V HI^HIV^I^^^l^^ u i i i t i > J J-* J J J * i i > > 1 » i • _ • • • « • • • • • • « » • • • • • • • » • « • M » • • • • • • • • • c • •• •■•• • • ••• I**- • • PAYING I.AIiOUKEKS tfHip. ELIZABETH, t^,^< f M !» 'oet, and display as much as possible his individuality — album verses, in fact, but album verses of high (juality, and written by our best poets, living or death W'c wished our book to be as full of good and savoury things as that cauldron at the marriage-feast, into which Sancho dipped so much to his heart's content. In conrkision, we luuc to express gratitude to many living authors for kind and generous permission to ([uote their \ t> t, . ^ poems, and to the publishers of London, for their minded alacrity in swelling our stores ; we have also to thank Mr. Jonathan Bouchier for his untiring aid ; and Mr. Cundall, for his zealous and judicious superintendence of the art depart- ment of this work. We cannot but deeply regret the omission of many eminent names ; but when a dining-room table will only hold a dozen agreeable and clever people, it is surely not wise to ask twenty-four. Dorking, Oct. i86P. J ->v lA i,Mt of Contents. Georof, Wmii.K. — 'I'iie Shepherd's Resolution /'a^e i Madrigal 2 Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss 3 Abraham Cowley. — Anacreontic: Drinking 4 The Chronicle 4 Robert Herrick. — The Bag of the Bee 7 • The Countr>' Life 7 The Night IMece. — To Julia y To the Virgins, to make much of their Time 10 To Daffodils 11 To Blossoms 1 1 To Primroses fdied with Morning Dew 12 To Corinna, to go a-Maying 13 John Milton. — To Cyriac Skinner 15 To Mr. Lawrence 16 On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three 16 Song on May Morning 17 Andrew I\L\rvell. — The Garden 18 The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn .... 20 The Earl of Rochester. — Song : My dear Mistress has a Heart 24 Love and Life 25 IzAAK Walton. — The Angler's Wish 26 Edmund Waller. — The Bud 28 Go, Lovely Rose 29 On a Girdle 29 To a Lady singing a Song of his composing 30 To Phyllis 30 Charles Cotton. — Invitation to Izaak Walton 31 George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. — Song : Come, let us now resolve at last ^^ John Dryden. — Song to Britannia, in "King Arthur" .... 34 The Fair Stranger 35 Sir Chari.es Sedley. — Song- Not, Celia, that I juster am . . . 36 Song : Love still has something of the Sea 37 Song : Hears not my Phyllis how the birds 38 Song : Phyllis is my only joy 39 To a very Young Lady 39 Charles Sackvii.le, Earl of Dorset. — Song: Written a* Sea, in the fi'st Dutch War, 1665, the night before an Engagement 41 vii . M 0^^ ^^1 'l>% C0.\ TEXTS. Dr. Walter Pope.— The Old Man's Wish Page 44 Matthew Prior. — Ode : The Merchant, to secnrc liis Treasure. . 48 An Answer to Chloe jeah^ns 49 To Chloe . . . .' 50 Chloe Hunting 5° To Chloe Weeping 5^ Cupid Mistaken 5' The Lady's Looking-Glass 52 On Beauty : a Riddle 53 Song : If Wine and Music have the Power 54 The Female Phaeton 55 The Garland 5^ John Gay. — To a Lady, on her passion for Old China 58 George Granville, Lord Lansdowne. — Song: Love is by Fancy led about . 6 1 Henry Carey. — Sally in our Alley 62 Alexander Pope. — Epistle to Mrs. Blount, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation 64 Ode on Solitude 66 Imitation of Swift : The Happy Life of a Country Parson . . 66 Ambrose Philips.— To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's arms 68 CoLLEY CiBBER. — The Blind Boy 69 William Oldys. — Song, made extempore by a Gentleman, occa- sioned by a Fly drinking out of his Cup of Ale 70 John Byrom. — A Pastoral 71 William Shenstone. — Hope 74 Robert Dodsley. — The Parting Kiss 76 John Gilbert Cooper — Away ! let nought to Lo\e displeasing . 77 Thomas Gray.— On the Death of a Favourite Cat, drowned in a tub of Gold Fishes 79 Tobias George Smollett. — Ode to Leven Water 81 Paul Whitehead.— Hunting Song 82 Oliver Goldsmith. — Stanzas on Woman 83 The Haunch of Venison 83 Sir Gilbert Elliot. — Amynta 87 Dr. John Langhorne.— To a Redbreast S8 Dr. S.amuel Johnson. — To Mrs. Tin-ale, on her completing her Tliirty-fifth ^'ear . . 89 To Miss Hickman, playing on the Spinnet 90 John Logan. — To the Cuckoo 91 Thomas Warton. — Written on a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's " Monasticon " . . 93 On Revisiting the River Loddon 93 Thomas Blacklock. — Ode to Aurora on Melissa's Birth-day . . 94 Samuel Bishop.— To Mrs. Bishop, on the Anniversary of her Wedding-day, whicii was also her Birth-day, with a Ring . . 96 Robert Burns. — Of a' the airts the Wind can blaw 97 A Rosebud by my early wallc 98 \\ii ^ '^^i/vp^yrr- i^ CONTENTS. Wii.iiAM CowPER. — The Poplar Field /V/!,v 99 The Rose 100 1)K. Erasmus Dakwin. — Song to May loi Henry Kirke White. — To an Early Primrose 102 Mrs. Charlotte S.mith. — Hope : a Rondeau 103 Dr. Thomas Percy —O Nancy, wilt thou go with me .... 104 Richard Brinslev Sheridan. — Un Female Intluence .... 106 To 106 To 107 On a Child 107 From the "Duenna" 107 Had I Heart for falsehood framed loS John Keats. — Robin Hood 109 Fancy 1 1 1 In a drear-nighted December '. . 113 Percy Bvsshe Shelley. — Lines to an Indian Air 114 Love's Philosophy 115 Dirge for the Year 115 Lord Pyron. — She walks in beauty 117 ,.,^ Waiii of Athens, ere we part iiS i)) ^^1"^ , Stanzas for Music 119 Mrs. Barbauld. — Life 120 f9^, Lord Thurlow.— Song to May 121 \ Captain Morris. -A Reason fair to fill my Glass 123 The Town and the Country 12^ V Sir Walter Scott.— .Song in " (^uentin Durward" 127 Serenade from the "Pirate" 127 Song in "Woodstock" 128 To a Lady, with Flowers from the Roman Wall 128 The Hon. William Robert Spencer. — Wife, Children, and Friends 129 To Lady Anne Hamilton 130 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. — Love 131 Inscription ftjr a Fountain on a Heath 134 Charles Lam k. -The Old Familiar Faces 135 Hester 136 James Hogg. — The Skylark 137 When the Kye comes Hame 138 Felicia D. Hemans. — To my own Portrait 140 George Col.man, Junior. — Lodgings for Single Gentlemen . . 142 LETITIA ELIZAIiETH LANDON.— Song : Oh never another dream can be 144 James Smith. — Brighton 14:; Chigvvell, or " Praiteritos Annos " I4''> ^, Winthrop Mackworth Praed. — Charade, on the Poet Campbell 149 jj" Tiie \'icar 150 School and Schoolfellows 153 Thomas Haynes Bayly. — I'd be a Butterfly, born in a liower . . 156 The (>ld Bachelor 157 ix .Yi '^j m 1 CONTENTS. Beau Brummell. — The Butterfly's Funeral Page 159 Theodore E. Hook. — Lines from the Heart . 161 Allan Cunningham. — The Poet's Bridal-day Song 163 Doctor Maginn. — My Soldier-Boy 165 Robert Southey. — The Holly Tree [66 Thomas Campbell. — Field Flowers 16S Thomas Hood. — It was not in the Winter 170 Laman Blanchard. — The Poet's Heart .... ...... 172 rQfi Rev. Richard Harris Barham. — Song: There sits a Bird on yonder Tree 174 Reflections in Westminster Abbey 175 As I laye a-thynkynge 1 76 Anne Bronte. — Home 178 Charlotte Bronte. — The Letter 179 William Wordsworth. — Louisa 182 She dwelt among the untrodden Ways 183 Poor Susan 183 She was a Phantom of Delight 184 Yarrow unvisited 185 I wandered lonely 187 William Lisle Bowles. — Water- Party on Beaulieu River . . . 1S8 Thomas Moore. — Take back the Virgin Page 190 The Origin of the Harp 191 There's a Bower of Roses by Bendemeer's Stream 192 Samuel Rogers. — To 193 A Wish 193 On asleep 194 An Italian Song 194 Leigh Hunt. — Rondeau 196 To J. H. Four Years Old 196 An Angel in the House 199 Lord Macaulay. — Song: O stay, Madonna! stay 200 Valentine to the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope 201 Robert B. Brough. — A Story from Boccaccio . 203 Stewart Lockyer. — The Toast 209 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. — Wine of Cyprus 211 William Makepeace Thackeray. — The Ballad of Bouillabaisse . 218 The Age of Wisdom 220 The Mahogany Tree 1 221 The Cane-bottomed Chair 222 Alaric Alexander Watts. — Ten Years Ago 224 Adelaide Anne Procter. — My Picture Gallery 227 Walter Savage Landor. — On receiving a Monthly Rose . . . 230 To John Foster 231 Sixteen 232 Francis Mahony (Father Prolt). — Paraphrase of Horace, Book I. Ode 9 233 The Shandon Bells '. 234 The Town of Passage 235 >ki H ^i i ^^'fv-.V^ K\ LIVING AUTHORS. v<^ f-k William Allingham. — The Lover and Birds • Pry 239 Philip Jamks Bailey. — Song, from " Festiis" 241 IIiiNRY S. Leigh. — The .See-Saw 242 Mary Howitt. — The Barley- Mowers' Song 24.^ Richard Chenevix Trench. — Atlantis 245 Edmu.nd F. Blan'chard. — What will you do. Love? 247 Eliza Cook. — Our Native Song 248 Algernon Charles Swinburne. — Chorus in " Atalanta in Calydon " 250 Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell. — Derby Day 252 L(mD Houghton (Monckton Milnes). — .Song : I wandered by the Brook-side 255 Alexander Smith. — A Ballad from the " Life Drama " .... 256 Christina Rossetti. — Song : When I am dead, my dearest . . 258 Lord Lytton. — Memories, the Fond of Love 259 The Hollow Oak 260 Tom Taylor.— "Ten, Crown Office Row" 261 Charles Mackay. — Street Companions 264 Thomas Hood, Junior. — Spring 266 Tames Payn. — "The Backs," Cambridge 268 Mortimer Collins. — The Waysi*i .M.. P«-^ GEORGE WITHER. 1588— 1667. Playful fancy, pure taste, and artless delicacy of sentiment, (says Mr. Ellis) distinguish the poetry of George Wither. — Is it not difficult to imagine the leader of a troop of Parliamentary horse an- ticipating Wordsworth in his exquisite appreciation of the smallest of Nature's beauties .'' In the Marshalsea Wither wrote some of his tenderest verses ; and whether stern Major-general for Cromwell in Surrey, or in the Gate House pining for liberty, he seems to have maintained the same undeviating fervour and a high changeless love of all that was beautiful and good. THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair ? Or my cheeks make pale with care 'Cause another's rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May — If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ; Or a well-disposM nature Joined with a lovely feature } I r\ -o Qi fVc' v.. X.- ^ ^x^ ^\^ M^ ^\ ^^ ^ -;cv^ Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican. If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best, If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be ? 'Cause her fortune seems too high. Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do, Who without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see. What care I though great she be? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me. What care I for whom she be? MADRIGAL. Amaryllis I did woo. And I courted Phyllis too ; Daphne for her love I chose, Chloris, for that damask rose In her cheek, I held so dear, Yea, a thousand liked well near; nil': STULKiN KISS. >^^- ;^, '<^ ^ X o ''i And, in love with all together, Fear5d the enjoying either : 'Cause to be of one possessed Barred the hope of all the rest. SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; And free access unto that sweet lip lies. From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; None sees the theft that would the theft reveal, Nor rob I her of ought what she can miss : Nay, should 1 twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I would do so ; Why then should 1 this robbery delay ? Oh ! she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one. And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. / ilj V^ ■\ V ■D . ^v- -^^ //. Martha soon did it rcsij;n To the beauteous Catherine. Beauteous Catherine gave place — Though loath and angry she to part With the possession of my heart — To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'cn ; Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose And cast away her yoke. Mary then and gentle Anne Both to reign at once began Alternately they swayed ; And sometimes Mary was the fair. And sometimes Anne the crown did wear Sometimes I both obeyed. Another Mary then arose, And did vigorous laws impose ; A mighty tyrant she ! Long, alas ! should I have been Under that iron-sceptcred queen. Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me. But soon those pleasures fled ; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride. And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an houi Judith held the sovereign power. Wondrous beautiful her face ; But so weak and small her wit That she to govern was unfit, — And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came. Armed with a resistless flame And the artillery of her eye, 5 L ^^1 M^ ;J7 -.^^ }\ Whilst she proudly marched about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan, by the bye. But in her place I then obeyed Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid. To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worse passions then possest The interregnum of my breast : Bless me from such an anarchy ! Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began ; Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria, And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catherine, And then a long ' et cetera,' But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings. The lace, the paint, and warlike things That make up all their magazines : If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts ; The letters, embassies, and spies. The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries. Numberless, nameless mysteries ; And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting-maid; I more voluminous should grow — Chiefly if 1 like them should tell All change of weathers that befell — Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be. Since few of them were long with me. A higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' th' name, Whom God grant long to reign ! 6 /Vi- •,v^A ^i^:- $ ROBKRT IIKKRICK. 1591—1674. The vicar of a Devonshire village, Herrick, was no quiet saintly preacher of the Gospel like George Herbert of Bemerton. He loved to press the grape clusters with Ben Jonson, in the " Sun, the Dog and Triple Tun," and to listen to the revelling poets in the Apollo Chamber, hard by Temple Bar. In calmer moments, in the dewy evening, in tlie tranquil meadows of Dean Prior, however, this graceful poet found time to watch the primroses glowing in the dusk ; time also to record their beauty and their transitoriness, and to weave into verse a thousand pleasant thoughts on the charms of a countrv life. ■^^ 1) V^ (O THE BAG OF THE BEE. About the sweet bag of a bee, . Two Cupids fell at odds ; And whose the pretty prize should be, They vowed to ask the gods. Which Venus hearing thither came. And for their boldness stript them ; And, taking thence from each his flame. With rods of myrtle whipt them. Which done, to still their wanton cries. When quiet grown she 'd seen them. She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes. And gave the bag between them. THE COUNTRY LIFE. Sweet country life, to such unknown. Whose lives are others, not their own I But, serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee. 7 ^/v ^^k M Mi M rcr^ o-T M ^\j Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam, To seek and bring rough pepper home ; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove, To bring from thence the scorched clove ; Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West. No ; thy ambition's master-piece Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year ; But walk'st about thine own dear grounds. Not envying others' larger bounds ; For well thou know'st 'tis not the extent Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock, the ploughman's horn. Calls for the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy cornfields thou dost go. Which, though well soiled, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands. There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team. With a hind whistling there to them ; And cheer'st them up by singing how The kingdom's portion is the plough. This done, then to th' enamelled meads Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads, Thou seest a present god-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower ; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat Unto the dew-laps up in meat ; And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near. To make a pleasing pastime there. These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; * And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, A shepherd piping on the hill. For sports, for pageantry, and plays, 8 rO^ ,^. Lt^. •SKf ] 1% '\r %, ^o~); :f Thou hast thy eves and hoI\-clays, (In which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country-round, With dafifodils and daisies crowned. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced ; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing feast, which never fail : Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, 7'hat's tost up after fox i' th' hole ; Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings ; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit. And no man pays too dear for it. To these thou hast thy time to go. And trace the hare in the treacherous snow : Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net ; Thou hast thy cock-rood, and tiiy glade, To take the precious pheasant made ; Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then, To catch the pilfering birds, not men. O happy life, if that their good The husbandmen but understood I Who all the day themselves do please. And younglings, with such sports as these ; And, lying down, have nought t' affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. THE NIGHT-PIECE.— TO JULIA. Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. The shooting stars attend thee ; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee. Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; But on, on thy way. Not making a stay. Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 9 < at,-' ""€^1_ >4 H '-o^. cO ^->-0. t^ ■^.- '•o—'^ Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet My soul I'll pour into thee. TO THE VIRGIN.S. TO MAKE MUCH OF THEIR TIME Gather the rosebuds while ye may," Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer ; But, being spent, the worse, and worst Time shall succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time. And while ye may, go marry ; For, having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. * Gather therefore the rose whilst yet is prime, For soon coines age that will her pride deflower ; Clather the rose of love whilst yet is time, Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime. Spenser, " Faerie Qiiecne" ii. ir. " Translated from Tasso's '' Gerusaleiinne Liberata," y.\\. 15 10 WM ^^ TO DAFFODILS. Fair Daffodils, wc weep to sec You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run I'.ut to llio even-song ; And, having prayed together, wc Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, Wc have as short a spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. Why do ye fiill so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight. And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to shew your %\orth. And lose you quite. 1 1 K But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. .J»^ TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as Ih^ modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas ! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind ; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep ; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby ? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet ? Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this .'' No, no ; this sorrow shewn By your tears shed. Would have this lecture read — ' That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' 12 .'^. TO CORIXNA, TO GO A MAYINC. (ict up, get up, for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. Sec how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quiUed colours through the air ; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. I'lach flower lias wept, and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, Nay, not so much as out of bed ; When all the birds have matins said. And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. Kise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair ; Fear not, the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you ; besides, the childhood of the day has kept. Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the de\v-locks of the night : And Titan on the Eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praving ; Few beads are best when once we go a Maying. Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimmed with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough. Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this. An ark, a tabernacle, is. Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love. W % 1Z lu Can such delight be in the street And open fields, and we not see 't ? Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey The proclamation made for May : And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come* Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream ; And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth. And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : Come, let us go, while we are in our prime. And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun ; And as a vapour, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again ; So when or you or 1 arc made A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying. Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. Young folk now flocken in everywhere To gather May-buskets and smelling brere ; And home they hasten the posts to dight, And all the Kirk-pillars ere daylight, With hawthorn buds and sweet eglantine. Spenser, ^^ SheplierdU Calendar,^' May. MILTON S HOME. 4 f JOHN MILTON. 1608—1674. The very name of Milton evokes at once the traditions of this " signor dell 'altissimo canto." A blind, venerable, grey-haired man, we see him alone in the twilight in his low-roofed dim London room, hearing the angels conversing beside the golden gates of Paradise as he touches the keys of the organ and ponders over the great mysteries of the primeval world. It is pleasant, in the Sonnet to his friend Mr. Lawrence, to find him describing his own fireside, on the evening of " a sullen day,"— a flask of Canary standing on the table beside an ivory-fretted hitc. d^^ TO CYRIAr SKINNER. Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis with no mean applause Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws. Which others at their bar so often wrench ; To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that, after, no repenting draws ; Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show. That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 15 '^r '^ TO ME. LAWRENCE. Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire. Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining ? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? "' He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow. It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high. Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven ; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. * In this truly Miltoiiic line we seem to have a oretaste of the incomparable harmonies the " Paradise Lost." i6 )^.^ SV-G-'^ |>^!?'®i^g?^ '/- SONG ON MAY MORNING. V, Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the j^ale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song. And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 4 e* «#■<•) 17 r> VJ .^Tv c \v. J^^h ^•^ sfrj^ ANDREW MARVELL. 1620 — 1678. Hull can boast no son of hers that can compare with this honest man, flaying satirist, and fine poet. Robust men like Marvell are frequently almost over-refined in their verse. After felling oaks, it seems to be a relief to them to paint porcelain cups. The tranquillizing pleasures of the country were never painted more charmingly than by Marvell in his beautiful poem of "The Garden." "^ SI /^^. Sv, '^ .V THE GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose ! Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence, thy sister dear ? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men : Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow, Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. Cut in these trees their mistress' name : Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed ! Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, 18 ,^ Love hither makes his best retreat : The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race : Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow : And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a rccd. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; 1 Ik- luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass. Ensnared witli flowers, 1 fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness ; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these. Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot. Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings. Then whets and claps its silver wings. And, till prepared for longer flight. Waves in its plumes the various light.* Such was that happy Garden-state f * "Waves in the eye of heaven her many-coloured wings." Gray, Biird. t Campbell seems to have been of a different opinion : he says, "The world was sad, the Garden was a wild. And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled." PUasurts of Hopr. / / ^ ^^ f '*=^! r While man there walked without a mate : After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet ! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises are in one To live in Paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ! THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm, alas ! nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I'm sure I never wish'd them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will : But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But, O my fears ! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of everything. And nothing may w^e use in vain ; Even beasts must be with justice slain Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine and wound me to the heart, 20 Ik >^ \ V Yet could tlioy not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One niorning, I remember well, Tied in this silver chain and bell, (iave it to me : nay, and I know What he said then, I'm sure I do : Said he, " Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer." But Sylvio soon had me beguiled ; This wax^d tame, while he grew wild. And quite regardless of my smart Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this ; and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent ; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game : it seemed to bless Itself in me ; how could I less Than love it ? O, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me I Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did ; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he ; But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. •#!■' ^- With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at my own fingers nursed ; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than thcv. -^M" Vj^ 3^'^ The holy frankincense doth flow ; The brotherlcss Hchades Melt in such amber tears as these. 1 in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it doth o'crflow with mine, Then place it in Diana's shrine. Now my sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go ; In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure O do not run too fast : for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. First, ray unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble ; and withal, Let it be weeping too ; but there The engraver sure his art may spare ; For I so truly thee bemoan, That I shall weep though 1 be stone, Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there Then at my feet shalt thou be laid. Of purest alabaster made ; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee. .c^ j^M 4^\ f?-'^ 'C6: ;^-^ ,>v ■^1 ;^/ 'N/- THE EARL OF ROCHESTER. 1647 — 1680. CIV ^-••>\ The vcrsc ol Jt)hn Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, is more artificial than that of Sedley. It does not come from the heart, but the head. c0 Or a la\crock build her ncsl : Here, give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitched ihoiiglits above Earth, or what poor mortals love : Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise Of princes' courts. I would rejoice ; Or with my l)r)ig with many a coming rose, This early bud began to blush. And did but half itself disclose ; I plucked it, though no better grown, And now vou see how full 'tis blown. (' ■-fJi TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING- Chloris ! yourself you so excel When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which on the shaft that made him die Espied a feather of his own Wherewith he wont to soar so high. Had Echo with so sweet a grace Narcissus' loud complaints returned, Not for reflection of his face. But of his voice, the bov had burned. 'Oi TO PHYLLIS. Phyllis ! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day.^ Could we (which we never can I ) -Stretch our lives beyond their span, Beauty like a shadow flies. And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay, Love hath wings and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time, Change in love to heaven does climb, Gods that never change their state Vary oft their love and hate. Phyllis 1 to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two. Let not you and I enquire What has been our past desire ; On what shepherds you have smiled, Or what nymphs I have beguiled ; Leave it to the planets too. What we shall hereafter do ; For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love. 30 .^/ ^y «^ \ /•I 4i J f/ «4 a>i XT :^ s> A CHARLES COTTOX. 1630 — 1687. Charles Cotton was a careless, witty, Derbyshire gentleman, fond of trout-fishing and verse-writing, and doing both well. His friendship with that fine old London citizen, Izaak Walton, has endeared him to us all. His translation of " Montaigne" is admir- ably vivacious, and his version of the adventures of the old, brave, bragging, Gascon soldier, Dc Montluc, is one of the most enjoyable books of the kind in the world. ^r n ^f^ "'\ \*c^ /:'L INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. Whilst in this cold and blustering clime. Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar. We pass away the roughest time Has been of many years before ; Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks The chillcst blasts our peace invade. And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made ; Whilst all the ills are so improved Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, Wc would not now wish with us here : 3' x' y " J In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose That in a better clime than this You, our dear friend, have more repose ; And some dehght to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in vain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing-day. We then shall have a day or two. Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly. A day with not too bright a beam ; A warm, but not a scorching sun ; A southern gale to curl the stream ; And, master, half our work is done. Then, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray. We'll prove it just with treacherous bait To make the preying trout our prey ; And think ourselves in such an hour Happier than those, though not so high. Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home Shall be our pastime and our theme ; But then — should you not deign to come You make all this a flattering dream. 32 r^i GKORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 1627— 1688. 'A I Dryden's Zimri,— who "In the course of one revolving moon VV'as chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon,'' — was also a writer of amorous verse, as smooth and heartless, but not so gay nor fanciful, as that of many of his contemporaries. Too busy to do anything but trifle, too well-bred to write gravely, Buckingham produced songs that echoed through Whitehall, and were forgotten when the echo passed. I ,^;^^ St 4" -CO] W ^ ^ y ^P» RECONCILIATION. Come, let us now resolve at last To live and lo\'e in quiet ; We'll tie the knot so very fast That time shall ne'er untie it. The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live ; 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgi\e. When least I seemed concerned I took No pleasure nor no rest ; And when I feigned an angry look, Alas I I loved you best. \ 33 r- rd O'- v^- ^isr^. '<^ ,*^ ^^ JOHN DRYDEN 1631- Dryden was the eldest son of a Northamptonshire gentleman ; he began by eulogizing Cromwell ; went on to praise Charles the Second ; wrote licentious plays for money, though himself a quiet, respectable man ; and ended by turning Roman Catholic. Such a character can scarcely be pleasant to contemplate, and we must deplore that the great poet lived in so unhappy and vicious an age. There is a long and elastic swing in his satirical verse that makes its lashes cut as deep almost as Juvenal's ; but Dryden wanted grace, taste, purity, and above all — heart. SONG TO BRITANNIA, IN "KING ARTHUR." Fairest isle, all isles excelling, Seat of pleasures and of loves : Venus here will choose her dwelling, And forsake her Cyprian groves. Cupid from his favourite nation Care and envy will remove ; Jealousy, that poisons passion, And despair, that dies for love. Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining. Sighs, that blow the fire of love ; Soft repulses, kind disdaining. Shall be all the pains you prove. Every swain shall pay his duty. Grateful every nymph shall prove ; And as these excel in beauty. Those shall be renowned for love. ^<^ fe^ .^ ^J' THE FAIR STRANGER. Happy and free, securely blest, No beauty could disturb my rest ; My amorous heart was in despair To find a new victorious fair. Till you descending on our plains With foreign force renew my chains ; Where now you rule without control. The mighty sovereign of my soul. Your smiles have more of conquering charms Than all your native country's arms: Their troops we can expel with case, .Who vanquish only when we please. But in your eyes, oh ! there 's the spell ; Who can see them, and not rebel ? You make us captives by your stay, Yet kill us if you go away. ^^ SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. 1639 — 1 70 1. Sedley was in his youth the gayest of the butterfly poets of King Charles's Court, and even in that dissolute age one of the most abandoned of the boon companions of the monarch. There is, however, a fine flow and fervour about his pretty song, " Love still has something of the Sea." SONG. Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thecf By every thought I have ; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored, In thy dear self I find. For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek farther store, And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. 36 '^;'^W^ X ■m^^ SONG. Love still has something of the sea From whence his mother rose ; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose. They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed ; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost. One while they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main Some angr>' wind, in cruel sport, The vessel drives again. At first disdain and pride they fear. Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and falsehood soon appear In a more dreadful shape. 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; And to defer a joy. Believe me, gentle Celemenc, Offends the winged boy. An hundred thousand oaths your fears Perhaps would not remove ; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love. 37 ''^W^'^^W^^ 38SSil Hears not my Phyllis, how the birds Their feather'd mates salute ? They tell their passion in their words ; Must I alone be mute ? Phyllis, without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while. The god of Love in thy bright eyes Does like a tyrant reign ; But in thy heart a child he lies, Without his dart or flame. Phyllis, without frown or smile. Sat and knotted all the while. ■/^A Br> '1) So many months in silence past, And yet in raging love. Might well deserve one word at last My passion should approve. Phyllis, without frown or smile. Sat and knotted all the while. Must then your faithful swain expire. And not one look obtain. Which he, to soothe his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain ? Phylhs, without frown or smile. Sat and knotted all the while. .QS^ >.-vl-vi-,^ .--.-^- .. in,-., ^ ^-^wf- p ^; ^if-v"- riivi.i.is. ■T — ' — ^ — i-^ V ' * 7- e~ zy K> ^n. z^ T \f: SONG. Phyllis is my only joy, Faithless as the winds or seas ; Sometimes comin^^, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please ; If with a frown I am cast down, Phyllis smiling, And beguiling, Makes me happier than before. Tho', alas ! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix, Yet the moment she is kind I forgive her all her tricks ; Which, tho' I see, 1 can't get free ; She deceiving, I believing ; What need lovers wish for more ? TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit As unconcerned as when Your infant beautv could beget No happiness or pain ! When 1 the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest awa)-. 39 tw^^^^- hl^f^ > Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine ; Age from no face takes more away Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, So love as unperceived did fly, And centered in my breast. My passion with your beauty grew, While Cupid at my heart Still as his mother favoured you Threw a new flaming dart : Each gloried in their wanton part ; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art — To make a beauty, she. Though now I slowly bend to love. Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve I shall my freedom hate. Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disordered be. Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see. From Sedley's play, "The Mulberry Garden." These verses have often been attri- buted to Duncan Forbes of CuUoden. 4^ q\ml '^ v %, ± f> CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 1637— 1705-6. Prior (and who was a better judge of light verse ?) thought the gay Earl's song one of the prettiest ever made ; and it is certainly as airy and gallant as such a song could be. We seem to rock up and down as we read it. There is the sunny ease, the playful elegance of a lighthearted courtier about it. The excitement of the coming battle (one of the most tremendous fought in that reign) had no doubt risen like Champagne into the man's witty, careless brain. rO- f^o' d SONG WRITTEN AT SEA IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite ; But first would have you understand How hard it is to wTite ; The muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. With a fa la, la, la, la. For though the muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain ; Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea. With a fa la, &c. Then if we write not by each post Think not we are unkind, Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind : 41 G c Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook. With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look, With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile ; May I govern, &c. W^ith Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more Of the best wits that reigned in the ages before ; With roast mutton, rather than venison or teal. And clean tho' coarse hnen at every meal ; May I govern, &c. With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the Vicar ; With Monte-Fiascone, or Burgundy wine. To drink the king's health as oft as I dine ; May I govern, &c. May my wine be vermilion, may my malt-drink be pale. In neither extreme, or too mild or too stale : In lieu of desserts, unwholesome and dear, Let Lodi or Parmesan bring up the rear. May I govern, &c. Nor Tory or Whig, observator or trimmer. May I be, nor against the law's torrent a swimmer. May I mind what I speak, what I write, and hear read, And with matters of State ne'er trouble my head.* May I govern, &c. Let the gods, who dispose of every king's crown, Whomsoever they please set up and pull down ; I'll pay the whole shilling imposed on my head. Though I go without claret that night to my bed. May I govern, &c. :^d ^ :t 'i r * " Leave princes' affairs undescanted on, And tend to such doings as stands thee upon." TlSSER. x.-^. I'll bleed without grumbling, though fresh taxes appear As oft as new moons, or weeks in a year. For why should I let a seditious word fall, Since my lands in Utopia pay nothing at all ? May I govern, &c. Though I care not for riches, may I not be so poor That the rich without shame cannot enter my door ; May they court my converse, may they take much delight My old stories to hear in a winters long night. May I govern, &c. My small stock of wit may I not misapply To flatter ill men, be they never so high ; Nor misspend the few moments I steal from the grave In fawning and cringing like a dog or a slave. May I govern, &c, May none whom I love to so great riches rise As to slight their acquaintance and their old friends despisf ; So low or so high may none of them be As to move either pity or envy in me. May I govern, &c. A friendship I wish for — (but, alas ! 'tis in vain), So firm, that no change of times, envy, or gain, Or flattery, or woman, should have power to untie : Jove's storehouse is empty, and can't it supply. May I govern, &c. I hope I shall have no occasion to send For priests or physicians till Pm so near mine end That I have ate all my bread and drank my last glass ; Let them come then and set their seals to my pass. May I govern, &c. 46 i(GN(d^D(^ ^ ->/ ^ ^ ^^^^ -^^^ With a courage undaunted may I face my last day, And when I am dead may the better sort say, In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow. He's gone, and not left behind him his fellow. May I govern, &c. r^( y Q» Without any noise when I've passed o'er the stage, And decently acted what part Fortune gave, And put off my vest in a cheerful old age, May a few honest fellows see me laid in my grave. May I govern, (S:c. tlQi I care not whether under a turf or a stone. With any inscription upon it, or none : If a thousand years hence, Here lies W. P. Shall be read on my tomb, what is it to me ? May I govern, tSrc. Yet one wish I add, for the sake of those few Who in reading these lines any pleasure shall take ; May I leave a good fame and a sweet-smelling name. Amen. Here an end of my Wishes I make. May I govern, &c. 47 MATTHEW PRIOR. 1664— 1 72 1. Prior was brought up by his uncle in a tavern at Charing Cross, The Earl of Dorset one day discovering the quick-eyed lad reading Horace by stealth, took a liking to him, and sent him to Cambridge. Entering the Government service, he rose in time to be Under- Secretary of State and Commissioner of Trade. Nothing can be imagined more airy and playful than the best of Prior's poems. He ripened in French sunshine, and its glow still lingers over his verse ; as the elder Disraeli finely said of him, ' Prior drank Bur- gundy in its own vineyard.' ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre. Upon Euphelia's toilet lay — When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs ; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed : Euphelia frowned : I sung, and gazed ; I played, and trembled ; And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled. 48 C«'«*)«*.3 SUNSET HY THE SEA. ^t^f ■ro^ I ^ ^^ ^0^^^^>-^ AN ANSWKR TO CIILOE JEALOUS. Dear Chloc, how blubbered is that pretty face I * Thy check all on tire, and thy hair all uncurled : Prithee, quit this caprice, and, as old KalstatT says. Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy : More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. To bj vexed at a tritle or two that I writ. Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong ; You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit : Odd's-life ! must one swear to the truth of a sontr ? o What 1 speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art : I court others in verse ; but I love thee in prose : And they have ni)' ^vhimsies, but thou hast my heart. The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun. How after his journeys he sets up his rest : If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he reclines on his Thctis's breast. So when I am wearied with wandering all day. To thee, my delight, in the evening I come ; No matter what beauties I saw in my way. They were but my visits, but thou art my home. Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimcr than me. ■* " IMubbcrcd fucc." Used by Speiibcr, i'acric Qiiccnc, D. i. c. 6, 49 H '■en- \^ ^^4^ '^'^^^^'' €»-« ^> I **V/ A ^3-A :^ TO CHLOE. Whilst I am scorched with liot desire In vain cold friendship you return ; Your drops of pity on my fire, Alas ! but make it fiercer burn. Ah ! would you have the flame supprest That kills the heart it heats too fast, Take half my passion to your breast : The rest in mine shall ever last. CHLOE HUNTING. Behind her neck her comely tresses tied, Her ivory quiver graceful by her side, A-hunting Chloe went : she lost her way, And through the woods uncertain chanced to stra>-. Apollo passing by beheld the maid, And, " Sister dear, bright Cynthia, turn," he said : "The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake." Loud Cupid laughed to see the god's mistake ; And, laughing, cried, " Learn better, great divine, To know thy kindred and to honour mine. Rightly advised far hence thy sister seek. Or on Meander's bank or Latmus' peak. But in this nymph my friend, my sister know : She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow ; Fair Thames she haunts, and every neighbouring grove Sacred to soft recess and gentle love. Go, with thy Cynthia hurl the pointed spear At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer : I and my Chloe take a nobler aim ; At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game. 50 o '(^ \^) ' • jV^TJ ^= '<^ v\ o TO Clll.oi: WEEPING. Sec, whilst thou wcep'st, fair Chloe, sec The world in sympathy with thee. The cheerful birds no longer sing, Each droops his head and hangs his wing. The clouds have bent their bosom lower, And shed their sorrows in a shower : The brooks beyond their limits flow, And louder murmurs speak their woe : The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares. They heave thy sighs and weep thy tears. Fantastic nymph I that grief should move Thy heart obdurate against love. Strange tears I whose power can soften all But that dear breast on which thev fall. CUl'lD MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summer's day, Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way. New strung his bow, new filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart, With all his might his bow he drew ; Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well guided arrow flew. " I faint ! I die I " the goddess cried : " O cruel ! couldst thou find none other To wreak thy spleen on ? parricide ! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.'' Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak — " Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye ; Alas ! how easy my mistake ; I took you for your likeness, Chloc."" 5' ^ ^d THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. IMITATION OF A GREEK IDYLI.IUM. Celia and I, the other day, Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea : The setting sun adorned the coast, His beams entire, his fierceness lost : And on the surface of the deep The winds lay only not asleep : The nymph did, like the scene, appear Serenely pleasant, calmly fair : Soft fell her words as flew the air. With secret joy I heard her say That she would never miss one day A walk so fine, a sight so gay. But, oh the change ! The winds grow high, Impending tempests charge the sky. The lightning flies, the thunder roars. And big waves lash the frightened shores. Struck with the horror of the sight She turns her head and wings her flight ; And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again Approach the shore or view the main. "Once more at least look back,'' said I, " Thyself in that large glass descry : When thou art in good humour drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast. The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee : 'Tis then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore. " But when vain doubt and groundless fear Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; When the big lip and watery eye Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 52 ^x^.v cv yi yj ^ ^ 'Tis then tliou art yon angry main Deformed by winds and daslied by rain ; And the poor sailor that must try Its fury labours less than I. Shipwrecked, in \ain to land I make, While love and fate still drive me back : Forced to doat on thee thy own way, I chide thee first, and then obey : Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh, I with thee, or witliout thee, die." ^ "^Vl ON BEAUTY: A RIDDLE. Resolve me, Chloe, what is this. Or forfeit me one precious kiss ? 'Tis the first offspring of the Graces, Bears different forms in different places, Acknowledged fine where'er beheld, Yet fancied finer when concealed. 'Twas Flora's wealth, and Circe's charm. Pandora's box of good and harm : 'Twas Mars' wish, Endymion's dream, Apelles' draught, and Ovid's theme. This guided Theseus through the maze, And sent him home with life and praise : But this undid the Phrygian boy. And blew the flames that ruined Troy. This shewed great kindness to old Greece, And helped rich Jason to the fleece. This through the East just vengeance hurled, And lost poor Antony the world. Injured, though Lucrcce found her doom. This banished tyranny from Rome ; For this Alcides learned to spin, His club laid down and lion's skin : For this Apollo deigned to keep With servile care a mortal's sheep. For this the father of the gods. Content to leave his high abodes, -^ c^^^ ^'WW^ ri: > In borrowed figures loosely ran, Europa's bull, and Leda's swan : For this he reassumes the nod While Semele commands the god ; Launches the bolt and shakes the poles. Though Momus laughs and Juno scolds. Here listening Chloe smiled and said, " Your riddle is not hard to read : I guess it." — Fair one, if you do. Need I, alas ! the theme pursue ? For this, thou seest, for this I leave Whate'er this world thinks wise or grave, Ambition, business, friendship, news. My useful books and serious Muse. For this I willingly decline The mirth of feasts and joys of wine ; And choose to sit and talk with thee. As thy great orders may decree. u Y^ IF WINE AND MUSIC HAVE THE POWER. If wine and music have the power To ease the sickness of the soul. Let Phoebus every string explore. And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl. Let them their friendly aid employ To make my Chloe's absence light, And seek for pleasure, to destroy The sorrows of this live-long night. But she to-morrow will return : Venus, be thou to-morrow great ; Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn, And meet thy favourite nymph in state. Kind goddess, to no other powers Let us to-morrow's blessings own ; Thy darling Loves shall guide- the hours, And all the day be thine alone. "What has she better, pray, than I, What hidden charms to boast, That all mankind for her should die, Whilst I am scarce a toast ? " Dearest Mamma I for once let me Unchained my fortune try ; I'll have my Earl as well as she. Or know the reason why. " I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score. Make all her lovers fall : They'll grieve 1 was not loosed before. She, I was loosed at all." • Afterwrml"; Duchess of Queen,sbur>', and .t frieiul nf that good-natured poet Gay SS ;^^%J^>^ The pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet and Hly fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose. To deck my charming Chloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath. •\r 'ot X, ^\». The flowers she wore along the day, And every nymph and shepherd said That in her hair they looked more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undressed at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eyes she cast. That eye dropped sense distinct and clear As any Muse's tongue could speak. When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, "My love, my life," said I, "explain This change of humour ; prithee, tell — That falling tear — what does it mean?" She sighed, she smiled ; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said, "See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, — See yonder, what a change is made. S6 •^ rcr^. K 4. Ml ■^ ■J <«-^ .<^^-3e>-^v3iv " Ah mc ! the blooming pride of May And that of Beauty arc but one ; At morn both flourish bright and gay, Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. " At dawn poor Stella danced and sung ; The amorous youth around her bowed At night her fatal knell was rung ; I saw and kissed her in her shroud. '^4S). •%) O "^»Ss P.< .^' " Such as she is who died to-day, Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow : Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display The justice of thy Chloc's sorrow." ■r^M} V <5N ^ '^^ >y^ 57 ^ Gay was a fat, careless, loveablc man, before whose drollery even Swift relented ; nor did Pope discharge one poisoned arrow at him. TO A LADY, ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA. What ecstasies her bosom fire ! How her eyes languish with desire ! How blest, how happy, should I be Were that fond glance bestowed on me ! New doubts and fears within me war : What rival's near ?— a china jar ! China's the passion of her soul : A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl, Can kindle wishes in her breast, Inflame with joy, or break her rest. Some gems collect, some medals prize. And view the rust with lovers' eyes ; Some court the stars at midnight hours ; Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers ; But every beauty I can trace In Laura's mind, in Laura's face ; My stars are in this brightest sphere, IMy lily and my rose is here. 5S i'^S^ j^u^ Si yV^. ^c^-cm^o o-c>a^a>;^o^ I'liilusuplKis, more j^ravc than wise. Hunt science down in bulteifiies ; Or, fondly porin;^ on a spider, Stretch human contemplation wider. P'ossils give joy to Galen's soul ; He digs for knowledge like a mole ; In shells so learn'd, that all agree No fish that swims knows more than he I In such pursuits if wisdom lies, Who, Laura, shall thy taste despise ? Where I some antique jar behold, Or white, or blue, or specked with gold. Vessels so pure and so refined Appear the types of womankind: Are they not valued for their beaut)-. Too fiiir, too fine for household duty ? With flowers, and gold, and azure dyed. Of every house the grace and pride ? How white, liow polish'd is tlicir skin. And valued most when only seen I She, who before was highest prized, Is for a crack or flaw despised. I grant they're frail ; yet they're so rare, The treasure cannot cost too dear I But man is made of coarser stuff, And serves convenience well enough. He's a strong earthen vessel, made For drudging, labour, toil, and trade : And, when wives lose their other self. With case they bear the loss of pelf. Husbands, more covetous than sage, Condemn this china-buvins: raee ; They count that woman's prudence little, Who sets her heart on things so brittle. But are those wise men's inclinations Fix'd on more strong, more sure foundations.' If all that's frail we must despise. No human view or scheme is wise. Are not Ambition's hopes as weak .' They swell like bubbles, shine, and break. 59 f ►/vf "-^Oo^ofg ii-<^ m /^ V-' K A courtier's promise is so slight, 'Tis made at noon, and broke at night. The man who loves a country life Breaks all the comforts of his wife ; And if he quit his farm and plough, His wife in town may break her vow. Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm, For each new winter breaks a charm ; And woman's not like china sold, But cheaper grows in growing old ; Then quickly choose the prudent part, Or else you break a faithful heart. vi"*> m Ti 60 sshl 4 ^ Jl a CO-) ^"O^ V GEORGE GRANVILLE 1667— 1734-5 A FRIEND and patron of Pope, commended by Waller, and a Treasurer in Queen's Anne's household. Lord Lansdowne wrote like a gentleman ; praising and petting the poets, he was praised by them. Although shut up in the Tower as an adherent of the Pretender, Lord Lansdowne escaped the block, and returned to the world to appear again in Parliament and to edit his poems. LOVE IS BY FANCY LED ABOUT M iP HENRY CAREY. 1700— 1743. This is one of the prettiest and most natural of English love songs. Carey had been watching an apprentice and his betrothed in Vauxhall, enjoying their cakes and ale — he came home and wrote this song. After a wild career, this mad genius destroyed himself at his house in Cold Bath Fields. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. Of all the girls that are so smart. There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, iVnd she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets And through the streets does cry 'em Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely, — But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. 62 k<-^ 7^ ^1S m .- JJ ■^ ^^ i Of all ihc clays that's in the week I dearly lo\e but one day — And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday : For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurcii As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink a\vay to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, then 1 shall have money ; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave, and row a galley ; But when my seven long years are out O then I'll marry Sally, — O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. But not in our alley ! ^f ^^>tf^ W As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh ; From the dear man unwilling she must sever. Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever : Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew ; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sighed not that they stayed, but that she went. She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks : She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day ; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea. To muse, and spill her solitary tea. Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon. Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon : Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ; Up to Jier godly garret after seven, There starve and prav, for that's the wa}- to heaven. 64 Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack ! Who visits with a gun, presents you birds. Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, — No words. I Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable ; Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table ; Whose laughs arc hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things — but his horse.* In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade ; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green ; Before you pass the imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and gartered knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes ; Then give one flirt and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls I So when your slave, at some dear idle time (Not plagued with head-aches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew. And while he seems to study, thinks of you ; Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthcnia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish ciuite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight ; Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow. Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. ■* " He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. S.imething better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.'' Tknnv.«;on : Locks ley Hal 65 K ^^o-o^^ VJ ,4 r Vo -. Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night ; study and ease Together mixed ; sweet recreation. And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; Thus unlamented let me die ; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. IMITATION OF SWIFT. THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON Parson, these things in thy possessing Are better than the bishop's blessing. A wife that makes conserves ; a steed That carries double when there's need ; October store, and best Virginia, Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea ; 66 §■ Gazettes sent gratis down, and franked, For which thy patron's weekly thanked ; A larf^e Concordance, bound long sinc^e ; Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince ; A Chronicle of ancient standing ; A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in : The Polyglott— three parts,— my text, Howbeit, — likewise — now to my next: Lo here the Septuagint,— and Paul, To sum the whole, — the close of all. He that has these may pass his life. Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife ; On Sundays preach, and eat his fill ; And fast on Fridays — if he will ; Toast Church and Queen, explain the news, Talk with church-wardens about pews, Pray heartily for some new gift. And shake his head at Doctor Swift. AMBROSE PHILIPS 1675—1749. This butt of the wits could, as we see below, be occasionally simple, pretty, and unaffected. To MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, in her MOTHER'S ARMS, I J/aj', 1724. Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please ; Little gossip, lithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale. Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart. Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush ; Like the linnet in the bush. To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat ; Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys. Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest : — This thy present happy lot. This, in time, will be forgot : Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. 68 ^.^i^ •'%;' .^ j^i^M)k<^^^' ''immmm^mm^^i IMF. iriTI.K r.DSSIl'. C(M.LI-:V CIHHI-R. 1671- 'I HK old beau and -;o(xl actor was an admirable prose writer, and an opponent who did not quail even before the lance of Pope. The Medusas head of satire had no terrors for this healthy man of the world. There is both nature and pathos in the poem we have selected. THE BLIND BOY. say : what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy .' What are the blessings of the sight.' O tell your poor blind boy ! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; 1 feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night .' My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere alwavs da\-. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. Although a poor blind boy. 69 fS. WILLIAM OLDYS. 1696—1761, Oldys had the care of Lord Oxford's hbrary, and was employed to select and edit the '' Harleian Miscellany P His verse is so gaily thoughtful that we wish he had written more. >^A S O N G, MADE EXTEMPORE BY A GENTLEMAN, OCCASIONED BY A ELY DRINKING OUT OF HIS CUP UF ALE. Busy, curious, thristy fly, Drink with me, and drink as I ; Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up. Make tSe most of life you may ; Life is short, and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their dechne: Thine's a summer, mine no more, Though repeated to threescore ; Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one. ?;:-£?- ".^!K \r' •-i2JJ-v- ^:; s£P-- '^ h-^ V' v> ^/i. Vfv.'^ JOHN BVROM. 1691 — 1763. The following poem was one of Byrom's contributions to the " Spectator" (No. 603) ; his Phoebe was the daughter of Dr. Bcntley. The shepherds one sees on old china must have sung just such songs as Byrom's. A PASTORAL. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, \\Tien Phcebe went with me wherever I went ; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest I But now she is gone, and has left me behind. What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! When things were as fine as could possibh' be. I thought 'twas the spring ; but, alas ! it was she. With such a companion to tend a few sheep. To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day ; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown. So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned. And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along. And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, 71 /T^ rO-5, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide ; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime ; But now, in their frolics, when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad. To see you so merry while I am so sad. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow!" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour look. Cry "Sirrah," and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another ; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master when Phoebe's away ? C^ toS 1^ ^ %i When walking with Phoebe what sights have I seen ! How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade. The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: 'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through. The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat. And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on. The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 72 ^. '\r /«N A COl-IN AM) riKIBE. t rO- ^M 4-. ■) r-^ Rose, what is bjcomo of thy dchcatc hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile ? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile ? Ah ! rivals, I see what it was that you drest. And made yourself fine for — a place in her breast: You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn : Mclhinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. And rest so much longer for't when she is here. Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay. Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove ; But what swain is so silly to live without love! No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return. For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah ! what shall I do ? I shall die with despair ; Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. '\- J 0<>-^Hji^ ^X U tTj,?^ ^ 4 From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, What strains of wild melody flow. Hew the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow ! And when her bright form shall appear. Each bird shall harmoniously join For a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. 1 have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who could rob a poor bird of his young ; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to a dove ; That it ever attended the bold, And she called it the sister of Love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore, Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks 1 should love her the more. Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmoved when her Corydon sighs ? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade ! Soft scenes of contentment and ease I Where I could have pleasingly strayed, 'If aught in her absence could please. But where does my Phyllida stray.' And where are her grots and her bowers ? Are the groves and the valleys as gay. And the shepherds as gentle as ours.' The groves may perhaps be as fair, .And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare. But their love is not equal to mine. 75 a^' K ROBERT DODSLEY. 1703— 1764. This amiable man, originally a stocking weaver, became next a footman, and lastly a poet and a publisher. We are indebted to Dodsley's Collection of old plays for the revival of the taste for Elizabethan literature, as we are to Dr. Percy for those immortal old ballads that let in a current of fresh air and sunshine upon our literature from which the Lake poets derived so much of their vitality. THE PARTING KISS. r0~>. One kind wish before we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu : Though we sever, my fond heart, Till we meet, shall pant for you. rO- ji^>^ Yet, yet weep not so, my love. Let me kiss that falling tear ; Though my body must remove. All my soul will still be here. All my soul, and all my heart, And every wish shall pant for you ; One kind kiss, then, ere we part,* Drop a tear, and bid adieu. m K ' Ae ond kiss and then we sever." Bums. 76 w i^^ JOHN GILBERT COOPER. 1723— 1769. The supposed writer of this poem was a Nottinghamshire magistrate, and a promoter of the " Society for the Encourage- ment of Arts and Manufactures." Dr. Percy published the verses beHeving them to be ancient British, save the mark ! The worthy, but in this case, misguided. Doctor justly praises the poem as " a beautiful address to conjugal love — a subject too much neglected by the libertine muses." AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASINC,. Away ! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care ; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors. With pompous titles grace our blood ? We'll shine in more substantial honours, And, to be noble, we"ll be good. Our name while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though, from Fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess .' We'll find within our pittance plenty. And be content without excess. Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give ; For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. n '"^yd h ir .QJ Through youth and age, in love excelHng, We 11 hand in hand together tread ; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures. While round my knees they fondly clung ! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! And when with envy Time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys. '-^X: ^ M &\ 78 V. ;?T w -^j \1^. :/ ^A '^ ^^ ^ J ^^ T^ THOMAS GRAY. 1716—1771. GR.A.Y, like Milton, was, tlie son of a scrivener. A stiff and rather disagreeable College Don, he sometimes condescended to be ])lavful. Init not always with the happiest results. 0\ THE DE.ATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DKOWNEH IN A 11"!! OF GOLD KISIir.>;. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side. Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined. Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared : The fair round face, the snowy beard. The velvet of her paws. Her coat, that with the tortoise vies. Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause. Still had she gazed ; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream : Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, Though richest purple to the view, Betrayed a golden gleam. 79 Li=„^-^--^^- ■^ The hapless nymph with wonder saw : A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain, to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise ? What cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent. Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send ; No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd ; Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard ; A favourite has no friend. From hence, ye beauties, undeceived. Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold ; Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize. Nor all that glitters gold. 80 I fs>w ^^^os^^atK^a^^ :^-^ TOHIAS GI'ORC.l': SMoLl.l/l P. (1721 — 1771.) Smollett's love of his native country was a redeeming trait in the character of a soured and fretful man. There is tremendous vigour in his more serious verse. His Ode to Independence, "Lord of the lion hcait and eagle eye!" begins with the rush of Pindar. ODE TO LE\'EX WATER. On Leven's banks while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; The springing trout in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war ; The siher eel and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make. By bowers of birch and gro\-es of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green May numerous herds and flocks be seen : And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale ; And ancient faith that knows no guile. And industry embrowned with toil ; And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard ! Si M ^^^H>^>^ Wj ^<<^ PAUL W II ITEM i: AD. 1 7 10-1774. This not very remarkable poet was first a mercer's apprentice, ?ind then a barrister. He wrote a satire on " Manners," another on " Pugihsm ;" and was a lounger, and a not very reputable trifler at the Prince of Wales's house in Leicester Fields. HUNTING SONG. The sun from the east tips the mountains with gold ; The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold Hear, the lark's early matin proclaims the new day. And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our delay. Chorus. With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can vie. While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry. Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport ; The slave of the state hunt the smiles of a court : No care and ambition our pastime annoy. But innocence still gives a zest to our joy. With the sports, &c. Mankind are all hunters in various degree ; The priest hunts a living— the lawyer a fee, The doctor a patient — the courtier a place, Though often, like us, he's flung out in the chase. With the sports, &c. The cit hunts a plum— while the soldier hunts fame, The poet a dinner--the patriot a name; And the practised coquette, though she seems to refuse In spite of her airs, still her lover pursues. With the sports, &c. Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. With hound and with horn through the woodlands to And, when tired abroad, find contentment at home. With the sports, &c. 82 ■'N. nil wmrn.K-iN. p- OLIVER GOI-DSMITH. '<5k Vs ^^ ^^ (. 1? Ov- •4^p 1724- 1774- f 9 Goldsmith is always delightful : and his satire is harmless as -^-^ summer lightning. He was not the man to hurt even a wasp, much '^'^ ^ less a fly. His playfulness is graceful. We regret he did not sketch the intrusiveness and servility of lioswell. STANZAS OX WOMAN. From Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. xxiv. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? I'he only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover. And wring his bosom, is — to die. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL El'ISTLE TlJ l.UKU CLAKE. Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter : The haunch was a picture for painters to study — The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate pictiu-c by eating : I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view To be shown to my friends as a piece of \irtu ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a -show — iJut, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in. They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold— let me pause— dont I hear you pronounce This talc of the bacon's a damnable bounce; 83 J ij" ^ t^ r Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may Ir)- By a bounce now and then to get courage to fly. But, my Lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, It's a truth — and your Lordship may ask Mr. Burn. To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch — So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's — But in parting with these I was puzzled again With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when There's Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff — I think they love venison — I know they love beef; There's my countryman Higgins — oh ! let him alone For making a blunder or picking a bone. But, hang it I — to poets, who seldom can eat. Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus 1 debated, in reverie centred. An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered ; An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he. And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. " What have we got here ? Why, this is good eating ! Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " "Why, wJiose should it be?" cried I, with a flounce; " I get these things often " — but that was a bounce ; " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me : No words — 1 insist on't —precisely at three. We'll have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What say you — a pasty ! it shall and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile End ; No stirring, I beg — my dear friend— mv dear friend ! " 84 ^m :^A ^'^^^2-lZ-^~^~ :ii ,^. wm Thus siiiitching his hat. lie briislicd u\{ like the wind. And the porter and eatables ffjlloued behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And " nobody with mc at sea but myself," Though 1 could not help thinking my gentlemen hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison-pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life — Though clogged with a coxcomb and Kitty his wife ; .So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine — A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine — My friend bade me welcome, but struck me c|uite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come; " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale: Ikit no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, and the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge." While thus he described them by trade and b)- name. They entered, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ; At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen : At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty was not. Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion. And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; .So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound. While the bacon and liver went merrily round. But what vexed me most was that damned Scottish regue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." " The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek. " I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small — But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."' 85 ^W^'^^'W^ ■m -O) ^^ 2 1) " Oh, oh ! '' quoth my friend, " he'll come in a trice. He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's a pasty " " A pasty ! " repeated the Jew ; " I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too." " What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! " re-echoed the Scot ; " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; "We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid ; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out — for who could mistake her ? — That she came with some terrible news from the baker ; And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on't the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste. You've got an odd something, — a kind of discerning— A relish, a taste, sickened over by learning — At least it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own ; So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. '-STr h /^^A E^ M^' r^^ Sir CilLCERT, fatlicr of the first Earl of Minto, was Treasurer of the Navy, Keeper of the Signet in Scotland, and an eloquent speaker in Parliament. He introduced the use of the German flute into Scotland. The pastoral is rather a hopeless style of com- position, and generally seems artificial and faded ; but Sir Gilbert's song is a pleasant specimen of the style.* AMYXTA. My sheep I neglected, I broke my shccp-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; For ambition, I said, would soon cui-c me of lo\c. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do .' Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? Oh, give me my sheep, and my shccp-hook restore, And 111 wander from love and Amvnta no moi'c. m i^ 7\ Through regions remote in vain do I rove, And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! O fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well founded, a passion so true I Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; Poor shepherd, Amynta can ne\ er be thine : Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain. The moments neglected return not again. See Scctt"s ' Lay of ihe I ast Arnstrcl," Ch. J. s. 27. and N. tt- ^^J'^>^^ DR. JOHN LANGHORNE. 1735—1779- This amiable and warm-hearted man was a Prebend of Wells. In his " Country Justice," he anticipated the sober truthfulness and pathos of Crabbc. They both painted in the Dutch manner, but without its coarseness. TO A REDBREAST. Little bird, with bosom red, Welcome to my humble shed ! Courtly domes of high degree Have no room for thee and me. Pride and pleasure's fickle throng Nothing mind an idle song. Daily near my table steal. While I pick my scanty meal. Doubt not, little though there be, But ril cast a crumb to thee ; Well rewarded, if I spy Pleasure in thy glancing eye. See thee, when thou'st ate thy fill, Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill. Come, my feathered friend, again, Well thou know'st the broken pane. Ask of me thy daily store ; Go not near Avaro's door : Once within his iron hall, Woful end shall thee befall. Savage ! — he would soon divest Of its rosy plumes thy breast ; Then, with solitary joy, Eat thee, bones and all, my boy ! 88 ^/ 4^\ •N/- f *^ rO 4^ 7> L'>X», J For hovve'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-fiv^ . He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five ; And all who wisely wish to wive Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. TO MISS HICKMAN PLAYING ON THE SPINNET Bright Stella, formed for universal reign, Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain ; When in your eyes resistless lightnings play. Awed into love our conquered hearts obey. And yield reluctant to despotic sway : But when your music soothes the raging pain We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign, We bless the tyrant and we hug the chain. When old Timotheus struck the vocal string, Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king : Unbounded projects labouring in his mind, He pants for room in one poor world confined. Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power, He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour. Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre, Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire ; No more delighted with destructive war. Ambitious only now to please the fair ; Resigned his thirst of empire to her charms. And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms. 90 € THE SPINNET. €*■•>■*) M ^^^^ao-Q(ra]-K3 5gk^«^¥f^ <^?r. OOO-u0liv3O^ JOHN LOGAN. 1748— 1788. There is an unhappy confusion about Logan's poems. Logan, a Scotch Clergyman, faUing into dissipated habits, came to London and turned Author on a small scale. Many of his poems arc supposed to have been stolen from the papers of his friend, Michael Bruce, a poetical young schoolmaster, who died of con- sumption in very early life. Burke admired this Cuckoo poem, and the elder D'Isracli calls it magical for "picture, melody, and sentiment." TO THE CUCKOO. Hail ! beauteous stranger of the grove, Thou messenger of Spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What lime the daisy decks the green Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year .'' Delightful visitant I with thee I hail the time of flowers. And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay. Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom Thou fliest thy vocal \ale. An annual guest in other lands. Another Spring to hail. 91 "ooosigj.-^ ^ d\> €••» ^ I Sweet bird ! th)- bower is over green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, N o winter in thy year ! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring. S .itJ i:iv) If rer5 .^. i 92 ^ok / p THOMAS WARTOX. 1728 — 1790. This grave poet was the son of a Professor of Toctry at Oxford. Wordsworth imitated his sonnets, and their quiet meditative tone suited the genius of the Lake poet. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OP' DUGDALES "MONASTICOX.' Deem not devoid of elegance the sage. By Fancy's genuine feehngs unbeguiled Of painful pedantry, the poring child, Who turns of tluse proud domes the historic page Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled On his lone hours ? Ingenious views engage His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled, Intent. While cloistered piety displays Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores New manners, and the pomp of elder days. Whence culls the pensive bard hi^ pictured stores. Not rough nor barren are the winding ways Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. ON REVISITING THE RIVER LODDON. Oh ! what a weary race my feet have run Since first I trod thy banks, with alders crowned. And thought my way was all through fairy ground. Beneath the azure sky and golden sun — When first my muse to lisp her notes begun ! While pensive memory traces back the round Which fills the varied inter\al between ; Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream I those skies and suns so pure No more return to cheer my evening road I . Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature, Nor with the Muse's laurel unbcstowcd. 93 k^^^^m.^^. M THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 1721 — 1791. This poet, who was born blind, was the son of a Cumberland bricklayer who had settled in Dumfriesshire ; he became a clergy- man, but the parishioners objecting with a rather brutish intole- rance to a blind minister, he settled in Edinburgh, and lived by taking lodgers. He seems to have been a happy and amiable man, and cheerful, in spite of his deprivation. He was an early and generous admirer of the genius of Burns. ODE TO AURORA ON MELISSA'S BIRTH-DAY. .> ^\ 1 .Qi Of Time and Nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-lingered Morn ; Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, And chase from heaven Night's envious shade, That I once more may pleased survey, And hail Melissa"s natal-day. Of Time and Nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-fingered Morn ; In order at the eastern gate The hours to draw thy chariot wait ; Whilst Zephyr, on his balmy wings, Mild Nature's fragrant tribute brings. With odours sweet to strew thy way, And grace the bland revolving day. But, as thou lead'st the radiant sphere That gilds its birth and marks the year. And as his stronger glories rise. Diffused around the expanded skies. Till, clothed with beams serenely bright. All heaven's vast concave flames with light ; 94 ~^^^r^^ k.^^ ^^ _^/ SK ^^r^ '^J^ ) ^ O^k^ '-^ '( So when through life's protracted day Melissa still pursues her way, Her virtues with thy splendour vie, Increasing to the mental eye ; Though less conspicuous, not less dear, Long may they Bion's prospect cheer ; So shall his heart no more repine, Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. ^m SAMUEL BISHOP. 1731— 1795. Little is known of this writer, except that he was a clergyman, and Master of Merchant Taylors' School. He could not have been a severe disciplinarian to have written such amiable verses. The poets in general have not been eloquent on the unromantic theme of love after marriage. TO MR.S. BISHOP, ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RINC. 'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed' — So, fourteen years ago, 1 said. Behold another ring I — ' For what I ' To wed thee o'er again ! Why not ? With that first ring I married youtli, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; Taste long admired, sense long revered. And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman 1 supposed, I plead that double merit now. To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day — with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth and plighted mine — To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token and a pledge I bring : With this I wed, till death us part. Thy riper virtues to my heart ; Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride ; Those virtues, whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name. My soul enjoys, my song approves. For conscience ' sake as well as love's ! And why ? — They shew me every hour Honour's high thought. Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things— l)ut repentance. 96" 'CftiB#)«*3 J mr., a p^^ .M. , J) -^ ^^^^>as^t:^i^a^^^ ^^^ I robp:rt burns. '759—1796. How Genius can transform men, and confer titles beyond any registered in human courts ! The Ayrshire ploughman earned a fame (in spite of all his disfiguring vices) eternal and unshakable as Ben Lomond. Let his faults be forgotten and his virtues live ! Great power from God had fallen on this peasant, and his poems, as long as Scotland remains .Scotland, will live in the national heart and there be cherished. OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Of a' the airts"'' the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, For there the bonnie lassie lives. The lassie I lo'e best : There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean. O blaw ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ; Wi' balmy gale frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. * Points of the compass. 97 . o . V. - ^ Cfa« >*l ^• 4 !4^.^p:f. -<> What sighs and vows amang the knowcs Hae passed atween us twa ! How fond to meet, how wac to part That night she gaed awa ! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! ^o- f. '~■ ti/ THE FIRST I'RIMROSES. K tV ^r"^ 7-^ x<-^ ^^ ^^ MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. '749 — i8o6. This amiable and unfortunate lady, the victim of an ill-assorinl marriage, wrote some admiraljle Sonnets. She was a friend of Hayley ; and Sir Walter Scott mentions her sweet, mournful poems with a measured praise. HOPE: A RONDEAU. Just like Hope is yonder bow That from the centre bends so low, Where bright prismatic colours show How gems of heavenly radiance glow, Just like Hope 1 Yet if, to the illusion new. The pilgrim should the arch pursue, Farther and farther from his view It rtics, then melts in chilling dew, Just like Hope I lO c^ ^^ ^' DR. THOMAS PERCY. The Bishop of Dromore was one of Dr. Johnson's best friends. We ought to be grateful to him for his publication of those fine old ballads which lit up again the Gothic spirit, and tended to foster the genius of Scott. A love of nature and simplicity rose like the Nile with them to fertilize our then somewhat arid literature. O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? O Nancy, wilt thou go with me. Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ; Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown ? No longer dressed in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 3 r0> it^ O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away. Wilt thou not cast a wish behind .'' Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? O ! can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? ^ O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go. Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe ? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care ; Nor wistful those gay scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 104 V ci^ ^ wms^.. # ^^ ^^fe 4-. And when al last lliy love sliall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear ? Nor //u'H regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair?* Burns says in reference to the above, "It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charm- ing song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song."— Blkns, Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads. .^1/e- n 'N.- ^i-^ 4. f-ia \% 105 MjM'^ 1 c*'«* ,)«►'! R. B. SHERIDAN* 1751 — 1816. Sheridan was more a wit than a poet, but we give his songs rather as specimens of his manner than in admiration of their excehence. An elaborate manufacturer of wit, and taking as much trouble to facet a joke as a jeweller does to cut a diamond, he had not the impulses from which true poetry springs. ON FEMALE INFLUENCE. In female hearts did sense and merit rule. The lover's mind would ask no other school ; Shamed into sense, the scholars of your eyes, Our beaux from gallantry would soon be wise ; Would gladly light, their homage to improve, The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love. TO Dear object of my late and early prayer. Source of my joy and solace of my care, Whose gentle friendship such a charm can give As makes me wish, and tells me how to live ; To thee the Muse with grateful hand would bring These first fair flowers of the doubtful Spring. Oh, may they, fearless of the varying sky. Bloom on thy breast and smile beneath thine eye In fairer lights their vivid blue display. And sweeter breathe their little lives away. 106 '^ C» ■«)«*) ^ >^ ^. TO The stricken deer that in his velvet side Feels at each step the trembing arrow play, In shades of thickest covert loves to hide, And from the cruel hunter speeds auay. But I, more wounded than the stricken deer, Scarce wish from my destroyer's aim to fly — I weep, but 'tis, alas ! too soft a tear. And e'en my heart Cheeks of rose untouched by art .'' I will own the colour true When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure ? I must press it, to be sure ; Nor can I be certain then Till it, grateful, press again. Must I with attentive eye Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? I will do so when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. 107 t^ ^%a.' m^jX f> ^ JOHN kp:ats. '795 — '821. Keats was the son of a livery stable keeper, who apprenticed him to a chemist, till by his own genius the poet cut the thongs that held him to the counter. Beginning with an ambitious poem full of imperfections, gross affectations, and sterile conceits, he rose in power till he produced that fine torso, the " Hyperion." His smaller poems are full of beautiful observations of nature, and show fresh and exhaustless fancy. ^f ROBIN HOOD. % ?r^ \ >^. r TO A FRIEND. No 1 those days are gone away. And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years : Many times have Winter's shears, Frozen North and chilling East Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forests whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more. And the twanging bow no more ; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill ; There is no mid-forest laugh. Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight amazed to hear Jesting deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon. Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; M h "^/ t Qi t^i k1 But you never may behold Little John or Robin bold ; Never one of all the clan Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent ; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din ; Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe;" All are gone away and past ! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufted grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep and he would craze He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her — strange ! that honey Can't be got without hard money. So it is ; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string ! Honour to the bugle-horn ! Honour to the woods unshorn ! Honour to the Lincoln green ! Honour to the archer keen ! Honour to tight Little John, And the horse he rode upon ! Honour to bold Robin Hood Sleeping in the underwood I Honour to Maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan ! Though their days have hurried by, Let us two a burden try no ^m (Z fe ^/3fe^(* ^^^d^^ FANCY. k Kvcr let the Fancy roam ! Pleasure never is at home : At a touch sweet IMcasure mcltcth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; Then let wing6d Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her ; Open wide the mind's cage door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as docs its blossoming : Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too Blushing through the nnst and dew Cloys with tasting : what do then .' Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night ; When the soundless earth is muffled. And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. — Sit thee there, and send abroad With a mind self-overawed Fancy, high-commissioned :— send her! She has vassals to attend her ; She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost ; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather ; All the buds and bells of May From dewy sward or thorny spray ; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth ; She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup. And thou shalt quaff it ;— thou shalt hear Distant har\'est-carols clear ; 1 1 1 '^^' ^ ^^^^^.^-..v^ £«.:ll»*ill*.0 Rustle of the reaped corn ; Sweet birds antheming the morn : And in the same moment — hark ! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold ; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep ; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin ; Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest ; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing. O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Everything is spoilt by use : Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at 1 Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new ? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft. One would hear so very oft ? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let then winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind : Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her I 12 -&rG }io\v to frown and how to chicle ; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Shpt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash ; (2uickly break her prison-string. And such joys as these she'll bring : — Let the winged Fancy roam I Pleasure never is at home. IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEM1H:R. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity : The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them, Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Brook, Thy babblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting They stay their crystal fretting. Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah, would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy ? To know the change and feel it. When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it — Wcvs never said in rh\me. "3 V, .V. ^^ s PERCY EYSSHE SHELLEY This great genius, so early doomed, so cruelly exiled for errors that time and experience would have removed, is the greatest of our Anglo-Italian poets whose natures have grown sweeter and fairer under a richer sun than that of England. Shelley's pure mind delighted to shape creatures from the elements, and to infuse the fire from Heaven into those spirits of his own fashioning. Never since the times of yEschylus have such choruses been written as those of his Prometheus Unbound ; and no one, with the exception of a young poet (Mr. Swinburne, in our own day), has niore completely caught the Greek feeling. ^t 'D' ^:=^l A ^G- iJ"' V The nightingale's complaint, ll dies upon her he.irl, As 1 must on thine. Beloved as thou art 1 lift me from the grasa 1 1 die, I faint, 1 fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh ! press it close to thine again. Where it will break at last. LOVE'S THlLUSUl'in'. 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 ? DIRGE FOR THE YEAR Orphan hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep Merry hours, smile instead. For the year is but asleep. "5 J^ January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave ; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps, — but, O ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers ! ^a: ^"^^'W^ ;^ 4^ ^f ?S*> ■^^^ LORD in'RoX. 1788— 1824. Tins great genius and most unhappy man began life by writing llie verses to be expected of a young "man of quality," till suddenly he found the talisman, and rose among the eagles of the higher order. Abandoned in morals, .a voluntary exile, the victim of his own vices and his own gigantic vanity, wallowing in the lowest vices of Venice, Byron, in the last years of his life, laid aside his cynical and ribald poem to give his heart and soul to Greece, and to die in her cause. He did not merely />(>sc' himself for a patriot: he was one truly; and he left the world gloritied by that single self-sacrifice. SHE WALKS IN T.EAUTY.* She walks in beauty, like tlie night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes. Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent, — A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. * Written on returning from a ball where Lady Wilniot Horton liad apjicared in nidiirning, with numerous spangles on her dress. 117 iif^^'W^ n ^' ;,T V^^ '/ MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE TART Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go, Z(ar] jxov, (Tus ayaivoi. By those tresses unconfined Wooed by each ^gean wind ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft checks' blooming tinge ; V,rj fiov, aas ayaTiS). ■? k ^j- \^^ m Tlierc be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic hke thee ; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing. The waves he still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving As an infant's asleep : So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee ; With a ftjll but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. \m^ .■^^ MRS. BARBAULD. r^d This excellent and amiable woman was the daughter of Dr. Aikin, She married a French Protestant Dissenting Minister, who kept a school at Palgrave, in Suffolk. Charles James Fox was a great admirer of her songs. LIFE. Life ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part ; And when, or how, or where we met T own to me's a secret yet. Life ! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'Tis Lard to part when friends are dear — l~rO>? Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; — Then steal away, give little warning. Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. ^/- v 1 20 *. LORD THURLOW. 1781 — 1829. Who could expect an owl to sing like a thnish? — and yet here wc have a judge, who looked, as it was said, wiser than any one ever was, writing very graceful and natural verse even in an artificial and unnatural age. SONG TO MAY. May ! queen of blossoms And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours ? Wilt thou have pipe and reed Blown in the open mead, Or to the lute give heed I n the green bowers ? Thou hast no need of us Or pipe or wire. That hast the golden bee Ripened with fire ; And many thousand more Songsters that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With now desire. ''^.l >J* c <-o^> fU 'X>. ^P- Thou hast thy mighty herds. Tame, and free livers ; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers ; And the whole plumy flight, Warbling the day and night— Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers ! When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tressed ; And for the mournful bird Green woods are dressed. That did for Tereus pine ; Then shall our songs be thine To whom our hearts incline: May, be thou blessed I 122 ^^m- [f^'.i.^ CAPTAIN MORRIS. \{Dnfi' iiiikiioivn.) This Welsh wit was one of the gayest bon 7'h'atits of his time. There arc traditions still existing of his carouses in Covent (iarden taverns. His songs were for the most part objectionable, but lliose tliat were written by him in his capacity as a gentleman equal Tom Moore's verses for rythm, fire, and spontaneity. There is a tradition, that when the original of Thackeray's Costigan died, and was buried under the window at Offlcy's, Captain Morris read a disgraceful mock funeral service from the window above, and then poured a crown bowl of punch upon the grave of the poor clever vagabond who had so often been his boon companion. A REASON FAIR K) ITLL MV (;LAS.S. I've oft been asked by prosing souls And men of sober tongue, What joys there are in draining bowls And tippling all night long ? But though these cautious knaves 1 scorn, For once I'll not disdain To tell them why I drink till morn And fill my glass again. 'Tis by the glow my bumper gi\es Life's picture's mellow made ; The fading light then brightly lives, And softly sinks the shade : .Some happier tint still rises there With every drop I drain. And that I think's a reason fair To fill mv srlass again. % My muse, too, when her wings are dry, No frolic flight will take, r.ut round the bowl she'll dip and tly Like swallows round a lake ; 123 a. -yv^ Then if the nymphs will have their share Before they'll bless their swain, Why that I think's a reason fair To fill m>' glass again. S In life I've rung all changes through, Run every pleasure down, 'Mid each extreme of folly, too, And lived with half the town ; For me there's nothing new or rare Till wine deceives my brain, And that I think's a reason fair To fill my glass again. .^>.. 'i<2r* u-~ There's many a lad I knew is dead, And many a lass grown old, And as the lesson strikes my head My weary heart grows cold ; But wine awhile drives off despair. Nay, bids a hope remain, Why that I think's a reason fair To fill my glass again, I find too when I stint my glass And sit with sober air, I'm posed by some dull reasoning ass Who treads the path of care ; Or, harder still, am doomed to bear Some coxcomb's fribbling strain. And that I'm sure's a reason fair To fill my glass again. ^^ fO- ^h Si -^-5 Though hipped and vexed at England's fate In these convulsive days, I can't endure the ruined state My sober eye surveys ; But through the bottle's dazzling glare The gloom is seen less plain. And that I think's a reason fair To fill my glass again, 124 THE TOWN AND THE COUN'IRV. In London I ncVcr know what to be at. Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that ; I am wild with the sweets of Variety's plan. And life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the Country, Lord help me I sets all matters right, So calm aiul composing from morning till night ; Oh ! it settles the spirits, though nothing is seen, 15ut an ass on a common, or goose on a green I In Town, if it ram, why it bars not our hope. The eye has its range, and the fancy its scope ; vStill the same, though it pour all night and all day. It spoils not our prospects, it stops not our way. In the Countrv, how blest when it rains in the fields To feast on the transports which shuttlecock yields I Or go crawling from window to window to see A hog on a dunghill, or crow on a tree ! In London how easy we visit and meet, Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat ; Our morning's a round of good humour, delight, And we rattle in comfort to pleasure at night. In the Country how charming your visits to make, Through ten miles of mud, for formality's sake ; With the coachman quite drunk, and the moon in a fog, And no thoughts in your head but a ditch or a bog. In London, if folks ill together are put. A beau may be dropped, or a quiz may be cut ; We change without end, and if happy or ill. Our wants are at hand, and our wishes at will. 125 M K^KJKM^^^^ g ^^^^^-^.^^"""^ In the Country you're nailed like a pale in your park, To some stick of a neighbour, as old as the ark ; And if you are sick, or in fits tumble down, You meet Death ere the doctor can reach you from Town. "^ 'Tis true, if in fishing you take much delight, In a boat you may shiver from morning till night ; But though blessed with the patience which Job had of old, The devil of a thing can you catch — but a cold ! Then how often you've screwed to your chairs fist to fist, All stupidly yawning, o'er sixpenny whist ; And although you may lose, 'tis no less true than strange. You have nothing to pay ! — the good folks have no change. I've oft heard that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet ; I know not of that, for alas ! I'm a swain, Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. Your jays and your magpies may chatter in trees. And whisper soft nonsense in groves, if they please ; But a house is much more to my mind than a tree, And for groves ! oh, a sweet grove of chimnies for me ! Then in Town let me live, and in Town let me die. For I own I can't relish the Country, not I. If I must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall I "^ nIi«J m .QJ .^/ 126 ^1^. ■V _rf m < m ^ «&^ T s\ x SIR WALTKR SCOTT. 177' -i«32- Scon luid too great a j^rasp of invention, and was loo intent on large canvasses, too fond of making money and buying land, to write many verses suitable to our purpose. SONC; IN OUENTIN DURWARD. Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea. The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who thrilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, N ow reigns o'er earth and sky ; And high and low the influence know — But where is County Guy .'' SERENADE FROM THE •' PI RAT ^ Farewell ! Farewell ! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you, — Its next must join the seaward cheer. And shout among the shouting crew. The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm. To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. The timid eye I dared not raise, — The hand that shook when pressed to Must point the guns upon the chase, — Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 127 ^^^5^7 1^ g^-- To all I love, or hope, or fear, — Honour, or own, a long adieu ! To all that life has soft and dear, Farewell ! save memory of you I SONG IN "WOODSTOCK." An hour with thee! — When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern grey. Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care. New griefs, which coming hours unfold. And sad remembrance of the old ? — One hour with thee ! One hour with thee !-^When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; W^hat shall repay the faithful swain His labour on the sultry plain; And, more than cave or sheltering bough, Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow ? — One hour with thee ! One hour with thee ! — When sun is set. Oh, what can teach me to forget The thankless labours of the day ; The hopes, the wishes flung away ; The increasing wants and lessening gains, The master's pride who scorns my pains ? — One hour with thee ! TO A LADY, WITH FLOWERS FROM THE ROMAN WALL. Take these flowers which, purple waving. On the ruined rampart grew. Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there ; They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's liair. 128 ^A^ ^-<^ ^^(>2^!}*<>o^ <^ -^ fe^-^'V^-. 4 THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 1770— 1834. Mr. Spencer wrote sonic of the finest Vi'rs de Societi in our language ; nor can even France produce any more elegant, more graceful, or more perfectly musical and finished. The shrewd authors of " The Rejected Addresses " parodied this writer's exaggerated compliments and extravagant adulation, but they could not detract from his taste and sonsibilitv. W , 'C, ^ CO WIFE, ClllLDRF.N^ AND FRIFXD.S. When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented (The list of what fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated. For justice divine could not compass its ends ; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; Hut the heart issues bills which are never protested. When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers. The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends. Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blest was his home with — wife, children, and friends. The soldier whose deeds live immortal in story. Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 129 S .V. -oj^^ *^ ^ ^ ^p\ ;'-<> Though spicc-brcathing gales on his caravan hover, Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends, The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover The bower where he sat with— wife, children, and friends. The dayspring of youth still unclouded by sorrow Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow No warmth from the smile of— wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends ; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. Bedewed with the tears of— wife, children, and friends. Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour The glass which I fill to— wife, children, and friends. TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. /^tS, ''<\ ^ ;,!? s, r*v^ '^ Too late I stayed— forgive the crime ; Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of the glass. When all its sands are diamond-sparks That dazzle as they pass ? Oh ! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings .^ ■•"w'- ''^, 130 /-? f,v Ji ^'^ i4 ^ ^ >^^ h [i^^Jj^-ir'.-i^.A I l^^^^r^.t.. '^^^^^t:^^^^W^^nS5^ M ^ 2il! 'Q^ SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGL. 1772—1834. Coleridge was like Michael Angclo in this, that his greatest works were but torsos. His life passed in glorious dreams, in planning the title-pages of future books, and in tr)ing to build up , a system of philosophy on the mud shoals of German theory. With such powers, how can we ever enough lament that Coleridge wrote so little I LOVE. '/ .^; V^ ^% :^] All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame. All arc but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve : She leaned against the arm^d man. The statue of the armi!;d knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. 131 ^^^^^\ '^ vf, Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined : and ah 1 The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own. She hstened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, 132 .,,T.-. 1^ There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a ticnd, This miserable Knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of Ihe Land ; And how she wept, and clasped his knces ; And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay ; — His dying words — but when I reached Tiuit tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity I All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng. And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherished long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. W 10-^ Si' ',^A J^ r ^/ Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye. She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with her meek embrace ; And, bending back her head, looked up. And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride ! INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the traveller With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page. As merry and no taller, dances still. Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. Here twilight is, and coolness : here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 134 \^n. ^s0^. - '\'. ^^ CHARLES LAMB. 1775— '834- With something of Jacques's spirit and much of Touchstone's, this ahnost the greatest of our Engh'sh humourists wrote few verses, but what there are are clehghtful in their tender pathos and in their quaintness. Lamb's toilsome and self-denying life was finer than even his writings. Let swollen wealth shudder as it reads his Biography to see what great happiness and what intel- lectual pleasure can hide itself even with ill-paid Government clerks and in humble lodgings at Hoxton THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I have had pla\nnates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. T have been laughing, I have been carousing. Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not sec iicr — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces. How some they have died, and some they have left me. And some arc taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 135 When maidens such as Hester die Their place ye may not well supply. Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate That flushed her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was trained in Nature's school. Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour ! gone before To that unknown and silent shore. Shall we not meet, as heretofore, .Some summer morning — When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bhss upon the day A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning ? 136 ^ '"O^ fV 'Oil vfj3 ^ -^-1 If JAMES HOGG. 1772— 1835. This kind, thoughtless man began life as a cowherd till the inspiration came upon him, and he rose into the cloudland of song. His "Kilmeny" is one of the most beautiful dreams of Fairyland ever penned by poet, and some of his songs are truly beautiful. THE SKYLARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea I Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, O to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where on thy dewy wing. Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen. O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim. Over the rainbow's rim. Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! Then, when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be I Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, O to abide in the desert with thee I 137 WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME. Come all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken ; What is the greatest bhss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. Chorus. When the kye comes hame When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk. When the kye comes hame. 'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great— 'Tis beneath the spreading birk In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame. There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he I Then he pours his melting ditty. And love is a' the theme ; And he'll woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny luckan gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, 138 '• WiJLN THE KYE COMES HAME. ^^^ Then the laverock frac the blue lift Draps clown, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kyc conies hanie. See yonder pawky shepherd That lingers on the hill. His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lyin;^^ still ; Yet he downa gang to bed. For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hamc. When tlie little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O there's a joy sac dear That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie. When the kye comes hame. Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? () wha wad choose a crown Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kyc comes hame. When the kye comes hame. When the kyc comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk. When the kye comes hame. '^ C»»» M) '39 %^ M L ' i( #\ ^4 FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1793— 1835. ccr^ >> This amiable poetess wrote much agreeable verse, always pervaded by tenderness of feeling, and a pure religious sentiment, however wanting in condensation and vigour. ^h TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. How is it that before rnine eyes. While gazing on thy mien, All my past years of life arise, As in a mirror seen ? What spell within thee hath been shrined, To image back mj' own deep mind ? .^^ Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory's springs ; Even as a sound of vesper-chimes Can wake departed things ; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanished hours ;- 140 M ^. >7 ^ y ■^i -^hAp. ^^' inch power is thine I— they come, the dead, From the grave's bondage free, And smihng back the changed are led To look in love on thee ; And voices that are music flown Speak to me in the heart's full tone : Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress — The thoughts of happier years, And a vain gush of tenderness O'erflows in child-like tears ; A passion which I may not stay, A sudden fount that must have way. But thou, the while — oh ! almost strange, Mine imaged self! it seems That on //y brow of peace no change Reflects my own swift dreams ; Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in //y face. To see //ice calm, while powers thus deep, — Affection — memory — grief — Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep O'er a frail aspen-leaf! O that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by ! Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be That when my song and soul are gone Shall seek my form in thee, — Tell them of one for whom 'twas best To flee awav and be at rest I , I u GEORGE COLMAN, Junior. 1762 — 1836. CoLMAN was eminent as a writer of comedies, a dou vivant, and a wit. Sheridan was his friend, and George IV. his boon companion. One good action of that king (some say the only one) was to rescue Cohiian from cUfficulties, and appoint him dramatic censor. The man without principles henceforward became impatient of patriotism, and the ribald talker erased the slightest adjuration with a Pharisaical shudder. LODGINGS FOR SKNGLE GENTLEMEN. Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place. Has seen 'Lodgings to let' stare him full in the face; Some are good and let dearly ; while some, 'tis well known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only ; But Will was so fat he appeared like a tun. Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one. He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated. But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated ; And, though heavy to weigh as a score of fat sheep, He was not by any means heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same ; and the next, and the next ; He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous and vexed ; Week passed after week, till by weekly succession His weakly condition was past all expression. In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him. For his skin " like a lady's loose gown " hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny, " I have lost many pounds — make me well — there's a guinea." 142 K.k3t. ---m v^ The doctor looked wise : " A slow fever," he said ; Prescribed sudorifics on going to bed. " Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "arc humbugs, I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!" Will kicked out tlic doctor ; but when ill indeed K'cn dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ; So, calling his host, he said, " Sir, do you know I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago? " Look'ce, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, " That with honest intentions you first took me in ; Hut from the first night — and to say it I'm bold — I've been so hanged hot that I'm sure I caught cold." Quoth the landlord, " Till now I ne'er had a dispute ; I've let lodgings these ten years; I'm a baker to boot; In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ; And your bed is immediately over my oven." ' The oven ! " says Will. Says the host, '* Why this passion ? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir?" "Zounds!" cried Will, in a taking, "Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking?" Will paid for his rooms ; cried the host with a sneer, " Well, 1 see you'\c been i^oing atuay lialt a year." " Friend, we can't well agree ; yet no ciuarrel," Will said, " But I'd rather not perish while you vmke your bread T \A X »*■ kj»s. «r^^ J LETITIA LANDON. 1802— 1838. L. E. L. whose unhappy death secured for her a fame that otherwise her poetry might not have obtained, was a woman of quick sensibiUties, impulsive and imprudent. At a time when Byron's influence still prevailed she wrote poems which are more remarkable for sentiment than imagination. SONG. Oh never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, Like a child, ariiong the flowers. But Hope has wakened since, and wept, Like a rainbow, itself away ; And the flowers have faded and fallen around — We have none for a wreath to-day. Now wisdom wakes in the place of hope, And our hearts are like winter hours : Ah ! after-life has been little worth That early dream of ours. 144 1 JAMES SMlllI. •775 — « 839- Tin; l\\ j Smiths were sons of a solicilor to {\\c Hoard of Ord- iKincj. James Smith was the perfection of a diner-out ; as a club wit he h:i:l no rival ; and of all the parodies of the world there are few to equal or even to compare with the '' Rejected" Addresses." James Smith wrote the greater part of the Entertainments for Charles Matthews the elder. BRIGHTON. (Soh'iiiir itcns liycins gratis vice vcris.) Now fruitful Autumn lifts his sun-burnt head. The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten, The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed, And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton. The cit foregoes his bo.\ at Turnham (irccn. To pick up health and shells with Amphitrile, Pleasure's fair daughters trip along the Steyne, Led by tlie dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. Phoebus, the tanner, plies his tiery trade ; The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies, Scale the West Cliff, or visit the Parade, While poor papa in town a patient drone is. Loose trousers snatch the wreath from pantaloons ; Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in ; But now (so will the Prince's Light Dragoons) White jean have triumphed o'er their Indian brethren. Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns, Intent alike to please the London glutton. This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns. That, for our tlinuer .Southdown lamb ,m,. '<^ I'ciU ill by beams of nioiilclciini; wood The parish stocks stand where they stood — Did ever drunkard rue 'em? 1 dive not in parochial law, Yet this 1 know - 1 never saw- Two legs protruded through cm. Here, to the right, rose hissing proofs Of skill to solder horses' hoofs, Formed in the forge of Radlcy ; And there, the almshouses beyond, Half-way before you gain the Pond, Lived wrv-mouthcd Martin Hadky. Pi ^> '^ Does Philby still exist ? Where now Arc Willis, Wilcox, Green, and Howe? Ann WVight, the smart and handy ? Hillman alone a respite steals From Fate ; and — 7'/Vt' Hadley — deals In lea and sugar-candy. Can 1 my schuol-fiicnd Bclson truck? Where hides him Chamberiaine ^ where Black, Intended for the altar? Does life-blood circulate in Bates? Where arc Jack Cumbcrlcgft ard Yates? The Burrells, Charles and Walter? There, at your ink-bespattered shrine, Cornelius Nepos first was mine ; Here fagged I hard at Plutarch : Found Ovid's mighty pleasant ways. While Plato's mctaphysic maze Appeared like Pluto — too dark. Here usher Ireland sat — and there Stood Bolton, Cowel, Parker, W^are, Medley the pert and witty ; And here — crack station, near the fire- Sat Roberts, whose Haymarket sire Sold oil and spermaceti. 147 %^ Yon pew the gailery below Held Nancy, pride of Chigwell Row, Who set all hearts a-dancing : In bonnet white, divine brunette, O'er Burnet's field I see thee yet To Sunday church advancing. Seek we the churchyard ; there the yew Shades many a swain whom once I knew. Now nameless and forgotten ; Here towers Sir Edward's marble bier, Here lies stern Vickery, and here. My father's friend, Tom Cotton. \. The common herd serenely sleep. Turf-bound, " in many a mouldering Pent in by bands of osier ; While at the altar's feet is laid The founder of the school, arrayed In mitre and in crosier. heap 'Tis nature's law : wave urges wave : The coffined grandsire seeks the grave ; The babe that feeds by suction Finds with his ancestor repose : Life ebbs, and dissolution sows The seeds of reproduction. World, in thy ever-busy mart I've acted no unnoticed part — Would I resume it ? oh no ! Four acts are done, the jest grows stale The waning lamps burn dim and pale, And reason asks — C;// /?ouo ? I've met with no "affliction sore;" I5ut hold! methinks, "long time I /wvy" Here ends my lucubration — Content, with David's son, to know That all is vanity below Though not quite all vexation 148 ^ ~^'^W^ }-\ i/ _^^„ WINTHROP MACKWORTII PRAED. 1802 — 1839. At Eton Pracd distinguished himself by his share in a Magazine to which Macaulay and Moultrie both contributed. In later years, when he became the delight of the society which he adorned, he still continued to write highly polished and skilful verse, full of subtle and delicate observation, and pleasant refined humour. Such poems as the "Vicar" and " Quince" are like the cabinet pictures of Metzu or Terburg, with an infusion of the courtliness of Vandyke and the humour of Wilkie. The perfumed air of the drawing-room steals round us while we read. It was Praed who first raised the Charade to the rank of a poem. It was perhaps a waste of time and a misplacing of talent. It was like jewelling an tV/// or a knee- buckle ; but Pracd delighted to please and amuse those among whom he lived, and he has obtained a fame which he did not seek, and which he did not expect. His "Vicar," certainly his c/tr/ (/'a'//7'fr, is finished with the care of an inlaid Indian box. CHARADE, ON THK roKT f AM r HEM.. Come from my First, ay, come ! The battle dawn is nigh ; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die ! Fight as thy father fought, Fall as thy father fell, Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; So — forward ! and farewell I 149 9 C ^ Toll yc my Second, toll ! Fling high the flambeau's light I And sing the hymn for a parted soul, Beneath the silent night ! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : So take him to his rest ! Call ye my Whole, ay, call ! The lord of lute and lay ; And let him greet the sable pal) With a noble song to-day ; Go, call him by his name ; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's -grave. J n h z^'\^ '^^. }^ }, In certain moods Praed's verses resemble Hood's ; they may not have the depth and tenderness of Hood, but they have the same whimsical surprises, and the same startling, sparkling play of words. How light, graceful, and fluent the following verses run, on springs as clastic as those of a West End barouche 1 — THE VICAR. Some years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between Saint Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket Was always shown across the green. And guided to the Parson's wicket. Back flew the bolt, of lissom lath ; Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle Led the lorn traveller up the path. Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 150 •,^A /V-, A .cri V-^ v'" \. -G?' And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say. " Our master knows you ; you're expected ! ' Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, Uprose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knittmg down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner. He found a stable for his steed. And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end. And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend. And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ;— If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor ; — Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. And not the \'icarage or the \'ica His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rock to roses It slipped from politics to puns : It passed from Mahomet to Moses : Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses. And ending with some precept deep. For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He wrote, too, in a c[uiet way Small treatises and smaller verses ; And sage remarks on chalk and clay. And hints to noble lords and nurses ; True histories of last year's ghost, Lines to a ringlet or a turban. And trifles for the Moniimr Post, And nothings for .Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair, Althougji he had a knack of joking: 4^ Ml m '^^-i He did not make himself a Ijear ; Although he had a taste for smoking ; And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning. That, if a man"s belief is bad. It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage. And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage : At his approach complaint grew mild. And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caisar or of Venus : From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and qua gctiiis ; I used to singe his powdered wig. To steal the staff he put such trust in ; And make the puppy, dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine. Alack the change ! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : The church is larger than before ; You reach it by a carriage entry : It holds three hundred people more ; And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's scat, you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear Wliere phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid ? — look down, And construe on the slab before you, Hie jacct GuiJELMUs Brown, Vir iiiiUd non Doiiaudus Laitnt. a. ^ '\r C!V r0^> •»^ ^^il K i Tin: OLD 15ACHFLOR. When I was a schoolboy, aj^cd ten, Oh, niiglUy httlj Greek I knew ; With my short striped trousers, and ivu nul tli. n With stripes upon my jacket too ! When I saw other boys to the playground run, I threw my old "Gradus" by, And I left the task I had scarce begun, There'll be time enough for that, said I. When I was at college, my pride was dress. And my groom and my bit of blood ; But as for my study, I must confess That I was content with my stud. I was deep in my tradesmen's books, I'm afraid. Though not in my own, by the by ; And when rascally tailors came to be paid. There'll be time enough for that, said 1. I was just nineteen when I first fell in love. And I scribbled a deal of rhyme ; And I talked to myself in a shady grove. And I thought I was quite sublime ; I was torn from my love I 'twas a dreadful blow, And the lady she wiped her eye ; But I didn't die of grief, oh, dear me, no I There'll be time enough for that, said I. The next was a lady of rank, a dame With blood in her veins, you see ; W'ith the leaves of the Peerage she fanned the flame That was now consuming mc. But though of her great descent she spoke, I found she was still very high, And I thought looking up to a wife no joke. There'll be time enough for that, said I. My next penchant was for one whose face Was her fortune, she was so fair ! Oh ! she spoke with an air of enchanting grace, — But a man cannot li\e upon air; AA.^,^^ IT ij ^* \r^ And when poverty enters the door young Love Will out of the casement fly ; The truth of the proverb I'd no wish to prove, There'll be time enough for that, said I. My next was a lady who loved romance, And wrote very splendid things ; And she said with a sneer, when 1 asked her to dance, " Sir, I ride upon a horse with wings." There was ink on her thumb when I kissed her hand, And she whispered, "If you should die ril write you an epitaph, gloomy and grand ; " There'll be time enough for that, said I. I left her, and sported my figure and face At opera, party, and ball ; I met pretty girls at every place. But I found a defect in all I The first did not suit me, I cannot tell how, The second 1 cannot say why ; And the third, bless me ! 1 will not marry now, There'll be time enough for that, said 1. 1 looked in the glass, and 1 thought 1 could trace A sort of a wrinkle or two ; So I made up my mind that I'd make up my face, And come out as good as new. To my hair I imparted a little more jet. And 1 scarce could suppress a sigh ; But I cannot be quite an old Bachelor yet — No, there's time enough for that, said I. I was now fifty-two, yet 1 still did adopt All the airs of a juvenile beau ; But, somehow, whenever a question 1 popped The girls with a laugh said " No ! " " I am sixty to-day, not a very young man. And a bachelor doomed to die ; So, youth, be advised, and marry while you can. There's no time to be lost, say 1. ^n u jj^j^^%S<^^ -^ ^ ^^^ u. ■i> 7^ BEAU liRUMMKLL. 1778 — 1840. There was a certain sense of poetical grace about the old dandy, as the subjoined verses show. A heartless life led with him to a miserable death ; a beggar in a foreign country, to the last poor Brummcll aped the highflown and artificial courtesy that had been the ideal of his life. ^irl ;V t/^- THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL. Oh ye I who so lately were blithesome and gay, At the Butterfly's banquet carousing away ; Your feasts and your revels of pleasure are fled. For the soul of the banquet, the Butterfly's dead I No longer the Flies and the Emmets advance To join with their friend in the Grasshopper's dance ; For see his thin form o'er the favourite bend. And the Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend. And hark ! to the funeral dirge of the Bee, And the Beetle, who follows as solemn as he ; .\nd sec where so mournful the green rushes wave, The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave. 159 ^/ •>i=-' a The Dormouse attended, but cold and forlorn, And the Gnat slowly winded his shrill little horn ; And the Moth, who was grieved for the loss of a sister, Bent over the body, and silently kissed her. The corse was embalmed at the set of the sun, And enclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun ; By the help of the hornet the coffin was laid On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made. In weepers and scarves came the Butterflies all, And six of their number supported the pall ; And the Spider came there, in his mourning so black. But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back. The Grub left his nut-shell to join in the throng, And slowly led with him the Bookworm along. Who wept his poor neighbour's unfortunate doom, And wrote these few lines to be placed on her tomb : — EPITAPH. At this solemn spot, where the green rushes wave, Here sadly we bent o'er the Butterfly's grave ; 'Twas here we to beauty our obsequies paid. And hallowed the mound which her ashes had made. And here shall the daisy and violet blow. And the lily discover her bosom of snow ; While under the leaf in the evenings of spring. Still mourning his friend shall the Grasshopper sing. I .i,f«>iiB'ii',)i*:3, ft \. 160 ^^>-0-X«i&-^a^' ':/) *A\ .1 TMi:()U()RE K. IIUOK. 1788—1842. The poetry of Hook consists of little but excellent farcical rhymes and buffoonery in verse. It is only lightened here and there by such lines as these we quote. This brilliant man, after a gay but wasted life, died hopelessly in debt, neglected and deserted by the herd that he had wasted his extraordinary talent LINES FROM THE HEART. Sweet is the vale where virtue dwells. The vale where honest lo\c invites, By margined brook or moss-grown cells, To taste its joys, its soft delights. Sweet is the vale where oft I've strayed Through tangled brake or meadow green ; Sweet are its groves, and sweet its shade, The verdant vale of Taunton Dean. If friends the wayworn stranger seeks Whose kindness comfort can impart, Here every tongue a welcome speaks, A home he finds in every heart. Nay, when I hear the cynic cry "No friendship in the world is seen," My fleeting thoughts to Taunton fly, For friendship dwells in Taunton Dean. The bandage once from Cupid's eyes By reason and by prudence drawn. The wanton god to Taunton flies To revel on its daisied lawn. For oh ! 'tis sure where Beauty plays Love in its ecstasy is seen ; His sight restored he onward strays : She holds her court in Taunton Dean. 161 Y ;^-' m. I :\ And if amid the brilliant throng One angel girl appears most fair, After his flight would Love be wrong To claim her heart, and settle there? My Rosa's eye, her peach-bloom cheek, Her smile divine, her look serene, Command the god— he dares not speak, But owns her sway in Taunton Dean. Grant me a cot wherein to live With such a girl, with friends so rare, No greater boon need Fortune give. Save what my wants might warrant there. 'Tis all I hope,— 'tis all I seek. For there all bhss, all joy is seen ; In one short prayer, my wishes speak, To live, to die, in Taunton Dean. ? '•=v ,1 ^ -^ ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1784—1842. This vii^nrous and excellent ballad writer was the son of a builder in DumtViesshirc. He came to London, connected himself with the newspaper press, and became clerk of the works to Chantrcy the sculptor. It is a great misfortune to his fame that some of his best works were passed off as bo7i{i fide old Galloway and Nithsdale ballads. It is not too much to say that these counterfeit ballads arc as full of pathos, tenderness, and rough vigour, as the poems that they imitate. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. O ! my love's like the stcdfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. Nor moments between sighs and tears. Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit — Fair, gentle as when -first I sued. Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland Tree, We strayed and wooed, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. •63 /^J V ) .T. ."w. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and a fair daughter sweet And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose ; To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong All that charms me of tale or song ; When words come down like dews unsoueht. With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, And fancy in her heaven flies free— They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold ; Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower ! 'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee The golden fruit from Fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to chose and twine A garland for these locks of thine — A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods are green. At times there come, as come there ought, Grave moments of sedater thought— When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light ; And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like the rainbow through the shower, O, then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; And proud resolve and purpose meek. Speak of thee more than words can speak : I think the wedded wife of mine The best of all that's not divine. i6+ ^^yw. r DOCTOR MAGINN. 1794— 1842. Poor reckless vagabond Maginn was one of those men of genius Avho started " Bentley's Miscellany " in 1837. An extraordinary lin- guist, Maginn could adapt Greek and even Hebrew to the most distorted English metres. Idle and dissipated, Maginn died at last in hopeless poverty, ending very prematurely an ill-spent and wasted life. MY SOLDIER-BOY. / give my soldier-boy a blade. In fair Damascus fashioned well ; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade. To guard no feeling base or low, / give my soldier-boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done ; As calm, as clear, as cool of mood. Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. For country's claim, at honour's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid. At mercy's voice to bid it fall, / gi7>e viy soldier-boy a blade. The eye which marked its peerless edge. The hand that weighed its balanced poise. Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone, with all their flame and noise— And still the gleaming sword remains ; So when in dust I low am laid, Remember, by these heart-felt strains, / gave my soldier-boy a blade. 16; SOUTHEY wrote a great deal of diffuse poetry, now partially forgotten. He over-read himself, choking his imagination with books that contained other men's thoughts. There is great purity of feeling and learned imagination, though little dramatic power in Southey's poems. THE HOLLY TREE. O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly Tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen "Wrinkled and keen. No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound. But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. i65 J .sr'^ m I love to view these things with curious eyes, And morahze ; And in the wisdom of tlie Holly Tree Can emblems see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, Such as may profit in the after-time. So, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere ; To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude ; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, 1 know, Some harshness show. All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away. Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. And as when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green. The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display Less bright than they. Rut when the bare and wintry woods we see. What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree ? So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng. So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly Tree. 4:<^ J V>/ w Campbell is always a puzzle to us. How could such a precise and trim man (Scotch too of all things) beginning with mechanical heroic verse, and big-wig metaphors of the old school, suddenly spring forth into the fire of " Hohenlinden," the thunder march of " Lochiel," and the exulting " Battle of the Baltic ?" Above all, how, having written such poems, could he refrain from writing more ? Probably for the same reason that a not very dissimilar genius. Gray, wrote so little — a prudish and almost pedantic desire for perfection, correcting and correcting till all " grew ripe and rotten." FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, ^\j^ Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight. Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams. And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm. r©~> tX m )C, Q\ Not a pastoral song has a pleasantcr tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : Of old ruinous castles ye tell. Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find. When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind. And your blossoms were part of her spell. 1 68 ^o- t? /^ n Even now what affections the violet awakes ; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore ; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minno\vy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore ! Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage AVith the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. I " fi •W P / 1^ THOMAS HOOD. 1798— 1845. This exquisite humorist was the son of a London bookseller. Originally intended as a merchant's clerk, he first turned engraver, and finally author. With the gloom of chronic disease upon him, he toiled bravely and arduously for his family, lighting our murky London air with jokes that sparkled like the star sparks of fireworks. He excelled both in pathos and humour: his "Dream of Eugene Aram" is vigorous and passionate; his "Miss Kil- mansegg " is irresistibly droll, and spangled with gems of ex- quisite and thoughtful nonsense. In his "Song of the Shirt," which appeared in Punch, Hood rose to a higher flight, and touched the deeper cords of the human heart. True to the finer utilitarianism of our age, the poet wished to have this line alone inscribed upon his grave, "He wrote 'The Song of the Shirt.'" Those who have themselves suffered can best sympathize with the miseries of the poor. An invalid for half his life as Hood was, it is not any wonder that thoughts upon physical suffering are frequent in his writings — unconsciously they crept in as some pang of pain followed the laugh that always came from the heart. An honest and industrious writer for daily bread (the nightingale perhaps requires the thorn at its breast). Hood had acquired an extraordinary command of words, his power of pleating and twisting phrases was miraculous ; some of his poems he enclosed in crystal tear drops, while others he cut into as many facets as if they had been rose diamonds. IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of Roses,— We plucked them as we passed ! 170 J^ That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet ; — Oh, no — the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met I 'Twas twilij;ht, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast ; It was the time of Roses, — We plucked them as we passed. What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud ? And when I asked the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud ; And ojied it to the dainty core. Still glowing to the last. — It was the time of Roses, We plucked them as wc passi^d. / Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell. And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell : It died — and not a breath did stir ; — above each knightly stall Unmoved the bannered blazonry hung wavelcss as a pall. /3 NJ=^ ^- - ^ I stood alone ! — a living thing 'midst those that were no more— I thought on ages past and gone — the glorious deeds of yore — On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, The fatal Roses twined at length, on great Eliza's reign I thought on Naseby — Marston Moor — on Worcester's ' crowning fight;' When on mine ear a sound there fell — it chilled me with affright As thus in low unearthly tones I heard a voice begin, —This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!— Sir! please put summut in ! ' AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE. THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ; There came a noble Knyghte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gay ; As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree ! There seemed a crimson plain Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see ! As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe ; A lovely Mayde came by. And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe And a vowe ; As I laye a-thynkynge, her heartc was gladsome now. 176 ,^Tv, I^^'^^^o^^]^^^ -i' % ^'^i- 'J) ^ " ' f^rn A:? I layc a-thynkyngc, a-thynkyngc, a-thynkyngc, Sadly sang the Birdc as she sat upon the tliorne ; No more a youth was there, But a maiden rent her hairc, And cried in sad despaire, ' That I was borne ! ' As I hiye a-thynkynge, she perishCid forlorne. As I k\ye a-thynkyngc, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge. Sweetly sang the Birdc as she sat upon the briar ; There came a lovely Childc, And his face was meek and mild, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire ; As I lay a thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. 15ut I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the liirde as it perched upon a bier ; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan. As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear. As I lay a-thynkynge —oh ! bitter llowcd the tear I As I lay a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, () merrie sang the Birde as it glittered on Iicr breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes, While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seemed to rise, As to her nest ; As I lay a-thynkyngc, her meaning was L.xprcst : — ' P'ollow, follow mc away, It boots not to delay,' — 'Twas so she seemed to saye, 'Here is rest ! ' // A A 3>-Oh>^B]> I .^\ I 4 T.^ -O^ Geniuses are like mushrooms, they spring up, unstudied and unheeded, in all sorts of quiet unobserved places. 1 his wonderful family of a Yorkshire rector, nurtured with a gloomy severity in a lonely dull place, broke into blossom with the suddenness and lavishness of an Indian jungle. Their poetry does not equal their passionately earnest novels, but it still has a merit of its own. HOME. How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays ! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies ; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs : Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise ; Where scarce the scattered stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well. For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen. Long winding walks and borders trim, And velvet lawns between ; 178 ^J ^ s^ X fe^ ,^ -/ nv Kcblorc ti> inc lluil little spot With grey walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the'ground. Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within — Oh ! give me back my Home. CHARLOTTE BRONTE (CURRER BELL). 1817—1855. Till". LirrTKK. What is she writing.' watch her now, How fast her fingers move ! How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent in thought above I Her long curls drooping shade the light, She puts them quick aside, Nor knows that band of crystals bright Her hasty touch untied. It slips adown her silken dress. Falls glittering at her feet ; Unmarked it falls, for she no less Pursues her labour sweet. The very loveliest hour that shines Is in that deep blue sky; The golden sun of June declines, It has not caught her eye. The cheerful lawn and unclosed gate, The white road far away. In vain for her light footsteps wait, She comes not forth to-day. There is an open door of glass Close by that lady's chair. From thence to slopes of mossy grass Descends a marble stair. 179 'm >^^ ill Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom Around the threshold grow ; Their leaves and blossoms shade the room From that sun's deepening glow. Why does she not a moment glance Between the clustering flowers, And mark in heaven the radiant dance Of evening's rosy hours ? O look again ! Still fixed her eye, Unsmiling, earnest, still, And fast her pen and fingers fly Urged by her eager will. Her soul is in the absorbing task ; To whom then doth she write ? Nay, watch her still more closely, ask Her own eyes' serious light. Where do they turn, as now her pen Hangs o'er the unfinished line 1 Whence fell the tearful gleam that then Did in their dark spheres shine ? The summer-parlour looks so dark When from that sky you turn. And from the expanse of that green par You scarce may aught discern. Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare. O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase. Sloped, as if leaning on the air, One picture meets the gaze. 'Tis there she turns ; you may not see Distinct, what form defines The clouded mass of mystery Yon broad gold frame confines. But look again ; inured to shade Your eyes now faintly trace A stalwart form, a massive head, A firm determined face. Jilack Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek A brow high, broad, and white 1 80 Where every furrow seems In speak Of mind and moral might. Is that her god ? I cannot tell ; Her eye a moment met The impending' |)iotiire, then it fell Darkened and dimmed and wet. A moment more, her task is done, And sealed the letter lies ; And now towards the setting sun She turns her tearful eyes. Those tears flow over, wonder not, For by the inscription see In what a strange and distant spot Her heart of hearts must be I Three seas and many a league of land That letter must pass o'er Ere read by him to whose loved hand 'Tis sent from England's shore. Remote colonial wilds detain Her husband, loved though stern ; She 'mid that smiling English scene Weeps for his wished return. i8i \ •fj ^A \\ \:^cr\^r \r^ .(/ Nj VV^A WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770—1850. This great meditative poet was the philosopher of the Enghsh Parnassus. He taught us to see the deeper truths of nature, and to discover poetry in the simplest things. The lowliest life had charms for him, and he taught us to regard the meanest flower with love and awe. -O- V, \^c^ •f^ xfi^K- ^- LOUISA. ' I met Louisa in the shade ; And, having seen that lovely maid, Why should I fear to say That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; And down the rocks can leap along Like rivulets in May ? And she hath smiles to earth Unknown, Smiles that with motion of their own Do spread and sink and rise, Tliat come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away. Arc hidden in her eyes. 182 E^ J