained of thee Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow. Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert even from thine earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland- boy- Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charmed cup ah, who among us all Could say he had not erred as much, and more? SAMUEL ROGERS. BYRON. (FROM n THE COURSE OF TIME".) He touched his harp , and nations heard , entranced. As some vast river of unfailing source, Eapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, And oped new fountains in the human heart. Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight, In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home, Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles; He, from above descending, stooped to touch The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 56 At will with all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon the Ocean's mane, And played familiar with his hoary locks: Stood on the Alps , stood on the Apennines, And with the thunder talked as friend to friend; And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seem'd; Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were; Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms, His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce As equals deemed. All passions of all men, The wild and tame, the gentle and severe; All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane; All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity; All that was hated, and all that was dear; All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man, He tossed about, as tempest -withered leaves; Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. With terror now he froze the cowering Mood, And now dissolved the heart in tenderness; Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; But back into his soul retired, alone, Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late To desolation swept, retired in pride, Exulting in the glory of his might, And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. As some fierce comet of tremendous size, To which the stars did reverence as it pass'd, ~ 57 So he, through learning and through fancy, took His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn, As if he from the earth had laboured up; But, as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, He looked, which down from higher regions came. And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. ROBERT POI.LOK. FELICIA REMANS. No more, no more oh, never more returning, Will thy beloved presence gladden earth; No more wilt thou with sad, yet anxious yearning Cling to those hopes which have no mortal birth. Thou art gone from us, and with thee departed, How many lovely things have vanished too: Deep thoughts that at thy will to being started, And feelings, teaching us our own were true. Thou hast been round us, like a viewless spirit, Known only by the music on the air; The leaves or flowers which thou hast named inherit A beauty known but from thy breathing there: For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion, The likeness from itself the fond heart gave ; As planets from afar look down on ocean, And give their own sweet image to the wave. And thou didst bring from foreign lands their treasures, As floats thy various melody along ; We know the softness of Italian measures, And the grave cadence of Castilian song. A general bond of union is the poet, By its immortal veree is language known, - 58 - And for the sake of song do others know it One glorious poet makes the world his own. And thou how far thy gentle sway extended! The heart's sweet empire over land and sea; Many a stranger and far flower was blended In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee. The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters Paused in the pine -woods words of thine to hear; And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters Thy name was lovely, and thy song was dear. Was not this purchased all too dearly? never Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost. We see the goal, but know not the endeavour, Nor what fond hopes have on the way been lost. What do we know of the unquiet pillow, By the worn cheek and tearful eyelid prest, When thoughts chase thoughts, like the tumultuous billow, Whose very light and foam reveals unrest? We say, the song is sorrowful, but know not What may have left that sorrow on the song; However mournful words may be, they show not The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong. They cannot paint the long sad hours, passed only In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are. Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonely Cold is the worship coming from afar. Yet what is mind in woman, but revealing In sweet clear light the hidden world below, By quicker fancies and a keener feeling Than those around, the cold and careless, know? What is to feed such feeling, but to culture A soil whence pain will never more depart? The fable of Prometheus and the vulture Reveals the poet's and the woman's heart. 59 Unkindly are they judged unkindly treated By careless tongues and by ungenerous words; While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated, Jar the fine music of the spirit's chords. Wert thou not weary thou whose soothing numbers Gave other lips the joy thine own had not? Didst thou not welcome thankfully the slumbers Which closed around thy mourning human lot? What on this earth could answer thy requiring, For earnest faith for love, the deep and true, The beautiful, which was thy soul's desiring, But only from thyself its being drew. How is the warm and loving heart requited In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell. Its best affections wronged, betrayed, and slighted Such is the doom of those who love too well. Better the weary dove should close its pinion, Fold up its golden wings and be at peace ; Enter, ladye, that serene dominion Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease. Fame's troubled hour has cleared, and now replying, A thousand hearts their music ask of thine. Sleep with a light, the lovely and undying, Around thy grave a grave which is a shrine. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET CAMPBELL. Come from my First, ay, come; The battle dawn is nigh: And the screaming trump 'and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die; 60 Fight, as thy father fought; Fall, as thy father fell: Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; So, forward! and farewell! Toll ye my Second, toll; Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night; The helm upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; Now take him to his rest! Call ye my Whole, go, call; The Lord of lute and lay; And let him greet the sable pall With a noble song to - day : Ay, call him by his name; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave! WIXTIIKOP MACKWORTH PRAED. I STROVE WITH NONE. I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 61 DICKENS IN CAMP. July, 1870. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the fire-light fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of Little Nell. Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy for the reader Was youngest of them all But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with Nell on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken As by some spell divine Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. 62 Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; And he who wrought that spell? Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp! hut let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop -vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly This spray of Western pine! BRET HARTE. HOME AND COUNTRY. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him hurn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well: For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch , concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonourd, and unsung. Sm WALTER SCOTT. HOME AND COUNTRY. (FROM B THE WESTINDIES".) There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutor'd age, and love -exalted youth; The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his soften'd looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend: Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; 5 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel -guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fire -side pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?' Art thou a manV a patriot? look around; 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE NAME OF ENGLAND. The trumpet of the battle Hath a high and thrilling tone; And the first, deep gun of an ocean -fight . Dread music all its own. But a mightier power, my England! Is in that name of thine, To strike the fire from every heart Along the banner'd line. Proudly it woke the spirits Of yore, the brave and true, When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, And the yeoman's arrow flew. And proudly hath it floated Through the battles of the sea, When the red -cross flag o'er smoke- wreaths play'd Like the lightning in its glee. On rock, on wave, on bastion, Its echoes have been known; By a thousand streams the hearts lie low That have answer'd to its tone. 67 - A thousand ancient mountains Its pealing note hath stirr'd, Sound on, and on, for evermore, thou victorious word! FELICIA HEMAXS. LOVE OF ENGLAND. (FROM n THE TASK".) England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, * Shall be constraint to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; But I can feel thy fortunes and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Keflect dishonour on the land I love. WILLIAM COWPER. - 68 - FROM JBEPPO". England! with all thy faults I love thee still,* I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we 've got it); I like a parliamentary debate, Particularly, when 'tis not too late; Mike the taxes, when they 're not too many; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; I like a beef -steak, too, as well as any; Have no objection to a pot of beer; I like the weather, when it is not rainy, That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing. Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we are free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, All these I can forgive, and those forget, And greatly venerate our recent glories, And wish they were not owing to the Tories. LORD BYRON. 69 THE SECURITY OF BRITAIN. (FROM n ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR".) Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, Albion! my mother Isle! Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Olitter green with sunny showers; Thy grassy uplands f gentle swells Echo to the bleat of flocks; (Those grassy hills , those glittering dells Proudly ramparted with rocks;) And Ocean mid his uproar wild Speaks safety to his island -child. Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet loved thy shore; Nor ever proud invader's rage Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Where 's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?" MARMION. The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. 70 The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church -bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear'd To guard each hallow'd wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! FELICIA HEMAXS. Cottage joints of Cnglanb, TI- THE THAMES. (FROM n COOPEK'S HILL".) My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays. Thames! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons, By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity; Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold: His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers which their infants overlay; Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil; But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, But free and common as the sea or wind ; When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Yisits the world, and in his flying tow'rs Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, While his fair bosorn is the world's Exchange. 72 0, could I flow like th'ee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. SIR JOHN DENHAM. TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER, IN RECOLLECTION OF THE BANKS OF THE SAME EIVEE AT CAVERSHAM, NEAR READING. With no cold admiration do I gaze Upon thy pomp of waters, matchless stream! But home -sick fancy kindles with the beam That on thy lucid bosom faintly plays; And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, Till on her eye those wave -fed poplars gleam, Beneath whose shade her first ethereal maze She fashion'd; where she traced in clearest dream Thy mirror'd course of wood -enshrined repose Besprent with island haunts of spirits bright; And widening on till, at the vision's close, Great London, only then a name of might For childish thought to build on, proudly rose A rock -throned city clad in heavenly light. THOMAS NOON TALFOUKD. LONDON. (FROM n DON JUAN".) A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 73 Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea -coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head and there is London Town! LORD BYRON. LONDON. It is a goodly sight through the clear air, From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once England's vast capital in fair expanse, Towers, belfries, lengthened streets, and structures fair. St. Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands Of neighb'ring spires, a regal chieftain stands, And over fields of ridgy roofs appear, With distance softly tinted, side by side, In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear The Towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride: While, far beyond, the hills of Surrey shine Through thin soft haze, and show their wavy line. Yiew'd thus, a goodly sight! but when survey'd Through denser air when moisten'd winds prevail, In her grand panoply of smoke array'd, While clouds aloft in heavy volumes sail, She is sublime. She seems a curtain'd gloom Connecting heaven and earth, a threat'ning sign of doom. With more than natural height, rear'd in the sky 'Tis then St. Paul's arrests the wondering eye; The lower parts in swathing mist conceal'd, The higher through some half spent shower reveal'd, So far from earth removed, that well, I trow, Did not its form man's artful structure show, It might some lofty alpine peak be deem'd, The eagle's haunt, with cave and crevice seam'd. 74 Stretch'd wide on cither hand, a rugged screen, In lurid dimness, nearer streets are seen Like shoreward billows of a troubled main Arrested in their rage. Through drizzly rain, Cataracts of tawny sheen pour from the skies, Of furnace smoke black curling columns rise, And many tinted vapours, slowly pass O'er the wide draping of that pictured mass. So shows by day this grand imperial town, And, when o'er all the night's black stole is thrown, The distant traveller doth with wonder mark Her luminous canopy athwart the dark, Cast up , from myriads of lamps that shine Along her streets in many a starry line: He wondering looks from his yet distant road, And thinks the northern streamers are abroad. What hollow sound is that? approaching near, The roar of many wheels breaks on his ear. It is the flood of human life in motion! It is the voice of a tempestuous ocean! With sad but pleasing awe his soul is fill'd, Scarce heaves his breast, and all within is still'd, As many thoughts and feelings cross his mind, Thoughts, mingled, melancholy, undefined, Of restless, reckless man, and years gone by, And Time fast wending to Eternity. JOANNA BAILLIE. 75 SONNET. COMPOSED TJPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1802. Earth has not any thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields , and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. MY HEART 'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart 's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. - 76 - Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud -pouring floods. My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. ROBERT BURNS. SCOTLAND DEAR. My mountain hame, my mountain hame, My kind, my independent mother! While thought an' feeling rule my frame, Can I forget the mountain heather? Scotland dear! Though I to other lands may go, Should fortune's smile attend me thither, As robin comes in winter's snaw I '11 homeward seek the mountain heather, Scotland dear! I love to hear your daughters dear The simple tale in sang revealing; Whene'er your music greets my ear, My bosom melts wi' joyous feeling, Scotland dear! When I shall die, I wad lie Where life an' me first met thegither, That my cauld clay, through its decay, Might bloom again in the mountain heather, Scotland dear! ALEXANDER HUME. 77 THE KINGDOM OF KERRY. AN INVITATION TO IRELAND. come to us and learn to own Unless your heart 's as hard as stone There 's not a realm around the sphere With Our Kingdom can compare. For how could river, lake, and sea In softer sister hues agree? Or hills of passionate purple -glow Far and near more proudly flow? And where will summer kiss awake Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake? Or brighter berries blush between Foliage of a fresher green? And if you miss from modern days, Sweet simple-hearted human ways, Come! own such ancient virtues rare In our kingdom cherished are. The open hospitable door, The poor man 's pittance to the poor, Unfaltering friendship, loyal love Joys your greatest sigh to prove. come to us! At break of day We '11 breast the billows of the bay ; Then range afar with rod or gun, Sportsmen keen, till set of sun. Or our advent'rous nymphs beside With eager oarage take the tide To mountains fresh and forests new. Borne along the Atlantic blue. 78 Pausing awhile, our quest achieved, On velvet mosses over -leaved "With shelter from the solar glare Gipsy -wise our feast to share. then or when a moonlit main Together tempts us home again, And dipping dreamy oars we go, Softly singing, laughing low Then most of all beware! beware! The starry eyes, the night of hair Each darkling grace of, face and mould, Silver voices, hearts of gold. So come to us and gladly own Unless your heart 's as hard as stone That not one kingdom in the sphere With our Kerry can compare. ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. ERIN, THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise. Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 79 Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form in heaven's sight One arch of peace ! THOMAS MOOEE. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. All hail! thou noble land, Our fathers' native soil! stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown by toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore; For thou, with magic might, Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er! The genius of our clime, From his pine - embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. Then let the world combine O'er the main our naval line, Like the milky - way , shall shine Bright in fame! Though ages long have pass'd Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravell'd seas to roam, - 80 - Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame By its chains? While the language free and bold Which the bard of Avon sung, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung, When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun: Yet, still, from either beach, The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, We are one! WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE. (FROM B CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE".) Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The Night -winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 81 Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land Good Night! A few short hours and He will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thon weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage T Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee and one above. My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again. - 82 - Enoug-h, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foernan? Or shiver at the gale? Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife "Will blanch a faithful cheek. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering .lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make? Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or p.aramour? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I 'm in the world alone, Upon the wide , wide sea : But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He 'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine, Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native Land Good Night ! LORD BYEON. THE BONNIE BANKS OF AYR. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The autumn mourns her rip'niug corn, By early winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 84 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, "Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those The bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr! ROBERT BURNS. THE EXILE. The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas, The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees, The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me I must never See England again! There 's many that weep there, But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling So far from her own; 85 So far from thy own, love, We know not our pain; If death is between us, Or only the main. When the white cloud reclines On the verge of the sea, I fancy the white cliffs, And dream upon thee; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies! THOMAS HOOD. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city -crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, Sincere, affectionate and gay, One's own dear children feasting round, To celebrate one's marriage - day. But what is all , to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? - 86 - Home -sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There 's healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. HOME -THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. 0, to be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush -wood sheaf Round the elm -tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows- Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon -flower! KOBERT BROWNIJTG. 87 HOME -THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA. Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Yincent to the north-west died away ; Sunset ran, one glorious blood -red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest north -east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray; Here and here did England help me, how can I help Eng- land ? say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. UOBEKT BROWNIXG. THE SHANDON BELLS. With deep affection, And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Whene'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells chiming: Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate But all this music Spoke nought like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells tolling- Old Adrian's Mole in r Their thunder rolling From the Vatican,. And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly; 0! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There 's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and Kiosk Or Tn Saint Sophia The Turkman gets; And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there is an anthem More dear to me, 'T is the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. FRANK MAHONY. EXILE OF ERIN. There came to the heach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind -beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart- broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in my green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours. Or cover my harp with the wild -woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! - 90 - Erin , my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea -beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died, to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin -door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast -fading treasure? Tears, like the rain drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp - striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin Erin go bragh!* THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce for the night -cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over-power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever. 91 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf -scaring faggot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Me thought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain - goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn -reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine -cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war -broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. Last nigJit, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her raoo. 92 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his hody limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame: He only knows , that not through him Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop -fields round him seemed, Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow ; The smoke, above his father's door, In gray soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young? Yes, honour calls! with strength like steel He put the vision by; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed; Vain, those all -shattering guns; Unless proud England keep-, untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. SIR FKANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. 93 RULE, BRITANNIA! When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves! The nations, not so bless'd as thee, Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule, Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia, &c. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame: All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame; But work their woe and thy renown. Rule, Britannia, &c. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, &c. 94 The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair: Bless'd isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair: Kule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves! JAMES THOMSON. SAVE THE God save our gracious King, Long live our noble King, God save the King. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King. Lord our God, arise. Scatter his enemies, And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On -him our hopes we fix, God save us all. * n The national song of God Save the King (may it long con- tinue to be sung as now, God Save the Queen) is generally be- lieved to have been composed by Dr. John Bull for King James the First, A. D. 1667. Tiie authorship both of the words and music lias long been a mutter of dispute, and has excited almost as much controversy as the authorship of the letters of Junius." Th e Book of English Songs. London. 1851. 95 Thy choicest gifts in store, On him be pleased to pour, Long 1 may he reign. May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause, With heart and voice to sing, God save the King. grant him long to see Friendship and amity Always increase! May he his scepter sway, All loyal souls obey, Join heart and voice: Huzza! God 'save the King! ANONYMOUS. YANKEE DOODLE. A Yankee boy is trim and tall, And never over fat, Sir; At dance and frolic, hop and ball, As nimble as a rat. Sir. Yankee doodle guard your coast, Yankee doodle dandy. Fear not then, nor threat nor boast, Yankee doodle dandy. He 's always out on training day, Commencement or Election; At truck and trade he knows the way Of thriving to perfection. Yankee doodle &c. 96 His door is always open found, His cider of the best, Sir, His board with pumpkin pie is crown'd, And welcome every guest, Sir. Yankee doodle &c. Tho' rough and little is his farm, That little is his own, Sir, His heart is strong, his heart is warm, 'Tis truth and honor's throne, Sir. Yankee doodle &c. His Country is his pride and boast, He '11 ever prove true blue, Sir, When call'd upon to give his toast, 'Tis Yankee doodle doo, Sir. Yankee doodle guard your coast, Yankee doodle dandy. Fear not then, nor threat iior boast, Yankee doodle dandy. DR. SHECKBURG. LIBERTY. HISTORICAL POEMS. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe , looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. LORD BYRON. History can only take things in the gross; But could we know them in detail, perchance In balancing the profit and the loss, War's merit it by no means might enhance, To waste so much gold for a little dross, As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. LORD BVROX. LIBERTY. The fiery mountains answer each other; Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone ; The tempestuous oceans awake one another, And the ice -rocks are shaken round winter's throne, When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown. From a single cloud the lightning flashes, Whilst a thousand isles are illumined around; Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes, An hundred are shuddering and tottering; the sound Is bellowing underground. But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare, And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp; Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean ; thy stare Makes blind the volcanoes, the sun's bright lamp To thine is a fen-fire damp. From billow and mountain and exhalation The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast; From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation, From city to hamlet, thy dawning is cast, And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night In the van of the morning light. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 100 AN ODE, TO THE ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY. Arise, arise, arise! There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread; Be your wounds like eyes To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. What other grief were it just to pay? Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they; Who said they were slain on the battle day? Awaken, awaken, awaken! The slave and the tyrant are twin -born foes; Be the cold chains shaken To the dust, where your kindred repose, repose: Their bones in the grave will start and move, When they hear the voices of those they love, Most loud in the holy combat above. Wave, wave high the banner! When Freedom is riding to conquest by; Though the slaves that fan her Be famine and toil, giving sigh for sigh. And ye who attend her imperial car, Lift not your hands in the banded war, But in her defence whose children ye are. Glory, glory, glory, To those who have greatly suffered and done! Never name in story Was greater than that which ye shall have won. Conquerors have conquered their foes alone, Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have overthrown Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. - 101 Bind, bind every brow With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine: Hide the blood- stains now With hues which sweet nature has made divine, Qreen strength, azure hope, and eternity. But let not the pansy among them be, We were injured, and that means memory. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEI-. OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files array'd With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing 1 When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing. Yet, 'tis not helm or feather Tor ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'em <5ive man but heart and freedom, 102 And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, 'Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh , that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing O'er files array'd With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing! THOMAS MOORE. FORGET NOT THE FIELD. Forget not the field where they perish'd, The truest, the last of the brave, All gone and the bright hope we cherish'd Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave! Oh! could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high heav'n to fight over That combat for freedom once more; Could the chain for an instant be riven Which Tyranny flung round us then, No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, To let Tyranny bind it again! 103 But 'tis past and, tho' blazon'd in story The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. Far dearer the grave or the prison, Illumed by one patriot name, Than the trophies of all, who have risen On Liberty's ruins to fame. THOMAS MOOR* A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'- flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care; The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot along the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant -echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith. Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din: Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 104 By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie Liberty! And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the sluinb'ring dead to hear: But, oh! it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; But what he said it was nae play, I winna venture 't in my rhymes. ROBERT BURNS. -JEN OF ENGLAND". Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood: By the foes you 've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured breaches mounted, Navies conquered kingdoms won! 105 Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? Pageants! Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We 're the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny; They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights so will we! THOMAS CAMPBELL. B A D I C E A. AN ODE. When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, 106 Sage beneath a spreading 1 oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief: Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Kome shall perish, write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, - Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arni'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Caesar never knew, Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. - 107 Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She with all a monarch's pride. Felt them in her bosom glow, Kush'd to battle, fought and died, Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you! WILLIAM COWPER. G D I V A. I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this: Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry:* for when he laid a tax Leofric, Earl of Mercia, in the middle of the eleventh century Ed. 108 Upon his town , and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, If we pay, we starve ; She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray'd him, If they pay this tax, they starve. Whereat he stared, replying, half -amazed, You would not let your little finger ache For such as these?* But I would die, said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear, ay, ay, ay, you talk ! Alas! she said, But prove me what it is I would not do. And from a heart, as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, Ride you naked thro' the town, And I repeal it; and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry , with sound of trumpet , all The hard condition; but that she would loose The people, therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down; she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 109 Half -dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head, And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur Made her cheek flame: her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses: the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared; but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white - flower'd elder - thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity: And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, * Boring a little auger -hole in fear, Peep'd but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused; And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound , the shameless noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, * ,,Peeping Tom of Coventry". Ed. 110 One after one; but even then she gain'd Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away, And built herself an everlasting name. ALFRED TENNYSON. LINES ON THE CAMP HILL , NEAR HASTINGS. In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old, With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror's side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chaunted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England's domains, That ennobled her breed And high -mettled the blood of her veins. Ill Over hauberk and helm As the sun's setting splendour was thrown, Thence they looked o'er a realm And to-morrow beheld it their own. THOMAS CAMPBELL. INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN AT RUNNEMEDE. Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here, While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires, stranger, stay thee, and the scene Around contemplate well. This is the place "Where England's ancient Barons, clad in arms And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king (Then render'd tame) did challenge and secure The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on Till thou hast blest their memory, and paid Those thanks which God appointed the reward Of public virtue. And if chance thy home Salute thee with a father's honour'd name, Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born. MARK AKEXSII>K. EPITAPH ON KING JOHN. John rests below. A man more infamous Never hath held the sceptre of these realms, And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power The oppressed men of England. Englishman! - 112 - Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd That Charter which should make thee morn and night Be thankful for thy birth-place: . . . Englishman! That holy Charter , which , shouldst thou permit Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine, Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul, For they must bear the burthen of thy crime. ROBERT SOUTHEY. BRUGES ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS AT BANNOCKBURN. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie! Now 's the day, and now 's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power Edward! chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor -knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw; Free -man stand, or Free -man fa', Caledonian! on wi' me! 113 By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall, they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low; Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty 's in every blow! Forward! let us do, or die!! ROBERT BUKXS. PIBROCH OF DONALD DHL 1 , Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war -pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill -plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; 114 Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are'rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they como, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset! SIR WALTER SCOTT. A BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance, Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Lauded King Harry. 115 And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marcheth towards Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French General lay, With all his power. Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the King sending. Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our hrave Henry then, Though they to one be ten, Be not amazed. Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the Sun By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me! Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. 116 Poictiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell. Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is, Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike xfeat Lopp'd the French Lilies. The Duke of York so dread, The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his hench-men. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there, Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone; Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Stuck the French horses. 117 With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth -yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their hilbows drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went Our men were hardy. This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that Duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. 118 Warwick in blood did wade. Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which Fame did not delay, To England to carry; 0, when shall English men With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry. MICHAEL DKAYTON. THE ARMADA. Attend all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant - ship full sail to Plymouth bay ; Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's Isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile; At sunrise she escaped their Van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Puita, till the noon, had held her close in chase- Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall. 119 Many a light fishing -bark put out to spy along the coast, And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums; His yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he, when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume , and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's silver shield: So glared he, when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn , beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flag -staff deep, sir knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids; Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously, ye breezes waft her wide, Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky boach, and on the purple sea Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds , from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to East, and swift to West, the warning radiance spread; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone it shone on Beachy Head - 120 Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire. Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire; The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves. O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew; He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down. The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light. Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar the death -like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer. And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze , and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in: And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. - 121 - Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the North; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, All night from tower to tower they sprang , they sprang from hill to hill, Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light- Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. LOUD MACAULAY. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 122 And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; peace with her victories No less renowned than war; new foes arise Threatening 4;o bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is' their maw. JOHN MILTON. CROMWELL. (FEOM ,,A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR".) While with a strong, and yet a gentle, hand, You bridle faction, and our hearts command, Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too: Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign, And own no liberty, but where they may Without control upon their fellows prey. Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face, To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race; So has your highness, rais'd above the rest, Storms of ambition, tossing us, represt. Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Kestor'd by you , is made a glorious state ; The seat of empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom. ' The sea 's our own: and now, all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet: Your power extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 123 Heaven (that hath plac'd this island to give law, To halance Europe, and her states to awe,) In this conjunction doth on Britain smile, The greatest leader, and the greatest isle! Whether this portion of the world were rent, By the rude ocean, from the continent, Or thus created; it was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind. Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort, Justice to crave, and succour, at your court; And then your highness, not for our's alone, But for the world's protector shall be known. EDMUSD WALLER. EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SIDNEY. Here Sidney lies, he whom perverted law, The pliant jury and the bloody judge, Doom'd to a traitor's death. A tyrant King Required, an abject country saw and shared The crime. The noble cause of Liberty He loved in life, and to that noble cause In death bore witness. But his country rose Like Samson from her sleep, and broke her chains, And proudly with her worthies she enroll'd Her murder'd Sidney's name. The voice of man Gives honour or destroys; but earthly power Gives not, nor takes away, the self - applause Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, Nor that which God appointed its reward. ROBERT SOUTHET. - 124 - THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found, He came to ask what he had found. That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, 'Tis some poor fellow's skull , said he, Who fell in the great victory. I find them in the garden, For there 's many here about ; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in that great victory. Now tell us what 'twas all about, Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder- waiting eyes; Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for. I c it b c -125 It was the English, Kaspar cried, Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But every body said, quoth he, That 'twas a famous victory. My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene. Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! Said little Wilhelmine. Nay . . nay . . my little girl, quoth he, It was a famous victory. 126 And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win. :