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 ENGLISH x\Nl) LATIN 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 
 
 II Y THE lATK 
 
 (ill\ LATHAM. D.C.I.. 
 
 OF BHADWALL IIAI.I., CITF.SHIP.F,. 
 
 IN' MEMORIAM. 
 
 Mlir I I'l.lll.
 
 T. RICHARDS, PRINTER, 
 r.T. UDEF.N STREET, LINCOLN'S INN.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The articles in the Table of Contents printed in italics formed 
 
 part of a little volume published, -without the author's 
 
 name, at Sandbach, in 1836. 
 
 Memoir 
 
 ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 DEVOTIONAL. 
 
 Paraphrase of the opening invocations of tlie Litany     •! 
 Paraphrase of the Petition from the Litany, " In all time of our tri- 
 bulation", etc.   - •   - 3 
 Version of Psalm xxiti, " God, my Shepherd and my Guide' 7 
 Version of Psalm xxxrx, " From all offence, I said, and wrong" • 9 
 Version of Psalm xcvi, " In songs of praise unJuard before" • 13 
 Version of Psalm cm, "With every facility combined" - IG 
 Version of Psalm cxxxix, " Omniscient, omnipresent power" • 20 
 Version of Psalm cxi.vi, " Praise the Lord, my soul, while 1 live 
 
 shall the I^rd ' - - • -21 
 
 Stamas miggesUd l»!/ Ezekiel ch. ii, ver. 10 - 2fi 
 Vnritphrast of a pumage in Bishop Home's Sermon on the Rnlemption 
 
 of Time   • " ' ^^ 
 
 7754iiy
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 On the Epiphany; sufif/rsted by lite vunduding paragraph of Bishop 
 
 Home's Sermon on tliat Festival • - • - 33 
 
 Hjinn for New Yeoi-'s Day : " Another year its coui"se has sped" 36 
 
 Hymn for Children : " Lord, who otkc thine arms vn/oldiv//"   38 
 
 " Far from tlic paths of sin" •     40 
 
 " Lord, who once from Heaven descending"   42 
 
 " When first God's word to Samuel came"   44 
 
 on the opening of Wheeloek Church, Cheshire, Aug. 30, 1837 4G 
 
 DOMESTIC. 
 
 To ray Wife .... 
 
 The Twenty-fourth of May 
 
 t)n the Anniversary of my Wedding Day, 1827 
 
 Sonnet — " .\s amid Afric's sandy wastes the sight 
 
 Evenings at Home   
 
 On the Second Birthday of J. H. L.. 1825 
 
 Sonnet on first taking his eldest Child to Church 
 
 Sonnet — " Departed spirit of my dnrling Child" 
 
 " Stretched on the restless bed of pain " - 
 
 i;pi8tle to my Father. Dec. 29, 1823 
 
 .51 
 54 
 55 
 
 59 
 GO 
 
 cr 
 r2 
 
 74 
 78 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 J.inrs in imitation of Pope 
 I'ragment of a Moral Epistle • 
 The banished Tea-tray's Complaint 
 Ode to Deafness 
 To my Tooth 
 
 89 
 90 
 92 
 90 
 
 9a
 
 CONTENTS-. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Tiie Old Man of Verona. From Olaudian - - 10a 
 
 The Story of Count Vgolino. Dante, Inferno, Canto 33 • - 111 
 
 Tasso. Gerusalemme Liberata, Canto 1, Stanza ii - - 119 
 
 Canto 3, Stanza i. The Approach to tlie Holy City - 123 
 
 Cauto 4, Stanza ix. The Address of Satan - 131 
 
 Canto i. Stanza lxxxvi. The Arts of the Enchantress 
 
 .'Vimida ...... 141 
 
 Canto 12, Stanza Lxiv. The Baptism and Death of Clorinda 151 
 
 The Harjier and the Nightingale. From Strada's " Prolmiones"   159 
 '• Uefeudit numenis", from Vincent Bourne - - - 109 
 
 " luuocens prsedatrix", from Vincent Boui-ne • - - 171 
 
 LATIN POETRY. 
 
 OKIUINAL. 
 
 Ad PaUem, 1805 ... 177 
 
 .\n Contrajia mutuo se expellant; Affiiinatui- 181 
 
 An Brutu cogitenl ; Aflinnatur - • 18;i 
 
 .\d Amicum Uxorem ducturum .... l«i 
 
 Lilies descriptive of the Garden at Springfield • - 187 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Against Pride in Dresn. Watts .... i;)l 
 
 Signs of Rain. Dr. Jeuner • • -197 
 
 The I'oplar Field. Cowper - • • -203 
 
 The Rose. Cowpor - •   af"'
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Mortuai7 Verses. Cowper 
 
 AVillVid's Soug, from " Hokeby". Scott 
 
 Go, lovely rose. Waller and Kirke Wiite 
 
 Epitaph iu Wisbeach Churchyard 
 
 The envious Snow .... 
 
 Though tlxe same sun. Pope - 
 
 Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang with me. Bishop Percy 
 
 When Spring unlocks the flowers. Heber 
 
 The Song of Judith, chap, xvi, ver. 2 - 
 
 211 
 
 217 
 223 
 227 
 229 
 229 
 231 
 235 
 239 
 
 -c<C<7)XSV3o^
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 John Latham, the subject of this memoir, was 
 the eldest son of John Latham, M.D., F.R.S., 
 and of Mary the eldest daughter of the Rev. 
 Peter Mere, vicar of Prestbury, in Cheshire. 
 He was born at Oxford (where his father then 
 resided, and practised as a physician) ^larch the 
 18th, 1787. In the year 1789, Dr. Latham trans- 
 ferred himself and his family to London, where, 
 for forty years, he pursued his profession with 
 reputation and success. Finally withdrawing 
 from the world in 1829, he spent the last four- 
 teen years of his life in retirement, at Bradwall 
 in Cheshire, and died in 18-13, at the advanced 
 age of eighty-two, leaving behind him a good 
 name, and a lasting title to the love and grati- 
 tude of his children. 
 
 Accidental circumstances determined for his 
 eldest son the place of his education very early 
 
 b
 
 U MEMOIR. 
 
 in life. Macclesfield school, in tliosc days, had 
 a considerable reputation, which was sustained, 
 and afterwards greatly advanced, by Dr. David 
 Davies. To this school, and to the special care 
 of Dr. Davies, recently appointed its head- 
 master (and connected with his family by mar- 
 riage of his mother's sister), John Latham was 
 consigned at the early age of five years. How 
 he mastered the first hard elements of Latin 
 and Greek, whether with ease or difficulty, 
 cannot now be told. It may be presumed that 
 the course of his early education ran smoothly, 
 for he was always a happy boy ; but it is cer- 
 tain that, no sooner had he pierced the rind, 
 and tasted the fruit of classical literature, than 
 he perceived how sweet it was. 
 
 To the three or four last years of his school 
 education he was accustomed to look back as 
 to the most important period of his life. And 
 to him it was really so ; for although the know- 
 ledge acquired at that early age may generally 
 be less important, as preparatory only to things 
 more needful for the business of life, to him it 
 was rendered all in all by a coming event most 
 sad and unforeseen. 
 
 But all the value which belonged to this
 
 MEJ^oiK. iii 
 
 jDeriod had been brought home to hhii, he con- 
 sidered, by the sound instruction of Dr. Davies. 
 He had a filial feeling of gratitude towards 
 liini ; he would often reckon up with thankful- 
 ness the sources of his happiness, and never 
 without ascribing a large share of it to the solid 
 and accurate learning of this admirable man. 
 In the days of his own mature scholarship he 
 would still quote many a well-remembered 
 maxim of Dr. Davies, and bow to it as authority. 
 
 It was remarkable of him, while yet at school, 
 that in the gradual growth of his mind, his 
 taste seemed to keep pace with his knowledge ; 
 and hence he was distinguished above other 
 boys chiefly by his compositions. His exercises 
 Avere seldom returned, after perusal, without 
 one of those marks of approbation ajipcnded, 
 which the pupils of Dr. Davies so well remem- 
 ber as their great objects of ambition; and, 
 among these, he would sometimes send iip a 
 copy of English verses, or a Latin Sajiphic, or 
 Alcaic ode of exceeding beauty. 
 
 It is interesting to record, as prominent parts 
 of his character at this time, his great love of 
 athletic exploits, his great bodily activity, and 
 his great personal courage : qualities whicli the
 
 IV MEMOIK. 
 
 conditions of his after-life never brought into 
 active display, but which, had the field of enter- 
 prise been ever opened to him, might have 
 been no mean auxiliaries to force of intellect. 
 There were, however, other qualities in him, 
 as a boy, on which it is pleasing to look back 
 and trace in them the permanent lines of his 
 character. Perhaps tliat character was early 
 formed, both in its intellectual and moral aspects. 
 Already he was very methodical, and a great 
 economist of time ; and hence, while he got 
 through much work of the kind he loved, he had 
 much leisure left for sports, which he loved also. 
 Goodnature was remarkable in him as a boy : 
 not the mere passive sympathy, but the active 
 principle of goodnature. He was ready to give 
 what cost him time, and trouble, and effort : 
 especially he would help the less successful in- 
 dustry of others in their studies. He would 
 set his face against all petty tyranny and bully- 
 ing, and always take part with the weak against 
 the strong. With very susceptible feelings, he 
 had a temper singularly placid and unresentful. 
 From his very boyhood it might be truly said 
 of him, that he never '' hurt anybody by word 
 or deed." Amidst all the broils, and conflicts.
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 and license of a school, no profane or unbeseem- 
 ing word was ever known to pass his lips. 
 
 He was hardly more than sixteen, when, in 
 1803, he was entered at the university of Ox- 
 ford. The day on which he first became a 
 member of the university was a memorable one. 
 It was the day of the commemoration, on which 
 the youthful Reginald Heber, with the simple 
 feeling and fervor of a poet, recited, in the 
 Theatre, his beautiful prize poem of " Pales- 
 tine". Ec2;inald Hcbcr and he were members 
 of the same college, Brasenose, and were after- 
 wards elected fellows of All Souls, and became 
 personal friends. He did not go to reside at 
 Brasenose until January 1804. 
 
 Oxford, in those days, did not present the 
 strong incentives which it now does to literary 
 ambition. Still there were manv readincr men : 
 many who became wise from their own love of 
 knowledge, or from a determination to fulfil the 
 purpose of their going there, though not from 
 the encouragements of the place. Among these 
 was John Latham. A contemporary has a pleas- 
 ing recollection of the large resort, once a-weck, 
 to Latham's room, to licar liiiu construe Aris- 
 tophanes, in preparation for the next day's 
 pu])lic lecture in hall.
 
 VI MEMOIR. 
 
 The chancellor's prizes were then the chief 
 objects of competition ; the English essay for 
 bachelors ; and the Latin verse for undergra- 
 duates. The prize for English verse was only 
 occasionally given. John Latham won the prize 
 for Latin verse in 1806. The subject was 
 '' Trafolgar." 
 
 The examination for degrees was then only 
 in its first stage towards reform. It was held 
 publicly in the schools ; but there was, as yet, 
 attached to it no classification accordinsr to 
 merit. Those who did well were complimented 
 by the examiners ; and John Latham, at the 
 end of Michaelmas term 1806, gained this, 
 which was then the greatest honour annexed 
 to the examination. In the same term, while 
 yet an undergraduate, and before he had passed 
 his examination for his degree, he was elected 
 a fellow of All Souls. 
 
 It had long been a settled thing in his family 
 that the law was to be his profession. His father 
 had lived and flourished among lawyers, and 
 the best and most eminent of them were his 
 most intimate friends. It was natural that his 
 thoughts and feelings, and his estimate of things, 
 should run in the same current with theirs, and
 
 :m:e5ioie. vii 
 
 that his hopes shoukl catch a glimpse of the 
 honours of their great profession one day falling 
 upon his son. Accordingly, about Chi-istmas 
 1806, he was entered at Lincoln's Inn. On the 
 same day he received from the hands of Serjeant 
 Williams, his father's most intimate friend, a 
 present of liis great work {Saunders' Mejwi'is), 
 and a plan laid down for his legal studies. 
 
 It is not possible to conceive a human being 
 happier than Dr. Latham at this period : him- 
 self only forty-five years of age, in the full 
 career of his professional success, enjoying the 
 esteem of the best men living, rejoicing in his 
 eldest son's university success, crowned by his 
 election to All Souls, and seeing him now at 
 the entrance of his profession, and looking upon 
 him, perhaps, as the example which others 
 whom he loved might be found to follow. Those 
 who knew the tenderness and enthusiasm of 
 his nature could understand his happiness : his 
 own family could tell how his heart overflowed 
 with gratitude. But there is a Will above oui" 
 will ; and this higher Will, when it thinks fit, 
 unmakes our purposes, and breaks in pieces all 
 the images of our idol-worship, sometimes gra- 
 dually, sometimes suddenly and with a shock.
 
 via MEMOIR. 
 
 The winter of 1806 and 1807 was severe. 
 Ophthalmia was a prevalent disease. John La- 
 tham, whenever he caught cold, was apt to have 
 his eyes inflamed. A few days after his entrance 
 at Lincoln's Inn, late at night, and heated with 
 exertion, he was exposed to a current of cold 
 air. As usual, inflammation fell upon his eyes ; 
 but it did not, as usual, soon pass away. It 
 became rapidly worse, and defied all the means 
 employed to arrest its destructive progress ; and, 
 in one short month, he was all but blind for 
 ever. It was fondly hoped that enough of sight 
 would ultimately be preserved in one eye to 
 enable him to read ; but, alas ! it was only suf- 
 ficient to guide his steps ; and never did he 
 read a printed book again. 
 
 His disease and its treatment brought down 
 his health and strength so low, that two or three 
 months were needed for their restoration ; and 
 then he came back again into life. But all its 
 hopes were gone. Yet even then his own cheer- 
 fulness was the one bright ray shining through 
 the cloud which hung over his father's house. 
 And now he had not quite completed his twen- 
 tieth year ; a long life might be before him ; 
 he could form no purposes for the future ; he
 
 MEMOIR. IX 
 
 could only wait upon the will of God, and trust 
 it as his guide. Happily his years had hitherto 
 been well spent ; and the seed of the sower, 
 fallen upon good ground, brought forth fruit 
 with patience. 
 
 As his strength returned he began to think 
 of All Souls as his future home. He was the 
 youngest in years of all the Fellows ; he had 
 been very recently elected, and had resided 
 there only a few weeks prior to his calamity, 
 when he had all the fresh and happy feelings 
 which must naturally belong to one just adopted 
 into such a society. But now, when he was 
 going to return to All Souls, he had far differ- 
 ent feelings. He thought of his own dependent 
 state ; of the society, which was still new to 
 him ; of friendships there, which were yet to be 
 formed ; and of his own unsuitable condition to 
 form them. As far as he durst frame any plans 
 for the future, it was among his hopes that his 
 college might become to him a second home. 
 Could it, indeed, ever become so ? The expe- 
 riment was to be tried ; and, with such thoughts 
 passing in his mind, he resumed his residence 
 at All Souls in the summer of 1807. Here he 
 made his first trial of the world since the sad
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 event which had entii'ely changed his relation 
 to it. He was welcomed with great kindness 
 and sympathy ; all were ready to do him ser- 
 vices of friendship, and to participate with him 
 in whatever he took a pleasure and an interest 
 in. After a few terms of residence, his college 
 became indeed to him all that he had hoped, 
 even a second home : and, for fourteen years, 
 he spent several months of every year at All 
 Souls, deriving from it much tranquil happiness, 
 and much mental improvement, and many 
 friendships. 
 
 A college life would perhaps, under any cir- 
 cumstances, have been not unsuitable to his 
 nature. In his actual state it brought within 
 his reach, by the help and sympathy of conge- 
 nial minds, what he could otherwise have hardly 
 obtained. In Oxford he was never idle ; he 
 always found those who willingly admitted him 
 to share their reading and their studies. Some 
 read to him the current literature of the day, 
 some read books of more solid information, 
 some the classics, and some, who were prepar- 
 ing for holy orders, read divinity. In this 
 variety of literary intercourse he was often the 
 instructor as well as the instructed. In classics.
 
 MEMOIR. XI 
 
 especially, his accuracy and his taste could 
 hardly fail to furnish a usefid lesson to the 
 reader, Avhoever he might be. 
 
 And now, when the recovery of his sight 
 had become quite hopeless, unrejiining at his 
 bereavement, and even thankful for the little 
 ray of light that still was left to him (sufficient 
 only to enable him to see near objects indis- 
 tinctly), and, by his cheerfulness, attaching even 
 strangers to him with a feeling of tenderness 
 and respect, he was a happy man. By what 
 seems to be a divinely-ordered law of compen- 
 sation, he had resources which almost counter- 
 balanced his great loss : his scholarship, his 
 love of literature, his memory, his powers of 
 imagination, and his extraordinary enjoyment 
 of music. As to the last, his natural fondness 
 for it seemed to grow upon him after he was 
 abridged of his enjoyments through the sense 
 of sight. Perhaps his ear was quickened by 
 the partial closing of that other sense to a nicer 
 and more exact perception of the differences of 
 sound ; for he has said that he could distin- 
 guish who were present in ;i room witli him by 
 their very breathing. Either from his own in- 
 aptitude (as he asserted), or, as was more evi-
 
 XU MEMOIK. 
 
 dcntly the truth, from bad instruction, he was 
 unsuccessful in his attempt to become a prac- 
 tical musician ; nor did he possess any strictly 
 scientific knowledge of music. But his intense 
 enjoyment of it latterly amounted almost to a 
 passion, and was a large ingredient in his cup 
 of happiness. He would sit, silent and ab- 
 stracted, by the hour, listening with delight to 
 the performance of any first-rate instrumental 
 composition. His ready and well-furnished 
 memory was improved by a perpetual exercise, 
 and had its stores continually increased by fresh 
 accessions ; and he had the power of drawing 
 upon it at will, as a source of interest and 
 amusement. Thus his mind was never inactive. 
 AMicn left alone, or when unable to sleep at 
 night, he would make the repetition of an 
 jiEneid, or of a book of the odes of Horace, 
 serve for an occupation or an opiate. And 
 again, his strong imaginative faculty was an 
 inexhaustible resource to him. Limited as he 
 had become in the power of external observa- 
 tion, he was the more drawn within himself; 
 and the acquisitions of his mind afforded a wide 
 range of choice to his imagination. The great 
 pleasure that he took in this intellectual exer-
 
 MEMOIR. XlII 
 
 cise was evidenced by his perpetual production 
 of some fruit of it. Like his favourite Cowper, 
 he would turn any subject or idea that struck 
 him forcibly into poetry, and could make all, 
 from the most touching incident down to an 
 attack of deafness, or the loss of a tooth, alike 
 poetical. 
 
 In recalling the particidars of this period of 
 John Latham's life, it may be mentioned that 
 he devoted himself, during the greater part of 
 the years 1811 and 1812, to the tuition of a 
 younger brother, previously to his entering at 
 the university. It was his first essay in the 
 work, which afterwards, as his own children 
 grew up, became to him, for so many years, the 
 one great practical occupation of his life. His 
 pupil, who survives him, cherishes with an 
 affectionate and mournful gratitude the recol- 
 lection of that time. He remembers with what 
 heartiness his brother seemed to enter on their 
 daily work, as if it was a real pleasure to him- 
 self, and so brought him to seek and find an 
 interest in it ; and he feels, and thankfully 
 acknowledges, that to the mental discipline and 
 moral training of that period, he mainly owes 
 the happiness of forty years, which they have
 
 XIV MEMOIK. 
 
 since jDassed together, one in heart, and mind, 
 and taste, and feelings ; and even more than 
 brothers. 
 
 In the summer of 1816, lie made an excursion 
 of a few -weeks, in companj'- with his brother 
 Henry, to Paris, and through Belgium and 
 Holland. It was a source of much enjoyment 
 to him ; and, in order to impress his memory 
 with distinct ideas of the different places which 
 he visited, his first object always was to pace 
 the circuit of the walls, and then to ascertain 
 how the main streets intersected each other. 
 He ever afterwards recurred with pleasure to 
 this little tour, and all its novel incidents ; but 
 he remembered also his misery on the passage, 
 in a gale of -vWud, to Calais, and never could 
 resolve to make a second voyage. 
 
 In recurring to the past, John Latham's early 
 friends will recollect the pleasure that he de- 
 rived at this period from his occasional visits to 
 the theatre. Theatricals were then, what they 
 have now ceased to be, a subject of continual 
 interest and discussion in society; for it was 
 then that by-gone, brilliant epoch of the drama, 
 the age of the two Kembles, Mrs. Siddons, 
 Young, and Miss O'Neil, and of a host of comic
 
 MEMOIH. XV 
 
 actors, all excelling in their art ; when nume- 
 rous plays of Shakspcare were brought upon 
 the stage by John Kemble, with a perfcctness 
 perhaps never seen before or since. A privi- 
 lege of being admitted privately to the pit of 
 Covent Garden Theatre, before the inpouring 
 of the crowd, had been kindly granted to him, 
 of which he frequently availed himself; and, 
 seated in the centre of the front row, from 
 whence the shadows of the actors passing by 
 could be distinguished by him, he entered fully 
 into the illusion of the scene. 
 
 His time was noAV divided periodically be- 
 tween All Souls, and his father's house in Har- 
 ley-street, or Cheshire ; and nothing occurred to 
 change or vary the tenor of his existence until 
 his marriage. On the 24th of May 1821, he 
 was married, at Crawley, Hants, to Elizabeth 
 Anne, the eldest daughter of his father's friend, 
 the late Sir Henry DAMPiER,one of the judges 
 of the Court of King's Bench ; and few women 
 could have been found so well qualified to be 
 the Avife of one in his peculiar circumstances, 
 as she wlio then became his partner and true 
 helpmate, and to whom he was indebted for the 
 unbroken happiness of the next eighteen years,
 
 XVI MEMOIK. 
 
 the terra of his married life. "With a highly- 
 cultivated mind, stored with accurate and ex- 
 tensive knowledge, and able to appreciate and 
 take part with him in all his intellectual enjoy- 
 ments, she had a disposition as domestic as his 
 own. She had his strong moral and religious 
 principles, partook of all his tastes, and was, 
 moreover, what was to him no unattractive en- 
 dowment, a good musician. 
 
 Their first residence was in Somerset-street, 
 near Portman-square, where they passed ten 
 years in that quiet and unvaried round of life 
 which, in its retrospect, leaves so little for the 
 recollection of the mere spectator, and perhaps 
 little more even for those who have themselves 
 been parties to it. Friends, books, and music, 
 and literary composition, the " delightful in- 
 dustry enjoyed at home," made up the sum of it. 
 Of the way in which their happy evenings were 
 ordinarily passed, he has drawn a pleasing pic- 
 ture in a little poem inserted in this volume ; 
 one of those which, in many successive years, 
 he presented to his wife on the anniversary of 
 their wedding-day. Reading is there made 
 the main employment of the evening ; and read- 
 ing was the morning's occupation. It is, indeed.
 
 MEMOIK. XVll 
 
 extraordinary hoAv many hours of every day 
 were spent by him continuously in reading ; 
 he had absolutely a craving for it, and the 
 regular indulgence of the appetite had become 
 essential to his comfort. For thirty years toge- 
 ther he did not omit the good custom of read- 
 ing, every morning, the four lessons and the 
 psalms appointed for the day. Then came the 
 reading of the newspaper, that he might not be 
 uninformed of any incident of importance in 
 the current of events. Besides this, a coiu'se 
 of miscellaneous reading always was in pro- 
 gress, and the accumulating literature of the 
 day had to be kept pace with. His wife ac- 
 quired the faculty of employing herself mecha- 
 nically with her needle, or some other house- 
 wifery, without distracting her attention from 
 the book ; and, under the instruction of her 
 husband, she soon attained a knowledge of 
 Latin, so as to become his amanuensis in that 
 language, and enter into his enjoyment of its 
 literature. 
 
 As their family grew up about them, some of 
 the morning hours were devoted to the instruc- 
 tion of their children ; and in his teaching he 
 observed the scrupulous exactness, and the ad- 
 
 c
 
 -Will MEMOIR. 
 
 mirable method, of his old schoolmaster at Mac- 
 clesfield, of which he felt the value in his own 
 sound acquirements. An interchange of visits 
 with the houses of their many family con- 
 nexions in London, and a regular attendance 
 at every concert of the Ancient Music, in its 
 season, were the only evening pleasures that 
 they sought or cared for, out of their own 
 home. In 1829, Dr. Latham, then in his sixty- 
 eighth year, had finally retired from London 
 to his estate in Cheshire ; and three years later, 
 John Latham removed from Somerset-street to 
 Springfield, a house belonging to his father in 
 Sandbach parish, within five minutes' walk of 
 Bradwall Hall, his father's residence. 
 
 Springfield was a plain substantial house, 
 with the formal garden in the front of it, filled 
 with large antiquated evergreens, and laid out 
 with grass walks and quaintly-shaped flower 
 beds, which are described so neatly in a copy 
 of Latin verses in this volume. And there the 
 same even, happy tenor of their life went on ; 
 while their near residence increased the com- 
 fort of his aged father and mother. The grand- 
 father, always remarkable for his love of little 
 children (an amiable feature of his character
 
 MEMOIK. XIX 
 
 which his eldest son inherited), was enabled to 
 exchange visits many times a day with his 
 infant grandchildren ; and the society of liis 
 son and daughter-in-law gave him a resource 
 and occupation, beyond the interest that he was 
 taking in his books and farm. 
 
 But his portion of domestic sorrow was to be 
 measui'ed out to John Latham. He already had 
 experienced one affliction, in the death of an 
 engaging boy, at an age when he had become 
 peculiarly endeared to him ; and, at the begin- 
 ning of 1839, his happiness was stiU further 
 overcast by the rapidly declining health of his 
 wife. It was their custom to make an annual 
 round of visits to their relations in the south of 
 England ; and, while they were staying at her 
 mother's house in Tonbridge "Wells, she died, 
 on the last day of May. Her immediate death 
 was not expected ; for she had not yet even 
 kept her room, when she was found lying dead 
 one morning by her husband's side. The de- 
 voted wife, who had been all in all to him, and 
 the mother of his children, was thus taken 
 from him with a stroke. But, though he felt 
 acutely, in devout submission to the will of 
 God he was enabled to possess his soul in
 
 XX MEMOIR. 
 
 patience. The touching circumstances of his 
 wife's death are told by him in the following 
 lines, written at the time : — 
 
 " I ^yill not see her in her coffin laid ; — 
 No, let her still be present to my sight 
 Such as I last beheld her ; not confined 
 With grave-clothes, and with trappings sad arrayed; 
 Eut, as by some fine sculptor's hand portrayed, 
 Half-raised, and partly on her side reclined ; 
 Her placid features as in hope resigned ; 
 Her parted lips as though e'en now they prayed ; 
 One cheek upon her pillow gently prest, 
 Her pale hands on each other lightly thrown. — 
 Such was the lovely image which I woke 
 That morn to look upon ; — I tvxrned, and spoke ; 
 'Sleep'st thoul' — I touched, I kissed her — life had 
 
 flown — 
 Her ransom'd spirit was indeed at rest." 
 
 The robust old age of Dr. Latham had gra- 
 dually been breaking down, under the increase 
 of the painful malady (stone in the bladder) 
 which was eventually to bring him to the grave ; 
 and when, upon the death of Mrs. Latham, in 
 December 1841, his aged father was left soli- 
 tary and bed-ridden, bereft of her who had 
 been the partner of his life for fifty-seven years, 
 John Latham moved his family from Spring-
 
 MEMOIR. XXI 
 
 field to the Hall : and iu little more than 
 another year, on the 20 th of April 1843, his 
 father died. But he was to be tried by a more 
 heavy sorrow ; for the hand of death was not 
 laid only upon those whose dejiarture was to 
 be expected in the course of nature. The grave 
 was scarcely closed upon his father, when it 
 was reopened to receive his eldest son John 
 Henry. He had lost three other children, in 
 infancy or early childhood ; but this stroke fell 
 upon him at a time when he was hailing the 
 fulfilment of his own long-cherished, fondest 
 hopes, and the earnest of his boy's success in 
 after life, in his brilliant university career. 
 
 John Henry, then an undergraduate of 
 Brasenose, was a young man of the greatest pro- 
 mise, and already of attainments far beyond his 
 years. He had gone to Rugby in the autumn of 
 1835, admirably grounded by his father's home- 
 instruction, and was placed at once in a position 
 very much in advance of his contemporaries in 
 the school. In March 1837, when he was just 
 fourteen, he gained the Rugby scholarship ; 
 but, in consequence of a severe attack of pleu- 
 risy at the beginning of LS.'],S, it was found 
 necessary that he should l)e withdrawn from
 
 XXll MEMOIK. 
 
 school. From that time the advantages of 
 Rugby were entirely lost to him. He remained 
 at home a year : and, though he went back in 
 February 1839, the symptoms of returning ill- 
 ness did not permit him to continue at Rugby 
 more than a few weeks. Dr. Arnold, in a kind 
 letter of condolence written at the time to his 
 father, says, " he is now, at sixteen, the fourth 
 boy in the school, and quite equal to his place." 
 
 He now suffered a relapse of his original dis- 
 ease. For several months, and at the very time 
 of his mother's death, his life was in peril from 
 day to day. But at length present danger 
 passed away ; and then his father was willing 
 to sacrifice every other consideration to the 
 restoration of his health. He discouraged his 
 reading, and endeavoured to withdraw him 
 from books to out-door amusements. And in 
 truth, for more than a twelvemonth, which he 
 spent at home before he went to college, his 
 mind was far less engaged in study than it had 
 been for several previous years. 
 
 In the autumn of 1840, his health was suffi- 
 ciently re-established for him to go to Oxford. 
 Eut, so fearful was his father of the place and 
 its objects of ambition producing in him efforts
 
 MEMOIR. XXIU 
 
 and excitement of mind beyond his bodily- 
 strength, that John Henry went there with a 
 sort of tacit understanding that he was to con- 
 tend for no honours, and attempt nothing 
 beyond a common degree. 
 
 But he was no sooner in Oxford, than he 
 found a Craven scholarship thrown open to the 
 university, and immediately to be competed 
 for ; and when, feeling perhaps his own power, 
 he supplicated his father that he would allow 
 him to stand, it was an entreaty which a father 
 could not absolutely deny. He could only dis- 
 courage his purpose ; and this he did, by telling 
 him that success was beyond his reach, and 
 that such open scholarships could only be 
 gained by those who had had advantages of 
 previous training far beyond any which he had 
 enjoyed. Nevertheless, John Henry became a 
 candidate ; and, in the first term of his resi- 
 dence, he was elected Craven scholar. In the 
 Lent term of 1843, lie was unsuccessfully a 
 candidate for Dean Ireland's scholarship ; when 
 Edwin Palmer, of lialliol, succeeded, and the 
 name of Jolin Ilcnry Latham was announced 
 as that of the candidate " qui proxime accessit". 
 13ut, though lie failed in this object of his am-
 
 XXIV MEMOIR. 
 
 bition, with what ability he contended for the 
 prize of classical taste and learning, is shewn not 
 only by the honourable mention made of him 
 by the examiners, but by his exercises, which 
 have been preserved. Several of them are 
 beautiful compositions, and prove how well the 
 father had formed the taste of his dear pupil 
 upon his own. 
 
 When he came home at Easter 1843, he was 
 far advanced in his preparation for the schools 
 in the ensuing autumn, looking forward to the 
 easy attainment of that further academical dis- 
 tinction which he knew would most gladden 
 his father's heart, — a place in the first class. 
 It was, however, otherwise ordained. His 
 system had been overwrought ; and, in the hope 
 that it might be recruited, he was advised not 
 to return to Oxford for the two terms preced- 
 ing the long vacation. But his health, which 
 had been too far undermined, gave way rapidly, 
 and he died within a few weeks of his grand- 
 father. This was almost the greatest sorrow 
 that John Latham ever knew ; yet he did not 
 permit himself to give way to depression, but 
 bowed in humble resignation to his chastise- 
 ment. He seldom spoke of him ; but in every
 
 MEilOIB. XXV 
 
 book that had belonged to John Henry, there 
 is inscribed, " olim e libris desidcratissimi J. 
 H.", or some equivalent memorial ; and there 
 were indications that he was often present to 
 his thoughts. A beautiful windoAv,* of his de- 
 signing, is erected to John Henry's memory in 
 the Bradwall chancel of Sandbach church. It 
 represents the raising of the widow's son to life, 
 with the text underneath, " Young man, I say 
 unto thee arise"; and, in the two side-lights, 
 are figures of Christian Faith and Hope, — the 
 emblems of the sources of his consolation. 
 
 Amongst his father's papers there is a single 
 sheet (containing only a few paragraphs written 
 from his dictation^ of the commencement of a 
 memoir of this extraordinary boy. He found 
 it a task too painful for him to resume. After 
 statins: that the window in the chancel of Sand- 
 bach church was fitted up with stained glass in 
 memory of his beloved and lamented son, it 
 thus proceeds : " Lest, in the course of years, 
 when the present generation shall have passed 
 away, any descendant of mine, or collateral 
 representative, should be unable to give an 
 answer, when asked, who the person was whose 
 
   Executed by Messrs. Ward and Nixon.
 
 XXVI MEMOIK. 
 
 name and early dcatli are here recorded, I have 
 thought it right to put together the following 
 brief memoir, which I hope will be carefully 
 preserved in my family. Had it pleased God 
 to spare the life of my dear boy, and to grant 
 him bodily health at all proportioned to his in- 
 tellectual endowments, he would, in all human 
 calculation, have raised up a name for himself, 
 which would not have needed any other memo- 
 rial. But it was ordained otherwise ; and, 
 under the full conviction that it Avas so ordained 
 for the best, I have always bowed, without a 
 murmur, to the righteous dispensation of an 
 all-wise Providence. 
 
 " J. H. L. was born in Harley-street, Lon- 
 don, February 14, 1823, in the house of his 
 grandfather, Dr. Latham. Though at first puny 
 and delicate, before the expiration of six months 
 he became a strong and vigorous child, and by 
 an extraordinary vivacity of spirits, gave indi- 
 cations of a sound constitution and the promise 
 of future health, which, in point of fact, he very 
 generally enjoyed till about his fifteenth year. 
 If the parents of J. H. had been of the num- 
 ber of those who look with apprehension on the 
 intellectual precocity of children, as a prognos-
 
 MEMOIR. XXVll 
 
 tic of early death, they would indeed have had 
 much reason for alarm ; but they were not so, 
 and, on the contrary, watched with pride and 
 delight the early dawn and rapid development 
 of as fine an intellect as child was ever blessed 
 with. The quickness of his apprehension, and 
 his aptitude and eagerness to learn, were such, 
 that the labour of his parents, who were his 
 only instructors till he went to Rugby in his 
 thirteenth year, was rather to check than to 
 stimulate his progress ; and for myself I can 
 safely say, and his dear mother used to say the 
 same thing, that I do not remember ever to have 
 gone through a lesson with him which was not 
 a source of unmixed pleasure both to the teacher 
 and the pupil. 
 
 " The following extract from a letter of J. H., 
 addressed to his grandfather, bearing the date 
 of January 4, 1832, six months before he com- 
 pleted his ninth year, will show the progress 
 which he had made, and was then making, in 
 his daily studies with me and his mother." 
 The extract mentions how, on such and such 
 days in the week, he did Greek grammar and 
 Greek Testament, writing out anomalous verbs 
 and derivations ; Cicsar, and \'irgirs ^'Eneid,
 
 XXYiil MEMOIR. 
 
 which last he repeated the next morning ; Latin 
 verses and Latin exercises ; arithmetic, and geo- 
 graphy ; and that he had begun the second 
 volume of Robertson's History of America. And 
 " all this," the memoir adds, " was done with 
 such perfect ease to himself, that, at the time it 
 did not strike us as anything beyond the ordi- 
 nary course ; but, in the retrospect, when com- 
 pared with the attainments of other boys of the 
 same age, and with that of his younger brothers 
 while under my own tuition, at a much more 
 advanced age, it seems to me something very 
 extraordinary." 
 
 After his father's death, John Latham briefly 
 entertained the question, Avhether it might not 
 contribute to his happiness to remove again into 
 the south, where he would be within an easier 
 distance of his dearest family connexions ; but 
 he had a strong sense of the responsibilities of 
 his new position as a landowner and country 
 gentleman, and at the same time conceived that 
 it would have been his father's wish that he 
 should remain at Bradwall ; and therefore he 
 determined still to occupy the paternal house, 
 and there devote himself to the unobtrusive 
 duties of his station. How well those duties
 
 MEMOIR. XXIX 
 
 were performed by him is known, and could be 
 best told by the small circle of attached friends 
 who lived with him in habits of social inter- 
 course. He became an active and useful magis- 
 trate, though it was with some difficulty that he 
 was prevailed upon to undertake the office ; 
 for he feared that his bereavement of sight 
 might disqualify him for its satisfactory per- 
 formance. But, though he entered upon it at 
 the first experimentally, and with much self- 
 distrust, when he found that it involved little 
 business which he was not competent to trans- 
 act, and that, in fact, it opened to him a wider 
 sphere of usefulness, he became fond of the 
 occupation. 
 
 At no period of his life was the simple beauty 
 of his character seen so advantageously as at 
 this. It was, as it had always been, essentially 
 domestic ; and those who knew him in his OAvn 
 quiet home could best appreciate its more strik- 
 ing features ; the way in which he entered into, 
 and brought home to himself, the hopes, and 
 schemes, and joys, and sorrows, of all those whom 
 he loved ; his general kindliness of feeling ; his 
 spirit of gentleness and moderation ; his happy, 
 never-failing cheerfulness ; his strong good sense ;
 
 XXX MEMOIR. 
 
 and the unpretending quietness with which, in 
 conversation, he dealt out the various inform- 
 ation which his tenacious memory commanded. 
 Settled by strong conviction in his Christian faith, 
 he lived a life of unostentatious but habitual 
 piety. His daily reading of the Scriptures has 
 been already mentioned ; and when, as was his 
 constant practice if no clergyman was domes- 
 ticated with him, he led the morning and even- 
 ing prayers of his assembled household, there 
 was an unaffected earnestness in his manner, 
 and even a peculiarity of utterance, which 
 marked his feeling of the duty in which he was 
 engaged. The doing all the good within his 
 power was not with him a mere result of feel- 
 ing, but a principle ; and his prudent manage- 
 ment of a moderate, unencumbered independ- 
 ence enabled him to devote no small proportion 
 of his income to such deeds. It had been the 
 practice of his honoured father to set apart a 
 certain sum for private eleemosynary purposes, 
 which he called his " Corban-fund"; and the 
 good custom was not discontinued by his son. 
 He had a personal knowledge of all his poorer 
 neighbours, and his charities towards them were 
 unstinted. To the many public calls upon him 
 he responded more than liberally.
 
 MEMOIK. XXXI 
 
 And so the last nine years of life were 
 passed by him; doing much good with the 
 worldly means entrusted to his charge, and 
 good incalculable by his personal influence and 
 example ; regarded with respect and love by 
 friends and neighbours and dependents ; happy 
 at home, in the occupation which he loved, 
 the education of his younger sou, and in the 
 aifectionate attention of his elder son and of his 
 onlv dausrhter, who had devoted herself alto- 
 gether to his comfort since her mother's death, 
 and been, instead of her, his reader and amanu- 
 ensis, and his inseparable companion ; and inte- 
 rested in the few active public duties which lay 
 beyond the pale of his own family ; and only 
 varying this routine by his much-cherished cus- 
 tom of an annual interchange of visits with his 
 relations in the south. 
 
 In the month of August 1852, his daughter 
 was married to the Rev. Ambrose Jones, M.A., 
 the incumbent of Elworth, within the parish of 
 Sandbach ; and fas Bradwall Hall was in the 
 centre of the Elworth district, and that his 
 daughter should continue to reside with him 
 was essential to the comfort of her widowed 
 father), it was arranged that they should make
 
 XXXll MEMOIR. 
 
 his house their home. But they were hardly 
 settled there, when, in the beginning of Decem- 
 ber, he was attacked by the disease which ter- 
 minated his mortal existence. It was found 
 that he had pleurisy, with water on the chest, 
 and that the operation of drawing off the fluid 
 by puncturing the side was immediately neces- 
 sary. But, though it was performed twice 
 successfully, the disease, which, in a younger 
 man, would probably have been arrested by the 
 operation, bade defiance to the best medical 
 skill. He lay eight weeks upon his death-bed. 
 His illness was not, indeed, attended by the 
 suffering of acute jjain ; but there was still, much 
 bodily distress incidental to it. Yet he showed 
 no fretfulness or imj)atience. He had some- 
 times, in his health, confessed the natural fear 
 with which he invariably looked forward, not 
 to death, but to the unknown pangs of dissolu- 
 tion ; and, at the reading of the Litany, he 
 habitually took wp, and solemnly and audibly 
 repeated, the petition, " in the hour of death, 
 good Lord deliver us !" But, as he had felt his 
 great necessity, and had prayed to be delivered 
 from it, he received strength from his Saviour 
 in the hour of trial. For now, when he knew
 
 MEMOIR. XXXIU 
 
 that he was upon the bed of death, he forgot 
 all these apprehensions ; and while those about 
 him were heart-broken, as they saw him lying 
 helpless, wasted, and worn out with his tedious 
 illness, and confounding, from his blindness, 
 midnight with midday, he was even cheerful ; 
 full of gratitude to his family and household 
 for their long, dutiful attendance on him, and 
 expressing no anxiety but that his poor depen- 
 dents might not lose their accustomed Christ- 
 mas gifts, and that no purposes of kindness 
 which he had expressed, should be forgotten 
 after his departure. He derived great comfort 
 from devotional reading to him, and especially 
 from the reading of the Psalms ; remarking that 
 he had often thought of the extraordinary adap- 
 tation that might be made, by any thoughtful 
 reader, of at least some part of almost every one 
 of them personally to his own state and circum- 
 stances ; and how forcibly he felt this truth 
 now brought home to himself. One night, 
 when he had been sleeping disturbedly, under 
 the influence of laudanum, he awoke in a state 
 of great excitement. He had dreamed that he 
 was struggling with a serpent. " Read me," he 
 said," the 91st psalm, and I sliall be composed." 
 
 d
 
 XXXIV MEMOIR. 
 
 Ill the last week of January^ altliougli the end 
 was not believed to be so near, it was felt that 
 every hope of ultimate recovery must be re- 
 signed. But, day by day, he grew more feeble, 
 until, on Sunday morning, the oOth of January, 
 it became evident that he was sinking rapidly ; 
 and never had Christian a more peaceful end. 
 He was quite conscious of approaching dissolu- 
 tion. Calm and composed, he commended his 
 spirit unto God Avho gave it. He asked a 
 blessing separately upon each of those who 
 stood around his bed, and breathed his last 
 about midday, without apparent pain or any 
 struggle. 
 
 On the following Thursday he was interred 
 in Sandbach churchyard. Every shop and 
 house was closed, as the simple funeral proces- 
 sion passed through the street ; and his remains 
 were borne from the churchyard gate between 
 two lines of uncovered, sorrowing spectators, 
 into the church, and to the grave ; where, with 
 his father and his mother, his eldest son and 
 infant children, his body is buried in peace ; — 
 but his spirit lives for evermore. 
 
 He has left three surviving children : George 
 William, his eldest son ; Mary Frances, wife
 
 MEMOIK. XXXV 
 
 of the Rev. Ambrose Jones ; and Fi*ancis Law, 
 a boy at E-ugby school. 
 
 It hardly can be necessary, but it may per- 
 haps be right to add, that tliis short sketch of" 
 an uneventful life was di'awn up with the view 
 to its being perused only by the personal friends 
 of the deceased ; nor is it likely that it will find 
 its way into the hands of many others. But 
 those who have had the happiness of a life- 
 long intimacy with John Latham, may feel 
 a melancholy pleasure in retracing, step by 
 >tep, these recollections of the past ; while those 
 who had the privilege of knowing him but 
 recently, and those whose early intercourse was 
 only broken off by their separating into differ- 
 ent paths in life, may be interested to know 
 more of the preceding or the after-course of 
 one whom they had learned to love. To these, 
 tlii> little biography will, it is hoped, be an 
 acceptable addition to the volume offered to 
 them, as a memorial of their departed friend. 
 A stranger cannot be expected to take the same 
 jjcrsonal interest in it ; but, if it has been truly 
 said, that a faithful record of the private life 
 of any individual, however undistinguished, 
 would contain both interest and instruction.
 
 XXXVl MEMOIU. 
 
 even an indiiferent stranger may find them 
 here. He may learn how large a share of 
 earthly happiness was mercifully reserved for 
 one whom the world, from his bereavement, 
 might have deemed withovit resources ; and he 
 may see, in this slight portraiture, another ex- 
 ample of that peculiarly English character, — 
 the unobtrusive but accomplished and high- 
 minded Christian gentleman. 
 
 April 21, 1853.
 
 DEVOTIONAL.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 P.\EAPHEASE 
 
 OF THE OPENING INVOCATION OF THE LITANY. 
 
 God the Father ! by whose power 
 
 Heaven and Earth and Sea were made, 
 
 And till time's expiring hour 
 All Creation shall be swayed ; 
 
 Hear us, when on thee we call. 
 
 Miserable sinners all ! 
 
 God the Son ! For Man's salvatiun. 
 Who thyself the price didst pay, 
 
 Whose atoning expiation, 
 
 Our transgressions washed away ;
 
 4 PARAPHRASE. 
 
 Save us, when on thee we call, 
 Miserable sinners all ! 
 
 God the Holy Ghost ! Proceediiig 
 From the Father and the Son, 
 
 Who for Man art ever pleading,* 
 Wretched Man by sin undone ; 
 
 Help us, when on thee we call, 
 
 Miserable sinners all ! 
 
 Oh ineffable Communion ! 
 
 Holy, blessed, glorious Three, 
 Three in one, mysterious union. 
 
 Undivided Trinity ! 
 Oh have mercy, when we call, 
 Miserable sinners all ! 
 
 * Rom. viii. W. 
 Sept. 18:r.'.
 
 PAR.VPHRASE 
 
 OF THE PETITION FROJI THE LITANY — 
 
 'IK ALL TIME OF OUR TRIBULATION, IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH, 
 
 IX THE HOUR OF DEATH, AND IN THE DAY OF JUDGMENT; 
 
 OOOD LORD DELIVER US." 
 
 In the dark season of distress, 
 
 In peril, want and woe, 
 If friends desert, or foes oppress, 
 
 Or sickness lay me low ; 
 If, reft of those I fondly love, 
 
 From eaithlv ills I flee, 
 Tu seek sweet comfort from above ; 
 
 Good Lord, deliver me ! 
 
 If wealth be mine, from all the snares 
 Which riches with them bring ; 
 
 From worldly pleasures, worldly cares 
 The soul encumbering ;
 
 t> PARAPHKASE. 
 
 From pride, and from that worst offence,. 
 
 Forgetfulness of thee, 
 Whose hand that wealth did first dispense ; 
 
 Good Lord, deliver me ! 
 
 When on the bed of death, a prey 
 
 To gloomy thoughts, I lie ; 
 Or worn by slow disease away, 
 
 Or racked with agony ; 
 Stung with remorse for what has been. 
 
 And dreading what shall be 
 When death has closed this mortal scene ; 
 
 Good Lord, deliver me ! 
 
 And oh ! in that appalling hour. 
 
 When, clouds around thee spread. 
 Thou com'st, arrayed in pomp and power, 
 
 To judge the quick and dead; 
 When trembling, shrinking from thy face. 
 
 Thy servant thou shalt see 
 A suppliant at the throne of grace ; 
 
 Good Lord, deliver me ! 
 
 Gooil Friday, 1825.
 
 PSADl XXIII. 
 
 God, my Shepherd and my Guide, 
 Will for all my wants provide ; 
 He in pastures green will feed me. 
 And beside still waters lead me ; 
 He my ransomed soul shall bless, 
 Turning it to righteousness ; 
 And the path I ought to take 
 Teach me, for his dear name's sake. 
 
 Yea, when earth itself at last. 
 From my sight is fading fast, 
 When with shadows dark o'erspread, 
 Death's lone valley I shall tread ;
 
 PSALM XXIII. 
 
 Yet no evil will I fear, 
 For thou, Lord, wilt still be near ; 
 With thy Rod and Staff wilt be 
 Present then to comfort me. 
 
 Thou, when foemen closed me round, 
 Mad'st my table to abound ; 
 Oil ui)on my head didst pour, 
 And didst make my cup run o'er ; 
 Me thy kindness ever new, 
 And fresh mercies still pursue ; 
 Therefore will I all my days 
 Seek thy House, and sing thy praise.
 
 PSALM XXXIX. 
 
 Fkom all offence, I said, and wrong 
 I M-ill take heed to guard my tongue ; 
 A bridle on my mouth I'll lay, 
 "While in my sight the ungodly stay. 
 
 AVith such resolve my peace I held, 
 My lips to silence I compell'd ; 
 Yea, though it cost me grief and pain, 
 E'en from good words I did refrain. 
 
 While thus I mused, the fire suppress'd 
 Long time \nthin my labouring breast. 
 Kindling at last, resistless broke. 
 And as the Spirit moved, I spoke.
 
 10 PSALM XXXIX. 
 
 Lord, let me know mine end, I said, 
 And since my days are numbered, 
 Tell me their sum, and make me sure, 
 How long my life may yet endure. 
 
 Behold, my days are but a span, 
 For verily the age of Man 
 Is nothing in respect of Thee, 
 But altogether vanity. 
 
 Man walketh in a shadow vain, 
 Vexing himself with fruitless pain, 
 He heaps up riches, nor the while 
 Knows who shall use the hoarded pile. 
 
 And now my hope, what is it. Lord ? 
 On Thee it rests and thy sure word ; 
 Keep me from all transgressions free. 
 The scoff of fools I would not be.
 
 PSALM XXXIX. 11 
 
 In mute submission, for 'tis Thou, 
 Who chastenest mc, I humbly bow 
 Yet oh, if such thy will, my God, 
 Take from me thy consuming rod. 
 
 When with rebukes thou dost chastise 
 Proud man for his iniquities, 
 Thou mak'st his beauty to decay. 
 Like garment to the moth a prey. 
 
 Thus ev'ry man, whate'er his state. 
 Or rich, or poor, or mean, or great. 
 Yea, ev'ry man whoe'er he be, 
 Is altogether vanity. 
 
 Hear Thou my prayer, in pity hear, 
 .\nd to my cry bow down thine ear ; 
 Oh keep not silence when I cull, 
 Xor let mv tears unheeded fall I
 
 12 PSALM xxxrx. 
 
 Some space to serve Thee here accord ; 
 I am a stranger with Thee, Lord, 
 A sojourner on life's brief scene, 
 As all my sires before have been. 
 
 Then spare me, for a little spare ! 
 That my lost strength I may repair, 
 To walk with Thee, ere hence I go 
 And be no longer seen below. 
 
 184(j.
 
 PSALM xcn. 
 
 In songs of praise, unheard before, 
 
 Let all the earth the Lord adore ; 
 
 Sing to the Lord and praise his name, 
 
 Tell how frona Him salvation came ; 
 
 His honour to the heathen show, 
 
 Let the whole earth his wonders know. 
 
 God cannot worthily be praised. 
 
 Above all gods so highly raised ; 
 
 They are but idols, wood and stone. 
 
 The Lord our God is God alone. 
 
 He made the heavens, there saints adore Him, 
 
 Glory and worship go before Him ; 
 
 Girded with power, with honour crowned, 
 
 (iod in his holy place is found.
 
 14 PSALM XCVI. 
 
 Oh I then unto the Lord ascribe, 
 Nation and kindred, tongue and tribe, 
 The honour due unto his name, 
 The glory He may justly claim. 
 With joy unto his courts repair, 
 And, as your gifts you offer there. 
 Meet worship to the Lord address, 
 In beauty and in holiness. 
 Then tell it out, that all may hear, 
 And God's eternal name revere. 
 Yea, tell it out, and bid the sound 
 Go forth to all the nations round, 
 That He is king, and how He made 
 The earth, and its foundations laid 
 So sure, that they may ne'er remove 
 Till that great day, when from above 
 In clouds descending He shall come, 
 To pass on all a righteous doom. 
 Be glad, thou earth; ye heavens, rejoice; 
 Thou sea, send forth thy glorious voice ; 
 Forest and field, with one accord. 
 Rejoice, rejoice, before the Lord !
 
 PSALM XCVI. 15 
 
 For now is our redemption nigh ; 
 E'en now, in might and majesty, 
 He comes ; with glory round Him spread. 
 He comes to judge both quick and dead. 
 To heal our woes, our wrongs redress, 
 And judge the world in righteousness. 
 
 May 1829.
 
 ps.\LM cm. 
 
 With every faculty combined, 
 My soul, of body and of mind, 
 The praises of the Lord proclaim, 
 And bless, O bless his holy name ; 
 Nor ever let the memory part 
 Of all his goodness from my heart. 
 
 'Tis He, who doth thy sins forgive, 
 
 Thy sickness heals, and bids thee live 
 
 When death's dark shades were gathering round. 
 
 He saved thee and with mercy crown'd, 
 
 Thy powers to youth and strength restoring. 
 
 Like new-fledged eagle heavenward soaring.
 
 PSALM cirr. 17 
 
 'Tis He who doth the wronged redress 
 In judgment and in righteousness ; 
 His ways to Moses He revealed, 
 His out-stretched arm was Israel's shield : 
 They saw His wonders, and adored 
 The mercies of the living Lord. 
 
 How doth His kindness still o'erflow, 
 Long-suffering and to anger slow ! 
 Our faults He will not always chide. 
 In wrath He doth not long abide, 
 Nor with us deal, when we transgress, 
 According to our wickedness. 
 
 For look, how high this earth above 
 Is yonder Heaven, — so vast His love : 
 From East to West the space survey,— 
 So far He puts our sins away ; 
 Yea, as a Father, is He moved 
 With pity towards a child beloved.
 
 18 PSALM CIII. 
 
 For God, still mcrcii'ul as just, 
 Remembers that we are but dust ; 
 Man's days are but as grass, a flower 
 That springs and withers in an hour ; 
 The winds pass o'er it and 'tis not ; 
 "Where late it bloomed, unknown, forgot. 
 
 But the Lord's mercies, ever sure, 
 Through generations shall endure ; 
 Towards children's children still displayed 
 Of such as in His Faith have stayed. 
 And ever thought upon His will, 
 How best His precepts to fulfil. 
 
 The Lord in heaven hath set His throne ; 
 His power through all the world is known 
 Ye Angels, Avho in strength excel, 
 With trumpet-tongue His praises tell ; 
 Ye, who still hearkening to His voice, 
 To execute His word rejoice.
 
 PSALM cm. 19 
 
 Praise Him, all ye His Hosts, who stand 
 Prompt to perform your Lord's command ; 
 Bless ye, His works, your Maker's name, 
 In every place His power proclaim ; 
 And thou, my soul, unite to raise 
 The universal song of praise. 
 
 (line OUi, 1837.
 
 rsALM cxmx. 
 
 Omniscient, Omnipresent power ! 
 In every place and every hour, 
 1 own thy sway ; when down I lie, 
 And when I rise. Thou still art nigh ; 
 My very thoughts to Thee are known, 
 Ere yet in speech or action shown. 
 
 About my path, about my bed. 
 
 The shadow of thy wing is spread ; 
 
 Thy sleepless and all-seeing eye 
 
 Doth my most secret ways espy ; 
 
 And in an instant every word. 
 
 My tongue lets fall, thine ear hath heard.
 
 PSALM CXXXIX. 21 
 
 How, then, thy Spirit may I shun I 
 Or whither from thy presence run I 
 If, soaring through the realms of air, 
 I climb to Heaven, my God is there ; 
 If down to deepest Hell I go. 
 There too thy Spirit rules below. 
 
 If I should take the wings of morn, 
 And to earth's utmost bounds be borne, 
 In lonely isle, on desert plain, 
 Escape from Thee would still be vain : 
 E'en there thy power would be confest. 
 And thy right hand my flight arrest. 
 
 Come, night, and hide me ! should I say, 
 Straight would the night be turned to day ; 
 With Thee no shades obscure the night. 
 The darkness is as clear as light ; 
 The midnight gloom, the noonday sun. 
 Darkness and light, to Thee are one.
 
 22 PSALM CXXXIX, 
 
 My bodj', fashioned with such art, 
 Such nice design in every part, 
 The work of thy Ahnighty Hand, 
 Exceeds my skill to understand. 
 How to such knowledge may I soar ? 
 I can but wonder and adore. 
 
 When in the womb, like unformed clay, 
 
 My yet imperfect substance lay ; 
 
 From Thee my bones were not concealed, 
 
 But every member was revealed. 
 
 E'en then, through nature's hidden plan, 
 
 Thine eye beheld the future man. 
 
 How dear to me thy counsels. Lord ! 
 Who may the sum of them record ? 
 In number countless as the sand 
 Heaped by the billows on the strand ; 
 E'en from my earliest waking hour, 
 I feel thy presence and thy power.
 
 PSALM CXXXIX. 23 
 
 Shall not the wicked, Lord, be slain, 
 
 All such as take thy name in vam? 
 
 Depart from me, ye men of blood ; 
 
 Ye that against the Lord have stood, 
 
 Ye scorners of His power divine, 
 
 I hate ye ! Hence, — God's foes are mine. 
 
 Then try me. Lord, prove every part. 
 Search all my thoughts, and sound my heart ; 
 Look well my footsteps do not stray, 
 But turn them from the evil way. 
 Nor let me from the true path rove. 
 That leads to endless joys above. 
 
 Aui?ust.'ith,1826.
 
 PSADI CXLH. 
 
 Praise the Lord, oli my Soul I — while I live shall 
 
 the Lord 
 For His mercies unnumbered be praised and adored. 
 Yea as long as my being endures will I raise 
 My voice to my God in thanksgiving and praise. 
 Oh put not your trust in the princes of earth, 
 Nor in any frail thing that from man has its birth ; 
 There is no help in them, their race quickly is sped ; 
 And, when once from the body the spirit is fled, 
 Turned again to their earth in the grave they must lie. 
 And with them their thoughts and vain projects 
 
 shall die. 
 They alone, who their hope and their confidence cast 
 Upon Lsrael's God, shall find peace at the last :
 
 PSALM CXLVr. 25 
 
 For ne'er can our trust in that Being prove vain, 
 Who made Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, with all they 
 
 contain ; 
 Whose promise is sure, and whose truth stands con- 
 fessed, 
 Who sooths the afflicted, and aids the oppressed ; 
 Who feedeth the hungry, whose words can unbind 
 The prisoner's bonds, and give sight to the blind ; 
 Who uplifts such as fall from the depths of despair. 
 While the righteous are still His peculiar care ; 
 Who succours the stranger, the widow befriends, 
 And His ear to the cry of the Fatherless lends — 
 ijut the way of the wicked, though secret. He knows. 
 And to nought brings their schemes, and their 
 
 counsels o'erthrows. 
 I'raise the Lord, oli my soul, then; His praise let 
 
 me sing : 
 For the Lord God in Sion for ever is King. 
 
 Sept. 29, 1829.
 
 STANZAS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY EZEMEL II, 10: 
 
 AND HE SPREAD IT BEFORE ME: AND IT WAS WRITTEN WITHIN AND 
 without; and there was written therein LAMENTATION, 
 AND MOURNING, AND WOE." 
 
 And what was the Book which that vision of old 
 To the Prophet's rapt spirit did show ? 
 
 Wherein to his shuddering sight were unrolled 
 Lamentation, and mourning, and woe ? 
 
 That mysterious roll was the volume of life. 
 
 The story of man here below; 
 The record of e\'il, of passion, and strife. 
 
 Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.
 
 STANZAS. 27 
 
 Search the chronicle through, each condition and 
 
 age, 
 Young and old, rich and poor, high and low : 
 You will still find inscribed upon every dark page 
 Lamentation, and mourning, and woe. 
 
 There is poverty, sickness, oppression, and wrong. 
 
 False friend and insidious foe : 
 Temptations and trials resistlessly strong, 
 
 And their fruit, lamentation and woe. 
 
 On the threshold of life, that to trouble we're born 
 By our wailings we seem to foreknow ; 
 
 And childhood's sweet prime, and youth's opening 
 morn 
 Are too often o'erclouded ^\'ith woe. 
 
 Full of hope we set forth, but how quickly doth fate 
 Blast that hope, and our projects o'erthrow; 
 
 And conviction comes soon, and remains long and 
 late, 
 That our heritage here is but woe.
 
 28 STANZAS. 
 
 !Mark the struggles of manhood to weather the 
 gale, 
 
 "When the storms of adversity blow ; 
 And the waves of destruction on all sides prevail, 
 
 And beneath yawns the whirlpool of woe : 
 
 Without compass or star the frail vessel is tost 
 
 On the ocean of life to and fro ; 
 Till on shoal or on rock it is shipwrecked and lost 
 
 Amid weeping, and wailing, and woe. 
 
 Grant these perils surmounted; what then is our 
 lot, 
 
 But with painful decay, sad and slow, 
 To sink to the grave, disregarded, forgot, 
 
 'Mid infirmit)^, weakness, and woe ? 
 
 But riches, and rank, and the pleasures of sense. 
 These can happiness surely bestow ! — 
 
 Few and short are the joys which e'en these can 
 dispense. 
 And their end disappointment and woe.
 
 STANZAS. 29 
 
 But the bliss, which is built on affection and love, 
 ]\Iay not this be relied on ? Ah I no ; 
 
 Too soon shall stern death each dear object remove, 
 And leave us to bitterer woe. 
 
 And though there be moments, which o'er the dark 
 scene 
 
 May at times cast a transient glow ; 
 Like meteors they pass, and the brightness between 
 
 But deepens the gloom of our woe. 
 
 Cease, murmurer, cease ! hear Religion's sweet voice, 
 "Which, whate'er we may here undergo, 
 
 WTiispers peace to the mourner, and bids him re- 
 joice 
 In the midst of affliction and woe. 
 
 For the day when in joy we shall reap draweth near, 
 Though in sorrow awhile we may sow ; 
 
 When from every face shall be wiped every tear 
 And the wear)- sliall rest from his woe. 
 
 Sept. 1837.
 
 PARAPHlUSl'l 
 
 ON A PASSAGE IN BISHOP HORNE'S SERMON ON THE 
 REDEMPTION OP TI3IE. 
 
 The Husbandman with ceaseless toil 
 Still labours to improve his soil ; 
 When danger's near approach alarms, 
 The soldier sleeps not on his arms ; 
 When winds and waves are raging round, 
 The steersman at his helm is found ; 
 Each, to the post assigned him true, 
 Performs the work he has to do. 
 
 But when the heart as yet has known 
 No culture ; each good plant unsown. 
 Or choked with many a noxious weed 
 That overtops the nobler seed ;
 
 PARAPHRASE. 31 
 
 When now the harvest is at hand, 
 And at the gate the reapers stand, 
 The Christian husbandman we ^■iew 
 Sit listless, having nought to do. 
 
 When man's worst foes, the world and sin, 
 
 And snares without him and within 
 
 The fortress of his peace assail, 
 
 And Satan's powers e'en now prevail ; 
 
 The Christian soldier we behold 
 
 His arms upon his bosom fold, 
 
 And idly some vain toy pursue ; 
 
 For he, forsooth, has nought to do. 
 
 When the poor weather-beaten soul 
 Is drifting amid rock and shoal, 
 Heaven's wrath above, and far beneath 
 The yawning gulf of Hell and death, 
 That very hour in sleep or play 
 The Christian steersman dreams away ; 
 Unconscious, 'mid a thoughtless crew, 
 That lie or they had aught to do.
 
 32 PARAPH KASK. 
 
 Ye senseless fools — A^vakc I awake ! 
 And fatal slumber from you shake I 
 Think how their seed-time they employ 
 Who hope at last to reap in joy : 
 Be strong and gird you to the fight ; 
 Be wise and steer your bark aright ; 
 Lest ye too late your folly rue, 
 And find that you had much to do. 
 
 May, 1820,
 
 UN THK I:HPH.\M, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE CONCLUDING PARAGRAPH OF BISHOP 
 HORNE'S sermon ON THAT FESTIVAL. 
 
 Obedient to the leading Star, 
 The Eastern sages came from far 
 Theh" infant Saviour to adore, 
 And at his feet their offerings pour. 
 
 For us that Star still beams as bright, 
 And guides us with its heavenly light. 
 Where all who seek Ilim still may find 
 The promised Saviour of Mankind. 
 
 T)
 
 34 ON TUE EPIPUANY. 
 
 And though nor incense, myrrh, nor gold, 
 Be our's to give, as their's of old. 
 Presents as meet we still may bring ; 
 Nor will He slight the offermg. 
 
 For faith, like gold that hath been tried 
 And in the furnace purified. 
 More precious in his sight will shine, 
 Than richest gifts from Ophir's mine. 
 
 To Him a tribute far more dear 
 Will be the penitential tear, 
 That dims the contrite sinner's eye, 
 Than costliest myrrh of Araby. 
 
 Then, like sweet incense, prayer, and praise, 
 And pure devotion's kindling blaze, 
 From the heart's altar shall arise, 
 The best and holiest sacrifice.
 
 ON THE EPIPHANY. 35 
 
 While o'er the soul, Joy, Peace, and Love, 
 And Hope still fixed on things above, 
 Their balmy fragrance shed abroad, 
 And make it fitter lor its God. 
 
 -31.
 
 HllIN PUli NEW YEM'S DAY. 
 
 Another year its course has sped: 
 How awful is the thought ! 
 
 'Tis as a warning, from the dead, 
 Home to each bosom brought^ 
 
 Of those on whom that opening year 
 With life's fair promise shone, 
 
 Whom then we saw around us here, 
 How many now are gone ! 
 
 Gone to the grave, and ere that sun. 
 Whose race begins to-day, 
 
 His annual circle shall have run, 
 We too may be as they.
 
 HYMX FOR NEW YEAR's DAY. 37 
 
 Great God, whose overruling will 
 
 Our being doth sustain, 
 Grant, since thy mercy spares us still. 
 
 It may not be in vain ! 
 
 Oh I grant that when this morn again 
 
 The rolling months bring round. 
 The tree now spared, if spared till then, 
 
 Less worthless may be found. 
 
 So teach us, Lord, our fleeting days 
 
 To number, so improve. 
 That we may turn to wisdom's ways, 
 
 And seek the things above. 
 
 Jan. Nt, 1840.
 
 HY:\I^■ FOR CHllDRK^'. 
 
 LoKi), wlio once thine arms unfolding, 
 Infants didst receive and bless, 
 
 Us thy children here beholding, 
 Aid, oh ! aid our helplessness ! 
 
 Be our refuge and defence ; 
 
 Wash our souls in innocence ! 
 
 Happy they whom thou hast planted, 
 Lord, thy hallowed courts within : 
 
 Shelter there alone is granted 
 From a world of woe and sin ; 
 
 There, secure from every ill, 
 
 God's own plants shall prosper still.
 
 HYMN FOR CHILDREN. 39 
 
 As the palm-tree by the fountain 
 Heavenward lifts its towering head ; 
 
 As the cedars of the mountain 
 
 All around their branches spread ; 
 
 Such may we, oh Lord ! be found 
 
 Flourishing in holy ground. 
 
 Through all changes and all chances 
 
 May our leaf feel no decay, 
 May we still, as age advances. 
 
 Ampler fruits bring forth each day ; 
 Strengthened still with vigour new. 
 Still refreshed with heavenly dew. 
 
 April, lH27.
 
 HYMN FOPi CHILDREN. 
 
 Far from the paths of sin, 
 
 Which else he might have trod, 
 
 Blest ! who, these hallowed walls within. 
 Is early brought to God. 
 
 He, through life's various day 
 
 Where'er his lot be cast, 
 Trained from the first in wisdom's way, 
 
 Shall keep it to the last. 
 
 In that shall he abide 
 
 Through sunshine, storm, or shade ; 
 God's Holy Spirit for his guide, 
 
 His comfort and his aid.
 
 HYMN FOR CHILDREN. 41 
 
 That book of perfect truth, 
 
 Which first was taught him here, 
 
 Shall guard him in the morn of youth, 
 In age's gloom shall cheer. 
 
 And when around his head 
 
 Life's last dim shadows close, 
 He shall not fear the grave's dark bed ; 
 
 'Twas thence his Sa^-iour rose.
 
 IIYMX FOR rHILDRFA\ 
 
 Lord ! who once from Heaven descending, 
 Lost mankind didst seek and save ; 
 
 Us in our distress befriending, 
 Grant the shelter which we crave. 
 
 From a sinful world we flee, 
 
 Shepherd of our souls, to Thee. 
 
 Israel's shepherd ' Thou wilt lead us 
 Comfort's living streams beside ; 
 
 There in pastures green Avilt feed us, 
 And i'or all our wants provide ; 
 
 Hapi)y they who hear thy voice, 
 
 And beneath thy staff rejoice.
 
 HYM.N FOR CHILDREN'. 43 
 
 From the great destroyer's power, 
 
 From the roaring lion's rage, 
 Seeking whom he may devour, 
 
 Lord protect our tender age ; 
 Day and night be near us still, 
 Guarding us from every ill. 
 
 From the arts that would allure us, 
 From the toils that would ensnare. 
 
 Thou, who slumberest not, secure us 
 By thy ever-watchful care ; 
 
 And, if e'er from Thee we roam, 
 
 Fetch, oh fetch, the wanderer home. 
 
 And at last, our perils ended, 
 
 Take us to that blessed fold. 
 Where the flock Thou here hast tended, 
 
 Shall in Heaven thy face behold, 
 And with hymns of praise adore, 
 Christ, their shepherd, evermore. 
 
 July. 1827.
 
 \mn FOR CHILDREN, 
 
 When first God's word to Samuel came 
 
 Calling his chosen child by name, 
 
 Prompt and obedient to the word, 
 
 He quickly learnt to know the Lord, 
 
 And, faithful from his earliest years, 
 
 "Speak Lord," he cried, "thy servant hears.'' 
 
 Like that good servant of thy choice, 
 Lord teach us too to know thy voice ; 
 And, when within these hallowed walls 
 That voice to us each Sabbath calls. 
 With spirit meek, and heart sincere. 
 Give us, thy children, grace to hear.
 
 UY.MX FOR CUILDREX. 45 
 
 If, when the tempter shall essay 
 To draw our heedless youth astray, 
 Some still small voice, our hearts within, 
 Shall softly whisper, " flee the sin", 
 That solemn warning let us fear ; 
 'Tis God who speaks, and we must hear. 
 
 Oft as thy table shall be spread, 
 
 And Thou, whose blood for all was shed, 
 
 E'en us hereafter shalt invite 
 
 To share that sweet and holy rite ; 
 
 May we, in humble faith, draw near. 
 
 Nor e'er in vain thy bidding hear. 
 
 So, when life's closing scene is nigh, 
 
 And soon or late with sudden cry 
 
 To meet the Bridegroom we are called ; 
 
 In that dread moment unappalled, 
 
 With Faith's bright lamp our souls to cheer, 
 
 The awful summons we shall hear. 
 
 19-10.
 
 HYMN 
 
 l-Oi: THE OPKNING OF WHEELOCK CHmCH, CHKSHri!!:. 
 Aug. OO, 1837. 
 
 Wilt Thou indeed vouchsafe, oh Lord, 
 
 Within these humble courts to dwell, 
 In gorgeous Salem once adored 
 
 The mighty God of Israel ? 
 Sure Thou, whose spirit fills all space. 
 
 These narrow limits wilt disdain, 
 Thou whom e'en Heaven thy dwelling place. 
 
 The Heaven of Heavens may not contain !
 
 HTMN. 47 
 
 Yet Thou hast said, where two or three 
 
 Are met together in thy name, 
 Thou in the midst of them wilt be ; — 
 
 Thy parting promise, Lord, we claim : 
 And oh, when to the throne of grace 
 
 Our prayers and praises hence shall rise, 
 Hear Thou from heaven thy dwelling place, 
 
 Xor scorn the simple sacrifice ! 
 
 When here on bended knee we fall, 
 
 AVith contrite hearts our sins confess. 
 And on thy holy spirit call. 
 
 To aid us in our helplessness ; 
 Then turn not from us, Lord, thy face. 
 
 In whose blest light alone we live ; 
 But from yon heaven, thy dwelling place, 
 
 Look down in mercy, and forgive ! 
 
 "When here thy holy word is read, 
 Teach us its truth and power to feel; 
 
 And when thy blessed board is spread. 
 Oh 1 make us worthy there to kneel.
 
 48 HYMX. 
 
 In every act still give us grace 
 
 To please Thee in this House of Prayer. 
 Till Thou to Heaven, thy dwelling place, 
 
 Shalt bid us come, and serve Thee there.
 
 DOMESTIC.
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Here, mid the friendly quiet of these shades, 
 Whose scenes remote no worklly care invades, 
 Where the calm soul, while all around inspires 
 Pure joy and peace, within itself retires, 
 Like some lone miser, o'er its bliss to brood, 
 And undisturbed sum up its store of good ; 
 With time to think, and leisure to be wise, 
 Here my full happiness I feel and prize ; 
 Wife of my bosom I Nor wilt thou too fail 
 With grateful voice this hallowed morn to hail. 
 Four happy years, since this auspicious day 
 Our union sealed, have swiftly passed away; 
 Yet in no transient pleasures have they flown. 
 IJut rich in blessings which are still our own.
 
 52 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 By me at least of all the circling year 
 
 Well may this morn be held supremely dear ; 
 
 Well may my bosom with such transports glow. 
 
 Conscious how much of bliss to it I owe. 
 
 For thou art mine ; but when I daily see 
 
 Thy noble gifts devoted all to me, 
 
 jNIy wishes all preferred before thy o-w-n, 
 
 And all thy tastes conformed to mine alone ; 
 
 See thee for me the world's attractions scorn. 
 
 And those gay scenes thou wouldst so well adorn ; 
 
 And here content, without a wish to roam, 
 
 Place all thy happiness in me and home ; 
 
 Such love unbounded, in despair I say. 
 
 How can I e'er deserve, or how repay ? 
 
 My grateful bosom would, but cannot, speak ; 
 
 Oh then believe, although my words be weak, 
 
 And these poor lines but feebly can express 
 
 How much I feel, I do not feel the less. 
 
 "When He, the sovereign Lord of life and light, 
 Just though mysterious in his ways, my sight 
 With dim suffusion veiled, e'en then I felt 
 And owned the chastening blow in mercy dealt ;
 
 TO 3IT WIFE. 53 
 
 Yes, even then wert thou designed to be, 
 
 Thou best of women, more than sight to me. 
 
 If great my loss, Heaven's bounty was as great, 
 
 For thou wert given that loss to compensate ; 
 
 And all those gentle aids by thee employed 
 
 With ceaseless love so well supply the void. 
 
 That, half in doubt if void there yet be left, 
 
 I oft inquire, of what am I bereft ? 
 
 My friend, companion, monitress, and guide. 
 
 At home, abroad, my happiness, my pride ; 
 
 Thou dearest creature e'er on man bestowed, 
 
 To strew with flowers life's long and chequered road; 
 
 Oh mayst thou still upon my steps attend, 
 
 My guardian angel, to my journey's end I 
 
 Be mine the while, whene'er returning May 
 With new-blown hawthorn crowns this festal day. 
 In simple numbers unadorned with art. 
 To pour the tribute of a faithful heart ; 
 And, though I ne'er may merit, strive to prove 
 At least I know the value of thy love. 
 
 UroJwall, May 21lh, 1825.
 
 THK TWHXTY-FOlTiTH OF MAY. 
 
 What, here again, good twenty-fourth of May ! 
 Not that I e'er can see thee with regret, 
 But, since in pleasant Bradwall last we met, 
 
 It seems to me but as the other day ; 
 
 So rapidly the year has rolled away. 
 
 And, sooth to speak, by various causes let, 
 Thou find'st me unprepared to pay my debt. 
 
 The promised tribute of an annual lay ; 
 
 But, wouldst thou kindly condescend to stay 
 Thy flight an instant, I will pay thee yet. 
 How much I owe thee I can ne'er forget, 
 
 And still I love my lawful debts to pay : — 
 Now count my lines, I'll stake my credit on it. 
 You'll find fourteen ; and fourteen make a sonnet.
 
 TO -MV WIFH 
 
 mN the AJiNrS'EKSARY OF MY WEDDING DAY. 
 
 Another year its course has run ; 
 
 And on this happy day, 
 Strusgling through clouds, once more the sun 
 
 Has shed its genial ray. 
 For still all other days above 
 
 This morn shall ever shine ; 
 This day first made thee mine, my love, 
 
 This day first made thee mine. 
 
 All uninvokcd the ready muse 
 
 Takes up her wonted strain, 
 With joy the pleasing task renews, 
 
 .Vnd tunes the lyre again.
 
 56 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Her pledge impatient to redeem 
 She pours the rapturous line, 
 
 And hails, exulting in the theme. 
 The day which made thee mine. 
 
 What though no friends in social glee 
 
 My festive board surround, 
 Nor with libations full and free 
 
 The votive glass be crowned ; 
 Less pure would glow my bosom, fired 
 
 With wassail and with wine. 
 Than by the simple thought inspired — 
 
 This day first made thee mine. 
 
 'Tis said the gifts we dearly prize 
 
 When first they are our OAvn, 
 Too oft unthankful we despise 
 
 By use familiar grown. 
 Yet think not thee I prize the less, 
 
 Or would for worlds resign; 
 No ! I can never cease to bless 
 
 The day which made thee mine.
 
 TO MY WIFE. 57 
 
 And tho' since first I called thee mine 
 
 Six summers now are past; 
 And fools to wedded bliss assign 
 
 A term which may not last ; 
 Think not that to my latest year 
 
 My love •will e'er decline; 
 Xo I time wiU but the more endear 
 
 The day which made thee mine. 
 
 Unmingled good was ne'er bestowed 
 
 On Pilgrims here below ; 
 All must alike pursue their road 
 
 Through chequered weal and woe. 
 But thou wert given to cheer my way ; 
 
 Then will I ne'er repine, 
 But stiU draw comfort from that day 
 
 When first I called thee mine. 
 
 The dearest vnfe e'er sent by heaven 
 
 Unworthy man to bless, 
 The sweetest children ever given 
 
 To crown that happiness,
 
 58 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Tlic happiest home love ever knew, — 
 These blessings all combine 
 
 To bid me hail with homage due 
 The day which made thee mine. 
 
 Since then so large a share of good 
 
 To this dear day I owe, 
 Well may my Soul with gratitude 
 
 To bounteous Heaven o'erflow : 
 And well all other days above 
 
 May this blest morn so shine ; 
 This day first made thee mine, my love, 
 
 This day first made thee mine. 
 
 May a^th, 1827.
 
 SOXXET. 
 
 As amid Afric's sandy wastes, the sight 
 Of green Oasis yields a sweet relief 
 To the spent traveller ; so, 'mid scenes of grief, 
 W'here all has for a while been wrapt in night, 
 The spirit hails with joy one spot more bright, 
 Seeking from gloomy thought a respite brief, 
 And life's dark volume still has one fair leaf 
 To which fond memory turns with fresh delight. 
 
 To thee, and me, my love ! that radiant spot, 
 And that fair leaf is this auspicious day. 
 
 Which, or for good or ill, first linked our lot 
 In one : — Then let us, e'er it pass away, 
 (irateful confess, to it and Heaven we owe, 
 ' Mid countless blessings else, our comfort too in woe.
 
 e\t:xings at home. 
 
 I LOVE, for I have known and tried, 
 The joys which friendship can divide; 
 The pleasures of the social board 
 To me a rich repast afford ; 
 Not that unworthy gross delight 
 "Which springs from pampered appetite, 
 But that pure banquet of the mind 
 Where the light play of wit refined. 
 And conversation's sparkling flow. 
 And the raised spirits' generous glow, 
 Shed round the festive scene a charm 
 Which e'en the dullest soul might warm.
 
 EVENINGS AT HOME, 61 
 
 But yet to me more grateful far, 
 And sweeter beyond all compare. 
 The evenings of that dear, dear home, 
 From which my heart woxdd never roam ; 
 With one beloved companion spent 
 In chastened joy and calm content, 
 All in one even tenour past, 
 And each as happy as the last. 
 
 Our frugal meal dispatched with speed, 
 To crown it no desert we need. 
 Save what our children best supply. 
 Themselves our highest luxury. 
 Yes, in their prattle and their play. 
 Their merry tongues and spirits gay, 
 There is a feast that never fails : — 
 Then come the oft repeated tales, 
 Which from its unexhausted stores 
 Their Mother's ample memory pours, 
 Of talking birds, and singing trees, 
 And Sindbad's travelled histories.
 
 62 EVENINGS AT HOME. 
 
 And whatsoe'er has else been told 
 Of wonderful, In days of old : 
 Enchanting all ; yet none sui'pass 
 That maiden's slipper, which of glass 
 Her fairy gossip wrought, and none 
 Thy cat, immortal Whittington. 
 But if perchance a call to bed 
 Cut short the imperfect story's thread, 
 The eager listners straight obey. 
 And at the summons bound away 
 Without a murmur, though with sorrow, 
 Compounding for the rest to-morrow. 
 
 But other pleasures now ensue, 
 For ever various ever new. 
 In some instructive volume found 
 To me, in mute attention bound, 
 By her made vocal ; on whose tongue 
 "With fresh delight I still have hung ; 
 Its gentle tones distinct and clear 
 So sweetly meet the listening ear. 
 Nor idle lies her needle by
 
 EVENINGS AT HOME. 63 
 
 The while, but still its task doth ply ; 
 Beneath her eye the pattern grows, 
 The jasmin or the mimic rose ; 
 Unless some homelier work demand 
 The labour of her useful hand : 
 Unrivalled gift ! with perfect skill 
 Such twofold office to fulfill ; 
 As if, by some kind pro\-idence, 
 A double portion of that sense 
 Which is to me in part denied, 
 Were for my sake to her supplied. 
 
 Oh, how unbounded is their pleasure, 
 Wliom Heaven has blest with taste and leisure. 
 If not profoundly to explore 
 The depths of philosophic lore, 
 Yet like the bee at large to stray. 
 And lightly o'er the surface play I 
 Stealing a sweet from every flower. 
 Which decks fair learning's varied bower. 
 So we, as fancy prompts us, chuse 
 The ancient or the modem muse ;
 
 64 EVENINGS AT nOME. 
 
 Now listen to some traveller's tale, 
 Now with some bold adventurer sail ; 
 Thee, sober History, oft we woo, 
 Charming with interest ever new ; 
 Or, more attractive still to me. 
 Thy handmaid sweet Biography ; 
 Or haply thou mayst please us best 
 In novel-guise by fiction drest, 
 Such as of late thou hast been seen 
 Too oft with too seductive mien ; 
 And, if yon Wizard of the North 
 Have sent again his spirit forth, 
 As now, to fascinate once more 
 The world so often charmed before. 
 With transports which no words may tell, 
 AVe yield us to the witching spell. 
 
 Yet may we not forget to turn. 
 Admonished by the bubbling urn, 
 To where those cups our leisure wait, 
 " Which cheer but not inebriate,"
 
 EVENINGS AT HOME. 65 
 
 Grateful at once to scent and taste ; 
 We linger o'er the loved repast, 
 And still, with sweet discourse between, 
 Quaff the delicious draught serene. 
 
 Xor seldom, ere our evening end, 
 Variety's sweet charms to blend, 
 To music's captivating power 
 We dedicate the closins: hour : 
 Whether my humour more incline 
 To Handel's lofty strain divine. 
 Or learn'd Corelli better please. 
 Or Haydn's enchanting harmonics, 
 Or Graun sublime, or Purcell bold, 
 (Jr he whose magic numbers hold 
 O'er every chord that sways the heart 
 Resistless empire — great Mozart. 
 
 And ever, ere we seek repose, 
 With solemn rite our day wc close, 
 And with humility profound, 
 Our little houscliold gatlured round, 
 
 F
 
 66 EVEXINGS AT HOME. 
 
 To the great Author of all good 
 
 AVe bend in holy gratitude ; 
 
 And from whate'er by night might harm 
 
 Implore the shelter of His arm. 
 
 That evenings such as these are mine, 
 My own dear wife, the gift is thine ; 
 And, since to me such first were known, 
 This day, eight happy years have flown. 
 This day then will I ever bless. 
 From which I date such happiness ; 
 This day by me shall ne'er be past 
 Unsung, unhonourcd ; till at last, 
 Tired wdth its oft repeated chime, 
 Thou bid mc cease the endless rhyme. 
 
 May 2iiL, l&lO.
 
 ON THE SECOXB BHITHDAY OF J. H, L. 
 
 Dear mother of my darling boy, 
 
 For him you ask the lay, 
 And bid me with a song of joy 
 
 Salute this happy day ; 
 'Tis well! For can a fitter strain 
 
 A rhyming sire employ ? 
 Then welcome, welcome, once again, 
 
 The birthday of my boy ! 
 
 Since first those laughing eyes of his 
 
 Exulted in the light, 
 Two years of calm domestic bliss 
 
 Have winged their rapid flight
 
 68 ON THE SECOKD BIRTHDAY 
 
 And oh I it' earthly happiness 
 
 Is e'er without alloy, 
 'Tis then, my love, when we caress 
 
 Our first-born darling boy. 
 
 Yes I when that noble mien, that eye 
 
 Intelligent we view, 
 That well-knit form's fine symmetry, 
 
 That fair cheek's healthful hue ; 
 And hear the music of that voice. 
 
 Each note awakening joy, 
 Well may our thrilling hearts rejoice. 
 
 In such a lovely boy. 
 
 To hear his lisping tongue combine, 
 
 Strange phrase in sweetest tone, 
 While, half by sound and half by sign, 
 
 He makes his meaning known ; 
 To mark, as he with bounding pace 
 
 Pursues some favourite toy. 
 Activity, and strength, and grace 
 
 United in our boy ;
 
 OF J. H. L. 69 
 
 Reflected in his features fair, 
 
 To trace his gentle mind ; 
 To see good humour smiling there, 
 
 With each affection kind ; 
 Each hour to watch new charms unfold ; — 
 
 These pleasures ne'er can cloy ; 
 Some thirst for honour, some for gold, 
 
 My treasure is my boy. 
 
 Should they who scoff" at joys like these 
 
 The sportive mimic see 
 Invent a thousand ways to please. 
 
 With never failing glee ; 
 Now bold, and now affecting fear. 
 
 With playful archness coy ; 
 How would they check the cynic sneer, 
 
 And envy me my boy ! 
 
 As with his gentle lips he presses 
 
 His infant sister's cheek. 
 And o'er her hangs with soft caresses, 
 
 And looks which fondness speak ;
 
 70 ox THE SECOXD BIHTUDAT 
 
 Cold were that heart, which such pure sight 
 
 Of love could not enjoy ; 
 Think then how rapturous our delight, 
 
 Whose own is that sweet boy. 
 
 My child ! oh couldst thou ever be 
 
 Spotless, as now thou art ; 
 P'rom sorrow and from care as free, 
 
 As pure, as gay of heart ! 
 But. since to trouble all are born. 
 
 Since ills must all annoy. 
 And clouds may darken life's bright morn 
 
 Now opening on our boy ; 
 
 Hear, gracious Heaven, a father's prayer ; — 
 
 Be Thou his guardian still ; 
 In danger keep ; in sickness spare ; 
 
 And shield from every ill ! 
 But chief in youth's more trying hour, 
 
 When pleasure's arts decoy, 
 And passions urge with headstrong power. 
 
 Protect our darling boy !
 
 OF J. n. L. 71 
 
 And if, as on our child we gaze, 
 
 Our hearts too proudly swell, 
 If our fond hopes too high we raise 
 
 For one we love so well ; 
 Oh I let no blight of bitterness 
 
 Those visions quite destroy, 
 But ever give us cause to bless 
 
 The birthday of our boy ! 
 
 \-h liih. 1825.
 
 ON FIRST TAiaNO HIS ELDEST CHILD TO CHURCH. 
 
 Lord ! to thy hallowed courts when late I brought 
 My child, to learn how Thou wert worshipped there, 
 And marked him lift his little hands in prayer ; 
 And, in those holy words Thyself hast taught, 
 Amid the general murmur feebly caught 
 From time to time upon my listning ear 
 His gentle voice its part spontaneous bear ; 
 'Twas more than fancy, sure, that waked the thought, 
 
 The rapturous thought, that in the sacrifice 
 W'liich then ascended to the throne of Grace 
 My boy's sweet orisons might find a place. 
 
 And mount like mornmg incense to the skies : 
 Grateful to Thee, who still dost strength ordain 
 P'rom childhood's guileless lips, and hearts that 
 know no stain. 
 
 October, 1827.
 
 SOXXET. 
 
 Departed spirit of my darling child I 
 
 Watch, if blest spirits have such power, (for thou 
 
 Art sure a ministering Angel now, 
 From earthly taint all pure and undefiled,) 
 Watch o'er thy once loved parent, whispering mild 
 
 To his sad bosom peace, and teach him how 
 
 Submissive to the will of Heaven to bow. 
 And oh ! forgive, if in the transports wild 
 
 Of his first grief, he would have kept thee here. 
 
 In life's sweet prime so lovely and so dear; 
 Vet in far other place than this, through Him 
 
 Who therefore called thee hence, more meet to 
 dwell, 
 And there to chaunt, 'mid choiring Cherubim, 
 
 Those hymns of praise thou lov'dst on earth so 
 well. 
 
 March, 18»7.
 
 ON A YOl^^a LADY 
 
 SINGING THE EVEOTSG HYMN IN HEE SLEEP, A SHORT 
 TIME BEFORE HER DEATH. 
 
 Stretched on the restless bed of pain, 
 
 To slow disease a prey, 
 C^ourting reluctant sleep in vain 
 
 The gentle sufferer lay. 
 
 The tedious night was well-nigh spent, 
 
 When o'er her weary soul. 
 As by some pitying angel sent, 
 
 A balmy slumber stole.
 
 ox a.yoc::g lady. 75 
 
 Still by that bed with tender care 
 
 The wakeful mother staid, 
 And poured to Heaven her secret prayer 
 
 For comfort and for aid. 
 
 When hark I upon her startled ear, 
 
 Amid the deep repose 
 Of the still chamber, soft and clear 
 
 A vocal strain arose. 
 
 It was that melody divine 
 In which, at evening hour, 
 
 Their spirits pure the good consign 
 To Heaven's protecting power. 
 
 Yes I from those lips, in slumber deep 
 Now sealed, the numbers came ; 
 
 As though not e'en the body's sleep 
 Could quench devotion's Hamc.
 
 ox A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Tlie mother licard, and knew it well 
 That sweet and solemn air; 
 
 But sad upon her heart it fell, 
 And filled it with despair. 
 
 To her of happier days gone by, 
 Of health and joy it spoke, 
 
 And of too faithful memory 
 I'iach thrilling chord awoke. 
 
 And then the thought, oft checked in vain, 
 
 Resistless on her rushed. 
 How soon the lips which poured that strain 
 
 For ever should be hushed. 
 
 With agony it wrung her soul, 
 And down her woe-worn check 
 
 The scalding tears began to roll. 
 Her heart seemed nigh to break.
 
 ox A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 "Tis done I --the dreaded hour is past ; 
 
 Fond mother, weep no more ! 
 The child is gone to rest at hist, 
 
 Her trial here is o'er. 
 
 And now perhaps a seraph bright 
 She chants with saints above. 
 
 As erst on earth was her delight, 
 Her hymns of praise and love. 
 
 Mav, iftae.
 
 KPISTLE TO MY FATHEE, ON HIS BIETHDAY, 
 
 Dec. 20, 1829. 
 
 Tho' thou, our Patriarch Host, art far away, 
 Whose wont it was, on this returning day, 
 Year after year to spread the festal board 
 With each rich offering of the season stored, 
 And gather round thee many a joyous guest, 
 Kindred and friends, and all who loved thee best : 
 Yet shall the day not pass unhonoured by. 
 Nor good old use, by time half hallowed, die. 
 Still shall the festal board be spread, and still 
 Who love thee best their places there shall fill ; 
 Still as of old the sparkling glass be crowned 
 With votive bumpers, and the wish go round 
 CBy fervent lij'JS pronounced from hearts sincere) 
 That health, and every blessing which can clicer
 
 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER. 79 
 
 The gently sloping path of life's decline.. 
 My dear, my honoured father, may be thine. 
 
 While thus, with social rites and festive mirth, 
 We hail the day that gave a parent birth, 
 How do our grateful hearts within us glow 
 \\'ann with the sense of what to thee we owe ! 
 But not to us alone, the partial few 
 From whom such tribute first and chief is due, 
 Is the remembrance of thy worth confined ; 
 In many a heart besides it rests enshrined. 
 For thine the power to soften pain, to ease 
 And boldly grapple with each fierce disease, 
 To lengthen life, and mitigate, by skill 
 And kindness joined, the sum of human ill ; 
 Thine too no less that aspect all benign 
 Which beamed with tcnderest sjmpathy, and thine 
 That cheerful voice which confidence bespoke, 
 And in the sufferer's sinking soul awoke 
 Hope, which itself half wrought the promised cure, 
 E'er art came in to make that promise sure.
 
 80 EinsTi-E TO 3ir father. 
 
 Hence, in deep lines indelibly impressed, 
 Thy memory lives in many a faithful breast, 
 And long shall live, to every rank endeared, 
 By high and low still honoured and revered. 
 But chief the poor thy virtues shall proclaim, 
 And grateful bless their good Physician's name. 
 Oft, as they pass thy once loved threshold by, 
 " This was his dwelling," they shall say and sigh, 
 " (Would it were yet so !) who ne'er closed his door, 
 "When sickness sought admittance, on the poor; 
 " For lis he still employed his noble art, 
 " His sole reward his own approving heart. 
 "Yet One there is who from His place above 
 ." Marks every act of charity and love ; 
 " He saw, and shall requite the generous deed 
 "Done to Himself, when done to those in need." 
 
 Meanwhile to Bradwall's peaceful shades retired. 
 Blest with that calm thy soul has long desired, 
 To thee perhaps the busy past may seem 
 The transient vision of a troubled dream ;
 
 ox HIS BIRTHDAY. 81 
 
 No more in pent-up chariot, as of old, 
 From morn to eve o'er rattling pavement rolled. 
 Xo more condemned the same sad round to go. 
 Day after day, of sickness and of woe, 
 And draw with pain a suffocating breath 
 In chambers tainted with disease and death 
 .Methinks I see thee now at early dawn, 
 Pacing with active step thy favorite lawn, 
 To tell thy flock, if haply all be there, 
 And breathe the freshness of the morning air. 
 Then o'er the distant fields I see thee stride 
 ^\'ith gun in hand, and setter at thy side, 
 To seek the wild duck at the pool, or wake 
 The whirring pheasant from the rustling brake. 
 Or, should the recent gale a chance supply 
 On woodcock rare thy skill once more to try. 
 Another triumph shall thy brows adorn, 
 And a third trophy crown the lucky morn. 
 
 liiit otlier objects now thy cure demand; 
 Nor wilt thou deem an hour mis.spcnt, to .siiiiid
 
 82 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER. 
 
 And watch tliy labourers, as beneath thme eye 
 
 With cheerful toil the task assigned they ply. 
 
 Whether it be some stagnant pool to drain, 
 
 And spread the rich deposit o'er the plain ; 
 
 Or level some old hedge, or raise a new, 
 
 And bid the fence a better line pursue ; 
 
 Or thro' some crowded copse to force a way, 
 
 And on the smothered saplings let the day, 
 
 Weed out the worthless, the more worthy spare. 
 
 And give them room to breathe a freer air. 
 
 How sweet the while, where'er thy footsteps tread, 
 
 Where'er thou view'st the landscape round thee 
 
 spread. 
 To feel (and who the feeling shall arraign ?) 
 Thyself the master of the wide domain ; 
 No thriftless heir, by partial fortune spoiled. 
 Of house and lands, for which another toiled, 
 For every rood of land thou call'st thine own 
 Indebted to thyself and bounteous Heaven alone. 
 
 Oft arm in arm with her, who still has been 
 Thy best companion thro' life's chequered scene,
 
 0.\ HIS BIRTHDAY. 83 
 
 With sauntering steps my fancy sees you stray 
 
 'I'o where yon smiling cottage skirts the way ; 
 
 Along whose walls the ppacanthus spread 
 
 In winter garlands hangs its berries red ; 
 
 There pause awhile the pleasing sight to scan, 
 
 Then entering, ask how fares the good old man ; 
 
 And how he bears the rigour of the year. 
 
 And if he lacketh aught, his age to cheer r 
 
 And draws our good Corycius towards his end ? 
 
 Ah me I could wish of mine his days extend, 
 
 The hundredth year his lengthened life slioiiM 
 
 crown 
 lire to the grave his silver locks went down ! 
 
 But, should the lowering skies forbid to roam, 
 As swiftly fly the busy hours at home ; 
 While, with the love of ancient learning fired., 
 i.ike classic Fox of public faction tired, 
 Vou find in studies, dear indeed of yore, 
 A charm and interest never felt before : 
 1 'leased to retrace, now free from ail alloy, 
 Ihf well remembered lessons of (he I)ov.
 
 84 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER. 
 
 Whether on llion's bard your strength you try, 
 Or better pleased with gentle Tityrus, lie 
 Beneath the spreading beech, and hear his reed 
 To pastoral song attuned, or martial deed ; 
 Or warmed by Juvenal's indignant strain, 
 Loathe, more than ever, luxury's baneful reign, 
 And, more than ever, in the virtuous choice 
 That bade thee quit our modern Home rejoice. 
 Nor wilt thou e'er thy best-loved task omit, 
 To search the hidden stores of Sacred Writ, 
 Pure as from holy penmen first it came, 
 And light at Learning's lamp Devotion's flame ; 
 To trace of word or phrase the genuine force, 
 Lost by transmission, upwards to its source ; 
 Draw forth each beauty, each dark passage clear, 
 And be thyself thy own interpreter. 
 
 Dear honoured parent, 'mid pursuits like these, 
 In active leisure, and in studious ease. 
 May the calm evening of thy well-sjient day, 
 Like some smooth current, gently glide away. — 
 And oh ! whene'er this happy day conies round. 
 May it still find thee as it now hath found,
 
 ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 85 
 
 Blest with whate'er can make retirement sweet, 
 And shed a charm around thy loved retreat ; 
 One dear companion, that retreat to share. 
 Enhance each comfort and divide each care ; 
 Health, and the means and spirits to enjoy 
 Those simple pleasures which can never cloy ; 
 With that best gift of Heaven, a cheerful mind, 
 To every change that time may bring resigned ; 
 Content on earth mixed good and ill to prove, 
 In the strong hope of perfect bliss above.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS.
 
 A FRAGMENT LX IMITATION OF POPE. 
 
 So, (if great things may be compared with small,) 
 
 Some drowsy fiddler at a midnight ball. 
 
 Lulled by his own dull strains and well-marked 
 
 time 
 To sure returns of one expected chime ; 
 (While frequent draughts of potent ale conspire, 
 With late fatigue, to quell his minstrel fire,) 
 Feels o'er each sense a growing stupor creep, 
 Till his closed eyelids sink at last in sleep ; — 
 Yet ceases not the strain, — the unwearied soimd 
 With method just prolongs its measured round ; 
 For stUl, impelled by habit's mighty sway. 
 The tuneful dreamer plays or seems to play ; 
 Just to each string his practised fingers rove, 
 And his curved elbow moves, as wont to move ; 
 The restless fiddlestick still plays its part. 
 True to the precepts of its master's art ; 
 Th' unconscious crowd applaud the sprightly tone, 
 And the man 's praised for quavers not his own.
 
 FRAGMENT OF A MORAL EPISTLE. 
 
 I KNOW there are to whom the world appears 
 
 To grow in folly as it grows in years ; 
 
 Who think each age finds out, in crime more bold, 
 
 New modes of sinning, or improves the old. 
 
 Let the just Muse give praise where praise is due, 
 
 So shall she seem to blame with justice too ; 
 
 One vice at least has this our age rcdrest : 
 
 Oh could our age as well reform the rest ! 
 
 Time was, when fashion's fools would almost 
 loathe 
 The poor dull soul, who spoke without an oath : 
 Mere affirmation could not credence gain ; 
 ' Would you seem serious, take God's name in vain ;
 
 FRAGMENT OF A MORAL EPISTLE. 91 
 
 Oatlis mark'd in repartee the lucky hit, 
 Embellish'd narrative, and pointed wit. 
 Nor epithets could strength or grace bestow, 
 Which were not summon'd from the realms below, 
 Through all discourse the impious folly ran. 
 Till swearing formed the finished gentleman. 
 
 Now, without blasphemy may men converse, 
 Nor need, for talk, themselves or neighbours curse. 
 The vulgar vice may still our ears appal, 
 Where draymen jostle, and where drunkards brawl ; 
 But if, in better scenes, by use grown strong, 
 It still maintains some empire o'er the tongue. 
 Oh ! let the laws of polished life prevail. 
 And fashion work a change where precepts fail ! 
 
 i'eb. 22nd, 182C.
 
 THE B.WISHED TEA-TIUY'S COMPUKT. 
 
 And is my doom resolved r and am I chased, 
 A Avretched exile, from the board I graced ? 
 And could not all my worth a respite gain, 
 And twice ten years of service, borne in vain ? 
 Fond hope ! that such weak pleas could e'er pre- 
 vail, 
 When e'en the tears of fair Eliza fail ! 
 Say, by what crime have I such fate deserved r 
 In what sad instance from my duty swerved ? 
 Have I, unconscious of adhesive lard, 
 Soiled the fair napkin I was meant to guard ? 
 Or, faithless to the precious charge I bore, 
 Dashed the frail china to the ruthless floor ? 
 Such monstrous novelties has fashion -wi'ought ; 
 An honest servant banished for no fault !
 
 THE BAXISUED TEA-TRAY's COMPLAINT. 93 
 
 Was it for this, the cunning artist's hand 
 
 The graceful oval shaped, and then japanned r 
 
 For this, with antic pencil did he trace 
 
 The Indian landscape o'er my polished face : 
 
 Oh, had I been ignoble paper still, 
 
 Unshaped, unpolished by the workman's skill, 
 
 And in inglorious safety happier far, 
 
 Or lined a tnmk, or capped a sweetmeat jar I 
 
 Alas how changed I with silver vases crowned, 
 
 And painted porcelain ranged in order round, 
 
 True to my post I waited on the fair, 
 
 And each returning sun beheld me there : 
 
 Now in some corner am I rudely thrown, 
 
 Or reared on kitchen shelf in secret moan : 
 
 There, as I lay and wailed my hapless fate, 
 
 (My yet unfinished woes to aggravate,) 
 
 I heard the supercilious cook-maid say, 
 
 " Thomas, we will not breakfast from a tray." — 
 
 So servants act their lord's caprices o'er, 
 
 And spurn the dog their masters spumed before. 
 
 Hut oh, if woes like mine admit relief, 
 
 Tlioughts of revenge shall mitigate my grief;
 
 94 THE BANISHED TEA-TRAY's COMPLAINT. 
 
 May all the ills that tea-tables torment 
 Come and requite ray unjust banishment ! 
 May buttered toast in greasy streams distil ; 
 May some unlucky hand the cream-jug spill ; 
 May half-boiled eggs their broken sides o'erflow. 
 And leave their yellow vestiges below ; 
 The urn's ill-fitted tap ne'er cease to drop ; 
 And coffee, from the biggin's gaping top. 
 O'er the Avhite damask pour its sable rills, 
 And the swoln washtub swell the Aveekly bills ; 
 The unprotected board be pierced with stains, 
 And odious circles mock the footman's pains.
 
 ODE TO DEAFXESS. 
 
 Fell tyrant of the human head, 
 
 Relax thy rigid ch<iin, 
 That holds fast bound in link of lead 
 
 At once my ear and brain ! 
 To brute Stupidity allied, 
 Sure, Deafness, thou wert born of Pride ; 
 'Twas she, I ween, that doomed the fall 
 Of lank locks puritanical ; 
 Thoughtcurls, forsooth, too priggish ; wigs too grave; 
 
 Then with unsparing shears 
 
 Laid bare her votaries' ears, 
 And robbed them of the shield which prudent Nature 
 gave.
 
 96 ODE TO DEAFNESS. 
 
 Say, Deafness ! by what magic sleight 
 
 Thou steal' st away our sense, 
 And at the mind's best entrance quite 
 
 Shut'st out intelligence ? 
 Do unseen gnomes, at thy command, 
 At the ear's portals take their stand; 
 And, as they watch the concave round, 
 Intercept the coming sound r 
 Or waxen globules, packed in close array, 
 
 As vulgar quacks pretend, 
 
 Their \'iscous influence blend. 
 Obstruct the expected voice, and clog it on its 
 way r 
 
 Or say, quick summoned to thy aid, 
 
 Do noxious vapours come ; 
 And, as each fibre they pervade, 
 
 Unbrace the tympanum ? 
 Or frosts, obedient to thy call. 
 The auditory nerves enthrall ; 
 Or the rude winds, whistling bj". 
 Spoil the nice machinery ;
 
 ODE TO DEAFNESS. 97 
 
 Or damp!^ collected through each secret pore, 
 
 As inwardly they gush, 
 
 In wild confusion rush, 
 Hiss through the troubled head, and like a cataract 
 roar? 
 
 Oh Deafness I — whencesoe'er thy power, 
 
 Whate'er thy secret be, 
 liestore me to the social hour. 
 
 Clear sense, and converse free ; 
 And take again the moping mood. 
 The tale, the jest half- understood, 
 Thf misjilaced laugh, the unmeaning eye, 
 Tlie question cross, the wrong reply. 
 Shouts spent in air, and repetitions vain : — 
 
 Fell tyrant of the head. 
 
 Relax thy link of lead. 
 And give to liberty my captive soul again ! 
 
 H
 
 TO MY TOOTH. 
 
 Farewell, my tooth ! but oh ! ere yet we part, 
 (Vile as thou seem'st, and useless as thou art.) 
 I pause to think, though thy brief course be run 
 And mine still lasts, how lately we were one. 
 Bone of my bone, whatc'er to thee gave pain 
 Ghmced like an arrow darting through my brain. 
 Each nerve with sympathetic anguish thriUed, 
 And all my shuddering frame with horror filled : 
 Bitter or sweet, through thrice ten years of life 
 One common lot we had, like man and wife ; 
 At the same board, at home, abroad, we fed, 
 The costly banquet shared, or daily brcail.
 
 TO MY TOOTH. 99 
 
 Hut ah ! nor daily bread, nor banquet rare, 
 Henceforth with me, good grinder, shalt thou share. 
 For thee no more the savoury haunch shall smoke, 
 Nor tempting turtle thy dull sense provoke ; 
 No more, oh bliss ecstatic ! shalt thou lie 
 In partridge wing engulphed, or woodcock's thigh ; 
 No more shalt water, as when erst in reach 
 (xlowed the rich nect'rine or alluring peach ; 
 hut, all thy revels o'er, thyself be cast 
 A dainty morsel to the worm at last. 
 
 But even-handed justice why arraign ? 
 
 If dead to pleasure, tliou art dead to })ain. 
 
 Thee from keen blasts thy fate .shall now preserve, 
 
 And the cold stream, poured heedless on thy nerve ; 
 
 .Ne'er shalt thou feel sharp springes through thee 
 
 shoot, 
 -Nor the fierce throb, still tugging at thy root; 
 I'lom hostile hand receive no buffet rude. 
 Nor, set on edge, resent the codling crude ; 
 Nor, mid plum-])udding, too securely rash, 
 \ gainst some lurking ])ebble blindly <hish ;
 
 100 TO MY TOOTH. 
 
 As ships in unknown seas, with sudden shock,. 
 Strike, split, and founder on some hidden rock. 
 
 But thee, my tooth, no fatal violence, 
 Seen or unseen, untimely hurried hence ; 
 Whether some parent fond, to thwart thee loth, 
 With cankering sweetmeats sapped thy early growtli; 
 Or whether, as with all things else on earth, 
 Corruption's seed sprang with thee at thy birth : 
 Like some fair maid, consumption's lingering prey. 
 Long had I marked thee waste by slow decay : 
 Then ineffectual proved all human skill 
 To stay the progress of the growing ill ; 
 Vain each nice art to great Ruspini known. 
 Vain e'en thy magic waters, famed Cologne ; 
 Then cures infallible mendacious failed, 
 Nor powders, drops, nor essences availed, 
 Nor antiseptic nor narcotic drug, 
 Nor that great last resource, the golden plug ; — 
 The golden plug awhile prolonged thy date, 
 But gold itself must yield at last to fate,
 
 TO MY TOOTH. 101 
 
 Fate, before whom e'en mightiest monarchs bow ; 
 Then why lament? Ah well, my tooth, might'st 
 thou. 
 
 Yet did my fostering care through many a year 
 Preserve thee still, in weakness doubly dear ; 
 As mothers love their sickliest children most, 
 Of those less tender who more vigour boast. 
 What though thy feeble frame I might not trust 
 In dubious conflict with some veteran crust, 
 Or the brown nut, impregnable of shell ; 
 Yet still, my honest stump, thou serv'dst me well. 
 The lighter labours of the board didst share. 
 And what thou couldst wert zealous still to bear. 
 But swifter now thy wasting powers decayed. 
 Loose, and more loose, the nodding ruin swayed. 
 Vet did no tciTors on thy fall attend, 
 Xo racking pains prognosticate thy end ; 
 No lancet marked the place ^vith hideous gash ; 
 No torturing iron, with convulsive crash, 
 And horrid wrench, and agonizing pang, 
 Writhed from its socket thy tenacious fang ;
 
 102 TO MY TOOTH. 
 
 Nor gaping wound proclaimed, nor streaming gore, 
 Nor mangled jaw, the bloody business o'er. 
 'Twixt my fore-finger pressed, and gentle thumb. 
 Thou kindly parted'st from the yielding gum : 
 The unconscious tongue scarce found the vacant 
 
 spot, 
 Nor knew the world, till now, that thou art not. 
 
 October, 1820.
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 DE SENE VEPiONENSI. 
 
 CLAUDIAN. 
 
 Felix, qui patriis aevum transegit in agris ; 
 
 Ipsa domus puerum, quern videt ipsa senem ; 
 Qui, bacTilo nitens in qua reptabat arena, 
 
 Unius numerat saecula longa casse. 
 Ilium non vario traxit Fortuna tumultu, 
 
 Nee bibit ignotas mobilis hospes aquas.
 
 THE OLD MAN OF VERONA. 
 
 FROM CLAUDIAS. 
 
 Blest who beyond his fathers' fields 
 Through life has never cared to roam, 
 
 To whom the self-same roof still yields 
 From infancy to age a home. 
 
 Whose steps, upon that very spot 
 
 Where once he crawled, a staff now bears, 
 
 Fond to retrace of that one cot 
 The annals through a hundred years. 
 
 In varied quest of distant schemes 
 Him fortune never forced to stray. 
 
 He never drank of unknown streams, 
 A restless wanderer far awav.
 
 106 DE SEXE VERONENSl. 
 
 Non i'reta mercator tremuit, non classica miles, 
 
 Non rauci lites pertulit ille fori ; 
 Indocilis rerum, vicinse nescius urbis, 
 
 Aspectii Iruitur liberiore poli. 
 Frugibns alternis, non consule computat annos ; 
 
 Autumnum pomis, ver sibi flore notat. 
 Idem condit ager soles, idemque reducit, 
 
 Metiturque suo rusticus orbe diem ;
 
 THE OLD MAX OF VEROXA. JOT 
 
 Xo merchant, whom each swelling sea, 
 No soldier, whom each blast of war 
 
 Fills with alarm, no lawyer he 
 
 Vexed with the hoarse and wranojling bar 
 
 In state afiairs he boasts no skill, 
 What cities are he never knew ; 
 
 Enough, that Heaven's blue concave still 
 Is free and open to his view. 
 
 Others by consuls date the year, — 
 He by alternate crops computes ; 
 
 He knows 'tis spring when flowers appear, 
 'Tis autumn when he culls his fruits. 
 
 One field is his horizon's bound, 
 
 Here dawns the sun, there sets his ray, 
 
 While, by the same unvaried round 
 Of toil, he measures every day.
 
 108 DE 3ENE VERONENSI. 
 
 lugentem meminit parvo qui gramme quercum, 
 
 JEqusevumque videt consenuisse nemus : 
 Proxima cui nigris Verona remotior Indis, 
 
 Benacumque putat Littora Rubra lacum. 
 Sed tamen indomitae vires, firmisque lacertis 
 
 .Etas robustum tertia cernit avum. 
 Erret, et extremes alter scrutetur Iberos ; 
 
 Plus habet hie vita;, plus habet ille vise.
 
 THE OLD MAX OF VERONA. 109 
 
 Yon spreading oak's enormous girth 
 
 A slender sapling he has known, 
 Both from one era took their birth, 
 
 And both together old have grown. 
 
 Verona's neighbouring town he deem.s 
 Remote as swarthy India's shore, 
 
 And Guarda's lake so distant seems, 
 Not the Red sea itself seems more. 
 
 Yet hath his vigour time defied, 
 
 Still can his arm in toil engage ; 
 While his son's sons behold with pride 
 
 Their lusty grandsire's green old age. 
 
 What then if some, the world to see, 
 
 To fair Iberia may have strayed : 
 On earth a longer sojourn he, 
 
 A longer journey they have made. 
 
 intw.
 
 IL CONTK niOLim 
 
 DANTE, INFERNO, CANTO XXXI I [. 
 
 \,\ bocca soUevo dal fiero pasto 
 Quel peccator, forbendola a' capelli 
 Del capo cli' egli avea diretro guasto : 
 
 Poi comincio : tu vuoi cli' i' rinnovePi 
 Disperato dolor che '1 cuor mi preme 
 (iiu pur pensando, pria ch' i' ne favelli. 
 
 Ma sc Ic mic parole csser den seme, 
 
 Che frutti infamia al traditor ch' i' rodo 
 Parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme. 
 
 J' non so chi tu sie, ne per che modo 
 Venuto se' qua giu : ma P'iorentino 
 Mi sembri veramente, quand' i' t' odo. 
 
 Tu de' saper ch' i' fu '1 contc Ugoliuo, 
 E questi 1' arcivescovo Ruggicri, 
 Or ti diro perch' i' son tal vicino.
 
 THE STORY OF THE CoiXT iCiOjJM 
 
 DANTE, INFERNO. XXXIII. 
 
 From his foul feast that sinner raised his head, 
 And wiped hi.s blood-stained lips upon the hair 
 Which crowned the mangled scalj) on which he fed. 
 
 " Would' St thou renew that anguish and despair," 
 He cried, " which but to think of makes mc quail 
 Ere yet my tongue the dreadful truth declare : 
 
 Vet, could I hope my words would aught avail, 
 This traitorous wretch with infamy to brand. 
 Despite my struggling tears I'd tell my tale. 
 
 I know not whom thou art, nor imdcr.stand 
 How to this place thou cam'st ; but if aright 
 I hear, fair Florence is thy native land. 
 
 Know then that I, Count Ugolino hight; 
 This, he who late the churcli of Pisa swayed ; 
 Why now such bitter foes I will recite.
 
 11 J IL CONTE UGOLINO. 
 
 Che per 1' eftctto dc' suo' ma' pensieri 
 Fidandomi di lui io fossi preso, 
 K poscia morto, dir non e mestieri. 
 
 Peru quel che non puoi avere inteso, 
 Cioe, come la morto mia fu cruda, 
 Udirai e saprai se m' ha offeso. 
 
 Breve pertugio dentro da la miida, 
 La qiial per me ha '1 titol do la Fame, 
 E "n chc conviene ancor ch' altrui si chiuda, 
 
 M' avea mostrato per lo suo forame 
 
 Piu lune gia, quand' i' feci '1 mal sonno 
 Che del futuro mi squarcio '1 velame. 
 
 Questi pareva a me maestro e donno 
 Cacciando '1 lupo c i lupicini al monto 
 Perche i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno. 
 
 Con cagne magre, studiosc e conte, 
 
 Gualandi con Sismondi e con Lanfranchi 
 S'avea messi dinanzi da la fronte. 
 
 In picciol corse mi pareano stanchi 
 Lo padre e i figli, e con 1' agute scane 
 Mi parca lor voder fender li fianchi. 
 
 (iuando fui dcsto innanzi la dimane,
 
 THE STORY OP COUXT UGOLINO. 113 
 
 How bv his wicked arts I was betrayed, 
 
 And mine own misplaced confidence, then died 
 His captive, all men know, nor need be said. 
 
 But that, which mj'stery still and darkness hide, 
 The horrors of that death which I endured 
 Hear, and if causeless be my hate, decide. 
 
 Thro' the small grate, whose bars that cell secured 
 Which shall from me the name of F'amine gain, 
 Where many a victim yet shall be immured. 
 
 Oft had I watched the pale moon wax and wane ; 
 When a dire dream the veil of fate withdrew. 
 And shewed the fearful future all too plain. 
 
 This man, so drea"med I, did a wolf pursue 
 
 And his poor cubs e'en to that mountain's base 
 ^^^lich shuts out Lucca from the Pisans' view. 
 
 Gaunt were his hounds and keen, of noble race, 
 Gualandi and Sismondi, and with these 
 Laiifranch', were foremost in the cruel chase. 
 
 Their rage in vain the hunted father fiees. 
 
 In vain the sons ; they soon o'ertake their prey. 
 And on their Hank with fang remorseless seize. 
 
 With liorror I awoke, ere yet 'twas day, 
 
 I
 
 114 IL CONTE UGOLINO. 
 
 Piangcr scntl' fra '1 sonno i mici figliuoli 
 ('h' eran con meco, e dimandar del pane. 
 
 Ben se' crudel, se tu gia non ti duoli 
 
 Pensando cio ch' al mio cor s' annunziava 
 E se non piangi, di che pianger suoli r 
 
 Gia erau dcsti, c 1' ora s' appressava 
 Che '1 cibo ne soleva csser addotto, 
 E per suo sogno ciascun dubitava, 
 
 Ed io senti' chiavar 1' uscio di sotto 
 A r orribile torre : ond' io guardai 
 Nel viso a' miei figliuoi senza far motto : 
 
 r non piangeva, si dentro impetrai : 
 Piangevan elli ; ed Anselmuccio mio 
 Dissc : tu guardi si, padre : che hai ? 
 
 Pert) non lagrimai, ne rispos' io 
 
 Tutto quel giorno, ne la notte appresso, 
 Infin che 1' altro sol nel mondo uscio. 
 
 Com' un poco di raggio si fu messo 
 Nel doloroso carcerc, ed io scorsi 
 Per quattro visi il mio aspctto stesso ; 
 
 Ambo Ic mani per dolor mi morsi :
 
 THE STORY OP COUNT UGOLINO. 115 
 
 And heard my children from their troubled sleep 
 (For with me there immured my children lay) 
 
 Demanding bread. If thou a dry eye keep, 
 Yet think the while on all that then assailed 
 My boding heart ; say what can make thee weep ? 
 
 They woke; and, now the hour which ne'er had failed 
 To bring us food drew nigh, strange doubt and 
 
 dread 
 Came over each, so strong our dreams prevailed. 
 
 But when the door which to our turret led 
 I heard fast locked, with stedfast gaze I eyed 
 My children's looks, but not a word I said. 
 
 I wept not, for my soul was petrified ; 
 
 But they did weep, and " Oh ! my father, why, 
 Why look'st thou so r" my dear Anselmo cried. 
 
 Yet did I shed no tear, nor make reply. 
 
 So passed the dreadful day, and so the night. 
 Until the sun again in heaven was high. 
 
 Then, when my cell a ray of struggling light 
 Had entered, and my own dire looks I saw 
 Given back from four sad aspects to my siglit, 
 
 My handii with anguish I began to gnaw ;
 
 116 IL CONTE UGOLIIfO. 
 
 E quci pensando cli' i' '1 fessi per voglia 
 Di manicar, di subito levorsi, 
 
 E disser : padre, assai ci fia men doglia 
 Se tu mangi di noi : tu no vestisti 
 Quests misere carni, e tu le spoglia. 
 
 Quetami allor per non fargli piu tristi : 
 Quel di c 1' altro stemmo tuttl muti : 
 Ahi dura terra, perche non t' apristi ? 
 
 Posciache fummo al quarto di A^enuti, 
 Gaddo mi si gitto disteso a' piedi, 
 Dicendo : padre mio, che non m' ajuti? 
 
 Quivi mori : e, come tu mi vedi, 
 Vid' io cascar li tre ad un' ad uno 
 Tra '1 quinto di e '1 sesto : ond' i' mi diedi 
 
 Gia cieco a brancolar sovra ciascuno, 
 E tre di gli chiamai, poich' e' fur morti : 
 Poscia, piu che '1 dolor, pote '1 digiuno.
 
 THE STORY OF COCXT UGOLIXO. 117 
 
 Which they misdeeming hunger's shameless deed, 
 Started in horror from their bed of straw, 
 
 And cried, " On us, dear father, wouldst thou feed 
 Less grief it were : with flesh thou didst invest 
 These wretched limbs ; now strip them in thy need." 
 
 1*0 soothe their feelings I my own supprest ; 
 Two days we stood in speechless agony ; [rest ! 
 Oh I that the earth had yawned, and spared the 
 
 i^ut when the fourth morn came, ^vith feeble cry 
 His body at my feet poor Gaddo threw, 
 Exclaiming, *' Help me, father, or I die!" 
 
 And then expired. As plain as me you \'iew, 
 I saw them all fall senseless, one by one, 
 Ere yet the sixth day dawned ; then blind I grew, 
 
 And two days more the corpse of each dear son 
 With groping arms I felt and called by name : 
 Till at the last what grief had left undone 
 
 Famine achieved, and death in pity came. 
 
 April 1820.
 
 TASSO. GEEUSALEME LIBEEATA, 
 
 CANTO rlUMO. 
 
 II. 
 
 O MusA, tu che di caduchi allori 
 Non circondi la fronte in Elicona, 
 
 Ma su ncl cielo infra i beati cori 
 Ai di stcllc immortali aurca corona ; 
 
 Tu spira al petto mio cclesti ardori, 
 Tu rischiara il mio canto, e tu perdona 
 
 S' intesso fregi al ver, s' adorno in parte 
 
 D' altri diletti, che de' tuoi, Ic carte. 
 
 III. 
 Sai che la corre il mondo, ove piu versi 
 
 Di sue dolcezze il lusinghier Parnaso ; 
 E che '1 vero condito in molli versi, 
 
 I piii schivi, allettando, a persuaso. 
 Cosi air egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi 
 
 Di soavi licor gli orli del vaso :
 
 JERUSALEM DELIYEEED. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 II. 
 
 Muse, whom no fabled Helicon inspires, 
 
 Whose brows are with no fabled laurels bound, 
 
 But thou, who sitt'st among the angelic choirs 
 In heaven's high courts, with starry glory crowned, 
 
 Oil I fill my bosom with celestial fires ; 
 Nor blame the bard, if haply he be found 
 
 Some flowers of fancy with the truth to twine, 
 
 An d grace his song with other charms than thine. 
 
 III. 
 The world, thou know'st, by those is easiest led 
 
 Who poesy's seductive arts employ; 
 And oft o'er truths severe sweet numbers shed 
 
 Charms which the most reluctant hearts decoy. 
 So the cup's margin we with honey spread, 
 
 Tendering loathed med'cinc to some wayward boy;
 
 120 GERUSALEMME LIPERATA. 
 
 Succhi amari, ingannato, intanto ei beve ; 
 E dair inganno suo vita riceve. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tu, magnanimo Alfonso, il qual ritogli 
 Al furor di fortuna, e guidi in porto 
 
 Me peregrino errante, e fra scogli 
 E fra r onde agitato e quasi assorto ; 
 
 Queste mie carte in lieta fronte accogli, 
 Che quasi in voto a te sacrate i' porto. 
 
 Forse un di fia che la presaga penna 
 
 Osi scriver di te quel eh' or n'accenna. 
 
 V. 
 
 E ben ragion, (s' egli avverra che 'n pace 
 II buon popol di Cristo unqua si veda, 
 
 E con navi e cavalli al fero Trace 
 
 Cerchi ritor la grande ingiusta preda) 
 
 Ch' a te lo scettro in terra, o, se ti place, 
 L' alto imperio de' mari a te conceda. 
 
 Emulo di Goffredo, i nostri carmi 
 
 Intanto ascolta, e t' apparecchia all' armi.
 
 JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 121 
 
 The bitter potion he unconscious drains, 
 And from the cheat new life and vigour gains 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, great and good of soul I Alphonso ! thou 
 Whose arm first snatched from fortune's cruel hate 
 
 Me, the world's wandering outcast, long ere now 
 Whelm'd, but for thee, beneath the storms of fate : 
 
 My humble lay (oh, with auspicious brow 
 Accept the gift!) to thee I consecrate. 
 
 To thee 'tis due, and soon what now I dare 
 
 Hut darkly hint, I boldly shall declare. 
 
 V. 
 
 For should the day e'er come when peace shall join 
 In one consenting league each Christian land, 
 
 And Kuropc's monarchs shall again combine 
 To ravish from the fierce barbarian's hand 
 
 His ill got prey, the choice shall then be thine 
 To head her armies, or her fleets command. 
 
 Then let my song thy just protection claim, 
 
 Thou future rival of great Godfrey's fame.
 
 gerusalem:\ie libeeata. 
 
 CANTO TEKZO. 
 
 T. 
 
 GiA r aura messaggiera erasi desta 
 A nunziar chc se ne vien 1' Aurora. 
 
 Ella intanto s' adorna ; e 1' aurea testa 
 Di rose colte in paradiso infiora : 
 
 Quando il campo, ch' all' arme omai s' appresta, 
 In voce mormorava alt a e sonora, 
 
 E prevenia Ic trombc ; e qucste poi 
 
 Dier piu licli c canori i segni suoi. 
 
 II. 
 
 II saggio capitan con dolcc morso 
 
 I desiderj lor guida e seconda ; 
 Che piu facil saria svolger il corso 
 
 Presso Cariddi alia volubil onda,
 
 JRRrS.VLEM DELKERED. 
 
 CANTO HI. 
 
 THE APPROACH TO THE HOLY CITY. 
 I. 
 
 And now the breeze, swift harbinger of clay, 
 Awakening, had announced the coming morn, 
 
 Whose golden tresses, dripping from the spray. 
 Fresh roses, culled in Paradise, adorn ; 
 
 When from the camp, ere yet the trumpet's bray 
 To arms had summoned, busy sounds were borne 
 
 Of preparation ; then the clarions woke, 
 
 And in clear tones their joyful signal spoke. 
 
 II. 
 Wise Godfrey sought with gentle hand to guide 
 
 That fiery ardour, which to check was vain; 
 As soon might he control the boiling tide, 
 
 Which round Charybdis roars ; as soon restrain
 
 124 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 O tardar Borea allor che scote il dorso 
 
 Deir Apennino, e i Icgni in mare afFonda. 
 Gli ordina, gl' incammina, e 'n suon gli reggc 
 Rapido si, ma rapido con legge. 
 
 III. 
 All a. ciascuno al core, cd all al picde ; 
 
 Ne del suo ratto andar pero s' accorge. 
 Ma quando il sol gli aridi campi fiede 
 
 Con raggi assai ferventi, e in alto sorge, 
 Ecco apparir Gerusalem si vede ! 
 
 Ecco additar Gerusalem si scorge ! 
 Ecco da niille voci unitamente 
 Gerusalemme salutar si sente ! 
 
 lY. 
 
 Cosi di naviganti audace stuolo 
 Che mova a ricercar estranio lido, 
 
 E in mar dubbioso, e sotto ignoto polo 
 Provi r onde fallaci, e '1 vento infido ; 
 
 S' al fin discopre il desiato suolo, 
 Lo saluta da lunge in lie to grido.
 
 JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 125 
 
 The Storm which lashes Apennine's bleak side 
 
 And whelms the bark beneath the foaming main. 
 His ranks he marshals, and his march arrays, 
 And one sole will each eager movement sways. 
 
 III. 
 With wings, each foot, each bosom, zeal supplies, 
 
 While, of their speed unconscious, on they bound. 
 But when the sun had climbed the middle skies, 
 
 Cleaving with fervid ray the arid ground, 
 ■Jerusalem the straining eye espies I 
 
 And emiilous, from every rank around, 
 Jerusalem a thousand hands point out ! 
 Jerusalem ! a thousand voices shout. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So when some daring and adventurous crew 
 In quest of foreign regions spread the sail, 
 
 And long thro' seas unknown their way pursue 
 Struggling with treacherous wave, and adverse 
 gale: 
 
 If the long looked for land at last they view, 
 With joyful cry from far the place they hail,
 
 126 GEUUSAliEMMB LIBERATA. 
 
 E r uno air altro il niostra ; e iiitanto oblia 
 La noia e '1 mal della passata via. 
 
 Al gran piacer che quella prima vista 
 Dolcemente spiro nell' altrui petto, 
 
 Alta contrizion successc, mista 
 Di timoroso e reverente afFetto. 
 
 Osano appcna d' innalzar la vista 
 Ver la citta, di Cristo albergo eletto ; 
 
 Dove mori, dove sepulto fue, 
 
 Dove poi rivesti le membra sue. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sommessi accenti e tacite parole, 
 
 Rotti singulti e flebili sospiri 
 Delia gente che 'n un s' allegra c duole, 
 
 Fan che per 1' aria un mormorio s' aggiri, 
 Qual nelle folte selve udir si suole, 
 
 S' a\-vien che tra le frondi il vento spiri ; 
 O quale infra gli scogli, o presso ai lidi, 
 Sibila il mar percosso in rauchi stridi.
 
 JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 127 
 
 And, each to other pointing out the shore, 
 Their perils past remember now no more. 
 
 V. 
 
 Such thro' the Christian host the joy which spread, 
 With such sweet transports every bosom glows. 
 
 But soon these raptures passed, and in their stead 
 Contrition deep and pious awe arose. 
 
 Now towards yon place they scarce dare lift the head 
 ■\Vhich Jesus for his earthly dwelling chose ; 
 
 There too for man Himself to death he gave, 
 
 There rose again triumphant o'er the grave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 \a)\\ muttered sounds, and voices half suppressed. 
 And quick convulsive sobs, and mournful sighs, 
 
 Betray the deep emotions of each breast, 
 And on the air in mingled murmur rise. 
 
 So, thro' some tangled wood, the breathing west 
 Amid the whispering foliage swells and dies : 
 
 So on the jutting cliffs and shelving shore. 
 
 In deep hoarse tone the sullen breakers roar.
 
 128 GERUSALEMJIE LIBERATA. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Nudo ciascuuo il pie, calca il senticro ; 
 
 Che r cscmpio dc' duci ogni altro moA'e. 
 Serico frcgio o d' or, piuma o cimiero 
 
 Superbo, dal suo capo ognun rimove ; 
 Ed insieme del cor V abito altero 
 
 Depone, e calde e pie lagrime piove. 
 Pur, quasi al pianto abbia la via rinchiusa, 
 Cosi parlando ognun se stcsso accusa : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Dunque ovc tu, Signer, di mille rivi 
 Sanguinosi il terren lasciasti asperso, 
 
 D' amaro pianto almen duo fonti vivi 
 In si accrba memoria oggi io non verso ? 
 
 Agghiacciato mio cor, che non derivi 
 
 Per gli occhi, e stilli in lagrime converso 
 
 Duro mio cor, che non ti spetri e frangi ? 
 
 Piangcr ben merti ognbr, s' era non piangi.
 
 JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 129 
 
 VII. 
 
 With naked foot the holy ground they prest ; 
 
 Each by example of his chieftain led : 
 Gay silk, and gorgeous gold, tall plume and crest 
 
 They cast vnih lowly reverence from their head. 
 Nor less from secret pride did they divest 
 
 Their inward thoughts, and tears of anguish shed ; 
 And yet, as if their hearts to mourn refused, 
 With keen reproach themselves they thus accused : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " What, even here, where thine own precious blood 
 " In ample stream, thou. Lord! for me didst spill, 
 
 " Shall I of tears begrudge a scantier flood; 
 " And shall my frozen heart, vmsoftened still 
 
 " By poignant memory, keep its stubborn mood, 
 " Nor thro' mine eyes in bitter drops distil ? 
 
 " Melt, melt, my flinty soul, while yet you may ; 
 
 " Eternal sorrow flee, and weep to-day !" 
 
 feb. 22nd, 1IU20.
 
 GERUSALK^BIK I^IUKKATA, 
 
 CANTO QUAIMO. 
 
 IX 
 
 Tartarei numi, di seder piu degni 
 
 La, soATa il sole ond' e 1' origin vostra ; 
 
 Che meco gia dai piu felici regni 
 
 Spinse il gran caso in questa orribil chiostra ; 
 
 Gli antichi altrui sospetti, e i fieri sdegni 
 Noti son troppo, e I'alta impresa nostra. 
 
 Or colui regge a suo voler le stelle, 
 
 E noi siam giudicati alme rubelle. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ed in vece del di sereno e puro 
 Deir aureo sol, degli stellati giri, 
 
 N' a qui rinchiusi in quest' abisso oscuro, 
 Ne vuol cli' al prime onor per noi s' aspiri.
 
 JKRUSALIIM DKI.IVKRFJ). 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 THK ADDKKSS OV s.\TAN. 
 IX. 
 
 Ye powers of Tartarus I worthier far to reign 
 Above that sun whence flows our high descent; 
 
 Ye who with me from yonder happy plain 
 Thrust down, in dungeon horrible are pent ; 
 
 The tyrant's jealous hate and proud distlain 
 Ye know, our enterprise, and its event. 
 
 He now with sway despotic rules the sky, 
 
 Us rebels calls and doom? to infamy : 
 
 X. 
 
 And, in the place of day serene and pure, 
 Yon golden sun and all the stan-y choir. 
 
 Has fixed our lot in this abyss obscure ; 
 Nor must we more to our just rank aspire :
 
 132 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 E poscia (ahi quanto a ricordarlo e duro ! 
 
 Quest' e quel che piu inaspra i miei martiri) 
 Ne' bei seggi celesti a 1' uom chiamato, 
 L' iiom \-ile, e di vil fango in terra nato. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ne cio gli parve assai ; ma in preda a morte, 
 Sol per fame piu danno, il figlio diede. 
 
 Ei vennc, e ruppe le tartaree porte, 
 E porre oso ne' regni nostri il piede ; 
 
 E trarne 1' alme a noi dovute in sorte, 
 E riportarne al ciel si ricche prede, 
 
 Vincitor trionfando ; e in nostro scherno 
 
 L' insegne ivi spiegar del vinto inferno. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ma che rinnuovo i miei dolor parlando ? 
 
 Chi non a gia le ingiurie nostra intese ? 
 E in qual parte si trovo, ne quando, 
 
 Ch' egli cessasse dall' usatc imprese ? 
 Non piu dessi all' antiche andar pensando, 
 
 Pensar debbiamo alle presenti ofFese.
 
 THE ADDRESS OF SATAX. 133 
 
 And then, (oh thought most painful to endure ! 
 
 What on my burning head heaps coals of fire,) 
 Has called up Man, to share those blest abodes, 
 V'Ue, earth-bom man, and made scarce less than gods : 
 
 XI. 
 
 All this too little seemed ; but, chief and worst. 
 To work us woe, has given to death a prey 
 
 His only Son : he came, hell's barriers burst. 
 Within our realms his ensign dared display, 
 
 And souls, of right our own, condemned, accurst. 
 To heaven, a glorious prize, bore hence away, 
 
 Triumphant conqueror, and proclaimed on high 
 
 Scornful o'er baffled hell his victory. 
 
 XII. 
 
 liut why repeat our wrongs, our pains re^'ive ? 
 
 To whom are these our injuries unknown? 
 When did he not against our peace contrive, 
 
 And in what place has not his hate been shewn .'' 
 Then be the past dismissed, and let us strive 
 
 To fix our thoughts on present ills alone ;
 
 134 GERUSALEMJIE LIBERATA. 
 
 l)ch I non vcdctc omai come egli tenti 
 Tutte al suo culto richiamar le genti ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Noi trarrem ncghittosi i giorni e 1' ore, 
 Ne degna ciira fia che '1 cor n' accenda ? 
 
 E soffrirem che forza ognor maggiore 
 II suo popol fedele in Asia prenda ? 
 
 E che Giudea soggioghi ? e che '1 suo onore, 
 Che '1 noma suo piu si dilati e stenda ? 
 
 Che suoni in altre lingue, e in altri carmi 
 
 Si scriva, e incida in novi bronzi e in niarmi ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Che sian gl' idoli nostri a terra sparsi ? 
 
 Che i nostri altari il mondo a lui converta ? 
 Ch' a lui sospesi i voti, a lui sol arsi 
 
 Siano gl' incensi, ed auro e mirra offerta ? 
 Ch', ove a noi tempio non solea serrarsi, 
 
 Or via non resti all' arti nostre aperta ? 
 Che di tant' almc il solito tributo 
 Nc manchi, e in voto regno alberghi Pluto ?
 
 THE ADDRESS OF SATAN. 135 
 
 Ah ! see you not 'tis now his aim and end 
 To force all nations at his shrine to bend ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And shall we then in sloth consume our hours 
 And our dull hearts to vengeance ne'er inflame r 
 
 And shall his faithful people stretch their powers 
 Through Asia's clime with still increasing fame ? 
 
 Shall Salem bow to them her subject towers, 
 
 And, more and more diffused, their Master's name 
 
 Sound in new tongues ; and thro' the world be found 
 
 On brass recorded, and in song renowned r 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Shall we behold our idols all o'erthro^vTi r 
 And men our altars to his service turn, 
 
 To him pay all their a'ows, to him alone 
 
 Bring precious gold, and mjTrh, and incense burn ? 
 
 Sliall they, where once our open temples shone, 
 Mock our fallen arts and feeble sceptre spvirn r 
 
 Of forfeit souls our wonted tribute fail, 
 
 And desolation thro' our realms prevail ?
 
 l:3G GERUSALEMME LIBEllATA. 
 
 XV. 
 
 All non fia ver ; chc non sono anco estinti 
 Gli spirti in noi di quel valor primiero, 
 
 Quando di ferro e d' alte fiamme cinti 
 Pugnammo gia contra il celeste impero. 
 
 Fummo (io nol nego) in quel conflitto vinti ; 
 Pur non manco virtute al gran pensiero. 
 
 Ebbero i piu felici allor vittoria ; 
 
 Rimase a noi d' invitto ardir la gloria. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ma percbe piu v' indugio ? Itene, o miei 
 Fidi consorti, o mia potenza e forze ; 
 
 Ite veloci, ed opprimetc i rei, 
 Prima che '1 lor potcr piii si rinforze : 
 
 Prima che tutt' arda il regno dcgli Ebrei, 
 Questa fiamma crescente omai s' ammorze ; 
 
 Fra loro entrate ; ed in ultimo lor danno 
 
 Or la forza s' adopri, ed or 1' inganno. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Sia destin cio cli' io voglio : altri disperso 
 Sen vado crrando ; altri rimanga ucciso ;
 
 THE ADDRESS OF SATAN. 137 
 
 XV. 
 
 Forbid it, Hell ! that spirit is not lied, 
 That pristine inborn spirit ne'er can die, 
 
 Which, armed with fire and sword, our legions led 
 Their strength with heaven's imperious lord to try. 
 
 Grant in the shock our host discomfited ; 
 Yet soared our valour and our daring high : 
 
 And, tho' to him the chance of victory fell, 
 
 Our's is the praise of courage nought can quell. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Pjut why detain you r Go, my faithful band; 
 
 Ye, to whose aid all strength and power I owe, 
 (io ; and with speed, ere yet their strong right hand 
 
 Become too mighty, crush the hated foe ; 
 Arrest this flame, ere through Judea's land 
 
 Spread far and wide beyond control it grow. 
 Leave nought untried their ruin to achieve ; 
 liy force o'erwhclm them, or by fraud deceive. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 My will be fate ! let one self-exiled rove, 
 And one in private strife untimely die :
 
 13S GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 Altri in caire d' amor lascive immerso, 
 Idol si faccla im dolce sguardo e un riso : 
 
 Sia '1 ferro incontro al suo rettor convcrso 
 Dalla stuol ribellante e 'n se diviso : 
 
 Pera il campo c ruini, e rest! in tutto 
 
 Ogni vestigio suo con lui distrutto.
 
 THE ADDRESS OF SATAX. 139 
 
 This be entangled in the toils of love, 
 
 And make an idol of some laughing eye : 
 
 Others, a fiery band, let faction move 
 With rebel arms their leader to defy ; 
 
 Perish their camp, their place no more be seen, 
 
 And not a vestige tell they e'er had been ! 
 
 May, 1820.
 
 GERl'SALEMMH LlllKltATA. 
 
 CANTO IJITARTO. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 UsA ogn' arte la donna, onde sia colto 
 Nelle sue rete alcun novello amante : 
 
 Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto 
 Serba, ma cangia a tempo atti e sembiante. 
 
 Or tien pudica il guardo in se raccolto ; 
 Or lo rivolgc cupido e vagante : 
 
 La sferza in quegli, il freno adopra in questi, 
 
 Come lor vede in amar lenti, o presti. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Se scorge alcun che dal suo amor ritiri 
 
 L' alma, e i pensieri per diffidenza afFrene, 
 
 Gli apre un benigno riso, e in dolci giri 
 Volge le luci in lui licte e serene :
 
 JERUSALEM DKLTVElirJi, 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 THE ARTS OF ARMIDA, THK ENCHANTRESS. 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 By countless arts, all-powerful to destroy, 
 Fresh lovers still within her toils she drew ; 
 
 For not towards all one mode did she employ, 
 But various as the hearts she would subdue. 
 
 From this she shrank, like one reserved and coy ; 
 On that a wandering glance lascivious tlirew ; 
 
 And now the spur she used, and now the rein, 
 
 To excite the slow to love, the quick restrain. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 If one she marks who diffident retires, 
 Checking his thoughts with cold timidity, 
 
 With boldness him her gentle smile inspires, 
 And the soft roll of her voluptuous eye.
 
 142 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 E cosi i pigri e timidi desiri 
 
 Sprona, ed affida la dubbiosa spene : 
 pjd, infiammando 1' amorose voglie, 
 Sgombra quel gel che la paura accoglie. 
 
 XXXXVIII. 
 
 Ad altri poi, ch' audace il segno varca, 
 Scorto da cieco e temerario duce, 
 
 De' cari detti, e de' begli occhi e parca 
 E in lui timore e riverenza induce. 
 
 Ma fra lo sdegno, onde la fronte e carca, 
 Pur anco un raggio di picta riluce : 
 
 Si ch' altri teme ben, ma non dispera, 
 
 E piu s' invoglia, quanto appar piu altera. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Stassi talvolta ella in disparte alquanto 
 E '1 volto e gli atti suoi compone e finge 
 
 Quasi dogliosa ; e in fin su gli occhi il pianto 
 Tragge sovente, e poi dcntro il respinge : 
 
 E con quest' arti a lagrimar intanto 
 Seco mill' alme simplicette astringe ;
 
 THE ARTS OF ARJIIDA. 143 
 
 Thus, while she stimulates his dull desires, 
 
 And bids him hope he may not vainly sigh, 
 The kindling heat of love's resistless dart 
 Dissolves the frost that binds his torpid heart. 
 
 XXXXYIII. 
 
 If some there were who passed decorum's bound, 
 Urged by that blind, rash guide, great Venus' son, 
 
 Towards such, of gracious words more sparing found, 
 A look commanding reverence she put on. 
 
 Yet from that brow severe, e'en while she frowned, 
 A ray of mingled pity sweetly shone ; 
 
 Hence, awed, they yet despaired not ; and their flame 
 
 The fiercer grew, the haughtier seemed the dame. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Now from the crowd would she withdraw apart. 
 And in her look a pensive sorrow feign, 
 
 And from her eye the sudden tear would start, 
 Which she as quickly would suppress again. 
 
 Anil thus to weep witli her full many a heart 
 Mistrustlcss of her guile she would constrain ;
 
 144 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 K in foco di pletu stralc d' amore 
 Tenipra, ondc pcra a si fort' arme il core. 
 
 xc. 
 Poi, si come ella a quel pensier s' invole, 
 
 E novella speranza in lei si destc, 
 Ycv gli amanti il pie drizza c Ic parole, 
 
 E di gioja la froatc adorna e veste ; 
 E lampeggiar fa, quasi un doppio sole. 
 
 II chiaro sguardo, e '1 bcl riso celeste 
 8ullc nebbie del duolo oscure e folte, 
 Ch' avea lor prima intorno al petto accolte. 
 
 c. 
 Ma mentre dolce parla, c dolce ride, 
 
 E di doppia dolcezza inebria i sensi, 
 Quasi dal petto lor 1' alma divide, 
 
 Non prima usata a quel diletti immensi. 
 Ahi crude Amor ! ch' egualmente n' ancide 
 
 L' assenzio e '1 mel, che tu fra noi dispcnsi 
 Yj cV ogni tempo egualmente mortali 
 
 V'engon da te le medicine e i mali.
 
 THE ARTS OF ARMIDA. 145 
 
 Such powerful arms, such fatal weapons prove, 
 By pity pointed, the keen shafts of love. 
 
 xc. 
 
 Tlien would she seem from these sad thoughts to fly, 
 As if fresh hope within her breast had sprung ; 
 
 And turn her step, with new-born gaiety 
 
 Of words and aspect, towards the enamoured throng; 
 
 As gleams the sunshine thro' the murky sky, 
 E'en so her heavenly smile its radiance flung 
 
 Athwart those clouds of sorrow dark and dense 
 
 Collected on her brow, and chased them thence. 
 
 c. 
 
 While thus she softly speaks and sweetly smiles, 
 The double charm intoxicates each sense. 
 
 And ever}- bosom of its heart despoils 
 Unused before to rapture so intense. 
 
 Oh, cruel love, which equally beguiles, 
 Whether it gall or honey-dew dispense ; 
 
 The wound, the cure, must to its victims prove 
 
 I'alal alike, when both proceed from love.
 
 146 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Yva, si contraric temprc, in gliiaccio e in foco, 
 In riso e in pianto, c fra paura e spene, 
 
 Inforsa ogni suo stato, e di lor gioco 
 L'ingannatrice donna a prender viene. 
 
 E s' alcun mai con suon tremante e fioco 
 Osa parlando d' accennar sue pene, 
 
 Finge, quasi in amor rozza e inesperta, 
 
 Non vcdcr I'alma ne' suoi detti aperta. 
 
 CII. 
 
 Oppur le luci vergognose e chine 
 Tenendo, d' onesta s'orna e colora ; 
 
 Si che viene a celar le fresche brine 
 Sotto le rose onde il bel viso infiora ; 
 
 Qual neir ore piu fresche e mattutine 
 Del primo nasccr suo veggiam I'aurora; 
 
 E '1 rossor dello sdegno insieme n' esce 
 
 Con la vergogna, e si confonde e mesce. 
 
 cm. 
 Ma se prima negli atti cUa s' accorge 
 
 D' uom, che tenti scoprir 1' accese voglie,
 
 THE ARTS OF AR3IIDA. 147 
 
 CI. 
 
 While various tempers thus, by frost and flame, 
 By smiles and tears, by fears and hopes are swayed, 
 
 With such disorder pleased, her cruel game 
 By turns on all the fair deceiver played. 
 
 But if with faltering tongue one dared to name 
 His passion, all unconscious seemed the maid. 
 
 As one in love's new ways unskilled and rude. 
 
 Who of such language nothing understood : 
 
 CII. 
 
 Or on the ground her bashful eyes she threw, 
 While maiden modesty her cheeks o'erspread, 
 
 Till 'mid the rose's all-involving hue 
 The lily fair was lost and hid its head. 
 
 Such in the fresh and early dawn we view, 
 Aurora blushing from Tithonus' bed. 
 
 Scorn too was in her look, and anger's flusli 
 
 Confused and mingled with that virgin blush. 
 
 cm. 
 If one there were whom she perceived intent 
 On apt occasion to declare his pain.
 
 148 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA, 
 
 Or gli s' invola e fuggc, ed or gli porgc 
 Modo onde parli, c in un tempo il ritoglie. 
 
 Cosi il dl tutto in vano error lo scorge 
 Stanco, e deluso poi di speme il toglie. 
 
 Ei si riman qual cacciator cli' a sera 
 
 Perda alfin 1' orma di seguita fera. 
 
 crv. 
 Queste fur 1' arti, onde mill' alme e mille 
 
 Prender furtivamente ella poteo ; 
 Anzi pur furon 1' arme, onde rapille, 
 
 Ed a forza d' amor serve le feo. 
 Qual meraviglia or fia, sc 1' fcro Acliille 
 
 D' amor fu preda, ed Ercolc, c Teseo, 
 S' ancor chi per Gesu la spada cinge 
 L' cmpio ne' lacci suoi talora stringe r
 
 THE ARTS OF ARMIDA. 149 
 
 Him she would now avoid, and now present 
 
 The chance he sought, then straight recall again ; 
 
 Till in the fruitless chase the day was spent, 
 And he had found his hopes and labours vain ; 
 
 Like weary hunter who, at close of day, 
 
 Has lost all traces of his long-sought prey. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Such were the arts by which the beauteous Dame 
 Did, with nice skill, a thousand souls ensnare : 
 
 Such were the arms by which she overcame 
 And forced a thousand slaves her yoke to bear. 
 
 \Vho then shall Theseus, who Alcidcs blame, 
 Or Peleus' son, that they Love's victims were ; 
 
 Since e'en those heroes who for Jesus drew 
 
 The righteous sword all -conquering Love o'erthrew ? 
 
 1825.
 
 GEEUSALEME LlBEPiATA. 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Ma. ecco omai 1' ora fatale e giunta, 
 
 Che '1 viver di Clorinda al suo fin deve : 
 
 Spinge egli il fcrro ncl bel sen di punta, 
 Che vi s' immerge, o '1 sangue avido bcve ; 
 
 E la vesto, che d' or vago trapunta 
 Le naammellc stringea tenera e leve, 
 
 L' empie d' un caldo fiume : ella gla sente 
 
 Morirsi, e' 1 pie le manca egro c languente. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Segue egli la vittoria, e la trafitta 
 
 Vcrgine, minnacciando, incalza e preme : 
 
 Ella, mcntre cadea, la voce afflitta 
 Movendo, disse le parole estreme,
 
 JEEUSALEM DELKERED. 
 
 CASTO XII. 
 
 THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OB' CLORINDA. 
 LXIV. 
 
 But now Clorinda to fate's stern arrest 
 
 Must yield : her hour is come ; life's debt is due ! 
 
 With well-aimed thrust his weapon pierced her breast, 
 Sank deep within it, and her life blood drew. 
 
 The warm flood filled her gold-embroidered vest, 
 Whosesoft light foldsherbosom screened from view. 
 
 She felt the hand of death was on her laid. 
 
 Her staggering foot denied its wonted aid. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 lie by the hopes of concjuest urged along. 
 Impetuous on the wounded maiden pressed ; 
 
 She, as she fell, with faint and faltering tongue 
 Scarce to her victor these last words addressed,
 
 152 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 Parole ch' a lei novo un spirto ditta, 
 
 Spirto di fe, di carita, di speme : 
 Virtu ch' or Dio le infonde ; c se rubella 
 In vita fu, la vuole in morte ancella. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Amico, hai vinto ; io ti perdon : perdona 
 Su ancora, al corpo no, che nulla pave, 
 
 Air alma si : deh per lei prega, c dona 
 Battesmo a mc, ch' ogni mia colpa lave. 
 
 In queste voci languido risuona 
 Un non so che di flchile e soave, 
 
 Ch' al cor gli scendc, cd ogni sdegno ammorza, 
 
 E gli occhi a lagrimar gl' invoglia e sforza. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Poco quindi lontan ncl sen del monte 
 Scaturia mormorando un picciol rio : 
 
 Egli v' accorse, c 1' elmo emjiie ncl fonte, 
 E torno mesto al grandc ufficio e pio. 
 
 Tremar senti la man, mentre la fronte, 
 Xon conosciuta ancor, sciolse e scoprio.
 
 THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF CLORINDA. 153 
 
 "Words which a spirit in her heart new sprung 
 
 (Of Faith, Hope, Love, the spirit) did suggest ; 
 For so God willed, that she, who spurned the faith 
 While living, should his handmaid prove in death. 
 
 LXTI. 
 
 " Friend, thou hast conquered ; my forgiveness take; 
 
 Let me have thine ; I want no favour shewn 
 This fearless body ; for my poor soul's sake 
 
 Pray thou, and give me Baptism, which alone 
 May wash away my sins." As thus she spake 
 
 There was a plaintive sweetness in her tone 
 Which sinks into his heart ; all anger dies, 
 And tears, despite the warrior, fill his eyes. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 With gentle murmur from a neighbouring hill 
 A streamlet flowed ; no more to hear or ask 
 
 Stayed he, but ran his helmet thence to fill ; 
 Then turned him sorrowing to his pious task : 
 
 K'en tlien his hands (tho' undiscovered still 
 
 Her features) trembled as they loosed her casque;
 
 154 GEKUSALEMME LIBERATA. 
 
 La vide, la conobbe ; e resto senza 
 
 E voce, e moto. Ahi vista ! ahi conoscenza ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Non moii gia ; che sue virtuti accolse 
 
 Tutte in quel punto, e in guardia al cor le mise, 
 E, prcmendo il suo afFanno, a dar si volse 
 
 Vita coll' acqua a cbi col ferro uccise. 
 Mentre egli il suon de' sacri detti sciolse, 
 
 Colei di gioia trasmutossi, e rise : 
 E in atto di morir lieto e vivace 
 Dir parea : s' apre il cielo, io vado in joace. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 D' un bcl pallore ha il bianco volto aspcrso, 
 
 Come a' gigli sarian miste viole ; 
 E gli occhi al cielo affisa, e in lei converse 
 
 Sembra per la pletate il cielo e '1 sole ; 
 E la man nuda e frcdda alzando verso 
 
 II cavaliero, in vcce di parole, 
 Gli da pegno di pace : in questa forma 
 Passa la bella donna, e par che dorma.
 
 THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF ClORIXDA. 155 
 
 He saw, — he knew, — then reft of motion stood, 
 And speech. O sight, O knowledge to be rued ! 
 
 liXVIII. 
 
 But soon, the weakness of his heart to guard, 
 His prostrate energies he roused again ; 
 
 His own distress o'er- mastering, he prepared 
 To save by water her his sword had slain ; 
 
 Tlicn as his lips the holy words declared, 
 She smiled with joy victorious o'er the pain 
 
 Of death's sharp sting, and seemed to say in heart : 
 
 " Heaven opens for me ; I in peace depart." 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 A livid paleness her fair face o'erspreads, 
 Like violet mingling with the lily white ; 
 
 On heaven she fixed her eyes ; and on the maid 
 Heaven seemed to look with pity and delight. 
 
 She had no strength for words, but in their stead, 
 Raising her cold bare hand towards the knight, 
 
 (iivcs him that pledge of peace ; and in this guise. 
 
 As one that falls asleep, the lovely maiden dies.
 
 156 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA, 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Come r alma gentile usclta ei veclc, 
 Rallenta quel vigor cli' avea raccolto, 
 
 E r imperio di se libero cede 
 
 Al duol gia fatto impetuoso c stolto ; 
 
 Ch' al cor si stringe, e chiusa in breve sede 
 La vita empic di morte i sensi e '1 volto. 
 
 Gia simile all' estinto il vivo langue 
 
 Al colore, al silenzio, agli atti, al sangue.
 
 THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF CLORINDA. 157 
 
 LXX. 
 
 But when lie saw her noble spirit flo\\Ti, 
 His lately rallied powers again give way : 
 
 And now his frantic grief impetuous grown, 
 Left him no longer o'er himself free sway ; 
 
 To his heart's narrow seat confined alone, 
 
 (All else was death's) life faint and fluttering lay ; 
 
 You scarce would know the living from the dead, 
 
 Voic.e, action, hue, from both alike had fled.
 
 PHILOMELE AC CITHAR.EDT COXCEPtTATJO. 
 
 rAMIANUS STUADA. HB. II. PUOLUSIO VI. 
 (CLAUDIANI STYLUS.) 
 
 Jam Sol a medio pronus deflexerat orbe, 
 
 Mitius e radiis vibrans crinalibus ignem ; 
 
 Cum Fidiccn, propter Tiberina fluenta, sonanti 
 
 Lenlbat plectro curas, eestumque levabat 
 
 nice defensus nigra, sccnaque virenti. 
 
 Audiit hunc hospes sylva; Philomela propinqua;, 
 
 Musa loci, nemoris Siren, innoxia Siren, 
 
 Et prope succedens stetit abdita frondibus, alte 
 
 Accipiens sonitum, secumque remurmurat, et quos 
 
 Ille modos variat digitis, haec gutture redd it.
 
 THE HARPER AXD THE XTGHTINGALE. 
 
 FROM STBADA S " PROLCSIONES. 
 
 Now Sol, declining from the noon of day, 
 From his bright tresses cast a milder ray ; 
 When, by the side of gentle Tiber flung, 
 His harj), to solace care, a minstrel strung; 
 While the dark ilex and the greenwood shade 
 With tangled boughs the sultry hour allayed. 
 
 Him, as it chanced, a nightingale, that long 
 Had charmed the neighbouring copse with match- 
 less song, 
 (The siren of the place, but one that meant no 
 
 wrong,) 
 O'crheard; and, by the foliage screened, more near 
 Approaching, drank each sound with greedy car; 
 And, to herself low murmuring, every note 
 His fingers struck, gave back with mimic throat.
 
 160 PHILOMEL.E AC CITHAR^DI CONCERTATIO. 
 
 Sensit se Fidicen Philomela imitante rcferri, 
 Et placuit ludum. volucri dare : plenius ergo 
 Explorat citharam, tentamentumque futurae 
 Praebeat ut pugnee, percurrit protinus omnes 
 Impulsu pernice fides. Nee segniils ilia, 
 Mille per excurrens varise discrimina vocis, 
 Venturi specimen prsefert argutula cantus. 
 
 Tunc Fidicen, per fila movens trepidantia dextram, 
 Nunc contemnenti similis diverberat ungue, 
 Depectitque pari chordas et simplice ductu ; 
 Nunc carptim replicat, digitisque micantibus urget 
 Fila minutatim, celeriquc repercutit ictu. 
 Mox silet. Ilia modis totidem respondit, et artem 
 Arte refert. Nunc, ceu rudis aut incerta canendi, 
 Projicit in longum, nulloque plicatile flexu 
 Carmen init, simili serie, jugique tenore
 
 THE HASPEK AXD THE NIGHTINGALE. 161 
 
 The mocking strains in turn the harper heard, 
 And straight resolved to give the merry bird 
 The sport she seemed to seek ; for tliis, his lyre 
 He tunes with greater care, and proves each wire : 
 Then o'er the scale he runs with rapid thumb, 
 And sounds a prelude to the strife to come. 
 Not with less art the bird her voice essays, — 
 From high to low its compass she displays ; 
 Through each division running, soft and strong, 
 A previous sample of her powers of song. 
 
 Now o'er the frame his arm the minstrel flings ; 
 With careless air at first he touched the strings ; 
 And simple measures, regular and slow. 
 Seemed struck in scorn of such unequal foe : 
 Tlien o'er the chords his nimble fingers fly 
 With touch minute, and brilliant harmony ; 
 lirook no dull pause, but still take up again, 
 NVith rapid stroke, the ever var)-ing strain. 
 
 He ceased ; and Philomel, with mimic art. 
 The measure caught, and echoed every part; 
 Timid at first, as if from artless throat, 
 She slowly drew the long unvaried note ; 
 
 M
 
 162 PHIL03IELJE AC CITHAR^DI CONCERTATIO. 
 
 Praobet iter liquidum labenti e pectorc voci : 
 Nunc cEEsim variat, modulisque canora minutis 
 Delibrat vocem, tremuloque reciprocat ore. 
 
 Miratur Fidicen parvis e faucibus ire 
 Tarn varium, tarn dulce melos ; majoraquc tentans 
 Alternat mira arte fides : dum torquet acutas, 
 Inciditque : graves ojieroso verbere pialsat, 
 Permiscetque simul certantia rauca sonoris, 
 Ceu resides in bella viros clangore lacessat. 
 Hoc etiam Philomela canit ; dumque ore liquenti 
 Vibrat acuta sonum, modulisque interplicat acquis, 
 Ex inopinato gravis intonat, et levc murmur 
 Turbinat introrsus, altcrnantique sonore 
 Clarat, et infuscat, ceu Martia classica pulset. 
 
 Scilicet erubuit Fidicen, iraque calent e 
 Aut non hoc, inquit, referes Citharistria sylvae,
 
 THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTIS6ALE. 163 
 
 While from her breast, in smooth and even tide, 
 Her liquid voice spontaneous seemed to glide : 
 Then thickly warbled from her quivering bill, 
 In mellow tones she pours the varied trill ; 
 Minutely fine her trembling voice sustains. 
 And fills the wild woods with responsive strains. 
 
 The minstrel marvelled how from pipe so small 
 Such sweet, such various melody could fall : 
 A loftier effort of his art he tries. 
 And bids the notes alternate fall and rise. 
 Now shrill they pierce the ear, and now they rang 
 liencath his touch with deep sonorous clang ; 
 Then in the trumpet's thrilling strains unite, — 
 8uch strains as rouse dull laggards to the fight. 
 This, too, the bird achieves ; first, shrill and high, 
 The liquid music cleaves the vaulted sky; 
 Then on a sudden from her chest profound 
 In deep low murmurs came the gurgling sound; 
 The notes alternate seem to sink and swell, 
 And on the car like martial bugle fell. 
 
 The harper blushed, half angry, half ashamed ; 
 " Proud chantrcss of the woods," he then exclaimed,
 
 164 PHILOMEL.E AC CITIIARiEDI COSCERTATIO. 
 
 Aut fractu cedam cithara. Nee plura locutus, 
 Non imitabilibus plectrum concentibus urget. 
 Namque manu per fila volat : simul hos, simul illos 
 Explorat numeros, cbordaque laborat in omni : 
 Et strepit, et tinuit, crescitque superbius, et se 
 Multiplicat relegens, plenoque choreumatc plaudit : 
 Turn stetit expectans, si quid paret ai'iiiula contra. 
 
 Ilia autem, quamquam vox dudum exercita fauces 
 Asperat, impaticns vinci, simul advocat omnes 
 Ncquicquam vires : nam, dum discrimina tanta
 
 THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 165 
 
 " Either to this thy baffled powers shall yield, 
 " Or I my harp will break, and quit the field !" 
 He said ; and putting forth his utmost pains, 
 Drew from his harp inimitable strains : 
 With flying fingers swept each sounding wire, 
 And called forth all the magic of his l}Te. 
 • On every chord he labours, and explores 
 Of taste and science all the hidden stores. 
 Now softly sweet the tinkling numbers came, 
 Now with loud crash resounds the vocal frame : 
 Xow seem his hands in mutual chase to roll. 
 The strain redoubling ; till he crowned the whole. 
 As each new'cffbrt o'er the last still rose 
 With one full burst, one grand and glorious close ; 
 Then paused to listen if his rival still 
 Had aught to match this triumph of his skill. 
 
 But she, impatient to be thus outvied. 
 Though now too long and too severely tried 
 Jlcr voice began to fail, yet gave not o'er 
 The strife, but summoned for one effort more 
 (Alas! invain) those powers too hardly tasked before. 
 For while the Harper to the contest brings
 
 166 PHILOMEL.E AC CITHAR^DI CONCERTATIO. 
 
 Kcddcre tot fidium nativa et simplicc tcntat 
 "\'oce, canaliculisque imitari grandia parvis, 
 Impar magnanimis ausis, imparque dolori 
 Deficit, et vitam summo in ccrtamine linquens 
 Victoris cadit in plectrum, par nacta sepulchrum. 
 Usque adeo et tenues animas ferit semula vii'tus.
 
 THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 167 
 
 The complex harmony of countless strings, 
 She on her mere unaided voice relies, 
 And simple nature's untaught energies ; 
 Unfit to compass her ambitious aim, 
 Or of defeat to bear the conscious shame, 
 She sinks exhausted by the unequal strife. 
 And quits the contest only with her life. 
 The victor's harp receives her latest breath, — 
 A death-bed not unworthy such a death. 
 To such brave deeds can emulation fire, 
 And little souls with scorn of life inspire. 
 
 Dec. llth,J821.
 
 168 
 
 DEFENDIT NOfERUS. 
 
 Blandior indulsit, felis, tibi Parca ; novena. 
 
 Nam tibi net Lachesis fila novena colo. 
 Hinc, si missa voles celsi de culmine tecti, 
 
 Decidis in tutos prsecipitata pedes. 
 Nee miseram licet infestent laniiquc canesque, 
 
 Te lanii exanimant, exanimantve canes. 
 Si moriare semel, si bis, si terve, quaterve, 
 
 Plusquam dimidia parte supcrstes eris. 
 
 Vincent Boukne.
 
 169 
 
 DEFENDIT NniERUS. 
 
 FoK thee, blest cat I the Fates indulgent twine 
 
 A ninefold thread of life from distaffs nine. 
 
 Hence, tho' from some high roof thou'rt headlong 
 
 cast, 
 Thou light'st in safety on thy feet at last. 
 Though dogs and butchers persecute thee still. 
 Nor dog nor butcher e'er can wholly kill. 
 For once, twice, thrice, four times, of life bereft, 
 Thou still hast more than half thy being left. 
 
 July 2t)th, 1827.
 
 170 
 
 INJsOCENS TR^EDATEIX. 
 
 Sedula per campos, nullo defessa laboie, 
 
 In cella ut stipet mella, vagatur apis : 
 Purpureum vix florem opifex praetervolat unum, 
 
 Innumeras inter quas alit hortus opes ; 
 Herbula gramlncis vix una innascitur agris, 
 
 Thesauri undo aliquid non studiosa legit. 
 A flore ad florem transit, mollique volando 
 
 Uelibat tactu suave quod intus habcnt. 
 Omnia dclibat, parce sed et omnia, furti 
 
 Ut ne vel minimum videvis indicium. 
 Omnia degustat tam parce, ut gratia nulla 
 
 Floribus, ut nullus diminuatur odor. 
 Non ita pra^dantur modice bruchique et erucaj : 
 
 Non, ista hortorum maxima pcstis, avcs
 
 171 
 
 TEE HAE:iILESS PILFERER. 
 
 With toil unwearied, over lawn and lea, 
 
 In search of honey roams the industrious bee ; 
 
 Amid the countless stores the garden yields 
 
 There springs no flower, no plant in all the fields, 
 
 Which the skilled artist passes unexplored, 
 
 froni which she culls not something for her hoard. 
 
 From flower to flower she flics ; and, as she flies, 
 
 What each contains of sweetness tastes, and tries. 
 
 From each she sips, and yet there is not left, 
 
 (So sparing and so delicate the theft,) 
 
 Of wrong committed e'en the slightest trace ; 
 
 No flower has lost an odour, none a grace. 
 
 Not thus the slugs and caterpillars prey ; 
 
 Not thus, the garden's pest, the pilfering jay ;
 
 172 IXNOCENS PK^DATKIX. 
 
 Xon ita raptorcs corvi, quorum iniproba rostra 
 
 Despoliant agros efFodiuntque sata. 
 Succos immiscens succis, ita suaviter omnes 
 
 Temperat, ut dederit chymia nulla pares. 
 Vix furtum est illud, diclve injuria debet, 
 
 Quod cera et multo melle rependit apis. 
 
 Vincent BourkI'
 
 THE HARMLESS PILFERER. 173 
 
 Not thus the robber rook, with restless bill, 
 Intent on plundering some rich cornfield still. 
 Then, how she blends and tempers juice with juice ! 
 Xo chemic art the like would e'er produce. 
 Call it not robbery then, which she with store 
 Of wax repays, and honey o'er and o'er. 
 
 October, 1827.
 
 LATlN-OPvIGINAL.
 
 AD PATEEil. 
 
 DuM tu perita fcrs opem, pater, manu 
 
 Angoribus dolentium; 
 Ultrdque tristi, quid tuis debes memor, 
 
 Adhuc moraris oppido ; 
 Nos, cum marita llbcri, pcregimus 
 
 Amoena ruris otia : 
 Nee scripta forte displicebunt gaudia, 
 
 Quels ipse potieris brevi. 
 Labuntur ergo ut laeta nobis tempora, 
 
 Ni taedcat, paucis lege. 
 Cum per fenestras sol novum mittat jubar, 
 
 Ortumque nunciet diem ; 
 Refecta jamjam membra corripiens tore 
 
 Pererro jjrata roscida,
 
 178 AD .PATKEM. 
 
 « 
 
 Laetusque miror ut viget nascens nemus, 
 
 Seu crcscat ulmus fortior, 
 Meliorve platanus, sen micans abies comis, 
 
 Fagusve juncta robori ; 
 Dum fida gressus turba comitatur canum 
 
 Subinde tentans, quod licet, 
 Dumos ; latentem quippe sub satis adhuc 
 
 Turbare perdicem nefas. 
 Turn gaudeo, vcl arte ficto Da^dala 
 
 Muscse nitentis corpora 
 Trutam obstinatam, viribus fractam suis, 
 
 Vix victor ad ripam trahens ; 
 Hamove laevem callide vermem implicans 
 
 Percis edacibus dolum ; 
 Tincamque, piscina)que rcgcm luciuni 
 
 Haud parva capta pra?mia. 
 Hinc parca quales mensa delicias habet, 
 
 Hinc quantus est cibis sapor ! 
 Mox, ire qua me amoena suadeat via, 
 
 Per rura, per campos equo 
 Exerceor; ni forte juverit magis 
 
 Tentare quid profecerim
 
 AD PATREM. 179 
 
 Torquens sagittam, stridulamque arundinem 
 
 Adusquc metam dirigens. 
 At cum coruscus orbe sol altissimo 
 
 Accendat aestus fervidos, 
 Ah ! quanta morus (morus haud ipsi tuse 
 
 Cessura, vates inclyte) 
 Dat gaudia ! illic tegminis sub frigore 
 
 Dulci recumbens otio, 
 Aut nota circum prata mugientium 
 
 Armenta prospecto vaga ; 
 Aut miror ut se nunc in ipsa nubila 
 
 Columba prsepes erigit. 
 Nunc visa labi, mox resurgit ocyus 
 
 Scinditque gyris aera. 
 Horamve quodvis lectitans opusculum 
 
 Impendo non inutilem ; 
 Xe forte credas mentis ha^c inter, pater, 
 
 Torpere neglectas opes. 
 Nee nempe vita? gaudiorum rusticae 
 
 Pars nulla debetur libris. 
 Sic cum per arva pallidam sensim stolam 
 
 Tranquilla nox induxerit,
 
 180 AD PATREM. 
 
 Cernas beatum, si quis est alter, gregcm 
 
 " Circum renidentes lares." 
 Dum riclet herbis mensa non nocentibus, 
 
 Splendctque coena simplici : 
 Nee sermo dulcis deficit ; nee te, pater, 
 
 Hunc inter obliviscimur. 
 Reddent maritse conjugem pauci dies, 
 
 Reddent parentem liberis ! 
 Faucis diebus nostra tibi erunt gaudia, 
 
 Haud plena, ni tecum simul. 
 
 Aug. 13th, 1805.
 
 AN COXTPuVPJA MUTUO SE EXPELLAXT: 
 APriRMATLTi. 
 
 Vespee erat : plenoque ignes de more vetusto 
 
 Lydia subjectos cauta Icbete premit ; 
 Exierat forte ilia domo : mox toUere murmur 
 
 Inclusa serato carcere cccpit aqua. 
 Surgit paulatim, flammsoque coacta calore 
 
 Suppositae, fers'ens altius unda tumet. 
 Protinus hinc illinc costas amplexus aheni 
 
 Ex aere iratas ejicit ignis aquas. 
 Nee mora, praccipiti per fumea claustra volutus 
 
 Candentem torrcns irrigat imbre focum. 
 Vis ignis suppressa pcrit. Quid plurima ? — Carbo, 
 
 Quo tua flamma abiit ? quo tua lympha, Lebes r
 
 AN BRUTA COGTTEXT: AFFIEMATUR. 
 
 Qua, strata in tabulis, sartorum foetida turba 
 
 Sutilc, transversis cruribus, urget opus ; 
 Pra?teriens elephas, mirans insueta, fenestrae 
 
 Intulit, affixa non sine mole, caput. 
 Intrusam, varia vafer arte, proboscida sartor 
 
 (Ludibrium sociis ct sibi) pungit acu. 
 Non tulit hoc elephas : tacita scd percitus ira 
 
 Accepta ulcisci vulnera fraude parat. 
 Multa movens animo, vestigia lenta ferebat 
 
 Qua sudat tepida pigra cloaca lacu : 
 Hinc ubi cffinosum per colla absorbuit haustum 
 
 Sai'torum indignans limina nota petit ; 
 Hie tabulas super, intextasque proboscida vestes 
 
 Exonerans, focdas expuit ultor aquas.
 
 AN BRUTA COGITEXT. 183 
 
 Protinus audiri convitia mutua, ibi omnes 
 Effusse merces, hebdomaclisque labor. 
 
 Ille exprobatus tantorum causa malorum, 
 " Ne vos poeniteat res ea," sartor ait : 
 
 " Si norint docti sentire elephanta dolorem, 
 Hinc tamen, hinc discent pectus inesse ferae." 
 
 130G.
 
 AD AMICUM MODO UIOEEM DUCTUEUM. 
 
 O TU juventae prime comes mese, 
 Experte mecum nunc studio graves 
 Acri labores, nunc jocoso 
 Gaudia amicitise Lyaeo, 
 
 Allene, ni tu Candide laetior 
 Audis ; id olim seu nivei tibi 
 Fecere cognomen capilli, 
 
 Sive animus sine fraude simplex, 
 
 Pectusque purum, (ut crediderim magis)- 
 Quocunquc gaudes nomine ; jam tria 
 Post lustra salve ! gratulanti 
 Rite mihi veterem sodalem.
 
 AD AMICUil. 185 
 
 Ergo illigavit compede subdolus, 
 Tenetque captum te Veneris puer ? 
 Jam nunc et arrislt, facemque 
 Laetus Hymen tibi nuptialem 
 
 Praetendit ? O ! quam tu tibi conjugem 
 Duces beatis auspiciis domum ! 
 Utrique consensere miris 
 
 Astra modis, animaeque vestrum. 
 
 Quam digna amari sunt tibi novimus, 
 Quantique amoris corda capacia ; 
 Illi Juventus, Gratiaeque, et 
 Quicquid id est quod amceniori 
 
 Cor omnium ad se nescio quo modo 
 Allectat : illi pura Fides tibi 
 Devota, ncc mutanda laetis 
 Temporibus dubiisvc Virtus.
 
 166 AD AJIICUM. 
 
 Multos in annos, ! bone sis precor 
 Allene felix ! ct tibi defluant 
 Desicleranti paiica ab almo 
 
 Res, ct honor, sobolcsquc ccelo. 
 
 Scandant paternum Candiduli genu, 
 Natique natorum, et similes avi 
 Vultumque virtutesque in a;vum 
 Perpetuum referant nepotes. 
 
 About 1S20.
 
 LKRS DESCRIPTIVE OF THE (lARDEX 
 AT SPRINGFIELD. 
 
 Jam mihi quern nuper vidl Isctissimus hortum, 
 Fas sit quo possim breviter perscribere versu. 
 i'rincipio hinc illinc ineunti maxima laurus 
 Circuitus patet in largos, et gramen obumbrat : 
 Inter utramque via recta fert semita ad aedcs. 
 I'rogresso paulum ad IsDvam de cespite vivo 
 I'-cce crucis secta est Melitence more figura, 
 QuBC varia fiorum specie signata nitescit. 
 Ad dcxtram pariter, regalis forma coronac 
 I'lorihiis innumeris gemmas imitatur ct aurum ; 
 Multaciue pra;tcrca passim sc sustulit arbos 
 Oinnigcnis ornata rosis ; et dahlia fiorum
 
 188 LINES. 
 
 (Si formae par esset odor,) regina, colores 
 Pandit mille novos, et millia nomina jactat ; 
 Nee circumducto desunt pendentia muro 
 Prunaque purpurea, et mensis pyra grata secundis. 
 
 Sept. 2n(i, 1839.
 
 LATIN TRANSLATIONS.
 
 AGAIXST PRTDE IN DIIESS. 
 
 Why should our garments, made to hide 
 Our parents' shame, provoke our pride ? 
 The art of dress did ne'er begin, 
 Till Eve, our mother, learnt to sin. 
 
 When first she put the covering on, 
 Her robe of innocence was gone ; 
 And yet her children vainly boast 
 In the sad marks of glory lost. 
 
 How proud we are ! how fond to shew 
 Our clothes, and call them rich and new ! 
 When the poor sheep and silkworm wore 
 That very clothing long before.
 
 Primobum inventae probra ad celanda parentum, 
 Cur nobis tunicEe tanto in honore forent r 
 
 Xon prius ornandi venerunt corporis artes 
 Peccare infelix quam didiclsset Eve. 
 
 Tuni primum ilia novo sese velavit amictu, 
 Ut stetit innocui tegmine nuda siniis ; 
 
 At nos dedecoris stulte ostentamus aviti, 
 Illd progenies orta parente, notas. 
 
 Mlrari juvat, et nitidas ostendcre vestes, 
 Quanti sunt pretii, qua novitate micant ! 
 
 Talia jactamus, scd bombyx ante gerebat 
 Has ipsas tunicas, ante gerebat ovis.
 
 192 AGAINST PRIDE IN DRESS. 
 
 The tulip and the butterfly 
 
 Appear in gayer coats than I : 
 
 Let me be drest fine as I will 
 
 Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still. 
 
 Then will I set my heart to find 
 Inward adornings of the mind ; 
 Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace, 
 These are the robes of richest dress. 
 
 No more shall worms Avith me compare ; 
 This is the raiment angels wear ; 
 The Son of God, when here below, 
 Put on this blest apparel too. 
 
 It never fades, it ne'er grows old ; 
 Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould ; 
 It takes no spot, but still refines ; 
 The more 'tis worn, the more it shines.
 
 AGAINST PRIDE IN DHESS. 193 
 
 Papilio variis longe mihi praenitet alis, 
 Prsenitet innumeris tulipa picta modis. 
 
 Quo me cunqne colam studio, musca aemula palmam 
 Me ^■icto, et flores, vermiculique ferent. 
 
 Morum igitur cultus potior mihi cura, animique 
 
 Assidui ornatus interioris, erunt : 
 \'eri sanctus amor, pietas, sapientia, virtus, 
 
 Hffic mihi vestis erunt optima, summus honor. 
 
 Hiic chlamyde instructo, tandem mihi cedite vermes, 
 Hac solet angelicus sese amicire chorus. 
 
 Quinetiam hanc olim, dignatus visere terras, 
 Induit etemi Filius ipse Dei. 
 
 Nunquam obscuratur, nunquam obsolct ilia ; neque 
 imbres, 
 
 Aut avido tineas ore, situmvc timet : 
 Non maculam caplt, at contra fit clarior usu, 
 
 Inque dies specie candidiorc nitet. 
 

 
 194 AGAINST PRIDE IN DRESS. 
 
 In this on earth would I ai^pcar, 
 Then go to hcav'n and wear it there ; 
 God will approve it, in his sight ; 
 'Tis His own work, and his delight. 
 
 Watts
 
 AGAINST PRIDE IN DRESS. 195 
 
 Hoc ergo, in terris dum commoror, orner amictu, 
 Sic quoque et etherias fas sit adire domos ; 
 
 Kex ibi coelicolum vultu arridente probabit 
 Hoc opus Ipse suum, deliciasque suas. 
 
 Sept. 1832.
 
 SIGXS OF EATX. 
 
 KEASONS FOR NOT ACCEPTING THE INVITATION OF A FRIEND. 
 
 The hollow winds begin to blow, 
 The clouds look black, the glass is low, 
 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep. 
 And spiders from their cobwebs peep ; 
 Last night the sun went pale to bed, 
 The moon in haloes hid her head ; 
 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 
 For see, a rainbow spans the sky ; 
 The walls are damp, the ditches smell. 
 Closed is the pink- eyed pimpernel ; 
 Hark, how the chairs and tables crack ! 
 Old Betty's joints are on the rack. 
 Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry. 
 The distant hills are seeming nigh.
 
 Jam flare incipiunt rauco cum murmure vcnti ; 
 
 Xigrescunt nubes ; sidit hydrargyrium ; 
 Fuligo descendit ; aranea cassibus exit ; 
 
 Dormitansque canis sternltur ante focum. 
 Pallidus hesterna Sol nocte cubile pctivit ; 
 
 Obvolvit nebiilis humida Luna caput. 
 I 'rtusagus pluvia; ducit suspiria pastor, 
 
 En etcnim coclos Iridis arcus obit, 
 .lamque putres fee tent fossa) ; murique madescunt ; 
 
 Pa.'ta oculum timide clausum anagallis habet. 
 Audisne ut mensa; crcpuere, scdiliaque ultro ? 
 
 Et gemit, ossa adeo discruciantur, anus. 
 Vociferatur anas ; strcpit acvi guttcrc pavo ; 
 
 Longinqui apparct jam jjropu monlis apex.
 
 198 SIGNS OF RAIX. 
 
 How restless are the snorting swine I 
 The busy flics disturb the kinc ; 
 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings ; 
 The cricket too, how sharp he sings ! 
 Puss, on the hearth, with velvet paws 
 Sits wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws. 
 Through the clear stream the fishes rise, 
 And nimbly catch the incautious flies ; 
 The glowworms, numerous and bright, 
 Illum'd the dewy dell last night ; 
 At dusk the squalid toad was seen 
 Hopping and crawling o'er the green; 
 The whirling wind the dust obeys, 
 And in the rapid eddy plays ; 
 The frog has changed his yellow vest, 
 And in a russet coat is drest ; 
 Though June, the air is cold and still ; 
 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill; 
 My dog, so altered in his taste. 
 Quits mutton bones on grass to feast ; 
 And sec yon rooks, how odd their flight ! 
 They imitate the gliding kite,
 
 SIGNS OF RAIX. 199 
 
 Sus prseter solitum trepiclat, nee stertere cessat ; 
 
 Morsibus exagitat musca molesta boves. 
 En humilis volat, et campum vix radit hirundo ; 
 
 Turn magis arguto carmine grillus ovat. 
 Ante focum felis sedet, assiduoque labore 
 
 Hirta pedum plantis mollibus ora lavat. 
 Aspicias vitream per aquam se mittere pisces, 
 
 'Ut si cauta parum musca sit, arripiant. 
 Turn vidi innumeris interlucentibus herbam 
 
 Vermibus hesterna nocte micarc nemus. 
 Squallidus, erepens sub sera crcpuscula, bufo 
 
 Pigra per immundam membra trahebat humum. 
 Pulverearaque rotans nubem, sublime per auras 
 
 Hue, illuc, rapido turbine, ventus agit. 
 Aspice qua) nuper croceo fulgebat amictu 
 
 Vertitur, et fusca jam cute rana rubet. 
 Aura, aestiva licet, gelida est ; merulseque canorae 
 
 Non jam suave fluit carmen, at acre sonat. 
 Prseterca, oblitus naturae, vescitur herba, 
 
 Ossaque, proh monstrum ! linquit ovilla canis. 
 Isti ctiam corvi morem mutasse videntur, 
 
 Pennasquc, ut milvi, vix agitaro fuga ;
 
 200 SIGNS OF RAIN. 
 
 And seem precijiitate to fall, 
 As if they felt the piercing ball : — 
 'Twill surely rain, I sec with sorrow; 
 Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. 
 
 Dk. Jenner.
 
 SIGNS OF RAIX. 201 
 
 Turn quasi trajiceret subito cor letifer ictus, 
 Aere se librant, praecipitesque cadunt. 
 
 Crastina lux pluvias (experto crcdite,) ducet, 
 Propositum moniti ne faciamus iter.
 
 THE POPLAE FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are fell'cl : farewell to the shade, 
 And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ! 
 The winds play no longer, and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elaps'd since I first took a view 
 Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ; 
 And now on the grass behold they are laid, 
 And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade ! 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
 AVhere the hazels afl"ord him a screen from the heat ; 
 And the scene where his melody charm'd me before 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
 
 Stratum populeiim nemus est ; cara umbra, valeto! 
 
 Frigus, et aurarum grate susurre, vale ! 
 Null jam inter frondes leni flant murmurc venti, 
 
 Xon harum in vitreo flumine imago micat. 
 
 Bis sex praiteriere anni, ex quo tempore vidi 
 Dilectum, ornabat quern nemus illud, agrum ; 
 
 (iuod nunc, ecce ! jacet subvcrsum in gramine : et 
 arbor 
 Nunc mihi dat sedem, qua; modo tegmen erat. 
 
 JunKiue alias merula; latebras petiere, diei 
 r'nde procul coryli fervida tela fugant. 
 
 Ncc loca quae grato quondam modulamine sensus 
 Mulcerunt, resonant jam mihi suave melos.
 
 204 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 
 And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
 
 With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head. 
 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
 Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see 
 Have a being less durable even than he. 
 
 Co"\VPER.
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 205 
 
 Et mea vita fugax celeri pecle labitiir, et mox 
 Obrutus, hi quales sunt, ego truncus ero. 
 
 Adstabitque prius capiti lapis, ossaque condar 
 Cespite, quam veteri par nova sylva subit. 
 
 Has dum mente vices reputo, mortalibus ajtas 
 Quam brevis est moneor, quam breve quicquid 
 amant. 
 
 Vita liominis velut umbra fugit, sed gaudia vitae 
 Hei mihi I praetereunt jam citiorc fugu.
 
 THE EOSE. 
 
 The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, 
 
 "Which Mary to Anna convey'd; 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
 
 And wcigh'd down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet; 
 
 And it seem'd, to a fanciful view. 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripjiing and drown'd, 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 I snapp'd it; it fell to the ground.
 
 QtJAM modu largus aqua madefecerat imber, ad 
 Annam 
 
 Munere portabat Iseta Maria rosam ; 
 Et flos egregium, collecto humore gravatus, 
 
 Demisit coUo languidiore caput. 
 
 Ut plenum vidi caliccm, et folia humida circum, 
 
 Sponte videbatur flos mihi flere sui, 
 Kt desiderio tristl moerere relicta? 
 
 Arboris, unde avidii vi modu vulsus erat. 
 
 Hunc propcre aiTipui, nimid licet obrutus unda 
 
 Vix oblectandis naribus ai)tus crat ; 
 Arripui, cautusque paium dum torquco caulcm, 
 
 Dccussus cecidit flos miserandus hmni.
 
 208 THE ROSE. 
 
 And such, I cxclaim'd, is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind ; 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resign' d. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; 
 
 And the tear that is wip'd with a little address 
 May be folio w'd perhaps by a smile. 
 
 CoWPKR. 
 
 i
 
 THE ROSE. 209 
 
 Et tales, clamo, sunt qui lenimine vires 
 
 Infirmis animis suppeditare negant ; 
 Qui temere excruciant miseros, et frangere pergunt 
 
 Pectora, quae luctus jam grave pressit onus. 
 
 Haec, si forte mihi minus exagitata fuisset, 
 
 Paulisper poterat salva fuisse rosa ; 
 Et, quibus alma aliquis lachrymam deterserat arte, 
 
 Mox risum videas, emicuisse genis.
 
 MOETUAEY VERSES, 
 
 COMPOSED FOB JOHN COX, PARISH CLERK OF NOUTHAJIl'TON, AND 
 SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OP MORTALITY, A.D. 1787. 
 
 While thirteen moons saw smoothly run 
 The Nen's barge-laden wave, 
 
 All these, life's rambling journey done, 
 Have found their house, the grave. 
 
 Was man (frail always) made more frail 
 
 Than in foregoing years ? 
 Did famine or did plague prevail, 
 
 That so much death appears ? 
 
 No ! these were vigorous as their sires, 
 Nor plague, nor famine came ; 
 
 This annual tribute death requires, 
 And never waives his claim.
 
 DuM lunte tredccim viderunt currere Nenum 
 Et placido vectas amne natare rates, 
 
 lios omnes, varisB decurso tramite vitae, 
 Excepit tumuli non fugienda domus. 
 
 Ergone, jamdudum fiagilis, nunc pronior aetas 
 Est hominum ad celerem quam fuit ante necem 
 
 An iniseranda fames, an sajviit horrida pcstis, 
 Quod sic conipuit mors propcrata gradum r 
 
 At vigor his idem datus est qui patribus olim, 
 Ncc pestis venit, ncc miseranda fames ; 
 
 Htcc fatum poscit, poscctque tributa quotannis, 
 Nee sibi non reddi dcbila jura sinit.
 
 212 MORTUARY VERSES. 
 
 Like crowded forest-trees we stand, 
 And some are mark'd to fall ; 
 
 The axe will smite at God's command, 
 And soon shall smite us all. 
 
 Green as the bay-tree, ever green, 
 
 With its new foliage on. 
 The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen ; 
 
 I pass'd — and they were gone. 
 
 Read, ye that run, the aweful truth 
 With which I charge my page ! 
 
 A worm is in the bud of youth, 
 And at the root of age. 
 
 No present health can health insure 
 For yet an hour to come ; 
 
 No med'cine, though it oft can cure. 
 Can always balk the tomb.
 
 MORTUARY VERSES. 213 
 
 Haud secus ac sylvis denso stant ordine pinus, 
 Et nota caesuris illita cuique sua est ; 
 
 Sic nobis jussu divino ictura bipennis 
 
 Imminet, et Letho mox caput omne dabit. 
 
 Saepe homines vidi qui prima aetate virebant, 
 Qualis fronde nova laurus amicta viret. 
 
 Vidi secures ludo dare tempus inepto ; 
 Prseterii, — nusquam frivola turba fuit. 
 
 Perlege qui curris, non est mora longa legenti, 
 Perlege quse noster vera libellus habet ; 
 
 Vermis edax roseae latet heu ! sub flore juventae, 
 Esaque radicem verme senecta perit. 
 
 Quid si nunc valea.s, non eras idcirco valebis, 
 Hora potest moibos proxima ferre suos ; 
 
 Saepius attulerit forSan medicina salutem, 
 Non tamcn immunis funere semper eris.
 
 214 MORTUARY VERSES. 
 
 And oh ! that, humble as my lot 
 
 And scorn'd as is my strain, 
 These truths, though known, too much forgot, 
 
 I may not teach in vain. 
 
 So prays your clerk with all his heart, • 
 
 And, ere he quits the pen, 
 Begs you for once to take his part, 
 
 And answer all — Amen ! 
 
 COWPER.
 
 MORTtTART VERSES. 215 
 
 Atque, oh I sors quamvis humilis mea, nee fuit un- 
 quam 
 
 Dignatum multo carmen honore meum ; 
 Quae toties cecini frustra, ne rursus inepta 
 
 Pectoreque immemori mox abitura canam. 
 
 Sic toto de corde precor, digitisque priusquam 
 Depono calamos, hanc superaddo precem : 
 
 Ut partes nostras vos excipiatis, et omnes 
 Una voce pium congeminetis Amen.
 
 THE CYPRESS WIIEATH. 
 
 WILFRID'S SONG FROM " ROKEBY." 
 
 O, LADY, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the c}^3ress-tree ! — 
 Too lively glow the lilies light, 
 The varnish' d holly 's all too bright ; 
 The mayflower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
 But, lady, weave no wreath for me, 
 Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Let dimpled mirth his temples twine 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
 To patriot and to sage be due ;
 
 NuLLAM, nympha, mlhi, nullam contexe corollam, 
 
 Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis ; 
 Ah 1 nimium fulgent mihi lilia vana, nimisque 
 
 Laevis aquifolii planta nitoris habet ; 
 Nee rosa sylvestris, nee spinse flosculus alba; 
 
 Mc decet ; hae decorent tempora moesta minus ; 
 Sed mihi, nympha, precor, nullam contexe corollam, 
 
 Aut dc cupressi facta sit ilia comis. 
 
 I inj)cdiat frontcm fcstivae palmite vitis 
 Kuphrosyne ridcns lumlna, labra, gcnas ; 
 
 ( 'ultori Hophiae contingat sobria taxus ; 
 Sitque bono civi mascula quercus honor ;
 
 218 THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
 
 The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
 But that Matilda will not give ; 
 Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 
 Her blended roses bought so dear ; 
 
 Let Albion bind her bonnet blue 
 
 With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew ; 
 
 On favor' d Erin's crest be seen 
 
 The flower she loves of emerald green ; — 
 
 But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 
 Or twine it of the cypress tree. 
 
 Strike the wild haii^, wliile maids j)reparc 
 The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ; 
 And, while his crown of laurel leaves 
 With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
 Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; — 
 But, when you hear the passing bell, 
 Then, lady, twine a wreath for me. 
 And twine it of the cypress tree.
 
 THE CYPRESS WKEATH. 21 
 
 Spem myrtus, vitamque novam dat amantibus a?gris : 
 At myrtum duro corde Matilda negat. 
 
 Ergo, nympha, mihi nullam contexe coroUam, 
 Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis. 
 
 Evehat exultans, pretioso sanguine partas, 
 
 Quas junxit geminas Anglia Iseta rosas ; 
 Couruleum lotis hyacinthis rore galerum 
 
 Scotia (nee redolens desit Erica) tegat ; 
 Flore sibi caro, virides imitante smaragdos, 
 
 Semper honoratum cingat lerna caput ; 
 At tu, nympha, mihi nullam contexe corollam, 
 
 Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis. 
 
 Harbitos icta sonet, dum vatum crinibus aptam 
 
 Viigineo est hederam cura parare choro ; 
 Sanguineuque manu dum victor laurea nectit 
 
 Serta, triumphales det tuba rauca modos. 
 At tibi cum tulerit notsc vox tristis ad aures 
 
 Admonitus, animam corpore ablsse meam, 
 I'um mihi, si libeat, contcxas, nympha, corollam ; 
 
 Kl dc cupressi facta sit ilia comis.
 
 220 THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
 
 Yes I twine for me the cypress bough; 
 But O I Matilda, twine not now ! 
 Stay till a few brief months are past, 
 And I have looked and loved my last ; 
 When villagers my shroud bestrew 
 With pansies, rosemary, and rue ; — 
 Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, 
 And weave it of the C}i5ress tree. 
 
 Scott,
 
 THE CTPBESS "WREATH. 221 
 
 Immo age, funereae frondem mihi texe cupressi ; 
 
 Quin paulisper flebile differ opus ; 
 Post aliquot menses, cum te vidisse supremum, 
 
 Et te supremum tempus amasse sinat ; 
 Cum mixtis rhuta violis, et rore marino 
 
 Spargent agrestes ha;c mea membra manus ; 
 Tum mihi, nympha, precor, tum demum texe corol- 
 1am, 
 
 Et de cupressi texta sit ilia comis. 
 
 October 9U), 1843.
 
 GO, LOVELY ROSE. 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that 's young, 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide, 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ;
 
 I, FORMOSA mese die rosa Lydiae, 
 
 Quae nunc et miserum me terit, et suum 
 
 Tempus, coUigat ex hoc, 
 
 Illam quod tibi compare, 
 
 Quam sit judicio pulchra et amabilis, 
 I'ra'dulcisque meo ; die, rosa, virgini. 
 
 Quae spectanda juventii, 
 
 Et forma, et facie, tamen 
 
 E visu refugit, si vacuis virum 
 Desertisquc fores cdita tu locis, 
 
 lUaudata perisscs. 
 
 I'arvi gratia penditur
 
 224 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desired, 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die ; that she 
 The common fate of all thinsfs rare 
 
 May read in thee : 
 How small a part of time they share, 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 Waller. 
 
 Yet though thou fade, 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 
 
 And teach the maid, 
 That goodness time's rude hand defies; 
 That virtue lives when beauty dies. 
 
 KiKKE White.
 
 GO, LOVELY ROSE. 225 
 
 Semota ex oculis ; die age, prodeat 
 In lucem, neque se sic vetet appeti, 
 
 Sic laudata rubescat. 
 
 Turn demum morere ; ut tua 
 
 Ilia in morte legat, quam spatium breve 
 Karis usque eadenn lex dedit omnibus, 
 
 Si quid suavius imquam, 
 
 Si quid sit speciosius. 
 
 Sed nympham e foliis dulcis odor tuis 
 Post mortem doceat, tempus ut invidum 
 
 Spemit, vivaquc floret 
 
 Virtus, cum periit decor. 
 
 March lltb, 1644.
 
 226 
 
 EPITAPH TN WISBEACH CHrRCHYARl), 
 
 Beneath a sleeping infant lies ; 
 
 To earth his body lent 
 Hereafter shall more glorious rise, 
 
 But not more innocent. 
 
 And when the Arch-angel's trump shall blow, 
 
 And souls to bodies join. 
 Thousands shall wish their lives below 
 
 Had been as short as thine.
 
 22/ 
 
 SuBTER quiescit dormiens infantulus ; 
 
 Corpusque terrae creditum 
 Resurget olim gloria indutum nova, 
 
 Sua sed innocentia. 
 
 Ut angelorum principis caiiet tuba, 
 
 Rursusque vivent mortui, 
 Degisse tarn paucos in hac terra dies 
 
 Quam tu, quot optabunt, puer ! 
 
 Keb. 3ra 1843.
 
 THE EKVIOUS SNOW. 
 
 The envious snow comes down in haste, 
 To prove thy breast less fair, 
 
 But grieves to see itself surpassed, 
 And melts into a tear. 
 
 Though the same sun, with all diffusive rays. 
 Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze. 
 We prize the stronger effort of its power, 
 And justly set the gem before the flower. 
 
 Pope.
 
 CcELO descendit propere nix imada, colli 
 Candorem fidens vincere posse tui, 
 
 Sed dolet, ut sese victam certamine sentit. 
 Fitque, tibi moerens cedere, lachryraula. 
 
 December ICth, 1843. 
 
 Quid quod ubique jacit radios sol unus, et idem ; 
 
 Unde nitet pariter gemma, rubetque rosa, 
 Sideris aitherci laudabitur acrior ictus, 
 
 Et flori, ut jus est, anteferetur onyx. 
 
 November Ist, 1»4.1.
 
 OH KANNV. AVILT THOU GANG WITH ME? 
 
 Oh Nanny, wilt thou gang with me, 
 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ; 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
 
 The lowly lot and russet gown r 
 No longer drest in silken sheen. 
 
 No longer decked with jewels rare, 
 Say canst thou quit each courtly scene, 
 
 Where thou art fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Oh Nanny, when thou'rt far away, 
 Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ; 
 
 Say, canst thou face the parching ray. 
 Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
 
 Oh ! can that soft, that gentle mien. 
 Extremes of hardships learn to bear.
 
 Ergon E vis mecum, comes hinc ire Anna r nee, urbis 
 
 Quod nitidae linquis gaudia, tristis abis r 
 Num poterunt umbraj te delectare silentes, 
 
 Fusca contentam veste, humilique casa r 
 Cum tibi nee fulget, qua) quondam serica fulsit 
 
 Vestis, nee gemmae qute micuere, micant ; 
 Uegum aulas poteris, festosque relinquere ccrtu.s 
 
 Pulchra ubi, prae pulehris omnibus, una nites ? 
 
 Cum procul hinc aberis, nonne, O cara Anna, reveries 
 
 Sa^pc in prateritos anxia vota dies r 
 Qui disces, experta parum, nunc fervida soils 
 
 Spicula, nunc hycmis flamina rauca pati : 
 Vultusne iste tuus norit tarn mollis iniqui 
 
 Tcmporis cxtremas posse subire vices ;
 
 232 OH, NANNY, WILT TIIOU GANG WITH ME ? 
 
 Xor, sad, regret each courtly scene, 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fan- ? 
 
 Oh ! Nanny, canst thou love so true, 
 
 Thro' perils keen with me to go ; 
 Or wlien thy swain mishap shall rue, 
 
 To share with him the pang of w^oc ? 
 Say, should disease or pain befall, 
 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care ; 
 Nor wistful those gay scenes recall. 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And when at last thy love shall die, 
 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath, 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 
 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
 And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 
 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, 
 Nor then regret these scenes so gay, 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Bishop Percy.
 
 OH, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WITH ME ? 233 
 
 Nec Isetae occurrent tristi tibi saepius aulae 
 
 Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit : 
 
 Sincerone adeo tibi pectus amore raovetur, 
 
 Ut me nolueris per mala nulla sequi ; 
 Aut ego fortunsD si quando incommoda plorem, 
 
 Curarumne comes fida levabis onus ? 
 Si dolor inciderit, si quis mibi morbus, an aegro 
 
 Sedula tu nutrix, suppeditabis opem ? 
 Nec tristi desiderio revocabitur hora, 
 
 Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit ? 
 
 Atque ubi jam tandem moriar, nostramnc fidcli 
 
 Tu praesens animam dum fugit ore leges ? 
 Eluctansque premes suspirium, et aspera risu 
 
 Mulcebis placido quot necis hora feret ? 
 An tibi erit curae membra haec, jam frigida letho, 
 
 Floribus et tenera spargere lachrymula ? 
 Nec coctus hilarcs istos meminisse pigebit, 
 
 Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit r 
 
 Kobruao' 3rd, 1843.
 
 HYMX, BY BISHOP HEBER. 
 
 When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laugh- 
 ing soil, 
 
 When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's 
 toil, 
 
 When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and 
 the flood ; 
 
 In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker 
 good. 
 
 The birds that wake the morning, and those that 
 
 love the shade. 
 The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy 
 
 glade, 
 The sun that from liis amber bower rejoiceth on his 
 
 way,
 
 Seu ver purpureos reserat IsDtabile flores, 
 
 Ridentemque novo gramine pingit humum ; 
 Seu tener, aestivis delabens nubibus, imber 
 
 Corpora messorum victa calore levat; 
 Seu glacialis hyems pigros tenet undique campos, 
 
 Et dura celeres compede fracnat aquas ; 
 Teira Deum testatur, ct omnes laeta per horas 
 
 Auctorem rerum pricdicat esse bonum. 
 
 Mane diem volucres hilari quae voce salutant, 
 Vesperis et placidi quas magis umbra juvat ; 
 
 \'enti qui rapido nunc verrunt turbine montes, 
 Qua; nunc sopit iners Icnior aura nemus ; 
 
 Sol croceo qui de thalamo pulchcrrimus exit, 
 Tramitis itthcrci Ix-tus inirc viam ;
 
 -3(5 HYMN. 
 
 The moon and stars, their master's name in silent 
 pomp display. 
 
 » 
 
 Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, 
 Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? 
 No, let the year forsake its course, the seasons cease 
 
 to be, 
 Thee, Master, must we always love ; and. Saviour, 
 
 honour Thee. 
 
 The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer 
 
 fade, 
 The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the 
 
 shade. 
 The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their 
 
 old decree ; 
 But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord ! will cling to 
 
 Thee.
 
 IIYMX. 
 
 237 
 
 Et luna, et tacita fulgentia sidera pompa, 
 Divinam agnoscunt cuncta creata manum. 
 
 t 
 
 Ergone nos homines, quibus haec sunt omnia in usum 
 
 Tradita, et ad coelum queis patefacta via est ; 
 Nos soli ingrati nolemus solvere laudes, 
 
 Debita supremo muncra parva Deo ? 
 Proh pudor I antiquum licet annus dcserat orbem, 
 
 Nee solitas norint tempora certa vices, 
 At Domine I at nobis Tu semper amabere, nobis 
 
 Semper erit cultum nomen honore Tuum. 
 
 Marcescant verno reserati tempore flores, 
 
 Promissa testatis munera terra neget ; 
 Intereat brumae cedens autumnus iniqua? ; 
 
 Deserat umbrosum turba canora nemus : 
 Et sileant venti, legisque oblitus avitae 
 
 Nee cursus peragat sol, neque luna suos ; 
 At nos, natura; suprema ubi venerit hora, 
 
 Dividet ha-rentes nos Tibi nulla dies.
 
 THE SONG OF JUDITH. 
 
 CIL\P. XVI. VER. 2. 
 
 " Begin unto my God with timbrels, sing unto my 
 Lord with cymbals : tune unto Him a new psalm : 
 exalt Him, and call upon his name. 
 
 For God breaketh the battles : for among the camps, 
 in the midst of the people. He hath delivered me out 
 of the hands of them that persecuted me. 
 
 Assur came out of the mountains from the north ; 
 he came with ten thousands of his army, the mul- 
 titude whereof stopped the torrents, and [heir horse- 
 men have covered the hills.
 
 Pulsate sistrum, principio Dei 
 Nomen vocantes ; toUite cjinbala 
 Novisque mecum concinentes 
 Carminibus Domini Jehovae 
 
 Efferte laudes : lUe minacium 
 Iniqua fregit prailia, et hostium 
 Me castra fallentem superba 
 Eripuit manibus scelestis. 
 
 Descendit Assur de Borea; jugis, 
 Armata duccns millia; tot manus 
 Rivos morabantur ; tcgebat 
 
 Turba cquitum, vclut umbra, coUes.
 
 240 THE SONG OF JUDITH. 
 
 He bragged that he would burn np my borders, 
 and kill my young men with the sword, and dash the 
 sucking children against the ground, and make mine 
 infants as a prey, and my virgins as a spoil. 
 
 But the Almighty Lord hath disappointed them 
 bv the hand of a woman. 
 
 For the mighty one did not fall by the young 
 men, neither did the sons of the Titans smite him, 
 nor higli giants set u})on him : but Judith the
 
 THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 241 
 
 Ergo hac tjTannus fretus ope, insolens 
 Fines daturum dixerat ignibus 
 Nostros, necaturumque ferro 
 Se juvenes, neque parciturum 
 
 Infantibus vel matris ab ubere 
 In saxa jactis ; turn pueros fore 
 Prajdam innocentcs, et puellas 
 Multibus spolium protervis. 
 
 \'erum has inanes Omnipotens minas 
 Irrisit, usus focmineii manu : 
 Non ense florentis juventa 
 lUe viri cecidit profanus 
 
 Jactator ; ilium non soboles nova 
 Titania de stirpc ncci dcdit ; 
 Non intcrcm'.Tunt gigantes 
 Anachida; similes catervse ; 
 
 B
 
 242 .THE SONCi OF JUDITH. 
 
 daughter of Merari weakened him with the beauty 
 of her countenance, 
 
 For she put off the garment of her widowhood 
 for the exaltation of those that were oppressed in 
 Israel, and anointed her face with ointment, and 
 bound her hair in a tire, and took a linen garment 
 to deceive him. 
 
 Her sandals ravished his eyes, her beauty took his 
 mind prisoner, and her fauchion passed through his 
 neck.
 
 THE SONG OF JUDITH. 243 
 
 Sed gloriantis robur Judithse 
 Vicit, Merari filia, per dolos 
 Aggressa, praestantiquc vultu 
 Debilitans animum feiocem ; 
 
 Qua?, cum mariti tristia funera 
 Mopreret, atras deposuit tamen 
 Vestes, ut oppressum levaret 
 Solliciti populum Israelis. 
 
 Xardo perunxit subdola Persico 
 Frontcm decoram, sindonaque induit, 
 Mitraque velavit capillos, 
 Falleret ut speciosa capti 
 
 Mentcm t}Tanni ; nee soleis nitor 
 Qui fascinaret lumina dcfuit : 
 Has illc devictus per artes 
 Succubuit, gladiusque collum
 
 244 THE sox(; of juditu. 
 
 The Persians quaked at her boldness, and the 
 Medes were daunted at her hardiness. 
 
 Then my afflicted shouted for joy, and my weak 
 ones cried aloud; but they* were astonished: these 
 lifted up their voices, but they were overthrown. 
 
 The sons of the damsels have pierced them 
 through, and wounded them as fugitives' children ; 
 they perished by the battle of the Lord. 
 
 * The Assyrians.
 
 THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 245 
 
 Obdormientis discidit impigcr : 
 Ingentis ausi fama paventibus 
 Persis repentinos tumultus 
 Intulit, attonitisque Medis. 
 
 Turn gens meoruni, mocsta modo ct malis 
 Affiicta, vocem toUere gaudio ; 
 Et nuper infirmse excitari 
 LsDtificis animaD triumphis ; 
 
 At menlc perculsi interea, et novo 
 Casu stupentes, longe alios sonos 
 Illi dederunt atquc mersi 
 Congemuere gravi ruina. 
 
 Multo cadcbant vulnere perciti 
 Nostris ab nmnc parte scqucntibus, 
 Et sauciati sic pcribant 
 
 Ut pueri prolugorum inerines ;
 
 248 THE SONG OF JUDITH. 
 
 Avax at tliy presence : yet Thou art merciful to them 
 that fear Thee. 
 
 For all sacrifice is too little for a sweet savour unto 
 Thee, and all the fat is not sufficient for thy 
 burnt-offering : but he that feareth the Lord is great 
 at all times. 
 
 Woe to the nations that rise up against my 
 kindred! the Lord Almighty will take vengeance 
 of them in the day" of judgment, in putting fire and 
 worms in their flesh ; and they shall feel them and 
 weep for ever.
 
 THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 249 
 
 Te saxa \-iso, cera uti in ignlbus 
 Mollis, liquescent : Tu tamen omnibus 
 Qui corde Te fido verentur 
 
 Semper ades Bonus ac Benignus. 
 
 Xon immolatis nidor ab hostiis 
 Gratissimus, non sufficiet Tibi 
 Fumantis arse sumptuosum 
 
 Munus ; id omne parum est ; sed ilium 
 
 Qui Te timebit pectore simplici 
 Excelsa terrarum in loca provehes : 
 Vae gentibus, quae in me levarint 
 Atque meos apiccm arrogantem ! 
 
 Ultor supremo jamjam aderit die, 
 Ignemque vermesque inferet improbis, 
 Mittens in aeternos dolores, 
 
 Et geraitum, et sine fine fletum. 
 
 Murch 13lh, li.11.
 
 T. RICHARDS, PIIINXER, 
 37 Cl. QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S !NN. 
 
 
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