> f *, •* I PRIVATE LIBRARY | % ALEXANDER EAKIN I No. A^-? / ? Shelf I Handle Carefully Read Wisely | Return Promptly I* ^ "Moinniilta seclprofuncle" * 4» nCSB LIBRARy u p t^ MLIK AND HATKKSON, PKINTEKS, EU1NUUK(^H. T H E LITERARY BOUQUET (i5at!)ereD from jTat30urite ^ut{)or0» ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS DRAWINGS ON WOOD BY EMINENT ARTISTS. (Ji>, cull tJie goliUii friiils of Truth ; Go, gallur Fniicys brilliant flowers." E D I X B U R Gil: WILLIAM P. NIMMO. I 8; 2. P R E F A C E. nr^HAT a book is not complete without a preface is a doctrine that may now be said to liave gained an ahiiost universal acceptance. And it is because in the present instance no direct opposition to the current belief is meditated, that an introductory sentence is offered where the prefator)' paragraph is commonly looked for. The often quoted aphorism of the Preacher " of making many books there is no end " was never more true than in the present day. It is hoped however that this " multipl}'ing of knowledge" escapes the sweep of the wise king's epigrammatic but comprehensive dictum — " this also is vanit}-." Doubtless the works of our favourite authors have been frequentl\- laid under contribution, and extracts more or less elegant held up for l)ublic admiration, but the ileld of luigiish literature has a range so wide and far-reaching, that the task of collecting its beauties could with diffi- culty be o\'erdone. Having regard to certain other "gleanings" in I'Inglish prose and verse which alread\' exist, it cannot be premised of "The Literar}- l^ouquet " that it is wholh' original in execution or design. Great import- 8 PREFACE. ance is not however attached to this quaHty, since as is well-known a too eager straining after originality has not unfrequently ended in failure. The present collection, Avhile it embraces pieces which by universal consent are held to be " gems," does not ignore those of humbler preten- sions, which are nevertheless worth}' of a place in any compilation. Many of the selections thus made form at the same time subjects for pictorial illustration of a high order, and it is conceived that the present volume so enhanced will prove a livrc dc luxe of more than ordinary merit. While nothing like exclusive excellence is sought to be affirmed of the present collection, " The Literary Bouquet " is nevertheless presented under the belief, that it will be found what it professes to be, a bunch of never-dying flowers culled from a few of the thousand and one gardens of British poetry and prose. CONTENTS. SUBJKCl'S. A Dedication, The Lily of the Valley, Buttercups and Daisies, A Fair and Happy Milkmaid, \J\i in the Morning Early, Picture of Winter, The Village Schoolmaster, A London Toy Shop in the Olden 'J'o the Snowdrop, The Moon, Hymn to the Moon, Elizabeth and Raleigh The Art of Book-keeping Mutual Love, A Curious ^L^n, Converse with Nature, The Soul's Longing, The Ocean, The Genius of Byron, The Sultan's Dream, Flowers, The Death of Little Baul, On Viewing the Dead liody of a ]>oy. Time, At: LongfelloTV, James Hurdis, Eliza Cooke, Ovcrbury, Burns, Spenser, Goldsmith, Dr. Collier, Charlotte Smith, Pope, . Ben yonson, IF. H. D. Adams, Thomas Hood, .1/ar}' Tighe, . Butler, Byron, Byron, Byron, Robert Pollok, . The Spectator, Longfellow, Dickens, Carrington, Page 15 16 19 20 21 26 34 36 39 40 40 43 45 49 51 54 5« lo CONTENTS. Subjects. AUTHOI-IS. Page To the River Charles, Longfellow, 59 Benjamin Franklin's First Silver Spoon, 63 Marriage, The Spcctdlor, 64 The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning His Auld Mare Maggie, Salutation to ) \ Bums, 67 A Good Old Man, Earle, 73 The Auld Beggar Man, Robert NicoU, . 74 A Hawking Party in the Olden Time, Dr. Collier, . 77 The Falcon of Ser Federigo, Longfellow, 78 Brutus on the Death of C«sar, Shakespeare, 81 Mark Antony on the Death of Cresar, Shakespeare, 82 Remembrances, Thomas Llood, 88 The Broken Heart, ]Vashington Irriitg, 89 Sir Walter Raleigh's Execution, W. H. D. Adams, 95 And doth not a Meeting like this, Moore, 96 The Exile of Erin, Thomas Catuphell, 97 Error, .... The Spectator, lOI Address to SataHj- Milton, 102 Alexander and Diogenes, . rintareh. 105 Love's Philosophy, Shelley, 106 Tlie Return of the Hunting Party, Dr. Collier, 109 Lucy, .... Jl'ordszi'orth, no 1 Fear thy Kisses, .Shelley, no Copernicus, Samuel A^eil, 113 Our Lives, Longfello'w, 114 The Light of Stars, Longfello-ci', . "5 An Aspiration. .... Longfellow, 116 Franklin's Experiments, i'9 Proverbs from " Poor Richard," . 119 True Happiness, Rol>ert Pollok, . 120 The Hidden Treasure, Dr. Collier, 123 A Scene on the Battle-field, ir. LI. D. Adams, 127 The Last Admonitions of Commodore Tru union, Smollett, 128 CONTEXTS. SUBJKCTS. AuriiDK.s. P.\OK A Fair Mansion of Old Englami. . //: H. D. Adams, ^Zl, The Old Man's Comforts, Soiithcy, 134 A Noble Sentiment, IV. //. D. Adams, 137 Hope, .... Tliomas CamplhU, 13S The Banks of ihc Devon, . Burns, 141 Janet, .... Robot jYicoll, . 142 We are liretlnen a', Robert Nicoll, . 143 My Heart's in the llii^hlands, Burns, 147 To a Skylark, S/iclLy, 148 Virtue's Prize. Pope, 152 Dainty Davie, B tints, '55 A Perfect Woman, Words7i>ort/i, •56 .\ul'^'=S.»y-' ''^re-4^'\'-^ymr >^^^^7!S4;^?^v Che ^itcravij ;u^^# A DEDICATION. AS one who, walking in the twiliyht gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens So walking here in twilight, () my friends ! I hear your voices, softened by the distance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. If any thought of mine, or sung or told. Has ever given delight or consolation. Ye have repaid nie back a thousandfold, By every friendly sign and salutation. Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown I Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone. Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. 14 THE LITERARY BOUQUET Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — One touch of fire,— and all tlie rest is mystery I ■ The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance ; Therefore to me ye never will grow old. But live for ever young in my remembrance. Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away I Your gentle voices will flow on for ever, When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, As through a leafless landscape flows a river. Not chance of birth or place has made us friends. Being oftentimes of difterent tongues and nations, But the endeavour for the selfsame ends. With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; Not interrupting with intrusive talk The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted. To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! Lojigfdiow. THi: LILY OF THE VALLEY. 'i'o the curious eye A little monitor presents her page Of choice instruction with her snowy bells, The lily of the vale. She nor aftects The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun : She to no state or dignity aspires, But silent and alone puts on her suit. And sheds a lasting perfume, but for wliich We had not known there was a thing so sweet Hid in the gloomy shade. So, when the blast Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth Stoops their high heads tliat \ainly were exposed, She feeis it not, but flourishes anew. Still sheller'd and secure. And as the storm. That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak. The humble lily spares,— a thousand blows 1 6 THE LITERARY BOUQUET That shake the lofty monarch on his throne, We lesser folks feel not. Keen are the pains Advancement often brings. To be secure, Be humble ; to be happy, be content. James Hiirdis. BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I NEVER see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold. But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart ; — My smile expires into a sigh ; I feel a struggling in my eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray. Till rolling tears have won their way ; For, soul and brain will travel back. Through memory's chequer'd mazes. To days, when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies. There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell ; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile if you will, but some heart-strings Are closest link'd to simplest things ; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love and life and all be past ; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave With buttercups and daisies. Eliza Cooke. THE LIT ERA RY BO UQ UE T. 1 9 A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID IS a country wench, that is so for from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of her is able to put all "face-physic" out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore m.inds it not. All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than outsides of tissue ; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silk- worm, she is decked in innocency, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a-bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions : nature has taught her too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul ; she rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milkpress makes the milk the whiter or sweeter ; for never came almond glove or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made haycock. She makes her hand hartl with labour and her heart soft with pity ; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not sulifer her to do ill, seeing her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next foir ; and in choos- ing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and beehive are all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and infold sheei) in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none ; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones ; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them ; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition — that she conceals for fear ot anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet. Ovcrhiiry. W-%m UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. UP in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Caukl blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly ; Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. The birds sit chittcring in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely ; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — I'm sure it's winter fairly. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early ; When a' the hills are cover'd \vi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Burns. PICTURE OF WINTER. LA.STLY came Winter, clothed all in frieze, Chatt'ring his teeth for cold that did him chill ; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze. And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill As from a limbeck, did adown distil ; In his right hand a tipped staff he held. With which his feeble steps he stay'd still : For he was fiiint with cold, and weak with eld ; That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld. Spenser. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blosso'.ii'd furze unprofitably gay, 'I'here, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school : A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning's face ; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; Yet he was kind ; or, if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning Avas in fault : The village all declared liow much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, term~. and tides presage. And even the story ran that lie could gauge ; In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For ev'n, though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame : the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Goldsmith. 77/ A" LITERARY BOUQUET. A LONDON TOY SHOP IN THE OLDEN TIME. SINCE it was necessary for fashionable folk to be provided with all the artillery then in mode, Mistress Hazelriggave her good Sciuire no peace, until he took herself and Dolly to a well-known Toy-shop on Ludgate Hill. Such places were the grand resort of the Georgian belles during the interval between a late break- fast and a modish dinner at three or four. There were gathered on shelf and counter vases of china — dragons in porcelain, blue, gold, speckled, and green — tiny tea-sets like delicately- tinted egg-.shells — fans of many forms, glittering with all that colour and artistic skill could do to suit them to the fickle tastes of fashion — snufif-boxes with jewelled and painted lids— clouded canes adorned with dainty silken tassels— jars of snuff and pulvillio— bottles of essence — gilded flasks of cut and coloured glass for holding ratafia and spirit ot clary — pocket-glasses — ivory combs — boxes of patches cut in fanciful shapes — gloves and lace — trinkets and shawls — vizards for the Mall — Dacca muslins, sprigged with gold and silver — and a thousand other things to charm from their netted seclusion guineas won at bassett or spadille. Once fairly within this seductive scene, where the tattle of tongues and the variety ot beautiful knick-knacks delighted the country ladies beyond measure, the Scjuire found himself helpless in the hands of two or three ministering fairies in hoops and powder, who combined with his wife and daughter in making him the unwilling purchaser of almost every kind of ware they showed. Rainbow fans unfurled coquettishly before his eyes, silken scarfs flung with care- less ease round graceful shoulders, bewildered the fat farmer into buying almost ere he knew ; and, when he seemed wearied at last of this drain upon his guineas, Mistress Betty, who lind a little private hoard of her own to expend, derived principally from the profits of her hen-coops, released him from the duty of attentlance, and sent him off to i)ick up the Tory gossij) at the Cocoa Tree, a fiinious chocolate house in St James's. Dr. Collier. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. TO THE SNOWDROP. LIKE pendant flakes of vegetating snow, The early herald of the infant year, Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow, Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear. While still the cold north-east ungenial lours. And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse. Or sallows show their downy powder'd flowers, The grass is spangled with thy silver drops. Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent. Summer's gay blooms, and autumn's yellow race, I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament. So journeying onward in life's varying track, B>'n while warm youth its bright illusion lends, Fond memory often with regret looks back To childhood's pleasures, and to infant friends. * Charlotte Smith. THE LI TEN. IRV BO UQ UE T. 29 THE MOON. IRANSLATED FROM HOMER. AS when tlie moon, refulgent lamp of night, O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene. And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ; O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed. And tip with silver every mountain's head : Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. Pope. 30 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. HYMN TO THE MOON. QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heav'n to clear, when day did close : Bless us, then, with wished sight, Goddess, excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart. And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to Ijreathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess, excellently bright. I Ben /orison. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. 33 ELIZABETH AND RALEIGH. TRADITION has ascribed Raleigh's personal introduction to Elizabeth to an accident, which one would rather expect to meet with in the legends of the poets, and the atmosphere of fairy land, than among the realities of everyday life. It is probably untrue ; though, in Elizabeth's reign, men were inspired by a spirit of exaltation which made them equal to deeds of gallantry and refinement, of a kind unknown to our utilitarian age. Raleigh's act of chivalrous courtesy is thus described : Elizabeth, in her progress from the royal barge to the palace [at Greenwich], came to a spot where the ground was so miry, that, for a moment, she hesitated to advance. Immediately, Raleigh stepped forward, and, with " an air of de- voted gallantry," cast off and spread upon the earth the richly-embroidered cloak which decked his handsome person. Her Majesty, after a minute's pause, and a not dissatisfied glance at the noble figure and stately bearing of her soldier- courtier, placed her foot on the novel carpet, and proceeded on her way. Soon afterwards, she sent for Raleigh, and took him into her service. //'. H. D. Adams. 34 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. HOW hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers-folks that fish with literary Hooks, — ^^1lo call and take some favourite tome, but never read it through : They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you. I, of my " Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken ; Of " Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my " Bacon :" And then I saw my " Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, backward go ; And as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my " Rowe." My " Mallet" served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker ; And once, when I was out of town, my " Johnson " proved a " Walker." While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my " Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They l)ore my " Colman" clean away, and carried off my "Coke." They pick'd my " Locke," to me far more than Bramah's patent worth. And now my losses I deplore, without a " Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," as quickly went my "Steele." •' Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated ; But what is strange, my " Pope" himself is excommunicated. My little " Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage ; And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose, — a " Savage." Even " Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon ; Though ever since I lost my " Foote," my " Bunyan" has been gone. My " Hoyle" with " Cotton" went oppress'd ; my "Taylor" too, must fail ; To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offer'd " Bayle." THE LITERARY BOUQUET. ■ 35 I " Prior" sought, but could not see the " Hood" so late in front ; And when I turnetl to hunt for " Lee," oh I where was my " Leigh Hunt?" I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not " Tickle" touch ; And then, alack ! I missed my " Mickle" — and surely Mickle's much. 'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse, To think 1 cannot read my " Reid," nor even use my " Hughes ;" My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped ; Like Dr. Primrose, 1 may cry, my " Livy" has elojjed. My life is ebbing fast away ; I sufter from these shocks, And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," there's gray upon my locks ; Pm far from " Young," am growing pale, I see my " Butler " fly ; And when they ask about my ail, 'tis " Burton," I reply. They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide : For oh ! they cured me of my " Burns," and eased my " Akenside." Rut all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn. For, as they never found me '• day," they have not left me "Sterne." Thomas Hood. 36 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. MUTUAL LOVE. OH ! who the exquisite deUght can tell, The joy which mutual confidence imparts? Or who can paint the charm unspeakable Which links in tender bands two faithful hearts ? In vain assail'd by Fortune's envious darts, Their mitigated woes are sweetly shar'd, And doubled joy reluctantly departs : Let but the sympathizing heart be spared, What sorrow seems not light, what peril is not dared ? Oh ! never may Suspicion's gloomy sky Chill the sweet glow of fondly-trusting Love ! Nor ever may he feel the scowling eye Of dark Distrust his confidence reprove ! In pleasing error may I rather rove. With blind reliance on the hand so dear, Than let cold prudence from my eyes remove Those sweet delusions, where nor doubt, nor fear, Nor foul disloyalty, nor cruel change appear. The noble mind is ever prone to trust ; Yet love with fond anxiety is join'd ; And timid tenderness is oft unjust ; The coldness which it dreads too prompt to find, And rack with cruel pain the feeling mind. Hence rose the gloom which oft o'er Psyche stole. Lest he she lov'd, unmindful or unkind. Should, careless, slight Affection's soft control, Or she long absent lose her influence o'er his soul. Mary Tig/ie. THE JJIERARY B0U(2UET. 39 A CURIOUS MAN \7'ALUES things not by their use or wortli, but scarcity. He is very tender and scrupulous of his humour, as fanatics are of their consciences, and both for the most part in trifles. He cares not how unuseful any thing be, so it be but unusual and rare. He collects all the curiosities he can light upon in art or nature, not to inform his own judgment, but to catch the admiration of others, which he believes he has a right to, because the rarities are his own. That which other men neglect he believes they oversee, and stores up trifles as rare di.scoveries, at least of his own wit and sagacity. He admires subtleties above all things, because the more subtle they are the nearer they are to nothing ; and values no art but that which is spun so thin that it is of no use at all. He had rather ha\e an iron chain hung about the neck of a tlea than an alderman's of gold, and Homer's Iliad in a nutshell than Alexander's cabinet. He had rather have the twelve apostles on a cherry-stone than those on St. Peter's portico, and wculd willingly sell Christ again for that numerical piece of coin that Judas took for him. His perpetual dotage upon curiosities at length renders him one of them, and he shews himself as none of the meanest of his rarities. He so much aftects singularity, that, rather than follow the fashion that is used by the rest of the world, he will wear Dissenting clothes with odd flmtastic devices to distinguish himself from others, like marks set upon cattle. He cares not what pains he throws away upon the meanest trifle, so it be but strange ; while some pity and others laugh at his ill-cmployetl industry. He is one of those that valued Epictetus's lamj) above the excellent book he writ by it. If he be a book- man, he spends all his time and study upon things that are never to be known. The philosopher's stone and universal medicine cannot possibly miss him. %He is wonderfully taken with abstruse knowledge, and had rather handle truth with a pair of tongs wrapt up in mysteries and hieroglyphics than touch it with his hands or see it plainly demonstrated to his senses. Biiihr. 40 THE LITLRARY B0U(2UET. CONVERSE WITH NATURE. TO sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd. Byron. THE SOUL'S LONGING. OH ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And hating no one, love but only her ! Ye Elements 1 — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — Can ye not Accord me such a being ? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, . There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Byron. THE LITERARY liOU(2UEr. 43 THE OCEAN. ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery ])lain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncotlin'd, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths — tliy fields Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. And send'st him, shivering in thy i)layful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haj^ly lies His petty hoi)e in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth :— there let him lay. The armaments which thunderbtrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak lexialhans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the .Vrmada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 44 THE LITERARY BOUiJUET. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free. And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — Not so thou, unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play- Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. Thou glorious mirror where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale, or storm, Icing the pole or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of eternity — the throne Of the invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. Byron. THE LITERARY B0U(2UET. 45 THE GENIUS OF BYRON. HE touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced. As some vast river of unfaiHng source, Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his nvmibers flowed. And oped new fountains in tlie liunian lieart. Where Fancy hahed, weary in her flight In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home, ^Vhere angels bashful looked. Others, though great, Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ; He from above descending, stooped to touch The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though It scarce deserved his verse. A\'ith nature's self He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest At will witli all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's mane," And played familiar with his hoary locks : Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, And with the thunder talked as friend to friend ; And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed ; Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were : Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds and storms His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce As etjuals deemed. All passions of all men. The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; 46 THE LITERARY BOUilUET. All thoughts, all maxuiis, sacred and profane ; All creeds, all seasons, Thne, Eternity ; All that was hated, and all that was dear ; All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man, He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves ; Then, smiling, looked upon the Avreck he made. With terror now he froze the cowering blood. And now dissolved the heart in tendern-ess ; Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself ; But back into his soul retired, alone, Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late To desolation swept, retired in pride, Exulting in the glory of his might. And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. As some fierce comet of trem.endous size, To which the stars did reverence as it passed. So he, through learning, and through fancy, took His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top Of Fame's dread mountain sat ; not soiled and worn, As if he from the earth had laboured up ; But, as some bird of heavenly plumage fair. He looked, which down from higher regions came. And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. Robert Pollok. THE LITERARY B0U(2UET. 49 THE SULTAN'S DREAM. THERE is a famous passage intlie Alcoran, where it is said, that the angel Gabriel took Mohammed out of his bed one morning to give him a sight of all things in the seven heavens, in paradise, and in hell, which the prophet took a distinct view of; and, after having held ninety thousand conferences with God, was brought back again to his bed. All this, says the Alcoran, was transacted in so small a space of time, that Mohammed at his return found his bed still warm, and took up an earthen pitcher, which was thrown down at the very instant that the angel Gabriel carried him away, before the water was all spilt. There is a very pretty story in the Turkish tales, which relates to this passage of that famous impostor. A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, used to laugh at this circumstance in Mohammed's life, as what was altogether impossible and absurd ; but conversing one day with a great doctor in the law, who had the gift of working miracles, the doctor told him he would quickly convince him of the truth of this passage in the history of Mohammed, if he would consent to do what he should desire of him. Upon this the sultan was directed to place him- self by a huge tub of water, which he did accordingly; and as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of his great men, the holy man bid him plunge his head into the water, and draw it up again. The king accordingly thrust his head into the water, and at the same time found himself at the foot of a mountain on the sea- shore. The king immediately began to rage against his doctor for this piece of treachery and witchcraft ; but at length, knowing it was in vain to be angry, he set himself to think on proper methods for getting a livelihood in this strange country. Accordingly he applied himself to some people whom he saw at work in a neighbouring wood ; these people conducted him to a town that stood at a little distance from the wood, where, after some adventures, he married a woman of great beauty and fortune. He lived with this woman so long, that he had by her seven sons and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced to great want, and forced to think of plying in the streets as a porter tor his livelihood. One day as he was walking alone by the sea-side, being seized with many melancholy 50 THE LITER A R V BOUC) UE T. reflections upon his former and his present state of life, which had raised a fit of devotion in him, he threw off his clothes with a design to wash himself, according to the custom of the Mohammedans, before he said his prayers. After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised his head above the water but he found himself standing by the side of the tub, with the great men of his court about him, and the holy man at his side. He immediately upbraided his teacher for having sent him on such a course of adventures, and betrayed him into so long a state of misery and servitude ; but was wonderfully surprised when he heard that the state he talked of was only a dream and delusion ; that he had not stirred from the place where he then stood ; and that he had only dipped his head into the water, and immediately taken it out again. The Mohammedan doctor took this occasion of instructing the sultan, that nothing was impossible with God ; and that He with whom a thousand years are but as one day can, if He pleases, make a single day, nay, a single moment, appear to any of His creatures as a thousand years. The Spectator. FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwellelh by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and goltlen. Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine ; — Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld ; Yet not \vraj)ped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Ciod hath written in those stars above ; lUit not less in the bright flowerets under us .Stands the rexelation of His lo\e. THE LITER A RY BOUQ UE T. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours ; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining. Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day. Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay ; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues. Flaunting gaily in the golden light ; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing. Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing. And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing. In the centre of his brazen shield ; THE LITERARY B0U(2UET. 53 Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Ot sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; In the cottage of the rudest peasant. In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers. Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons. Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings. Teaching us, by most persuasi\e reasons. How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous aftection We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection. Emblems of the bright and better land. Lo/igfeilmcr 54 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL. PAUL had never risen from his Uttle bed. He lay there, Hstening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring mucli how the time went, but watching it and watching everything about him with obser\ing e}es. When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was com- ing on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars — and more than all, how steadily it rolled awa\- to meet the sea. As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they paused, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it with his childish hands — or choke its way with sand — and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and when its cheer- ful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself — pictured ! he saw — the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, wak- ing, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever) and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. Paul always answered for himself, " I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell papa so ! " By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing ; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could hardly tell whether this was in his sleeping or his waking moments — of that rushing river. '• Why, will it never stop, Floy ? " he would sometimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I think ! " But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow and take some rest. " You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now I " They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him : bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. '• How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy I But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves ! They always said so I " Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lullmg him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. "\\'ho stood on the bank I — He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his hands to do it ; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. " Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shinin^f on me as I go ! " 5 6 THE LITER A RY BOUQUET. The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion — Death ! Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! Dickens. ON VIEWING THE DEAD BODY OF A BOY. THERE is a smile upon that cheek — Those lips w^ould seem almost to speak, Calm is that look, that brow is fair, The flaxen ringlet wantons there ! And well those features sweet we trace, Which hover on that angel face ; He seems enwrapt in slumber deep — Ah, Edwin, 'tis thy long, last sleep ! The chill of death is on that cheek — Those lips shall never silence break ; No soul is in that cherub smile, Illusive charm, and lovely guile ! The eye has shot its final spark, The liquid, lustrous orb — is dark. And swift must every feature fly From the soft face of infancy ! Carrington. cHH-t THE LITERARY BOUilUET. 59 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER 1 that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou hndest In the bosom of the sea ! Four long years of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. Thou hast taught me. silent River ! Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver ; I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. And in belter hours and brighter, \\'hen I .saw thy waters gleam, 1 have felt my heart beat lighter. And leap onward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. 6o THE LITERARY BOUQUET. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear. More than this ; — thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried ; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side. Friends my soul with joy remembers ! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 'Tis for this, thou Silent River 1 That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me. LongfeUow. °^*^^^f ^^m^mMnwv 77/ A" LITERARY BOUQUET. 63 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN'S FIRST SILVER SPOON. RS. Franklin was an intlustrious, thrifty, capable, kind woman. She attended her husband's little shop, bought the rags for the new paper- mill, stitched pamphlets, folded newspapers, taught her husband to be economical, and proved herself, in all ways, a generous and faithful helpmeet. Long after- wards, he wrote to her, when far away : " It was a comfort to me to recollect that I had once been clothed from head to foot in woollen and linen of my wife's manufacture, and that I never was prouder of any dress in my life. She was a cheerful, tolerant soul, freely allowing for the foibles and faults of human nature. A remark of hers which Franklin quotes in one of his letters, about ])eople who are punctilious and exacting in trifles, does her much honour : " If people can be pleased with small matters, it is a pity but they should have them." To say that she was an illiterate woman, is only to say that she lived in the last century. Her letters are as full of bad spelling as they are of homely sense and loving- kindness. She was a fmely-formed. handsome woman, with a fliir and pleasant countenance. Her children and even her grand-children were celebrated for their beauty throughout the colonies. And let us say of him that, though he had not been an ardent lover, like the lovers we like to read of in fiction, he was a faithful, tender, and considerate husband ; of whom his wife was proud, and with whom she was hapi)y. " We throve together," says Franklin, " and ever endeavoured to make each other happy." It were well if all lovers of the ardent description could say the same after a married life of forty years. Their home, at first, was plain and frugal in the extreme. " \N'e kei)t no itlle servants," says Franklin, '' our table was plain and simple, our furniture of the cheapest descri[)tion. For instance, my breakfast was for a long time bread antl milk (no tea), and I ate it out of a twopenny earthen porringer, with a pewter spoon ; but mark how luxury will enter families, and make a progress in spite of principle. Ueing called one morning to breakfast, I found 64 THE LITER A R Y BO U(2 UE T. it in a china bowl with a spoon of silver. They had been bought for me without my knowledge by my wife, and had cost her the enormous sum of three-and- twenty shillings ; for which she had no other excuse or apology to make, but that she thought her husband deserved a silver spoon and china bowl as well as any of his neighbours. This was the first appearance of plate and china in our house, which afterward, in a course of years, as our wealth increased, augmented gradually to several hundred pounds in value." MARRIAGE. BEFORE marriage we cannot be too inquisitive and discerning in the faults of the person beloved, nor after it too dim-sighted and superficial. How- ever perfect and accomplished the person appears to you at a distance, you will find many blemishes and imperfections in her humour, upon a more intimate acquaintance, which you never discovered, or perhaps suspected. Here, there- fore, discretion and good-nature are to show their strength ; the first will hinder your thoughts from dwelling on what is disagreeable, the other will raise in you all the tenderness of compassion and humanity, and, by degrees, soften those very imperfections into beauties. Marriage enlarges the scene of our happiness and miseries. A marriage of love is pleasant ; a marriage of interest, easy; and a marriage where both meet, happy. A happy marriage has in it all the pleasures of friendship, all the en- joyments of sense and reason, and, indeed, all the sweets of life. Nothing is a greater mark of a degenerate and vicious age, than the common ridicule which passes on this state of life. It is, indeed, only happy in those who can look down with scorn or neglect on the impieties of the times, and tread the paths of life together in a constant uniform course of virtue. The Spectator. THE LITEKARY BOUQUET. 67 THE AULD FARMERS NEW-YEAR MORxNING SAEUTA- TION TO MIS AL'LD ^EVRE .\E-\GGIE. UX GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIP GK CORN TO HANSEL IN IHK NEW YEAR. A GUI I) New Year I wish thee, Maggie ! Hae, there's a rip to tliy auld baggie : Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaen Hke ony staggie Out-owre the \\\. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glazie, A bonny gre)- : He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly buirdly, steeve. an' swank, An' set weel doun a shapely shank, As e'er tread yird ; An' could hae tlown out-owre a stank. Like ony bird. It's now some nine-an'-twenty year. Sin' thou was my guid father's meere : He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. An' fifty mark ; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. An' thou was stark THE LITERARY BOUilUET. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie; Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie ; But hamel)-, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonny bride ; An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air ! Kyle-Stewart I could hae bragged wide, For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hoble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day ye was a j inker noble. For heels and win' ! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin' ! When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou would prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, x-Vn' tak the road ! Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, An' cat thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow: At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. For pith an' speed ; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed THE LITERARY BOUiJUET. 69 'J'he sma' (Iroop-nmipl't hunter cattle Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; l)Ut sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar'i them whaizlt Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun. In guid March weather. Hae turn'd .sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fiiskit, Uut thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, \\\ pith an' pow'r. Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' sly pet owre. When frosts lay king, an' snaws were deep. An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the linimer ; I kenn'd ni\- Maggie wadna sleei) For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou ne\er reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'd it ; 'I'hou never lap, an' sten't. an' breastit. Then stood to blaw ; IJut ju^l ihv step a wee thing haslit, TIkju snoo\'t awa. yo THE LITERARY BOUQUET. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa', That thou hast nurst : They drew me thretteen punds an' twa, The vera warst: Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' mony an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. An' thinkna, my auld trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin'. An' thy auld days may end in starvin', For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither ; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather. Wi' sma' fatigue. Burtis. A GOOD OLD MAX IS the best anti(iuity, and which we may with least vanity admire. One whom time hath been thus long a-working, and like winter fruit ripened when others are shaken down. He hath taken out as many lessons of the world as days, and learnt the best thing in it — the vanity of it. He looks over his for- mer life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again. His lust was long broken before his body, yet he is glad this temptation is broken too, and that he is fortified from it by this weakness. The next door of death sads him not. but he expects it calmly as his turn in nature ; and fears more his recoiling back to childishness than dust. All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. His very presence and face puts vice out of countenance, and makes it an indecorum in a vicious man. He practises his experience on youth without the harshness of reproof, and in his counsel is good company. He has some old stories still of his own seeing to confirm what he says, and makes them better in the telling ; yet is not troublesome neither with the same tale again, but remembers with them how oft he has told them. His old sayings and morals seem proper to his beard ; and the poetry of Cato does well out of his moulh, and he speaks it as if he were the author. He is not apt to put the boy on a younger man, nor the fool on a boy, but can distinguish gravity from a sour look ; and the less testy he is, the more regarded. You must pardon him if he like his own times better than these, because those things are follies to him now that were wisdom then ; yet he makes us of that opinion too when we see him, and conjecture those times by so good a relic. He is a man capable of a dearness with the youngest men, yet he not youthfullcr for tliem, Init they older for him; and no man credits more his acquaintance. He goes away at last too soon whensoever, with all men's sorrow but his own ; and his memory is fresh, when it is twice as old. F.arlc. 74 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE AULD BEGGAR MAN. THE Auld Beggar Man is a hearty auld cock ; Wi' his sair-tatter'd rags and his meikle meal-pock, He lives like a king in the midst o' the Ian', He's a slee pawkie bodie the Auld Beggar Man. He has a white pow and a fresh ruddy cheek, For there's Sabbath to him ilka day o' the week, An' he daunders aye onward the best way he can ; He's a cantie bit carle the Auld Beggar Man. The gudewife sets his chair by the clean ingle-side, Where his feet may grow warm an' his claes may be dried ; Syne the hale kintra's clashes he screeds them aff han ; He's a gash, gabbin' birkie, the Auld Beggar Man. Wi' the gudeman he cracks about cattle an' corn, — ^^' hether this rig or that ane the best crap has borne ; How aits up hae risen an' owsen hae fa'n ; Like a beuk he can argue, the Auld Beggar Man. " He's ane o' our folk," the lasses aye say. When their wooers drap in at the close o' the day ; Sae he hears them mak' up ilka lovin' bit plan, — He's an auld-farrant bodie, the Auld Beggar Man. When the supper is done, an' the grace has been said, Mang the strae in the barn is the auld bodie's bed : There he sleeps like a tap till the brak' o' the dawn, — He's hale at the heart yet, the Auld Beggar Man. Wi' his statf in his hand and his pock on his back He stoiters through life on a rough staney track, His days whiles are dowie, but sin they began He has trusted in Heaven, the Auld Beggar Man. Robert Nicoll. THE Li'l 1:RARV IiOU(2i'ET. 77 A HAWKIXG PARTY IX THE OLDEN TIME. AWAY they galloped, pairing off, each a hawk on wrist, with the chiming of bells and the gay ringing of laughter, until they reached the margin of the mere. Everything seemed favourable for tlie sport ; and they had not trotted in silence many minutes by the water's edge, the hoofs si)lashing among the rounded leaves of cress and ranunculus, when a heron rose from a bed of reeds about thirty yards ahead, and with broad blue white-barred wings commenced to row her laborious way to a safer feeding ground. But Sibylla had seen her rise. Quickly removing the hood, and casting loose the jesses, she lifted the merlin high upon her wrist, and, with a shrill cry of en- couragement, tossed him into the air. In the joy of releasement from his bonds, the bird made a circle or two, and then, fixing his keen eye upon the ([uarry, now rowing faster through the air, he flapped awhile, as if gathering strength, while the steadying bells si^nnkled fiiint music on the breeze. And then, with quick strokes of his scythe-like wings, he swept, as if gliding up a hill of air, towards the track of the heron, which strained her pinions to the utmost to escape her ruthless foe. The chase grew most exciting, for the (]uarr\- had now got fairly under wa\', and was working iier strong broad feathery sculls at top speed in the upper air. Higher and higher they soared far above the regions haunted by either hawk or heron, and were almost lost to the straining eyes of Sibylla and her cavalier, who galloi)ed after tlieni witli splasliing hoofs, and many a quick leap over trench and shrubwood, when suddenly the dark specks began to increase in size, and it soon became clear that the merlin had got above his cpiarry, and that the chase was nearly at an end. In the vain hope of reaching some rushy bed, the heron dropped like a stone with folded wings ; and the hawk, cleaving the air with a sudden swoop, came down in cpiick pursuit, 'i'he almost exhausted heron, making a last effort to use her natural weapon, darted her spear-like bill ui)wards at the descending foe; but the latter, avoiding the thrust with an alert swerve, came down on his quarry's back with cruel claws, and, plunging his hooked beak into her brain, brought her, beating the air with convulsive wings, torn and bleeding to the ground. Dr. Collin: 78 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. WHEN the repast was ended, they arose And passed again into the garden-close. Then said the lady, " Far too well 1 know, Remembering still the days of long ago, Though you betray it not, with what surprise You see me here in this familiar wise. You have no children, and you cannot guess What anguish, what unspeakable distress A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, Nor how her heart anticipates his will. And yet for this you see me lay aside All womanly reser'/e and check of pride. And ask the thing most precious in your sight, Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight. Which if you find it in your heart to give. My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." Ser Federigo listens, and replies, With tears of love and pity in his eyes : " Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been my own. But thinking in what manner I could best Do honour to the presence of my guest, I deemed that nothing worthier could be Than what most dear and precious was to me, And so my gallant falcon breathed his last To furnish forth this morning our repast." Longfellow THE LITER. \RY BO UO VE T. 8 1 BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF C/ESAR. ROMANS, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that }ou may hear : beHeve me for mine honour ; and have respect to mine lionour, that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Ctesar, was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer, — not that I loved Cresar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather C?esar were living, and die all slaves ; tlian that C?esar were dead, to live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him : there is tears for his love ; joy for his fortune ; honour for his valour ; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended — I pause for a reply. — None ? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Ccesar, than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol : his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mournetl Ijy Mark Antony ; who thougli he had no hnnd in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying --a jjlace in the common- wealth ; — as which of you shall not ? \\ith this I depart, — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall l)lease my country to need my death. Shakespeare. THE LITERARY BOUilUET. MARK ANTONY ON THE DEATH OF C/ESAR. FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. Tlie evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones ; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Cassar was ambitious : If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (For Brutus is an honourable man ; So are they all, all honourable men ;) Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me ; But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? When that the poor have cried, Cassar hath wept ; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And, sure, he is an honourable man. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. 85 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know, You all did love him once, — not without cause ; What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him ? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must i)ause till it come back to me ! — But yesterday, the word of Ctesar might Have stood against the world : now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. masters ! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men : I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you. Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here's a parchment, w'ith the seal of Cj^sar, — I found it in his closet, — 'tis his will : Let but the commons hear this testament, (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,) And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds. And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory. And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue I — If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle : I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii : — 86 THE LIT ERA RY BOUQUET. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through : See what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Cesar's angel : Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him 1 This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Cffisar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face. Even at the base of Pompey's statua. Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I and you, and all of us, fell down. Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors I — Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable ; — ■ What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it ; — they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts : I am no orator, as Brutus is ; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man. THE LITERARY BOUQUET. 87 That love my friend ; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him : For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth. Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech. To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Shew you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me : but were I lirutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Car-sar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutinv. Shakespeare. "^.^, THE LITERARY BOUQUET. REMEMBRANCES. I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a week too soon. Nor brought too long a day , But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The Laburnum, on his birth-day — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember. The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky ! It was a childish ignorance, — But now 'tis little joy, To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood. THE LITERARY B0U(2L'ET. 89 THE BROKEN HEART. HOW many bright eyes grow dim- — how many soft cheeks grow pale^how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! as the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of Avounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed, the great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental malady which previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy -a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the i)ride and beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to go THE LITERARY BOUQUET. heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptoms of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they were related. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of con- demnation- -all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won the affections of a beautiful and interestino- girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and dis- grace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. But then the horrors of such a grave ! so fright- ful, so dishonoured 1 There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow in those blessed tears sent like the dews of Heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's THE LITER A RY BOUQ UE T. 91 displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of con- solation, for the Irish are a peojjle of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and dis- tinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friend- ship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretched- ness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for euthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness but her esteem. 92 THE LITER A RY BOUQUE T. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assur- ance that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devour- ing melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. Washinslon Irving. It was on this same lady that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines : — " She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying ! She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains. Every note which he loved awaking ; Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I He had lived for his love, for his country he died. They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of liis country be dried. Nor long will his love stay behind him. Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow !" THE LITERARY BOUOl'ET. 95 SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S LXLCUTION. II' was now near nine, and having announced his readiness, he was conducted to the place of execution, in the old Palace Yard, by the Sheriffs of London and tlie Dean of Westminster. A sympathizing multitude had assembled to see the last of one whom most, if not all, remembered as the Cajitain of Elizabeth's Guard, the great Queen's favourite and councillor, and the observed of all observers. Remarking that an aged man, whose head was bald, pressed eagerly forward, he ini[uired if he wanted aught of him ; and when the latter answered, that he only desired to see him, and pray God to have mercy upon his soul, — " I thank thee," said Sir \\'alter, " and I am sorry I have no better thing to return thee for thy good will. IJut take this nightcap," removing the rich laced head gear which he wore beneath his hat, " for thou hast more need of it now than 1." He observed that his friend. Sir Hugh Barton, whom on the previous day he had invited to be i)resent, was unable to approach for the throng. He therefore bade him farewell, adding, " I know not how it may be with iw/, but / shall be sure to find a place."' On ascending the scaffold, he bowed gracefully to the nobles and gentlemen who surrounded it, and proclamation having been made for silence, he proceeded to address them in a speech declaratory of his innocence, and justificatory of his career. He then embraced the lords, and those of his friends wlio were near him ; and the Dean of Westminster asking him in what faith or religion he meant to die, — " In the faith," said he, " professed by the Church of England," adding " that he hoped to be saved, and to have his sins washed away by the precious blood and merits of our Saviour Christ." It was a cold keen morning, and one of the sheriffs invited him to leave the scaftbld and warm himself before he should say his prayers : " No, good Mr. Sheriff," he replied, '"let us despatch, for within this quarter of an hour my ague will come upon me, and if I be not dead before that, mine enemies will say f quake for fear." He then made " a most divine and admirable prayer;" after which lie arose, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed, " Now I am going to God :" //'. //. /). AJauis. 96 THE LITER A RY BOUQUET. AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. AND doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I've been wand'ring away — To see thus around me, my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snowfall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine. We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng, As letters some hand hath invisibly trac'd. When held to the flame will steal out on the sight. So many a feeling, that long seem'd effac'd. The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; Yet still, as in fimcy Ave point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceiv'd for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; THE LITER A RY BOUQ UE T. 97 And oft oven joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone. To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on. Is all we enjoy of each other in this. But come, the more rare such delights to the heart. The more we should welcome and bless them the more ; They're ours, when we meet, — they are lost when we part. Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink. Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain. That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her mairic shall send it direct thro' the chain. Moore THE EXILE OF ERIN. 'T'^llERE came to the beach a jjoor Exile of luin, X The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed, when at twilight rejjairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of ICrix go ijragh. " Sad is my flite I" said the heart-broken stranger, — " The wild deer and wolf to a co\ert can flee ; But I ha\e no refuge from famine and danger : A home and a countrv remain not to me ! 98 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers Uved, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers. And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! " Erin ! my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ! But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh, cruel fate I wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? Never again, shall my brothers embrace me ? They died to defend me I — or live to deplore ! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure ! Why didst thou dote on a fast-fiding treasure ! Tears, like the rain-drops, may fiiU without measure; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall I '• Yet — all its sad recollections suppressing — One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! aii exile bequeaths thee — his blessing I Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields — sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion — Erin .mavgurnin ! — Erin go bragh !" IJioiiias Caiiihbcll. 77//-; /./ rilR. \RY BOUOUE T. ]•: R R O R. \ T /" E approached a bower, at the entrance of which Error was seated. The V V trees were thick woven, and the place where he sat artfully contrived to darken him a little. He was disguised in a whitish robe, which he had put on. that he might appear to us with a nearer resemblance to 'J'ruth ; and as she has a light whereby she manifests the beauties of nature to the eyes of her adorers, so he had provided himself with a magical wand, that he might do something in imitation of it, and please with delusions. This he lifted .solemnly, and, mutter ing to himself, bid the glories which he kept under enchantment to appear before us. Immediately we cast our eyes on that part of the sky to which he pointed, and observed a thin blue prospect, which cleared as mountains in a summer morning when the mist goes off and the palace of \'anity ajjpeared to sight. The Specialor. THE LI TERA RY BO UQ UE T. ADDRESS TO SATAN. PROUD, art thou met? thy hope was to have reach'd The height of thy aspiring unoppos'd, The tlirone of God unguarded, and His side Abandon'd at the terror of thy power Or potent tongue : Fool ! not to think how vain Against the Omnipotent to rise in arms ; Who out of smallest things could, without end, Have raised incessant armies to defeat Thy folly ; or, with solitary hand Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow, Unaided, could have linish'd thee, and whelm'd Thy legions under darkness. But thou seest All are not of thy train, there be who faith Prefer, and piety to God, though then To thee not visible, when I alone Seem'd in thy world erroneous to dissent From all ! My sect thou seest ; now learn too late, How few sometimes may know, when thousands err. Mi/toii. /•///•; LI ri-.NARV BOUOVET. ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES. A(iENERAl> Assembly of the (Greeks being held at the Isthmus of Corinth, they came to a resoUition to send their quotas with Alexander against the Persians, and he was unanimousl\- elected ca[jtain-general. Many statesmen and philosophers came to congratulate him on .the occasion ; and he hoped that Diogenes of Sinope, who then lived at Corinth, would be of the number. Find- ing, however, that he made but little accoant of Ale.xander. and that he preferred the enjoyment of his leisure in a ])art of the suburbs called Cranium, he went to see him. Diogenes happened to be lying in the sun ; and at the apj^roach of so many y^eople, he raised himself up a little, and fixed his eyes upon Alexander. The king addressed him in an oljliging manner, and a.sked him, " If there was anything he coi.ld serve him in?" "Only stand a little out of niy sunshine," said Diogenes. Alexander, we are told, was struck with such surprise at finding him- self so little regartled, and saw something so great in that carelessness, that, while his courtiers were ridiculing the philosojjher as a monster, he said, " If I were not Alexander, I should wish to be Diogenes." riiifarch. 1 06 THE LI TERA RY B O UO UE T. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. THE fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle — Why not I with thine ? See, the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another ; No sister flower would 'be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; — What are all these kissings worth. If thou kiss not me ? Shelley. 77/ A" iriERARV nOLHJUET. 109 THE REIURX OF IHI-: HLXTIXd PAKTV. IX the midst of the bustle and Inini of talk the mellow notes of a horn were heard, and a hoy, nmning to the door, annoimced the approach of the Earl and his son, who had been htmting in the neighbouring beech forest since early morning. At the sound of the distant bugle Adeleve and Wynfreda, the two fair-h^cired girls in their teens, who had been bending for the last hour or two over their em- broidery frames, engaged upon pieces of the " English work" then prized all over western Europe, stopped their busy needles, and with their mother, Lady Elgitha, went out to welcome their fiither and their brother from the chase. A spirit of hapii)- harmony and domestic affection pervaded the household of the good Earl, who long ago had made a love match, and hatl found his reward in a pleasant home and loving children. Dismounting at the foot of the ascent, Alfgar and his son led their horses \\\) the steej) i)ath to the oval flat s[)ace before the door, and within the surrcnmding wall. Uehmd them came attendants carrying three dead bucks upon hurdles made of beech boughs. Several couples of tall, rough hounds, whose long thin tongues hung out of their snaky jaws, brought u[) the rear, under the charge of some men, who carried the bows and spears of the noble luuitsmcn, and a ]jile of strong nets rolled upon a couple of thick stakes. "What sport have you enjoyed, my dear Lord?" said the Lad\- Elgitha. " Edric killed two with arrows ; and the third antl largest fell to my spear, after the dogs hatl driven them to the nets, lint I would gladly have missed all the sport I had, if I could ha\ e saved the best dog I ever possessed — deej) chested Luga, that the Welsh chieftain gave me. That antlcred giant there, coming last up the hill, tore his heart out with a sidelong ^tab. Poor Luga I thou wert tco keen, too brave I" Dr. Collier. THE LITER A RY BOUQUET. LUCY. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the spnngs of Dove ; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone. Half-hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be \ But she is in her grave, and O ! The difference to me ! Words7vorth. I FEAR THY KISSES. I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; Thou needest not fear mine ; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine. I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; Thou needest not fear mine; Lmocent is the heart's devotion W'ith which I worship thine. Shelley. THI-: IJTERARY BOCllUET. 113 COPERNICUS. COPERNICUS began to think over the various suggestions which had been thrown out by the ancients for the explanation of the appearances which the sky presented to the sight. He remembered that Pythagoras had supposed that the grand central fire of the universe — the sun — was stationary, and that the jjhmets revolved in order and harmony round that brilliant mass. Could this guess be the key to the truth ? Thought might catch the secret upon due inquir\'. Doubt, prejudice, and difficulty stood before him to oppose his progress, but at last, conviction having been matured within him, he rises to new effort, and, for- -saking the useless and untenable determinations of ignorant authority, set out on a voyage of discovery into the far-distant spaces of the sky. Borne away, in the pellucid car of imagination, after flashing " TlnouLjli the midst of an immense concave Radiant with million constellations, tinged With shades of infinite colour, -Vn ever-varying glory,'" he reached the sim. There, in the azure canopy, he saw the stars, no longer stationary, but floating along through immensity ; in the unimaginable harmony of regulated motion, he beheld " Each with undeviating aim, In eloquent silence, through the depths of space Pursued its wondrous way." .Vll seemed explained. Complexity vanished, and simplicity appeared. The sweep of those worlds wliich inhabited the far s])lendours of space was periodical, calculable, arid precise. Tiiey whirled along their diverse orbits in the same direction, and filled the same belt in the radiance through which they sped their ceaseless career, ihe earth was no longer the monarch of motion ; his sceptre was given to the sun, while the faithful moon, accompanying her lord in his exile, 1 1 4 THE LIT ERA R Y BO UQ UE T. seemed to devote herself to the task of comforting him in hours of gloom, and to circle him with her love. Not all at once did the simple beauty of truth attract and charm. There were still nrioments when error retained its power, and prejudice refused to yield; but decision came at last, and when experiment, frequently and carefully repeated, had verified the deductions of reason, he announced, with modesty, the new theory of astronomy, and became, by that announcement, the founder of a new dynasty of thinkers— sealed up an old epoch and unsealed a new. Samuel Neil. OUR LIVES. OUR lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave ! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. Thither the mighty torrents stray. Thither the brook pursues its way. And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still. Longfellou THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love ? The star of love and dreams? Oh, no 1 from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afai-. Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. star of strength ! J see thee stand And smile upon my i)ain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars ; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red j^lanct Mars. 1 1 6 THE LITER A RV BOUOCE T The star of the unconc[iiere(l will. He rises in my breast, Serene, and resoKite, and still, And cahn, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art. That readest this brief psalin, As one by one thy hopes dejiart, Be resokite and cahn. tJh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be stronir. Lo/igJc'//o'ii< AN ASPIRATION. T(J One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, — the Good and Wise,- To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world com])rehended not His deity. This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright aljode Of peace above ; So let us choose that narrow wa}', ^Vhich leads no travellers foot astray From realms of love. Loiigfelknc ruE i.i I'liRAR \ ' BO u<2i ■/•; /; 119 FRANKLIN'S i:NrHRLMKNTS. Dl\. I'RANKLIN j^erfonncil nian\' cxiieriinents at difterent times and places, to sItow the eftect of oil in smoothing the surface of water agitated by the wind. While on a tour in the North of England with Sir John Pringle, Jie tried this experiment successfully upon the Derwent Water at Keswick. Dr. Brownrigg was present, and, in answer to his inquiries afterwards, Franklin gave a history of what he had done in this way, and ex[)lained upon philosophical principles the singular fact that had been established by his experiments. It was jjroved by numerous trials, that a sn)all (juantity of oil poured upon a lake or pond, when rough with waves, would sj^eedily calm them, and produce a smooth and glassy surface. This he had often done in the presence of many spectators. Indeed, he was accustomed in his travels to carry a little oil in the joint of a bamboo cane, Ivy which he could repeat the experiment whenever an occasion offered. I'R()VI-:rhs from •' poor ricmard.' NECESSITY never made a good bargain." '' Keep thy sho[) and thy shop will keep thee." " Diligence is the mother of good luck." ■' Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it." "• Clod heals, the doctor takes the fee." "There are three faithfid friends, an old wife, an old dog, and ready money." •■ Search others for their virtues, thyself for thy vices." •'(irace thou thv house, and let not that grace thee.". THE LITERARY BOUQUET. TRUE HAPPINESS. TRUE happiness has no localities, No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. Where duty goes, she goes, with justice goes. And goes with meekness, charity, and love. Where'er a tear is dried, a wounded heart Bound up, a wounded spirit with the dew Of sympathy anointed, or a pang Of honest suffering soothed, or injury Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; Where'er an evil passion is subdued, Or virtue's feeble embers fann'd ; where'er A sin is heartily abjured, and left ; Where'er a pious act is done, or breathed A pious prayer, or wish'd a pious wisli ; There is a high and holy place, a spot Of sacred light, a most religious fane Where Happiness descending sits and smiles. Robert Pollok. 77//:" I.I ri-:R.\RY HOL'iJi'K'/'. 123 Till': HIDDEN TRILASURlv ERE llie cliiril)ing moon had overtojijjed ihe dark crown of hvrchtrces on llie crag, wliile the Lake yet \\\y m dee[» shadow, a couple of men crept cautiously one night out of the woods on the lower side, and bent stealthy steps to the foot of the giant chestnut-tree. Arriving early that morning with a cart at Wycombe, they had rested at the little village inn, telling the landlord, as they tojk their mug of ale antl rasher of pork in the sanded kitchen, that they were in the service of the Parliament, antl had been ordered to await the arrival of the rest of a forage-train, engaged in collecting corn in the northern basin of the Thames. When the autumn dusk fell, they carried mattock, spade, and lantern into the woods, and stole to the place where the gold lay buried. It was Averil and Jones, disguised as carters, and laden, besides their digging im[)lements, with bags to carry off the spoil. So exactly did they ascertain the spot by careful measurement, that tliey had not been digging for more than ten minutes, when the spade struck with a dull sound ujjon the lid of the coffer. Clearing awa}' the earth, they lifted it out, staggering beneath the load, and laid it on the dead leaves at the root of the tree — an oblong box of dark oakwood, ribbed and bound with brazen hasps, eaten green with rust. A few blows splintered the lid, and wrenched it from the hinges, disclosing a mass of coin of every kinti then seen in English purses — angels and rials of Elizabeth's time ; sovereigns, rose-rials, and spur-rials of James the First; golden rounds and Oxford crowns of Charles ; and, sprinkled here and there, siege-pieces of silver, strange in shai)e and rude in manufiicture, such as the New- ark lozenge, and those oblong, battered bits of thin and ragged plate, afterwards called Scarborough half-crowns,^ issued in times of desperation, when the ro\al mint was nowhere, and a few tankards and salvers of his loyal Cavaliers formed all the bullion at the King's disposal. Without jjausing to feast their eyes on the spoil, the diggers commenced hastily to stow chinkiu"- handfuls in their can\as bags. Suddenh- a slight sound, like the 1 24 THE LITER A RY BOUQ UET. snapping of a dead twig, struck upon Averil's ear, as he stooped over the box. Starting upright at the noise, he Hstened with parted hps and bated breath. 'Twas only a deer attracted by the gUmmer of the lamp, he thought ; when another and a sharper snap came from among the trees, followed by the distinct rustle of boughs and withered leaves. And then from different parts of the encircling wood dusky figures came rushing towards the chestnut by the Lake. Averil's instant thought was treachery on the part of his accomplice, for he could imagine no other living sharer in the secret of the buried gold. "Traitor, thou hast played me false ; but die, dog ; not a rial shall be thine I" Shouting these words in a voice thick with rage, he drew from a secret pocket of his vest a clumsy pistol — then called a dag — and pointed it at Jones's head. The trigger clicked — the furrowed wheel of steel revolved, showering sparks upon the priming from the smitten firestone in the lock — the charge exploded. But, instead of dri\'ing out the heavy ball, it blew stock and barrel into a thousand living splinters of brass and walnut-wood. The wheel of the lock struck Averil's temple and sank into his brain. He fell dead across the open coffer, while drops from his cloven skull oozed in among the coins, gilding them with a redness not their own. Jones escaped a bullet from the dag only to meet immediate death by a rope slung from one of the chestnut's sturdiest boughs. For he was a noted thief and bravo ; and justice in the times of the Civil War was short, sharp, and stern. The coffer, with its costly load, seized in the name of the Parliament, was trans- ferred without delay to the nearest stronghold of the cause. Dr. Collier. THE LITERARY BOUiJUET. 127 i\ SCENE ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY began, slowly, to return to the cam]>. and was carried to the place near which the Earl of Leicester stood. Thirsty, with excess of bleed- ing, he called for drink, which was presently brought him ; but, as he was putting the bottle of water to his mouth, he saw a foot-soldier carried past, and ghastly casting uj) his eyes at the precious draught, — which Sir Phili}) perceiving, he drank not at all, but delivered the bottle to the poor man, witli the memorable words, " Thy necessity is greater than inine" Being met by his uncle, who had crossed the river to witness the engagement, " O Philip I" cried Leicester, " I am truly grieved to see thy hurt." " My Lord," he replied, "• this have I done to tlo )0u honour, and her Majesty some service." '"O, noble Sir Phili])!" exclaimed Sir ^^'illiam Russell, coming up from the fight, spent, worn, and sorely wounded ; ''there was never man attained hurt more honourably than you have done, nor any sword like unto yours." "God directed the bullet," answered Sidney, and bade the surgeons probe his wound, while he was still strong enough to endure the pain. They did not succeed in extracting thel* bullet, but set the bone ; and, in a very i)recarious condition, the wounded hero was carefully removed to Arnheim. //'. //. /;. Adams. 1 28 THE LITERAR Y BO UQ UE T. THE LAST ADMONITIONS OF COMMODORE TRUNNION. ABOUT four o'clock in the morning Peregrine arrived at the garrison, where he found his generous uncle in extremity, supported in bed by Julia on one side, and Lieutenant Hatchway on the other, while Mr. Jolter administered spiri- tual consolation to his soul, and between whiles comforted Mrs. Trunnion, who, with her maid, sat by the fire, weeping with great decorum ; the physician having just taken his last fee, and retired, after pronouncing the fatal prognostic, in which he anxiously wished he might not be mistaken. Though the commodore's speech was interrupted by a violent hiccup, he still retained the use of his senses ; and, when Peregrine approached, stretched out his hand with manifest signs of satisfaction. The young gentleman, whose heart over- flowed with gratitude and affection, could not behold such a spectacle unmoved. He endeavoured to conceal his tenderness, which, in the wildness of his youth, and the pride of his disposition, he considered as a derogation from his manhood, but, in spite of all his endeavours, the tears gushed from his eyes, while he kissed the old man's hand , and he was so utterly disconcerted by his grief, that, when he attempted to speak, his tongue denied its office ; so that the commodore, perceiving his disorder, made a last effort of strength, and consoled him in these words : — " Swab the spray from your bowsprit, my good lad, and coil up your spirits. You must not let the toplifts of your heart give way, because you see me ready to go down at these years. Many a better man has foundered before he has made half my way ; thof I trust, by the mercy of God, I shall be sure in port in a very few glasses, and fast moored in a most blessed riding ; for my good friend Jolter hath overhauled the journal of my sins, and, by the observation he hath taken of the state of my soul, I hope I shall happily conclude my voyage, and be brought up in the latitude of heaven. Here has been a doctor that wanted to stow me choke-full of physic ; but, when a man's hour is come, what signifies his taking his departure with a 'potliecary's shop in his hold? Those fellows come alongside of dying men, like the messengers of the Admiralty with sailing orders; THE LI TERA R Y BO UQ UE T. 1 29 but 1 told him as how 1 coultl shp my cable without his direction or assistance, and so he hauled off in dudgeon. This cursed hiccup makes such a rippling in the current of my speech that mayhap you don't understand what I say. Now, A\hile the sucker of my wind-pump will go, I would willingly mention a few things, which 1 hope }ou will set down in the log-book of your remembrance, when I am stiff, d'ye see. There's your aunt sitting whimpering by the fire ; I desire you will keep her tight, warm, and easy in her old age ; she's an honest heart in her own way, and, thof she goes a little crank and humoursome, by being often overstowed with Nantz and religion, she has been a faithful shipmate to me. Jack Hatchway, you know the trim of her as well as e'er a man in England, and I believe she has a kindness for )'0u ; whereby, if you two will grapple in the way of matrimony, when I am gone, I do suj^pose that my godson, for love of me, will allow you to live in the garrison all the days of your life." Peregrine assured him he w^ould with pleasure comply with an)- request he should make in behalf of two persons whom he esteemed so much. The lieutenant, with a waggish sneer, which even the gravity of the situation could not prevent, thanked them both for their good-will, telling the commodore he was obliged to him for his friendship, in seeking to promote him to the command of a vessel which he himself had wore out in the service; but that, notwithstanding, he should be content to take charge of her, though he could not help being shy of coming after such an able navigator. Trunnion, exhausted as he was, smiled at this sally, and, after some pause, resumed his admonitions in this manner : — " I need not talk of Pipes, because I know you'll do for him without any recommendation ; the fellow has sailed with me in many a hard gale, and I'll warrant him as stout a seaman as ever set face to the weather. But I hope you'll take care of the rest of my crew, and not dis- rate them after I am dead, in favour of new followers. As for that young woman, Ned Gauntlet's daughter, I'm informed as how she's an excellent wench, and has a respect for you; whereb}', if you run her on board in an unlawful way, I leave my curse upon you, and trust you will never prosper in the voyage of life. But I believe you are more of an honest man than to behave so much like a pirate. Shun going to law, as you would shun the devil ; and look upon all attorneys as devouring sharks or ravenous fish of pre\\ As soon as the breath is out of my THE LITER A R V BO U(2 UE T. body let minute-guns be fired, till I am safe under ground. I would also be buried in the red jacket 1 had on when I boarded and took the Renummy. Let my pistols, cutlass, and pocket-compass be laid in the coffin along with me. Let me be carried to the grave by my own men, rigged in the black caps and white shirts which my barge's crew were wont to wear ; and they must keep a good look- out that none of your pilfering rascallions may come and heave me up again, for the lucre of what they can get, until the carcass is belayed by a tombstone. As for the motto, or what you call it, T leave that to you and Mr. Jolter, who are scholars ; but I do desire that it may not be engraved in the Greek or Latin lingos, and much less in the French, which I abominate, but in plain English, that when the angel comes to pipe all hands, at the great day, he may know that I am a liritish man, and speak to me in my mother tongue. And now I have no more to say, but God in heaven have mercy upon my soul, and send you all fair weather, wheresoever you are bound." So saying, he regarded every individual around him with a look of complacency, and, closing his eye, composed himself to rest, while the whole audience, Pipes himself not excepted, were melted with sorrow ; and Mrs. Trunnion consented to quit the room, that she might not be exposed to the unspeakable anguish of seeing him expire. His last moments, however, were not so near as they imagined. He began to doze, and enjoyed small intervals of ease, till next day in the afternoon ; during which remissions he was heard to pour forth many pious ejaculations, expressing his hope that, for all the heavy cargo of his sins, he should be able to surmount the puttock-shrouds of despair, and get aloft to the cross-tiees of God's good favour. At last his voice sunk so low as not to be distinguished ; and, having lain about an hour almost without any perceptible signs of life, he gave up the ghost with a groan, which announced his decease. Smol/c//. THR IJTERARV B0U(2UET. 133 A FAIR MANSION OF OLD ENGLAND. THERE are many foir mansions in the "garden of England," many noble manorial halls and stately castles, but none, perhaps, of goodlier aspect, or more pleasantly situated, than Sir Philip Sidney's home at Penshurst. It stands upon an ample lawn in the green valley of the Medway, with swelling hills around, and patches of leafy woodland, gardens, bowers, and fertile meadows. No better description of it exists than that so boldly and felicitously drawn by Ben Jonson, in which he praises its walks for health as well as sport ; its mount, where Pan and Bacchus made high feasts "beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade ; " its i)asturage for "sheep, bullocks, kine, and calves;" its orchard fruit, its garden flowers. Commemorating, too, the well-ordered household by which the noble pile was tenanted, and the admirable example displayed before its youthful scions b\- its illustrious lord and lady : " They arc, and liave l)een, taught religion : tlience Tiicir gentle spirits have siick'd innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray Witli the whole houseliold ; and may every day Read in their \irtuous parents' noble parts The mysteries of manners, arms, .and arts." //: //. D. Adams. 134 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. '\,/0U are old, Father William, the young man cried, X The locks which are left you are gray ; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man. Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first. That I never might need them at last. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away ; And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of my youth, Father \\'illiam replied, I remember'd that youth could not last, I thought of the future, whatever I did. That I never might grieve for the past. You are old, Father William, the young man cried. And life must be hastening away ; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death. Now tell me the reason, I pray. I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied, Let the cause thy attention engage ; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God ! And He hath not forgotten my age. Scnithey. /■///:" I rriiRARv N0i'(2i'K'j: 137 A NOBLE SENTIMENT. ON Monda}-, tlic 9th of Sei)tember, in the afternoon, the frigate was near cast away witli the violence of the waves, but at that time recovered ; and giving forth signs of joy. Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who sat in the stern with a book in his hand, cried out to the men of the " Hind," whenever they came within hearing, '"Courage, my lads! we are as near to heaven by sea as by land!" reiterating the same speech, which was well worthy of a soldier resolute in Jesus Christ. What a text for a preacher ! " As near to heaven by sea as by land " — as near to heaven in the garret as in the palace, in the reeking city as in the fresh breezy village. And not only loe as near to heaven, but haivai also as near to us! Ever about and around us — ever enfolding and embracing us — ever watching, quieting, sheltering us — if we will but so live as to deserve its protection ; if we will but so live as to merit the companionship of Christ and His angels ! \V. H. D. Adams. 1 38 THE LIT ERA RY BOUQ UE T. HOPE. AT summer e\"e, when Heaven's ethereal bow- Spans with bright arch the ghttering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those clifts of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no I she darkly sees the fate of man — Her dim horizon pointed to a span ; Or, if she hold an image to the view, 'Tis nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light That pours remotest rapture on the sight : Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, On tii)toe watching, start at thy command, And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, To pleasure's path or glory's bright career. Thomas Campbell. THE LITERARY BOU(2UET. 141 THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. HOW pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming foir ! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud, on the braes of the Ayr. ?\Iild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fiill of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. Bums. 142 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. JANE T. I'LT. mak' a fire iipo' the knowe, An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe; Sj'ne in't I'll ha'e ye brunt I trow — Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet I Your e'en in ilka starn I see — The hale night lang I dream o' thee — The bonnie Untie on the lea, I liken to you, Janet ! \Vhen leaves are green, an' fresh an' fliir — ^^'l^en blithe an' sunny is the air — I stroke my beard, and say they're rare; IJut naetliing like you, Janet ! 'Twas but yestreen, as I gaed hame, The minister said, "What is your name?" My answer — 'deed I may think shame — Was, " Sir, my name is Janet 1" Last Sabbath, as I sang the psalm, I fell into an unco dwaum. An' naethin frae my lips e'er cam' But "Janet ! Janet ! Janet !" I've fought, I've danced, an' drucken too ; But nane o' thae are like to do; Sae I maun come an' speer at you. What ails me, think ye, Janet I THE i.rriiRARY ihWocEf. 143 I'll so;)n be either dead or dafl. Sic drains o' love frac you I've qualT'd ; Sae lay aside your woman-craft — Ha'e mercy on me. Janet 1 An' if you winna, there's m\- loof, I'll gar the Pro-.ost lead a proof, Ah' pit ye 'neath the Tolbooth roof: Svne wliat will ye do, Janet? I'll mak" a fire upo' the knowe, An' l)la\\- it till it hleeze an' lowe ; Syne in't I'll ha'e ye brunt, I trow — \'e ha'e bewitch'd me. Janet ! Ro/'cr/ A'/'iv//. \VK AR1-: l^RKTHRKX A'. AilAri'\' bit hame this auld world would be, If men. when thjv're here could make shift to agree, An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha', " Come, gi'e me your hand— we are brethren a'." I ken na why ane v,i' anither should fight. When to 'gree would make a' body cosie an' right. ^^'hen man meets wi' man. 'tis the best way ava 'i'o sav. '• ("lie me vour hand — we are brethren a'." ,44 '^I'HE LITERARY BOUQUET. My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine, And I maun drink water, while you may drink wine ; But we baith ha'e a leal heart unspotted to shaw : Sae gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride, Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side ; Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw ; Then gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Ye would scorn to do falsely by woman or man ; I baud by the right aye, as well as I can ; AVe are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a' ; Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e ; An' mine has done for me what mithers can do ; We are ane, hie an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa : Sae gi'e me your hand — we are l)rethren a'. AVe love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ; Hame ! — O, how we love it, an' a' that are there I Frae the pure air o' heaven the same life we draw — Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Frail, shakin' Auld Age, will soon come o'er us baith, An' creepin' alang at his back will be Death ; Syne into the same mither-yard we will fa' ; Come, gi'e me your hand — we are brethren a'. Robert Nicoll. THE r.ni-.RARY /UHOri-'/f. 147 An' HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS. MY heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains higli ro\er'tl with snow ; Farewell to the straths antl green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods : I'arewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — Mv heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Ji/JIJlS H TO A SKYLARK. AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it. Poorest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From tlie earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou vvingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun. O'er which clouds are bright'ning. Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun, The ])ale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill deliglit. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamj) narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. THE LI TER. \RY BO U(2 UE T. 1 49 All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds tliere flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her lovedaden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkhng grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was foyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine 'i'hat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chant Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt — .\ thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of i)ain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest ; hut ne'er knew hne's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream. Or how could thv notes flow in such a crvstal stream ? Tin: IJ'l'ERARY nOUOCEl'. \\t look before and after And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some jxiin is frauglit ; Our sweetest songs are those tliat tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear ; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, 1 know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful .sound, Better than all treasures 'I'hat in books are found, 'i'h\' skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Sucli harmonious madness From my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Shelltx. 1 5 2 THE LIT ERA R Y BOUQ UE T. VIRTUES PRIZE. "\ T 7" HAT nothing earthly gives, or can destroy V V The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy. Is Virtue's prize : A better would you fix, Then give Humility a coach and six, Justice a conqueror's sword, or Truth a gown, ( )r Public Spirit its great cure, a crown. W'eak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward us there A\'ith the same trash mad mortals wish for here ? The boy and man an individual makes, Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cake ? Go, like the Indian, in another life Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife : As well as dream such trifles are assign'd. As toys and empires, for a godlike mind. Rewards, that either would to virtue bring No joy, or be destructive of the thing : How oft by these at sixty are undone The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! To whom can riches give repute or trust. Content or i)leasure, but the good and just ? Judges and senates have been bought for gold, Esteem and love were never to be sold. O fool ! to think God hates the worthy mind. The lover and the love of human kind, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. Honour and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Pope THE LITERARY BOUiJUET. 155 DAIXTV DAVIE. ^"[ (JW rosy May comes in \vi' flowers, V To deck her gay green-spreading bowers And now covnes in my happy hours ']"() wander wi' my Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe. Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; There I'll spend the duy wi' yon, My ain dear dainty Davie. The cr\stal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us blaw . A-wandering wi' my Davie. When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare. Then through the dews I will repair, To meet my foithfu' Da\ ie. When day, expiring in the west. The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo'e best, .\nd that's mv ain dear Da\ ie. 156 THE LITERARY BOUQUET. A PERFECT WOMAN. SHE was a phantom of delight ^^^len first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair : Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and way-lav. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, pro^nises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill. A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warm, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel liuht. ]Vords7s. i6o THE LITERARY BOUQUET. And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine ; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! Burin:. Ml'IK AND I'ATERSON, TKINTERS, EDINBURGH. D 000 294 815 6